2803	----	None 
20638	----	From Plotzk to Boston BY MARY ANTIN WITH A FOREWORD BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL BOSTON, MASS. W. B. CLARKE & CO., PARK STREET CHURCH 1899 COPYRIGHT, 1899 BY MARY ANTIN PRESS OF PHILIP COWEN NEW YORK CITY * * * * * DEDICATED TO HATTIE L. HECHT WITH THE LOVE AND GRATITUDE OF THE AUTHOR * * * * * FOREWORD The "infant phenomenon" in literature is rarer than in more physical branches of art, but its productions are not likely to be of value outside the doting domestic circle. Even Pope who "lisped in numbers for the numbers came," did not add to our Anthology from his cradle, though he may therein have acquired his monotonous rocking-metre. Immaturity of mind and experience, so easily disguised on the stage or the music-stool--even by adults--is more obvious in the field of pure intellect. The contribution with which Mary Antin makes her début in letters is, however, saved from the emptiness of embryonic thinking by being a record of a real experience, the greatest of her life; her journey from Poland to Boston. Even so, and remarkable as her description is for a girl of eleven--for it was at this age that she first wrote the thing in Yiddish, though she was thirteen when she translated it into English--it would scarcely be worth publishing merely as a literary curiosity. But it happens to possess an extraneous value. For, despite the great wave of Russian immigration into the United States, and despite the noble spirit in which the Jews of America have grappled with the invasion, we still know too little of the inner feelings of the people themselves, nor do we adequately realize what magic vision of free America lures them on to face the great journey to the other side of the world. Mary Antin's vivid description of all she and her dear ones went through, enables us to see almost with our own eyes how the invasion of America appears to the impecunious invader. It is thus "a human document" of considerable value, as well as a promissory note of future performance. The quick senses of the child, her keen powers of observation and introspection, her impressionability both to sensations and complex emotions--these are the very things out of which literature is made; the raw stuff of art. Her capacity to handle English--after so short a residence in America--shows that she possesses also the instrument of expression. More fortunate than the poet of the Ghetto, Morris Rosenfeld, she will have at her command the most popular language in the world, and she has already produced in it passages of true literature, especially in her impressionistic rendering of the sea and the bustling phantasmagoria of travel. What will be her development no one can say precisely, and I would not presume either to predict or to direct it, for "the wind bloweth where it listeth." It will probably take lyrical shape. Like most modern Jewesses who have written, she is, I fear, destined to spiritual suffering: fortunately her work evidences a genial talent for enjoyment and a warm humanity which may serve to counterbalance the curse of reflectiveness. That she is growing, is evident from her own Introduction, written only the other day, with its touches of humor and more complex manipulation of groups of facts. But I have ventured to counsel delay rather than precipitation in production--for she is not yet sixteen--and the completion of her education, physical no less than intellectual; and it is to this purpose that such profits as may accrue from this publication will be devoted. Let us hope this premature recognition of her potentialities will not injure their future flowering, and that her development will add to those spiritual and intellectual forces of which big-hearted American Judaism stands sorely in need. I should explain in conclusion, that I have neither added nor subtracted, even a comma, and that I have no credit in "discovering" Mary Antin. I did but endorse the verdict of that kind and charming Boston household in which I had the pleasure of encountering the gifted Polish girl, and to a member of which this little volume is appropriately dedicated. I. ZANGWILL. PREFATORY In the year 1891, a mighty wave of the emigration movement swept over all parts of Russia, carrying with it a vast number of the Jewish population to the distant shores of the New World--from tyranny to democracy, from darkness to light, from bondage and persecution to freedom, justice and equality. But the great mass knew nothing of these things; they were going to the foreign world in hopes only of earning their bread and worshiping their God in peace. The different currents that directed the course of that wave cannot be here enumerated. Suffice it to say that its power was enormous. All over the land homes were broken up, families separated, lives completely altered, for a common end. The emigration fever was at its height in Plotzk, my native town, in the central western part of Russia, on the Dvina River. "America" was in everybody's mouth. Business men talked of it over their accounts; the market women made up their quarrels that they might discuss it from stall to stall; people who had relatives in the famous land went around reading their letters for the enlightenment of less fortunate folks; the one letter-carrier informed the public how many letters arrived from America, and who were the recipients; children played at emigrating; old folks shook their sage heads over the evening fire, and prophesied no good for those who braved the terrors of the sea and the foreign goal beyond it;--all talked of it, but scarcely anybody knew one true fact about this magic land. For book-knowledge was not for them; and a few persons--they were a dressmaker's daughter, and a merchant with his two sons--who had returned from America after a long visit, happened to be endowed with extraordinary imagination, (a faculty closely related to their knowledge of their old country-men's ignorance), and their descriptions of life across the ocean, given daily, for some months, to eager audiences, surpassed anything in the Arabian Nights. One sad fact threw a shadow over the splendor of the gold-paved, Paradise-like fairyland. The travelers all agreed that Jews lived there in the most shocking impiety. Driven by a necessity for bettering the family circumstances, and by certain minor forces which cannot now be named, my father began to think seriously of casting his lot with the great stream of emigrants. Many family councils were held before it was agreed that the plan must be carried out. Then came the parting; for it was impossible for the whole family to go at once. I remember it, though I was only eight. It struck me as rather interesting to stand on the platform before the train, with a crowd of friends weeping in sympathy with us, and father waving his hat for our special benefit, and saying--the last words we heard him speak as the train moved off-- "Good-bye, Plotzk, forever!" Then followed three long years of hope and doubt for father in America and us in Russia. There were toil and suffering and waiting and anxiety for all. There were--but to tell of all that happened in those years I should have to write a separate history. The happy day came when we received the long-coveted summons. And what stirring times followed! The period of preparation was one of constant delight to us children. We were four--my two sisters, one brother and myself. Our playmates looked up to us in respectful admiration; neighbors, if they made no direct investigations, bribed us with nice things for information as to what was going into every box, package and basket. And the house was dismantled--people came and carried off the furniture; closets, sheds and other nooks were emptied of their contents; the great wood-pile was taken away until only a few logs remained; ancient treasures such as women are so loath to part with, and which mother had carried with her from a dear little house whence poverty had driven us, were brought to light from their hiding places, and sacrificed at the altar whose flames were consuming so much that was fraught with precious association and endeared by family tradition; the number of bundles and boxes increased daily, and our home vanished hourly; the rooms became quite uninhabitable at last, and we children glanced in glee, to the anger of the echoes, when we heard that in the evening we were to start upon our journey. But we did not go till the next morning, and then as secretly as possible. For, despite the glowing tales concerning America, people flocked to the departure of emigrants much as they did to a funeral; to weep and lament while (in the former case only, I believe) they envied. As everybody in Plotzk knew us, and as the departure of a whole family was very rousing, we dared not brave the sympathetic presence of the whole township, that we knew we might expect. So we gave out a false alarm. Even then there was half the population of Plotzk on hand the next morning. We were the heroes of the hour. I remember how the women crowded around mother, charging her to deliver messages to their relatives in America; how they made the air ring with their unintelligible chorus; how they showered down upon us scores of suggestions and admonitions; how they made us frantic with their sympathetic weeping and wringing of hands; how, finally, the ringing of the signal bell set them all talking faster and louder than ever, in desperate efforts to give the last bits of advice, deliver the last messages, and, to their credit let it be said, to give the final, hearty, unfeigned good-bye kisses, hugs and good wishes. Well, we lived through three years of waiting, and also through a half hour of parting. Some of our relatives came near being carried off, as, heedless of the last bell, they lingered on in the car. But at last they, too, had to go, and we, the wanderers, could scarcely see the rainbow wave of colored handkerchiefs, as, dissolved in tears, we were carried out of Plotzk, away from home, but nearer our longed-for haven of reunion; nearer, indeed, to everything that makes life beautiful and gives one an aim and an end--freedom, progress, knowledge, light and truth, with their glorious host of followers. But we did not know it then. The following pages contain the description of our journey, as I wrote it four years ago, when it was all fresh in my memory. M. A. FROM PLOTZK TO BOSTON. The short journey from Plotzk to Vilna was uneventful. Station after station was passed without our taking any interest in anything, for that never-to-be-forgotten leave taking at the Plotzk railway station left us all in such a state of apathy to all things except our own thoughts as could not easily be thrown off. Indeed, had we not been obliged to change trains at Devinsk and, being the inexperienced travellers we were, do a great deal of bustling and hurrying and questioning of porters and mere idlers, I do not know how long we would have remained in that same thoughtful, silent state. Towards evening we reached Vilna, and such a welcome as we got! Up to then I had never seen such a mob of porters and isvostchiky. I do not clearly remember just what occurred, but a most vivid recollection of being very uneasy for a time is still retained in my memory. You see my uncle was to have met us at the station, but urgent business kept him elsewhere. Now it was universally believed in Plotzk that it was wise not to trust the first isvostchik who offered his services when one arrived in Vilna a stranger, and I do not know to this day how mother managed to get away from the mob and how, above all, she dared to trust herself with her precious baggage to one of them. But I have thought better of Vilna Isvostchiky since, for we were safely landed after a pretty long drive in front of my uncle's store, with never one of our number lost, never a bundle stolen or any mishap whatever. Our stay in Vilna was marked by nothing of interest. We stayed only long enough for some necessary papers to reach us, and during that time I discovered that Vilna was very much like Plotzk, though larger, cleaner and noisier. There were the same coarse, hoarse-voiced women in the market, the same kind of storekeepers in the low store doors, forever struggling and quarrelling for a customer. The only really interesting things I remember were the horsecars, which I had never even heard of, and in one of which I had a lovely ride for five copeiky, and a large book store on the Nemetzka yah Ulitza. The latter object may not seem of any interest to most people, but I had never seen so many books in one place before, and I could not help regarding them with longing and wonder. At last all was in readiness for our start. This was really the beginning of our long journey, which I shall endeavor to describe. I will not give any description of the various places we passed, for we stopped at few places and always under circumstances which did not permit of sightseeing. I shall only speak of such things as made a distinct impression upon my mind, which, it must be remembered, was not mature enough to be impressed by what older minds were, while on the contrary it was in just the state to take in many things which others heeded not. I do not know the exact date, but I do know that it was at the break of day on a Sunday and very early in April when we left Vilna. We had not slept any the night before. Fannie and I spent the long hours in playing various quiet games and watching the clock. At last the long expected hour arrived; our train would be due in a short time. All but Fannie and myself had by this time fallen into a drowse, half sitting, half lying on some of the many baskets and boxes that stood all about the room all ready to be taken to the station. So we set to work to rouse the rest, and with the aid of an alarm clock's loud ringing, we soon had them at least half awake; and while the others sat rubbing their eyes and trying to look wide awake, Uncle Borris had gone out, and when he returned with several droskies to convey us to the station, we were all ready for the start. We went out into the street, and now I perceived that not we alone were sleepy; everything slept, and nature also slept, deeply, sweetly. The sky was covered with dark gray clouds (perhaps that was its night-cap), from which a chill, drizzling rain was slowly descending, and the thick morning fog shut out the road from our sight. No sound came from any direction; slumber and quiet reigned everywhere, for every thing and person slept, forgetful for a time of joys, sorrows, hopes, fears,--everything. Sleepily we said our last good-byes to the family, took our seats in the droskies, and soon the Hospitalnayah Ulitza was lost to sight. As the vehicles rattled along the deserted streets, the noise of the horses' hoofs and the wheels striking against the paving stones sounded unusually loud in the general hush, and caused the echoes to answer again and again from the silent streets and alleys. In a short time we were at the station. In our impatience we had come too early, and now the waiting was very tiresome. Everybody knows how lively and noisy it is at a railroad station when a train is expected. But now there were but a few persons present, and in everybody's face I could see the reflection of my own dissatisfaction, because, like myself, they had much rather have been in a comfortable, warm bed than up and about in the rain and fog. Everything was so uncomfortable. Suddenly we heard a long shrill whistle, to which the surrounding dreariness gave a strangely mournful sound, the clattering train rushed into the depot and stood still. Several passengers (they were very few) left the cars and hastened towards where the droskies stood, and after rousing the sleepy isvostchiky, were whirled away to their several destinations. When we had secured our tickets and seen to the baggage we entered a car in the women's division and waited impatiently for the train to start. At last the first signal was given, then the second and third; the locomotive shrieked and puffed, the train moved slowly, then swiftly it left the depot far behind it. From Vilna to our next stopping place, Verzbolovo, there was a long, tedious ride of about eight hours. As the day continued to be dull and foggy, very little could be seen through the windows. Besides, no one seemed to care or to be interested in anything. Sleepy and tired as we all were, we got little rest, except the younger ones, for we had not yet got used to living in the cars and could not make ourselves very comfortable. For the greater part of the time we remained as unsocial as the weather was unpleasant. The car was very still, there being few passengers, among them a very pleasant kind gentleman travelling with his pretty daughter. Mother found them very pleasant to chat with, and we children found it less tiresome to listen to them. At half past twelve o'clock the train came to a stop before a large depot, and the conductor announced "Verzbolovo, fifteen minutes!" The sight that now presented itself was very cheering after our long, unpleasant ride. The weather had changed very much. The sun was shining brightly and not a trace of fog or cloud was to be seen. Crowds of well-dressed people were everywhere--walking up and down the platform, passing through the many gates leading to the street, sitting around the long, well-loaded tables, eating, drinking, talking or reading newspapers, waited upon by the liveliest, busiest waiters I had ever seen--and there was such an activity and bustle about everything that I wished I could join in it, it seemed so hard to sit still. But I had to content myself with looking on with the others, while the friendly gentleman whose acquaintance my mother had made (I do not recollect his name) assisted her in obtaining our tickets for Eidtkunen, and attending to everything else that needed attention, and there were many things. Soon the fifteen minutes were up, our kind fellow-passenger and his daughter bade us farewell and a pleasant journey (we were just on the brink of the beginning of our troubles), the train puffed out of the depot and we all felt we were nearing a very important stage in our journey. At this time, cholera was raging in Russia, and was spread by emigrants going to America in the countries through which they travelled. To stop this danger, measures were taken to make emigration from Russia more difficult than ever. I believe that at all times the crossing of the boundary between Russia and Germany was a source of trouble to Russians, but with a special passport this was easily overcome. When, however, the traveller could not afford to supply himself with one, the boundary was crossed by stealth, and many amusing anecdotes are told of persons who crossed in some disguise, often that of a mujik who said he was going to the town on the German side to sell some goods, carried for the purpose of ensuring the success of the ruse. When several such tricks had been played on the guards it became very risky, and often, when caught, a traveller resorted to stratagem, which is very diverting when afterwards described, but not so at a time when much depends on its success. Some times a paltry bribe secured one a safe passage, and often emigrants were aided by men who made it their profession to help them cross, often suffering themselves to be paid such sums for the service that it paid best to be provided with a special passport. As I said, the difficulties were greater at the time we were travelling, and our friends believed we had better not attempt a stealthy crossing, and we procured the necessary document to facilitate it. We therefore expected little trouble, but some we thought there might be, for we had heard some vague rumors to the effect that a special passport was not as powerful an agent as it used to be. We now prepared to enjoy a little lunch, and before we had time to clear it away the train stopped, and we saw several men in blue uniforms, gilt buttons and brass helmets, if you may call them so, on their heads. At his side each wore a kind of leather case attached to a wide bronze belt. In these cases they carried something like a revolver, and each had, besides, a little book with black oilcloth covers. I can give you no idea of the impression these men (they were German gendarmes) made on us, by saying they frightened us. Perhaps because their (to us) impressive appearance gave them a stern look; perhaps because they really looked something more than grave, we were so frightened. I only know that we were. I can see the reason now clearly enough. Like all persons who were used to the tyranny of a Russian policeman, who practically ruled the ward or town under his friendly protection, and never hesitated to assert his rights as holder of unlimited authority over his little domain, in that mild, amiable manner so well known to such of his subjects as he particularly favored with his vigilant regard--like all such persons, I say, we did not, could not, expect to receive any kind treatment at the hands of a number of officers, especially as we were in the very act of attempting to part with our much-beloved mother country, of which act, to judge by the pains it took to make it difficult, the government did not approve. It was a natural fear in us, as you can easily see. Pretty soon mother recovered herself, and remembering that the train stops for a few minutes only, was beginning to put away the scattered articles hastily when a gendarme entered our car and said we were not to leave it. Mamma asked him why, but he said nothing and left the car, another gendarme entering as he did so. He demanded where we were going, and, hearing the answer, went out. Before we had had time to look about at each other's frightened faces, another man, a doctor, as we soon knew, came in followed by a third gendarme. The doctor asked many questions about our health, and of what nationality we were. Then he asked about various things, as where we were going to, if we had tickets, how much money we had, where we came from, to whom we were going, etc., etc., making a note of every answer he received. This done, he shook his head with his shining helmet on it, and said slowly (I imagined he enjoyed frightening us), "With these third class tickets you cannot go to America now, because it is forbidden to admit emigrants into Germany who have not at least second class tickets. You will have to return to Russia unless you pay at the office here to have your tickets changed for second class ones." After a few minutes' calculation and reference to the notes he had made, he added calmly, "I find you will need two hundred rubles to get your tickets exchanged;" and, as the finishing stroke to his pleasing communication, added, "Your passports are of no use at all now because the necessary part has to be torn out, whether you are allowed to pass or not." A plain, short speech he made of it, that cruel man. Yet every word sounded in our ears with an awful sound that stopped the beating of our hearts for a while--sounded like the ringing of funeral bells to us, and yet without the mournfully sweet music those bells make, that they might heal while they hurt. We were homeless, houseless, and friendless in a strange place. We had hardly money enough to last us through the voyage for which we had hoped and waited for three long years. We had suffered much that the reunion we longed for might come about; we had prepared ourselves to suffer more in order to bring it about, and had parted with those we loved, with places that were dear to us in spite of what we passed through in them, never again to see them, as we were convinced--all for the same dear end. With strong hopes and high spirits that hid the sad parting, we had started on our long journey. And now we were checked so unexpectedly but surely, the blow coming from where we little expected it, being, as we believed, safe in that quarter. And that is why the simple words had such a frightful meaning to us. We had received a wound we knew not how to heal. When mother had recovered enough to speak she began to argue with the gendarme, telling him our story and begging him to be kind. The children were frightened by what they understood, and all but cried. I was only wondering what would happen, and wishing I could pour out my grief in tears, as the others did; but when I feel deeply I seldom show it in that way, and always wish I could. Mother's supplications, and perhaps the children's indirect ones, had more effect than I supposed they would. The officer was moved, even if he had just said that tears would not be accepted instead of money, and gave us such kind advice that I began to be sorry I had thought him cruel, for it was easy to see that he was only doing his duty and had no part in our trouble that he could be blamed for, now that I had more kindly thoughts of him. He said that we would now be taken to Keebart, a few versts' distance from Verzbolovo, where one Herr Schidorsky lived. This man, he said, was well known for miles around, and we were to tell him our story and ask him to help us, which he probably would, being very kind. A ray of hope shone on each of the frightened faces listening so attentively to this bearer of both evil and happy tidings. I, for one, was very confident that the good man would help us through our difficulties, for I was most unwilling to believe that we really couldn't continue our journey. Which of us was? I'd like to know. We are in Keebart, at the depot. The least important particular even of that place, I noticed and remembered. How the porter--he was an ugly, grinning man--carried in our things and put them away in the southern corner of the big room, on the floor; how we sat down on a settee near them, a yellow settee; how the glass roof let in so much light that we had to shade our eyes because the car had been dark and we had been crying; how there were only a few people besides ourselves there, and how I began to count them and stopped when I noticed a sign over the head of the fifth person--a little woman with a red nose and a pimple on it, that seemed to be staring at me as much as the grayish-blue eyes above them, it was so large and round--and tried to read the German, with the aid of the Russian translation below. I noticed all this and remembered it, as if there was nothing else in the world for me to think of--no America, no gendarme to destroy one's passports and speak of two hundred rubles as if he were a millionaire, no possibility of being sent back to one's old home whether one felt at all grateful for the kindness or not--nothing but that most attractive of places, full of interesting sights. For, though I had been so hopeful a little while ago, I felt quite discouraged when a man, very sour and grumbling--and he was a Jew--a "Son of Mercy" as a certain song said--refused to tell mamma where Schidorsky lived. I then believed that the whole world must have united against us; and decided to show my defiant indifference by leaving the world to be as unkind as it pleased, while I took no interest in such trifles. So I let my mind lose itself in a queer sort of mist--a something I cannot describe except by saying it must have been made up of lazy inactivity. Through this mist I saw and heard indistinctly much that followed. When I think of it now, I see how selfish it was to allow myself to sink, body and mind, in such a sea of helpless laziness, when I might have done something besides awaiting the end of that critical time, whatever it might be--something, though what, I do not see even now, I own. But I only studied the many notices till I thought myself very well acquainted with the German tongue; and now and then tried to cheer the other children, who were still inclined to cry, by pointing out to them some of the things that interested me. For this faulty conduct I have no excuse to give, unless youth and the fact that I was stunned with the shock we had just received, will be accepted. I remember through that mist that mother found Schidorsky's home at last, but was told she could not see him till a little later; that she came back to comfort us, and found there our former fellow passenger who had come with us from Vilna, and that he was very indignant at the way in which we were treated, and scolded, and declared he would have the matter in all the papers, and said we must be helped. I remember how mamma saw Schidorsky at last, spoke to him, and then told us, word for word, what his answer had been; that he wouldn't wait to be asked to use all his influence, and wouldn't lose a moment about it, and he didn't, for he went out at once on that errand, while his good daughter did her best to comfort mamma with kind words and tea. I remember that there was much going to the good man's house; much hurrying of special messengers to and from Eidtkunen; trembling inquiries, uncertain replies made hopeful only by the pitying, encouraging words and manners of the deliverer--for all, even the servants, were kind as good angels at that place. I remember that another little family--there were three--were discovered by us in the same happy state as ourselves, and like the dogs in the fable, who, receiving care at the hands of a kind man, sent their friends to him for help, we sent them to our helper. I remember seeing night come out of that mist, and bringing more trains and people and noise than the whole day (we still remained at the depot), till I felt sick and dizzy. I remember wondering what kind of a night it was, but not knowing how to find out, as if I had no senses. I remember that somebody said we were obliged to remain in Keebart that night and that we set out to find lodgings; that the most important things I saw on the way were the two largest dolls I had ever seen, carried by two pretty little girls, and a big, handsome father; and a great deal of gravel in the streets, and boards for the crossings. I remember that we found a little room (we had to go up four steps first) that we could have for seventy-five copecks, with our tea paid for in that sum. I remember, through that mist, how I wondered what I was sleeping on that night, as I wondered about the weather; that we really woke up in the morning (I was so glad to rest I had believed we should never be disturbed again) and washed, and dressed and breakfasted and went to the depot again, to be always on hand. I remember that mamma and the father of the little family went at once to the only good man on earth (I thought so) and that the party of three were soon gone, by the help of some agent that was slower, for good reasons, in helping us. I remember that mamma came to us soon after and said that Herr Schidorsky had told her to ask the Postmeister--some high official there--for a pass to Eidtkunen; and there she should speak herself to our protector's older brother who could help us by means of his great power among the officers of high rank; that she returned in a few hours and told us the two brothers were equal in kindness, for the older one, too, said he would not wait to be asked to do his best for us. I remember that another day--so-o-o long--passed behind the mist, and we were still in that dreadful, noisy, tiresome depot, with no change, till we went to spend the night at Herr Schidorsky's, because they wouldn't let us go anywhere else. On the way there, I remember, I saw something marvellous--queer little wooden sticks stuck on the lines where clothes hung for some purpose. (I didn't think it was for drying, because you know I always saw things hung up on fences and gates for such purposes. The queer things turned out to be clothes-pins). And, I remember, I noticed many other things of equal importance to our affairs, till we came to the little house in the garden. Here we were received, I remember with much kindness and hospitality. We had a fire made for us, food and drink brought in, and a servant was always inquiring whether anything more could be done for our comfort. I remember, still through that misty veil, what a pleasant evening we passed, talking over what had so far happened, and wondering what would come. I must have talked like one lost in a thick fog, groping carefully. But, had I been shut up, mentally, in a tower nothing else could pierce, the sense of gratitude that naturally sprung from the kindness that surrounded us, must have, would have found a passage for itself to the deepest cavities of the heart. Yes, though all my senses were dulled by what had passed over us so lately, I was yet aware of the deepest sense of thankfulness one can ever feel. I was aware of something like the sweet presence of angels in the persons of good Schidorsky and his family. Oh, that some knowledge of that gratitude might reach those for whom we felt it so keenly! We all felt it. But the deepest emotions are so hard to express. I thought of this as I lay awake a little while, and said to myself, thinking of our benefactor, that he was a Jew, a true "Son of Mercy." And I slept with that thought. And this is the last I remember seeing and feeling behind that mist of lazy inactivity. The next morning, I woke not only from the night's sleep, but from my waking dreaminess. All the vapors dispersed as I went into the pretty flower garden where the others were already at play, and by the time we had finished a good breakfast, served by a dear servant girl, I felt quite myself again. Of course, mamma hastened to Herr Schidorsky as soon as she could, and he sent her to the Postmeister again, to ask him to return the part of our passports that had been torn out, and without which we could not go on. He said he would return them as soon as he received word from Eidtkunen. So we could only wait and hope. At last it came and so suddenly that we ran off to the depot with hardly a hat on all our heads, or a coat on our backs, with two men running behind with our things, making it a very ridiculous sight. We have often laughed over it since. Of course, in such a confusion we could not say even one word of farewell or thanks to our deliverers. But, turning to see that we were all there, I saw them standing in the gate, crying that all was well now, and wishing us many pleasant things, and looking as if they had been receiving all the blessings instead of us. I have often thought they must have purposely arranged it that we should have to leave in a hurry, because they wouldn't stand any expression of gratefulness. Well, we just reached our car in time to see our baggage brought from the office and ourselves inside, when the last bell rang. Then, before we could get breath enough to utter more than faint gasps of delight, we were again in Eidtkunen. The gendarmes came to question us again, but when mother said that we were going to Herr Schidorsky of Eidtkunen, as she had been told to say, we were allowed to leave the train. I really thought we were to be the visitors of the elder Schidorsky, but it turned out to be only an understanding between him and the officers that those claiming to be on their way to him were not to be troubled. At any rate, we had now really crossed the forbidden boundary--we were in Germany. There was a terrible confusion in the baggage-room where we were directed to go. Boxes, baskets, bags, valises, and great, shapeless things belonging to no particular class were thrown about by porters and other men, who sorted them and put tickets on all but those containing provisions, while others were opened and examined in haste. At last our turn came, and our things, along with those of all other American-bound travellers, were taken away to be steamed and smoked and other such processes gone through. We were told to wait till notice should be given us of something else to be done. Our train would not depart till nine in the evening. As usual, I noticed all the little particulars of the waiting room. What else could I do with so much time and not even a book to read? I could describe it exactly--the large, square room, painted walls, long tables with fruits and drinks of all kinds covering them, the white chairs, carved settees, beautiful china and cut glass showing through the glass doors of the dressers, and the nickel samovar, which attracted my attention because I had never seen any but copper or brass ones. The best and the worst of everything there was a large case full of books. It was the best, because they were "books" and all could use them; the worst, because they were all German, and my studies in the railway depot of Keebart had not taught me so much that I should be able to read books in German. It was very hard to see people get those books and enjoy them while I couldn't. It was impossible to be content with other people's pleasure, and I wasn't. When I had almost finished counting the books, I noticed that mamma and the others had made friends with a family of travellers like ourselves. Frau Gittleman and her five children made very interesting companions for the rest of the day, and they seemed to think that Frau Antin and the four younger Antins were just as interesting; perhaps excepting, in their minds, one of them who must have appeared rather uninteresting from a habit she had of looking about as if always expecting to make discoveries. But she was interested, if not interesting, enough when the oldest of the young Gittlemans, who was a young gentleman of seventeen, produced some books which she could read. Then all had a merry time together, reading, talking, telling the various adventures of the journey, and walking, as far as we were allowed, up and down the long platform outside, till we were called to go and see, if we wanted to see, how our things were being made fit for further travel. It was interesting to see how they managed to have anything left to return to us, after all the processes of airing and smoking and steaming and other assaults on supposed germs of the dreaded cholera had been done with, the pillows, even, being ripped open to be steamed! All this was interesting, but we were rather disagreeably surprised when a bill for these unasked-for services had to be paid. The Gittlemans, we found, were to keep us company for some time. At the expected hour we all tried to find room in a car indicated by the conductor. We tried, but could only find enough space on the floor for our baggage, on which we made believe sitting comfortably. For now we were obliged to exchange the comparative comforts of a third class passenger train for the certain discomforts of a fourth class one. There were only four narrow benches in the whole car, and about twice as many people were already seated on these as they were probably supposed to accommodate. All other space, to the last inch, was crowded by passengers or their luggage. It was very hot and close and altogether uncomfortable, and still at every new station fresh passengers came crowding in, and actually made room, spare as it was, for themselves. It became so terrible that all glared madly at the conductor as he allowed more people to come into that prison, and trembled at the announcement of every station. I cannot see even now how the officers could allow such a thing; it was really dangerous. The most remarkable thing was the good-nature of the poor passengers. Few showed a sour face even; not a man used any strong language (audibly, at least). They smiled at each other as if they meant to say, "I am having a good time; so are you, aren't you?" Young Gittleman was very gallant, and so cheerful that he attracted everybody's attention. He told stories, laughed, and made us unwilling to be outdone. During one of his narratives he produced a pretty memorandum book that pleased one of us very much, and that pleasing gentleman at once presented it to her. She has kept it since in memory of the giver, and, in the right place, I could tell more about that matter--very interesting. I have given so much space to the description of that one night's adventures because I remember it so distinctly, with all its discomforts, and the contrast of our fellow-travellers' kindly dispositions. At length that dreadful night passed, and at dawn about half the passengers left, all at once. There was such a sigh of relief and a stretching of cramped limbs as can only be imagined, as the remaining passengers inhaled the fresh cold air of dewy dawn. It was almost worth the previous suffering to experience the pleasure of relief that followed. All day long we travelled in the same train, sleeping, resting, eating, and wishing to get out. But the train stopped for a very short time at the many stations, and all the difference that made to us was that pretty girls passed through the cars with little bark baskets filled with fruit and flowers hardly fresher or prettier than their bearers, who generally sold something to our young companion, for he never wearied of entertaining us. Other interests there were none. The scenery was nothing unusual, only towns, depots, roads, fields, little country houses with barns and cattle and poultry--all such as we were well acquainted with. If something new did appear, it was passed before one could get a good look at it. The most pleasing sights were little barefoot children waving their aprons or hats as we eagerly watched for them, because that reminded us of our doing the same thing when we saw the passenger trains, in the country. We used to wonder whether we should ever do so again. Towards evening we came into Berlin. I grow dizzy even now when I think of our whirling through that city. It seemed we were going faster and faster all the time, but it was only the whirl of trains passing in opposite directions and close to us that made it seem so. The sight of crowds of people such as we had never seen before, hurrying to and fro, in and out of great depots that danced past us, helped to make it more so. Strange sights, splendid buildings, shops, people and animals, all mingled in one great, confused mass of a disposition to continually move in a great hurry, wildly, with no other aim but to make one's head go round and round, in following its dreadful motions. Round and round went my head. It was nothing but trains, depots, crowds--crowds, depots, trains, again and again, with no beginning, no end, only a mad dance! Faster and faster we go, faster still, and the noise increases with the speed. Bells, whistles, hammers, locomotives shrieking madly, men's voices, peddlers' cries, horses' hoofs, dogs' barking--all united in doing their best to drown every other sound but their own, and made such a deafening uproar in the attempt that nothing could keep it out. Whirl, noise, dance, uproar--will it last forever? I'm so--o diz-z-zy! How my head aches! And oh! those people will be run over! Stop the train, they'll--thank goodness, nobody is hurt. But who ever heard of a train passing right through the middle of a city, up in the air, it seems. Oh, dear! it's no use thinking, my head spins so. Right through the business streets! Why, who ever--! I must have lived through a century of this terrible motion and din and unheard of roads for trains, and confused thinking. But at length everything began to take a more familiar appearance again, the noise grew less, the roads more secluded, and by degrees we recognized the dear, peaceful country. Now we could think of Berlin, or rather, what we had seen of it, more calmly, and wonder why it made such an impression. I see now. We had never seen so large a city before, and were not prepared to see such sights, bursting upon us so suddenly as that. It was like allowing a blind man to see the full glare of the sun all at once. Our little Plotzk, and even the larger cities we had passed through, compared to Berlin about the same as total darkness does to great brilliancy of light. In a great lonely field opposite a solitary wooden house within a large yard, our train pulled up at last, and a conductor commanded the passengers to make haste and get out. He need not have told us to hurry; we were glad enough to be free again after such a long imprisonment in the uncomfortable car. All rushed to the door. We breathed more freely in the open field, but the conductor did not wait for us to enjoy our freedom. He hurried us into the one large room which made up the house, and then into the yard. Here a great many men and women, dressed in white, received us, the women attending to the women and girls of the passengers, and the men to the others. This was another scene of bewildering confusion, parents losing their children, and little ones crying; baggage being thrown together in one corner of the yard, heedless of contents, which suffered in consequence; those white-clad Germans shouting commands always accompanied with "Quick! Quick!"; the confused passengers obeying all orders like meek children, only questioning now and then what was going to be done with them. And no wonder if in some minds stories arose of people being captured by robbers, murderers, and the like. Here we had been taken to a lonely place where only that house was to be seen; our things were taken away, our friends separated from us; a man came to inspect us, as if to ascertain our full value; strange looking people driving us about like dumb animals, helpless and unresisting; children we could not see, crying in a way that suggested terrible things; ourselves driven into a little room where a great kettle was boiling on a little stove; our clothes taken off, our bodies rubbed with a slippery substance that might be any bad thing; a shower of warm water let down on us without warning; again driven to another little room where we sit, wrapped in woollen blankets till large, coarse bags are brought in, their contents turned out and we see only a cloud of steam, and hear the women's orders to dress ourselves, quick, quick, or else we'll miss--something we cannot hear. We are forced to pick out our clothes from among all the others, with the steam blinding us; we choke, cough, entreat the women to give us time; they persist, "Quick, quick, or you'll miss the train!" Oh, so we really won't be murdered! They are only making us ready for the continuing of our journey, cleaning us of all suspicions of dangerous germs. Thank God! Assured by the word "train" we manage to dress ourselves after a fashion, and the man comes again to inspect us. All is right, and we are allowed to go into the yard to find our friends and our luggage. Both are difficult tasks, the second even harder. Imagine all the things of some hundreds of people making a journey like ours, being mostly unpacked and mixed together in one sad heap. It was disheartening, but done at last was the task of collecting our belongings, and we were marched into the big room again. Here, on the bare floor, in a ring, sat some Polish men and women singing some hymn in their own tongue, and making more noise than music. We were obliged to stand and await further orders, the few seats being occupied, and the great door barred and locked. We were in a prison, and again felt some doubts. Then a man came in and called the passengers' names, and when they answered they were made to pay two marcs each for the pleasant bath we had just been forced to take. Another half hour, and our train arrived. The door was opened, and we rushed out into the field, glad to get back even to the fourth class car. We had lost sight of the Gittlemans, who were going a different way now, and to our regret hadn't even said good-bye, or thanked them for their kindness. After the preceding night of wakefulness and discomfort, the weary day in the train, the dizzy whirl through Berlin, the fright we had from the rough proceedings of the Germans, and all the strange experiences of the place we just escaped--after all this we needed rest. But to get it was impossible for all but the youngest children. If we had borne great discomforts on the night before, we were suffering now. I had thought anything worse impossible. Worse it was now. The car was even more crowded, and people gasped for breath. People sat in strangers' laps, only glad of that. The floor was so thickly lined that the conductor could not pass, and the tickets were passed to him from hand to hand. To-night all were more worn out, and that did not mend their dispositions. They could not help falling asleep and colliding with someone's nodding head, which called out angry mutterings and growls. Some fell off their seats and caused a great commotion by rolling over on the sleepers on the floor, and, in spite of my own sleepiness and weariness, I had many quiet laughs by myself as I watched the funny actions of the poor travellers. Not until very late did I fall asleep. I, with the rest, missed the pleasant company of our friends, the Gittlemans, and thought about them as I sat perched on a box, with an old man's knees for the back of my seat, another man's head continually striking my right shoulder, a dozen or so arms being tossed restlessly right in front of my face, and as many legs holding me a fast prisoner, so that I could only try to keep my seat against all the assaults of the sleepers who tried in vain to make their positions more comfortable. It was all so comical, in spite of all the inconveniences, that I tried hard not to laugh out loud, till I too fell asleep. I was awakened very early in the morning by something chilling and uncomfortable on my face, like raindrops coming down irregularly. I found it was a neighbor of mine eating cheese, who was dropping bits on my face. So I began the day with a laugh at the man's funny apologies, but could not find much more fun in the world on account of the cold and the pain of every limb. It was very miserable, till some breakfast cheered me up a little. About eight o'clock we reached Hamburg. Again there was a gendarme to ask questions, look over the tickets and give directions. But all the time he kept a distance from those passengers who came from Russia, all for fear of the cholera. We had noticed before how people were afraid to come near us, but since that memorable bath in Berlin, and all the steaming and smoking of our things, it seemed unnecessary. We were marched up to the strangest sort of vehicle one could think of. It was a something I don't know any name for, though a little like an express wagon. At that time I had never seen such a high, narrow, long thing, so high that the women and girls couldn't climb up without the men's help, and great difficulty; so narrow that two persons could not sit comfortably side by side, and so long that it took me some time to move my eyes from the rear end, where the baggage was, to the front, where the driver sat. When all had settled down at last (there were a number besides ourselves) the two horses started off very fast, in spite of their heavy load. Through noisy, strange looking streets they took us, where many people walked or ran or rode. Many splendid houses, stone and brick, and showy shops, they passed. Much that was very strange to us we saw, and little we knew anything about. There a little cart loaded with bottles or tin cans, drawn by a goat or a dog, sometimes two, attracted our attention. Sometimes it was only a nurse carrying a child in her arms that seemed interesting, from the strange dress. Often it was some article displayed in a shop window or door, or the usually smiling owner standing in the doorway, that called for our notice. Not that there was anything really unusual in many of these things, but a certain air of foreignness, which sometimes was very vague, surrounded everything that passed before our interested gaze as the horses hastened on. The strangest sight of all we saw as we came into the still noisier streets. Something like a horse-car such as we had seen in Vilna for the first time, except that it was open on both sides (in most cases) but without any horses, came flying--really flying--past us. For we stared and looked it all over, and above, and under, and rubbed our eyes, and asked of one another what we saw, and nobody could find what it was that made the thing go. And go it did, one after another, faster than we, with nothing to move it. "Why, what _is_ that?" we kept exclaiming. "Really, do you see anything that makes it go? I'm sure I don't." Then I ventured the highly probable suggestion, "Perhaps it's the fat man in the gray coat and hat with silver buttons. I guess he pushes it. I've noticed one in front on every one of them, holding on to that shining thing." And I'm sure this was as wise a solution of the mystery as anyone could give, except the driver, who laughed to himself and his horses over our surprise and wonder at nothing he could see to cause it. But we couldn't understand his explanation, though we always got along very easily with the Germans, and not until much later did we know that those wonderful things, with only a fat man to move them, were electric cars. The sightseeing was not all on our side. I noticed many people stopping to look at us as if amused, though most passed by as though used to such sights. We did make a queer appearance all in a long row, up above people's heads. In fact, we looked like a flock of giant fowls roosting, only wide awake. Suddenly, when everything interesting seemed at an end, we all recollected how long it was since we had started on our funny ride. Hours, we thought, and still the horses ran. Now we rode through quieter streets where there were fewer shops and more wooden houses. Still the horses seemed to have but just started. I looked over our perch again. Something made me think of a description I had read of criminals being carried on long journeys in uncomfortable things--like this? Well, it was strange--this long, long drive, the conveyance, no word of explanation, and all, though going different ways, being packed off together. We were strangers; the driver knew it. He might take us anywhere--how could we tell? I was frightened again as in Berlin. The faces around me confessed the same. The streets became quieter still; no shops, only little houses; hardly any people passing. Now we cross many railway tracks and I can hear the sea not very distant. There are many trees now by the roadside, and the wind whistles through their branches. The wheels and hoofs make a great noise on the stones, the roar of the sea and the wind among the branches have an unfriendly sound. The horses never weary. Still they run. There are no houses now in view, save now and then a solitary one, far away. I can see the ocean. Oh, it is stormy. The dark waves roll inward, the white foam flies high in the air; deep sounds come from it. The wheels and hoofs make a great noise; the wind is stronger, and says, "Do you hear the sea?" And the ocean's roar threatens. The sea threatens, and the wind bids me hear it, and the hoofs and the wheels repeat the command, and so do the trees, by gestures. Yes, we are frightened. We are very still. Some Polish women over there have fallen asleep, and the rest of us look such a picture of woe, and yet so funny, it is a sight to see and remember. At last, at last! Those unwearied horses have stopped. Where? In front of a brick building, the only one on a large, broad street, where only the trees, and, in the distance, the passing trains can be seen. Nothing else. The ocean, too, is shut out. All were helped off, the baggage put on the sidewalk, and then taken up again and carried into the building, where the passengers were ordered to go. On the left side of the little corridor was a small office where a man sat before a desk covered with papers. These he pushed aside when we entered, and called us in one by one, except, of course children. As usual, many questions were asked, the new ones being about our tickets. Then each person, children included, had to pay three marcs--one for the wagon that brought us over and two for food and lodgings, till our various ships should take us away. Mamma, having five to pay for, owed fifteen marcs. The little sum we started with was to last us to the end of the journey, and would have done so if there hadn't been those unexpected bills to pay at Keebart, Eidtkunen, Berlin, and now at the office. Seeing how often services were forced upon us unasked and payment afterwards demanded, mother had begun to fear that we should need more money, and had sold some things to a woman for less than a third of their value. In spite of that, so heavy was the drain on the spare purse where it had not been expected, she found to her dismay that she had only twelve marcs left to meet the new bill. The man in the office wouldn't believe it, and we were given over in charge of a woman in a dark gray dress and long white apron, with a red cross on her right arm. She led us away and thoroughly searched us all, as well as our baggage. That was nice treatment, like what we had been receiving since our first uninterrupted entrance into Germany. Always a call for money, always suspicion of our presence and always rough orders and scowls of disapproval, even at the quickest obedience. And now this outrageous indignity! We had to bear it all because we were going to America from a land cursed by the dreadful epidemic. Others besides ourselves shared these trials, the last one included, if that were any comfort, which it was not. When the woman reported the result of the search as being fruitless, the man was satisfied, and we were ordered with the rest through many more examinations and ceremonies before we should be established under the quarantine, for that it was. While waiting for our turn to be examined by the doctor I looked about, thinking it worth while to get acquainted with a place where we might be obliged to stay for I knew not how long. The room where we were sitting was large, with windows so high up that we couldn't see anything through them. In the middle stood several long wooden tables, and around these were settees of the same kind. On the right, opposite the doctor's office, was a little room where various things could be bought of a young man--if you hadn't paid all your money for other things. When the doctor was through with us he told us to go to Number Five. Now wasn't that like in a prison? We walked up and down a long yard looking, among a row of low, numbered doors, for ours, when we heard an exclamation of, "Oh, Esther! how do you happen to be here?" and, on seeing the speaker, found it to be an old friend of ours from Plotzk. She had gone long before us, but her ship hadn't arrived yet. She was surprised to see us because we had had no intention of going when she went. What a comfort it was to find a friend among all the strangers! She showed us at once to our new quarters, and while she talked to mamma I had time to see what they were like. It looked something like a hospital, only less clean and comfortable; more like the soldiers' barracks I had seen. I saw a very large room, around whose walls were ranged rows of high iron double bedsteads, with coarse sacks stuffed with something like matting, and not over-clean blankets for the only bedding, except where people used their own. There were three windows almost touching the roof, with nails covering all the framework. From the ceiling hung two round gas lamps, and almost under them stood a little wooden table and a settee. The floor was of stone. Here was a pleasant prospect. We had no idea how long this unattractive place might be our home. Our friend explained that Number Five was only for Jewish women and girls, and the beds were sleeping rooms, dining rooms, parlors, and everything else, kitchens excepted. It seemed so, for some were lounging on the beds, some sitting up, some otherwise engaged, and all were talking and laughing and making a great noise. Poor things! there was nothing else to do in that prison. Before mother had told our friend of our adventures, a girl, also a passenger, who had been walking in the yard, ran in and announced, "It's time to go to dinner! He has come already." "He" we soon learned, was the overseer of the Jewish special kitchen, without whom the meals were never taken. All the inmates of Number Five rushed out in less than a minute, and I wondered why they hurried so. When we reached the place that served as dining room, there was hardly any room for us. Now, while the dinner is being served, I will tell you what I can see. In the middle of the yard stood a number of long tables covered with white oilcloth. On either side of each table stood benches on which all the Jewish passengers were now seated, looking impatiently at the door with the sign "Jewish Kitchen" over it. Pretty soon a man appeared in the doorway, tall, spare, with a thin, pointed beard, and an air of importance on his face. It was "he", the overseer, who carried a large tin pail filled with black bread cut into pieces of half a pound each. He gave a piece to every person, the youngest child and the biggest man alike, and then went into the kitchen and filled his pail with soup and meat, giving everybody a great bowl full of soup and a small piece of meat. All attacked their rations as soon as they received them and greatly relished the coarse bread and dark, hot water they called soup. We couldn't eat those things and only wondered how any one could have such an appetite for such a dinner. We stopped wondering when our own little store of provisions gave out. After dinner, the people went apart, some going back to their beds and others to walk in the yard or sit on the settees there. There was no other place to go to. The doors of the prison were never unlocked except when new passengers arrived or others left for their ships. The fences--they really were solid walls--had wires and nails on top, so that one couldn't even climb to get a look at the sea. We went back to our quarters to talk over matters and rest from our journey. At six o'clock the doctor came with a clerk, and, standing before the door, bade all those in the yard belonging to Number Five assemble there; and then the roll was called and everybody received a little ticket as she answered to her name. With this all went to the kitchen and received two little rolls and a large cup of partly sweetened tea. This was supper; and breakfast, served too in this way was the same. Any wonder that people hurried to dinner and enjoyed it? And it was always the same thing, no change. Little by little we became used to the new life, though it was hard to go hungry day after day, and bear the discomforts of the common room, shared by so many; the hard beds (we had little bedding of our own), and the confinement to the narrow limits of the yard, and the tiresome sameness of the life. Meal hours, of course, played the most important part, while the others had to be filled up as best we could. The weather was fine most of the time and that helped much. Everything was an event, the arrival of fresh passengers a great one which happened every day; the day when the women were allowed to wash clothes by the well was a holiday, and the few favorite girls who were allowed to help in the kitchen were envied. On dull, rainy days, the man coming to light the lamps at night was an object of pleasure, and every one made the best of everybody else. So when a young man arrived who had been to America once before, he was looked up to by every person there as a superior, his stories of our future home listened to with delight, and his manners imitated by all, as a sort of fit preparation. He was wanted everywhere, and he made the best of his greatness by taking liberties and putting on great airs and, I afterwards found, imposing on our ignorance very much. But anything "The American" did passed for good, except his going away a few days too soon. Then a girl came who was rather wanting a little brightness. So all joined in imposing upon her by telling her a certain young man was a great professor whom all owed respect and homage to, and she would do anything in the world to express hers, while he used her to his best advantage, like the willing slave she was. Nobody seemed to think this unkind at all, and it really was excusable that the poor prisoners, hungry for some entertainment, should try to make a little fun when the chance came. Besides, the girl had opened the temptation by asking, "Who was the handsome man in the glasses? A professor surely;" showing that she took glasses for a sure sign of a professor, and professor for the highest possible title of honor. Doesn't this excuse us? The greatest event was the arrival of some ship to take some of the waiting passengers. When the gates were opened and the lucky ones said good bye, those left behind felt hopeless of ever seeing the gates open for them. It was both pleasant and painful, for the strangers grew to be fast friends in a day and really rejoiced in each other's fortune, but the regretful envy could not be helped either. Amid such events as these a day was like a month at least. Eight of these we had spent in quarantine when a great commotion was noticed among the people of Number Five and those of the corresponding number in the men's division. There was a good reason for it. You remember that it was April and Passover was coming on; in fact, it began that night. The great question was, Would we be able to keep it exactly according to the host of rules to be obeyed? You who know all about the great holiday can understand what the answer to that question meant to us. Think of all the work and care and money it takes to supply a family with all the things proper and necessary, and you will see that to supply a few hundred was no small matter. Now, were they going to take care that all was perfectly right, and could we trust them if they promised, or should we be forced to break any of the laws that ruled the holiday? All day long there was talking and questioning and debating and threatening that "we would rather starve than touch anything we were not sure of." And we meant it. So some men and women went to the overseer to let him know what he had to look out for. He assured them that he would rather starve along with us than allow anything to be in the least wrong. Still, there was more discussing and shaking of heads, for they were not sure yet. There was not a crumb anywhere to be found, because what bread we received was too precious for any of it to be wasted; but the women made a great show of cleaning up Number Five, while they sighed and looked sad and told one another of the good hard times they had at home getting ready for Passover. Really, hard as it is, when one is used to it from childhood, it seems part of the holiday, and can't be left out. To sit down and wait for supper as on other nights seemed like breaking one of the laws. So they tried hard to be busy. At night we were called by the overseer (who tried to look more important than ever in his holiday clothes--not his best, though) to the feast spread in one of the unoccupied rooms. We were ready for it, and anxious enough. We had had neither bread nor matzo for dinner, and were more hungry than ever, if that is possible. We now found everything really prepared; there were the pillows covered with a snow-white spread, new oilcloth on the newly scrubbed tables, some little candles stuck in a basin of sand on the window-sill for the women, and--a sure sign of a holiday--both gas lamps burning. Only one was used on other nights. Happy to see these things, and smell the supper, we took our places and waited. Soon the cook came in and filled some glasses with wine from two bottles,--one yellow, one red. Then she gave to each person--exactly one and a half matzos; also some cold meat, burned almost to a coal for the occasion. The young man--bless him--who had the honor to perform the ceremonies, was, fortunately for us all, one of the passengers. He felt for and with us, and it happened--just a coincidence--that the greater part of the ceremony escaped from his book as he turned the leaves. Though strictly religious, nobody felt in the least guilty about it, especially on account of the wine; for, when we came to the place where you have to drink the wine, we found it tasted like good vinegar, which made us all choke and gasp, and one little girl screamed "Poison!" so that all laughed, and the leader, who tried to go on, broke down too at the sight of the wry faces he saw; while the overseer looked shocked, the cook nearly set her gown on fire by overthrowing the candles with her apron (used to hide her face) and all wished our Master Overseer had to drink that "wine" all his days. Think of the same ceremony as it is at home, then of this one just described. Do they even resemble each other? Well, the leader got through amid much giggling and sly looks among the girls who understood the trick, and frowns of the older people (who secretly blessed him for it). Then, half hungry, all went to bed and dreamed of food in plenty. No other dreams? Rather! For the day that brought the Passover brought us--our own family--the most glorious news. We had been ordered to bring our baggage to the office! "Ordered to bring our baggage to the office!" That meant nothing less than that we were "going the next day!" It was just after supper that we received the welcome order. Oh, who cared if there wasn't enough to eat? Who cared for anything in the whole world? We didn't. It was all joy and gladness and happy anticipation for us. We laughed, and cried, and hugged one another, and shouted, and acted altogether like wild things. Yes, we were wild with joy, and long after the rest were asleep, we were whispering together and wondering how we could keep quiet the whole night. We couldn't sleep by any means, we were so afraid of oversleeping the great hour; and every little while, after we tried to sleep, one of us would suddenly think she saw day at the window, and wake the rest, who also had only been pretending to sleep while watching in the dark for daylight. When it came, it found no watchful eye, after all. The excitement gave way to fatigue, and drowsiness first, then deep sleep, completed its victory. It was eight o'clock when we awoke. The morning was cloudy and chilly, the sun being too lazy to attend to business; now and then it rained a little, too. And yet it was the most beautiful day that had ever dawned on Hamburg. We enjoyed everything offered for breakfast, two matzos and two cups of tea apiece--why it was a banquet. After it came the good-byes, as we were going soon. As I told you before, the strangers became fast friends in a short time under the circumstances, so there was real sorrow at the partings, though the joy of the fortunate ones was, in a measure, shared by all. About one o'clock (we didn't go to dinner--we couldn't eat for excitement) we were called. There were three other families, an old woman, and a young man, among the Jewish passengers, who were going with us, besides some Polish people. We were all hurried through the door we had watched with longing for so long, and were a little way from it when the old woman stopped short and called on the rest to wait. "We haven't any matzo!" she cried in alarm. "Where's the overseer?" Sure enough we had forgotten it, when we might as well have left one of us behind. We refused to go, calling for the overseer, who had promised to supply us, and the man who had us in charge grew angry and said he wouldn't wait. It was a terrible situation for us. "Oh," said the man, "you can go and get your matzo, but the boat won't wait for you." And he walked off, followed by the Polish people only. We had to decide at once. We looked at the old woman. She said she wasn't going to start on a dangerous journey with such a sin on her soul. Then the children decided. They understood the matter. They cried and begged to follow the party. And we did. Just when we reached the shore, the cook came up panting hard. She brought us matzo. How relieved we were then! We got on a little steamer (the name is too big for it) that was managed by our conductor alone. Before we had recovered from the shock of the shrill whistle so near us, we were landing in front of a large stone building. Once more we were under the command of the gendarme. We were ordered to go into a big room crowded with people, and wait till the name of our ship was called. Somebody in a little room called a great many queer names, and many passengers answered the call. At last we heard, "Polynesia!" We passed in and a great many things were done to our tickets before we were directed to go outside, then to a larger steamer than the one we came in. At every step our tickets were either stamped or punched, or a piece torn off of them, till we stepped upon the steamer's deck. Then we were ordered below. It was dark there, and we didn't like it. In a little while we were called up again, and then we saw before us the great ship that was to carry us to America. I only remember, from that moment, that I had only one care till all became quiet; not to lose hold of my sister's hand. Everything else can be told in one word--noise. But when I look back, I can see what made it. There were sailors dragging and hauling bundles and boxes from the small boat into the great ship, shouting and thundering at their work. There were officers giving out orders in loud voices, like trumpets, though they seemed to make no effort. There were children crying, and mothers hushing them, and fathers questioning the officers as to where they should go. There were little boats and steamers passing all around, shrieking and whistling terribly. And there seemed to be everything under heaven that had any noise in it, come to help swell the confusion of sounds. I know that, but how we ever got in that quiet place that had the sign "For Families" over it, I don't know. I think we went around and around, long and far, before we got there. But there we were, sitting quietly on a bench by the white berths. When the sailors brought our things, we got everything in order for the journey as soon as possible, that we might go on deck to see the starting. But first we had to obey a sailor, who told us to come and get dishes. Each person received a plate, a spoon and a cup. I wondered how we could get along if we had had no things of our own. For an hour or two more there were still many noises on deck, and many preparations made. Then we went up, as most of the passengers did. What a change in the scene! Where there had been noise and confusion before, peace and quiet were now. All the little boats and steamers had disappeared, and the wharf was deserted. On deck the "Polynesia" everything was in good order, and the officers walked about smoking their cigars as if their work was done. Only a few sailors were at work at the big ropes, but they didn't shout as before. The weather had changed, too, for the twilight was unlike what the day had promised. The sky was soft gray, with faint streaks of yellow on the horizon. The air was still and pleasant, much warmer than it had been all the day; and the water was as motionless and clear as a deep, cool well, and everything was mirrored in it clearly. This entire change in the scene, the peace that encircled everything around us, seemed to give all the same feeling that I know I had. I fancied that nature created it especially for us, so that we would be allowed, in this pause, to think of our situation. All seemed to do so; all spoke in low voices, and seemed to be looking for something as they gazed quietly into the smooth depths below, or the twilight skies above. Were they seeking an assurance? Perhaps; for there was something strange in the absence of a crowd of friends on the shore, to cheer and salute, and fill the air with white clouds and last farewells. I found the assurance. The very stillness was a voice--nature's voice; and it spoke to the ocean and said, "I entrust to you this vessel. Take care of it, for it bears my children with it, from one strange shore to another more distant, where loving friends are waiting to embrace them after long partings. Be gentle with your charge." And the ocean, though seeming so still, replied, "I will obey my mistress." I heard it all, and a feeling of safety and protection came to me. And when at last the wheels overhead began to turn and clatter, and the ripples on the water told us that the "Polynesia" had started on her journey, which was not noticeable from any other sign, I felt only a sense of happiness. I mistrusted nothing. But the old woman who remembered the matzo did, more than anybody else. She made great preparations for being seasick, and poisoned the air with garlic and onions. When the lantern fixed in the ceiling had been lighted, the captain and the steward paid us a visit. They took up our tickets and noticed all the passengers, then left. Then a sailor brought supper--bread and coffee. Only a few ate it. Then all went to bed, though it was very early. Nobody expected seasickness as soon as it seized us. All slept quietly the whole night, not knowing any difference between being on land or at sea. About five o'clock I woke up, and then I felt and heard the sea. A very disagreeable smell came from it, and I knew it was disturbed by the rocking of the ship. Oh, how wretched it made us! From side to side it went rocking, rocking. Ugh! Many of the passengers are very sick indeed, they suffer terribly. We are all awake now, and wonder if we, too, will be so sick. Some children are crying, at intervals. There is nobody to comfort them--all are so miserable. Oh, I am so sick! I'm dizzy; everything is going round and round before my eyes--Oh-h-h! I can't even begin to tell of the suffering of the next few hours. Then I thought I would feel better if I could go on deck. Somehow, I got down (we had upper berths) and, supporting myself against the walls, I came on deck. But it was worse. The green water, tossing up the white foam, rocking all around, as far as I dared to look, was frightful to me then. So I crawled back as well as I could, and nobody else tried to go out. By and by the doctor and the steward came. The doctor asked each passenger if they were well, but only smiled when all begged for some medicine to take away the dreadful suffering. To those who suffered from anything besides seasickness he sent medicine and special food later on. His companion appointed one of the men passengers for every twelve or fifteen to carry the meals from the kitchen, giving them cards to get it with. For our group a young German was appointed, who was making the journey for the second time, with his mother and sister. We were great friends with them during the journey. The doctor went away soon, leaving the sufferers in the same sad condition. At twelve, a sailor announced that dinner was ready, and the man brought it--large tin pails and basins of soup, meat, cabbage, potatoes, and pudding (the last was allowed only once a week); and almost all of it was thrown away, as only a few men ate. The rest couldn't bear even the smell of food. It was the same with the supper at six o'clock. At three milk had been brought for the babies, and brown bread (a treat) with coffee for the rest. But after supper the daily allowance of fresh water was brought, and this soon disappeared and more called for, which was refused, although we lived on water alone for a week. At last the day was gone, and much we had borne in it. Night came, but brought little relief. Some did fall asleep, and forgot suffering for a few hours. I was awake late. The ship was quieter, and everything sadder than by daylight. I thought of all we had gone through till we had got on board the "Polynesia"; of the parting from all friends and things we loved, forever, as far as we knew; of the strange experience at various strange places; of the kind friends who helped us, and the rough officers who commanded us; of the quarantine, the hunger, then the happy news, and the coming on board. Of all this I thought, and remembered that we were far away from friends, and longed for them, that I might be made well by speaking to them. And every minute was making the distance between us greater, a meeting more impossible. Then I remembered why we were crossing the ocean, and knew that it was worth the price. At last the noise of the wheels overhead, and the dull roar of the sea, rocked me to sleep. For a short time only. The ship was tossed about more than the day before, and the great waves sounded like distant thunder as they beat against it, and rolled across the deck and entered the cabin. We found, however, that we were better, though very weak. We managed to go on deck in the afternoon, when it was calm enough. A little band was playing, and a few young sailors and German girls tried even to dance; but it was impossible. As I sat in a corner where no waves could reach me, holding on to a rope, I tried to take in the grand scene. There was the mighty ocean I had heard of only, spreading out its rough breadth far, far around, its waves giving out deep, angry tones, and throwing up walls of spray into the air. There was the sky, like the sea, full of ridges of darkest clouds, bending to meet the waves, and following their motions and frowning and threatening. And there was the "Polynesia" in the midst of this world of gloom, and anger, and distance. I saw these, but indistinctly, not half comprehending the wonderful picture. For the suffering had left me dull and tired out. I only knew that I was sad, and everybody else was the same. Another day gone, and we congratulate one another that seasickness lasted only one day with us. So we go to sleep. Oh, the sad mistake! For six days longer we remain in our berths, miserable and unable to eat. It is a long fast, hardly interrupted, during which we know that the weather is unchanged, the sky dark, the sea stormy. On the eighth day out we are again able to be about. I went around everywhere, exploring every corner, and learning much from the sailors; but I never remembered the names of the various things I asked about, they were so many, and some German names hard to learn. We all made friends with the captain and other officers, and many of the passengers. The little band played regularly on certain days, and the sailors and girls had a good many dances, though often they were swept by a wave across the deck, quite out of time. The children were allowed to play on deck, but carefully watched. Still the weather continued the same, or changing slightly. But I was able now to see all the grandeur of my surroundings, notwithstanding the weather. Oh, what solemn thoughts I had! How deeply I felt the greatness, the power of the scene! The immeasurable distance from horizon to horizon; the huge billows forever changing their shapes--now only a wavy and rolling plain, now a chain of great mountains, coming and going farther away; then a town in the distance, perhaps, with spires and towers and buildings of gigantic dimensions; and mostly a vast mass of uncertain shapes, knocking against each other in fury, and seething and foaming in their anger; the grey sky, with its mountains of gloomy clouds, flying, moving with the waves, as it seemed, very near them; the absence of any object besides the one ship; and the deep, solemn groans of the sea, sounding as if all the voices of the world had been turned into sighs and then gathered into that one mournful sound--so deeply did I feel the presence of these things, that the feeling became one of awe, both painful and sweet, and stirring and warming, and deep and calm and grand. I thought of tempests and shipwreck, of lives lost, treasures destroyed, and all the tales I had heard of the misfortunes at sea, and knew I had never before had such a clear idea of them. I tried to realize that I saw only a part of an immense whole, and then my feelings were terrible in their force. I was afraid of thinking then, but could not stop it. My mind would go on working, till I was overcome by the strength and power that was greater than myself. What I did at such times I do not know. I must have been dazed. After a while I could sit quietly and gaze far away. Then I would imagine myself all alone on the ocean, and Robinson Crusoe was very real to me. I was alone sometimes. I was aware of no human presence; I was conscious only of sea and sky and something I did not understand. And as I listened to its solemn voice, I felt as if I had found a friend, and knew that I loved the ocean. It seemed as if it were within as well as without, a part of myself; and I wondered how I had lived without it, and if I could ever part with it. The ocean spoke to me in other besides mournful or angry tones. I loved even the angry voice, but when it became soothing, I could hear a sweet, gentle accent that reached my soul rather than my ear. Perhaps I imagined it. I do not know. What was real and what imaginary blended in one. But I heard and felt it, and at such moments I wished I could live on the sea forever, and thought that the sight of land would be very unwelcome to me. I did not want to be near any person. Alone with the ocean forever--that was my wish. Leading a quiet life, the same every day, and thinking such thoughts, feeling such emotions, the days were very long. I do not know how the others passed the time, because I was so lost in my meditations. But when the sky would smile for awhile--when a little sunlight broke a path for itself through the heavy clouds, which disappeared as though frightened; and when the sea looked more friendly, and changed its color to match the heavens, which were higher up--then we would sit on deck together, and laugh for mere happiness as we talked of the nearing meeting, which the unusual fairness of the weather seemed to bring nearer. Sometimes, at such minutes of sunshine and gladness, a few birds would be seen making their swift journey to some point we did not know of; sometimes among the light clouds, then almost touching the surface of the waves. How shall I tell you what we felt at the sight? The birds were like old friends to us, and brought back many memories, which seemed very old, though really fresh. All felt sadder when the distance became too great for us to see the dear little friends, though it was not for a long time after their first appearance. We used to watch for them, and often mistook the clouds for birds, and were thus disappointed. When they did come, how envious we were of their wings! It was a new thought to me that the birds had more power than man. In this way the days went by. I thought my thoughts each day, as I watched the scene, hoping to see a beautiful sunset some day. I never did, to my disappointment. And each night, as I lay in my berth, waiting for sleep, I wished I might be able even to hope for the happiness of a sea-voyage after this had been ended. Yet, when, on the twelfth day after leaving Hamburg, the captain announced that we should see land before long, I rejoiced as much as anybody else. We were so excited with expectation that nothing else was heard but the talk of the happy arrival, now so near. Some were even willing to stay up at night, to be the first ones to see the shores of America. It was therefore a great disappointment when the captain said, in the evening, that we would not reach Boston as soon as he expected, on account of the weather. A dense fog set in at night, and grew heavier and heavier, until the "Polynesia" was closely walled in by it, and we could just see from one end of the deck to the other. The signal lanterns were put up, the passengers were driven to their berths by the cold and damp, the cabin doors closed, and discomfort reigned everywhere. But the excitement of the day had tired us out, and we were glad to forget disappointment in sleep. In the morning it was still foggy, but we could see a little way around. It was very strange to have the boundless distance made so narrow, and I felt the strangeness of the scene. All day long we shivered with cold, and hardly left the cabin. At last it was night once more, and we in our berths. But nobody slept. The sea had been growing rougher during the day, and at night the ship began to pitch as it did at the beginning of the journey. Then it grew worse. Everything in our cabin was rolling on the floor, clattering and dinning. Dishes were broken into little bits that flew about from one end to the other. Bedding from upper berths nearly stifled the people in the lower ones. Some fell out of their berths, but it was not at all funny. As the ship turned to one side, the passengers were violently thrown against that side of the berths, and some boards gave way and clattered down to the floor. When it tossed on the other side, we could see the little windows almost touch the water, and closed the shutters to keep out the sight. The children cried, everybody groaned, and sailors kept coming in to pick up the things on the floor and carry them away. This made the confusion less, but not the alarm. Above all sounds rose the fog horn. It never stopped the long night through. And oh, how sad it sounded! It pierced every heart, and made us afraid. Now and then some ship, far away, would answer, like a weak echo. Sometimes we noticed that the wheels were still, and we knew that the ship had stopped. This frightened us more than ever, for we imagined the worst reasons for it. It was day again, and a little calmer. We slept now, till the afternoon. Then we saw that the fog had become much thinner, and later on we even saw a ship, but indistinctly. Another night passed, and the day that followed was pretty fair, and towards evening the sky was almost cloudless. The captain said we should have no more rough weather, for now we were really near Boston. Oh, how hard it was to wait for the happy day! Somebody brought the news that we should land to-morrow in the afternoon. We didn't believe it, so he said that the steward had ordered a great pudding full of raisins for supper that day as a sure sign that it was the last on board. We remembered the pudding, but didn't believe in its meaning. I don't think we slept that night. After all the suffering of our journey, after seeing and hearing nothing but the sky and the sea and its roaring, it was impossible to sleep when we thought that soon we would see trees, fields, fresh people, animals--a world, and that world America. Then, above everything, was the meeting with friends we had not seen for years; for almost everybody had some friends awaiting them. Morning found all the passengers up and expectant. Someone questioned the captain, and he said we would land to-morrow. There was another long day, and another sleepless night, but when these ended at last, how busy we were! First we packed up all the things we did not need, then put on fresh clothing, and then went on deck to watch for land. It was almost three o'clock, the hour the captain hoped to reach Boston, but there was nothing new to be seen. The weather was fair, so we would have seen anything within a number of miles. Anxiously we watched, and as we talked of the strange delay, our courage began to give out with our hope. When it could be borne no longer, a gentleman went to speak to the captain. He was on the upper deck, examining the horizon. He put off the arrival for the next day! You can imagine our feelings at this. When it was worse the captain came down and talked so assuringly that, in spite of all the disappointments we had had, we believed that this was the last, and were quite cheerful when we went to bed. The morning was glorious. It was the eighth of May, the seventeenth day after we left Hamburg. The sky was clear and blue, the sun shone brightly, as if to congratulate us that we had safely crossed the stormy sea; and to apologize for having kept away from us so long. The sea had lost its fury; it was almost as quiet as it had been at Hamburg before we started, and its color was a beautiful greenish blue. Birds were all the time in the air, and it was worth while to live merely to hear their songs. And soon, oh joyful sight! we saw the tops of two trees! What a shout there rose! Everyone pointed out the welcome sight to everybody else, as if they did not see it. All eyes were fixed on it as if they saw a miracle. And this was only the beginning of the joys of the day! What confusion there was! Some were flying up the stairs to the upper deck, some were tearing down to the lower one, others were running in and out of the cabins, some were in all parts of the ship in one minute, and all were talking and laughing and getting in somebody's way. Such excitement, such joy! We had seen two trees! Then steamers and boats of all kinds passed by, in all directions. We shouted, and the men stood up in the boats and returned the greeting, waving their hats. We were as glad to see them as if they were old friends of ours. Oh, what a beautiful scene! No corner of the earth is half so fair as the lovely picture before us. It came to view suddenly,--a green field, a real field with grass on it, and large houses, and the dearest hens and little chickens in all the world, and trees, and birds, and people at work. The young green things put new life into us, and are so dear to our eyes that we dare not speak a word now, lest the magic should vanish away and we should be left to the stormy scenes we know. But nothing disturbed the fairy sight. Instead, new scenes appeared, beautiful as the first. The sky becomes bluer all the time, the sun warmer; the sea is too quiet for its name, and the most beautiful blue imaginable. What are the feelings these sights awaken! They can not be described. To know how great was our happiness, how complete, how free from even the shadow of a sadness, you must make a journey of sixteen days on a stormy ocean. Is it possible that we will ever again be so happy? It was about three hours since we saw the first landmarks, when a number of men came on board, from a little steamer, and examined the passengers to see if they were properly vaccinated (we had been vaccinated on the "Polynesia"), and pronounced everyone all right. Then they went away, except one man who remained. An hour later we saw the wharves. Before the ship had fully stopped, the climax of our joy was reached. One of us espied the figure and face we had longed to see for three long years. In a moment five passengers on the "Polynesia" were crying, "Papa," and gesticulating, and laughing, and hugging one another, and going wild altogether. All the rest were roused by our excitement, and came to see our father. He recognized us as soon as we him, and stood apart on the wharf not knowing what to do, I thought. What followed was slow torture. Like mad things we ran about where there was room, unable to stand still as long as we were on the ship and he on shore. To have crossed the ocean only to come within a few yards of him, unable to get nearer till all the fuss was over, was dreadful enough. But to hear other passengers called who had no reason for hurry, while we were left among the last, was unendurable. Oh, dear! Why can't we get off the hateful ship? Why can't papa come to us? Why so many ceremonies at the landing? We said good-bye to our friends as their turn came, wishing we were in their luck. To give us something else to think of, papa succeeded in passing us some fruit; and we wondered to find it anything but a great wonder, for we expected to find everything marvellous in the strange country. Still the ceremonies went on. Each person was asked a hundred or so stupid questions, and all their answers were written down by a very slow man. The baggage had to be examined, the tickets, and a hundred other things done before anyone was allowed to step ashore, all to keep us back as long as possible. Now imagine yourself parting with all you love, believing it to be a parting for life; breaking up your home, selling the things that years have made dear to you; starting on a journey without the least experience in travelling, in the face of many inconveniences on account of the want of sufficient money; being met with disappointment where it was not to be expected; with rough treatment everywhere, till you are forced to go and make friends for yourself among strangers; being obliged to sell some of your most necessary things to pay bills you did not willingly incur; being mistrusted and searched, then half starved, and lodged in common with a multitude of strangers; suffering the miseries of seasickness, the disturbances and alarms of a stormy sea for sixteen days; and then stand within, a few yards of him for whom you did all this, unable to even speak to him easily. How do you feel? Oh, it's our turn at last! We are questioned, examined, and dismissed! A rush over the planks on one side, over the ground on the other, six wild beings cling to each other, bound by a common bond of tender joy, and the long parting is at an END. 
37774	----	CONSIDERATIONS ON RELIGION AND PUBLIC EDUCATION, WITH REMARKS ON THE _SPEECH_ OF _M. DUPONT_, DELIVERED IN THE NATIONAL CONVENTION OF FRANCE. TOGETHER WITH AN ADDRESS TO THE LADIES, &c. OF _GREAT BRITAIN and IRELAND_. [Decoration] BY HANNAH MORE. FIRST _AMERICAN_ EDITION. PRINTED AT _BOSTON_, BY WELD AND GREENOUGH. SOLD at the MAGAZINE OFFICE, No. 49, State Street. MDCCXCIV. [Decoration] A PREFATORY ADDRESS TO THE LADIES, &c. of GREAT BRITAIN and IRELAND, IN BEHALF OF THE FRENCH EMIGRANT CLERGY. [Decoration] If it be allowed that there may arise occasions so extraordinary, that all the lesser motives of delicacy ought to vanish before them; it is presumed that the present emergency will in some measure justify the hardiness of an Address from a private individual, who, stimulated by the urgency of the case, sacrifices inferior considerations to the ardent desire of raising further supplies towards relieving a distress as pressing as it is unexampled. We are informed by public advertisement, that the large sums already so liberally subscribed for the Emigrant Clergy, are almost exhausted. Authentic information adds, that multitudes of distressed Exiles in the island of Jersey, are on the point of wanting bread. Very many to whom this address is made have already contributed. O let them not be weary in well-doing! Many are making generous exertions for the just and natural claims of the widows and children of our brave seamen and soldiers. Let it not be said, that the present is an _interfering_ claim. Those to whom I write, have bread enough, and to spare. You, who fare sumptuously every day, and yet complain you have little to bestow, let not this bounty be subtracted from another bounty, but rather from some superfluous expense. The beneficent and right minded want no arguments to be pressed upon them; but I write to those of every description. Luxurious habits of living, which really furnish the distressed with the fairest grounds for application, are too often urged as a motive for withholding assistance, and produced as a plea for having little to spare. Let her who indulges such habits, and pleads such excuses in consequence, reflect, that by retrenching _one_ costly dish from her abundant table, the superfluities of _one_ expensive desert, _one_ evening's public amusement, she may furnish at least a week's subsistence to more than one person,[A] as liberally bred perhaps as herself, and who, in his own country, may have often tasted how much more blessed it is to give than to receive--to a minister of God, who has been long accustomed to bestow the necessaries he is now reduced to solicit. Even your young daughters, whom maternal prudence has not yet furnished with the means of bestowing, may be cheaply taught the first rudiments of charity, together with an important lesson of economy: They may be taught to sacrifice a feather, a set of ribbons, an expensive ornament, an idle diversion. And if they are thus instructed, that there is no true charity without self denial, they will _gain_ more than they are called upon to _give_: For the suppression of one luxury for a charitable purpose, is the exercise of two virtues, and this without any pecuniary expense. Let the sick and afflicted remember how dreadful it must be, to be exposed to sufferings, without one of the alleviations which mitigate _their_ affliction. How dreadful it is to be without comforts, without necessaries, without a home--_without a country_! While the gay and prosperous would do well to recollect, how suddenly and terribly those for whom we plead, were, by the surprising vicissitudes of life, thrown from equal heights of gaiety and prosperity. And let those who have husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, or friends, reflect on the uncertainties of war, and the revolution of human affairs. It is only by imagining the possibility of those who are dear to us being placed in the same calamitous circumstances, that we can obtain an adequate feeling of the woes we are called upon to commiserate. In a distress so wide and comprehensive, many are prevented from giving by that common excuse--"That it is but a drop of water in the ocean." But let them reflect, that if all the individual drops were withheld, there would be no ocean at all; and the inability to give much ought not, on any occasion, to be converted into an excuse for giving nothing. Even moderate circumstances need not plead an exemption. The industrious tradesman will not, even in a political view, be eventually a loser by his small contribution. The money raised is neither carried out of our country, nor dissipated in luxuries, but returns again to the community; to our shops and to our markets, to procure the bare necessaries of life. Some have objected to the difference of _religion_ of those for whom we solicit. Such an objection hardly deserves a serious answer. Surely if the superstitious Tartar hopes to become possessed of the courage and talents of the enemy he slays, the Christian is not afraid of catching, or of propagating the error of the sufferer he relieves.--Christian charity is of no party. We plead not for their faith, but for their wants. And let the more scrupulous, who look for desert as well as distress in the objects of their bounty, bear in mind, that if these men could have sacrificed their conscience to their convenience, they had not now been in this country. Let us shew them the purity of _our_ religion, by the beneficence of our actions. If you will permit me to press upon you such high motives (and it were to be wished that in every action we were to be influenced by the highest) perhaps no act of bounty to which you may be called out, can ever come so immediately under that solemn and affecting description, which will be recorded in the great day of account--_I was a stranger and ye took me in_.---- [Decoration] _The following is an exact Translation from a_ SPEECH _made in the National Convention at Paris, on Friday the 14th of December, 1792, in a Debate on the Subject of establishing Public Schools for the Education of Youth, by Citizen_ DUPONT, _a Member of considerable Weight; and as the Doctrines contained in it were received with unanimous Applause, except from two or three of the Clergy, it may be fairly considered as an Exposition of the Creed of that Enlightened Assembly. Translated from_ Le Moniteur _of Sunday the 16th of December, 1792_. [Decoration] What! Thrones are overturned! Sceptres broken! Kings expire! And yet the Altars of GOD remain! (Here there is a murmur from some Members; and the Abbé ICHON demands that the person speaking may be called to order.) Tyrants, in outrage to nature, continue to burn an impious incense on those Altars! (Some murmurs arise, but they are lost in the applauses from the majority of the Assembly.) The Thrones that have been reversed, have left these Altars naked, unsupported, and tottering. A single breath of enlightened reason will now be sufficient to make them disappear; and if humanity is under obligations to the French nation for the first of these benefits, the fall of Kings, can it be doubted but that the French people, now sovereign, will be wise enough, in like manner, to overthrow those Altars and _those Idols_ to which those Kings have hitherto made them subject? _Nature_ and _Reason_, these ought to be the gods of men! These are my gods! (Here the Abbé AUDREIN cried out, "There is no bearing this;" and rushed out of the Assembly.--A great laugh.) Admire _nature_--cultivate _reason_. And you, Legislators, if you desire that the French people should be happy, make haste to propagate these principles, and to teach them in your primary schools, instead of those fanatical principles which have hitherto been taught. The tyranny of Kings was confined to make their people miserable in this life--but those other tyrants, the Priests, extend their dominion into another, of which they have no other idea than of eternal punishments; a doctrine which some men have hitherto had the good nature to believe. But the moment of the catastrophe is come--all these prejudices must fall at the same time. _We must destroy them, or they will destroy us._--For myself, I honestly avow to the Convention, _I am an atheist_! (Here there is some noise and tumult. But a great number of members cry out, "What is that to us--you are an honest man!") But I defy a single individual, among the twenty-four millions of Frenchmen, to make against me any well grounded reproach. I doubt whether the Christians, or the Catholics, of which the last speaker, and those of his opinion, have been talking to us, can make the same challenge.--(Great applauses.) There is another consideration--Paris has had great losses. It has been deprived of the commerce of luxury; of that factitious splendour which was found at courts, and invited strangers hither. Well! We must repair these losses.--Let me then represent to you the times, that are fast approaching, when our philosophers, whose names are celebrated throughout Europe, PETION, SYEYES, CONDORCET, and others--surrounded in our Pantheon, as the Greek philosophers where at Athens, with a crowd of disciples coming from all parts of Europe, walking like the Peripatetics, and teaching--this man, the system of the universe, and developing the progress of all human knowledge; that, perfectioning the social system, and shewing in our decree of the 17th of June, 1789, the seeds of the insurrections of the 14th of July and the 10th of August, and of all those insurrections which are spreading with such rapidity throughout Europe--So that these young strangers, on their return to their respective countries, may spread the same lights, and may operate, _for the happiness of Mankind_, similar revolutions throughout the world. (Numberless applauses arose, almost throughout the whole Assembly, and in the Galleries.) [Decoration] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Mr. Bowdler's letter states, that about Six Shillings a week included the expenses of each Priest at Winchester.] [Decoration] REMARKS ON THE SPEECH of Mr. DUPONT, ON THE SUBJECTS OF Religion and Public Education. [Decoration] It is presumed that it may not be thought unseasonable at this critical time to offer to the Public, and especially to the more religious part of it, a few slight observations, occasioned by the late famous Speech of Mr. Dupont, which exhibits the Confession of Faith of a considerable Member of the French National Convention. Though the Speech itself has been pretty generally read, yet it was thought necessary to perfix it to these Remarks, lest such as have not already perused it, might, from an honest reluctance to credit the existence of such principles, dispute its authenticity, and accuse the remarks, if unaccompanied by the Speech, of a spirit of invective and unfair exaggeration. At the same time it must be confessed, that its impiety is so monstrous, that many good men were of opinion it ought not to be made familiar to the minds of Englishmen; for there are crimes with which even the imagination should never come in contact. But as an ancient nation intoxicated their slaves, and then exposed them before their children, in order to increase their horror of intemperance; so it is hoped that this piece of impiety may be placed in such a light before the eyes of the Christian reader, that, in proportion as his detestation is raised, his faith, instead of being shaken, will be only so much the more strengthened. This celebrated Speech, though delivered in an assembly of Politicians, is not on a question of politics, but on one as superior as the soul is to the body, and eternity to time. The object here, is not to dethrone kings, but HIM by whom kings reign. It does not here excite the cry of indignation that _Louis_ reigns, but that _the Lord God omnipotent reigneth_. Nor is this the declaration of some obscure and anonymous person, but an exposition of the Creed of a public Leader. It is not a sentiment hinted in a journal, hazarded in a pamphlet, or thrown out at a disputing club: but it is the implied faith of the rulers of a great nation. Little notice would have been due to this famous Speech, if it had conveyed the sentiments of only _one_ vain orator; but it should be observed, that it was heard, received, _applauded_, with two or three exceptions only--a fact, which you, who have scarcely believed in the existence of atheism, will hardly credit, and which, for the honour of the eighteenth century, it is hoped that our posterity, being still more unacquainted with such corrupt opinions, will reject as totally incredible. A love of liberty, generous in its principle, inclines some good men still to savour the proceedings of the National Convention of France. They do not yet perceive that the licentious wildness which has been excited in that country, is destructive of all true happiness, and no more resemble liberty, than the tumultuous joys of the drunkard, resemble the cheerfulness of a sober and well regulated mind. To those who do not know of what strange inconsistences man is made up; who have not considered how some persons, having at first been hastily and heedlessly drawn in as approvers, by a sort of natural progression, soon become principals;--to those who have never observed by what a variety of strange associations in the mind, opinions that seem the most irreconcileable meet at some unsuspected turning, and come to be united in the same man;--to all such it may appear quite incredible, that well meaning and even pious people should continue to applaud the principles of a set of men who have publicly made known their intention of abolishing Christianity, as far as the demolition of altars, priests, temples, and institutions, _can_ abolish it; and as to the religion itself, this also they may traduce, and for their own part reject, but we know, from the comfortable promise of an authority still sacred in this country at least, that _the gates of hell shall not prevail against it_. Let me not be misunderstood by those to whom these slight remarks are principally addressed; that class of well intentioned people, who favour at least, if they do not adopt, the prevailing sentiments of the new Republic. You are not here accused of being the wilful abetters of infidelity. God forbid! "we are persuaded better things of you, and things which accompany salvation." But this _ignis fatuus_ of liberty and universal brotherhood, which the French are madly pursuing, with the insignia of freedom in one hand, and the bloody bayonet in the other, has bewitched your senses, and is in danger of misleading your steps. You are gazing at a meteor raised by the vapours of vanity, which these wild and infatuated wanderers are pursuing to their destruction; and though for a moment you mistake it for a heaven-born light, which leads to the perfection of human freedom, you will, should you join in the mad pursuit, soon discover that it will conduct you over dreary wilds and sinking bogs, only to plunge you in deep and inevitable ruin. Much, very much is to be said in vindication of your favouring in the first instance their political projects. The cause they took in hand seemed to be the great cause of human kind. Its very name insured its popularity. What English heart did not exult at the demolition of the Bastile? What lover of his species did not triumph in the warm hope, that one of the finest countries in the world would soon be one of the most free? Popery and despotism, though chained by the gentle influence of Louis XVIth, had actually slain their thousands. Little was it then imagined, that anarchy and atheism, the monsters who were about to succeed them, would soon slay their ten thousands. If we cannot regret the defeat of the two former tyrants, what must they be who can triumph in the mischiefs of the two latter? Who, I say, that had a head to reason, or a heart to feel, did not glow with hope, that from the ruins of tyranny, and the rubbish of popery, a beautiful and finely framed edifice would in time have been constructed, and that ours would not have been the only country in which the patriot's fair idea of well understood liberty, and of the most pure and reasonable, as well as the most sublime and exalted Christianity might be realized? But, alas! it frequently happens that the wise and good are not the most adventurous in attacking the mischiefs which they perceive and lament. With a timidity in some respects virtuous, they fear attempting any thing which may possible aggravate the evils they deplore, or put to hazard the blessings they already enjoy. They dread plucking up the wheat with the tares, and are rather apt, with a spirit of hopeless resignation, "To bear the ills they have, "Than fly to others that they know not of." While sober minded and considerate men, therefore, sat mourning over this complicated mass of error, and waited till God, in his own good time, should open the blind eyes; the vast scheme of reformation was left to that set of rash and presumptuous adventurers, who are generally watching how they may convert public grievances to their own personal account. It was undertaken, not upon the broad basis of a wise and well digested scheme, of which all the parts should contribute to the perfection of one consistent whole: It was carried on, not by those steady measures, founded on rational deliberation, which are calculated to accomplish so important an end; not with a temperance which indicated a sober love of law, or a sacred regard for religion; but with the most extravagant lust of power, and the most inordinate vanity which perhaps ever instigated human measures; a lust of power which threatens to extend its desolating influence over the whole globe; a vanity of the same destructive species with that which stimulated the celebrated incendiary of Ephesus, who being weary of his native obscurity and insignificance, and prefering infamy to oblivion, could contrive no other road to fame and immortality, than that of setting fire to the exquisite Temple of Diana. He was remembered indeed, as he desired to be, but only to be execrated; while the seventh wonder of the world lay prostrate through his crime. It is the same over ruling vanity which operates in their politics, and in their religion, which makes Kersaint[B] boast of carrying his destructive projects from the Tagus to the Brazils, and from Mexico to the shores of the Ganges; which makes him menace to outstrip the enterprises of the most extravagant hero of romance, and almost undertake with the marvelous celerity of the nimbly footed Puck, "To put a girdle round about the earth "In forty minutes."---- It is the same vanity, still the master passion in the bosom of a Frenchman, which leads Dupont and Manuel to undertake in their orations to abolish the Sabbath, exterminate the Priesthood, erect a Pantheon for the World, restore the Peripatetic Philosophy, and in short revive every thing of ancient Greece, except the pure taste, the wisdom, the love of virtue, the veneration of the laws, and that degree of reverence which even virtuous Pagans professed for the Deity. It is surely to be charged to the inadequate and wretched hands into which the work of reformation fell, and not to the impossibility of amending the civil and religious institutions of France, that all has succeeded so ill. It cannot be denied, perhaps, that a reforming spirit was wanted in that country; their government was not more despotic, than their church was superstitious and corrupt. But though this is readily granted, and though it may be unfair to blame those who in the _first outset_ of the French Revolution, rejoiced even on religious motives; yet it is astonishing, how any pious person, even with all the blinding power of prejudice, can think without horror of the _present_ state of France. It is no less wonderful how any rational man could, even in the beginning of the Revolution; transfer that reasoning, however just it might be, when applied to France, to the case of England. For what can be more unreasonable, than to draw from different, and even opposite premises, the same conclusion? Must a revolution be equally necessary in the case of two sorts of Government, and two sorts of Religion, which are the very reverse of each other? opposite in their genius, unlike in their fundamental principles, and widely different in each of their component parts. That despotism, priestcraft, intolerance, and superstition, are terrible evils, no candid Christian it is presumed will deny; but, blessed be God, though these mischiefs are not yet entirely banished from the face of the earth, they have scarcely any existence in this country. To guard against a real danger, and to cure actual abuses, of which the existence has been first plainly proved, by the application of a suitable remedy, requires diligence as well as courage; observation as well as genius; patience and temperance as well as zeal and spirit. It requires the union of that clear head and sound heart which constitute the true patriot. But to conjure up fancied evils, or even greatly to aggravate real ones, and then to exhaust our labour in combating them, is the characteristic of a distempered imagination and an ungoverned spirit. Romantic crusades, the ordeal trial, drowning of witches, the torture, and the Inquisition, have been justly reprobated as the foulest stain of the respective periods, in which, to the disgrace of human reason, they existed; but would any man be rationally employed, who should now stand up gravely to declaim against these as the predominating mischiefs of the present century? Even the whimsical Knight of La Mancha himself, would not fight wind mills that were pulled down; yet I will venture to say, that the above named evils are at present little more chimerical than some of those now so bitterly complained of among us. It is not, as Dryden said, when one of his works was unmercifully abused, that the piece has not faults enough in it, but the critics have not had the wit to fix upon the right ones. It is allowed that, as a nation, we have faults enough, but our political critics err in the objects of their censure. They say little of those real and pressing evils resulting from our own corruption, which constitute the actual miseries of life; while they gloomily speculate upon a thousand imaginary political grievances, and fancy that the reformation of our rulers and our legislators is all that is wanting to make us a happy people. The principles of just and equitable government were, perhaps, never more fully established, nor public justice more exactly administered. Pure and undefiled religion was never laid more open to all, than at this day. I wish I could say we were a religious people; but this at least may be safely asserted, that the great truths of religion were never better understood; that Christianity was never more completely stripped from all its incumbrances and disguises, or more thoroughly purged from human infusions, and whatever is debasing in human institutions. Let us in this yet happy country, learn at least one great and important truth, from the errors of this distracted people. Their conduct has awfully illustrated a position, which is not the less sound for having been often controverted, That no degree of wit and learning; no progress in commerce; no advances in the knowledge of nature, or in the embellishments of art, can ever thoroughly tame that savage, the natural human heart, without RELIGION. The arts of social life may give a sweetness to the manners and language, and induce, in some degree, a love of justice, truth, and humanity; but attainments derived from such inferior causes are no more than the semblance and the shadow of the qualities derived from pure Christianity. Varnish is an extraneous ornament, but true polish is a proof of the solidity of the body; it depends greatly on the nature of the substance, is not superinduced by accidental causes, but in a good measure proceeding from internal soundness. The poets of that country, whose style, sentiments, manners, and religion the French so affectedly labour to imitate, have left keen and biting satires on the Roman vices. Against the late proceedings in France, no satirist need employ his pen; that of the historian will be quite sufficient. Fact will put fable out of countenance; and the crimes which are usually held up to our abhorrence in works of invention, will be regarded as flat and feeble by those who shall peruse the records of the tenth of August, of the second and third of September, and of the twenty first of January. If the same astonishing degeneracy in taste, principle, and practice, should ever come to flourish among us, Britons may still live to exult in the desolation of her cities, and in the destruction of her finest monuments of art; she may triumph in the peopling of the fortresses of her rocks and her forests; may exult in being once more restored to that glorious state of _liberty and equality_, when all subsisted by rapine and the chace; when all, O enviable privilege! were equally savage, equally indigent, and equally naked; may extol it as the restoration of reason, and the triumph of nature, that they are again brought to feed on acorns, instead of bread. Groves of consecrated misletoe may happily succeed to useless corn fields; and Thor and Woden may hope once more to be invested with all their bloody honours. Let not any serious readers feel indignation, as if pains were ungenerously taken to involve their religious, with their political opinions. Far be it from me to wound, unnecessarily, the feelings of people whom I so sincerely esteem; but it is much to be suspected, that certain opinions in politics have a tendency to lead to certain opinions in religion. Where so much is at stake, they will do well to keep their consciences tender, in order to do which they should try to keep their discernment acute. They will do well to observe, that the same restless spirit of innovation is busily operating under various, though seemingly unconnected forms. To observe, that the same impatience of restraint, the same contempt of order, peace, and subordination, which makes men bad citizens, makes them bad Christians; and that to this secret, but almost infallible connexion between religious and political sentiment, does France owe her present unparalleled anarchy and impiety. There are doubtless in that unhappy country multitudes of virtuous and reasonable men, who rather silently acquiesce in the authority of their present turbulent government, than embrace its principles or promote its projects from the sober conviction of their own judgment. These, together with those conscientious exiles whom this nation so honourably protects, may yet live to rejoice in the restoration of true liberty and solid peace to their native country, when light and order shall spring from the present darkness and confusion, and the reign of chaos shall be no more. May I be permitted a short digression on the subject of those exiles? It shall only be to remark, that all the boasted conquests of our Edwards and our Henrys over the French nation, do not confer such substantial glory on our own country, as she derives from having received, protected, and supported, among multitudes of other sufferers, at a time and under circumstances so peculiarly disadvantageous to herself, _three thousand priests_, of a nation habitually her enemy, and of a religion intolerant and hostile to her own. This is the solid triumph of true Christianity; and it is worth remarking, that the deeds which poets and historians celebrate as rare and splendid actions, and sublime instances of greatness of soul, in the heroes of the Pagan world, are but the ordinary and habitual virtues which occur in the common course of action among Christians; quietly performed without effort or exertion, and with no view to renown; but resulting naturally and necessarily from the religion they profess. So predominating is the power of an example we have once admired, and set up as a standard of imitation, and so fascinating has been the ascendency of the Convention over the minds of those whose approbation of French politics commenced in the earlier periods of the Revolution, that it extends to the most trivial circumstances. I cannot forbear to notice this in an instance, which, though inconsiderable in itself, yet ceases to be so when we view it in the light of a symptom of the reigning disease. While the fantastic phraseology of the new Republic is such, as to be almost as disgusting to sound taste, as their doctrines are to sound morals, it is curious to observe how deeply the addresses, which have been sent to it from the Clubs[C] in this country, have been infected with it, as far at least as phrases and terms are objects of imitation. In other respects, it is but justice to the French Convention to confess, that they are hitherto without rivals and without imitators; for who can aspire to emulate that compound of anarchy and atheism which in their debates is mixed up with the pedantry of school boys, the jargon of a cabal, and the vulgarity and ill-breeding of a mob? One instance of the prevailing cant may suffice, where an hundred might be adduced; and it is not the most exceptionable.--To demolish every existing law and establishment; to destroy the fortunes and ruin the principles of every country into which they are carrying their destructive arms and their frantic doctrines; to untie or cut asunder every bond which holds society together; to impose their own arbitrary shackles where they succeed, and to demolish every thing where they fail.--This desolating system, by a most unaccountable perversion of language, they are pleased to call by the endearing name of _fraternization_; and fraternization is one of the favourite terms which their admirers have adopted. Little would a simple stranger, uninitiated in this new and surprising dialect, imagine that the peaceful terms of fellow-citizen and of brother, the winning offer of freedom and happiness, and the warm embrace of fraternity, were only watch-words by which they in effect, Cry havoc, And let slip the dogs of war. In numberless other instances, the fashionable language of France at this day would be as unintelligible to the correct writers of the age of Louis the XIVth, as their fashionable notions of liberty would be irreconcileable with those of the true Revolution Patriots of his great contemporary and victorious rival, William the Third. Such is indeed their puerile rage for novelty in the invention of new words, and the perversion of their taste in the use of old ones, that the celebrated Vossius, whom Christine of Sweden oddly complimented by saying, that he was so learned as not only to know whence all words came, but whither they were going, would, _were he admitted to the honours of a sitting_, be obliged to confess, that he was equally puzzled to tell the one, or to foretel the other. If it shall please the Almighty in his anger to let loose this infatuated people, as a scourge for the iniquities of the human race; if they are delegated by infinite justice to act, as storm and tempest fulfilling his word; if they are commissioned to perform the errand of the destroying lightning or the avenging thunder-bolt, let us try at least to extract personal benefit from national calamity; let every one of us, high and low, rich and poor, enter upon this serious and humbling inquiry, how much his own individual offences have contributed to that awful aggregate of public guilt, which has required such a visitation. Let us carefully examine in what proportion we have separately added to that common stock of abounding iniquity, the description of which formed the character of an ancient nation, and is so peculiarly applicable to our own--_Pride, fulness of bread, and abundance of idleness_. Let every one of us humbly inquire, in the self-suspecting language of the disciples to their Divine Master--_Lord, is it I?_ Let us learn to fear the fleets and armies of the enemy, much less than those iniquities at home which this alarming dispensation may be intended to chastize. The war which the French have declared against us, is of a kind altogether unexampled in every respect; insomuch that human wisdom is baffled when it would pretend to conjecture what may be the event. But this at least we may safely say, that it is not so much the force of French bayonets, as the contamination of French principles, that ought to excite our apprehensions. We trust, that through the blessing of GOD we shall be defended from their open hostilities, by the temperate wisdom of our Rulers, and the bravery of our fleets and armies; but the domestic danger arising from licentious and irreligious principles among ourselves, can only be guarded against by the personal care and vigilance of every one of us who values religion and the good order of society. GOD grant that those who go forth to fight our battles, instead of being intimidated by the number of their enemies, may bear in mind, that "there is no restraint with GOD to save by many or by few." And let the meanest of us who remains at home remember also, that even he may contribute to the internal safety of his country, by the integrity of his private life, and to the success of her defenders, by following them with his fervent prayers. And in what war can the sincere Christian ever have stronger inducements to pray for the success of his country, than in this? Without entering far into any political principles, the discussion of which would be in a great measure foreign to the design of this little tract, it may be remarked, that the unchristian principle of revenge is not our motive to this war; conquest is not our object; nor have we had recourse to hostility, in order to effect a change in the internal government of France[D]. The present war is undoubtedly undertaken entirely on defensive principles. It is in defence of our King, our Constitution, our Religion, our Laws, and consequently our _Liberty_, in the sound and rational sense of that term. It is to defend ourselves from the savage violence of a crusade, made against all Religion, as well as all Government. If ever therefore a war was undertaken on the ground of self-defence and necessity--if ever men might be literally said to fight _pro_ ARIS _et focis_, this seems to be the occasion. The ambition of conquerors has been the source of great and extensive evils: Religious fanaticism of still greater. But little as I am disposed to become the apologist of either the one principle or the other, there is no extravagance in asserting, that they have seemed incapable of producing, even in ages, that extent of mischief, that comprehensive desolation, which _philosophy, falsely so called_, has produced in three years. Christians! it is not a small thing--it is _your life_. The pestilence of irreligion which you detest, will insinuate itself imperceptibly with those manners, phrases, and principles which you admire and adopt. It is the humble wisdom of a Christian, to shrink from the most distant approaches to sin, to abstain from the very appearance of evil. If we would fly from the deadly contagion of Atheism, let us fly from those seemingly remote, but not very indirect paths which lead to it. Let France choose this day whom she will serve; _but, as for us and our houses, we will serve the Lord_. And, O gracious and long suffering God! before that awful period arrives, which shall exhibit the dreadful effects of such an education as the French nation are instituting; before a race of men can be trained up, not only without the knowledge of THEE, but in the contempt of THY most holy law, do THOU, in great mercy, change the heart of this people as the heart of one man. Give them not finally over to their own corrupt imaginations, to their own heart's lusts. But after having made them a fearful example to all the nations of the earth, what a people _can_ do, who have cast off the fear of THEE, do THOU graciously bring them back to a sense of that law which they have violated, and to participation of that mercy which they have abused; so that they may happily find, while the discovery can be attended with consolation, that _doubtless there is a reward for the righteous; verify, there is a_ GOD _who judgeth the earth_. THE END. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote B: See his Speech, enumerating their intended projects.] [Footnote C: See the Collection of Addresses from England, &c. Published by Mr. Mc. KENZIE, _College Green_, DUBLIN.] [Footnote D: See the Report of Mr. Pitt's Speech in the House of Commons on Feb. 12, 1793.] * * * * * Transcriber's note Printer errors have been changed and are listed below. All other inconsistencies are as in the original. Characters that could not be displayed directly in Latin-1 are transcribed as follows: _ - italics The following changes have been made to the text: Page 18: Changed "involve their religous" to "involve their religious". Page 18: Changed "in order to which they" to "in order to do which they". 
17841	----	[Illustration: Anna _Frontispiece_] The Old Flute-Player A Romance of To-day BY EDWARD MARSHALL AND CHARLES T. DAZEY _Illustrations by_ CLARENCE ROWE _Frontispiece by_ J. KNOWLES HARE, JR. G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK _Copyright, 1910, By_ G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY ILLUSTRATIONS Anna _Frontispiece_ Almost instantly the Italian bully was sprawling in the scuppers and Vanderlyn had raised the old man to his feet It was as if the "sweet birds singing in his heart" had risen and were perched, all twittering and cooing, chirping, carolling upon his lips "She is not guilty! No; it is I--I--I!" The Old Flute-Player CHAPTER I Herr Kreutzer was a mystery to his companions in the little London orchestra in which he played, and he kept his daughter, Anna, in such severe seclusion that they little more than knew that she existed and was beautiful. Not far from Soho Square, they lived, in that sort of British lodgings in which room-rental carries with it the privilege of using one hole in the basement-kitchen range on which to cook food thrice a day. To the people of the lodging-house the two were nearly as complete a mystery as to the people of the orchestra. "Hi sye," the landlady confided to the slavey, M'riar, "that Dutch toff in the hattic, 'e's somethink in disguise!" "My hye," exclaimed the slavey, who adored Herr Kreutzer and intensely worshiped Anna. She jumped back dramatically. "_Not bombs!_" The neighborhood was used to linking thoughts of bombs with thoughts of foreigners whose hair hung low upon their shoulders as, beyond a doubt, Herr Kreutzer's did, so M'riar's guess was not absurd. England offers refuge to the nightmares of all Europe's political indigestion. Soho offers most of them their lodgings. For years M'riar had been vainly waiting, with delicious fear, for that terrific moment when she should discover a loaded bit of gas-pipe in some bed as she yanked off the covers. Now real drama seemed, at last, to be coming into her dull life. Somethink in disguise--Miss Anna's father! She hoped it was _not_ bombs, for bombs _might_ mean trouble for him. She resolved that should she see a bobby trying to get up into the attic she would pour a kettleful of boiling water on him. The landlady relieved her, somewhat, by her comment of next moment. "'E's too mild fer bombs by 'arf," she said, with rich disgust. "Likelier 'e's drove away, than that 'e's one as wishes 'e could drive. _Hi_ sye, fer guess, that 'e's got titles, an' sech like, but's bean cashiered." (The landlady had had a son disgraced as officer of yeomanry and used a military term which, to her mind, meant exiled.) "'E's got that look abaht 'im of 'avin' bean fired hout." "No fault o' 'is, then," said the slavey quickly, voicing her earnest partisanship without a moment's wait. She even looked at her employer with a belligerent eye. "'E _doos_ pye reg'lar," the landlady admitted with an air which showed that she had more than once had tenants who did not. "Judgin' from 'is manners an' kind 'eart 'e _might_ be _princes_," said the slavey, drawing in her breath exactly as she would if sucking a ripe orange. "An' 'is darter might be princesses!" exclaimed the landlady with a sniff. Quite plainly she did not approve of the seclusion in which Herr Kreutzer kept his daughter. "Five years 'ave them two lived 'ere in this 'ere 'ouse, an' not five times 'as that there man let that there 'aughty miss stir hout halone!" "'Ow 'eavingly!" sighed the maid, who never, in her life, had been cared for, at all, by anyone. "'Ow fiddlesticks!" the landlady replied. "You'd think she might be waxworks, liable to melt if sun-shone-on! Fer _me_, _Hi_ says that them as is too fine for Soho houghtn't to be _livin'_ 'ere. That's w'at _Hi_ says--halthough 'e pyes as reg'lar as clockworks." "Clockworks fawther with a waxworks darter!" cried the slavey, who had a taste for humor of a kind. "Th' one 'ud stop if t'other melted. _That's_ sure." "'E hidolizes 'er that much hit mykes me think o' Roman Catholics an' such," the landlady replied. Then, for a time, she paused in thought, while the slavey lost herself in dreams that, possibly, she had been serving and been worshiping a real princess. As the height of the ambition of all such as she, in London, is to be humble before rank, the mere thought filled her with delight and multiplied into the homage of a subject for an over-lord the love she felt already for the charming German girl of whom they spoke. "She _might_ be," said the landlady, at length. "W'at? Princesses?" inquired the wistful slavey. The landlady looked shrewdly at her. It might be that by thus confiding to the servant her own speculations as to her lodgers' rank, she had been sowing seed of some extravagance. Hypnotized by the idea, the slavey might slip to the two mysterious Germans, sometime, something which would not be charged upon the bill! "Nothink of the sort!" she cried, therefore, hastily. "An' don't you never tyke no coals to 'em that you don't tell abaht--you 'ear?" The slavey promised, but the seed was sown. From that time on full many a small attention fell to the Herr Kreutzer and his pretty, gentle-mannered, dark-haired, big-eyed Anna of which the landlady knew nothing, and many a dream of romance did the smutted slavey's small, sad eyes see in the kitchen fire on lonely evenings while she was waiting for the last lodger to come in before she went to bed behind the kindlings-bin. And the central figures of these dreams were, always, the beautiful young German girl and her dignified, independent, shabby, courteous old father. In the small orchestra where Kreutzer played, he made no friends among the other musical performers; when the manager of the dingy little theatre politely tried to pump him as to details of his history he managed to evade all answers in the least illuminating, although he never failed to do so with complete politeness. All that really was known of him was that he had arrived in London, years ago, with only two possessions which he seemed to value, and, indeed, but two which were worth valuing. One of these, of course, was his exquisite young daughter, then a little child; the other was his wonderful old flute. The daughter he secluded with the jealous care of a far-eastern parent; the flute he played upon with an artistic skill unequalled in the history of orchestras in that small theatre. With it he could easily have found a place in the best orchestra in London, but, apparently, he did not care to offer such a band his services. On the one or two occasions when a "cruising listener" for the big orchestras came to the little theatre, heard the old man's masterful performance, found himself enthralled by it and made the marvelous flute-player a rich offer, the old man refused peremptorily even to talk the matter over with him--to the great delight of the small manager, who was paying but a pittance for his splendid work. So anxious did Herr Kreutzer seem to be to keep from winning notice from the outside world, indeed, that when a stranger who might possibly be one of those explorers after merit in dim places appeared there in the little theatre, the other members of the orchestra felt quite sure of wretched playing from the grey-haired flutist. If it chanced that they had noticed no such stranger, but yet Herr Kreutzer struck false notes persistently, they all made sure that they had missed the entrance of the "cruiser," searched the audience for him with keen and speculative eyes and played their very best, certain that the man was there and hopeful of attracting the attention and the approbation which the old flute-player shunned. More than one had thus been warned, to their great good. And Herr Kreutzer, on such evenings, was privileged to strike false notes with painful iteration, even to the actual distress of auditors, without a word of criticism from the leader or the manager. Excruciating discord from the flute, on three or four nights of a season, was accepted as part payment for such playing, upon every other night, as seldom had been heard from any flute in any orchestra in London or elsewhere. The theatre saw very little of the daughter. Once at the beginning of the run of every fit new play, the flute-player requested of the manager a box and always got it. In this box, on such occasions, his daughter sat in solitary state, enjoying with a childish fervor the mumming of the actors on the stage, the story of the play, the music of the orchestra. Such glimpses, only, had the theatre of her. Her father never introduced her to an attaché of the establishment. Once, after she had grown into magnificent young womanhood, he very angrily refused an earnest supplication for an introduction from the manager, himself. On the nights when she came to the theatre he took her to the box, before the overture began, and she sat there, quite alone, until he went to her after the audience had been "played out." His own exclusiveness was very nearly as complete. He formed no intimacies among the members of the orchestra with whom he played eight times a week, although his face showed, sometimes, that he yearned to join their gossip, in the stuffy little room beneath the stage, which housed them when they were not in their places in the crowded space "in front" allotted to them. "_Tiens!_" said the Frenchman who played second-violin. "Ze ol' man have such fear zat we should wiss to spik us wiz 'is daughtaire, zat 'e trit us lak we 'ave a seeckness catchable!" It was almost true. He did avoid the chance of making her acquainted with any of the folk with whom his daily routine threw him into contact, with a care which might suggest a fear of some sort of contagion for her. But not all the members of the orchestra resented it. The drummer (who also played the triangle and tambourine when need was, imitated railway noises with shrewd implements, pumped an auto-horn when motor-cars were supposed to be approaching or departing "off-stage" and made himself, in general, a useful man on all occasions) was his firm friend and partisan. "Garn, Frawgs!" he sneered, to the resentful Frenchman. "Yer 'yn't fit ter sye ther time o' dye ter 'er; yer knows yer 'yn't." "Wat? To ze daughtaire of a flute!" the Second-Violin replied. "W'y--" "Garn!" said the drummer. "Sye, yer myke me sick! You, with yer black-'aired fyce an' paytent boots! Hi bean 'ammerin' 'ide in horchestras since me tenth birthdye, but Hi knows a hangel w'en Hi sees one, an' lawst night Hi missed a 'ole bar on the snare fer lookin' up at 'er just once. Hi never see a brunette look so habsolutely hinnocent. Th' Ol' Nick's peekin' out o' brunettes' faces, somew'eres, mostly. Don't know w'at she myde me think of--m'ybe wreaths o' roses red an' pink, an' m'ybe crowns o' di'mun's--but Hi missed a 'ole bar on th' snare fer thinking somethink." "_Tiens!_" the Frenchman began scornfully. "He is too much--" "Garn!" said the drummer, threateningly, and it may be that the tinkle of the "ready" bell prevented something more than words between them, for the drummer, at the time, was holding the bass-drum-stick. He could have struck a mighty blow with it. Just when the thought of leaving for America first began to grow in Kreutzer's mind, it would be hard to say, but it took definite form immediately subsequent to the London visit of a Most Exalted Personage from Prussia. On the last day of this Most Exalted Personage's stay Herr Kreutzer was enjoying, with his Anna, the long Sunday twilight in Hyde Park. They often strolled there of a Sunday evening. The Most Exalted Personage, being in a democratic mood and wishful of seeing London and its people quietly, was also strolling in Hyde Park and met the father and the daughter, face to face. There was nothing, so far as Anna saw, about the stranger in plain _mufti_, to make her father drop his head, pull down his hat and hurry on, almost as if in sudden panic, dragging her by a slender wrist clasped in a hand which trembled; but he did do all these things, while the queer gentleman with the upturned moustaches (Anna had no notion who he was) stopped stonestill in his stroll and gazed after them with puzzled eyes in which a semi-recognition and a very lively curiosity seemed growing. "Who is he, father?" Anna asked, in English, which the father much preferred to German from her lips and which she spoke with carefully exact construction, but with charming rolling of the r's and hissing of the s's. Her accent was much more pronounced than his, due, doubtless, to the fact that while he went daily to his little corner of the English world to earn their living, her seclusion was complete. She saw few English save M'riar and the landlady--whose accent never tempted her to imitation. "He seemed to know you," she went on. "He seemed to wish, almost, to speak with you, but seemed to feel not positive that you _were_ you." Kreutzer gave her a quick glance, then seemed to pull himself together with an effort. He assumed a carefully surprised air. "Who is he? Who is who, mine liebschen?" "The gentleman from whom you ran away?" "I run!" said Kreutzer, doubling his demeanor of astonishment as if in total ignorance of what she meant. "I run! Why should I run, my Anna? Why should I run from anybody?" The daughter looked at him and sighed and then she looked at him and smiled, and said no more. So many times, in other days, had things like this occurred; so many times had she been quite unable to get any lucid exposition from him of the strange occurrences, that, lately, she never probed him for an explanation. She well knew, in advance, that she would get none, and was unwilling to compel him into laboring evasions. But such matters sorely puzzled her. She did not learn, therefore, that the tall and handsome man who had so curiously stared at them was the Exalted Personage; she did not learn why it had been that from him Kreutzer had fled swiftly with her, obviously worrying intensely lest they might be followed. She did not know why, later, she was in closer espionage than ever. Two or three days afterwards, when Kreutzer came in with his pockets full of steamship time-tables and emigration-agents' folders, she did not dream that it was that the Most Exalted Personage had cast his eyes upon them, rather than the fact that wonderful advantages were promised to the emigrant by all this steamship literature, which had made him make a wholly unexpected plan to go from London and to cross the mighty sea. He swore her to close secrecy. It was with the utmost difficulty that she concealed their destination from the landlady and from the slavey who assisted her in packing the small trunks which held their all. She was always glad of anything which made it absolutely necessary for them to be with her, for her father, long ago, had told her not to ask them into their small rooms when their presence there was not imperatively needed. She was and had been, ever since she could remember clearly, very lonely, full of longing for companionship--so very full of longing that, had he not commanded it, she would not have been, as he was, particular about the social status of the friends she made. Even poor M'riar's love was very sweet and dear to her, and now, as she was packing for departure the meagre garments of her wardrobe, her scanty little fineries, the few small keepsakes she had hoarded of the pitifully scarce bright days of her life (almost every one of these a gift from her old father, token of a birth-or feast-day) it was with a sudden burst of tears, a rushing, overwhelming feeling of anticipatory loneliness, that she looked at the grimy little child who was assisting her. M'riar fell back on her haunches with a gasp. "Garn!" she cried. "Garn, Miss! Don't yer dare to beller!" A stranger might have thought she was impertinent, for "garn" on cockney lips means "go on, now," in the slang of the United States, and "beller" is not elegant, but Anna knew that she did not intend an impudence. "I feel very sad at leaving you, M'ri-arrr." There was pathos, now, in the way Miss Anna rolled her r's. "Sad! Huh! Hi thinks Hi'll die of it!" was the reply, accompanied by more choked sobs and many snuffles. "An' yer won't heven tell me w'ere yer hoff to!" "I don't know, exactly, where we're off to M'ri-arrr. Somewhere very far--oh, very far!" M'riar, in spite of a firm resolution not to yield to tears, cast herself upon the floor in anguish, and, as she kicked and howled, grasped one of Anna's hands and kissed it, mumbling it, as an anguished mother might a babe's--the hand of an exceedingly loved babe whom she expected, soon, to lose by having given it to someone in adoption. At that time M'riar looked upon the separation as inevitable. The wild scheme which, afterwards, grew in her alert and worried brain, had not yet had its birth and she could not take the thought of her Miss Anna's going with composure. "Hi didn't want ter 'oller," she said, at length, when she had regained her self-control, "but that there yell hinside o' me was bigger'n Hi 'ad room fer, Miss." "It is very sweet of you to weep," said Anna gravely, "although it is not sweet to _hear_ you weep; but I think it means you love me, M'ri-arrr, doesn't it?" "Hi fair wusships yer," said M'riar. "Fair wusships yer." And there was a strange thing about Miss Anna. It did not in the least surprise her to be told with an undoubted earnestness, indeed to know, that she was literally worshiped as a goddess might be. There was something in her blood which made this seem quite right and proper. She looked at the poor slavey with the kind eyes of a princess gazing at a weeping subject, whose suffering has come through loyalty, and kindly smiled. "It is very nice of you, M'riarr. I am fond of you, M'riarr." "I knows yer is; I knows yer is," said M'riar. "Tyke me with yer, won't yer, Miss?" "Oh, I couldn't take you with me," Anna answered, as she laid a kind, if queenly hand upon the poor thing's cheek. "But you must let me know just where you are at all times, and, perhaps, some day, I will send you something to remind you of me." "Hi won't need nothink ter remind me, Miss," said M'riar. "Hi'll remember yer, hall right." The next morning came a four-wheeled cab up to the dingy door, to the vast amazement of the other lodgers, and, indeed, the entire neighborhood. Into this Herr Kreutzer handed his delightful daughter with as much consideration as a minister could show a queen, and then, with courtly bows, climbed in himself, having, with much ceremony, bade the landlady adieu. Anna cast a keen glance all about, expecting a last glimpse of M'riar, but had none and was grieved. So soon do the affections of the lower classes fade! After the cab started, the Herr Kreutzer carefully pulled down the blinds a little way, on both side windows, so that the inside of the cab was dark enough to make it impossible for wayfarers to note who was within. "Father," said Anna, curiously, "why do you pull down the blinds?" "Er--er--mine eyes. The light is--" He did not complete the sentence. "Father," she asked presently, "why did you change the tickets?" "Change the tickets, Anna? I have not changed the tickets." "But you told the landlady we were to sail from Southampton. The tickets, which you showed to me, say Liverpool." "A little strategy, mine Anna; just a little strategy." "I do not understand." "No, liebschen; you do not," he granted gravely. A moment later and the cab jounced over a loose paving-block, almost unseating M'riar from her place on the rear springs. The little scream she gave attracted the attention of the vehicle's two passengers and they peered from the window at the rear; but it was small and high and they did not catch sight through it of the strange, ragged little figure, with the set, determined face, which was clinging to their chariot with a desperate tenacity. M'riar's feelings would have been difficult of real analysis and she did not try to analyze them, any more than a devoted dog who desperately follows his loved master when that master is not cognizant of it and does not wish it, tries to analyze the dog-emotions which compel him to cling to the trail. Such a dog knows quite enough, at such a time, to keep clear of his master's view, although his following is an expression of his love and though that love is born, he knows, of like love in his master's heart for him. M'riar was yielding to an uncontrolled, an uncontrollable impulse of love, and, though her brain was active with the cunning of the slums, had not the least idea of combatting it, or letting anything less strong than actual death would be in its deterrent force, prevent her from obeying the swift impulse to the very end. She had not taken any of her mistress' money, when she fled. Her only sin, she told herself, was leaving without notice. She had only made a little bundle of her own worn, scanty, extra clothes, which, now, was tied about her waist and hung beneath the skirt she wore. There were not many of those clothes, so the dangling bundle did not discommode her when she dodged behind the cab, ran beside it (on the far side from the lodging-house) till it turned a corner, and then sought her perch upon its springs behind. In her mouth were seven golden sovereigns, the hoard of her whole lifetime, barring some small silver and an Irish one-pound note stowed in her left stocking. Her right stocking had been darned till it was nowise to be trusted with one-eighth of her whole wealth. She had no dimmest thought of whither she was bound; she only knew that she would go, if Fate permitted, wherever Anna went, to serve her. Arrived at the confusion of the railway station known as Waterloo, Herr Kreutzer helped his Anna from the cab, paid the cabman from his slender store of silver, hired a porter with another shilling to take all their luggage to the train and went to get their third-class railway tickets, keeping, meanwhile, a keen eye for anyone who looked to be a German of position, and noting with delight that in the crowd not one pair of moustaches stuck straight up beside its owner's nose. Slinking after him, at a slight distance, but near enough to hear quite all he said, came M'riar, and, when he had passed on, bought for herself a third-class ticket to Southampton. Her keen eyes fixed upon the backs of the two folk with whom, without their knowledge, she had cast her fortunes, she then went into the train-shed and found a place, at length, in the next carriage to the one which they had entered. Then she trained a wary eye out of the window, to make sure they did not change their minds and slip out and away without her knowledge before the train departed. On the arrival in Southampton she waited in the railway carriage till she saw them started down the platform; then, again, she trailed them. Two minutes after the Herr Kreutzer had purchased steerage tickets on the _Rochester_ for far America, M'riar had bought one for herself. When the German and his daughter reached the shore-end of the slightly-angled gang-plank leading to the steamer's steerage-deck (close it was beside the steeper one which led up to the higher and more costly portions of the ship) she was not far behind them, trailing, watchful, terrified by the ship's mighty warning whistle which reverberated in the dock-shed till her teeth were set a-chatter in an agony of fear of the mere noise. At this point she nearly lost her self-control and let her quarries see her, for Herr Kreutzer, in his hurry and excitement, dropped one of his small hand-bags. Almost she sprang to pick it up for him, through mere working of her strong instinct to serve him. Indeed, she would have done so had it not been for a tall and handsome youth. This young man's eyes, M'riar had been noting, had been closely fixed upon the lovely face of Anna, doubly lovely, flushed as it now was by the excitement of the start of a great journey. He sprang forward, picked up the handbag and presented it to the old German with a frank good-fellowship of courtesy which took not the least account of the mere fact that he, himself, was on the point of stepping to the gang-plank leading to the first-cabin quarters, while Kreutzer, obviously, was about to seek the steerage-deck. M'riar, with her sharp, small eyes, noted that the youth, strong, graceful, tall, sun-burned and distinctly wholesome of appearance, did not look at Kreutzer, as he did the little service, but at Anna. "Reg'lar toff!" she muttered, gazing at him with frank admiration, quite impersonal. An instant later she saw that when he turned back from the rough, unpainted gang-plank to the steerage-deck to the more exclusive bridge, railed, hung with canvas at the sides and carpeted with red, which led to the first-cabin quarters, a lady seized his arm with a proprietary grasp and spoke a little crossly to him because he had delayed to do this tiny service for the pair of steerage passengers. "Rg'lar cat!" said M'riar, estimating her as quickly as she had appraised the youth. "She's 'is mother, but she's catty. Dogs 'ud 'ate 'er, Hi'll go bail." Her attention was absorbed, then, by the great problem of getting by the officer who examined steerage-tickets, without being seen by Kreutzer and his daughter. "W'ere's yer luggage?" asked the officer. "Luggage! Huh!" said M'riar. "W'at would _Hi_ want o' _luggage_? Think Hi'm a hactress startin' hout hon tour?" "Tykes six poun' ten to land on t'other side," the officer went on, suspiciously. "'Yn't got that, nyther, 'ave yer?" "Betcher bloomink heye Hi gawt it," said M'riar confidently, and stooped as if she would pull out her wealth to show him, then and there. "Hin yer stawckin', eh?" the man said grinning. That which had been in her mouth was spent for ticket, mostly, but a little still was in her hand. "W'ere'd yer think Hi'd 'ave it?" she asked scornfully. "Hin me roight hear?" Then she showed him what was in her fist. "Garn aboard," the man said, grinning. "'Yn't I?" she asked briskly, and, seeing that Herr Kreutzer and his Anna had passed quite out of sight into the ship's mysterious interior, went up the gang-plank hurriedly, fearing to lose sight of them. She did not realize that on an impulse she was starting to go a quarter of the way around the earth. She only knew that love, love irresistible, supreme, was drawing her to follow where they led. But notwithstanding that it was pure love which drew her, she told herself, as she went up the plank: "Hif they ketches me they'll 'eave me hoverboard an' give me to th' fish, like's not." Twenty minutes later the great ship was swinging out into the harbor. In a dark passage on the steerage-deck cowered M'riar, for the first time in her life afloat, and wondering why the motion of the vessel seemed to make her wish to die; her white face, strained, frightened eyes and trembling hands marking her, to the experienced, unsympathetic eyes of the stern steerage-stewardess, an early victim of seasickness. "Hi, w'ere's yer ticket?" that fierce female cried, and M'riar showed it to her, weakly, scarcely caring whether it entitled her to passage or condemned her to expulsion from the ship by a sharp toss overside. "Garn in there," said the stewardess, studying the ticket and its bearer's symptoms simultaneously. "S'y, yer goin' ter be a nice sweet passenger to 'ave hon board, now 'yn't yer?" "Hi'm goin' ter die," said M'riar with firm conviction and not at all appalled but rather pleased at thought of it. "No such luck fer hus!" the stewardess replied. "Get _in_ there, cawn't yer, before hit comes quite hon?" So M'riar, long before the ship began to definitely feel even the gentle Channel sea, was thrust into retirement, willy, nilly, and immediately sought a bunk, absolutely without interest in anything, even in her own sad fate. All she wished to do was die, at once, and she had too little energy even to wish that very vividly. Miss Anna, Herr Kreutzer and the fine young man who had been kind to them, who, ten minutes earlier, had all been real and potent interests, dimmed into hazy phantoms of a bygone activity of mind. "Oh,--ar-r-r-r-r-r!" M'riar groaned. "Th' bloomink ship is standin' on 'er bloody 'ead, yn't 'er?" "Garn! Keep yer 'ead _flat_. Lay _down_," the stewardess replied, "er _you'll_ be." M'riar kept her head flat. Out on the open deck, forward of the bridge, where, as well as aft, the vessel, like many of a bygone type was cut away, leaving the forward and after railings of the promenade-deck, like the barriers of a balcony, for the first-cabin passengers to peer across at their less lucky fellows of the steerage, Herr Kreutzer and his Anna, both bewildered, stood by their little pile of baggage, waiting for direction and assistance in searching out their quarters. Surrounding them a motley group of many nationalities was gathered. There were Germans, Swedes, some French, some Swiss, a group of heavy-browed and jowled Hungarians, a few anæmic, underfed young cockneys, and, dominating all, to the casual eye, because of their bright colors, a small group of Italians. To these the largest one among them was making himself clear. "I," he was saying, "am Pietro Moresco. I have-a da nice political posish, an' nice-a barber-shop on Mulberry-a Strit. Some-a day I getta on da force--da pollis-force. Sure t'ing. I been-a home to see ma moth. I go-a back to make-a da more mon." He pulled out from his corded bundle of red quilts and coats and rugs some bottles of cheap wine. "I getta place for all you men." He was beginning, thus early in the voyage of these would-be citizens, to prepare to use them in the politics of his over-crowded ward in New York City. "Come-a! We drink-a to Americ. We drink-a to New York. New York da mos' reech-a place." Catching sight of the bewildered beauty of poor Anna, and the no less bewildered dignity of Herr Kreutzer, being dazzled by the former, as was everyone in sight, and being quite as anxious to make friends among prospective German citizens as among those of his own country (a German vote is likely to be useful, now and then, on Mulberry Street) he offered her a cup, and, as she took it automatically, would have poured some wine into it with a gallant smile. Kreutzer took the cup out of her hand and passed it back to him. "Bitte," he said, calmly. "I thank you. My daughter does not care for wine." Moresco, angered, gave him a black scowl and took the cup. "By Jove," said the youth who had, upon the dock, picked up Herr Kreutzer's bag. He was standing on the promenade-deck, above, beside his very, very stately mother, who, over-dressed and full of scorn for the whole world, was complaining because her doctor's orders had suggested traveling upon so slow and old a ship. "There's that stunning little German girl down there. Isn't she a picture? Gee! Her old man wouldn't let her drink with that black dago--not that she wanted to. But bully for Professor Pretzel!" "How very vulgar!" said his mother, looking down at the small, animated scene before her with disfavor. "Mere immigrants." "I s'pose _our_ folks were, sometime," John Vanderlyn replied. "But isn't she a corker, mother?" "John, your language is too shocking! Please see about our deck-chairs," Mrs. Vanderlyn replied. CHAPTER II Under a brilliant summer sky the ocean heaved in mighty swells. Anna, on one of the most delightful mornings of this ideal voyage to America, found the port side of the ship unpleasant, because of the sun's brilliance. From every tiny facet of the water, which a brisk breeze crinkled, the light flashed at her eyes with the quick vividness of electric sparks, and almost blinded her. Not even her graceful, slender, and (surprising on that steerage-deck) beautifully white hand, now curved against her brow, could so shade her vision as to enable her to look upon the sea in search of the far sail which the lookout in the crow's nest had just reported to the bridge in a long, droning hail. Her curiosity in the passing stranger had been aroused by the keen interest which the more fortunately situated, on the promenade-deck, above, had shown by crowding to their rail. They were, as she could see from her humbler portion of the ship, talking of the far craft interestedly; but from her station, owing either to its lack of altitude or to the more dazzling glitter of the sea, due to the differing angle of her vision, she failed to catch a glimpse of it. The glare made her give up the search. She shrugged her small, plaid shawl about her shoulders to meet the wind's now freshening assaults, pulled her knitted hood a little closer all about her face to hide it, through some sort of instinct (the first-cabin folk, above, all through the voyage, had been wont to gaze down on the steerage passengers as if they were a sort of interesting animals), and made her way across the slowly heaving planks to starboard. Glancing quickly upward as she went, she colored gloriously, for looking down straight at her from behind the rail which edged the elevated platform of the prosperous, stood the youth who had picked up her father's bag as they had come on board, and whose eyes, since the first day of the voyage, she had found it wise to dodge if she would keep the crimson from her cheeks. Not that there had been anything, at any time, in the youth's gaze which could offend; rather had there been in it that which bewitched and thrilled. There was not another girl upon that steerage-deck who would not have been immensely pleased by and who would not have shyly answered his admiring glances, had they turned toward her, although there probably was not a girl there who was other than quite sweet and pure. Purity and sweetness are no bars to answering a glance and giggling. But he paid no heed, at all, to pretty emigrants who would have been delighted by flirtatious glances. It may, in fact, have been because of the shy fright, not in the least resentful, but sweetly, girlishly embarrassed, with which Anna greeted his, whenever her eyes caught them, that he turned them toward her so exclusively and frequently. Admiring youth called to admiring youth in surreptitious glances from the high deck to the lower, and, it may be, from the steerage-deck up to the promenade. But, although she found no slightest thing offensive in the young man's veiled, approving surveillance, Anna felt almost as if she were in flight from peril--some brand-new, delightful peril--as, now, she hurried out of range of it and sought her father where, by the after-hatch, he perched upon a great coiled cable staring, staring, staring out across the sea toward Germany, the land to which, a few days since, although his actual departure had been from English shores, his heart had said a passionate farewell. If Anna, with her graceful form, her delicately-colored, healthful cheeks, her cleancut and dainty features, offered a strong contrast to the buxom German maidens, dark, big-eyed Italian girls and others of the many-nationed women-travelers upon that steerage-deck, her father offered as strong contrast to the men. Among the swart Italians, blonde, stupid-looking Swedes, Danes and Norwegians and fat, red-faced Germans of the male steerage company, his finely-chiselled features, pale and ascetic-looking in their frame of whitened hair, stood out with accentuated testimony to high breeding, right living and exalted aims. And there was another difference, but less pleasing. By this, the ninth day out from port, grief, born of leaving friends and childhood scenes had vanished from the faces of the other voyagers, and, under the influence of a moderately smooth sea and splendid, sparkling weather, their thoughts were busy with the new shores to which the voyagers were journeying, with expectations of great days. But on his face no glow of pleasant anticipation ever shone. The old man's eyes were always turned toward that dear Germany which, first, he had been forced to leave for London, and now was, by the stern necessities of life, obliged to go still further from. Rarely, since the voyage had begun, had he, when on deck, raised his gaze from the great vessel's churning wake, which stretched, he liked to think, straight back toward Germany, save when his daughter spoke to him and roused him, for a moment, from his black depression. It was as if that thread of foam was the one thing, brief, evanescent, futile, though it was, which bound him, now, to the only land he cared for. His face was that of one who passes into final exile. Only when his eyes were on his daughter's did the expression of suppressed grief and despondency go from them for a moment; but when they looked at her they lighted brilliantly with love. He had found adjustment to his crude surroundings with the utmost difficulty. Poor he had been in London, but his work had been among musicians, and even cheap musicians have in them something better, finer, higher than the majority of human cattle in the steerage of this ship could show. He felt uncomfortably misplaced. This had been apparent from the start to his most interested observer--the handsome youth of the first cabin, whose glances sometimes made the daughter's eyes dodge and evade. It added to that young man's growing conviction that the aged man and beautiful young girl were not at all of the same class as their enforced associates upon the steerage-deck. He remarked upon this to the second officer of the ship, who was highly flattered by his notice and anxious to give ear. He, too, had given some attention to the old man and his daughter and agreed with Vanderlyn about their great superiority to their surroundings. He would have agreed with Vanderlyn in almost anything, that second officer, for every year he met and talked with some few thousand passengers who said it was the longer voyage which had tempted them to the old _Rochester_, while rarely was he in the least convinced by what they said. With the Vanderlyns, who did not say it, he thought that it was truth. Money they obviously had in plenty, and, inasmuch as they were, therefore, such pronounced exceptions to the rule, he spent what time with them he could. They were prosperous and yet they sailed by that slow ship, therefore they loved the sea. Of this he was convinced--and in his firm conviction was entirely wrong. The real truth was that Mrs. Vanderlyn, made bold by the possession of her money, had thought it was the magic key which certainly would open every door for her. There were doors in New York City, which, coming from the West, she had been palpitantly anxious to pass through, and, to her amazement, she found that money would not open them. Then there had occurred to her the brilliant plan of conquering, first, the aristocracy of Europe, who, the newspapers had told her, bowed in great humility before the eagle on the Yankee gold-piece. To the doors with crests upon their paneling, abroad, she had therefore borne her golden key that summer, only to discover that it fitted their locks quite as ill as those upon Fifth Avenue. Her heart was saddened with the woe of failure. The second officer could not guess that, sore from buffetings from those who would have none of her, she had been glad to secure passage on this ten-day boat, where, during the long voyage, she could haughtily refuse to notice those of whom she would have none. She had searched for a place and found one where she could scorn as she had recently been scorned. Her soul was black-and-blue from snubs. She wished to snub. A climber, who had failed to climb the highest social ladder, the handsome, haughty lady found a certain satisfaction in sitting for ten days upon the very apex of another ladder--briefer, less important, very little, to be sure, but still a social ladder--and giving it a quick, sharp shake as humble people put their feet upon it timidly, bowing and smiling tentatively at her unresponsive person. It was a sort of balm to her sore soul so see them tumble metaphorically, upon their backs. Her demeanor on the _Rochester_ was the demeanor of a princess among aliens whom she utterly despises. The Cook's tourists, traveling school-teachers and young married couples homeward-bound after modest European honeymoons, were plainly scum to her, and it gave her ardent joy to see that most of them were hurt when she impressed this on them mercilessly. It was safer for her son to talk about the interesting German couple to the second officer than it was for him to talk about them to his mother, but, lo! youth knows not wisdom. "Mother," he suggested upon the sixth day out, "I want to have you come and see a fascinating couple on the steerage-deck." "Another bride and groom?" she asked, in a bored voice. Brides and grooms had come to be monotonous. She had seen all sorts since she had started on this journey and now loathed the thought of newly married fellow-creatures. She could not understand why John's interest had been maintained in them. He laughed. "No, not a bride and groom. The man is an old German, handsome and refined, evidently out of place upon the steerage-deck, the girl--she--why, mother, she's a peach. _She'd_ be out of place 'most anywhere but on a throne!" "How very vulgar, John," his mother answered with that cold assumption of superiority which had come to her with money. "I cannot see how even you can link the steerage-deck with thrones. Princesses do not travel steerage except between the covers of cheap books." He laughed again. John Vanderlyn was clean and healthy-souled. He did not always take his mother (whom he idolized) too seriously. "I didn't say she was a princess," he replied, "but she might well be. It was, however, rather the old man than the girl, though she is very beautiful and quite as much misplaced upon the steerage-deck as he is, that I wished to have you see." He was, it will be noted, learning something of diplomacy. "He has a magnificent old face--the face of a fine nature which has suffered terribly. I have seen him as he stood at the ship's rail, astern, watching the white wake as if every bubble on it was a marker on a tragic path. It is as if all he loved on earth except the girl--you ought to see him look at her!--lies at the far end of that frothy, watery trail." "You become almost poetic!" she said without enthusiasm. But, a day afterwards, she went with him and looked down at the steerage passengers, singling out the pair he meant without the slightest difficulty. "What a distinguished-looking man he is!" said she, involuntarily. "Isn't he?" said her delighted son. The daughter was not on the deck, just then, and young Vanderlyn was politic enough to say nothing of her, merely talking of the old man's impressive bearing, asking his mother to help him speculate about his history. "I don't wonder he attracted you," she granted. "He looks very interesting. I am sure he _has_ a history." Her gaze was so intent, that, in a few moments, it attracted the attention of Herr Kreutzer, and the youth, observing that he seemed annoyed and shamed, hurried her away. Instinctively he had felt the old man flinch; instinctively he knew his pride, already, had been sorely hurt by the necessity of "traveling steerage"; that as they gazed at him the handsome, white-haired, emigrant had felt that his dire poverty had made of him a curiosity. The young man led his mother back to her rug-padded deck-chair, pleased by the result of the first step in what he had resolved must be a strategy of worth. In some way he must fix things so that properly and pleasantly he could get acquainted with that girl. This, he thought (not being a born prophet), could only be accomplished through his mother, and already he had plans for it indefinitely sketched out in his mind. Events were fated to assist him and do better for him than his mother could have done for him, but, of course, he did not know that then. From the moment when he saw the dignified old German shrink before his mother's gaze the youth was careful to avoid appearances of curiosity. If either old man or young girl came into view while he stood at the rail, above the steerage-deck, he went away, though other passengers, attracted by the beauty of the girl, and the distinguished look of the old man, were less considerate and stared, to their distress. When, later, the young man saw his mother staring as the others did and as he had, himself, at first, he hesitantly spoke to her about it. "Nonsense," she replied. "You give them credit for too much fine feeling. Attention doubtless flatters them. It always does such people." That she had lost her first idea that the pair might be entitled to unusual consideration bothered him; but he feared, because of his great plan, to make too vehement defense, so only said, with studied mildness: "They are not 'such people', I am sure. You yourself, at first, said they looked 'different.' It's hard luck, I'll bet a hat, and not a lack of brains, decency or real distinction that's forced them to herd down there with those cattle. I'll guarantee they know the whole thing about the little social game in Germany." He watched his mother closely, to see if the shot told, and was delighted when he saw it did. "Yes; he really looks superior," she admitted. "I have no doubt their German is quite _perfect_. I wonder--perhaps he might, at one time, have been someone of distinct importance." "I have no doubt of it. Anyone can see it makes him sore as a mashed thumb to have his poverty make him into a free side-show to be stared at on this old canal-boat. I've seen the 'Cookies' rubbering and making comments that I know he heard. He flushed red as beets and took his daughter somewhere where their gimlet stare could not bore to her. Those glass-eyed school-ma'ams actually drove them out of the fresh air!" "He seems to make no friends among the steerage passengers, as all the others do." "Those swine? They drive him crazy. The girl is constantly annoyed by men that try to sidle up to her. I've been half expecting the old man would bat that big Italian who's always talking New York politics--shoot him with whatever he has always with him in that queer, oval case, and throw him to the fish." "I think that is some instrument--some music thing." "Might be a flute." "Perhaps he is some really great musician," Mrs. Vanderlyn said, speculatively. "They go everywhere in Germany. No doors are closed to them. It wouldn't be at all surprising for a musician to travel as he's doing. Such people are eccentric, and often so foolishly improvident. Something about music makes them so. But they worship them in Germany. They know the very _highest_ people." Her son grasped at the suggestion. "Funny, isn't it--how crazy all the lieber-deutchers are when they hear music! Hoch der Kaiser sets the pace, himself." "Yes, I know he does," said Mrs. Vanderlyn, a little shocked by his irreverent way of making reference to Heaven's Chosen. "Poor things!" Her sympathy was quite aroused, now. She became quite certain that the steerage couple had highly influential friends abroad. "Would it please him, do you think, if I should show the daughter some attention?" John knew that "some attention" from his mother to the emigrants would mean a course of open patronage and he didn't wish to have her try that on with that particular pair. He shook his head. "I don't believe they'd stand for it," he said. "But if you could do them some real kindness--a courtesy that wasn't--er--er--patronizing, it--" He gazed thoughtfully at Mrs. Vanderlyn for a short moment and then thought better, even, of encouraging her thus much. He loved his mother dearly but felt certain that she would be sure to wound the strangers if she did anything whatever for them. "Perhaps the best thing, after all," he said, "will be to let them, undisturbed, preserve the incognito which they evidently wish to keep in their misfortune." He had roused his mother's interest more keenly than he had thought was possible. He would do no more to rouse it. He could only hope that it might bear for him the fruit he wished--a pleasant way of gaining an acquaintance with the lovely girl. He knew that it was possible it might do otherwise and make a pleasant meeting harder, even, than it seemed to be at present, but he had had to take the chance. At any rate he had sufficiently excused himself, in her eyes, for any reasonable thing he might, himself, do, when the opportunity occurred, to gain the friendship of the steerage travelers. As for himself, he now carefully avoided any appearance of observing them. In one way or another he watched them a good deal, but he did so with such care that he was certain they were unaware of it--at least was certain that the old man did not notice it. He found his heart athrob with quite unusual speed, when, once or twice, he saw the girl's big eyes directed toward him, not resentfully. They were, he thought, the most resplendent eyes which ever had been turned in his direction, but he did not let her know that he observed her glances. His interest continually deepened, and the voyage, which he had thought would be a tiresome trip, became one of the most absorbing journeys he had ever known. Memories of those eyes were with him, even when he was beyond the shy range of their timid glances. When, at the ship's bow, he gazed over at the sporting dolphins or watched the water curving gracefully from the black prow, they floated in the sea, alluringly. If he turned his glance above to watch the fleecy clouds which were the only vapors in the sky upon this ideal crossing, they shaped themselves into her profile, the azure of the sky lost by comparison with that which glowed serene from her great eyes. John Vanderlyn was really dismayed to find that they were everywhere. He had not been susceptible, as youths go, in the past; now he found himself enthralled, spellbound by the appeal of this small German girl who traveled cheaply in the steerage of a slow ship toward America, a part of a large company of needy aliens seeking a new home in what they thought the land of promise. As the voyage neared its end he saw with some dismay that the old man had managed to make enemies among the emigrants by his aloofness. The sea was very smooth, these days, and, under smiling skies the steerage-deck was swarming. The stewardess announced that but one of all the seasick passengers, a young English girl, was left in the infirmary; the only other call for the ship's doctor came from a mother for her tiny babe of two or three months which had been stricken with some increasing ailment before they had embarked upon the ship. The emigrants were making merry daily, from early morning until nine or ten of evenings; there were few moments when from their part of the ship some crude music was not rising. Concertinas, mouth-organs, a badly-mastered violin gave forth their notes from time to time, their harshness softened by the mingling of the waves' lap on the vessel's sides. Now and then the first-class passengers looked down with amused curiosity upon rude dances, the dancers' merriment enhanced by stumbling lurches born of the vessel's slow, long rollings on the sea's vast, smooth-surfaced swells. The old man and his daughter never joined in these crude pleasurings and John found in this a certain comfort which he did not try to analyze. His mother, also watching now and then, observed it, too, and felt her interest in them increasing. Two days before the slow old ship was due to reach New York she had almost made her mind up to investigate the pair. Should she find that they were worthy, she told John (that is, should she find they could, in any way, be useful in her campaign of next summer, which, already, she was planning) she might try to help them in New York. Her resentment of John's interest in them had faded. If they were ordinary emigrants he would not see them after the ship docked, if they were of enough importance to be useful to her, if they had influential friends abroad, the more he saw of them the better. Mrs. Vanderlyn was not a mercenary woman. The only gold she worshiped had been beaten into coronets; of that which had been minted she had plenty. She did not envy fortunes, though her envy of position was unbounded. "You might make a little inquiry," she told her son. "If they should really have friends among the aristocracy--" It both amused and angered him. He had imbibed, at a small western college and in the little taste of business life which he had had in New York City, a wondrous spirit of democracy which his stay in Europe had by no means lessened. It was not the man's potential social usefulness which made appeal to him, it was the soul which he saw shining, clear and lovely, in his daughter's eyes; it was not the father's slow, grey dignity which made him wish to help him, it was the long, pathetic gaze, which, from time to time, he saw him cast back along the vessel's wake, the lines of patiently-borne sorrow which had formed about his fine, strong mouth, the stoop of weariness and woe endured with uncomplaining fortitude which bent his shoulders. He might be of an artistic worth which made him peer of and received by kings--of that John Vanderlyn knew nothing and cared less; but that he was a gentleman of lofty mind and many sorrows patiently endured he felt quite certain, and, as such, his heart yearned to him. He would have been delighted if some way had come to help him, but he could not bring himself to such a curious investigation of his poor affairs as his mother would have had him make with prying inquiries. It seemed to him that such a course would be impertinent, and so, whenever she suggested it, he temporized and hesitated. As the voyage progressed, too, it was plain enough that others than the Vanderlyns began to feel, instinctively, the real superiority of the old man and his daughter. Down on the steerage-deck they were, involuntarily, given a certain courteous consideration by the passengers, and even by the stewards--and to impress a steerage-steward is no ordinary victory. The old man showed a kindly heart, especially to the many women with small babes among the huddled passengers. Love of children, plainly, was mighty in his soul and by the hour he sat, surrounded by a circle of the little ones, to their very great delight and the relief of the poor mothers who thus obtained the first hours of freedom from continual care which they had had since the long voyage had begun. It was his playing with the children that gave birth to a sensation which thrilled the ship from end to end. He was trying patiently, persistently, to amuse a little, ailing tot. It was beginning to seem certain that she would not last the voyage out. The mother was in agony as she held the tiny wailing, creature out toward him while he cooed to it and touched its cheek with tender fingers, trying to arouse its interest without success. It was as a final effort to amuse it that he took his flute out of the curious leather case he always carried. Just as dusk fell on the vessel he began to play. At first, the strains were soft and low, for the child's benefit, alone, scarce audible at any distance. Almost instantly she quieted, and, as Vanderlyn came up from dinner in the big saloon and glanced across the rail, as usual, he saw a little group of fascinated folk there, close about the flute-player, and faintly heard the sweet, pathetic strains of an old German cradle-song. So soft the sounds were, though, that he could barely catch them, and, therefore, at first, he did not wholly realize their beauty. Soon, though, the old man plainly utterly forgot the fact that there were other people near than the now quiet child, its mother, his Anna and himself, for he threw more force into his playing. The steerage-passengers drew closer in a reverent silence, as the European peasant always will at sound of really good music, and many of the first-cabin passengers joined John at the rail, attracted by the sweet and soaring melody. In a few moments a full score had gathered there, all listening, intent, enthralled, quite silent. "Marfellous! He iss a firtuoso!" grumbled a big German at John's side. John turned to him and smiled. The man, he knew, was Anton Karrosch an operatic impresario. He was glad to have his own impression of the wondrous merit of the playing confirmed by an authority. "He seems to be quite poor," he whispered eagerly. "Perhaps you might find something for him, when we reach New York. He--" "Ach! He will have no droobles," said Herr Karrosch. "A man who blays like dot! Ven ve land, I see him; yes." A moment later the flute-player glanced up and saw the audience behind the rail. Instantly he lowered his slim instrument, from whose silver mountings, now, the moonlight was beginning to glint prettily. He gave the prosperous folk above but one short glance, apparently a bit resentful, and then, as if they were of small importance, turned from them to the mother of the child. "Does she sleep, still?" John could hear him ask, as he bent above the infant. "Si, si," said the grateful mother, understanding what he meant, although, apparently, she spoke no English. "Good," said the flute-player, "I stop playing, then." And in spite of a mild spatter of applause from the first-cabin deck and one or two requests for more of his delightful music, he rose and went within. It was clear that his soft courtesies, free performances, were for the poor folk in the steerage, not for the rich upon the promenade. Mrs. Vanderlyn was, after this, more than ever anxious to have John approach the man and make acquaintance with him; but his belief that such a course would be impertinent was strengthened. What the impresario had said saddened him a little as he reflected on it. He had begun to hope that, when they landed (not before), he might be of service to the pair; but if what Karrosch had said was true, then they would not need his kindnesses. Almost he had made up his mind, thus soon, that the shy little German girl was the one woman in the world for him, so he found it difficult to stop himself from hoping that the fat manager's predictions would prove false; that the flute-player might really find difficulty in arranging a career in the United States; that he, himself, might prove to be essential to the development of his opportunity. He felt a little gloomy, when, long after most of the ship's company had gone to sleep, he sought his stateroom. Fear that he would find it quite impossible to win his way even to acquaintance, much depressed him. But the very day the ship turned into the wide beauty of the Lower Bay, a situation grew out of the commonplace of life upon the steerage-deck which sharply and dramatically involved him with the two who had so interested him. The steerage passengers were dancing to the music of a concertina, many of them, more especially the Italians, joining in the merriment with a gay fervor born of their elation at approach to the rich mysteries of the new land they sought. Much cheap wine had been consumed among them, and in some of them this had, already, wrought its vicious alchemy and changed the gold of sunny tempers into the dross of ugliness. Among those most affected by the liquor was the man Moresco, who so continually boasted of the great things he had done in New York politics and who, since his rebuff by the old German, when he had tried to induce Anna to drink with him, had eyed the pair askance, resentfully. Young Vanderlyn observed that he was oftener and oftener, as he drank and danced with women of his own race, turning envious and longing eyes toward the beautiful young German girl, throwing resentful, scowling glances at her father, who, on that previous occasion, had so notably rebuffed him. It became quite plain, ere long, that the man had worked up a great wrath against the flute-player. "I am Pietro Moresco," he boasted, many times, as if the very name should awe the world. Then, impressively: "I am no common emigrant. Not a common emigrant, as all may learn, in time. In New York none are too proud to dance with me. It is not a land for the aristocrat--the aristocrat who travels steerage!" He gazed at the old man fixedly, with that malevolent look of which none but an Italian really is capable. Vanderlyn saw, also, with amazement, that there were those among his countrymen--men evidently knowing him--who were as much impressed by what he said as, evidently, he believed the whole world ought to be. It almost seemed, indeed, that these folk took his boastings seriously and thought the old man and his daughter really had cause to fear the man's reprisals. The old man paid no heed to him, however. He only drew his daughter closer to his side. John noted that her cheeks were hotly flushed with anger, combined, perhaps, with fear, and felt the blood of wrath flood to his own and out again, leaving them, he knew, quite ghastly pale. He always flushed, then paled, when he was very angry, and when that pallor clung, as it did now, dire things inevitably impended. He was astonished at the strength of cold resentment in his heart toward the Italian. He did not for an instant hesitate in deciding to protect the little girl from her tormentor, if need arose, at any hazard. It did not once occur to him that this was not his work, that the ship's officers would doubtless maintain order and, themselves, protect her as a matter of mere discipline on board. Indeed, it seemed to him that for some reason the Italian received more than ordinary courtesy from them. As the episode developed, they appeared to edge away, leaving the swarthy bully wholly undisturbed. He did not fail to take advantage of this situation, but, after glancing somewhat cautiously around, followed his declaration of his own importance and resentment with an angry dive, and, an instant later, had the girl by the right arm, while his countrymen called loudly in approval. Another instant and the man was dragging Anna to the center of the open space where dancing had been going on. She screamed, her father rose, amazed, resentful, lurching with fierce but futile rage toward their tormentor as the ship rolled, and the slight push which the Italian gave him as he advanced upon him, was all that was required to throw him heavily. Dazed by the fall he lay there, for a moment, helpless, and by the time he rose the girl, shrieking with alarm, was being whirled in the Italian's arms in a crude dance. With a short laugh the man with the accordeon had started up a faster waltz, and there were dozens who, applauding their bold leader, looked on with delight. [Illustration: Almost instantly the Italian bully was sprawling in the scuppers and Vanderlyn had raised the old man to his feet] But the single spectator above, behind the promenade-deck rail, did not look on with delight. He lost no time. He did not even waste ten seconds in rushing to the little stairway which led downward from his place of vantage, but, with the wiry hand and arm of the trained college athlete to help him in the spring, he vaulted lightly clean across the barrier, and, with legs bent skilfully to break the force of the long drop, landed like a lithe and angry tiger on the deck below, within two feet of the utterly amazed and terrified Moresco. Once there the young American proceeded neatly, rapidly. Almost instantly the Italian bully was sprawling in the scuppers and Vanderlyn had raised the old man to his feet. In another moment he had taken the girl's hand, led her to her father and they were both trying, in excited German and in English, suffering from the stress of their emotions, to express their thanks to him. It was at this moment that they met with one of the greatest surprises of their lives. With a sharp cry M'riar burst on them. She had been, as usual, hiding miserably in the narrow entrance to the companion-way which led down to the steerage sleeping quarters, where, daily, since she had in part recovered from her fierce attack of seasickness, she had lurked with furtive eyes and worried heart, squeezing herself against the bulkhead to give others way as they went up or down, afraid to let the voyage end without revealing to her friends her presence, lest they escape to leave her at the mercy of the outraged law of the new land, of which she heard much gossip; afraid to let them know that she was there, lest they, in anger at her presence, refuse to let her join them. But this situation was too much for her. Seeing her adored ones in distress she could restrain herself no longer. She sprang out to the open deck and ranged herself, a veritable little fury, between her friends and the prostrate Italian. "_Garn! Don't yer dare to tech 'er! Garn! Garn!_" she cried and poised, tense, vicious, ready to pit her puny strength against his might if he should rise, vanquish Vanderlyn and try, again, to trouble Anna and her father. But members of the ship's crew now rushed up, and, seemingly almost against their will (Moresco, being in New York City politics, might control much steerage business for the line), but yielding to the loud demand of many passengers above, who, attracted by the shouts, had crowded to the rail, caught the man as, rising, he would have sprung upon the young American. A moment later and he had been dragged away and the blushing rescuer of beauty in distress and old age vanquished, had, stammering in embarrassment before the thanks of his two beneficiaries, gone back to his own part of the ship. He might have wholly lost his self-possession had not the vicious glance of the Italian and a shouted curse come to him while the man was struggling viciously with his unwilling captors. It cheered him unto laughter to hear Moresco laying claim to that mysterious importance which he had so often boasted, and note that he was threatening him with awful things. Much more interesting he found the small scene he was leaving, in which two utterly bewildered and astonished Germans and a little cockney girl were the three actors. "_M'ri_-arrr! _M'ri_-arrr!" he heard Anna cry in sheer amazement. "_M'ri_-arrr!" "Mine Gott im himmel! It is M'ria-arrr!" he heard Kreutzer say. CHAPTER III Bartholdi's mighty Liberty loomed high above the vessel as she grandly swept her way among the crowded shipping of the Upper Bay. On the huddled steerage-deck Moresco, quickly and mysteriously free from durance and not at all abashed by what had happened to him, led a little cheering, in which his countrymen joined somewhat faintly. On the promenade-deck Vanderlyn was acting as the leader of enthusiastic rooters for his native land. With his mother, whose interest in the old German and his daughter he now fostered very eagerly, he stood close by the rail across which he had vaulted when Moresco had assaulted the old man. Not even the enthusiasm of partings from new friends, ship made, could draw him from this point as the vessel neared her dock. From it he watched the workings of the health-and customs-officers among the steerage-passengers, while he tried to definitely decide upon what means he might employ to keep from losing sight of the two people in whom his interest had grown to be so great, after they were diverted by the formalities of immigration laws from the line of travel he would naturally follow when the ship tied up. "The immigrants are sent to Ellis Island," he explained to Mrs. Vanderlyn. "A case of sheep and goats, all right, according to the tenets of this land of liberty and lucre. If you've got money you're a sheep. Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, has wide-open arms for you. No one tries to stop your entrance. If you've none, why you're the goat and everybody butts you." "Your English is as hard to understand as any of the foreign languages!" his mother chided. "Every other word is slang. I haven't an idea what you mean." Down upon the steerage-deck Moresco, after the faint cheering, was declaiming loudly, now, about the towering statue and the liberty she symbolizes. Towards the mighty effigy the old flute-player's eyes were also turned, but the emotions it aroused in him were very different from those which the Italian laid his claim to. To him she did not stand for license, but for a freedom from that mysterious worry, which, in London, had been so horridly persistent, which had reached an intolerable climax in Hyde Park, that day when he had run across the German with the turned-up moustache, and from which the journey to America was a veritable flight. The Giant Woman of the Bay would prove to be to him, the old musician fondly hoped, what her designer had intended her to be to all the worried, fleeing people of all the balance of the earth--a great torch-bearer who would light the way to peace and plenty, free from the social and political turmoil and oppression of the worn-out lands across the sea. He drew a breath of crisp air into his lungs, held his daughter closer to his side, took off his hat and stood agaze while the brisk wind, strengthening for the moment, blew the folk around him free of steerage odors, waved his long grey hair about his forehead and flapped his long grey coat about his legs until its tails snapped. An instant later and combined assaults of manifold officials, pregnant with prying questions and suspicious glances, had driven all thoughts from his mind and those of other steerage passengers that America meant freedom. Never had he been so suddenly and vigorously deluged with such an avalanche of legal interference and investigation. Many a Russian, fleeing here in search of liberty, has been dismayed into concluding that he has but stumbled into a new serfdom, when blue-coats and brass-buttons have descended on him as his ship reached New York Bay. One arm clasped tight in one of his, the other holding M'riar closely to her side in the dense, swaying crowd, his daughter, as he pondered on these matters, answered questions, worried, was thinking of far different things. Ever since the champion of her cause and her father's against the common enemy, Moresco, had sprung lightly to the steerage-deck from back of the first-cabin rail, her thoughts had been more of that champion than of all other combined details of these most exciting days. Shy and delighted, venturing on new and untried paths they had been, till now; but now, as the long voyage was ending, she was filled with blank dismay. She had heard the talk about the separation of the steerage passengers from the first-cabin passengers, before they landed, and this gave birth to painfully defined convictions that the dream, which, almost without her knowledge, had sprung into being in her heart, must now abruptly end. She would never see her champion again! The thought led on to others, equally disturbing. For the first time in her life her heart was asking questions of her reason. Who was she? What was she? Why had her father kept her, all her life, in such seclusion? In London she had noted it and wondered at it, but had been content to make no inquiries, because she had not had the wish to go about and do as, from behind the lattice of the close seclusion which confined her, she saw other girls of her age do. She had never had a close friend in her life, except her father, unless one counted M'riar, humble and devoted worshiper, a friend, or unless some memories of bygone days, so faint that they might well be dreams, and which, sometimes, she thought _were_ dreams, were truth instead of waking fancies. Vague, they were, and shadowy, including visions of a merry life, as a small tot, in a far country, and a lovely woman who sometimes, while propped up with the pillows of a bed, held her to her breast. Then it seemed as if all these delightful things had been brought to an end in one short day. Vaguely she recalled a dreadful time when the great bed on which the lovely woman had reclined was empty. All that her brain presented in the way of record of the weeks which followed, were, first, a series of dim pictures of a hurried journey, partaking of the nature of a flight from some impending danger. Her father, she remembered, held her almost constantly against his breast, while they were on this journey, so tightly that the clasp of his strong arms was, sometimes, almost painful, and watched continually from carriage windows, from the deck of a small vessel, and, afterwards, from the windows of a railway train, when they paused at stations in the pleasant English country, as if he ever feared that someone would appear to intercept them and carry her away from him. Then her home had been of a kind new to her--the lodging-house. Instead of being in the midst of splendid lawns and mighty trees, she had been hedged about by grimy streets and dull brick buildings; the air which had been all a-sparkle for her in her babyhood, was, through her youth, dull, smoke-grimed, fog-soaked; for roomy spaciousness and gentle luxury had been exchanged the dinginess and squalor of the place in Soho. The occasional visits to the theatre where her father played the flute, now and then a Sunday walk with him when the weather was sufficiently urbane (marred, always, by his peering watch of every passing face, which had never been rewarded till they met the staring stranger in Hyde Park) had been almost the only variations of a dull routine of life, until this journey had begun which had just brought them to the mighty New World harbor. She was vastly puzzled by existence as she stood there in the stuffy crowd and let her mind roam back in retrospect. Her life was all a mystery to her. This journey was the one tremendous episode of her career; her life in London had been singularly bare of real events; there had only been her daily grind at books which her father wished to have her diligently study, the bi-weekly visits of a woman who had taught her languages and needlework and never talked of anything but youth and romance, although she, herself, was old, and, presumably, beyond the pale of romance. Except for this old woman and the landlady of the cheap lodging-house she had had no friends except poor M'riar. From such a dull existence, to be thrust into the whirl of this amazing voyage, had been very wonderful, for what might not the new life in the new land mean? Anything, to her young and keen imagination. In this marvelous new country the old Frenchwoman had assured her women were as free as men. What would such freedom bring to her? Riches, possibly, would here reward her father for his artistry upon the flute, and luxuries surround them both, in consequence. And romance! Her heart began to flutter at mere thought of the word, and her mind, against her modest maiden will, involuntarily turned to the youth who had so splendidly sprung to their rescue from the malign Moresco. Ah, how strong, how handsome he had been as he had thrown himself upon the big Italian! She blushed before her own brain's boldness. In that youth undoubtedly might, even now, be found the hero of the romance which the new world would undoubtedly unfold for her delighted eyes to read! Singularly innocent and ignorant of many things which most girls of her age know well, she did not stop to reason any of this out--she merely felt the firm conviction of its certainty, and, for a time, was glad. But as the ship passed slowly up the river, and, finally, was taken charge of by the grimy tugs which nosed her with much labor into place at a great dock, the officers began to hustle all the steerage passengers into more compact masses on the deck and her attention once more centered on the matters of the moment. The building on the dock shut off the free salt breeze and quickly the unclean breath of the crowd distressed her lungs. The worried immigrants trod on one another's heels, fell across their huddled trunks and bundles, chattered, gayly or in fright, close in each other's ears. There was a long delay, in which, if one of the poor throng dared move beyond the boundaries set for them by the burly officers in charge, loud language, not too nice to hear, was the result, and, even, once or twice, a blow. She heard an English-speaking veteran of many voyages explaining to his uncomfortable fellows what Vanderlyn had told his mother about them: that because they had come in the steerage they could not land upon the dock, as did the passengers of the first-cabin, but would be borne to some far spot for further health-inspection and examination as to their ability to earn their livelihoods. This worried her, as it had Vanderlyn. Suppose her father should not satisfy these stern examiners? Would the authorities consider that ability to play a flute divinely was sufficient ground for thinking that a man could earn his way? And, if they were landed in two different places, how would the young man know just where to look for her? She almost paled at thought that, possibly, she might be whisked beyond his ken; but then there came the thought of his ability in an emergency, as evidenced by his flying leap down to her rescue, and, shyly smiling, she comforted herself with the reflection that that wondrous youth could make no failures. That he thought of her she could not doubt, for she had never missed one of his frank, admiring glances, although, apparently, she had missed most of them. She finally became quite sure he would not lose sight of her, and this was comforting. For a full hour, after the ship had tied up to her dock, all on that deck were forced to stand in stuffy quarters, odorous and almost dark. Between Anna and her father huddled M'riar, frightened, now, and snuffling, clinging desperately to the hand of the loved mistress she had run away to serve. The flute-player, almost fainting from the heat and weariness, strove bravely to conceal this from his daughter, and, with pitiful assumption of fine strength, smiled down at her, through the thick gloom, from time to time, with reassurance, attempting to instill in her a courage which he, himself, she plainly saw, was losing rapidly. Clearly some of his oldtime worry had returned to him. It might be, he was reflecting, that this far America was not as far as he had thought, and that he stood as much chance of encountering that danger which had made him fly from London, as he had stood there! This troubled her intensely. The odors of that crowded steerage gangway, the pressing of the weary women, the wailing of the frightened babies, the cursing of the men, as time passed, made the place seem an inferno. M'riar, weak from seasickness, terrified by conversation which she heard around her about the deportation of such immigrants as had no money or too little, and fearful that she might be torn from the dear side of her beloved mistress in spite of all which she had done to follow her, shivered constantly and sometimes shook with a dry sob. The hours were hours of nightmare. Many of the women were half-fainting when, at last, the barges of the government were drawn up at the ship's side for the transfer of the immigrants to Ellis Island, and across the narrow planks which stretched from them to the dingy little liner the motley crowd trooped wearily. Kreutzer was near to absolute exhaustion, and shouldered their heavy trunk, lifted their heaviest bag, with difficulty. His knees, it seemed to him, must certainly give way beneath him. Seeing this gave M'riar something other than her fears to think of. "Gimme th' bag, now, guvnor," she said quietly, although both she and Anna already were well burdened. "Nein," said the old man, gravely. "Child, you could not carry it." "_I_ could," said Anna, quickly, and tried to take it from his hand, abashed that the small servant should have been more thoughtful of him than she was. "Not much yer cawn't," said M'riar, positively. "I 'yn't goin' ter let yer, miss. Ketch me! _Me_ let yer carry _bags_! My heye!" "But M'riarrr," Anna answered. "You are so very little and it iss so very big!" "Carry ten of 'em," said M'riar, nonchalantly and nobly rose to the occasion despite the protests of both Anna and the flute-player. There was little time for argument, for, an instant later, they were forced forward irresistibly by the pressure of the crowd behind them and soon found themselves, to their inexpressible relief, in the clear air of an open-sided deck on one of the big barges. In another quarter of an hour they had started on their little voyage to the landing station upon Ellis Island, where Uncle Sam decides upon the fitness of such applicants for admission to his domain as have reached his shores "third-class." The ordeal at Ellis Island was less formidable, for Kreutzer and his daughter, than the gossip of the steerage had led them to expect. Both were in good health, he had the money which the law requires each immigrant to bring with him, letters avowed his full ability to make a living for himself and daughter, he had not come over under contract. But poor M'riar! Her skinny little form, weak eyes, flat chest, barely passed the medical examination; Herr Kreutzer did not understand some of the questions put to her and thus she nearly went on record as being without friends or means of winning her support. Indeed he did not realize the situation until a uniformed official had begun to lead the screaming child away and then he made things worse by letting his rare German temper rise as he protested. Had not Anna laid restraining fingers on his arm he might have found himself charged with a serious offense, upon the very threshold of the new land he had journeyed to. They now formed a thoroughly dismayed, disheartened group of three there under the high, girdered roof of Uncle Sam's reception chamber for prospective children by adoption. Anna, alarmed for both the threatened child and angry flute-player, stood, woefully distressed between the two, a hand upon the arm of each and big, alarmed and wondrously appealing eyes fixed on the gruff official, who stirred uneasily beneath the power of their petition; Kreutzer was frightened, also, now that his wrath was passing and he took time to reflect that if he should involve himself with this new government inquiries would certainly be started which would result in the revelation of his whereabouts to those whom he had hoped utterly to evade; M'riar, the cause of all the trouble, wept like a Niobe, quite soundlessly, shaking like an aspen, managing to maintain her weight upon her weakening knees with desperate effort only. "Sorry, Miss," said the official, with gruff kindness. "But law's law, you know, and she's against it." "Little M'riarrr is against your laws?" said Anna, much surprised. "She's likely to become a public charge," the man said, anxious to defend himself and his government before the lovely girl. "We've got enough of European paupers to support, here in this country, now." "But she would live with us," said Anna. "Sure--until you fired her," said the man with a short laugh. "Firrred her?" Anna said, inquiringly, not guessing at his meaning. "Firrred her? We should be very kind to her. We would not burn her, hurt her in the slightes' way. I promise, sir; I promise." The official laughed again. "Oh, that's all right, Miss," he explained. "I know you wouldn't hurt her. That ain't what I meant. I meant until you let her go, discharged her, turned her off, decided that you didn't need her help around the house, found somebody who'd work better for you for less money, or something of that sort. She'd never get another job. She's too skinny and too ignorant." "Hi'll fat up, 'ere, Hi swears Hi will," Maria interrupted hopefully. "Hi'm _certain_ to fat up." "Yes, yes," said Anna, "I am certain that she will be very fat. She will not have so much to do and will have much to eat. She shall fat up at once." She spoke with honest earnestness. Could leanness be against the law, too, here? And M'riar, also, had understood exactly what he meant when he had said she was too ignorant. "An' Hi'm that quick to learn!" she said. "You cawn't himagine! W'y, 'yn't Hi halmost learnt me letters off from bundle carts an' 'oardings? M, he, hay, t--that spells 'beef.' The bobby on hour beat, 'e told me, an' Hi 'yn't fergot a mite. T, haych, he, hay, t, r, he, spells 'show.' 'E told me that, too. Hi 'yn't one as would _st'y_ hignorant, Hi 'yn't." "Fer Gawd's sake!" said the officer, entirely nonplussed by this display of the girl's erudition. "Say--well--now--come here, Bill!" He beckoned to another man in blue and shiny buttons. "Spell them words ag'in, Miss, won't you?" he implored. Anna looked at him reproachfully. "No, no," she said, and made him feel ashamed with her big eyes, "please, sir, not. It is not funny--not for us. Please, please do not send our M'riarrr back to England. It was her love which brought her with us. Real love. You would not punish any one for being truly loving, eh?" Subdued and made, again, uneasy by her lovely eyes, the man did not complete the exposition of the joke to the newcomer, but took refuge in an attitude of most regretful, but impregnable officialism. "I ain't got a word to say about it, Miss," he hurried to assure the eyes. "Law's law, and law says that the likes of her has got to be sent back. The only way that you could keep her here would be to put up bonds to guarantee th' gover'ment against her goin' on th' town or anything like that." She did not understand him in the least. "What is it that you mean?" she asked. Laboriously he made things clear to her, Herr Kreutzer helping and coming to an understanding just before she did. "Ach!" said the old flute-player, "We cannot. We have not so much." "Sure. I know that," the man replied. "That is why I say th' girl has got to be sent back." Argument proved unavailing, and, ten minutes later, poor M'riar, screaming as if red-hot irons were begrilling her most tender spots, was being led into the "pen." "We'll keep her here a while," the man explained, as he endeavored to avoid the child's astonishingly skilful and astonishingly painful kicks. "Maybe you can find somebody to go bond for her. There ain't no other way. There really ain't, Miss." During all this speech he still was under the strong influence of Anna's wondrous eyes, else he would never have been able to articulate with such unruffled calm. His charge was doing agonizing things to his official shins, and even pinching him just over the short ribs on his left side with a forefinger and a thumb which showed amazing strength and malice quite infernal. Anna and her father turned away, perforce, to attend to their own business, after having promised M'riar that they would never let her be sent back; that they would come and take her from the pen tomorrow. Neither had the least idea of a way in which to make this possible, but both swore in their hearts that it should be accomplished. "Ach!" said Anna, "if only he had traveled in the third class, too! He then would have been with us and would never have permitted it." "But who, mine liebschen?" Anna, realizing what she had been saying, colored vividly, but never in her life had she deceived her father, hidden anything from him, or in the slightest way evaded with him, so she summoned courage and said softly: "Why, the--the young gentleman." "What gentleman?" "The one on the ship who sprang down when that wicked man caught me to dance with him." Herr Kreutzer slowly nodded, seeing no significance in her quick thought of Vanderlyn, save that the thought was rare good sense. Being an American, the young man naturally would have been better able to explain the matter to the officers, and, had the matter been enough explained, he thought, they could not, possibly, have had the heart to hold the child. "Ach, yes," said he. "If he was here! He certainly would know." Luck, that day, as usually in his wealth-smoothed life, was with young Vanderlyn, for, just as Anna and her father were regretting that he was not there, lo, he appeared! It had been through his bull-dog persistence that the elder Vanderlyn had won the wealth which son and wife were spending now, since he had passed on to a shore where wealth of gold may not be freighted. That same bull-dog persistence had the son applied to the momentous problem which confronted him. Not only had he won his difficult mother over to a friendly interest in the lovely German girl who had so utterly enthralled him, but he had made her eager to keep track of her, see more of her. Thus had he readily been freed from the small services which a mother might expect of her grown son on landing day; not only freed, but urged to go upon the search for which his heart craved avidly. He had had some difficulty in obtaining, quickly, an official permit to repair to Ellis Island, but an opened pocketbook had solved it, in due course of time, and, now, here he was, trying to "frame up," as he expressed it to himself, "some really fair reason for having followed these whom he was seeking." The excitement of poor M'riar's sad predicament made it unnecessary for him to present the reason which he had, with careful pains at length devised. Kind Fate had wondrously well timed his eager coming. "What seems to be the trouble?" he asked easily, as he hurried forward with his hat in hand, much comforted by seeing that there was a trouble of some sort. The matter was explained to him. "That's easy," he said gaily. "Let me fix it;" and, forthwith, the thing was fixed. Without the slightest hesitation he made himself responsible for M'riar in every way which an ingenious government had managed to devise through years of effort. The gratitude of the three travelers was earnest and was volubly expressed in spite of his determined efforts to prevent them from expressing it. M'riar would have thrown her arms about his neck and kissed him had not Anna thoughtfully prevented it, after one quick glance at the astonishing appearance of the delighted child's tear-and lunch-stained face. And so it came about that the Herr Kreutzer and his daughter Anna, with her humble slave and worshiper, M'riar, were ferried back from Ellis Island to New York within a half-a-dozen hours of the moment when they landed on it. As they went Moresco, himself, apparently a citizen, and free to go at once, was still there in the building, working with his boasted "pull" to help his countrymen. He shook his fist at them as they departed and cried insults after them. Few immigrants have ever been passed through in briefer time than was the flute-player; few government inspectors at the landing station have ever been enabled, by a stroke of good luck from a cloudless sky, to take home to their wives, at night, as large a roll of crisp, new money (yellow-backed) as an inspector took home to his wife that night. "Gee, Bill!" the wife exclaimed when she had finished choking. "When do you expect the cops?" "What cops?" he naturally asked. "Them that'll come to pinch you for bank-robbery," she answered, fondling the certificates with reverent, delighted fingers. An episode of their return from Ellis Island to Manhattan much puzzled Vanderlyn. Puffing and blowing from his hurry (which had been less adroit than Vanderlyn's) they met Karrosch on the New York pier, about to start in search of Kreutzer. "Ah," he said cordially, "I wish to talk with you. I have the largest orchestra in all America and wish to offer you the place of my first flute. You are very lucky to have had me on the ship with you. I shall be glad to pay--" Kreutzer interrupted him with courteous shaking of the head. "I thank you, sir," he said, with firm decision. "I cannot play first flute in your large orchestra." "But," said the astonished Karrosch, "I will pay--" "I much regret," said Kreutzer, "that I cannot play first flute in your large orchestra." Vanderlyn, not less than Karrosch, was bewildered by this episode. Only Anna was not in the least surprised by it, although she did not understand it. She knew that he had many times refused alluring offers of the sort in London, always without an explanation of his reasons for so doing. In the little rooms which they had found for temporary lodging place, Herr Kreutzer sat that evening, with a well-cleaned M'riar standing by and trying to devise some way of adding to his comfort. He had never given much thought to the child, before, he realized; he had accepted her as one of many facts of small importance. Now, though, he noted the devoted gaze with which her eyes were following Anna as she moved about the room, arranging little things. "You love her, eh?" he asked. "_Love_ 'er!" said M'riar, breathlessly. "My heye! Love _'er_! Ou, Hi, sye!" Herr Kreutzer reached an arm out with a thrill of real affection and drew the little waif close to him. Never in her life had she been offered a caress, before, by anyone but Anna. It took her by surprise, and, without the slightest thought of doing so, she burst into a flood of tears. He did not fail to understand the workings of her soul. He drew the tiny creature to him and softly pressed a kiss upon her perfectly clean forehead. "You vould not want to leave her, M'riar?" "Hi'd die, Hi would," sobbed M'riar. Herr Kreutzer held her head back and smiled into her eyes with a good smile which made her very happy. "Ach, liebling, do not worry." "W'y wouldn't yer go with the toff and pl'y in ther big horchestra?" she made bold to ask. "You'd set 'em _cryzy_, you would! _My_ 'art turns somersets, it does, w'en you pl'ys on yer flute." He pushed the child away, almost as if she angered him; then, seeing her remorseful, frightened look, he took her back again and held her close beside his knee. "I have no love for crowds, my M'riar," he said slowly. "No; not even in America. I have no love for crowds." CHAPTER IV Herr Kreutzer's little stock of money (depleted sadly by dishonest exchange) sagged heavily in a small leather bag which he carried in a carefully buttoned hip-pocket in his trousers. There it gave him comfort, as, the day after he had landed in New York, it chinked and thumped against him as he walked. There was so much of it! In this land of gold and generous appreciation of ability, it would be far more than enough to carry him and the two girls who were now dependent on him until he should find a well paid, but not too conspicuous, situation. He was sure of this. It had been the gossip of the little orchestra in London that musicians, in New York, if worthy, were always in demand; that when they played they were paid vastly. Tales often had been told of money literally thrown to players by delighted members of appreciative audiences--money in great rolls of bank-notes, heavy gold-pieces, bank checks. Nowhere in the world, not even in the music loving Fatherland, a wandering trombonist who had visited the states had solemnly assured him, were expert performers on any sort of instrument so well paid and so well beloved as in the city of New York. "You, Kreutzer," this man had said (for when musicians lie the cultivated and exotic fancy, essential to success in their profession, makes them lie superbly) "could, past the shadow of a doubt, win a real fortune in a season in New York." "Much work is waiting, eh?" said Kreutzer, eagerly. He did not wish to win a fortune, for that would mean the larger orchestras, but he wondered if the smaller organizations paid proportionally well. "For such as you," the man replied, maliciously--he was a disappointed, vicious person--"there ever is demand from large and small." "Why, then, did you come back to England?" the flute-player inquired. "I? Oh, I am not an artist--a real artist, as you are," was the answer, flattering and vicious. The man had tried to get an introduction to fair Anna and had been refused peremptorily, as all had been refused. He planned to have revenge for it. "The man who merely plays is not so vastly better off, there in the states, than here; but to the _artist_--to the real artist, such as you--the states will literally pay anything." That the man who had found failure was not a real musician Kreutzer knew. Too often had his trombone trespassed, with its brazen bray, upon the time which the composer had allotted to the soft, delightful flute, to leave the slightest doubt of its performer's rank incompetence. That he had failed was, therefore, easily understood; in no way did it indicate that all he said about the chances of a real musician in the land of skyscrapers and mighty distances (which he also told about at length) was of necessity untrue. It had been the talk of this man which had fascinated Kreutzer; it was the city of this man's wild fancy which the flute-player expected to encounter when he reached New York. The disillusionment came slowly at the start. Certainly the skyscrapers were existent in a number and a grandeur which the man had not been able to exaggerate; certainly the railway trains ran up and down on iron stilts as he had said they did; certainly the crowds were mighty and amazing both in their brutality and their good nature, just as he had said they were. Many things there were which, for a time, preserved the innocent flute-player's faith in his informant. But when he came to look for work--ah, then vanished the first bubble. Seemingly there was no place in all the city for an old performer on the flute save that which Karrosch offered and which Kreutzer would not take. Even in this new land, far from those he would avoid, the old flute-player was determined not to go to the great orchestras, among whose auditors were likely to be travelers. Thus he barred himself from opera-houses, theatres and most of the hotels, by the towering barrier of his own timidity. Nor did he wish to join a union (this shut him out from many smaller orchestras) or even to enroll himself at the employment agencies. He would not risk unwelcome prominence even to that slight extent. Instead of doing these things, which would at once have won him profitable work, he tramped the streets, looking for various employment, at first with a resilient hope, then with a careful industry, at the end of the first month with dogged determination, finally with a desperation bordering upon despair. And there were other things to worry him. Early in his search for work he had made a noontime pause, one day, in a quaint lager-beer saloon much frequented by musicians. There, at the table where he sat, he had encountered one who earnestly announced himself as a "wise guy" and told him much about New York, all quite as pessimistic as the London romancer's talk had been enthusiastic. He suffered from misfortune which he blamed, unhesitatingly, to the vileness of the prosperous and ranted endlessly without attracting much attention till he touched upon the subject of the viciousness of the American rich man with women. This roused Kreutzer fully, for one of the tales the babbler told was of a gilded youth who had befriended poverty in order to obtain the confidence of lowly beauty and then, of course, abused the confidence. Herr Kreutzer's heart beat madly before the man had finished speaking. Could it be possible that all Americans were of this ilk, as the disgruntled one maintained? If so, then Vanderlyn--ah, it could not be possible! The youth had been too kind to them during the few days of his stay in New York city, before he had departed for the west on a short trip; had promised too much kindness to be offered upon his return! But--Anna! And so, that very night, he searched until he found another tenement, and, with his own hands, moved their scanty household goods to it, leaving behind him no address. Naturally a sweet and unsuspicious soul, he had never dreamed of treachery upon the part of the ingratiating youth; now suspicion's seeds were sown in his old mind and fertilized by rising tears of disillusionment in most things which he had found in New York, he was ready to be doubtful of the most undoubtable. The new quarters were much less desirable, in every way, than those they had abandoned, and the rent was higher; but they were quite the best the old man could discover on short notice, and quite the lowest priced. He never dreamed, as he argued with his new landlord over rent that the old rental had been cut almost in half to him because young Vanderlyn had made arrangements surreptitiously. He entered the new tenement with the firm conviction that he had been swindled in the rent which he had paid, "cash in advance," and, that night, was very gloomy. So, also, were the bewildered Anna and M'riar. "Hi sye, Miss," said M'riar, when they were alone, while the flute-player went out for the supper, "wot'll that young toff think, comin' back an' findin' yer gone orf from there?" "Surely there was left behind the address of this place," said Anna, with small confidence of this in her own heart. "Hi 'eard the lawst word said," said M'riar, with conviction, "an' hall yer farther told th' geezer was that 'e was goin' to quit." "But, he would not possibly be so lacking in his courtesy! He--" Just then the flute-player returned and Anna asked him, boldly, but with a studied air of carelessness, about the matter. It was the first time in her whole life that she had ever tried to hide her real emotions from her father. "Leave our address for Herr Vanderlyn?" said Kreutzer, who had been waiting for the question and had schooled himself to answer it without revealing the real facts. "Of course. Of course. Why not?" It was the first time he had ever actually lied to Anna. Things, thus, were in a bad way at the start in the new quarters. M'riar, after the first day there, did the marketing. The streets, transformed into deep, narrow cañons by the towering buildings bordering them, swarming with the poor of every nationality on earth, every block made into a most fascinating market by the push-cart vendors with their varied wares, had, from the start, enthralled her. She was uncannily acute at bargaining. Soon more than one red-headed Jew had learned, in self-defense, to take out the stick which held up one end of his cart, and move along, at sight of her. Too often she had been the symbol of financial loss. Her "Hi sye!" and "My heye!" became the keen delight of German maidens back of counters over which cheap delicatessen was distributed. Beyond a doubt M'riar was in her element. She labored day and night. Few tasks there were about the tiny three-room menage, save the actual cooking, which she did not undertake and undertake with energy which made up, largely, for her lack of skill. Herr Kreutzer, who had been in doubt about the wisdom of engrafting her upon his little family looked at her with amazement, sometimes lowering his flute, on which he might be practicing, in the very middle of a bar, so that he might better stare at her unbounded and unceasing physical activities. She abandoned, as unworthy of her mistress, her old form of address and no longer simply called her "Miss," but "Frow-_line_," after tutelage from the small shop-woman who sold cheese to her in three-cent packages. But, ere much time had passed, the day arrived when Herr Kreutzer feared to have her even buy so much of luxury as cheese in three-cent packages. The little bag of money which had chinked so bravely on his hip when he had first arrived in New York city scarcely chinked at all, these days. Everything was so expensive in this new land they had come to! Not only must he pay as much rent for a three-room tenement, with one room almost dark and one quite windowless, as he had had to pay, in London, for the comfortable floor which they had occupied in Soho, but food cost twice as much, he woefully declared--and played the "Miserere" on his flute. He would not go to Karrosch, or any of the large, important orchestras; none of the small ones wished a flutist. He learned to loathe the mere word "phonograph"--in so many places did it form a clock-work substitute to do the work he longed to do. It was when want actually stared them in the face that he read an advertisement in a German newspaper for a musician--flute or clarinet--in a beer garden. The clock-hands had not yet reached eight when he presented himself at the address, far uptown. He had been unsuccessful, once or twice, in getting hearings because he had arrived too late--these days he rose by four and had a paper fresh and damp from the great presses, and every advertisement in it read by five o'clock. There were many applicants for the position, and by ten o'clock when a youth with a red face and a hoarse voice appeared behind the wicket at the side of the main entrance, peered out curiously at the shabby, anxious crowd and winked derisively before he let the door swing inwards, Herr Kreutzer was as weary as he well could be and keep upright upon his feet; but, notwithstanding this, he had not given ground and still held first place in the line. He had arrived at a decision which filled his soul with dread. If he failed to get this place he would apply to one of the great orchestras! This possibility he thought of with a desperate dismay, for, playing thus before the prosperous public, some traveler would be sure to see him, recognize him, send word back to Germany and then--ah, then the deluge! He had been sadly disappointed when he had discovered that New York is not remote from Europe, but as cosmopolitan, almost, as London. Here, as there, asylum only could be found in the remote resorts, unfrequented by those with means, by travelers, by those who know good music. Ah! he shuddered at the thought of what might happen if, some night, forgetting his surroundings, he should play as he _could_ play in hearing of a connoisseur. Then, certainly, discovery. So he was very anxious to obtain this small position in the little, far beer-garden. He was sorry for the others, but they could not have necessities the least bit greater than his own. He must not yield to them, so, in the eager crowd, he pushed and scrambled as the others did, and always kept in front. "What kin yer play?" the fat and blear-eyed manager asked gruffly. "I play the flute." "Bring it along?" "Yah; surely." "Let 'er go, then. Give us something good and lively." With nervous hands Herr Kreutzer raised the old flute to his lips, with fingers which put tremolos where none were written in the score; but he made many of the notes dance joyously. Through anxious lips he blew his soul into the instrument--his love of the pre-eminent composer who had sung the song he played, his love of his sweet daughter for whose sake he played--his love of her and fear for her if he should fail to win the favor of his burly listener. The great "Spring Song" of Mendelssohn has never been played on a flute as Kreutzer played it, in the grey light of that morning in the cheerless, bare beer-garden. When he had finished there was silence in the crowd behind him. Not a man among the applicants for the position was a real musician, but all knew, instinctively, that they had been listening to a veritable artist. Then, after an awed moment, there came a little spatter of applause. All these men were seeking for a chance to earn the mere necessities of life; every one of them was more than anxious, was pitifully eager for the small position which was open; but, having heard Herr Kreutzer play, they hoped no longer--and were generous. The owner of the beer-garden looked on them in surprise. "Got it all framed up," he said, "that Dutchy is to have the job, have you?" He turned, then, to Kreutzer. "That's all right, too, I guess. Showed you can play real fast and that is somethin' with a crowd, all right, all right. But don't you know some really _good_ music?" "Good music!" Kreutzer faltered, at a loss. That which he had played had been among the best the world has ever known. "Yes; rag-time stuff, an' such. Real pop'lar." "No," said Kreutzer, sadly, "I fear I do not know good music of the kind you name." He made as if to turn away, but then bethought himself and whirled back hopefully. "But I can learn," he said. "Simple things, without a doubt, I could play on sight." "Off the notes, you mean?" "Yah; so." "Take this, then." The manager held toward him a thick book of rag-time melodies. Kreutzer, too desperate to be disgusted, ran through half-a-dozen of them rapidly. Now the manager beamed pleasantly. "Say, you'll do, all right, all right," he told the flute-player. Then, turning to the rest he motioned them away. "Beat it, you guys," he commanded. "Father Rhine here's got the job." CHAPTER V Down in the new tenement Anna and her little slave, M'riar, worked hard, that day, at cleaning. "W'ere Hi wuz born," M'riar gravely commented, "we wuz brought up on dirt an' liked hit, but we never wusn't greedy for hit, like th' way these folks, 'ere, 'as been." Anna, in the next room, was for the first time in her life working with a scrubbing-brush, and, presently, M'riar heard its swish. "Hi s'y!" she cried, and dashed into the gloomy cubby-hole. "Wot's this? You scrubbin'? Drop it, now, you 'ear? Hit 'yn't fer me to show no disrespeck, Frow_line_, but--drop it. Hi 'yn't a-goin' to have them pretty 'ands hall spoilt." "But, M'riarrr, I just _love_ to scrub." "Don't love hanythink so vulgar," M'riar replied without a moment's hesitation. "Don't _you_ bother lovin' hanythink but just the guvnor, and--and--Mr. Vanderlyn." She looked down at blushing Anna who, upon her knees, was astonished almost into full paralysis. And then she shrilly laughed. "_Hi_ knows!" said she. "_Hi_ knows." "M'riarrr," said Anna slowly, rising, "you are crrazy." "Not so cryzy as a 'ackman 'ammerin' 'is 'ead hagainst a 'ouse." said M'riar. "There's cryzier. Love mykes 'em that w'y." "Quite crrazy," Anna answered; but she was blushing furiously. "Blushin' red as beefstykes," M'riar commented as she took the brush and started to do Anna's painfully accomplished task all over, from the big crack by the door where she had started. "'Ow's 'e hever goin' to know w'ere we 'ave moved to?" she asked her mistress, now. "Father left a word." "Ho, did 'e?" M'riar asked. "Yes; certainly." "Ho, _did_ 'e!" M'riar exclaimed again. "Wot mykes yer think 'e did?" "He told me so." M'riar sat back, astounded. She knew he had not done so, for she, herself, had asked the landlord there and been assured that no hint had been given. She did not know just what to do, but soon reached a decision. "Hi'll tell yer, frow-line. I reckon 'e forgot or else th' toff there, 'e don't ricollick. Hi knows as 'e don't know w'ere 'tis we've come to. 'E tol' me hit 'ad slipped 'is mind." "Oh," said Anna, in distress. "'Ow's Mr. Vanderlyn to find, then?" "Oh, I do not know," said Anna in dismay. "Hi do," said M'riar, scrubbing furiously toward Anna till that dainty maiden fled before her and took refuge in the doorway. "Hi'm goin' back there to leave word fer 'im." "Father might not wish--" Anna began doubtfully. "Mr. Vanderlyn--_'e_ would," said M'riar. "Perhaps--he might," said Anna. When Herr Kreutzer reached the tenement again he was both humbled and elated. To have discovered any kind of work was fortunate, to have found the only place available a cheap beer-garden was disheartening. But work he had and they could live, which surely was a great deal to be thankful for. "Ach, liebschen," he exclaimed on entering, anxious to apprise her of his luck, loath to tell her all its details. "I have work. I play first flute, from this time onwards, in a--pleasure park." He did not tell her that there was no second flute or any other instrument save a terrible piano, played by a black "professor"; he did not tell her that "the park" was a beer-garden. She rushed to him and threw her arms about his neck. "We celebrate a little," he said grandly, and began to draw out of his great-coat pockets the materials for a bona-fide dinner, for, knowing that he could redeem it the next Saturday, he had put his watch in pawn. They had not had real dinners lately. "M'riar, she will cook it." "My heye!" said M'riar, taking the first package, and, when he followed it with others: "Ho, Hi sye!" She had just come in from her uncannily quick dash across town--M'riar had learned the simple key to New York's streets and rushed about them without fear--to leave their new address for Mr. Vanderlyn. She felt, therefore, that she had accomplished a good deed that day and was in the very highest spirits. She went to work upon the supper with a will and singing, which greatly distressed Kreutzer, although he would not have expressed his pain for worlds. "I work from six to eleven," he told his daughter, in explaining the arrangement he had made. The manager had said that at eleven all sober folks had gone and that those who still remained were all too drunk to know if there was music or was not; but the old man did not tell his daughter this. He hoped that she would never know how humble and unpleasant the work which he had found must be. The very next day Vanderlyn appeared, to M'riar's satisfaction and Anna's fluttering joy. He was most respectful, plainly very anxious to be of further service to her and her father. She felt a little guilty because she had sent M'riar with the address--if her father had not left it he certainly had failed to for no other purpose than preventing Vanderlyn from getting it--but surely it was right for her to be good friends with one who wished to be so kind to him and her! An hour passed most delightfully in that earnest conversation about little which engages young folk of their age and suffering from the complaint which ailed them both. "But I really had a solemn, sober errand to attend to when I came," he said, at length. "My mother fell in love with you." (He wished he might have told her that her son had, also.) "She is anxious to see more of you." (He did not tell her that the reason was his mother's firm conviction that her father certainly was a distinguished person in hard luck, incog.) "This summer, while she was in Europe, she found that she was sadly handicapped by knowing almost nothing of the German language. She wants to know if you won't come to her and teach her. You could also be her friend, you know; a sort of young companion to a lonely woman." He was making it sound as attractive as he could. He had devised the scheme with earnest care, had brought his mother round to eagerness for it with cautious difficulty, and now presented it with diffidence and fear to the delightful girl he loved. "I teach?" said Anna, delighted by the thought of being able, thus, to help her father, and, at the same time, not utterly averse to anything which would make frequent glimpses of her knight-errant an easy certainty. "I don't know if I _could_ teach." "Why, it's a cinch," said the enthusiastic lover. "I don't think she will be slow to learn. She'll work hard, mother will; she didn't like this summer's trip too well. The crowned-heads didn't tip their crowns and bow as she went by." "You are mistake," said Anna gravely. "Kings do not wear their crowns upon the streets." He laughed. "You see how much we've got to learn?" he asked. "May I tell my mother that you'll come?" "I shall ask my father," Anna answered. Reluctantly, after a week, Herr Kreutzer gave consent. He was afraid he might not hold the place in the beer-garden. He hated the cheap rag-time music which the man insisted on and had held his temper with much difficulty, when he had been reproved for playing "hymns" because he had, for solos, interspersed a worthy number now and then. With his tenure of that place uncertain, not sure that he could find another, he felt that he would have no right to interpose too serious objections to the highly flattering arrangement Mrs. Vanderlyn proposed. His worry about Vanderlyn subsided, somewhat, when he found the young man was away from town much of the time. The little tenement-house apartment was a lonely place, when he was there, after Anna took up her new work and could come to it but once a week and M'riar was a comfort to him. An astonishing companionship grew up between the strangely differing pair. To save his ears he taught her something about singing; to save her pride from gibings from the other children in the block (who were irreverent and sometimes made a little fun of Kreutzer) she saw to it that he was always brushed when he went out. Indeed she made him very comfortable. Monday afternoons were what made life worth living, though, to him. On Monday afternoons there was no music at the beer-garden and Mrs. Vanderlyn gave Anna, also, that time to herself so they had these hours together, reunited. Anna's absence from him among strangers was a constant worry and humiliation to him. He reproached himself continually because his poverty had made it necessary. She was at that age, he knew, when maidens learn to love, and she must never learn to love until--until he could go back, with her to his dear Germany, where were such men as he would choose for her. And when would that be safe? Oh, when would that be safe! He wondered if it was not yet time to trust her with the secret which he had concealed from her her whole life long. The temptation was tremendous. Some day she would know why he had lived, must live a fugitive. Must he wait on, for other weary years? He sat immersed in thought of these things, while M'riar worked at making everything as near to neat perfection as her training in the London lodging-house made possible. The old man's thoughts dwelt much upon young Vanderlyn. His Anna would see much of him, ere long, when the young man's western trips were ended. But she must not fall in love with him! It would not do for Anna Kreutzer, daughter of the beer-garden flute-player, to marry an American. But how, without revealing to her what he hid, could he be certain that she understood this? He wondered if it had not been a great mistake to let her go to Mrs. Vanderlyn, and then laughed bitterly because he had not "let" her go; a grim necessity had forced it--it, or something else which might have been much less desirable. It was almost dinner-time when Anna came--radiantly beautiful, with her crisp color heightened by the rapid run from her employer's in the Vanderlyn's great touring-car. She had not wished to ride in it, but had been told to, so that she might have the time to do some errands and still get to her home on time. "It is fine for you, up there, at the great house of Mrs. Vanderlyn, eh, Anna?" said the old man after they had greeted one another lovingly. "But yes," said Anna, "it is pleasant. She is kind--oh, ve-ry kind; but, father, I miss you! I miss you every day and every hour. Of mornings, when I rise, I wonder what it is that you are having, down here in the little home, for breakfast. I wonder if M'riarrr still is thoughtful and remembers all that she has learned about the sweeping and the scrrrubbing. I wonder how things went with you the night before, in that grreat orchestra at that amusement park. Do they still think the first-flute a gr-r-reat musician, father?" He smiled. "At the garden none has, so far, made complaint about my playing," he said slowly, "except that I am not quite willing, sometimes, to play the music they seem best to like." He would not have told her all the details of his battles against rag-time, for the world. "It is music of the negroes, Anna. Er--er--syncopation. Ach! _What_ syncopation! All right in its place, my dear, but a whole evening of it! Ach, drives me--it grows tiresome, Anna." "Some day, father, you will not play there," she said with emphasis. "Some day will come fortune to us--some day." "Yes; perhaps; some day. But there is something finer than a fortune, Anna. I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, lately, of your mother, Anna. How delighted she would be to see you, now, with your dark hair! Why, Anna, it is almost black! So delighted she would be! It was blonde when you were born--blonde, fair like mine, before mine turned to white; but hers was dark, as yours is now, and I think that when she saw that yours was light she was a little disappointed till her old nurse told her that in early years her own hair had been as yours was. You were one year old, my Anna, before your hair began to show the brown." "Do you like it, father?" "Like it? Ah, I love it! But--I am worried." "Worried?" "Yes. Always in the past have I been with you. Now you are alone and beautiful. And of life you know so little, while of love--you know--ah, nothing!" Anna was not sure of this. She had been wondering, indeed, if she did not know much of it. It startled her to have her father speak of it. There had been tremors in her heart, hot flushes in her cheeks, dim mists before her eyes when she had thought about young Vanderlyn, of which she was suspicious--very. No; she was by no means sure that she knew nothing about love--but she did not say this to her father. Instead she pressed her dark head closer to his thick white mane. "Love!" said she. "It is such a pretty word. Tell me something of it, father." He smiled down at her. "Ah, you have some interest! Well, I tell you." Into his old eyes there came the deep and happy glow of reminiscence of bright days. She knew the look--always was it in them when he was thinking of her mother and never was it in them at any other time. "Love," said he, "it is life's spring-time. Ah, your mother, Anna! Your dear mother! It is the splendor and the glory of the dawn." The old man's head was back, his eyes were closed and on his face there was a singularly sweet and simple smile, more like that of a youth than that of one whose years stretch far behind him. "It is the light that falls from heaven and turns this grim old world into a paradise. It is the hand of fate that grips the heart till we must follow--follow. We cannot hold back, my Anna; I could not hold back, your lovely mother, she could not hold back. Ah, one must follow when Love's hand is clasped about one's heart and leads! Some day you will understand and many things will then be clear to you. It is the glow of ardor in the eyes, reflected from the flame which burns deep in the heart--the flame which melts, which welds a link, a mystic bond, to bind for all eternity." He opened his eyes, now, and smiled at her. "That, liebschen--that is love--ah, that is love. Your mother taught me all about it. Be careful--careful, Anna--about love!" "It sounds so splendid as you speak of it! How shall I know when it has come to me?" The old man's caution was all gone; his fears now all forgotten. He was thinking of past days, dear days, young days. "How shall you know?" he asked, and smiled again, this time in soft, affectionate derision. "You will not mistake. Mistake? It is impossible. When your heart leaps at the sound of his dear footsteps; when the world is empty till he comes and then is, ah, so full that you are crowded out of it into the valleys of a paradise; when little chills run over you one moment and the next the hot blood makes your cheeks into twin roses! How shall you know? Ah, there are many signs!" "And do you think that such a love will ever come to me?" "To you? Of course." The old man caught himself up short, just there, and lost his rapt expression. There were still hopes in his heart of realization for his daughter of all the brilliant dreams of his own youth--those dreams which had so sadly gone quite wrong. She must do nothing which would shut her from it if ever it should become possible. "Yes; it will come to you, of course; but not for a long time, and you must be very careful," he added in a greatly altered, less magnetic voice. "You must love no one until I tell you." "Can one make love wait?" "Ah--well--yes--one _must_!" "But father--" "Wait! You must not question me, mine liebschen; but, someday it may be that I shall no longer flute-play in a garden. Someday, maybe, things are better with us. You must wait a while, to see if that comes true. Then--then, when it _is_ true, I pick out for you, ach! the handsomest, the bravest gentleman that I can find. I bring him to you, and I say: 'Anna, you love him!' That is all." She was dismayed. This was not to her taste at all! "But father--" The old German in his worry lest the life that she must lead as the companion to the rich New Yorker might induce her to let down the barriers of the exclusiveness which that which he could not, at present name, implanted in his very soul, looked sternly at her. He wished, now, to end the talk of it. "That, Anna," he said gravely, "that is all." "But you tell me you will pick him out and bring him to me! Must he not love me?" This again made him forget a little. It brought back other vivid memories of those bygone days when, young and ardent, he had gone to this girl's mother with his heart aflame. "Love you? Yah; of course he loves you. You think love is a game of solitaire? But--he _will_ love you, liebschen. To fall very much in love with you he has only once to see you. But, Anna, it is not with women as it is with men. _You_ must _conceal_ your love, until he speaks." She smiled. "And, father, what shall I do then?" "Do when he speaks? When comes the right man and tells you that he loves you, asking you to be his wife, mine Anna, you must answer: 'For this so great honor, sir, I thank you, and I give you in return my heart and hand.'" Ah, the visions in his mind as he said this, of the far-off German village, of the dainty maiden standing there before a gallant youthful gentleman, trying to be as formal, when she placed her hand in his, as lifelong training in the stiff formalities of life had made him, in his embarrassment, while he told his great devotion to her! Thinking back along the path of years that led to that bright garden, how Herr Kreutzer smiled! "How beautiful that sounds!" said Anna, softly. "'For this so great honor, I thank you, and I give you in return my heart and hand.'" It brought the old flute-player back from the far garden. "Do not practice on it yet," he said, without unkindness, but with a firm tone which gave his words almost the stern significance of a real order. "There is no hurry, liebschen, but, when the time is ripe for it, ah, it will come. Yah; it will come." Her thoughts were full of all this talk of love and marriage as she went to Mrs. Vanderlyn's next morning, to take up again her routine of companion and instructor to the lady in the German language. She was not so very fond of Mrs. Vanderlyn. That lady was too much absorbed in her ambition to gain real importance in the social world to leave much time for being lovable to anybody but her son. That she was fond of him no one could doubt, but he was winning his own way, and did not need her mother care. It left her free for other things; it made the other things essential to her happiness. How empty is a mother's life when from it, out into the world, her only son goes venturing, none but a mother knows. Mrs. Vanderlyn had striven to fill hers with social episodes and had not done so to her satisfaction. There were things, she had discovered, which money, by itself, cannot accomplish and the learning had astonished her. She had thought a golden key would certainly unlock all gates. It had come to her as inspiration that the easy way for an American to gain social favor in New York, where, hitherto, gates have been closed to her, might be to purchase social favor, first, in England or in Germany and then come back with the distinction of it clinging like a perfume to her garments. But the purchase had not been an easy matter. Abroad, to her amazement, money had its mighty value, but only as a superstructure. There must be firmer stuff for the foundation--family. Her family was traced too easily--for the tracing was too brief. It ended with abruptness which was startling, two generations back, in a far western mining camp. Beyond that all the cutest experts in false genealogies had failed to carry it convincingly. "Anna," she said to the attentive girl, "tell me about your family in Germany." "My family?" said Anna. "There is no family of mine, now, left in Germany. My father--he is here with me, my mother died when I was very young. I can remember her a little, but _so_ little that it makes my heart ache, for it is so ver-ry little." "I mean about your grandfather and grandmother. Who were they and what were they? You are certainly well educated." "My father and an old woman whom he hired, in London, have taught me what they could. I studied hard because I had so little else to do. It helped me in my loneliness. Ah, I was ver-ry lonely, ach! in London!" "Had you no friends?" "I had my father and my M'riarrr." "Did no one ever visit you from Germany?" "No one ever visited from anywhere." "What did your father do, there?" "He played first-flute in an orchestra--a theatre." "Did he never go back to his home--his native land--to Germany, you know, to see his relatives?" "I think he has no relatives alive." "Did you never ask him about that?" "If he had wish to tell me--if there had been some for to tell about--he would have told me without asking. I never thought of asking questions about such a thing." "It's very funny!" Mrs. Vanderlyn said somewhat pettishly. "I could have sworn, from the first time I saw your father on the steamer, that he was a man of family." "Of family? No; Mrs. Vanderlyn, I think not so." "And he has never told you anything?" "He has told me, sometimes, that by and by, when something happens which he never will explain, we would go back to Germany." The daily lesson in court German then went on. Mrs. Vanderlyn was plainly disappointed at the meagreness of Anna's family history, and did badly with her lesson; but she could not possibly complain. Anna had made no claims. She had accepted her purely of her own--she did not realize how much it, really, had been her son's--volition. Anna had not asked for the position. "I wonder," she was thinking, when she should have been absorbed in conjugations, "if there can be the slightest danger in my having this girl here. She's pretty and she has most charming manners. That accent is too fascinating, too. John might--but then, he is a boy of too much sense. If she only had been what I hoped she was, when I saw them on the steamer--but a mere flute-player's daughter! He would never be so silly." On later days the lessons sometimes went with better speed and more enthusiasm; but almost always Mrs. Vanderlyn was occupied with thinking of the social life she knew and wished to know, so rapid progress was not possible. John was out of town much of the time and when he came it was impossible for him to see much of the little German maiden, and this made Anna most unhappy. Deep in her heart she knew that what her father had described had come to her--she knew she loved; but it was all a mighty puzzle. Even if he loved her in return, of which she was by no means certain, he was not at all the sort of man, she thought, of whom her father would approve. Her father's notions were the notions of the stiff old world. He had said that she must wait until he was a flute-player no longer and that when that glad time came, he would, himself, pick out for her the handsomest and bravest gentleman whom he could find and bring him to her, ready-made, to love. She knew he felt a great contempt for riches; she knew that his experience of America had far from prepossessed him in favor either of the country or the people in it. She was absolutely certain that the man whom he would choose for her would be a very different sort of person from John Vanderlyn. Handsome he was, for certain, strong he was, for sure; but he was not a German and she knew that when her father spoke of "gentlemen" he had in mind none but a well-bred, well-born German. It seemed to her, as she reflected on this matter, that she could not possibly endure to wed a German. She was, indeed, a little frightened by what her father had declaimed about her future and the matter of her courtship. Then things happened, all at once, so suddenly that she could scarcely credit her own knowledge of them. One morning, coming in with Mrs. Vanderlyn from a long ride, she was informed that Herr Kreutzer had just been there with M'riar, and had left a note for her upon her dressing-table after having waited for a time. The note said that he had an unexpected holiday and begged her to come home, if possible, to spend it with him, and she was just coming out of Mrs. Vanderlyn's boudoir, where she had gone to get permission, when she unexpectedly met John. He had come home without notice and ahead of time from one of his long journeys. CHAPTER VI "Has she not come then, yet, my child?" said Kreutzer to the busy M'riar, as he returned. He had thought that Anna might have reached the tenement by that time, for he had gone out a second time and made a number of delightful, although meagre purchases. "No signs," said M'riar. "Yn't see a sign of 'er. But hit cawn't be long before she'll be 'ere, can it?" "No, M'riar; not long." The place was poorly furnished. Marks of poverty, indeed, were everywhere; but upon the little table with its oil-cloth cover, soon began to show, as he brought package after package from his pockets, an array of goodies which amazed M'riar greatly. From the little gas-pipe chandelier which hung above the table (fly-specked and badly rusted before M'riar's busy hands had done their best to polish it, and still uncouth in its plain iron and sharp angles), he hung a little wreath of evergreen. Out of a package, with the utmost care, he produced a frosted cake. "See, M'riar!" he cried. "Hi sye!" said M'riar, examining it with distant care as if she feared that it would either break or bite. "Won't she be took haback?" "And," said Herr Kreutzer, delving busily in a pocket of his long, limp, overcoat, "a bottle of good wine." "My heye!" said M'riar, awed and gaping admiration. "She _will_ be took haback!" "And, see again?" said Kreutzer, taking other treasures out of packages and pockets, including a roast fowl, and celery and other fixings. "It is not often, lately, that I have my Anna with me. When she comes, then we must do what we can do to make her welcome." He might have added that it was not often that a little stroke of luck brought him in money for a celebration such as this, but did not. "_Such_ a feast!" said M'riar. "Ah, it is something," said the flute-player. "It is little I can do. I earn so little in this country--less, even, than I earned in London; and here all things cost so much--_more_, even, than they cost in London." M'riar went to the window, after having seen the good things, while his hands went to his pocket and brought from it the door-key and a pocket-knife. He laughed a little bitterly. "The little feast has cost the last cent in my pocket! When night comes I must walk back to the Garden!... Well what matter? Anna is not suffering, and to-day she will be happy here with me." "Hi, she's comin'," M'riar screamed and dashed out of the room. Herr Kreutzer gazed after her with a wide smile of toleration. She had not been a nuisance; she had been very useful. "I worried when we found her on the ship," said he, "and here she is, my housekeeper, while Anna is more happy in the mansion of the Vanderlyns! So things occur as we do not expect." There came to him the sound of chattering voices on the stair. He hurried to the door. "Anna, Anna!" he called into the hallway. An instant later and she sprang up the last flight and ran into his opened arms. "Father!" she cried happily. There was an unwonted flush upon her cheeks, a new, soft glow within her eyes, a certain subtle dignity about her bearing which he failed to note, but which she knew was there and which the keener eyes of M'riar saw and were much puzzled by. "Father!" she cried again, and held him in so close a clasp that his face reddened quite as much because she choked him as because his heart was beating high with happiness at sight of her. "Come, come," said he, and led her to a chair by the window which commanded a small vista of back-yards--the only glimpse of out-of-doors the tiny tenement apartment offered. "My liebling! My little Anna! It is good to hold you so, again!" He clasped her in his arms. "'Yn't it beautiful!" M'riar muttered, gazing at them. "W'ite as snow 'is 'air looks, w'en 'ers that is that dark, is hup hagainst it close, like that!" "Dear old father!" Anna cried, as she drew back. She took him by the shoulders, now, and, with her beautifully modelled, firm young arms, held him away from her so that she might examine him. With loving scrutiny she studied every line of the old face. Instantly she noted the weary droop of tired eyelids. "Are you sure you are quite well?" He smiled. "Always I am well, when you are with me. Always well when you are with me, Anna." "You look tired. Ah, it is not easy for you when you play--" His heart stood still for half-a-dozen beats. Could it be possible that she had learned how he had lied to her about the place in which he played? Had she learned that it was not a park of elegant importance? "It is a fine, a splendid park," he interrupted. "Some day I shall take you there, with M'riar, and shall show you. Not at once. At present I must be quite sure to please and so must play without distraction. Your presence might confuse me, so that I could not give satisfaction; but, someday, when things are a little better--then I take you with me." As he lied away her fears his soul was bitterly inquiring what his daughter who had such respect for him and for his music, would think if she could hear him as he stood upon a rough-board platform, or sat beside a cheap piano, pounded by a colored youth who kept a glass of beer on one end and a cigarette upon the other as he played. What would Anna think of her old father if she heard him tootle on his flute, with all the breath which he could muster, the strains of "Hot Time," an old favorite, or "Waltz Me Around Again, Willie," not quite so old, but infinitely more offensive than the frank racket of the negro melody to his sensitive ear? How would her artistic soul revolt if she should hear his flute--his precious flute!--inquiring if anybody there had seen an Irishman named Kelly? "What do they like best, my father?" Anna asked him, still looking searchingly into his face, as if she saw signs there which did not reassure her. "Mozart, possibly, or Grieg?" "I think it is 'An Invitation to the Dance,'" said he, and smiled again, more sweetly, more convincingly than ever. "'Around, around, around!'" he muttered, bitterly, sarcastically, as he turned away from her. "What, father?" "That melody, so sweet; those words, so full of lovely sentiment--they cling in my old mind, my liebschen," said Herr Kreutzer, to cover up his error. "They what you call it? Keep running in my head--ah, around, around within my head, my liebschen." "Somehow, I am af-raid that you do not, really, like the place where you are playing." "It is a fine, a splendid park, my Anna," Kreutzer cried in haste. "I am a grumbler--an old grumbler. My only real cause for complaint is that I must play so very loud for some" (his heart was sore with a humiliation of the night before), "while, for others, it is necessary that I plays so s-o-f-t-l-y--lest my flute disturb their conversation. I am puzzled, Anna, that is all. Quite all. There is no cause for you to worry." He placed his hand upon her shoulder, and, as he sank wearily to the stiff, wooden chair which was as easy as the room could boast, she dropped to her knees beside him. Her heart was very full. Vividly she longed to tell him that the love, of which he had discoursed to her, had not come in the least as he had said it would--summoned by his counsel after he had searched and found the man whom he decided would be best for her to marry. No; love had not approached her logically, rationally, as result of careful thought by a third party; it had come, instead, as might a burglar, breaking in; an enemy, making an assault upon an unsuspecting city in the night. She had yielded up the treasures of the casket of her heart without a murmur to the burglar; the city had capitulated without fighting, without even protest. She was sure he would not find it easy to approve of her selection. So she was not ready, yet, to tell him; she was not ready to destroy the happiness of this, their day together, as she feared that such a revelation must, inevitably. "Hard times, father!" she said, temporizing. "But perhaps, sometime, they shall be changed. Perhaps _I_ shall be rich, some day." "Ah, Anna, no; such thoughts are what they call, up at the park, the--the--what is it? Ah, I have it--dream of the pipe. Rich we shall never be, my Anna." "But it's _so_ hard as it is. Only once-a-while can we be here together." "Hard?" said he, and smoothed her hair. "You must not say that. It is so sweet when once-a-while it comes! It makes me so happy--" "Dear!" Depression seized him, now. Fiercely the thought rose in his mind that while he waited for these meetings with the keenest thoughts of joy, she, on the other hand, must look forward to them with emotions much less purely happy. That she was glad to be with him he did not doubt; he could not doubt; but what a contrast must his poor rooms offer to the luxurious surroundings of her other days! It would be only human if she yielded to an impulse to be critical, only human if, against her will, she felt contempt for his dire poverty. The black thought filled his soul with bitterness. "Look," he said, and rose with a sudden gesture almost of despair. "What must you think of me, my liebschen? Poor little rooms! They are no place for you. Ah, no; for you the grand and beautiful home of Mrs. Vanderlyn!" His scorn of self was written, now, so plainly on his face, in such fierce lines of deep contempt and loathing, that, as she looked at him, it frightened her. She, also, rose and lightly clasped her arms about his neck in an appeal. "There, all the week," he went on with less virulence, "you have, as her companion, the happy life I wish for you, Ah, your old father does not grudge you that, my liebschen! And, after all, you do not falter in your love. My poverty does not make you forget me--eh?" "Forget you, father? These hours are pleasantest of all! These hours with you here in these rooms which you say are 'poor' are far, far pleasanter to me than any hours at Mrs. Vanderlyn's." "Ah, so," said he. "Yes, you come back to me and we are happy--very happy. It is my good luck--much better than I really deserve. Come, now, come. A little cake, a little wine, in honor of your visit. M'riar, M'riar--where have you gone, M'riar?" From the other room the slavey came with reddened eyes. "'Ere, sir; 'ere Miss." She was snuffling. "Why, M'riar," said Kreutzer, in dismay! "What is it? Why weep you?" "Ho, it allus mykes me snivel w'en I sees you two together, that w'y. Hi cawn't _stand_ it. 'Ow you love! It mykes me _'ungry_. Yuss, fair 'ungry. Nobody ain't hever loved _me_ none--it mykes me 'ungry." Quick with remorse and sympathy Anna pounced upon her and enfolded her in a great hug, realizing, for the first time, that, on entering, she had been too anxious to show her affection for her father, too full of worry over what she had, that day, to tell him, to remember M'riar. "_Dear_ M'riarrr!" she said softly. "Dear M'riarrr! We love you. Don't we father--love her?" "Yah; sure we love her," Kreutzer answered heartily and patted the child's head. "We love her much." "My heye!" said M'riar, happily, her sorrows quickly vanishing. "'Ow much nicer New York his than Lunnon!" It was with the grace of an old cavalier that Kreutzer led his daughter to the table, and called her attention to the little feast he had prepared. The small display of goodies would have seemed poor enough had she compared it to the everyday "light luncheons" at the Vanderlyns', but she did not so compare it. Back to the old days of modest plenty which they had known in London, to the days of almost actual need which they had known in New York City, went her mind, for its comparison, and thus she found the feast magnificent. With real fervor she exclaimed above it. Her pleasure was so genuine that the old flute-player was delighted. "How splendid!" she cried honestly. Having placed her in her chair he began, at once, in the confusion of his joy, to cut the cake, ignoring, utterly, the chicken. She did not call attention to his absent-mindedness. "It looks almost like a wedding cake!" said she and laughed--but then, suddenly, there flooded back on her remembrance of the secret she must tell him before she left the tenement that afternoon. It sobered her. How would he take the news that she had not been content to wait for him to bring to her his wonderful "brave gentleman?" "Ah, you are thinking about weddings!" he said genially, still cutting at the cake. For an instant she imagined that she had aroused suspicions, but, quickly, she saw plainly that he was but lightly jesting. "Have a care, my Anna! Have a care!" Suddenly her heart was filled with resolution. When would there be a better time than now in which to tell him her sweet secret? It could not be that he would be so very angry. His love for her, his longing that she might be happy, were, she knew, too great for that. And, later, when he knew Jack Vanderlyn as well as she had come to know him, he would realize, as she did, that nowhere in the world, not in the castles of the barons on the Rhine, not in the palaces of kings, could he or anyone find more genuine gentility than in this free-born unpretending young American. "Father!" she said timidly. "My girl," said he, without the least suspicion that her heart could, really, be touched by anyone in this cold land of crude democracy, "you must always come and tell me if your heart begins to flutter like a little bird. You--" "Of--course, my father." The matter had not in the least impressed him. As she turned and re-turned something in her hand beneath the table, and tried to rouse her courage to the point of making full confession, the old man quietly dismissed the subject. "Now, a health to you, my Anna," he said gaily and raised high his glassful of cheap wine. "May the good God give you all the happiness your father wishes for you! More than that I cannot say, for I wish you all the happiness in all the world. Ah, when I look at you I am so full of joy! It is as if sweet birds were singing in my heart. Wait--you shall hear!" Forgetting the great feast, as, seized by the impulse to express himself in the completest way he knew he turned from her with a bright smile, he crossed the tiny room and took down from the mantlepiece his flute. "Ah, play for me!" she cried, delighted, both at the prospect of the music, which she loved with a real passion, and at the prospect of the brief reprieve the diversion would afford her from the revelation which she had to make. [Illustration: It was as if the "sweet birds singing in his heart" had risen and were perched, all twittering and cooing, chirping, carolling upon his lips] He pretended shy reluctance. "No; in your heart you do not really wish to hear. You have grown tired of the old flute, long ago." She laughed and rose and went to him. "Bad boy! He must be teased! I am _not_ tired of it. To me it is in all the world, the sweetest music. Must I say more? Come, come, for me!" "Ah, then--for you!" He raised the old flute to his lips and settled it beneath the thatch of whitened hair which covered his large, sensitive mouth. He took a little breath of preparation. Then he closed his eyes and played. Such music as came from that flute! It was as if the "sweet birds singing in his heart" had risen and were perched, all twittering and cooing, chirping, carolling upon his lips. And all they sang about was love--love--love--a father's love for his delightful daughter. Sweet and pure and wholly lovely was the melody which filled the room and held the charming woman it was meant for spellbound; held the little slavey from the grime of London as one hypnotized upon her chair; sang its way out of the window, down into the grimy court between this dingy tenement and the whole row of dingy tenements which faced the other street, and made a dozen little slum-bred children pause there in their play, in wonder and delight. Ah, how Kreutzer played the flute, that day, for his beloved Anna! "Ah, when you play," said she, as with a smile, he laid the wonderful old instrument upon the shelf again, "it is your life, your soul--you put all into the old flute!" "Yes, Anna; and to-day it was far more. It was my love for you--that was the greatest part of it; and there were sweet memories of my native land." The fervor of his playing, more than the effort of it, had exhausted him. He sat down somewhat wearily, with a long sigh. "But we will not speak of our native land, my Anna," he said sadly. "Ach! I am a little tired." He held his arms out to her. "But happy--very happy," he said quickly when he saw the look of quick compassion on her face. "And you?" The burden of her secret had grown heavy on her heart. It did not seem a decent thing to wait a moment more before she told it to him. "I am happy, too--but--but--oh, my father, father!" She threw herself into his arms, bursting into tears. CHAPTER VII The old flute-player looked down upon his lovely daughter as, sobbing, she clung to him, with bewildered, utterly dismayed amazement. What could be the matter with the child? He glanced about him helplessly. It dazed him. Everything, a moment since, had been so bright and gay! There had been a smile upon her lips, a soft glow of happiness alight within her eyes. He could not understand this situation. He was actually frightened. So, also, was M'riar, who stood gaping at the spectacle of her Miss Anna's grief with wide, fear-stricken eyes. "Cawn't Hi do nothink for 'er, sir?" she said, approaching timidly. For the first time in his life he spoke almost harshly to the child, in his excitement. "No," he said emphatically. "You will only stand and say 'My heye! Hi sye! Hi sye! My heye!' You can do nothing. It would be well for you to step into the kitchen, possibly. I smell me that there may be something burning, there. And do not come again until I call to you. If nothing burns there, now, then something might burn, later. It would be well for you to stay and watch." He had no wish to hurt the poor child's feelings--but his Anna! Surely none but he must witness this completely inexplicable, this mad outburst of wild woe. "What is this, my Anna?" he said softly to the weeping girl who clung there in his arms when M'riar had left the room. "You are tear-ing, Anna--you are tear-ing, child!" He was sure his English had escaped him, but he could not stop to make correction. She looked up at him, at last. "'Tear-ing? Tear-ing?' Oh, crying! Yes, I'm crying--because I am so happy, and because--" He was more puzzled by this extraordinary statement than he had been by her tears. "Because you are so _happy_! Hein! A woman--she is strange. So strange. She cries because she is so happy, then she cries because she is so sorry. When she cries no one can tell which makes her do it. You are sure it is the happiness, this time, that makes you cry?" "Quite sure," said Anna, trying hard to stifle the great sobs. "Yes; I am certain. It is because I am so happy, and--because--I am a little bit--af-fraid!" "You are afraid, my child? What is it fears you?" She slipped out of his arms. There was no going back, she now must tell him all. She knew that he would not be harshly angry, though she greatly feared he would be sorely grieved. She held him, with a gentle hand, back in his chair as he would have arisen, and sank down at his feet, her arm upon his knee, her face upturned. "Come, father," she said simply. "I want to sit here at your feet. I want to sit here at your feet just as I did when I was, oh, a very little girl!" The old man was sorely puzzled, but he sank back in his chair and let her take his hands--both of them. One of them she placed upon her beautiful, dark hair; the other she held close clasped against her bosom in her own. "Father, I have something to confess." He was amazed, but less distressed than he had been. His Anna, his own, liebling Anna, could not have anything to confess which was so very terrible. He looked down at her and smiled in reassurance. Her wonderful, dark eyes were upturned, as he gazed, and, for an instant, looked straight at his; but then the delicately veined lids drooped. "You have something to confess? What is it, Anna?" "I shall not go back again to Mrs. Vanderlyn's," she slowly answered. "I have come home, my father; have come home to you--to stay." He was worried. Could she be satisfied, after what she had been having there at Mrs. Vanderlyn's, with what his small purse had to offer her in this unpleasant tenement? His heart leaped at the thought of having her with him again; none but himself could know how greatly he had missed her, and he could give her food and shelter. But would she, now, be happy there with him, in all his poverty? "Ah; you have quarreled?" he ventured, hesitantly. "No," she faltered. His wrath rose. Ah, that was it! The woman had been unkind to her, had asked of her some menial service, had presumed upon the fact that she was but an employee! "She has mistreated you," he cried, in indignation. "She has mistreated you! Well, here is--" Anna interrupted him by laying a soft hand upon his lips. She had to stretch and strain a little to reach up so far, crouched low there, as she was, quite at his feet. Her heart was beating very fast as came the time for her confession. She hoped that he would not be very angry, very greatly horrified. "No," she said slowly; "no, we have not quarreled, she has not mistreated me; but--she will be very angry--she will not forgive me, when she knows--" Kreutzer was affrighted. There seemed to him to be a hint of dreadful revelations to be made in the soft droop of Anna's head, the trembling of her little hand in his, the swift ebb and flow of the rich color in the pink satin of her cheeks. "Anna," he said, aghast, "what is there for her to know? Oh, my Anna--what is there for her to know? Fear not. Your old father--he will understand and will forgive--will forgive anything in all this world--no matter what. Remember that. Remember that, and tell me, Anna, what is there for Mrs. Vanderlyn to pardon?" She did not lift her head. Her eyes flashed up at him in one quick look of terror, but never by an inch did she raise toward her father's, now, her pale, affrighted face. "It was a great temptation, father," she said slowly. "A very great temptation." Now he was alarmed, indeed. "Anna," he demanded, in a voice that was not like his own, "what have you done? What have you done?" Every horrid thought--but one--which could flash into being in the human mind at such a time, rushed into his, in a terrific jumble of mad speculations. For a moment Anna cowered, alarmed by what a quick glimpse of his face had shown her. She had never seen a human face so--not whitened by his fear, but greyed--greyed as if seared with fire and turned to carven ashes. She could tell, by that, that he would never, really, forgive her. Too firmly had his hopes been fixed upon the plans which he had built in many long hours of reflections going back along the years, no doubt, to that far time when she was lying, a mere babe, in her dear mother's arms. How ardently she wished, now, at this crisis, that that mother might be there to soften things for her; to turn his wrath, explain, make clear to him the fact that there are impulses too strong for women's hearts to put aside! She did not look at him again--she could not bear to see that face again--but slowly rose and slowly crossed the little room to the crude table and took from it her handbag, which, when M'riar had cleared off the dinner things, she had replaced where it had been when she had started, first, to lay the table. As she raised the bag her father's eyes were fixed upon her in an agony of dread. Trembling with apprehension, her fingers shaking so that it was with great difficulty that she managed the bag's clasp, she opened the receptacle, and, with accelerating nervousness which made her feel and fumble, took from it a small box--a jeweler's box. Slowly she returned to him, her feet dragging as if weighted; slowly, as she stood before him, drooping, frightened, she took off the cover of the little box, her heart hammering till it seemed as if it must burst from her breast; slowly, then, with trembling fingers, while her eyes remained steadfastly downcast and the quick rising, falling, of her delicately rounded, girlish bosom showed how keen her agitation was, she took from the opened box a sparkling trinket. "You will understand me, father, when I show you--" She held the brilliant bauble towards him, and, as she stretched out her hand a hundred little facets on the glittering thing caught light, there in the gloomy tenement house room, and blazed and sparkled as with inner fires. "Look, father." The old flute-player stretched a wondering hand to take the trinket. He could not understand, at all, what all this meant. What had the thing to do with her great agitation? How came she with so valuable a jewel? What did it mean--all of it? What under heaven could it mean? "A ring? Ah," said he, "it is a beautiful ring set with a diamond. Where did you get it, Anna?" He laid it upon the table quickly. He did not seem to wish to hold it in his hand. This was the crucial moment and she looked at him with dumb appeal in her fine eyes. Then, seeing nothing in his face to reassure her, she dropped her gaze. Her chest heaved with a quick sob. "My dear, my dear," she now began, "I have a great confession. Do not, please, be angry with me, father! I must tell you--" She was interrupted by a quick, sharp rap upon the door. There was in it the abrupt demand of an official visitation, and it startled both of them. Hastily she rose and stood gazing at the closed door; wonderingly he rose, also, and, poised, ready to go and open it, waiting a second, to see if there would be a repetition of the knock. "Who is there?" he called, at length. "I, Mrs. Vanderlyn," came the reply, in high-pitched, angry tones. "M'riar," the flute-player called loudly, "go to the door." Anna, now very plainly much alarmed, cowered back against the table, her face turned toward the door, her two hands back of her, caught desperately on the table and supporting her. Kreutzer looked at her with new alarm--a dreadful apprehension. What could the girl have done to be thus frightened by the coming of the woman whose employment she had left? "Mrs. Vanderlyn!" the girl gasped, weakly. Then Kreutzer saw her do a thing which added to his great amazement, his great worry. With a quick stride she crossed the little space between her and the table, quickly snatched from it the box and ring, put the cover on the box, and, hurriedly, with almost furtive gesture, thrust the box into her handbag, being careful, he observed, to see to it that in the bag it was well covered by a handkerchief and veil. "Why do you look so frightened?" he demanded, in a voice now hoarse and painful. Anna was as pale as death as she replied: "I am afraid she has discovered--" "Discovered?" said her father, a grim light breaking on his confused faculties. Ah, this was terrible, but must be faced! Ah, God! His little Anna! She had taken it--had stolen it--from Mrs. Vanderlyn! But he would stand by her. Nothing should induce him to abandon her, no matter what mad thing she had been tempted into doing. Doubtless it had been his poverty (and was his poverty not direct result of his incompetence?) which had led her into doing the dread thing which he began to understand that she had done. Now, surely, was not the time for him to offer her reproaches. Now was the time, when he, the best friend she had, could ever have, must comfort her and shelter her. Later, if there were reproaches to be offered, would be time enough to offer them. "Hush!" he said cautiously. "How you tremble! Anna--my little Anna! She shall not see you like this. Go, liebling. I will first speak to her. And ... whatever it may be ... fear not. Fear not." M'riar had come in, and, fascinated by the scene, began to dimly see its awful import, also. Her training in the slums of London where a knock like that upon the door meant but one thing--the law--made the situation clear to her, at once, and, bewildered as she was by the amazing fact that it was Anna--her Frow-line--who was involved, she did not lose her head. "This w'y," she whispered, hoarsely. "This w'y, Frow-line! This w'y!" She hurried Anna out into the kitchen and the flute-player could hear the key turn in the lock behind them. Sure that, for the moment, his dear child was safe, he now went to the door, with measured, steady tread, and opened it. "Come, Madame, come," he said to Mrs. Vanderlyn, who, flushed and angry, waited with small patience at the threshold. The old flute-player caught the glint of polished buttons and a polished shield upon the breast of a man's coat beyond her, and he recognized the face above them as that of his old shipboard enemy, Moresco, now policeman on this beat. CHAPTER VIII The superbly dressed visitor, wrapped in silk brocades and woven feathers, seemed strangely out of place there in the doorway of the dingy tenement apartment. That she felt herself so, also, was apparent, for there was, upon her face, a look of high contempt and keen distaste. She swept into the little room with all the majesty of a proud queen, forced, by some untoward circumstance, to call at the low hovel of a very, very humble, and, probably, unworthy subject. "Ah, Herr Kreutzer." The old flute-player, after a scared glance into the hallway, where he had thought he saw the flash of brazen buttons, bowed low and handsomely. Among all the millionaire male friends of Mrs. Vanderlyn was not one who was half capable of such a bow, and, in a dim way she appreciated this. She did not for a moment, though, think it marked the aged man before her as a gentleman, and worthy, therefore, of consideration from a lady. She was trying to feel certain, now, that what she had believed an evidence of really high breeding, was, really, mere clever sham. The old musician had lost all the glamor of his mystery for her. Surely, had he really been what she suspected, then his daughter would have been incapable of the offense which she, its victim, had come there to punish. Now the old man's courtly grace upon the ship, by which she had been fooled into believing him a person of real eminence, was openly revealed to her as counterfeit and worthless--he was a swindler, almost, indeed, as viciously dishonest as the thing his daughter had been guilty of. Now his manner merely sent a vague reflection through her brain that upon the ocean's other side their peasants were well trained. Now she was bitterly resentful of the fact that, on the ship, she had been fooled into thinking him a person, possibly, of eminence. "So," said Kreutzer, offering her, with graceful courtesy which made her falter in her new conviction, and a perfect ease, withal, which much astonished her, the best chair in the room. "And you, Madame, are Mrs. Vanderlyn?" "Yes," Mrs. Vanderlyn replied. "I'm Mrs. Vanderlyn. Your daughter, till to-day, was--my companion." "Ah, Madame; I know," said the old man. "You wish to see her? Is that the reason why you honor my so humble home, Madame?" Mrs. Vanderlyn, who had come to bluster, was a bit nonplussed, even a bit abashed by the superb and easy manner of the man. Never in her life had she been privileged, indeed, to meet with a reception so graceful and so courteous. Could she, after all, be wrong? Here, at last, in an apartment on the top floor of a New York tenement, had she encountered what she had vainly searched for, elsewhere, even on her travels in the European countries. This was the grace and courtesy which she had read about. She really was much impressed, and, in her heart, would have been pleased if she had had an errand there less disagreeable. She wondered why she had not remembered with more accuracy, the superb demeanor of this aged man on shipboard. If she had only realized--she even might have dressed him up, she speculated, and had him at her house for dinner! She could have introduced him to her climbing friends as a musician of great eminence, abroad (she remembered with regret, now, that he really played the flute magnificently--so everyone on shipboard had exclaimed), and made them envious to a degree. But now that she had started on this task, she would not falter. She assured herself, indeed, that duty as a citizen demanded that she should _not_ falter. "Yes," she said to him, with real regret, "I certainly must see your daughter; but I am glad first to explain to you--" "The pleasure," said the courtly flute-player, "is mutual, Madame. May I ask you what you must explain?" Mrs. Vanderlyn now summoned to her face a look of sympathy, lugubrious and as sincere as she could make it. "It will be a blow, Herr Kreutzer." The old man was uneasy, but he hid it as best he could, under a most careful, unremitting courtesy. "A blow, Madame?" She did not speak, at once, but stood there looking at him with wide eyes which she was very careful to make sad. It made him madly nervous. "Well, I am ready," he protested, after the delay became intolerable. "I beg of you do not delay." "First," said Mrs. Vanderlyn, not going to the heart of the unhappy matter, as his whole soul begged of her to do, but paltering with an unnecessary explanation, "you must understand the arrangement of my house. My son's room adjoins my own; then comes the little boudoir I assigned to Anna; then--" "Yes, Madame," said Kreutzer, unable to endure this any longer, "but what of that? You said--" "I am positive that this afternoon no one was near those rooms but Anna." Kreutzer was in agony. "Go on, Madame," he said, imploringly. "Do you not see that this is torture? I cannot bear it longer." She looked at him again, with that assumed expression of compassion, and he could have torn her secret from her with hooked fingers, so exasperated, so intensely agonized was he by her delays. Finally he made a desperate, downward, begging gesture with both hands, and, understanding, she went on: "This afternoon my son returned from somewhere, and went into his room. He did not come into my room to call me, as he sometimes does. He was very quiet and it made me curious. I thought perhaps the boy might be there suffering with some headache, or something, which he did not wish to bother me about. A mother's heart, you know--" "Madame, I pray you, have some consideration for a father's heart, and hasten." "I went into his room to speak to him and found that he had left it; but on his table was a little jewel-box." The flute-player drew in his breath with a sharp hiss, so close set were his teeth. Now she was coming to it! Now she was coming to the accusation of his Anna--the accusation which--ah, God!--had been preceded by the girl's own terrible confession. "Yes," said he, trying not to let his eyes turn toward the bag, which still lay on the table, "a jewel-box. Well, Madame, what of that?" "Being a woman," Mrs. Vanderlyn said slowly, "I could not withstand the temptation. I looked in. Within I saw--a magnificent diamond ring." Still she had not reached the crux of what she had to say. Would the woman never come to the great point--would she never make the charge against his Anna definite and clear? "Well?" he said unhappily, and, as he said the word a resolution found birth in his brain. His little Anna! What if she had been tempted and had yielded? He would not let her suffer for it, as this cold and haughty woman evidently wished to have her suffer! He would ward disgrace from her--at any cost. Carefully, so that the movement could not rouse suspicion in the mind of his exasperating visitor, he put his hand behind him and let it fall on the bag upon the table. Once on it, his fingers worked with skill and that precision which is natural to fingers trained by practice on a musical instrument until they seem to have a real intelligence, scarcely dependent on the brain. "I knew for whom the dear boy meant that jewel," Mrs. Vanderlyn went on. "He had bought it as a present for me on my birthday, which occurs tomorrow." Kreutzer nodded slowly, his fingers working, all the time, in Anna's bag. "Presents are sometimes made on birthdays," he admitted. "Well?" "Happy in the thought that he had remembered me, I went out for my drive, leaving the box there on his table, just where I had found it. When I reached the house again I found a note left for me by your daughter, saying that she had decided upon going from my house forever, that someday she hoped I would forgive her--" "What had she done?" said Kreutzer, in a dry voice, full of misery. "Ah, that she did not say." Mrs. Vanderlyn paused now, with a fine sense of the dramatic. "But immediately I looked again for that box and ring and they--were gone!" Kreutzer, pale, his forehead damp from perspiration of pure agony, as truly sweat of pain as any ever beaded on the brow of an excruciated prisoner upon the rack, looked at her with pleading eyes. "Gone! Madame, you do not think--" She smiled a bitter little smile. There was, also, just a touch of triumph in it, such as small souls show when they are on the point of proving to another, even though a stranger, that they have been wrong in trusting someone, believing in some thing. "My dear sir," she said slowly, not from unwillingness to speak but to give emphasis, "what else can I think? No one but my son, myself and Anna had been near that room--" Kreutzer straightened up as one whose shoulders have been stooped for the reception of a mighty load which, finally, has been fixed upon them. "You have told him?" "Not yet." "Ah, that is lucky.... I beg your pardon, Madame, you have dropped your handkerchief." The handkerchief had fallen not less than a minute before, and, instinctively, he had started forward, intending to restore it to her; but by that time the situation had begun to be quite clear to him--ah, deadly clear to him!--and, in a flash the strategy had come to him. Knowing, then, that that dropped handkerchief would be essential to its execution, he had let it lie. Mrs. Vanderlyn turned carelessly to raise the handkerchief, and, as she turned, he carried out his plan. Quick as a flash, he slipped the box which held the ring, out of the bag and into his own pocket. When she straightened up again, after having (with a flush, for he had seemed exceedingly polite, before) recovered her own handkerchief, she found him standing as he had stood, only, possibly, a little more erect than he had been, with some addition of calm dignity to his carriage, with a calmer look in his old eyes. "Why is it lucky that I have not told him?" Mrs. Vanderlyn asked, now. "Of course he'll have to know. Everyone must know." It broke his self-control. "That--my little girl is--no, no, no!" he faltered. "Ah, it is not true! She is not guilty!" She tried to show a sympathetic smile, but in it there was little actual sympathy. "Very natural that you should think so," she admitted. "It came as a great shock--and a surprise--even to me. I had thought she was unusually well-bred, refined." She sighed, as if the world were rather hard on her, to fool her so in one she had believed to be an admirable person. "But let me tell you that she has great admiration for fine jewels. I have noted that, before. And--the temptation was too strong for her. Weak spot, somewhere, in her, don't you see? It was too strong for that weak spot." "Oh, Madame, I--" She raised her hand as if to ward away his protests. Clearly she believed that having told him all about it, as gently as she had, she had accomplished her whole Christian duty and was under not the slightest further obligation to be merciful. "I may as well tell you," she warned him, "that I brought an officer with me. To save your natural feelings, I requested him to wait downstairs a moment and then to come and wait outside the door--er--um--in case of trouble. Just a little necessary precaution, my dear sir. A woman, coming to a place like this, alone, you see--" He smiled. "Quite natural," he answered. "Why, I might have eaten you!" But in the absorption of his talk with her he had forgotten that, as he went to the door, he had seen a blue coat and brass buttons, had recognized the face of his old enemy, Moresco. Now the realization that, armed and uniformed, a minion of the forces of the city's law and order, that cheap foe was actually waiting for his little Anna--for his gentle, big-eyed, soft-voiced Anna!--came to him with a new and dreadful shock. His frame stiffened and his poor old, soft hands clenched into pathetic fists. "He shall not--" he began with a brave bluster, but then stopped, realizing his own helplessness. "What can you do?" asked Mrs. Vanderlyn, and smiled again that twisted little smile which was her counterfeit of the sweet look of sympathy. "I am only doing what is right and what is necessary. I am, naturally, most indignant at this betrayal of my confidence. I will not interfere to save the girl from justice!" From behind the kitchen door, at this, Herr Kreutzer thought he heard a sound as of swift breath indrawn through tight-set, angry teeth, but was not sure. It might have been his own. He was so terribly excited that he did not know. Certainly, from now, his angry breathing was quite audible. His little Anna taken to a prison! No! "She shall not be punished!" he exclaimed in wrath. Mrs. Vanderlyn looked at him, for a second, as might one look at an unpleasant child who is a disappointment. Then she for the first time showed a little wrath towards him. Up to that moment her calm, maddening attitude of skin-deep sympathy had been unbroken. She spoke sharply, now, however, as she countered: "That will not depend on you." "It _shall_ depend on me!" said Kreutzer, hotly. "There is but one thing which will lighten the severity of the bad girl's punishment," said Mrs. Vanderlyn, didactically. "And that, Madame?" "The immediate restitution of the ring. She is here, now, is she not?" "Yes, she is here, but--" The poor old man looked helplessly around him. The whole thing seemed too terrible to be believed. He wondered if some dreadful nightmare did not hold him prisoner and half expected, as he let his agonized old eyes roam round the room, to wake up, presently, and find the episode was but a dreadful dream. "Call her; ask her to give it up--" "No," said the old man softly, careful that his voice should not rise so that it could easily be audible in the adjoining room, "I will not ask her to give up the ring, for the ring is not in her possession. She would not know of what I spoke. She would look at me, my Anna would, with soft reproach in her sad eyes and wonder if her poor old father had gone mad to bring an accusation such as that against her soul--so pure--so innocent--so--" "Certainly she has the ring." The woman, now, was definitely sneering at his protestations of his daughter's worthiness. "No; she has not got the ring. I--have it--" From his pocket he drew forth his hand and in it lay the little box. Out of the box, with trembling fingers, he removed the ring, and held it up, smiling at her, as he did so, with a wondrous look of triumph--not the look of one who has just placed his feet, quite consciously, upon the road that leads to prison, but that of one who has won victory against great odds. She could not understand that look. And that was not so strange, for on the face of the old flute-player the expression was like few this selfish old world ever sees--the expression of complete self-abnegation, of absolute self-sacrifice for pure and holy love. "The ring, Herr Kreutzer!" Mrs. Vanderlyn exclaimed, in relief, sure, now, for the first time, of the recovery of the precious trinket. "The ring! She's given it to you!" Herr Kreutzer laid the box upon the table and drew back with studied calm to gaze at her reflectively, as is necessary to a man who, as he stands and talks, must fashion from his fancy a cute fiction logical enough and clear enough to save from overwhelming sorrow one whom he loves better than he loves himself. "I tell you the whole truth," he said, "on one condition. One condition, mind you, Madame--and that condition must be kept. It is that she--my Anna--shall never be disturbed, annoyed--" The woman shook her head with emphasis. Self-righteous and indignant, feeling that her confidence had been betrayed as well as her ring stolen, she was determined not to let the guilty girl escape. "I cannot promise that," she said with emphasis, "for she is guilty." The German raised himself to his full height and stood there towering over her, the very effigy of sublime fatherhood. "She is _not_ guilty!" he exclaimed. "No; it is I--I--I!" "You!" Mrs. Vanderlyn fell back a step or two, staring at him in amazement. Could the man be crazy? This unexpected turn of the affair brought a gasp of sheer astonishment from her. From behind the door Herr Kreutzer thought he heard, again, a sound as of swift breath drawn through tight shut teeth, but again he was not sure--nor did it matter. When, an instant later, the door softly opened, then as softly closed and left M'riar there in the room with them, standing, for a second, with her back against the portal which she had just come through, neither of them glanced at her. The situation which involved them was too tense, too fiercely was their full attention focussed upon one another. They scarcely noted that she passed as she went through the room and out the other door. "Yes," said Herr Kreutzer, "it is I who took the ring." CHAPTER IX [Illustration: "She is not guilty! No; it is I--I--I!"] "_You_ who took the ring!" said the astonished woman. "How utterly absurd! You have not been in my house." She was so amazed by his confession, which, she knew, could not have the least foundation, that, for the moment, she forgot to pose, either as an injured benefactress or as an avenging nemesis. Now Herr Kreutzer smiled. Having determined on the sacrifice, he was delighted by this first error in her argument. "Yes, Madame," he said, quite truthfully, "I _have_ been at your house. I called while you were driving. M'riar will tell you. She went with me. I called there to tell Anna that I should expect her here, this afternoon. A servant showed me to her room--showed M'riar and me both to her room. I can prove all of this by M'riar--by your own servants, Madame. I waited for her, for a time, there in her room, and, as I walked to and fro, I saw, through an open door, upon a table--that jewel-box." Mrs. Vanderlyn was looking at him in complete astonishment. Even in her artificial soul there rose some admiration for the man who would confess to felony, rather than submit his child to suffering. "And you--," she cried. He bowed before her, almost as he had, in bygone days, bowed low before an appreciative audience. Was not this, as much as ever any solo on the flute had been, a triumph of high art? And more! Was it not the triumph of his love for Anna over, first, this hard-souled, little-minded Mrs. Vanderlyn, and, second, the last selfish impulse lingering within his own unselfish soul? "I am very, very poor, Madame," he said. "I am only a poor flute-player. Things have not gone well with me since I have been in your so great, so glorious country. No; they have gone very far from well with me. If they had not gone most ill do you imagine that I ever would have let my Anna go to you as your companion? Do you not imagine that it cut my soul to have her separate from me, that it cut my pride to have to tacitly admit that I was quite unable to provide for her? Yes, Madame; it cut both soul and pride. But I am very poor. What could I do? I am so poor that always I have little to wear--see, Madame, this old suit is all that I possess! It prevents me, possibly, from getting better wages than I might get if I were not so shabby. Often, also, I do not have enough to eat. That, Madame, is true, although my Anna does not know it. Well, glittering in that little box upon the dresser, when I was there at your house, I saw so much comfort, so much happiness." The old man's art had won, indeed. He had quite convinced the woman that it had been he and not his daughter who had stolen the diamond. She was not exactly disappointed, although it robbed the crime of one of its most dramatic elements--ingratitude. She was being quite as well diverted by the old man's dignity and calm as she would have been by his poor Anna's wild, hysterical grief. She was, perhaps, she thought, a very lucky woman. She had not only had a valuable diamond stolen, which, of itself, was entertaining, in a way, but she had recovered it through such a strange experience as would furnish food for tales to be told in boudoirs and over tea-cups for three months. "So it really was you!" "Yes, yes; have I not told you?" There was an inconsistency in this affair, however, and Mrs. Vanderlyn thought herself a veritable Sherlock Holmes as she pounced on it. "But that note from Anna?" she protested. Kreutzer had been thinking of that note from Anna, and, for a time, had found the obstacle a hard one to surmount. At length, and in good time to meet the question, he had, however, arranged an explanation, which, if not too carefully looked into, would seem reasonable. "Oh, of course," said he. "You mean the note about her going away? Why, that is easily to be understood. When she came I told her that I have had luck. I told her that we have much money and we go to Germany, at once. I was afraid that if she went back to your house there would arise suspicions, so I said she must not go, but must be content with just the note, alone, for her goodbyes. She did not wish to do this, but consented, at the last, because I ordered her to do it." Mrs. Vanderlyn was now entirely convinced. He had made the case against himself so black she could not doubt it; but she determined that if he thought he would gain clemency in payment for the frankness of his full confession he would find himself to be mistaken. It was her duty as a member of society, she told herself, to see to it that the guilty poor who prey upon the helpless rich should not pass on unpunished. "I understand," she said, "you are the guilty one. Your daughter is quite innocent of this. It may be chance, alone, that keeps her so. With such a father--but I will be merciful and will not show you what a vile inheritance of wickedness you have prepared for the poor child. Your conscience will do that, if you have any conscience. While you are in prison you will have that to reflect upon." He was dismayed. The ring had been returned. Would she still--"I--I must go to prison?" "Why, certainly. Don't you see how necessary that is? What would happen to society if thieves were left unpunished?" "Thief!" The word fell on his ears with tragic force. A thief in prison! Was this to be the end of all his striving? Were the high hopes and ambitions of his splendid youth to end, at length, behind the bars of a thief's cell? Ah, those happy, bygone days, when with unbounded hope and confidence he had promised all things to the lovely creature he had wooed and won and wed in that toy village far away in the Black Forest! What was their fruition! Unhappiness, disgrace and exile for her loveliness, and finally a child for whom she paid the supreme price of death. His promises, breathed at her bedside of unwavering care, unfaltering devotion, unfailing happiness for the wee baby in the years to come--how had he kept them? Poverty, distress, privation. With such commodities had he redeemed those promises, and, finally, had driven the girl, naturally as sweet-souled as an angel, as pure as the new-fallen snow, to vulgar crime to satisfy, no doubt, those girlish and quite natural desires which it should have been his duty and his pleasure to provide for. Oh, he had done well with life! The soul within him writhed in agony as he reflected on the use which he had made of it. His heart went sick from shame. And--what would Anna do without him? "Ah, yes, Madame; I see," said he. "I see. Society must be protected from such folk as I. Yes; that is very clear indeed. We menace it. The place for us is where stone walls surround us--to protect society; locks hold us--to protect society; death comes quickly to us--to protect society. I see all that, Madame. I will go to prison as a punishment, of course. But you will let me see my Anna for a moment--you will let me say goodbye to Anna? She is here, in the next room. I had hoped, you see, that I could make you think that prison was not necessary; I had hoped that I could fool you into thinking that I was not, very much, a danger to society. But you have found me out. You realize how terrible I am. When I thought that I could fool you I had her go to the next room, so that, perhaps, she might know nothing of it. Now, of course, she will know all, but--you will let me say goodbye to her? You will wait for me, out here?" Mrs. Vanderlyn was not too willing, but, as she thought of it, it seemed quite safe, and she could tell her friends, she rapidly reflected, that she had been swayed by irresistible impulse of mercy. That would sound well, told dramatically. "I suppose so," she said grudgingly. "But any attempt at escape will be useless. You--" He looked at her with a sad dignity. "I shall not try to escape," he said. "I only ask that if it can be done, as long as it may be possible to do it, my Anna shall not know about my sin, discovery, disgrace. Let her think, please, Madame, if you will, that I have gone on a long journey." This, too, she granted grudgingly. "Oh, very well, if you imagine such things _can_ be hidden. I won't tell her. Just as you wish." "You will wait here for me while I say goodbye to her?" "Well, don't be long." The old flute-player was turning towards the kitchen door, when a loud rap upon the hall door halted him. "I suppose the officer has grown tired of waiting," Mrs. Vanderlyn explained. "Come in," said Kreutzer, wonderingly. Few visitors had ever knocked at his door since he had moved to that tenement. To Mrs. Vanderlyn's amazement, and his own, the door, when it had opened, revealed John Vanderlyn. He was very plainly worried. He did not even stop for greetings, but said, immediately, to his mother: "Well, mother, what are you doing here?" Mrs. Vanderlyn was quite as much surprised, apparently, to see him there, as he was to discover her in the old flute-player's rooms. "My dear boy!" she cried. "How in the world did you learn that I had come here? What do you want? Has something happened at the house?" Her son advanced into the room with a low bow to his host. It was quite plain that, for some reason, he wished to show Herr Kreutzer every courtesy; it was plain that he had reason to suspect that, possibly, his mother had not done so and that this fact worried him. "The butler heard you give the order to the chauffeur to drive you to Herr Kreutzer's home," he told his mother briefly. Then, turning to Herr Kreutzer, he said earnestly: "My dear sir, if my mother has said anything harsh or disagreeable to you--" Kreutzer was astonished, but had no complaint to make. His only wish was, now, to have his opportunity to bid his girl farewell and then to go to prison, where, as quickly as was possible, he might serve out whatever sentence was imposed on him. After his release, if the sentence was not of such duration that it spanned the few short years of life remaining to him, he would once again work for his Anna and endeavor to atone to her for the misfortunes which his own incompetence, he argued, had oppressed her with. "Your mother," he assured the youth, so that the situation might not be prolonged, "has been polite. Your mother has been most polite." The young man, with an expression of relief upon his face, turned then, to his mother. "Tell me, mother, what has brought you here," he said. She did not hesitate. The situation did not in the least depress her. Rather was she somewhat proud of her own part in it. "It's really painful, my dear boy," said she, "but I flatter myself that I've been quite a Sherlock Holmes. I suppose you haven't even discovered, yet, that the diamond ring is gone--is stolen." He looked at her in sheer amazement. It was clear enough that he did not, immediately, know what she was talking of. "The ring gone? Stolen, mother?" Suddenly he burst into a laugh--so hearty, so spontaneous, so wholly foreign in its fine expression of good-natured raillery, to the tense atmosphere of accusation on the part of Mrs. Vanderlyn and supreme self-abnegation on the part of the old flute-player, which had, until this time, been vibrant in the room, that it seemed strangely, shockingly incongruous. "John!" said his mother, in a tone of stern reproof, demanding of her son for the victim of misfortune consideration which she, herself, had scarcely shown, "you must not laugh. It is too heartless--right in this poor man's presence!" This stopped his laughter, for it puzzled him. He looked from one of his companions to the other with an air of most complete bewilderment. "What's Herr Kreutzer got to do with it?" he asked. "Why, he has just confessed." "Confessed to what?" "That he is guilty." Kreutzer interrupted earnestly and hastily. He did not wish to have her even tell her son that Anna ever had been suspected. "Yes," he assured him earnestly, "I--I alone am guilty." The youth's evident amazement doubled. Sinking into a chair he looked from his mother to Herr Kreutzer, from Herr Kreutzer to his mother, with an expression of bewilderment so genuine that, for the first time, his mother was a bit in doubt about her cleverness, for the first time Herr Kreutzer wondered if there might not, somewhere, be a ray of hope for him and for his Anna. "Guilty of what?" said Vanderlyn, at length. "Of being the father of the dearest girl in all the world, who has promised to become my wife?" CHAPTER X "Your wife!" cried Mrs. Vanderlyn. "Good heavens!" She sank back in her chair as much aghast as Kreutzer had been when she had amazed him by accusing Anna. "And I bought that ring and gave it to her," John went on. "The dear girl! It's our engagement ring." Kreutzer, who had been staring at him with the strained and anxious look of one who sees salvation just in sight, but cannot understand its aspect, quite, relaxed now and, also, sank into a chair. "Oh, mine Gott sie dank!" he fervently exclaimed. "Mine Gott sie dank! You gave it to her! Oh, oh, oh, thank God!" "Why certainly I gave it to her. It's our engagement ring. Bless her heart--she's promised me to wear it as soon as Herr Kreutzer gives consent." Mrs. Vanderlyn found this too much for calm reception. She did not wish to, she would not believe. "Why do you say such things?" she demanded of her son. "You're just trying to save him. Why did he confess?" Kreutzer, now, looked at her with calm, cold dignity. His turn had come. Had she been a man he would have taken it with vehemence and pleasure; because she was not a man he took it with a careful self-repression but no lack of emphasis. "I will tell you, Madame, why I made confession. It may be that you will not understand, but so it is. I told you that it had been I who stole the ring because I love my little girl so much that I would go to prison--ah, Madame, I would die!--rather than permit that she should suffer. For a mad moment, overborne by your amazing claims, I did believe that she had taken that ring. I thought that she had taken it to help her poor old father--the old flute-player who never has been able to give to his daughter what he wished to give, or what she deserved to have. I thought, perhaps, that Anna, swept away by sorrow for my struggling, had yielded to temptation to help _me_--the mistaken impulse of a loving child. No crime--no crime! I understand, now, what she meant when she was speaking with me. Her 'secret!' Her 'temptation!'" He turned to John, now, and addressed him, solely. "Her 'temptation' was to be your wife when I had made her promise that she would not think of men until I came to her and told her that I had picked out the one for her. I see it, now; I see it. Her 'temptation'--it was only to become your wife!" John laughed. "I'm mighty glad it was!" said he. "Yes; that was it; and it's all settled." Mrs. Vanderlyn now rose in wrath. Was it credible that her own son, whom she had reared, as she had thought, to worship all the things she worshiped, wealth, position, rank, could have conceived an actual affection for this penniless, positionless, impossible flute-player's daughter? "Settled that you marry her?" she cried. "The daughter of this old musician? It's impossible! Impossible!" Her son looked at her deprecatingly. There was not a sign of yielding on his face, but there was plainly written there a keen desire to win her to his side. "Don't say that, mother," he implored, "I love--" But she was not so easily to be placated. She had an argument to use, which, in her wrath, she fancied might be an effective one--and this showed that the poor lady did not even know her son. "Your father left me all his money," she said viciously. "If you are fool enough to marry this girl, you shall have nothing--nothing!" It did not seem to have, on the young man, the instantaneous effect which she had thought it would have. He merely looked at her with a grieved little frown, and, bending towards her, said with earnest emphasis: "_That_ wouldn't make the slightest difference. I'm young and strong. We'll get along somehow--and we shall be together." "You'll _starve_ together!" she said viciously. For a moment the two men remained in an embarrassed silence. Young Vanderlyn, with downcast eyes, was feeling greater mortification than he ever in his life had known before. Just then the loss of millions did not matter to him--what really distressed him was that his mother should make such an exhibition of cold-hearted snobbery before the father of the girl he loved. "That wouldn't matter, mother, in the least," he said, at length. "Money! Do you think it possible that it would sway me? We won't starve together--quite. I'm strong--I am a man and I can do a man's work in the world. But you--remember, mother, you will have to take your choice between receiving Anna--and myself--together--or of being left alone." Without another word he left the room--left it with an old man's dimmed and misty eyes agaze upon him, full of love and admiration. Mrs. Vanderlyn rose, too, beside herself with shame and grief and indignation. She turned upon the flute-player. "Alone!" she cried. "Did you hear that? Oh, the ingratitude, the selfishness, of children!" "Madame," said Herr Kreutzer gravely, "do you not think he has a right to his own life--his happiness?" "His happiness!" A rasping scorn was in the voice of the unhappy woman. "Nobody thinks of mine! He is my only son. He knows quite well that I can't live without him--that I could not give him up!" Kreutzer smiled--not with an air of triumph--the discomfiture of the unhappy woman did not make him feel the least exultant. It was pure happiness that made him smile--joy to think that Anna's wedding would not, after all, be shadowed by her husband's sorrow for the loss of mother-love. "Then Madame will yield?" he cried. "Madame will make the dear young people happy?" "Upon one condition. Positively only upon one condition." "What is that, Madame?" "Your daughter, really, is charming." "There I agree with you." "She is wonderfully well-bred--I do not understand it. I could pass her, anywhere, for a distinguished foreigner--a foreigner of noble birth." The father of the subject of her praise smiled gravely. "That is very true. She will--what you call it?--look the part." "But to be quite frank," the lady went on "you, yourself, are quite impossible, Herr Kreutzer. Quite impossible, I must assure you." "I, impossible? I--you say that I am quite impossible?" She nodded very positively. "I don't like to hurt your feelings, my dear man; but I must make you understand. I can't have people saying that my dear son's father-in-law is a shabby old musician--a flute-player in a theatre. You see that clearly, don't you. How could I--" "It is quite true," Herr Kreutzer admitted humbly. "I am a shabby old flute-player and you do not make it quite as bad as it is really, Madame." He looked at her and smiled a rueful smile. "It is not even a theatre in which I play, Madame, it is a beer-garden." "A beer-garden!" she cried in horror. "Oh--Herr Kreutzer! Worse and worse!" Then, wheedlingly: "Listen. You say you love your daughter." "Yes; surely; I love my daughter very dearly--almost as much, perhaps, as Madame loves her son. Almost. Almost." "You would have gone to prison for her." "Yes; to prison. Gladly would I go to prison for my Anna, if, by doing so, I could save her one moment's pain." "Well, I'm going to suggest a thing not half so hard as that. I will give consent to my son's marriage to your daughter if you will agree to give her up entirely--to give her up _entirely_. You understand? You must never see her any more." This was too much. The old man drew back with a cry of pain. "I give my Anna up! I never see her any more! Madame, do you know what you ask?" She was not vividly impressed. "I suppose it may be hard, at first," she went on, casually, "but--" He interrupted. "Hard! I am old--and poor. I have nothing--nothing--but that little girl. All my whole life long I work for her. My love for her has grown so close--close--close around my heart that from my breast you could not tear it out without, at the same time, tearing from that breast the heart itself. You hear, Madame? She is my soul--my life--all I have got--all--all--" "But am I not giving up a great deal, too? I had hoped my son would marry well--perhaps, even, among the foreign nobility. That's what I took him off to Europe with me for. I'm simply wild to be presented at some court! Surely if I give all that up for my son's sake, you can do as much, at least, for Anna's." "As much? Why, what you ask of me, Madame, is to abandon all!" Mrs. Vanderlyn became impatient. It seemed to her that he was most unreasonable. "I tell you that unless you do, I shall do nothing for them," she cried petulantly. "My son has no idea of money. He's never had to earn a dollar and he don't know how. They'll starve, if you don't yield, and it will be your fault--entirely your fault." Herr Kreutzer bowed his head. His heart cried out within him at the horrible injustice of this woman, but, as he saw life, to yield was all that he could do. To stand in Anna's light, at this late day, when, all his life, he had, without the slightest thought of self, made sacrifices for her, would be too illogical, too utterly absurd. "Madame, I yield," he said. "I know too well what poverty can be--what misery! Yes, Madame, I will go. But sometimes I shall see her." "Absolutely no!" said Mrs. Vanderlyn. "I'll run no risk of disagreeable comment. I have social enemies who would be too glad to pull me down. You must give her up to-day and go out of her life forever." "I do not think she will consent to that. She, Madame--why, she loves her poor old father just a little." "Of course, of course," she grudgingly admitted, "but she'll get over it. Ah, wait! I have it. You must find some way to make her think it's all your fault--that it's exactly what you want--" "What I want! To give my little Anna up?" "Certainly. If you are going to do it, you must burn your bridges behind you." A big thought had been growing in Herr Kreutzer's mind. The execution of the plan which it suggested would involve the breaking of a resolution which had been unbroken for a score of years, but in emergency like this-- "Very well," said he. "Madame, my bridges burn!" "You'll do it?" "You shall see." With a firm step and an erectness of fine carriage which surprised the weak, self-centred woman who was watching him, he stepped, now, to the door, and, opening it, called loudly: "Come, sir." For a moment, after he had reached it, he stopped to listen, for from the lower hallway came the sounds of altercation. He waited till a curse or two had died away, until the thudding of a heavy body on the boards was heard. It merely meant a fight, and fights were not uncommon in the tenement. He stepped out into the hall. "Come, sir," he called into the darkness. A bounding step upon the stair responded and an instant later John entered, anxious faced and fixing his entreating eyes immovably upon his mother. He was a bit dishevelled. "Excuse me," he said nervously. "I had to settle with Moresco. He was the officer you had. I'll have to pay a little fine, I guess; but it was worth it. What have you--decided, mother?" "Your mother," Kreutzer said, before she had a chance to speak, "has given her consent." John went to her with beaming face and caught her hands. "You're a brick, mother." Gaily he caught her in his arms. His transport was rudely interrupted, though, by Kreutzer's voice, this time so harsh, so stern, so utterly unlike the old flute-player's usual genial tone that he was startled. "But I, sir," he said raspingly, "I--I have, myself, something to say." Son and mother looked at the new Kreutzer (for, suddenly, an utter change had come upon the man: he was majestic) with amazement, almost with alarm. He paid no heed to them but went firmly to the kitchen door. "Anna, Anna," he called sternly. "Come, I want you. I have something which I wish to say." Hurriedly the girl came in, looking at him wonderingly. Never in her life had she heard such a tone from her father's lips before. "Anna, you love this man--Herr Vanderlyn?" "Yes, father; I--I love him. Yes." "You love him very, very much?" His voice, now, softened somewhat. "More than I could ever tell you, father." She turned her eyes from the old flute-player's to those of the young man, and smiled at him. "Anna!" he exclaimed, and started towards her from his mother's side. "Stop!" said Kreutzer and held up his hand. Then, turning again to Anna: "You would not even give him up for me?" "You would not ask that of me, father," she said confidently, "for it is my happiness." The old German nodded slowly, somewhat sadly. "No," he admitted, "no; I would not ask it.... You shall have--your happiness." He straightened, then, and looked as her so differently that it startled her a little. "But I, Anna," he said sorrowfully, "I go from your life--forever." She stood, amazed. What could this mean? At first she thought he might be making game of her, but the look of bitter sorrow on his face convinced her that this could not be. "You, father!" she exclaimed. "No; I will not allow it! Why--why--" She made a move as if to cast her arms around his neck in her appeal. He stepped back to avoid her and held his hand up warningly. "Do not touch me," he said, chokingly. "I must be strong--strong enough, my little one, to tell you. Ah, my little girl, I go out of your life; but I shall not forget! I shall remember all our songs, and the old flute--when I play the old flute, Anna, always shall I think of you." She would not be held back, but ran to him and put her hand upon his arm and thus stood, looking up into his face with pleading eyes. "I will not give you up!" she cried. "You shall not go! Why ... why ..." Here was the opportunity for which the old man had been waiting; here was his chance to pay in full for every pang, the haughty woman who had so egregiously insulted his and him; here the chance to show a parvenu her place--and yet to do these things without discourtesy. Drawing himself up proudly, without the scornful look which one of less fine sensibility might have thrown at her in similar circumstances, he gave his calm and dignified explanation with the air of a true prince. "It is because," said he, "that in my family no father ever has allowed his daughter to marry any one who is not by birth her equal." There could be no mistaking the amazement which his words aroused among his hearers. Anna and the youth who held her hand looked at him in frank surprise; but it was on the face of Mrs. Vanderlyn that most emotion showed. It was plain that the grand lady found it hard to credit what her ears assured her they had heard. Upon the ship she had remarked that Kreutzer looked as if he might belong to a distinguished family. Now his attitude and carriage were the attitude and carriage of a king--a dignified, but kind and gentle king; not arrogant, as her instincts would have made her in like circumstances, but stately and--decisive. The aristocracy of centuries expressed itself in his straight back; his face was that of one born over-lord of thousands; his steady and unwavering glance was that of a real Personage looking kindly but not with any fellowship upon a commoner, as it calmly swung from its intent pause on his daughter's face to hers. "Of equal birth!" said she, amazed. "Why, what--" "Madame," said he, with no abatement of his kindly dignity, "I must explain some things. My life has been a very hard one and my Anna has been all which made it livable. When her mother died--there were objections to the marriage and I also had some wicked enemies--they would have taken my dear child from me. Twenty years of dread of this, of dodging and evasion like a fugitive, in humble places have succeeded. Had they found me, then I might have lost my Anna, for her mother's relatives, who hate me, they are very, very powerful. I have worried, worried, worried, ever, lest I lose her. Even have I had to hide my little artistry in my profession because, had I exploited it, it would have told my enemies where they could find me. Such has been the life which I have led because I loved my daughter. "Madame," he went on, not patronizingly but with a growing consciousness of his own impregnable position which impressed even the self-seeking woman he addressed, "to you I am only Kreutzer, the poor flute-player; but in my native country I am more--Count Otto Von Lichtenstahl." "Good heavens!" she cried. "The man is mad!" "No, Madame. I have been unfortunate. I have not even told my Anna of my title, because I have not wished to make her feel unhappy. It is so long since I have lived as would befit my rank, that, almost, I had quite forgotten it; but always I have kept the proofs." From an inner pocket of his coat the old man drew a worn cloth envelope which held long, folded papers. "Look, Madame." Almost as one who dreams she took the little packet from his hand and hastily glanced through the papers which comprised it. Though evidently somewhat impressed her doubts still remained. "It is easy to manufacture such documents," she said finally. "How am I to know that these are genuine?" The old man, wounded to the quick, made no reply, but looked at her with a silent dignity and stern reproof that affected her more than any words could have. It was evident that his pent-up indignation, however, was on the point of breaking forth; but what he might have said must always remain mystery, for at that moment, M'riar entered, a large, impressive envelope held in her hand. "Postman's bean 'ere," she explained, and held it toward the old musician. As Herr Kreutzer saw this letter he gasped with astonishment and, taking it eagerly from her hand, quickly tore it open. As he read it great joy showed upon his face. He stood transfigured, speechless. At last he handed it to Mrs. Vanderlyn. "Perhaps Madame will believe this," he said quietly. Mrs. Vanderlyn gave an ecstatic little cry after her first glance at the imposing document. "The Imperial Seal!" she exclaimed. "A letter from the Emperor himself! "But, what is this?" she continued, as she read farther. "He speaks about a pardon. What have you done, Herr Kreutzer?" "It is very simple, Madame," he replied. "Now that I have this, now I can tell all. It had been necessary, as I have explained, that my marriage to my dear Anna's mother be kept secret. When, after one short year, she died, as I have already told you, all came to light. "I was an officer in His Majesty's Imperial guards. One day a fellow officer, an enemy who had always hated me, insulted me because of my marriage--insulted the memory of my dead wife. There was a duel. He fell, as I thought, mortally wounded. The law was strict against participants in duels, and because I could not be parted from my little Anna I took her in my arms and we left Prussia--I believed forever. But at last the Emperor has relented and has pardoned me. He calls me back to Prussia! Ah, it is like him! He has not forgotten!" "Were you such friends?" asked Mrs. Vanderlyn with awe. "We were schoolmates at the College in Bonn," he answered. "We have drunk the hoffbrau together--in a beer garden." Gone was all the scorn of Mrs. Vanderlyn. Quite forgotten, to all outward seeming, were her apprehensions lest the old musician's daughter might be unworthy of her son, her fears lest the old man, himself, should prove to be a handicap upon her social aspirations. She was still running through the papers, and, it must be said, with real intelligence and understanding, and her face was beaming with delight. It was as if from the beginning she had favored him and Anna and was now delighted to find confirmation of the confidence which she had felt in them. "How absolutely splendid!" she exclaimed. "John, it is really true. I know my Almanach de Gotha--all the titles." Turning, now, to Kreutzer, she beamed upon him with a cordial smile which plainly took no count of all the frowns which, in the past few minutes, she had sent in his direction. "But Lichtenstahl is a magnificent estate. How does it happen that you--" "The estate was lost to me, Madame, through the folly of my ancestors; but--their pride I have inherited. Therefore, although I know that I cannot prevent this marriage, I will not give consent to it." He turned, now, to his daughter. "Rather, Anna, I go from your life forever!" "You shall not!" the girl cried. "You are my dear, kind father. I won't let you go alone. I'll stay with you, close beside you, while you live." She threw herself into his arms and Kreutzer, there enfolding her, looked proudly out above the wonderful bowed head of the distressed and sobbing girl at Mrs. Vanderlyn. This time there was a note of triumph in his voice--a note of triumph which had not been there, even when he had made the announcement of the glory of his birth and family. Mrs. Vanderlyn looked at them in chagrin. A slow flush spread upon her face. "_Now_, mother," her son asked, "what have you to say?" She forced a sigh as of a self-effacing resignation, but upon her face there lurked, in spite of her, a little smirk of satisfaction--of snobbery which had been gratified, at last, after many disappointments. Her manner had changed utterly. Her tones were honeyed, now; her glance was quite as sweetly motherly as she could make it as she looked from Anna to her questioner and back again. "What have I to say? My boy, I cannot let you lose your happiness.... And the dear man's confession has made everything so different!" An ecstatic smile spread on her face. "Why, John, he is a friend of the dear Emperor!" She turned, now, again to Kreutzer. Everything considered she made good weather of it on a difficult occasion. "My dear Count," she pleaded, "won't you reconsider, please?" The old flute-player shook his head. "I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Madame, but it is impossible--impossible." "Mother," said John Vanderlyn, not viciously, but, still, a little wickedly, "you are up against it. He'll never reconsider." "But he must! He must!" said Mrs. Vanderlyn, entirely capitulating. "There is nothing I won't do!" She turned, imploringly, to Kreutzer. "Listen. To-night I hold a reception. It shall be in your daughter's honor and I will, while it is going on, announce her engagement to my son." She took the ring which the flute-player had passed over to her, and, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, advanced towards Anna with it. "See, I will, myself, put on the ring." John protested, though, at this. "No, mother," he said hastily, "I will attend to that." He took the ring from her reluctant fingers, and, raising Anna's hand, slipped it into place in open token of betrothal. Then, with an air of manly resolution the young man turned to the father. "And I'll do more," he said. "You and Anna shall not be parted. I'll buy the old estate of Lichtenstahl and you shall be its master, as you ought to be, as long as your life lasts. You'll let us be your guests, perhaps, and there we'll all be happy. Eh?" "I beg you to consider the happiness of our children," Mrs. Vanderlyn said humbly. Herr Kreutzer smiled. Conditions, now, were different indeed. No longer was he scorned as a poor flute-player, unworthy to become connected with the house of Vanderlyn by marriage. "Ah," said he, "you beg of me! Well, that is different. Your happiness, my little Anna ... so ... I will see. Only give me just a little time to think of it alone." "Of course," said Mrs. Vanderlyn, with a deep sigh of relief. "Come, Anna darling, we must get home in time to dress for the reception. My dear Count, I'll send the motor back for you. You'll surely come?" "Perhaps I come," said he indifferently. "Possibly." But he turned to Anna with a beaming face on which love shone, triumphant. "At least, my Anna, it is not goodbye--and that is very good. _Nichtwahr_?" "No, father; it could never be goodbye with us. Together always, father--always--always--us--together." She ran to him and hid her head upon his breast. A moment later and the girl had been borne off by Mrs. Vanderlyn in triumph. John gave his hand to Kreutzer and the aged flute-player pressed it, smiling at him with approval. As his future son-in-law went out the old man stood and gazed long at the open door. Upon his face there were the lines of happiness, not worry, as there had been for so many years, not bitter grief as there had been that day. There came a clatter on the stairs which broke the reverie which held him, and he stepped forward to the door, peering out into the hall to see the cause of the unusual noise. An officer approached, and, tightly gripped by her right arm, he held M'riar. "Say," said he gruffly. "You Mr. Krootzer? Wot? Yes? Well, this kid comes to the station-house and hollers that she's stole a ring and somebody that ain't had anything to do with it is gettin' pinched fer stealin' it. The kid acts plumb bug-house, but Sarge he says fer me to come around and see wot's up. Wot is she, dippy? Did she re'ly steal a di'mond? This don't look like wot you'd call a likely place to find a di'mond." "No," said Herr Kreutzer, after he had had sufficient time to sense the meaning of the officer's strange statement, "she did not steal a diamond, or anything. It was good of you to bring her home to me. The dear child--she suffers from,--er--what you call emotional insanity, I think. A little too much love for an old man and his daughter, possibly. That is what I think. It is nothing worse than that. Thank you, very much, for bringing her to me. Take this, sir, for your trouble." He handed him, with bland benevolence, his last dollar. "Say, I'm gettin' it a good deal better than the cop wot come here to this house a while ago. He's bein' stuck together at the hospital in a dozen places, they tell me. He's like a jig-saw puzzle." "Ah, I wonder what could have occurred to him." The officer went down the stairs. "Come in, my child," the flute-player invited M'riar. "Soon you will be better, doubtless. Yes, I feel quite certain that you will be better, soon." He softly closed the door behind them. "M'riar," he said slowly, "sit down by me. I think I play you something--just a little something--on my flute." "My heye!" said M'riar, entranced. "But no," said Kreutzer. "First come to me. Ah, give me a kiss. Always shall you have a home with me or with my Anna." Spellbound, after he had kissed her, she sat close by his feet upon the floor until he finished playing and laid down the flute. "I s'y!" she murmured, then. THE END 
28693	----	Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net TALES OF THE FISH PATROL BY JACK LONDON AUTHOR OF "THE SEA-WOLF," "PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS," "THE CALL OF THE WILD," ETC. _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE VARIAN_ New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 1905 _All rights reserved_ Copyright, 1905, By PERRY MASON COMPANY. Copyright, 1905, By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1905. Reprinted December, 1905. Norwood Press J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. [Illustration: "I put my hand to my hip pocket."] WORKS OF JACK LONDON THE GAME THE SEA-WOLF THE CALL OF THE WILD THE CHILDREN OF THE FROST PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS THE FAITH OF MEN AND OTHER STORIES WAR OF THE CLASSES THE KEMPTON-WACE LETTERS TALES OF THE FISH PATROL PUBLISHED BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Contents PAGE I. White and Yellow 9 II. The King of the Greeks 39 III. A Raid on the Oyster Pirates 71 IV. The Siege of the "Lancashire Queen" 103 V. Charley's Coup 139 VI. Demetrios Contos 175 VII. Yellow Handkerchief 209 Illustrations "I put my hand to my hip pocket" _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE Map 11 "He saw fit to laugh and sneer at us, before all the fishermen" 60 "The Centipede and the Porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter" 86 "I suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron" 116 "The consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous" 158 "There, in the stern, sat Demetrios Contos" 204 "I went aft and took charge of the prize" 218 TALES OF THE FISH PATROL I WHITE AND YELLOW [Illustration: Map] San Francisco Bay is so large that often its storms are more disastrous to ocean-going craft than is the ocean itself in its violent moments. The waters of the bay contain all manner of fish, wherefore its surface is ploughed by the keels of all manner of fishing boats manned by all manner of fishermen. To protect the fish from this motley floating population many wise laws have been passed, and there is a fish patrol to see that these laws are enforced. Exciting times are the lot of the fish patrol: in its history more than one dead patrolman has marked defeat, and more often dead fishermen across their illegal nets have marked success. Wildest among the fisher-folk may be accounted the Chinese shrimp-catchers. It is the habit of the shrimp to crawl along the bottom in vast armies till it reaches fresh water, when it turns about and crawls back again to the salt. And where the tide ebbs and flows, the Chinese sink great bag-nets to the bottom, with gaping mouths, into which the shrimp crawls and from which it is transferred to the boiling-pot. This in itself would not be bad, were it not for the small mesh of the nets, so small that the tiniest fishes, little new-hatched things not a quarter of an inch long, cannot pass through. The beautiful beaches of Points Pedro and Pablo, where are the shrimp-catchers villages, are made fearful by the stench from myriads of decaying fish, and against this wasteful destruction it has ever been the duty of the fish patrol to act. When I was a youngster of sixteen, a good sloop-sailor and all-round bay-waterman, my sloop, the _Reindeer_, was chartered by the Fish Commission, and I became for the time being a deputy patrolman. After a deal of work among the Greek fishermen of the Upper Bay and rivers, where knives flashed at the beginning of trouble and men permitted themselves to be made prisoners only after a revolver was thrust in their faces, we hailed with delight an expedition to the Lower Bay against the Chinese shrimp-catchers. There were six of us, in two boats, and to avoid suspicion we ran down after dark and dropped anchor under a projecting bluff of land known as Point Pinole. As the east paled with the first light of dawn we got under way again, and hauled close on the land breeze as we slanted across the bay toward Point Pedro. The morning mists curled and clung to the water so that we could see nothing, but we busied ourselves driving the chill from our bodies with hot coffee. Also we had to devote ourselves to the miserable task of bailing, for in some incomprehensible way the _Reindeer_ had sprung a generous leak. Half the night had been spent in overhauling the ballast and exploring the seams, but the labor had been without avail. The water still poured in, and perforce we doubled up in the cockpit and tossed it out again. After coffee, three of the men withdrew to the other boat, a Columbia River salmon boat, leaving three of us in the _Reindeer_. Then the two craft proceeded in company till the sun showed over the eastern skyline. Its fiery rays dispelled the clinging vapors, and there, before our eyes, like a picture, lay the shrimp fleet, spread out in a great half-moon, the tips of the crescent fully three miles apart, and each junk moored fast to the buoy of a shrimp-net. But there was no stir, no sign of life. The situation dawned upon us. While waiting for slack water, in which to lift their heavy nets from the bed of the bay, the Chinese had all gone to sleep below. We were elated, and our plan of battle was swiftly formed. "Throw each of your two men on to a junk," whispered Le Grant to me from the salmon boat. "And you make fast to a third yourself. We'll do the same, and there's no reason in the world why we shouldn't capture six junks at the least." Then we separated. I put the _Reindeer_ about on the other tack, ran up under the lee of a junk, shivered the mainsail into the wind and lost headway, and forged past the stern of the junk so slowly and so near that one of the patrolmen stepped lightly aboard. Then I kept off, filled the mainsail, and bore away for a second junk. Up to this time there had been no noise, but from the first junk captured by the salmon boat an uproar now broke forth. There was shrill Oriental yelling, a pistol shot, and more yelling. "It's all up. They're warning the others," said George, the remaining patrolman, as he stood beside me in the cockpit. By this time we were in the thick of the fleet, and the alarm was spreading with incredible swiftness. The decks were beginning to swarm with half-awakened and half-naked Chinese. Cries and yells of warning and anger were flying over the quiet water, and somewhere a conch shell was being blown with great success. To the right of us I saw the captain of a junk chop away his mooring line with an axe and spring to help his crew at the hoisting of the huge, outlandish lug-sail. But to the left the first heads were popping up from below on another junk, and I rounded up the _Reindeer_ alongside long enough for George to spring aboard. The whole fleet was now under way. In addition to the sails they had gotten out long sweeps, and the bay was being ploughed in every direction by the fleeing junks. I was now alone in the _Reindeer_, seeking feverishly to capture a third prize. The first junk I took after was a clean miss, for it trimmed its sheets and shot away surprisingly into the wind. By fully half a point it outpointed the _Reindeer_, and I began to feel respect for the clumsy craft. Realizing the hopelessness of the pursuit, I filled away, threw out the main-sheet, and drove down before the wind upon the junks to leeward, where I had them at a disadvantage. The one I had selected wavered indecisively before me, and, as I swung wide to make the boarding gentle, filled suddenly and darted away, the swart Mongols shouting a wild rhythm as they bent to the sweeps. But I had been ready for this. I luffed suddenly. Putting the tiller hard down, and holding it down with my body, I brought the main-sheet in, hand over hand, on the run, so as to retain all possible striking force. The two starboard sweeps of the junk were crumpled up, and then the two boats came together with a crash. The _Reindeer's_ bowsprit, like a monstrous hand, reached over and ripped out the junk's chunky mast and towering sail. This was met by a curdling yell of rage. A big Chinaman, remarkably evil-looking, with his head swathed in a yellow silk handkerchief and face badly pock-marked, planted a pike-pole on the _Reindeer's_ bow and began to shove the entangled boats apart. Pausing long enough to let go the jib halyards, and just as the _Reindeer_ cleared and began to drift astern, I leaped aboard the junk with a line and made fast. He of the yellow handkerchief and pock-marked face came toward me threateningly, but I put my hand into my hip pocket, and he hesitated. I was unarmed, but the Chinese have learned to be fastidiously careful of American hip pockets, and it was upon this that I depended to keep him and his savage crew at a distance. I ordered him to drop the anchor at the junk's bow, to which he replied, "No sabbe." The crew responded in like fashion, and though I made my meaning plain by signs, they refused to understand. Realizing the inexpediency of discussing the matter, I went forward myself, overran the line, and let the anchor go. "Now get aboard, four of you," I said in a loud voice, indicating with my fingers that four of them were to go with me and the fifth was to remain by the junk. The Yellow Handkerchief hesitated; but I repeated the order fiercely (much more fiercely than I felt), at the same time sending my hand to my hip. Again the Yellow Handkerchief was overawed, and with surly looks he led three of his men aboard the _Reindeer_. I cast off at once, and, leaving the jib down, steered a course for George's junk. Here it was easier, for there were two of us, and George had a pistol to fall back on if it came to the worst. And here, as with my junk, four Chinese were transferred to the sloop and one left behind to take care of things. Four more were added to our passenger list from the third junk. By this time the salmon boat had collected its twelve prisoners and came alongside, badly overloaded. To make matters worse, as it was a small boat, the patrolmen were so jammed in with their prisoners that they would have little chance in case of trouble. "You'll have to help us out," said Le Grant. I looked over my prisoners, who had crowded into the cabin and on top of it. "I can take three," I answered. "Make it four," he suggested, "and I'll take Bill with me." (Bill was the third patrolman.) "We haven't elbow room here, and in case of a scuffle one white to every two of them will be just about the right proportion." The exchange was made, and the salmon boat got up its spritsail and headed down the bay toward the marshes off San Rafael. I ran up the jib and followed with the _Reindeer_. San Rafael, where we were to turn our catch over to the authorities, communicated with the bay by way of a long and tortuous slough, or marshland creek, which could be navigated only when the tide was in. Slack water had come, and, as the ebb was commencing, there was need for hurry if we cared to escape waiting half a day for the next tide. But the land breeze had begun to die away with the rising sun, and now came only in failing puffs. The salmon boat got out its oars and soon left us far astern. Some of the Chinese stood in the forward part of the cockpit, near the cabin doors, and once, as I leaned over the cockpit rail to flatten down the jib-sheet a bit, I felt some one brush against my hip pocket. I made no sign, but out of the corner of my eye I saw that the Yellow Handkerchief had discovered the emptiness of the pocket which had hitherto overawed him. To make matters serious, during all the excitement of boarding the junks the _Reindeer_ had not been bailed, and the water was beginning to slush over the cockpit floor. The shrimp-catchers pointed at it and looked to me questioningly. "Yes," I said. "Bime by, allee same dlown, velly quick, you no bail now. Sabbe?" No, they did not "sabbe," or at least they shook their heads to that effect, though they chattered most comprehendingly to one another in their own lingo. I pulled up three or four of the bottom boards, got a couple of buckets from a locker, and by unmistakable sign-language invited them to fall to. But they laughed, and some crowded into the cabin and some climbed up on top. Their laughter was not good laughter. There was a hint of menace in it, a maliciousness which their black looks verified. The Yellow Handkerchief, since his discovery of my empty pocket, had become most insolent in his bearing, and he wormed about among the other prisoners, talking to them with great earnestness. Swallowing my chagrin, I stepped down into the cockpit and began throwing out the water. But hardly had I begun, when the boom swung overhead, the mainsail filled with a jerk, and the _Reindeer_ heeled over. The day wind was springing up. George was the veriest of landlubbers, so I was forced to give over bailing and take the tiller. The wind was blowing directly off Point Pedro and the high mountains behind, and because of this was squally and uncertain, half the time bellying the canvas out, and the other half flapping it idly. George was about the most all-round helpless man I had ever met. Among his other disabilities, he was a consumptive, and I knew that if he attempted to bail, it might bring on a hemorrhage. Yet the rising water warned me that something must be done. Again I ordered the shrimp-catchers to lend a hand with the buckets. They laughed defiantly, and those inside the cabin, the water up to their ankles, shouted back and forth with those on top. "You'd better get out your gun and make them bail," I said to George. But he shook his head and showed all too plainly that he was afraid. The Chinese could see the funk he was in as well as I could, and their insolence became insufferable. Those in the cabin broke into the food lockers, and those above scrambled down and joined them in a feast on our crackers and canned goods. "What do we care?" George said weakly. I was fuming with helpless anger. "If they get out of hand, it will be too late to care. The best thing you can do is to get them in check right now." The water was rising higher and higher, and the gusts, forerunners of a steady breeze, were growing stiffer and stiffer. And between the gusts, the prisoners, having gotten away with a week's grub, took to crowding first to one side and then to the other till the _Reindeer_ rocked like a cockle-shell. Yellow Handkerchief approached me, and, pointing out his village on the Point Pedro beach, gave me to understand that if I turned the _Reindeer_ in that direction and put them ashore, they, in turn, would go to bailing. By now the water in the cabin was up to the bunks, and the bed-clothes were sopping. It was a foot deep on the cockpit floor. Nevertheless I refused, and I could see by George's face that he was disappointed. "If you don't show some nerve, they'll rush us and throw us overboard," I said to him. "Better give me your revolver, if you want to be safe." "The safest thing to do," he chattered cravenly, "is to put them ashore. I, for one, don't want to be drowned for the sake of a handful of dirty Chinamen." "And I, for another, don't care to give in to a handful of dirty Chinamen to escape drowning," I answered hotly. "You'll sink the _Reindeer_ under us all at this rate," he whined. "And what good that'll do I can't see." "Every man to his taste," I retorted. He made no reply, but I could see he was trembling pitifully. Between the threatening Chinese and the rising water he was beside himself with fright; and, more than the Chinese and the water, I feared him and what his fright might impel him to do. I could see him casting longing glances at the small skiff towing astern, so in the next calm I hauled the skiff alongside. As I did so his eyes brightened with hope; but before he could guess my intention, I stove the frail bottom through with a hand-axe, and the skiff filled to its gunwales. "It's sink or float together," I said. "And if you'll give me your revolver, I'll have the _Reindeer_ bailed out in a jiffy." "They're too many for us," he whimpered. "We can't fight them all." I turned my back on him in disgust. The salmon boat had long since passed from sight behind a little archipelago known as the Marin Islands, so no help could be looked for from that quarter. Yellow Handkerchief came up to me in a familiar manner, the water in the cockpit slushing against his legs. I did not like his looks. I felt that beneath the pleasant smile he was trying to put on his face there was an ill purpose. I ordered him back, and so sharply that he obeyed. "Now keep your distance," I commanded, "and don't you come closer!" "Wha' fo'?" he demanded indignantly. "I t'ink-um talkee talkee heap good." "Talkee talkee," I answered bitterly, for I knew now that he had understood all that passed between George and me. "What for talkee talkee? You no sabbe talkee talkee." He grinned in a sickly fashion. "Yep, I sabbe velly much. I honest Chinaman." "All right," I answered. "You sabbe talkee talkee, then you bail water plenty plenty. After that we talkee talkee." He shook his head, at the same time pointing over his shoulder to his comrades. "No can do. Velly bad Chinamen, heap velly bad. I t'ink-um--" "Stand back!" I shouted, for I had noticed his hand disappear beneath his blouse and his body prepare for a spring. Disconcerted, he went back into the cabin, to hold a council, apparently, from the way the jabbering broke forth. The _Reindeer_ was very deep in the water, and her movements had grown quite loggy. In a rough sea she would have inevitably swamped; but the wind, when it did blow, was off the land, and scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface of the bay. "I think you'd better head for the beach," George said abruptly, in a manner that told me his fear had forced him to make up his mind to some course of action. "I think not," I answered shortly. "I command you," he said in a bullying tone. "I was commanded to bring these prisoners into San Rafael," was my reply. Our voices were raised, and the sound of the altercation brought the Chinese out of the cabin. "Now will you head for the beach?" This from George, and I found myself looking into the muzzle of his revolver--of the revolver he dared to use on me, but was too cowardly to use on the prisoners. My brain seemed smitten with a dazzling brightness. The whole situation, in all its bearings, was focussed sharply before me--the shame of losing the prisoners, the worthlessness and cowardice of George, the meeting with Le Grant and the other patrol-men and the lame explanation; and then there was the fight I had fought so hard, victory wrenched from me just as I thought I had it within my grasp. And out of the tail of my eye I could see the Chinese crowding together by the cabin doors and leering triumphantly. It would never do. I threw my hand up and my head down. The first act elevated the muzzle, and the second removed my head from the path of the bullet which went whistling past. One hand closed on George's wrist, the other on the revolver. Yellow Handkerchief and his gang sprang toward me. It was now or never. Putting all my strength into a sudden effort, I swung George's body forward to meet them. Then I pulled back with equal suddenness, ripping the revolver out of his fingers and jerking him off his feet. He fell against Yellow Handkerchief's knees, who stumbled over him, and the pair wallowed in the bailing hole where the cockpit floor was torn open. The next instant I was covering them with my revolver, and the wild shrimp-catchers were cowering and cringing away. But I swiftly discovered that there was all the difference in the world between shooting men who are attacking and men who are doing nothing more than simply refusing to obey. For obey they would not when I ordered them into the bailing hole. I threatened them with the revolver, but they sat stolidly in the flooded cabin and on the roof and would not move. Fifteen minutes passed, the _Reindeer_ sinking deeper and deeper, her mainsail flapping in the calm. But from off the Point Pedro shore I saw a dark line form on the water and travel toward us. It was the steady breeze I had been expecting so long. I called to the Chinese and pointed it out. They hailed it with exclamations. Then I pointed to the sail and to the water in the _Reindeer_, and indicated by signs that when the wind reached the sail, what of the water aboard we would capsize. But they jeered defiantly, for they knew it was in my power to luff the helm and let go the main-sheet, so as to spill the wind and escape damage. But my mind was made up. I hauled in the main-sheet a foot or two, took a turn with it, and bracing my feet, put my back against the tiller. This left me one hand for the sheet and one for the revolver. The dark line drew nearer, and I could see them looking from me to it and back again with an apprehension they could not successfully conceal. My brain and will and endurance were pitted against theirs, and the problem was which could stand the strain of imminent death the longer and not give in. Then the wind struck us. The mainsheet tautened with a brisk rattling of the blocks, the boom uplifted, the sail bellied out, and the _Reindeer_ heeled over--over, and over, till the lee-rail went under, the deck went under, the cabin windows went under, and the bay began to pour in over the cockpit rail. So violently had she heeled over, that the men in the cabin had been thrown on top of one another into the lee bunk, where they squirmed and twisted and were washed about, those underneath being perilously near to drowning. The wind freshened a bit, and the _Reindeer_ went over farther than ever. For the moment I thought she was gone, and I knew that another puff like that and she surely would go. While I pressed her under and debated whether I should give up or not, the Chinese cried for mercy. I think it was the sweetest sound I have ever heard. And then, and not until then, did I luff up and ease out the main-sheet. The _Reindeer_ righted very slowly, and when she was on an even keel was so much awash that I doubted if she could be saved. But the Chinese scrambled madly into the cockpit and fell to bailing with buckets, pots, pans, and everything they could lay hands on. It was a beautiful sight to see that water flying over the side! And when the _Reindeer_ was high and proud on the water once more, we dashed away with the breeze on our quarter, and at the last possible moment crossed the mud flats and entered the slough. The spirit of the Chinese was broken, and so docile did they become that ere we made San Rafael they were out with the tow-rope, Yellow Handkerchief at the head of the line. As for George, it was his last trip with the fish patrol. He did not care for that sort of thing, he explained, and he thought a clerkship ashore was good enough for him. And we thought so, too. II THE KING OF THE GREEKS Big Alec had never been captured by the fish patrol. It was his boast that no man could take him alive, and it was his history that of the many men who had tried to take him dead none had succeeded. It was also history that at least two patrolmen who had tried to take him dead had died themselves. Further, no man violated the fish laws more systematically and deliberately than Big Alec. He was called "Big Alec" because of his gigantic stature. His height was six feet three inches, and he was correspondingly broad-shouldered and deep-chested. He was splendidly muscled and hard as steel, and there were innumerable stories in circulation among the fisher-folk concerning his prodigious strength. He was as bold and dominant of spirit as he was strong of body, and because of this he was widely known by another name, that of "The King of the Greeks." The fishing population was largely composed of Greeks, and they looked up to him and obeyed him as their chief. And as their chief, he fought their fights for them, saw that they were protected, saved them from the law when they fell into its clutches, and made them stand by one another and himself in time of trouble. In the old days, the fish patrol had attempted his capture many disastrous times and had finally given it over, so that when the word was out that he was coming to Benicia, I was most anxious to see him. But I did not have to hunt him up. In his usual bold way, the first thing he did on arriving was to hunt us up. Charley Le Grant and I at the time were under a patrolman named Carmintel, and the three of us were on the _Reindeer_, preparing for a trip, when Big Alec stepped aboard. Carmintel evidently knew him, for they shook hands in recognition. Big Alec took no notice of Charley or me. "I've come down to fish sturgeon a couple of months," he said to Carmintel. His eyes flashed with challenge as he spoke, and we noticed the patrolman's eyes drop before him. "That's all right, Alec," Carmintel said in a low voice. "I'll not bother you. Come on into the cabin, and we'll talk things over," he added. When they had gone inside and shut the doors after them, Charley winked with slow deliberation at me. But I was only a youngster, and new to men and the ways of some men, so I did not understand. Nor did Charley explain, though I felt there was something wrong about the business. Leaving them to their conference, at Charley's suggestion we boarded our skiff and pulled over to the Old Steamboat Wharf, where Big Alec's ark was lying. An ark is a house-boat of small though comfortable dimensions, and is as necessary to the Upper Bay fisherman as are nets and boats. We were both curious to see Big Alec's ark, for history said that it had been the scene of more than one pitched battle, and that it was riddled with bullet-holes. We found the holes (stopped with wooden plugs and painted over), but there were not so many as I had expected. Charley noted my look of disappointment, and laughed; and then to comfort me he gave an authentic account of one expedition which had descended upon Big Alec's floating home to capture him, alive preferably, dead if necessary. At the end of half a day's fighting, the patrolmen had drawn off in wrecked boats, with one of their number killed and three wounded. And when they returned next morning with reënforcements they found only the mooring-stakes of Big Alec's ark; the ark itself remained hidden for months in the fastnesses of the Suisun tules. "But why was he not hanged for murder?" I demanded. "Surely the United States is powerful enough to bring such a man to justice." "He gave himself up and stood trial," Charley answered. "It cost him fifty thousand dollars to win the case, which he did on technicalities and with the aid of the best lawyers in the state. Every Greek fisherman on the river contributed to the sum. Big Alec levied and collected the tax, for all the world like a king. The United States may be all-powerful, my lad, but the fact remains that Big Alec is a king inside the United States, with a country and subjects all his own." "But what are you going to do about his fishing for sturgeon? He's bound to fish with a 'Chinese line.'" Charley shrugged his shoulders. "We'll see what we will see," he said enigmatically. Now a "Chinese line" is a cunning device invented by the people whose name it bears. By a simple system of floats, weights, and anchors, thousands of hooks, each on a separate leader, are suspended at a distance of from six inches to a foot above the bottom. The remarkable thing about such a line is the hook. It is barbless, and in place of the barb, the hook is filed long and tapering to a point as sharp as that of a needle. These hooks are only a few inches apart, and when several thousand of them are suspended just above the bottom, like a fringe, for a couple of hundred fathoms, they present a formidable obstacle to the fish that travel along the bottom. Such a fish is the sturgeon, which goes rooting along like a pig, and indeed is often called "pig-fish." Pricked by the first hook it touches, the sturgeon gives a startled leap and comes into contact with half a dozen more hooks. Then it threshes about wildly, until it receives hook after hook in its soft flesh; and the hooks, straining from many different angles, hold the luckless fish fast until it is drowned. Because no sturgeon can pass through a Chinese line, the device is called a trap in the fish laws; and because it bids fair to exterminate the sturgeon, it is branded by the fish laws as illegal. And such a line, we were confident, Big Alec intended setting, in open and flagrant violation of the law. Several days passed after the visit of Big Alec, during which Charley and I kept a sharp watch on him. He towed his ark around the Solano Wharf and into the big bight at Turner's Shipyard. The bight we knew to be good ground for sturgeon, and there we felt sure the King of the Greeks intended to begin operations. The tide circled like a mill-race in and out of this bight, and made it possible to raise, lower, or set a Chinese line only at slack water. So between the tides Charley and I made it a point for one or the other of us to keep a lookout from the Solano Wharf. On the fourth day I was lying in the sun behind the stringer-piece of the wharf, when I saw a skiff leave the distant shore and pull out into the bight. In an instant the glasses were at my eyes and I was following every movement of the skiff. There were two men in it, and though it was a good mile away, I made out one of them to be Big Alec; and ere the skiff returned to shore I made out enough more to know that the Greek had set his line. "Big Alec has a Chinese line out in the bight off Turner's Shipyard," Charley Le Grant said that afternoon to Carmintel. A fleeting expression of annoyance passed over the patrolman's face, and then he said, "Yes?" in an absent way, and that was all. Charley bit his lip with suppressed anger and turned on his heel. "Are you game, my lad?" he said to me later on in the evening, just as we finished washing down the _Reindeer's_ decks and were preparing to turn in. A lump came up in my throat, and I could only nod my head. "Well, then," and Charley's eyes glittered in a determined way, "we've got to capture Big Alec between us, you and I, and we've got to do it in spite of Carmintel. Will you lend a hand?" "It's a hard proposition, but we can do it," he added after a pause. "Of course we can," I supplemented enthusiastically. And then he said, "Of course we can," and we shook hands on it and went to bed. But it was no easy task we had set ourselves. In order to convict a man of illegal fishing, it was necessary to catch him in the act with all the evidence of the crime about him--the hooks, the lines, the fish, and the man himself. This meant that we must take Big Alec on the open water, where he could see us coming and prepare for us one of the warm receptions for which he was noted. "There's no getting around it," Charley said one morning. "If we can only get alongside it's an even toss, and there's nothing left for us but to try and get alongside. Come on, lad." We were in the Columbia River salmon boat, the one we had used against the Chinese shrimp-catchers. Slack water had come, and as we dropped around the end of the Solano Wharf we saw Big Alec at work, running his line and removing the fish. "Change places," Charley commanded, "and steer just astern of him as though you're going into the shipyard." I took the tiller, and Charley sat down on a thwart amidships, placing his revolver handily beside him. "If he begins to shoot," he cautioned, "get down in the bottom and steer from there, so that nothing more than your hand will be exposed." I nodded, and we kept silent after that, the boat slipping gently through the water and Big Alec growing nearer and nearer. We could see him quite plainly, gaffing the sturgeon and throwing them into the boat while his companion ran the line and cleared the hooks as he dropped them back into the water. Nevertheless, we were five hundred yards away when the big fisherman hailed us. "Here! You! What do you want?" he shouted. "Keep going," Charley whispered, "just as though you didn't hear him." The next few moments were very anxious ones. The fisherman was studying us sharply, while we were gliding up on him every second. "You keep off if you know what's good for you!" he called out suddenly, as though he had made up his mind as to who and what we were. "If you don't, I'll fix you!" He brought a rifle to his shoulder and trained it on me. "Now will you keep off?" he demanded. I could hear Charley groan with disappointment. "Keep off," he whispered; "it's all up for this time." I put up the tiller and eased the sheet, and the salmon boat ran off five or six points. Big Alec watched us till we were out of range, when he returned to his work. "You'd better leave Big Alec alone," Carmintel said, rather sourly, to Charley that night. "So he's been complaining to you, has he?" Charley said significantly. Carmintel flushed painfully. "You'd better leave him alone, I tell you," he repeated. "He's a dangerous man, and it won't pay to fool with him." "Yes," Charley answered softly; "I've heard that it pays better to leave him alone." This was a direct thrust at Carmintel, and we could see by the expression of his face that it sank home. For it was common knowledge that Big Alec was as willing to bribe as to fight, and that of late years more than one patrolman had handled the fisherman's money. "Do you mean to say--" Carmintel began, in a bullying tone. But Charley cut him off shortly. "I mean to say nothing," he said. "You heard what I said, and if the cap fits, why--" He shrugged his shoulders, and Carmintel glowered at him, speechless. "What we want is imagination," Charley said to me one day, when we had attempted to creep upon Big Alec in the gray of dawn and had been shot at for our trouble. And thereafter, and for many days, I cudgelled my brains trying to imagine some possible way by which two men, on an open stretch of water, could capture another who knew how to use a rifle and was never to be found without one. Regularly, every slack water, without slyness, boldly and openly in the broad day, Big Alec was to be seen running his line. And what made it particularly exasperating was the fact that every fisherman, from Benicia to Vallejo, knew that he was successfully defying us. Carmintel also bothered us, for he kept us busy among the shad-fishers of San Pablo, so that we had little time to spare on the King of the Greeks. But Charley's wife and children lived at Benicia, and we had made the place our headquarters, so that we always returned to it. "I'll tell you what we can do," I said, after several fruitless weeks had passed; "we can wait some slack water till Big Alec has run his line and gone ashore with the fish, and then we can go out and capture the line. It will put him to time and expense to make another, and then we'll figure to capture that too. If we can't capture him, we can discourage him, you see." Charley saw, and said it wasn't a bad idea. We watched our chance, and the next low-water slack, after Big Alec had removed the fish from the line and returned ashore, we went out in the salmon boat. We had the bearings of the line from shore marks, and we knew we would have no difficulty in locating it. The first of the flood tide was setting in, when we ran below where we thought the line was stretched and dropped over a fishing-boat anchor. Keeping a short rope to the anchor, so that it barely touched the bottom, we dragged it slowly along until it stuck and the boat fetched up hard and fast. "We've got it," Charley cried. "Come on and lend a hand to get it in." Together we hove up the rope till the anchor came in sight with the sturgeon line caught across one of the flukes. Scores of the murderous-looking hooks flashed into sight as we cleared the anchor, and we had just started to run along the line to the end where we could begin to lift it, when a sharp thud in the boat startled us. We looked about, but saw nothing and returned to our work. An instant later there was a similar sharp thud and the gunwale splintered between Charley's body and mine. "That's remarkably like a bullet, lad," he said reflectively. "And it's a long shot Big Alec's making." "And he's using smokeless powder," he concluded, after an examination of the mile-distant shore. "That's why we can't hear the report." I looked at the shore, but could see no sign of Big Alec, who was undoubtedly hidden in some rocky nook with us at his mercy. A third bullet struck the water, glanced, passed singing over our heads, and struck the water again beyond. "I guess we'd better get out of this," Charley remarked coolly. "What do you think, lad?" I thought so, too, and said we didn't want the line anyway. Whereupon we cast off and hoisted the spritsail. The bullets ceased at once, and we sailed away, unpleasantly confident that Big Alec was laughing at our discomfiture. And more than that, the next day on the fishing wharf, where we were inspecting nets, he saw fit to laugh and sneer at us, and this before all the fishermen. Charley's face went black with anger; but beyond promising Big Alec that in the end he would surely land him behind the bars, he controlled himself and said nothing. The King of the Greeks made his boast that no fish patrol had ever taken him or ever could take him, and the fishermen cheered him and said it was true. They grew excited, and it looked like trouble for a while; but Big Alec asserted his kingship and quelled them. Carmintel also laughed at Charley, and dropped sarcastic remarks, and made it hard for him. But Charley refused to be angered, though he told me in confidence that he intended to capture Big Alec if it took all the rest of his life to accomplish it. "I don't know how I'll do it," he said, "but do it I will, as sure as I am Charley Le Grant. The idea will come to me at the right and proper time, never fear." And at the right time it came, and most unexpectedly. Fully a month had passed, and we were constantly up and down the river, and down and up the bay, with no spare moments to devote to the particular fisherman who ran a Chinese line in the bight of Turner's Shipyard. We had called in at Selby's Smelter one afternoon, while on patrol work, when all unknown to us our opportunity happened along. It appeared in the guise of a helpless yacht loaded with seasick people, so we could hardly be expected to recognize it as the opportunity. It was a large sloop-yacht, and it was helpless inasmuch as the trade-wind was blowing half a gale and there were no capable sailors aboard. [Illustration: "He saw fit to laugh sneer at us, before all the fishermen."] From the wharf at Selby's we watched with careless interest the lubberly manoeuvre performed of bringing the yacht to anchor, and the equally lubberly manoeuvre of sending the small boat ashore. A very miserable-looking man in draggled ducks, after nearly swamping the boat in the heavy seas, passed us the painter and climbed out. He staggered about as though the wharf were rolling, and told us his troubles, which were the troubles of the yacht. The only rough-weather sailor aboard, the man on whom they all depended, had been called back to San Francisco by a telegram, and they had attempted to continue the cruise alone. The high wind and big seas of San Pablo Bay had been too much for them; all hands were sick, nobody knew anything or could do anything; and so they had run in to the smelter either to desert the yacht or to get somebody to bring it to Benicia. In short, did we know of any sailors who would bring the yacht into Benicia? Charley looked at me. The _Reindeer_ was lying in a snug place. We had nothing on hand in the way of patrol work till midnight. With the wind then blowing, we could sail the yacht into Benicia in a couple of hours, have several more hours ashore, and come back to the smelter on the evening train. "All right, captain," Charley said to the disconsolate yachtsman, who smiled in sickly fashion at the title. "I'm only the owner," he explained. We rowed him aboard in much better style than he had come ashore, and saw for ourselves the helplessness of the passengers. There were a dozen men and women, and all of them too sick even to appear grateful at our coming. The yacht was rolling savagely, broad on, and no sooner had the owner's feet touched the deck than he collapsed and joined the others. Not one was able to bear a hand, so Charley and I between us cleared the badly tangled running gear, got up sail, and hoisted anchor. It was a rough trip, though a swift one. The Carquinez Straits were a welter of foam and smother, and we came through them wildly before the wind, the big mainsail alternately dipping and flinging its boom skyward as we tore along. But the people did not mind. They did not mind anything. Two or three, including the owner, sprawled in the cockpit, shuddering when the yacht lifted and raced and sank dizzily into the trough, and between-whiles regarding the shore with yearning eyes. The rest were huddled on the cabin floor among the cushions. Now and again some one groaned, but for the most part they were as limp as so many dead persons. As the bight at Turner's Shipyard opened out, Charley edged into it to get the smoother water. Benicia was in view, and we were bowling along over comparatively easy water, when a speck of a boat danced up ahead of us, directly in our course. It was low-water slack. Charley and I looked at each other. No word was spoken, but at once the yacht began a most astonishing performance, veering and yawing as though the greenest of amateurs was at the wheel. It was a sight for sailormen to see. To all appearances, a runaway yacht was careering madly over the bight, and now and again yielding a little bit to control in a desperate effort to make Benicia. The owner forgot his seasickness long enough to look anxious. The speck of a boat grew larger and larger, till we could see Big Alec and his partner, with a turn of the sturgeon line around a cleat, resting from their labor to laugh at us. Charley pulled his sou'wester over his eyes, and I followed his example, though I could not guess the idea he evidently had in mind and intended to carry into execution. We came foaming down abreast of the skiff, so close that we could hear above the wind the voices of Big Alec and his mate as they shouted at us with all the scorn that professional watermen feel for amateurs, especially when amateurs are making fools of themselves. We thundered on past the fishermen, and nothing had happened. Charley grinned at the disappointment he saw in my face, and then shouted: "Stand by the main-sheet to jibe!" He put the wheel hard over, and the yacht whirled around obediently. The main-sheet slacked and dipped, then shot over our heads after the boom and tautened with a crash on the traveller. The yacht heeled over almost on her beam ends, and a great wail went up from the seasick passengers as they swept across the cabin floor in a tangled mass and piled into a heap in the starboard bunks. But we had no time for them. The yacht, completing the manoeuvre, headed into the wind with slatting canvas, and righted to an even keel. We were still plunging ahead, and directly in our path was the skiff. I saw Big Alec dive over-board and his mate leap for our bowsprit. Then came the crash as we struck the boat, and a series of grinding bumps as it passed under our bottom. "That fixes his rifle," I heard Charley mutter, as he sprang upon the deck to look for Big Alec somewhere astern. The wind and sea quickly stopped our forward movement, and we began to drift backward over the spot where the skiff had been. Big Alec's black head and swarthy face popped up within arm's reach; and all unsuspecting and very angry with what he took to be the clumsiness of amateur sailors, he was hauled aboard. Also he was out of breath, for he had dived deep and stayed down long to escape our keel. The next instant, to the perplexity and consternation of the owner, Charley was on top of Big Alec in the cockpit, and I was helping bind him with gaskets. The owner was dancing excitedly about and demanding an explanation, but by that time Big Alec's partner had crawled aft from the bowsprit and was peering apprehensively over the rail into the cockpit. Charley's arm shot around his neck and the man landed on his back beside Big Alec. "More gaskets!" Charley shouted, and I made haste to supply them. The wrecked skiff was rolling sluggishly a short distance to windward, and I trimmed the sheets while Charley took the wheel and steered for it. "These two men are old offenders," he explained to the angry owner; "and they are most persistent violators of the fish and game laws. You have seen them caught in the act, and you may expect to be subpoenaed as witness for the state when the trial comes off." As he spoke he rounded alongside the skiff. It had been torn from the line, a section of which was dragging to it. He hauled in forty or fifty feet with a young sturgeon still fast in a tangle of barbless hooks, slashed that much of the line free with his knife, and tossed it into the cockpit beside the prisoners. "And there's the evidence, Exhibit A, for the people," Charley continued. "Look it over carefully so that you may identify it in the court-room with the time and place of capture." And then, in triumph, with no more veering and yawing, we sailed into Benicia, the King of the Greeks bound hard and fast in the cockpit, and for the first time in his life a prisoner of the fish patrol. III A RAID ON THE OYSTER PIRATES Of the fish patrolmen under whom we served at various times, Charley Le Grant and I were agreed, I think, that Neil Partington was the best. He was neither dishonest nor cowardly; and while he demanded strict obedience when we were under his orders, at the same time our relations were those of easy comradeship, and he permitted us a freedom to which we were ordinarily unaccustomed, as the present story will show. Neil's family lived in Oakland, which is on the Lower Bay, not more than six miles across the water from San Francisco. One day, while scouting among the Chinese shrimp-catchers of Point Pedro, he received word that his wife was very ill; and within the hour the _Reindeer_ was bowling along for Oakland, with a stiff northwest breeze astern. We ran up the Oakland Estuary and came to anchor, and in the days that followed, while Neil was ashore, we tightened up the _Reindeer's_ rigging, overhauled the ballast, scraped down, and put the sloop into thorough shape. This done, time hung heavy on our hands. Neil's wife was dangerously ill, and the outlook was a week's lie-over, awaiting the crisis. Charley and I roamed the docks, wondering what we should do, and so came upon the oyster fleet lying at the Oakland City Wharf. In the main they were trim, natty boats, made for speed and bad weather, and we sat down on the stringer-piece of the dock to study them. "A good catch, I guess," Charley said, pointing to the heaps of oysters, assorted in three sizes, which lay upon their decks. Pedlers were backing their wagons to the edge of the wharf, and from the bargaining and chaffering that went on, I managed to learn the selling price of the oysters. "That boat must have at least two hundred dollars' worth aboard," I calculated. "I wonder how long it took to get the load?" "Three or four days," Charley answered. "Not bad wages for two men--twenty-five dollars a day apiece." The boat we were discussing, the _Ghost_, lay directly beneath us. Two men composed its crew. One was a squat, broad-shouldered fellow with remarkably long and gorilla-like arms, while the other was tall and well proportioned, with clear blue eyes and a mat of straight black hair. So unusual and striking was this combination of hair and eyes that Charley and I remained somewhat longer than we intended. And it was well that we did. A stout, elderly man, with the dress and carriage of a successful merchant, came up and stood beside us, looking down upon the deck of the _Ghost_. He appeared angry, and the longer he looked the angrier he grew. "Those are my oysters," he said at last. "I know they are my oysters. You raided my beds last night and robbed me of them." The tall man and the short man on the _Ghost_ looked up. "Hello, Taft," the short man said, with insolent familiarity. (Among the bayfarers he had gained the nickname of "The Centipede" on account of his long arms.) "Hello, Taft," he repeated, with the same touch of insolence. "Wot 'r you growlin' about now?" "Those are my oysters--that's what I said. You've stolen them from my beds." "Yer mighty wise, ain't ye?" was the Centipede's sneering reply. "S'pose you can tell your oysters wherever you see 'em?" "Now, in my experience," broke in the tall man, "oysters is oysters wherever you find 'em, an' they're pretty much alike all the Bay over, and the world over, too, for that matter. We're not wantin' to quarrel with you, Mr. Taft, but we jes' wish you wouldn't insinuate that them oysters is yours an' that we're thieves an' robbers till you can prove the goods." "I know they're mine; I'd stake my life on it!" Mr. Taft snorted. "Prove it," challenged the tall man, who we afterward learned was known as "The Porpoise" because of his wonderful swimming abilities. Mr. Taft shrugged his shoulders helplessly. Of course he could not prove the oysters to be his, no matter how certain he might be. "I'd give a thousand dollars to have you men behind the bars!" he cried. "I'll give fifty dollars a head for your arrest and conviction, all of you!" A roar of laughter went up from the different boats, for the rest of the pirates had been listening to the discussion. "There's more money in oysters," the Porpoise remarked dryly. Mr. Taft turned impatiently on his heel and walked away. From out of the corner of his eye, Charley noted the way he went. Several minutes later, when he had disappeared around a corner, Charley rose lazily to his feet. I followed him, and we sauntered off in the opposite direction to that taken by Mr. Taft. "Come on! Lively!" Charley whispered, when we passed from the view of the oyster fleet. Our course was changed at once, and we dodged around corners and raced up and down side-streets till Mr. Taft's generous form loomed up ahead of us. "I'm going to interview him about that reward," Charley explained, as we rapidly overhauled the oyster-bed owner. "Neil will be delayed here for a week, and you and I might as well be doing something in the meantime. What do you say?" "Of course, of course," Mr. Taft said, when Charley had introduced himself and explained his errand. "Those thieves are robbing me of thousands of dollars every year, and I shall be glad to break them up at any price,--yes, sir, at any price. As I said, I'll give fifty dollars a head, and call it cheap at that. They've robbed my beds, torn down my signs, terrorized my watchmen, and last year killed one of them. Couldn't prove it. All done in the blackness of night. All I had was a dead watchman and no evidence. The detectives could do nothing. Nobody has been able to do anything with those men. We have never succeeded in arresting one of them. So I say, Mr.---- What did you say your name was?" "Le Grant," Charley answered. "So I say, Mr. Le Grant, I am deeply obliged to you for the assistance you offer. And I shall be glad, most glad, sir, to co-operate with you in every way. My watchmen and boats are at your disposal. Come and see me at the San Francisco offices any time, or telephone at my expense. And don't be afraid of spending money. I'll foot your expenses, whatever they are, so long as they are within reason. The situation is growing desperate, and something must be done to determine whether I or that band of ruffians own those oyster beds." "Now we'll see Neil," Charley said, when he had seen Mr. Taft upon his train to San Francisco. Not only did Neil Partington interpose no obstacle to our adventure, but he proved to be of the greatest assistance. Charley and I knew nothing of the oyster industry, while his head was an encyclopædia of facts concerning it. Also, within an hour or so, he was able to bring to us a Greek boy of seventeen or eighteen who knew thoroughly well the ins and outs of oyster piracy. At this point I may as well explain that we of the fish patrol were free lances in a way. While Neil Partington, who was a patrolman proper, received a regular salary, Charley and I, being merely deputies, received only what we earned--that is to say, a certain percentage of the fines imposed on convicted violators of the fish laws. Also, any rewards that chanced our way were ours. We offered to share with Partington whatever we should get from Mr. Taft, but the patrolman would not hear of it. He was only too happy, he said, to do a good turn for us, who had done so many for him. We held a long council of war, and mapped out the following line of action. Our faces were unfamiliar on the Lower Bay, but as the _Reindeer_ was well known as a fish-patrol sloop, the Greek boy, whose name was Nicholas, and I were to sail some innocent-looking craft down to Asparagus Island and join the oyster pirates' fleet. Here, according to Nicholas's description of the beds and the manner of raiding, it was possible for us to catch the pirates in the act of stealing oysters, and at the same time to get them in our power. Charley was to be on the shore, with Mr. Taft's watchmen and a posse of constables, to help us at the right time. "I know just the boat," Neil said, at the conclusion of the discussion, "a crazy old sloop that's lying over at Tiburon. You and Nicholas can go over by the ferry, charter it for a song, and sail direct for the beds." "Good luck be with you, boys," he said at parting, two days later. "Remember, they are dangerous men, so be careful." Nicholas and I succeeded in chartering the sloop very cheaply; and between laughs, while getting up sail, we agreed that she was even crazier and older than she had been described. She was a big, flat-bottomed, square-sterned craft, sloop-rigged, with a sprung mast, slack rigging, dilapidated sails, and rotten running-gear, clumsy to handle and uncertain in bringing about, and she smelled vilely of coal tar, with which strange stuff she had been smeared from stem to stern and from cabin-roof to centreboard. And to cap it all, _Coal Tar Maggie_ was printed in great white letters the whole length of either side. It was an uneventful though laughable run from Tiburon to Asparagus Island, where we arrived in the afternoon of the following day. The oyster pirates, a fleet of a dozen sloops, were lying at anchor on what was known as the "Deserted Beds." The _Coal Tar Maggie_ came sloshing into their midst with a light breeze astern, and they crowded on deck to see us. Nicholas and I had caught the spirit of the crazy craft, and we handled her in most lubberly fashion. "Wot is it?" some one called. "Name it 'n' ye kin have it!" called another. "I swan naow, ef it ain't the old Ark itself!" mimicked the Centipede from the deck of the _Ghost_. "Hey! Ahoy there, clipper ship!" another wag shouted. "Wot's yer port?" We took no notice of the joking, but acted, after the manner of greenhorns, as though the _Coal Tar Maggie_ required our undivided attention. I rounded her well to windward of the _Ghost_, and Nicholas ran for'ard to drop the anchor. To all appearances it was a bungle, the way the chain tangled and kept the anchor from reaching the bottom. And to all appearances Nicholas and I were terribly excited as we strove to clear it. At any rate, we quite deceived the pirates, who took huge delight in our predicament. [Illustration: "The Centipede and the Porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter."] But the chain remained tangled, and amid all kinds of mocking advice we drifted down upon and fouled the _Ghost_, whose bowsprit poked square through our mainsail and ripped a hole in it as big as a barn door. The Centipede and the Porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter, and left us to get clear as best we could. This, with much unseamanlike performance, we succeeded in doing, and likewise in clearing the anchor-chain, of which we let out about three hundred feet. With only ten feet of water under us, this would permit the _Coal Tar Maggie_ to swing in a circle six hundred feet in diameter, in which circle she would be able to foul at least half the fleet. The oyster pirates lay snugly together at short hawsers, the weather being fine, and they protested loudly at our ignorance in putting out such an unwarranted length of anchor-chain. And not only did they protest, for they made us heave it in again, all but thirty feet. Having sufficiently impressed them with our general lubberliness, Nicholas and I went below to congratulate ourselves and to cook supper. Hardly had we finished the meal and washed the dishes, when a skiff ground against the _Coal Tar Maggie's_ side, and heavy feet trampled on deck. Then the Centipede's brutal face appeared in the companionway, and he descended into the cabin, followed by the Porpoise. Before they could seat themselves on a bunk, another skiff came alongside, and another, and another, till the whole fleet was represented by the gathering in the cabin. "Where'd you swipe the old tub?" asked a squat and hairy man, with cruel eyes and Mexican features. "Didn't swipe it," Nicholas answered, meeting them on their own ground and encouraging the idea that we had stolen the _Coal Tar Maggie_. "And if we did, what of it?" "Well, I don't admire your taste, that's all," sneered he of the Mexican features. "I'd rot on the beach first before I'd take a tub that couldn't get out of its own way." "How were we to know till we tried her?" Nicholas asked, so innocently as to cause a laugh. "And how do you get the oysters?" he hurried on. "We want a load of them; that's what we came for, a load of oysters." "What d'ye want 'em for?" demanded the Porpoise. "Oh, to give away to our friends, of course," Nicholas retorted. "That's what you do with yours, I suppose." This started another laugh, and as our visitors grew more genial we could see that they had not the slightest suspicion of our identity or purpose. "Didn't I see you on the dock in Oakland the other day?" the Centipede asked suddenly of me. "Yep," I answered boldly, taking the bull by the horns. "I was watching you fellows and figuring out whether we'd go oystering or not. It's a pretty good business, I calculate, and so we're going in for it. That is," I hastened to add, "if you fellows don't mind." "I'll tell you one thing, which ain't two things," he replied, "and that is you'll have to hump yerself an' get a better boat. We won't stand to be disgraced by any such box as this. Understand?" "Sure," I said. "Soon as we sell some oysters we'll outfit in style." "And if you show yerself square an' the right sort," he went on, "why, you kin run with us. But if you don't" (here his voice became stern and menacing), "why, it'll be the sickest day of yer life. Understand?" "Sure," I said. After that and more warning and advice of similar nature, the conversation became general, and we learned that the beds were to be raided that very night. As they got into their boats, after an hour's stay, we were invited to join them in the raid with the assurance of "the more the merrier." "Did you notice that short, Mexican-looking chap?" Nicholas asked, when they had departed to their various sloops. "He's Barchi, of the Sporting Life Gang, and the fellow that came with him is Skilling. They're both out now on five thousand dollars' bail." I had heard of the Sporting Life Gang before, a crowd of hoodlums and criminals that terrorized the lower quarters of Oakland, and two-thirds of which were usually to be found in state's prison for crimes that ranged from perjury and ballot-box stuffing to murder. "They are not regular oyster pirates," Nicholas continued. "They've just come down for the lark and to make a few dollars. But we'll have to watch out for them." We sat in the cockpit and discussed the details of our plan till eleven o'clock had passed, when we heard the rattle of an oar in a boat from the direction of the _Ghost_. We hauled up our own skiff, tossed in a few sacks, and rowed over. There we found all the skiffs assembling, it being the intention to raid the beds in a body. To my surprise, I found barely a foot of water where we had dropped anchor in ten feet. It was the big June run-out of the full moon, and as the ebb had yet an hour and a half to run, I knew that our anchorage would be dry ground before slack water. Mr. Taft's beds were three miles away, and for a long time we rowed silently in the wake of the other boats, once in a while grounding and our oar blades constantly striking bottom. At last we came upon soft mud covered with not more than two inches of water--not enough to float the boats. But the pirates at once were over the side, and by pushing and pulling on the flat-bottomed skiffs, we moved steadily along. The full moon was partly obscured by high-flying clouds, but the pirates went their way with the familiarity born of long practice. After half a mile of the mud, we came upon a deep channel, up which we rowed, with dead oyster shoals looming high and dry on either side. At last we reached the picking grounds. Two men, on one of the shoals, hailed us and warned us off. But the Centipede, the Porpoise, Barchi, and Skilling took the lead, and followed by the rest of us, at least thirty men in half as many boats, rowed right up to the watchmen. "You'd better slide outa this here," Barchi said threateningly, "or we'll fill you so full of holes you wouldn't float in molasses." The watchmen wisely retreated before so overwhelming a force, and rowed their boat along the channel toward where the shore should be. Besides, it was in the plan for them to retreat. We hauled the noses of the boats up on the shore side of a big shoal, and all hands, with sacks, spread out and began picking. Every now and again the clouds thinned before the face of the moon, and we could see the big oysters quite distinctly. In almost no time sacks were filled and carried back to the boats, where fresh ones were obtained. Nicholas and I returned often and anxiously to the boats with our little loads, but always found some one of the pirates coming or going. "Never mind," he said; "no hurry. As they pick farther and farther away, it will take too long to carry to the boats. Then they'll stand the full sacks on end and pick them up when the tide comes in and the skiffs will float to them." Fully half an hour went by, and the tide had begun to flood, when this came to pass. Leaving the pirates at their work, we stole back to the boats. One by one, and noiselessly, we shoved them off and made them fast in an awkward flotilla. Just as we were shoving off the last skiff, our own, one of the men came upon us. It was Barchi. His quick eye took in the situation at a glance, and he sprang for us; but we went clear with a mighty shove, and he was left floundering in the water over his head. As soon as he got back to the shoal he raised his voice and gave the alarm. We rowed with all our strength, but it was slow going with so many boats in tow. A pistol cracked from the shoal, a second, and a third; then a regular fusillade began. The bullets spat and spat all about us; but thick clouds had covered the moon, and in the dim darkness it was no more than random firing. It was only by chance that we could be hit. "Wish we had a little steam launch," I panted. "I'd just as soon the moon stayed hidden," Nicholas panted back. It was slow work, but every stroke carried us farther away from the shoal and nearer the shore, till at last the shooting died down, and when the moon did come out we were too far away to be in danger. Not long afterward we answered a shoreward hail, and two Whitehall boats, each pulled by three pairs of oars, darted up to us. Charley's welcome face bent over to us, and he gripped us by the hands while he cried, "Oh, you joys! You joys! Both of you!" When the flotilla had been landed, Nicholas and I and a watchman rowed out in one of the Whitehalls, with Charley in the stern-sheets. Two other Whitehalls followed us, and as the moon now shone brightly, we easily made out the oyster pirates on their lonely shoal. As we drew closer, they fired a rattling volley from their revolvers, and we promptly retreated beyond range. "Lot of time," Charley said. "The flood is setting in fast, and by the time it's up to their necks there won't be any fight left in them." So we lay on our oars and waited for the tide to do its work. This was the predicament of the pirates: because of the big run-out, the tide was now rushing back like a mill-race, and it was impossible for the strongest swimmer in the world to make against it the three miles to the sloops. Between the pirates and the shore were we, precluding escape in that direction. On the other hand, the water was rising rapidly over the shoals, and it was only a question of a few hours when it would be over their heads. It was beautifully calm, and in the brilliant white moonlight we watched them through our night glasses and told Charley of the voyage of the _Coal Tar Maggie_. One o'clock came, and two o'clock, and the pirates were clustering on the highest shoal, waist-deep in water. "Now this illustrates the value of imagination," Charley was saying. "Taft has been trying for years to get them, but he went at it with bull strength and failed. Now we used our heads...." Just then I heard a scarcely audible gurgle of water, and holding up my hand for silence, I turned and pointed to a ripple slowly widening out in a growing circle. It was not more than fifty feet from us. We kept perfectly quiet and waited. After a minute the water broke six feet away, and a black head and white shoulder showed in the moonlight. With a snort of surprise and of suddenly expelled breath, the head and shoulder went down. We pulled ahead several strokes and drifted with the current. Four pairs of eyes searched the surface of the water, but never another ripple showed, and never another glimpse did we catch of the black head and white shoulder. "It's the Porpoise," Nicholas said. "It would take broad daylight for us to catch him." At a quarter to three the pirates gave their first sign of weakening. We heard cries for help, in the unmistakable voice of the Centipede, and this time, on rowing closer, we were not fired upon. The Centipede was in a truly perilous plight. Only the heads and shoulders of his fellow-marauders showed above the water as they braced themselves against the current, while his feet were off the bottom and they were supporting him. "Now, lads," Charley said briskly, "we have got you, and you can't get away. If you cut up rough, we'll have to leave you alone and the water will finish you. But if you're good, we'll take you aboard, one man at a time, and you'll all be saved. What do you say?" "Ay," they chorused hoarsely between their chattering teeth. "Then one man at a time, and the short men first." The Centipede was the first to be pulled aboard, and he came willingly, though he objected when the constable put the handcuffs on him. Barchi was next hauled in, quite meek and resigned from his soaking. When we had ten in our boat we drew back, and the second Whitehall was loaded. The third Whitehall received nine prisoners only--a catch of twenty-nine in all. "You didn't get the Porpoise," the Centipede said exultantly, as though his escape materially diminished our success. Charley laughed. "But we saw him just the same, a-snorting for shore like a puffing pig." It was a mild and shivering band of pirates that we marched up the beach to the oyster house. In answer to Charley's knock, the door was flung open, and a pleasant wave of warm air rushed out upon us. "You can dry your clothes here, lads, and get some hot coffee," Charley announced, as they filed in. And there, sitting ruefully by the fire, with a steaming mug in his hand, was the Porpoise. With one accord Nicholas and I looked at Charley. He laughed gleefully. "That comes of imagination," he said. "When you see a thing, you've got to see it all around, or what's the good of seeing it at all? I saw the beach, so I left a couple of constables behind to keep an eye on it. That's all." IV THE SIEGE OF THE "LANCASHIRE QUEEN" Possibly our most exasperating experience on the fish patrol was when Charley Le Grant and I laid a two weeks' siege to a big four-masted English ship. Before we had finished with the affair, it became a pretty mathematical problem, and it was by the merest chance that we came into possession of the instrument that brought it to a successful termination. After our raid on the oyster pirates we had returned to Oakland, where two more weeks passed before Neil Partington's wife was out of danger and on the highroad to recovery. So it was after an absence of a month, all told, that we turned the _Reindeer's_ nose toward Benicia. When the cat's away the mice will play, and in these four weeks the fishermen had become very bold in violating the law. When we passed Point Pedro we noticed many signs of activity among the shrimp-catchers, and, well into San Pablo Bay, we observed a widely scattered fleet of Upper Bay fishing-boats hastily pulling in their nets and getting up sail. This was suspicious enough to warrant investigation, and the first and only boat we succeeded in boarding proved to have an illegal net. The law permitted no smaller mesh for catching shad than one that measured seven and one-half inches inside the knots, while the mesh of this particular net measured only three inches. It was a flagrant breach of the rules, and the two fishermen were forthwith put under arrest. Neil Partington took one of them with him to help manage the _Reindeer_, while Charley and I went on ahead with the other in the captured boat. But the shad fleet had headed over toward the Petaluma shore in wild flight, and for the rest of the run through San Pablo Bay we saw no more fishermen at all. Our prisoner, a bronzed and bearded Greek, sat sullenly on his net while we sailed his craft. It was a new Columbia River salmon boat, evidently on its first trip, and it handled splendidly. Even when Charley praised it, our prisoner refused to speak or to notice us, and we soon gave him up as a most unsociable fellow. We ran up the Carquinez Straits and edged into the bight at Turner's Shipyard for smoother water. Here were lying several English steel sailing ships, waiting for the wheat harvest; and here, most unexpectedly, in the precise place where we had captured Big Alec, we came upon two Italians in a skiff that was loaded with a complete "Chinese" sturgeon line. The surprise was mutual, and we were on top of them before either they or we were aware. Charley had barely time to luff into the wind and run up to them. I ran forward and tossed them a line with orders to make it fast. One of the Italians took a turn with it over a cleat, while I hastened to lower our big spritsail. This accomplished, the salmon boat dropped astern, dragging heavily on the skiff. Charley came forward to board the prize, but when I proceeded to haul alongside by means of the line, the Italians cast it off. We at once began drifting to leeward, while they got out two pairs of oars and rowed their light craft directly into the wind. This manoeuvre for the moment disconcerted us, for in our large and heavily loaded boat we could not hope to catch them with the oars. But our prisoner came unexpectedly to our aid. His black eyes were flashing eagerly, and his face was flushed with suppressed excitement, as he dropped the centreboard, sprang forward with a single leap, and put up the sail. "I've always heard that Greeks don't like Italians," Charley laughed, as he ran aft to the tiller. And never in my experience have I seen a man so anxious for the capture of another as was our prisoner in the chase that followed. His eyes fairly snapped, and his nostrils quivered and dilated in a most extraordinary way. Charley steered while he tended the sheet; and though Charley was as quick and alert as a cat, the Greek could hardly control his impatience. The Italians were cut off from the shore, which was fully a mile away at its nearest point. Did they attempt to make it, we could haul after them with the wind abeam, and overtake them before they had covered an eighth of the distance. But they were too wise to attempt it, contenting themselves with rowing lustily to windward along the starboard side of a big ship, the _Lancashire Queen_. But beyond the ship lay an open stretch of fully two miles to the shore in that direction. This, also, they dared not attempt, for we were bound to catch them before they could cover it. So, when they reached the bow of the _Lancashire Queen_, nothing remained but to pass around and row down her port side toward the stern, which meant rowing to leeward and giving us the advantage. We in the salmon boat, sailing close on the wind, tacked about and crossed the ship's bow. Then Charley put up the tiller and headed down the port side of the ship, the Greek letting out the sheet and grinning with delight. The Italians were already half-way down the ship's length; but the stiff breeze at our back drove us after them far faster than they could row. Closer and closer we came, and I, lying down forward, was just reaching out to grasp the skiff, when it ducked under the great stern of the _Lancashire Queen_. The chase was virtually where it had begun. The Italians were rowing up the starboard side of the ship, and we were hauled close on the wind and slowly edging out from the ship as we worked to windward. Then they darted around her bow and began the row down her port side, and we tacked about, crossed her bow, and went plunging down the wind hot after them. And again, just as I was reaching for the skiff, it ducked under the ship's stern and out of danger. And so it went, around and around, the skiff each time just barely ducking into safety. By this time the ship's crew had become aware of what was taking place, and we could see their heads in a long row as they looked at us over the bulwarks. Each time we missed the skiff at the stern, they set up a wild cheer and dashed across to the other side of the _Lancashire Queen_ to see the chase to windward. They showered us and the Italians with jokes and advice, and made our Greek so angry that at least once on each circuit he raised his fist and shook it at them in a rage. They came to look for this, and at each display greeted it with uproarious mirth. "Wot a circus!" cried one. "Tork about yer marine hippodromes,--if this ain't one, I'd like to know!" affirmed another. "Six-days-go-as-yer-please," announced a third. "Who says the dagoes won't win?" On the next tack to windward the Greek offered to change places with Charley. "Let-a me sail-a de boat," he demanded. "I fix-a them, I catch-a them, sure." This was a stroke at Charley's professional pride, for pride himself he did upon his boat-sailing abilities; but he yielded the tiller to the prisoner and took his place at the sheet. Three times again we made the circuit, and the Greek found that he could get no more speed out of the salmon boat than Charley had. "Better give it up," one of the sailors advised from above. The Greek scowled ferociously and shook his fist in his customary fashion. In the meanwhile my mind had not been idle, and I had finally evolved an idea. "Keep going, Charley, one time more," I said. And as we laid out on the next tack to windward, I bent a piece of line to a small grappling hook I had seen lying in the bail-hole. The end of the line I made fast to the ring-bolt in the bow, and with the hook out of sight I waited for the next opportunity to use it. Once more they made their leeward pull down the port side of the _Lancashire Queen_, and more once we churned down after them before the wind. Nearer and nearer we drew, and I was making believe to reach for them as before. The stern of the skiff was not six feet away, and they were laughing at me derisively as they ducked under the ship's stern. At that instant I suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron. It caught fairly and squarely on the rail of the skiff, which was jerked backward out of safety as the rope tautened and the salmon boat ploughed on. A groan went up from the row of sailors above, which quickly changed to a cheer as one of the Italians whipped out a long sheath-knife and cut the rope. But we had drawn them out of safety, and Charley, from his place in the stern-sheets, reached over and clutched the stern of the skiff. The whole thing happened in a second of time, for the first Italian was cutting the rope and Charley was clutching the skiff, when the second Italian dealt him a rap over the head with an oar. Charley released his hold and collapsed, stunned, into the bottom of the salmon boat, and the Italians bent to their oars and escaped back under the ship's stern. The Greek took both tiller and sheet and continued the chase around the _Lancashire Queen_, while I attended to Charley, on whose head a nasty lump was rapidly rising. Our sailor audience was wild with delight, and to a man encouraged the fleeing Italians. Charley sat up, with one hand on his head, and gazed about him sheepishly. "It will never do to let them escape now," he said, at the same time drawing his revolver. On our next circuit, he threatened the Italians with the weapon; but they rowed on stolidly, keeping splendid stroke and utterly disregarding him. "If you don't stop, I'll shoot," Charley said menacingly. [Illustration: "I suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron."] But this had no effect, nor were they to be frightened into surrendering even when he fired several shots dangerously close to them. It was too much to expect him to shoot unarmed men, and this they knew as well as we did; so they continued to pull doggedly round and round the ship. "We'll run them down, then!" Charley exclaimed. "We'll wear them out and wind them!" So the chase continued. Twenty times more we ran them around the _Lancashire Queen_, and at last we could see that even their iron muscles were giving out. They were nearly exhausted, and it was only a matter of a few more circuits, when the game took on a new feature. On the row to windward they always gained on us, so that they were half-way down the ship's side on the row to leeward when we were passing the bow. But this last time, as we passed the bow, we saw them escaping up the ship's gangway, which had been suddenly lowered. It was an organized move on the part of the sailors, evidently countenanced by the captain; for by the time we arrived where the gangway had been, it was being hoisted up, and the skiff, slung in the ship's davits, was likewise flying aloft out of reach. The parley that followed with the captain was short and snappy. He absolutely forbade us to board the _Lancashire Queen_, and as absolutely refused to give up the two men. By this time Charley was as enraged as the Greek. Not only had he been foiled in a long and ridiculous chase, but he had been knocked senseless into the bottom of his boat by the men who had escaped him. "Knock off my head with little apples," he declared emphatically, striking the fist of one hand into the palm of the other, "if those two men ever escape me! I'll stay here to get them if it takes the rest of my natural life, and if I don't get them, then I promise you I'll live unnaturally long or until I do get them, or my name's not Charley Le Grant!" And then began the siege of the _Lancashire Queen_, a siege memorable in the annals of both fishermen and fish patrol. When the _Reindeer_ came along, after a fruitless pursuit of the shad fleet, Charley instructed Neil Partington to send out his own salmon boat, with blankets, provisions, and a fisherman's charcoal stove. By sunset this exchange of boats was made, and we said good-by to our Greek, who perforce had to go into Benicia and be locked up for his own violation of the law. After supper, Charley and I kept alternate four-hour watches till daylight. The fishermen made no attempt to escape that night, though the ship sent out a boat for scouting purposes to find if the coast were clear. By the next day we saw that a steady siege was in order, and we perfected our plans with an eye to our own comfort. A dock, known as the Solano Wharf, which ran out from the Benicia shore, helped us in this. It happened that the _Lancashire Queen_, the shore at Turner's Shipyard, and the Solano Wharf were the corners of a big equilateral triangle. From ship to shore, the side of the triangle along which the Italians had to escape, was a distance equal to that from the Solano Wharf to the shore, the side of the triangle along which we had to travel to get to the shore before the Italians. But as we could sail much faster than they could row, we could permit them to travel about half their side of the triangle before we darted out along our side. If we allowed them to get more than half-way, they were certain to beat us to shore; while if we started before they were half-way, they were equally certain to beat us back to the ship. We found that an imaginary line, drawn from the end of the wharf to a windmill farther along the shore, cut precisely in half the line of the triangle along which the Italians must escape to reach the land. This line made it easy for us to determine how far to let them run away before we bestirred ourselves in pursuit. Day after day we would watch them through our glasses as they rowed leisurely along toward the half-way point; and as they drew close into line with the windmill, we would leap into the boat and get up sail. At sight of our preparation, they would turn and row slowly back to the _Lancashire Queen_, secure in the knowledge that we could not overtake them. To guard against calms--when our salmon boat would be useless--we also had in readiness a light rowing skiff equipped with spoon-oars. But at such times, when the wind failed us, we were forced to row out from the wharf as soon as they rowed from the ship. In the night-time, on the other hand, we were compelled to patrol the immediate vicinity of the ship; which we did, Charley and I standing four-hour watches turn and turn about. The Italians, however, preferred the daytime in which to escape, and so our long night vigils were without result. "What makes me mad," said Charley, "is our being kept from our honest beds while those rascally lawbreakers are sleeping soundly every night. But much good may it do them," he threatened. "I'll keep them on that ship till the captain charges them board, as sure as a sturgeon's not a catfish!" It was a tantalizing problem that confronted us. As long as we were vigilant, they could not escape; and as long as they were careful, we would be unable to catch them. Charley cudgelled his brains continually, but for once his imagination failed him. It was a problem apparently without other solution than that of patience. It was a waiting game, and whichever waited the longer was bound to win. To add to our irritation, friends of the Italians established a code of signals with them from the shore, so that we never dared relax the siege for a moment. And besides this, there were always one or two suspicious-looking fishermen hanging around the Solano Wharf and keeping watch on our actions. We could do nothing but "grin and bear it," as Charley said, while it took up all our time and prevented us from doing other work. The days went by, and there was no change in the situation. Not that no attempts were made to change it. One night friends from the shore came out in a skiff and attempted to confuse us while the two Italians escaped. That they did not succeed was due to the lack of a little oil on the ship's davits. For we were drawn back from the pursuit of the strange boat by the creaking of the davits, and arrived at the _Lancashire Queen_ just as the Italians were lowering their skiff. Another night, fully half a dozen skiffs rowed around us in the darkness, but we held on like a leech to the side of the ship and frustrated their plan till they grew angry and showered us with abuse. Charley laughed to himself in the bottom of the boat. "It's a good sign, lad," he said to me. "When men begin to abuse, make sure they're losing patience; and shortly after they lose patience, they lose their heads. Mark my words, if we only hold out, they'll get careless some fine day, and then we'll get them." But they did not grow careless, and Charley confessed that this was one of the times when all signs failed. Their patience seemed equal to ours, and the second week of the siege dragged monotonously along. Then Charley's lagging imagination quickened sufficiently to suggest a ruse. Peter Boyelen, a new patrolman and one unknown to the fisher-folk, happened to arrive in Benicia, and we took him into our plan. We were as secret as possible about it, but in some unfathomable way the friends ashore got word to the beleaguered Italians to keep their eyes open. On the night we were to put our ruse into effect, Charley and I took up our usual station in our rowing skiff alongside the _Lancashire Queen_. After it was thoroughly dark, Peter Boyelen came out in a crazy duck boat, the kind you can pick up and carry away under one arm. When we heard him coming along, paddling noisily, we slipped away a short distance into the darkness and rested on our oars. Opposite the gangway, having jovially hailed the anchor-watch of the _Lancashire Queen_ and asked the direction of the _Scottish Chiefs_, another wheat ship, he awkwardly capsized himself. The man who was standing the anchor-watch ran down the gangway and hauled him out of the water. This was what he wanted, to get aboard the ship; and the next thing he expected was to be taken on deck and then below to warm up and dry out. But the captain inhospitably kept him perched on the lowest gangway step, shivering miserably and with his feet dangling in the water, till we, out of very pity, rowed in from the darkness and took him off. The jokes and gibes of the awakened crew sounded anything but sweet in our ears, and even the two Italians climbed up on the rail and laughed down at us long and maliciously. "That's all right," Charley said in a low voice, which I only could hear. "I'm mighty glad it's not us that's laughing first. We'll save our laugh to the end, eh, lad?" He clapped a hand on my shoulder as he finished, but it seemed to me that there was more determination than hope in his voice. It would have been possible for us to secure the aid of United States marshals and board the English ship, backed by government authority. But the instructions of the Fish Commission were to the effect that the patrolmen should avoid complications, and this one, did we call on the higher powers, might well end in a pretty international tangle. The second week of the siege drew to its close, and there was no sign of change in the situation. On the morning of the fourteenth day the change came, and it came in a guise as unexpected and startling to us as it was to the men we were striving to capture. Charley and I, after our customary night vigil by the side of the _Lancashire Queen_, rowed into the Solano Wharf. "Hello!" cried Charley, in surprise. "In the name of reason and common sense, what is that? Of all unmannerly craft did you ever see the like?" Well might he exclaim, for there, tied up to the dock, lay the strangest-looking launch I had ever seen. Not that it could be called a launch, either, but it seemed to resemble a launch more than any other kind of boat. It was seventy feet long, but so narrow was it, and so bare of superstructure, that it appeared much smaller than it really was. It was built wholly of steel, and was painted black. Three smokestacks, a good distance apart and raking well aft, arose in single file amidships; while the bow, long and lean and sharp as a knife, plainly advertised that the boat was made for speed. Passing under the stern, we read _Streak_, painted in small white letters. Charley and I were consumed with curiosity. In a few minutes we were on board and talking with an engineer who was watching the sunrise from the deck. He was quite willing to satisfy our curiosity, and in a few minutes we learned that the _Streak_ had come in after dark from San Francisco; that this was what might be called the trial trip; and that she was the property of Silas Tate, a young mining millionaire of California, whose fad was high-speed yachts. There was some talk about turbine engines, direct application of steam, and the absence of pistons, rods, and cranks,--all of which was beyond me, for I was familiar only with sailing craft; but I did understand the last words of the engineer. "Four thousand horse-power and forty-five miles an hour, though you wouldn't think it," he concluded proudly. "Say it again, man! Say it again!" Charley exclaimed in an excited voice. "Four thousand horse-power and forty-five miles an hour," the engineer repeated, grinning good-naturedly. "Where's the owner?" was Charley's next question. "Is there any way I can speak to him?" The engineer shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. He's asleep, you see." At that moment a young man in blue uniform came on deck farther aft and stood regarding the sunrise. "There he is, that's him, that's Mr. Tate," said the engineer. Charley walked aft and spoke to him, and while he talked earnestly the young man listened with an amused expression on his face. He must have inquired about the depth of water close in to the shore at Turner's Shipyard, for I could see Charley making gestures and explaining. A few minutes later he came back in high glee. "Come on, lad," he said. "On to the dock with you. We've got them!" It was our good fortune to leave the _Streak_ when we did, for a little later one of the spy fishermen appeared. Charley and I took up our accustomed places, on the stringer-piece, a little ahead of the _Streak_ and over our own boat, where we could comfortably watch the _Lancashire Queen_. Nothing occurred till about nine o'clock, when we saw the two Italians leave the ship and pull along their side of the triangle toward the shore. Charley looked as unconcerned as could be, but before they had covered a quarter of the distance, he whispered to me: "Forty-five miles an hour...nothing can save them...they are ours!" Slowly the two men rowed along till they were nearly in line with the windmill. This was the point where we always jumped into our salmon boat and got up the sail, and the two men, evidently expecting it, seemed surprised when we gave no sign. When they were directly in line with the windmill, as near to the shore as to the ship, and nearer the shore than we had ever allowed them before, they grew suspicious. We followed them through the glasses, and saw them standing up in the skiff and trying to find out what we were doing. The spy fisherman, sitting beside us on the stringerpiece, was likewise puzzled. He could not understand our inactivity. The men in the skiff rowed nearer the shore, but stood up again and scanned it, as if they thought we might be in hiding there. But a man came out on the beach and waved a handkerchief to indicate that the coast was clear. That settled them. They bent to the oars to make a dash for it. Still Charley waited. Not until they had covered three-quarters of the distance from the _Lancashire Queen_, which left them hardly more than a quarter of a mile to gain the shore, did Charley slap me on the shoulder and cry: "They're ours! They're ours!" We ran the few steps to the side of the _Streak_ and jumped aboard. Stern and bow lines were cast off in a jiffy. The _Streak_ shot ahead and away from the wharf. The spy fisherman we had left behind on the stringer-piece pulled out a revolver and fired five shots into the air in rapid succession. The men in the skiff gave instant heed to the warning, for we could see them pulling away like mad. But if they pulled like mad, I wonder how our progress can be described? We fairly flew. So frightful was the speed with which we displaced the water, that a wave rose up on either side our bow and foamed aft in a series of three stiff, up-standing waves, while astern a great crested billow pursued us hungrily, as though at each moment it would fall aboard and destroy us. The _Streak_ was pulsing and vibrating and roaring like a thing alive. The wind of our progress was like a gale--a forty-five-mile gale. We could not face it and draw breath without choking and strangling. It blew the smoke straight back from the mouths of the smoke-stacks at a direct right angle to the perpendicular. In fact, we were travelling as fast as an express train. "We just _streaked_ it," was the way Charley told it afterward, and I think his description comes nearer than any I can give. As for the Italians in the skiff--hardly had we started, it seemed to me, when we were on top of them. Naturally, we had to slow down long before we got to them; but even then we shot past like a whirlwind and were compelled to circle back between them and the shore. They had rowed steadily, rising from the thwarts at every stroke, up to the moment we passed them, when they recognized Charley and me. That took the last bit of fight out of them. They hauled in their oars and sullenly submitted to arrest. "Well, Charley," Neil Partington said, as we discussed it on the wharf afterward, "I fail to see where your boasted imagination came into play this time." But Charley was true to his hobby. "Imagination?" he demanded, pointing to the _Streak_. "Look at that! Just look at it! If the invention of that isn't imagination, I should like to know what is." "Of course," he added, "it's the other fellow's imagination, but it did the work all the same." V CHARLEY'S COUP Perhaps our most laughable exploit on the fish patrol, and at the same time our most dangerous one, was when we rounded in, at a single haul, an even score of wrathful fishermen. Charley called it a "coop," having heard Neil Partington use the term; but I think he misunderstood the word, and thought it meant "coop," to catch, to trap. The fishermen, however, coup or coop, must have called it a Waterloo, for it was the severest stroke ever dealt them by the fish patrol, while they had invited it by open and impudent defiance of the law. During what is called the "open season" the fishermen might catch as many salmon as their luck allowed and their boats could hold. But there was one important restriction. From sun-down Saturday night to sun-up Monday morning, they were not permitted to set a net. This was a wise provision on the part of the Fish Commission, for it was necessary to give the spawning salmon some opportunity to ascend the river and lay their eggs. And this law, with only an occasional violation, had been obediently observed by the Greek fishermen who caught salmon for the canneries and the market. One Sunday morning, Charley received a telephone call from a friend in Collinsville, who told him that the full force of fishermen was out with its nets. Charley and I jumped into our salmon boat and started for the scene of the trouble. With a light favoring wind at our back we went through the Carquinez Straits, crossed Suisun Bay, passed the Ship Island Light, and came upon the whole fleet at work. But first let me describe the method by which they worked. The net used is what is known as a gill-net. It has a simple diamond-shaped mesh which measures at least seven and one-half inches between the knots. From five to seven and even eight hundred feet in length, these nets are only a few feet wide. They are not stationary, but float with the current, the upper edge supported on the surface by floats, the lower edge sunk by means of leaden weights. This arrangement keeps the net upright in the current and effectually prevents all but the smaller fish from ascending the river. The salmon, swimming near the surface, as is their custom, run their heads through these meshes, and are prevented from going on through by their larger girth of body, and from going back because of their gills, which catch in the mesh. It requires two fishermen to set such a net,--one to row the boat, while the other, standing in the stern, carefully pays out the net. When it is all out, stretching directly across the stream, the men make their boat fast to one end of the net and drift along with it. As we came upon the fleet of law-breaking fishermen, each boat two or three hundred yards from its neighbors, and boats and nets dotting the river as far as we could see, Charley said: "I've only one regret, lad, and that is that I haven't a thousand arms so as to be able to catch them all. As it is, we'll only be able to catch one boat, for while we are tackling that one it will be up nets and away with the rest." As we drew closer, we observed none of the usual flurry and excitement which our appearance invariably produced. Instead, each boat lay quietly by its net, while the fishermen favored us with not the slightest attention. "It's curious," Charley muttered. "Can it be they don't recognize us?" I said that it was impossible, and Charley agreed; yet there was a whole fleet, manned by men who knew us only too well, and who took no more notice of us than if we were a hay scow or a pleasure yacht. This did not continue to be the case, however, for as we bore down upon the nearest net, the men to whom it belonged detached their boat and rowed slowly toward the shore. The rest of the boats showed no sign of uneasiness. "That's funny," was Charley's remark. "But we can confiscate the net, at any rate." We lowered sail, picked up one end of the net, and began to heave it into the boat. But at the first heave we heard a bullet zip-zipping past us on the water, followed by the faint report of a rifle. The men who had rowed ashore were shooting at us. At the next heave a second bullet went zipping past, perilously near. Charley took a turn around a pin and sat down. There were no more shots. But as soon as he began to heave in, the shooting recommenced. "That settles it," he said, flinging the end of the net overboard. "You fellows want it worse than we do, and you can have it." We rowed over toward the next net, for Charley was intent on finding out whether or not we were face to face with an organized defiance. As we approached, the two fishermen proceeded to cast off from their net and row ashore, while the first two rowed back and made fast to the net we had abandoned. And at the second net we were greeted by rifle shots till we desisted and went on to the third, where the manoeuvre was again repeated. Then we gave it up, completely routed, and hoisted sail and started on the long wind-ward beat back to Benicia. A number of Sundays went by, on each of which the law was persistently violated. Yet, short of an armed force of soldiers, we could do nothing. The fishermen had hit upon a new idea and were using it for all it was worth, while there seemed no way by which we could get the better of them. About this time Neil Partington happened along from the Lower Bay, where he had been for a number of weeks. With him was Nicholas, the Greek boy who had helped us in our raid on the oyster pirates, and the pair of them took a hand. We made our arrangements carefully. It was planned that while Charley and I tackled the nets, they were to be hidden ashore so as to ambush the fishermen who landed to shoot at us. It was a pretty plan. Even Charley said it was. But we reckoned not half so well as the Greeks. They forestalled us by ambushing Neil and Nicholas and taking them prisoners, while, as of old, bullets whistled about our ears when Charley and I attempted to take possession of the nets. When we were again beaten off, Neil Partington and Nicholas were released. They were rather shamefaced when they put in an appearance, and Charley chaffed them unmercifully. But Neil chaffed back, demanding to know why Charley's imagination had not long since overcome the difficulty. "Just you wait; the idea'll come all right," Charley promised. "Most probably," Neil agreed. "But I'm afraid the salmon will be exterminated first, and then there will be no need for it when it does come." Neil Partington, highly disgusted with his adventure, departed for the Lower Bay, taking Nicholas with him, and Charley and I were left to our own resources. This meant that the Sunday fishing would be left to itself, too, until such time as Charley's idea happened along. I puzzled my head a good deal to find out some way of checkmating the Greeks, as also did Charley, and we broached a thousand expedients which on discussion proved worthless. The fishermen, on the other hand, were in high feather, and their boasts went up and down the river to add to our discomfiture. Among all classes of them we became aware of a growing insubordination. We were beaten, and they were losing respect for us. With the loss of respect, contempt began to arise. Charley began to be spoken of as the "olda woman," and I received my rating as the "pee-wee kid." The situation was fast becoming unbearable, and we knew that we should have to deliver a stunning stroke at the Greeks in order to regain the old-time respect in which we had stood. Then one morning the idea came. We were down on Steamboat Wharf, where the river steamers made their landings, and where we found a group of amused long-shoremen and loafers listening to the hard-luck tale of a sleepy-eyed young fellow in long sea-boots. He was a sort of amateur fisherman, he said, fishing for the local market of Berkeley. Now Berkeley was on the Lower Bay, thirty miles away. On the previous night, he said, he had set his net and dozed off to sleep in the bottom of the boat. The next he knew it was morning, and he opened his eyes to find his boat rubbing softly against the piles of Steamboat Wharf at Benicia. Also he saw the river steamer _Apache_ lying ahead of him, and a couple of deck-hands disentangling the shreds of his net from the paddle-wheel. In short, after he had gone to sleep, his fisherman's riding light had gone out, and the _Apache_ had run over his net. Though torn pretty well to pieces, the net in some way still remained foul, and he had had a thirty-mile tow out of his course. Charley nudged me with his elbow. I grasped his thought on the instant, but objected: "We can't charter a steamboat." "Don't intend to," he rejoined. "But let's run over to Turner's Shipyard. I've something in my mind there that may be of use to us." And over we went to the shipyard, where Charley led the way to the _Mary Rebecca_, lying hauled out on the ways, where she was being cleaned and overhauled. She was a scow-schooner we both knew well, carrying a cargo of one hundred and forty tons and a spread of canvas greater than any other schooner on the bay. "How d'ye do, Ole," Charley greeted a big blue-shirted Swede who was greasing the jaws of the main gaff with a piece of pork rind. Ole grunted, puffed away at his pipe, and went on greasing. The captain of a bay schooner is supposed to work with his hands just as well as the men. Ole Ericsen verified Charley's conjecture that the _Mary Rebecca_, as soon as launched, would run up the San Joaquin River nearly to Stockton for a load of wheat. Then Charley made his proposition, and Ole Ericsen shook his head. "Just a hook, one good-sized hook," Charley pleaded. "No, Ay tank not," said Ole Ericsen. "Der _Mary Rebecca_ yust hang up on efery mud-bank with that hook. Ay don't want to lose der _Mary Rebecca_. She's all Ay got." "No, no," Charley hurried to explain. "We can put the end of the hook through the bottom from the outside, and fasten it on the inside with a nut. After it's done its work, why, all we have to do is to go down into the hold, unscrew the nut, and out drops the hook. Then drive a wooden peg into the hole, and the _Mary Rebecca_ will be all right again." Ole Ericsen was obstinate for a long time; but in the end, after we had had dinner with him, he was brought round to consent. "Ay do it, by Yupiter!" he said, striking one huge fist into the palm of the other hand. "But yust hurry you up with der hook. Der _Mary Rebecca_ slides into der water to-night." It was Saturday, and Charley had need to hurry. We headed for the shipyard blacksmith shop, where, under Charley's directions, a most generously curved hook of heavy steel was made. Back we hastened to the _Mary Rebecca_. Aft of the great centre-board case, through what was properly her keel, a hole was bored. The end of the hook was inserted from the outside, and Charley, on the inside, screwed the nut on tightly. As it stood complete, the hook projected over a foot beneath the bottom of the schooner. Its curve was something like the curve of a sickle, but deeper. In the late afternoon the _Mary Rebecca_ was launched, and preparations were finished for the start up-river next morning. Charley and Ole intently studied the evening sky for signs of wind, for without a good breeze our project was doomed to failure. They agreed that there were all the signs of a stiff westerly wind--not the ordinary afternoon sea-breeze, but a half-gale, which even then was springing up. Next morning found their predictions verified. The sun was shining brightly, but something more than a half-gale was shrieking up the Carquinez Straits, and the _Mary Rebecca_ got under way with two reefs in her mainsail and one in her foresail. We found it quite rough in the Straits and in Suisun Bay; but as the water grew more land-locked it became calm, though without let-up in the wind. Off Ship Island Light the reefs were shaken out, and at Charley's suggestion a big fisherman's staysail was made all ready for hoisting, and the main-topsail, bunched into a cap at the masthead, was overhauled so that it could be set on an instant's notice. We were tearing along, wing-and-wing, before the wind, foresail to starboard and mainsail to port, as we came upon the salmon fleet. There they were, boats and nets, as on that first Sunday when they had bested us, strung out evenly over the river as far as we could see. A narrow space on the right-hand side of the channel was left clear for steam-boats, but the rest of the river was covered with the wide-stretching nets. The narrow space was our logical course, but Charley, at the wheel, steered the _Mary Rebecca_ straight for the nets. This did not cause any alarm among the fishermen, because up-river sailing craft are always provided with "shoes" on the ends of their keels, which permit them to slip over the nets without fouling them. "Now she takes it!" Charley cried, as we dashed across the middle of a line of floats which marked a net. At one end of this line was a small barrel buoy, at the other the two fishermen in their boat. Buoy and boat at once began to draw together, and the fishermen to cry out, as they were jerked after us. A couple of minutes later we hooked a second net, and then a third, and in this fashion we tore straight up through the centre of the fleet. The consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous. As fast as we hooked a net the two ends of it, buoy and boat, came together as they dragged out astern; and so many buoys and boats, coming together at such breakneck speed, kept the fishermen on the jump to avoid smashing into one another. Also, they shouted at us like mad to heave to into the wind, for they took it as some drunken prank on the part of scow-sailors, little dreaming that we were the fish patrol. The drag of a single net is very heavy, and Charley and Ole Ericsen decided that even in such a wind ten nets were all the _Mary Rebecca_ could take along with her. So when we had hooked ten nets, with ten boats containing twenty men streaming along behind us, we veered to the left out of the fleet and headed toward Collinsville. We were all jubilant. Charley was handling the wheel as though he were steering the winning yacht home in a race. The two sailors who made up the crew of the _Mary Rebecca_, were grinning and joking. Ole Ericsen was rubbing his huge hands in child-like glee. [Illustration: "The consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous."] "Ay tank you fish patrol fallers never ban so lucky as when you sail with Ole Ericsen," he was saying, when a rifle cracked sharply astern, and a bullet gouged along the newly painted cabin, glanced on a nail, and sang shrilly onward into space. This was too much for Ole Ericsen. At sight of his beloved paintwork thus defaced, he jumped up and shook his fist at the fishermen; but a second bullet smashed into the cabin not six inches from his head, and he dropped down to the deck under cover of the rail. All the fishermen had rifles, and they now opened a general fusillade. We were all driven to cover--even Charley, who was compelled to desert the wheel. Had it not been for the heavy drag of the nets, we would inevitably have broached to at the mercy of the enraged fishermen. But the nets, fastened to the bottom of the _Mary Rebecca_ well aft, held her stern into the wind, and she continued to plough on, though somewhat erratically. Charley, lying on the deck, could just manage to reach the lower spokes of the wheel; but while he could steer after a fashion, it was very awkward. Ole Ericsen bethought himself of a large piece of sheet steel in the empty hold. It was in fact a plate from the side of the _New Jersey_, a steamer which had recently been wrecked outside the Golden Gate, and in the salving of which the _Mary Rebecca_ had taken part. Crawling carefully along the deck, the two sailors, Ole, and myself got the heavy plate on deck and aft, where we reared it as a shield between the wheel and the fishermen. The bullets whanged and banged against it till it rang like a bull's-eye, but Charley grinned in its shelter, and coolly went on steering. So we raced along, behind us a howling, screaming bedlam of wrathful Greeks, Collinsville ahead, and bullets spat-spatting all around us. "Ole," Charley said in a faint voice, "I don't know what we're going to do." Ole Ericsen, lying on his back close to the rail and grinning upward at the sky, turned over on his side and looked at him. "Ay tank we go into Collinsville yust der same," he said. "But we can't stop," Charley groaned. "I never thought of it, but we can't stop." A look of consternation slowly overspread Ole Ericsen's broad face. It was only too true. We had a hornet's nest on our hands, and to stop at Collinsville would be to have it about our ears. "Every man Jack of them has a gun," one of the sailors remarked cheerfully. "Yes, and a knife, too," the other sailor added. It was Ole Ericsen's turn to groan. "What for a Svaidish faller like me monkey with none of my biziness, I don't know," he soliloquized. A bullet glanced on the stern and sang off to starboard like a spiteful bee. "There's nothing to do but plump the _Mary Rebecca_ ashore and run for it," was the verdict of the first cheerful sailor. "And leaf der _Mary Rebecca_?" Ole demanded, with unspeakable horror in his voice. "Not unless you want to," was the response. "But I don't want to be within a thousand miles of her when those fellers come aboard"--indicating the bedlam of excited Greeks towing behind. We were right in at Collinsville then, and went foaming by within biscuit-toss of the wharf. "I only hope the wind holds out," Charley said, stealing a glance at our prisoners. "What of der wind?" Ole demanded disconsolately. "Der river will not hold out, and then...and then..." "It's head for tall timber, and the Greeks take the hindermost," adjudged the cheerful sailor, while Ole was stuttering over what would happen when we came to the end of the river. We had now reached a dividing of the ways. To the left was the mouth of the Sacramento River, to the right the mouth of the San Joaquin. The cheerful sailor crept forward and jibed over the foresail as Charley put the helm to starboard and we swerved to the right into the San Joaquin. The wind, from which we had been running away on an even keel, now caught us on our beam, and the _Mary Rebecca_ was pressed down on her port side as if she were about to capsize. Still we dashed on, and still the fishermen dashed on behind. The value of their nets was greater than the fines they would have to pay for violating the fish laws; so to cast off from their nets and escape, which they could easily do, would profit them nothing. Further, they remained by their nets instinctively, as a sailor remains by his ship. And still further, the desire for vengeance was roused, and we could depend upon it that they would follow us to the ends of the earth, if we undertook to tow them that far. The rifle-firing had ceased, and we looked astern to see what our prisoners were doing. The boats were strung along at unequal distances apart, and we saw the four nearest ones bunching together. This was done by the boat ahead trailing a small rope astern to the one behind. When this was caught, they would cast off from their net and heave in on the line till they were brought up to the boat in front. So great was the speed at which we were travelling, however, that this was very slow work. Sometimes the men would strain to their utmost and fail to get in an inch of the rope; at other times they came ahead more rapidly. When the four boats were near enough together for a man to pass from one to another, one Greek from each of three got into the nearest boat to us, taking his rifle with him. This made five in the foremost boat, and it was plain that their intention was to board us. This they undertook to do, by main strength and sweat, running hand over hand the float-line of a net. And though it was slow, and they stopped frequently to rest, they gradually drew nearer. Charley smiled at their efforts, and said, "Give her the topsail, Ole." The cap at the mainmast head was broken out, and sheet and downhaul pulled flat, amid a scattering rifle fire from the boats; and the _Mary Rebecca_ lay over and sprang ahead faster than ever. But the Greeks were undaunted. Unable, at the increased speed, to draw themselves nearer by means of their hands, they rigged from the blocks of their boat sail what sailors call a "watch-tackle." One of them, held by the legs by his mates, would lean far over the bow and make the tackle fast to the float-line. Then they would heave in on the tackle till the blocks were together, when the manoeuvre would be repeated. "Have to give her the staysail," Charley said. Ole Ericsen looked at the straining _Mary Rebecca_ and shook his head. "It will take der masts out of her," he said. "And we'll be taken out of her if you don't," Charley replied. Ole shot an anxious glance at his masts, another at the boat load of armed Greeks, and consented. The five men were in the bow of the boat--a bad place when a craft is towing. I was watching the behavior of their boat as the great fisherman's staysail, far, far larger than the topsail and used only in light breezes, was broken out. As the _Mary Rebecca_ lurched forward with a tremendous jerk, the nose of the boat ducked down into the water, and the men tumbled over one another in a wild rush into the stern to save the boat from being dragged sheer under water. "That settles them!" Charley remarked, though he was anxiously studying the behavior of the _Mary Rebecca_, which was being driven under far more canvas than she was rightly able to carry. "Next stop is Antioch!" announced the cheerful sailor, after the manner of a railway conductor. "And next comes Merryweather!" "Come here, quick," Charley said to me. I crawled across the deck and stood upright beside him in the shelter of the sheet steel. "Feel in my inside pocket," he commanded, "and get my notebook. That's right. Tear out a blank page and write what I tell you." And this is what I wrote: Telephone to Merryweather, to the sheriff, the constable, or the judge. Tell them we are coming and to turn out the town. Arm everybody. Have them down on the wharf to meet us or we are gone gooses. "Now make it good and fast to that marlinspike, and stand by to toss it ashore." I did as he directed. By then we were close to Antioch. The wind was shouting through our rigging, the _Mary Rebecca_ was half over on her side and rushing ahead like an ocean greyhound. The seafaring folk of Antioch had seen us breaking out topsail and staysail, a most reckless performance in such weather, and had hurried to the wharf-ends in little groups to find out what was the matter. Straight down the water front we boomed, Charley edging in till a man could almost leap ashore. When he gave the signal I tossed the marlinspike. It struck the planking of the wharf a resounding smash, bounced along fifteen or twenty feet, and was pounced upon by the amazed onlookers. It all happened in a flash, for the next minute Antioch was behind and we were heeling it up the San Joaquin toward Merryweather, six miles away. The river straightened out here into its general easterly course, and we squared away before the wind, wing-and-wing once more, the foresail bellying out to starboard. Ole Ericsen seemed sunk into a state of stolid despair. Charley and the two sailors were looking hopeful, as they had good reason to be. Merryweather was a coal-mining town, and, it being Sunday, it was reasonable to expect the men to be in town. Further, the coal-miners had never lost any love for the Greek fishermen, and were pretty certain to render us hearty assistance. We strained our eyes for a glimpse of the town, and the first sight we caught of it gave us immense relief. The wharves were black with men. As we came closer, we could see them still arriving, stringing down the main street, guns in their hands and on the run. Charley glanced astern at the fishermen with a look of ownership in his eye which till then had been missing. The Greeks were plainly overawed by the display of armed strength and were putting their own rifles away. We took in topsail and staysail, dropped the main peak, and as we got abreast of the principal wharf jibed the mainsail. The _Mary Rebecca_ shot around into the wind, the captive fishermen describing a great arc behind her, and forged ahead till she lost way, when lines were flung ashore and she was made fast. This was accomplished under a hurricane of cheers from the delighted miners. Ole Ericsen heaved a great sigh. "Ay never tank Ay see my wife never again," he confessed. "Why, we were never in any danger," said Charley. Ole looked at him incredulously. "Sure, I mean it," Charley went on. "All we had to do, any time, was to let go our end--as I am going to do now, so that those Greeks can untangle their nets." He went below with a monkey-wrench, unscrewed the nut, and let the hook drop off. When the Greeks had hauled their nets into their boats and made everything ship-shape, a posse of citizens took them off our hands and led them away to jail. "Ay tank Ay ban a great big fool," said Ole Ericsen. But he changed his mind when the admiring townspeople crowded aboard to shake hands with him, and a couple of enterprising newspaper men took photographs of the _Mary Rebecca_ and her captain. VI DEMETRIOS CONTOS It must not be thought, from what I have told of the Greek fishermen, that they were altogether bad. Far from it. But they were rough men, gathered together in isolated communities and fighting with the elements for a livelihood. They lived far away from the law and its workings, did not understand it, and thought it tyranny. Especially did the fish laws seem tyrannical. And because of this, they looked upon the men of the fish patrol as their natural enemies. We menaced their lives, or their living, which is the same thing, in many ways. We confiscated illegal traps and nets, the materials of which had cost them considerable sums and the making of which required weeks of labor. We prevented them from catching fish at many times and seasons, which was equivalent to preventing them from making as good a living as they might have made had we not been in existence. And when we captured them, they were brought into the courts of law, where heavy cash fines were collected from them. As a result, they hated us vindictively. As the dog is the natural enemy of the cat, the snake of man, so were we of the fish patrol the natural enemies of the fishermen. But it is to show that they could act generously as well as hate bitterly that this story of Demetrios Contos is told. Demetrios Contos lived in Vallejo. Next to Big Alec, he was the largest, bravest, and most influential man among the Greeks. He had given us no trouble, and I doubt if he would ever have clashed with us had he not invested in a new salmon boat. This boat was the cause of all the trouble. He had had it built upon his own model, in which the lines of the general salmon boat were somewhat modified. To his high elation he found his new boat very fast--in fact, faster than any other boat on the bay or rivers. Forthwith he grew proud and boastful: and, our raid with the _Mary Rebecca_ on the Sunday salmon fishers having wrought fear in their hearts, he sent a challenge up to Benicia. One of the local fishermen conveyed it to us; it was to the effect that Demetrios Contos would sail up from Vallejo on the following Sunday, and in the plain sight of Benicia set his net and catch salmon, and that Charley Le Grant, patrolman, might come and get him if he could. Of course Charley and I had heard nothing of the new boat. Our own boat was pretty fast, and we were not afraid to have a brush with any other that happened along. Sunday came. The challenge had been bruited abroad, and the fishermen and seafaring folk of Benicia turned out to a man, crowding Steamboat Wharf till it looked like the grand stand at a football match. Charley and I had been sceptical, but the fact of the crowd convinced us that there was something in Demetrios Contos's dare. In the afternoon, when the sea-breeze had picked up in strength, his sail hove into view as he bowled along before the wind. He tacked a score of feet from the wharf, waved his hand theatrically, like a knight about to enter the lists, received a hearty cheer in return, and stood away into the Straits for a couple of hundred yards. Then he lowered sail, and, drifting the boat sidewise by means of the wind, proceeded to set his net. He did not set much of it, possibly fifty feet; yet Charley and I were thunderstruck at the man's effrontery. We did not know at the time, but we learned afterward, that the net he used was old and worthless. It _could_ catch fish, true; but a catch of any size would have torn it to pieces. Charley shook his head and said: "I confess, it puzzles me. What if he has out only fifty feet? He could never get it in if we once started for him. And why does he come here anyway, flaunting his law-breaking in our faces? Right in our home town, too." Charley's voice took on an aggrieved tone, and he continued for some minutes to inveigh against the brazenness of Demetrios Contos. In the meantime, the man in question was lolling in the stern of his boat and watching the net floats. When a large fish is meshed in a gill-net, the floats by their agitation advertise the fact. And they evidently advertised it to Demetrios, for he pulled in about a dozen feet of net, and held aloft for a moment, before he flung it into the bottom of the boat, a big, glistening salmon. It was greeted by the audience on the wharf with round after round of cheers. This was more than Charley could stand. "Come on, lad," he called to me; and we lost no time jumping into our salmon boat and getting up sail. The crowd shouted warning to Demetrios, and as we darted out from the wharf we saw him slash his worthless net clear with a long knife. His sail was all ready to go up, and a moment later it fluttered in the sunshine. He ran aft, drew in the sheet, and filled on the long tack toward the Contra Costa Hills. By this time we were not more than thirty feet astern. Charley was jubilant. He knew our boat was fast, and he knew, further, that in fine sailing few men were his equals. He was confident that we should surely catch Demetrios, and I shared his confidence. But somehow we did not seem to gain. It was a pretty sailing breeze. We were gliding sleekly through the water, but Demetrios was slowly sliding away from us. And not only was he going faster, but he was eating into the wind a fraction of a point closer than we. This was sharply impressed upon us when he went about under the Contra Costa Hills and passed us on the other tack fully one hundred feet dead to windward. "Whew!" Charley exclaimed. "Either that boat is a daisy, or we've got a five-gallon coal-oil can fast to our keel!" It certainly looked it one way or the other. And by the time Demetrios made the Sonoma Hills, on the other side of the Straits, we were so hopelessly outdistanced that Charley told me to slack off the sheet, and we squared away for Benicia. The fishermen on Steamboat Wharf showered us with ridicule when we returned and tied up. Charley and I got out and walked away, feeling rather sheepish, for it is a sore stroke to one's pride when he thinks he has a good boat and knows how to sail it, and another man comes along and beats him. Charley mooned over it for a couple of days; then word was brought to us, as before, that on the next Sunday Demetrios Contos would repeat his performance. Charley roused himself. He had our boat out of the water, cleaned and repainted its bottom, made a trifling alteration about the centre-board, overhauled the running gear, and sat up nearly all of Saturday night sewing on a new and much larger sail. So large did he make it, in fact, that additional ballast was imperative, and we stowed away nearly five hundred extra pounds of old railroad iron in the bottom of the boat. Sunday came, and with it came Demetrios Contos, to break the law defiantly in open day. Again we had the afternoon sea-breeze, and again Demetrios cut loose some forty or more feet of his rotten net, and got up sail and under way under our very noses. But he had anticipated Charley's move, and his own sail peaked higher than ever, while a whole extra cloth had been added to the after leech. It was nip and tuck across to the Contra Costa Hills, neither of us seeming to gain or to lose. But by the time we had made the return tack to the Sonoma Hills, we could see that, while we footed it at about equal speed, Demetrios had eaten into the wind the least bit more than we. Yet Charley was sailing our boat as finely and delicately as it was possible to sail it, and getting more out of it than he ever had before. Of course, he could have drawn his revolver and fired at Demetrios; but we had long since found it contrary to our natures to shoot at a fleeing man guilty of only a petty offence. Also a sort of tacit agreement seemed to have been reached between the patrolmen and the fishermen. If we did not shoot while they ran away, they, in turn, did not fight if we once laid hands on them. Thus Demetrios Contos ran away from us, and we did no more than try our best to overtake him; and, in turn, if our boat proved faster than his, or was sailed better, he would, we knew, make no resistance when we caught up with him. With our large sails and the healthy breeze romping up the Carquinez Straits, we found that our sailing was what is called "ticklish." We had to be constantly on the alert to avoid a capsize, and while Charley steered I held the main-sheet in my hand with but a single turn round a pin, ready to let go at any moment. Demetrios, we could see, sailing his boat alone, had his hands full. But it was a vain undertaking for us to attempt to catch him. Out of his inner consciousness he had evolved a boat that was better than ours. And though Charley sailed fully as well, if not the least bit better, the boat he sailed was not so good as the Greek's. "Slack away the sheet," Charley commanded; and as our boat fell off before the wind, Demetrios's mocking laugh floated down to us. Charley shook his head, saying, "It's no use. Demetrios has the better boat. If he tries his performance again, we must meet it with some new scheme." This time it was my imagination that came to the rescue. "What's the matter," I suggested, on the Wednesday following, "with my chasing Demetrios in the boat next Sunday, while you wait for him on the wharf at Vallejo when he arrives?" Charley considered it a moment and slapped his knee. "A good idea! You're beginning to use that head of yours. A credit to your teacher, I must say." "But you mustn't chase him too far," he went on, the next moment, "or he'll head out into San Pablo Bay instead of running home to Vallejo, and there I'll be, standing lonely on the wharf and waiting in vain for him to arrive." On Thursday Charley registered an objection to my plan. "Everybody'll know I've gone to Vallejo, and you can depend upon it that Demetrios will know, too. I'm afraid we'll have to give up the idea." This objection was only too valid, and for the rest of the day I struggled under my disappointment. But that night a new way seemed to open to me, and in my eagerness I awoke Charley from a sound sleep. "Well," he grunted, "what's the matter? House afire?" "No," I replied, "but my head is. Listen to this. On Sunday you and I will be around Benicia up to the very moment Demetrios's sail heaves into sight. This will lull everybody's suspicions. Then, when Demetrios's sail does heave in sight, do you stroll leisurely away and up-town. All the fishermen will think you're beaten and that you know you're beaten." "So far, so good," Charley commented, while I paused to catch breath. "And very good indeed," I continued proudly. "You stroll carelessly up-town, but when you're once out of sight you leg it for all you're worth for Dan Maloney's. Take the little mare of his, and strike out on the county road for Vallejo. The road's in fine condition, and you can make it in quicker time than Demetrios can beat all the way down against the wind." "And I'll arrange right away for the mare, first thing in the morning," Charley said, accepting the modified plan without hesitation. "But, I say," he said, a little later, this time waking _me_ out of a sound sleep. I could hear him chuckling in the dark. "I say, lad, isn't it rather a novelty for the fish patrol to be taking to horseback?" "Imagination," I answered. "It's what you're always preaching--'keep thinking one thought ahead of the other fellow, and you're bound to win out.'" "He! he!" he chuckled. "And if one thought ahead, including a mare, doesn't take the other fellow's breath away this time, I'm not your humble servant, Charley Le Grant." "But can you manage the boat alone?" he asked, on Friday. "Remember, we've a ripping big sail on her." I argued my proficiency so well that he did not refer to the matter again till Saturday, when he suggested removing one whole cloth from the after leech. I guess it was the disappointment written on my face that made him desist; for I, also, had a pride in my boat-sailing abilities, and I was almost wild to get out alone with the big sail and go tearing down the Carquinez Straits in the wake of the flying Greek. As usual, Sunday and Demetrios Contos arrived together. It had become the regular thing for the fishermen to assemble on Steamboat Wharf to greet his arrival and to laugh at our discomfiture. He lowered sail a couple of hundred yards out and set his customary fifty feet of rotten net. "I suppose this nonsense will keep up as long as his old net holds out," Charley grumbled, with intention, in the hearing of several of the Greeks. "Den I give-a heem my old-a net-a," one of them spoke up, promptly and maliciously. "I don't care," Charley answered. "I've got some old net myself he can have--if he'll come around and ask for it." They all laughed at this, for they could afford to be sweet-tempered with a man so badly outwitted as Charley was. "Well, so long, lad," Charley called to me a moment later. "I think I'll go up-town to Maloney's." "Let me take the boat out?" I asked. "If you want to," was his answer, as he turned on his heel and walked slowly away. Demetrios pulled two large salmon out of his net, and I jumped into the boat. The fishermen crowded around in a spirit of fun, and when I started to get up sail overwhelmed me with all sorts of jocular advice. They even offered extravagant bets to one another that I would surely catch Demetrios, and two of them, styling themselves the committee of judges, gravely asked permission to come along with me to see how I did it. But I was in no hurry. I waited to give Charley all the time I could, and I pretended dissatisfaction with the stretch of the sail and slightly shifted the small tackle by which the huge sprit forces up the peak. It was not until I was sure that Charley had reached Dan Maloney's and was on the little mare's back, that I cast off from the wharf and gave the big sail to the wind. A stout puff filled it and suddenly pressed the lee gunwale down till a couple of buckets of water came inboard. A little thing like this will happen to the best small-boat sailors, and yet, though I instantly let go the sheet and righted, I was cheered sarcastically, as though I had been guilty of a very awkward blunder. When Demetrios saw only one person in the fish patrol boat, and that one a boy, he proceeded to play with me. Making a short tack out, with me not thirty feet behind, he returned, with his sheet a little free, to Steamboat Wharf. And there he made short tacks, and turned and twisted and ducked around, to the great delight of his sympathetic audience. I was right behind him all the time, and I dared to do whatever he did, even when he squared away before the wind and jibed his big sail over--a most dangerous trick with such a sail in such a wind. He depended upon the brisk sea breeze and the strong ebb tide, which together kicked up a nasty sea, to bring me to grief. But I was on my mettle, and never in all my life did I sail a boat better than on that day. I was keyed up to concert pitch, my brain was working smoothly and quickly, my hands never fumbled once, and it seemed that I almost divined the thousand little things which a small-boat sailor must be taking into consideration every second. It was Demetrios who came to grief instead. Something went wrong with his centre-board, so that it jammed in the case and would not go all the way down. In a moment's breathing space, which he had gained from me by a clever trick, I saw him working impatiently with the centre-board, trying to force it down. I gave him little time, and he was compelled quickly to return to the tiller and sheet. The centre-board made him anxious. He gave over playing with me, and started on the long beat to Vallejo. To my joy, on the first long tack across, I found that I could eat into the wind just a little bit closer than he. Here was where another man in the boat would have been of value to him; for, with me but a few feet astern, he did not dare let go the tiller and run amidships to try to force down the centre-board. Unable to hang on as close in the eye of the wind as formerly, he proceeded to slack his sheet a trifle and to ease off a bit, in order to outfoot me. This I permitted him to do till I had worked to windward, when I bore down upon him. As I drew close, he feinted at coming about. This led me to shoot into the wind to forestall him. But it was only a feint, cleverly executed, and he held back to his course while I hurried to make up lost ground. He was undeniably smarter than I when it came to manoeuvring. Time after time I all but had him, and each time he tricked me and escaped. Besides, the wind was freshening constantly, and each of us had his hands full to avoid capsizing. As for my boat, it could not have been kept afloat but for the extra ballast. I sat cocked over the weather gunwale, tiller in one hand and sheet in the other; and the sheet, with a single turn around a pin, I was very often forced to let go in the severer puffs. This allowed the sail to spill the wind, which was equivalent to taking off so much driving power, and of course I lost ground. My consolation was that Demetrios was as often compelled to do the same thing. The strong ebb-tide, racing down the Straits in the teeth of the wind, caused an unusually heavy and spiteful sea, which dashed aboard continually. I was dripping wet, and even the sail was wet half-way up the after leech. Once I did succeed in outmanoeuvring Demetrios, so that my bow bumped into him amidships. Here was where I should have had another man. Before I could run forward and leap aboard, he shoved the boats apart with an oar, laughing mockingly in my face as he did so. We were now at the mouth of the Straits, in a bad stretch of water. Here the Vallejo Straits and the Carquinez Straits rushed directly at each other. Through the first flowed all the water of Napa River and the great tide-lands; through the second flowed all the water of Suisun Bay and the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers. And where such immense bodies of water, flowing swiftly, clashed together, a terrible tide-rip was produced. To make it worse, the wind howled up San Pablo Bay for fifteen miles and drove in a tremendous sea upon the tide-rip. Conflicting currents tore about in all directions, colliding, forming whirlpools, sucks, and boils, and shooting up spitefully into hollow waves which fell aboard as often from leeward as from windward. And through it all, confused, driven into a madness of motion, thundered the great smoking seas from San Pablo Bay. I was as wildly excited as the water. The boat was behaving splendidly, leaping and lurching through the welter like a race-horse. I could hardly contain myself with the joy of it. The huge sail, the howling wind, the driving seas, the plunging boat--I, a pygmy, a mere speck in the midst of it, was mastering the elemental strife, flying through it and over it, triumphant and victorious. And just then, as I roared along like a conquering hero, the boat received a frightful smash and came instantly to a dead stop. I was flung forward and into the bottom. As I sprang up I caught a fleeting glimpse of a greenish, barnacle-covered object, and knew it at once for what it was, that terror of navigation, a sunken pile. No man may guard against such a thing. Water-logged and floating just beneath the surface, it was impossible to sight it in the troubled water in time to escape. The whole bow of the boat must have been crushed in, for in a few seconds the boat was half full. Then a couple of seas filled it, and it sank straight down, dragged to bottom by the heavy ballast. So quickly did it all happen that I was entangled in the sail and drawn under. When I fought my way to the surface, suffocating, my lungs almost bursting, I could see nothing of the oars. They must have been swept away by the chaotic currents. I saw Demetrios Contos looking back from his boat, and heard the vindictive and mocking tones of his voice as he shouted exultantly. He held steadily on his course, leaving me to perish. There was nothing to do but to swim for it, which, in that wild confusion, was at the best a matter of but a few moments. Holding my breath and working with my hands, I managed to get off my heavy sea-boots and my jacket. Yet there was very little breath I could catch to hold, and I swiftly discovered that it was not so much a matter of swimming as of breathing. I was beaten and buffeted, smashed under by the great San Pablo whitecaps, and strangled by the hollow tide-rip waves which flung themselves into my eyes, nose, and mouth. Then the strange sucks would grip my legs and drag me under, to spout me up in some fierce boiling, where, even as I tried to catch my breath, a great whitecap would crash down upon my head. It was impossible to survive any length of time. I was breathing more water than air, and drowning all the time. My senses began to leave me, my head to whirl around. I struggled on, spasmodically, instinctively, and was barely half conscious when I felt myself caught by the shoulders and hauled over the gunwale of a boat. For some time I lay across a seat where I had been flung, face downward, and with the water running out of my mouth. After a while, still weak and faint, I turned around to see who was my rescuer. And there, in the stern, sheet in one hand and tiller in the other, grinning and nodding good-naturedly, sat Demetrios Contos. He had intended to leave me to drown,--he said so afterward,--but his better self had fought the battle, conquered, and sent him back to me. "You all-a right?" he asked. I managed to shape a "yes" on my lips, though I could not yet speak. "You sail-a de boat verr-a good-a," he said. "So good-a as a man." A compliment from Demetrios Contos was a compliment indeed, and I keenly appreciated it, though I could only nod my head in acknowledgment. We held no more conversation, for I was busy recovering and he was busy with the boat. He ran in to the wharf at Vallejo, made the boat fast, and helped me out. Then it was, as we both stood on the wharf, that Charley stepped out from behind a net-rack and put his hand on Demetrios Contos's arm. "He saved my life, Charley," I protested; "and I don't think he ought to be arrested." A puzzled expression came into Charley's face, which cleared immediately after, in a way it had when he made up his mind. "I can't help it, lad," he said kindly. "I can't go back on my duty, and it's plain duty to arrest him. To-day is Sunday; there are two salmon in his boat which he caught to-day. What else can I do?" "But he saved my life," I persisted, unable to make any other argument. [Illustration: "There, in the stern, sat Demetrios Contos."] Demetrios Contos's face went black with rage when he learned Charley's judgment. He had a sense of being unfairly treated. The better part of his nature had triumphed, he had performed a generous act and saved a helpless enemy, and in return the enemy was taking him to jail. Charley and I were out of sorts with each other when we went back to Benicia. I stood for the spirit of the law and not the letter; but by the letter Charley made his stand. As far as he could see, there was nothing else for him to do. The law said distinctly that no salmon should be caught on Sunday. He was a patrolman, and it was his duty to enforce that law. That was all there was to it. He had done his duty, and his conscience was clear. Nevertheless, the whole thing seemed unjust to me, and I felt very sorry for Demetrios Contos. Two days later we went down to Vallejo to the trial. I had to go along as a witness, and it was the most hateful task that I ever performed in my life when I testified on the witness stand to seeing Demetrios catch the two salmon Charley had captured him with. Demetrios had engaged a lawyer, but his case was hopeless. The jury was out only fifteen minutes, and returned a verdict of guilty. The judge sentenced Demetrios to pay a fine of one hundred dollars or go to jail for fifty days. Charley stepped up to the clerk of the court. "I want to pay that fine," he said, at the same time placing five twenty-dollar gold pieces on the desk. "It--it was the only way out of it, lad," he stammered, turning to me. The moisture rushed into my eyes as I seized his hand. "I want to pay--" I began. "To pay your half?" he interrupted. "I certainly shall expect you to pay it." In the meantime Demetrios had been informed by his lawyer that his fee likewise had been paid by Charley. Demetrios came over to shake Charley's hand, and all his warm Southern blood flamed in his face. Then, not to be outdone in generosity, he insisted on paying his fine and lawyer's fee himself, and flew half-way into a passion because Charley refused to let him. More than anything else we ever did, I think, this action of Charley's impressed upon the fishermen the deeper significance of the law. Also Charley was raised high in their esteem, while I came in for a little share of praise as a boy who knew how to sail a boat. Demetrios Contos not only never broke the law again, but he became a very good friend of ours, and on more than one occasion he ran up to Benicia to have a gossip with us. VII YELLOW HANDKERCHIEF "I'm not wanting to dictate to you, lad," Charley said; "but I'm very much against your making a last raid. You've gone safely through rough times with rough men, and it would be a shame to have something happen to you at the very end." "But how can I get out of making a last raid?" I demanded, with the cocksureness of youth. "There always has to be a last, you know, to anything." Charley crossed his legs, leaned back, and considered the problem. "Very true. But why not call the capture of Demetrios Contos the last? You're back from it safe and sound and hearty, for all your good wetting, and--and--" His voice broke and he could not speak for a moment. "And I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you now." I laughed at Charley's fears while I gave in to the claims of his affection, and agreed to consider the last raid already performed. We had been together for two years, and now I was leaving the fish patrol in order to go back and finish my education. I had earned and saved money to put me through three years at the high school, and though the beginning of the term was several months away, I intended doing a lot of studying for the entrance examinations. My belongings were packed snugly in a sea-chest, and I was all ready to buy my ticket and ride down on the train to Oakland, when Neil Partington arrived in Benicia. The _Reindeer_ was needed immediately for work far down on the Lower Bay, and Neil said he intended to run straight for Oakland. As that was his home and as I was to live with his family while going to school, he saw no reason, he said, why I should not put my chest aboard and come along. So the chest went aboard, and in the middle of the afternoon we hoisted the _Reindeer's_ big mainsail and cast off. It was tantalizing fall weather. The sea-breeze, which had blown steadily all summer, was gone, and in its place were capricious winds and murky skies which made the time of arriving anywhere extremely problematical. We started on the first of the ebb, and as we slipped down the Carquinez Straits, I looked my last for some time upon Benicia and the bight at Turner's Shipyard, where we had besieged the _Lancashire Queen_, and had captured Big Alec, the King of the Greeks. And at the mouth of the Straits I looked with not a little interest upon the spot where a few days before I should have drowned but for the good that was in the nature of Demetrios Contos. A great wall of fog advanced across San Pablo Bay to meet us, and in a few minutes the _Reindeer_ was running blindly through the damp obscurity. Charley, who was steering, seemed to have an instinct for that kind of work. How he did it, he himself confessed that he did not know; but he had a way of calculating winds, currents, distance, time, drift, and sailing speed that was truly marvellous. "It looks as though it were lifting," Neil Partington said, a couple of hours after we had entered the fog. "Where do you say we are, Charley?" Charley looked at his watch. "Six o'clock, and three hours more of ebb," he remarked casually. "But where do you say we are?" Neil insisted. Charley pondered a moment, and then answered, "The tide has edged us over a bit out of our course, but if the fog lifts right now, as it is going to lift, you'll find we're not more than a thousand miles off McNear's Landing." "You might be a little more definite by a few miles, anyway," Neil grumbled, showing by his tone that he disagreed. "All right, then," Charley said, conclusively, "not less than a quarter of a mile, not more than a half." The wind freshened with a couple of little puffs, and the fog thinned perceptibly. "McNear's is right off there," Charley said, pointing directly into the fog on our weather beam. The three of us were peering intently in that direction, when the _Reindeer_ struck with a dull crash and came to a standstill. We ran forward, and found her bowsprit entangled in the tanned rigging of a short, chunky mast. She had collided, head on, with a Chinese junk lying at anchor. At the moment we arrived forward, five Chinese, like so many bees, came swarming out of the little 'tween-decks cabin, the sleep still in their eyes. Leading them came a big, muscular man, conspicuous for his pock-marked face and the yellow silk handkerchief swathed about his head. It was Yellow Handkerchief, the Chinaman whom we had arrested for illegal shrimp-fishing the year before, and who, at that time, had nearly sunk the _Reindeer_, as he had nearly sunk it now by violating the rules of navigation. "What d'ye mean, you yellow-faced heathen, lying here in a fairway without a horn a-going?" Charley cried hotly. "Mean?" Neil calmly answered. "Just take a look--that's what he means." Our eyes followed the direction indicated by Neil's finger, and we saw the open amid-ships of the junk, half filled, as we found on closer examination, with fresh-caught shrimps. Mingled with the shrimps were myriads of small fish, from a quarter of an inch upwards in size. Yellow Handkerchief had lifted the trap-net at high-water slack, and, taking advantage of the concealment offered by the fog, had boldly been lying by, waiting to lift the net again at low-water slack. "Well," Neil hummed and hawed, "in all my varied and extensive experience as a fish patrolman, I must say this is the easiest capture I ever made. What'll we do with them, Charley?" "Tow the junk into San Rafael, of course," came the answer. Charley turned to me. "You stand by the junk, lad, and I'll pass you a towing line. If the wind doesn't fail us, we'll make the creek before the tide gets too low, sleep at San Rafael, and arrive in Oakland to-morrow by midday." So saying, Charley and Neil returned to the _Reindeer_ and got under way, the junk towing astern. I went aft and took charge of the prize, steering by means of an antiquated tiller and a rudder with large, diamond-shaped holes, through which the water rushed back and forth. By now the last of the fog had vanished, and Charley's estimate of our position was confirmed by the sight of McNear's Landing a short half-mile away. Following along the west shore, we rounded Point Pedro in plain view of the Chinese shrimp villages, and a great to-do was raised when they saw one of their junks towing behind the familiar fish patrol sloop. The wind, coming off the land, was rather puffy and uncertain, and it would have been more to our advantage had it been stronger. San Rafael Creek, up which we had to go to reach the town, and turn over our prisoners to the authorities, ran through wide-stretching marshes, and was difficult to navigate on a falling tide, while at low tide it was impossible to navigate at all. So, with the tide already half-ebbed, it was necessary for us to make time. This the heavy junk prevented lumbering along behind and holding the _Reindeer_ back by just so much dead weight. "Tell those coolies to get up that sail" Charley finally called to me. "We don't want to hang up on the mud flats for the rest of the night." I repeated the order to Yellow Handkerchief, who mumbled it huskily to his men. He was suffering from a bad cold, which doubled him up in convulsive coughing spells and made his eyes heavy and bloodshot. This made him more evil-looking than ever, and when he glared viciously at me, I remembered with a shiver the close shave I had had with him at the time of his previous arrest. His crew sullenly tailed on to the halyards, and the strange, outlandish sail, lateen in rig and dyed a warm brown, rose in the air. We were sailing on the wind, and when Yellow Handkerchief flattened down the sheet the junk forged ahead and the tow-line went slack. Fast as the _Reindeer_ could sail, the junk outsailed her; and to avoid running her down I hauled a little closer on the wind. But the junk likewise outpointed, and in a couple of minutes I was abreast of the _Reindeer_ and to windward. The tow-line had now tautened, at right angles to the two boats and the predicament was laughable. "Cast off!" I shouted. Charley hesitated. "It's all right," I added. "Nothing can happen. We'll make the creek on this tack, and you'll be right behind me all the way up to San Rafael." At this Charley cast off, and Yellow Handkerchief sent one of his men forward to haul in the line. In the gathering darkness I could just make out the mouth of San Rafael Creek, and by the time we entered it I could barely see its banks. The _Reindeer_ was fully five minutes astern, and we continued to leave her astern as we beat up the narrow, winding channel. With Charley behind us, it seemed I had little to fear from my five prisoners; but the darkness prevented my keeping a sharp eye on them, so I transferred my revolver from my trousers pocket to the side pocket of my coat, where I could more quickly put my hand on it. Yellow Handkerchief was the one I feared, and that he knew it and made use of it, subsequent events will show. He was sitting a few feet away from me, on what then happened to be the weather side of the junk. I could scarcely see the outlines of his form, but I soon became convinced that he was slowly, very slowly, edging closer to me. I watched him carefully. Steering with my left hand, I slipped my right into my pocket and got hold of the revolver. I saw him shift along for a couple of inches, and I was just about to order him back--the words were trembling on the tip of my tongue--when I was struck with great force by a heavy figure that had leaped through the air upon me from the lee side. It was one of the crew. He pinioned my right arm so that I could not withdraw my hand from my pocket, and at the same time clapped his other hand over my mouth. Of course, I could have struggled away from him and freed my hand or gotten my mouth clear so that I might cry an alarm, but in a trice Yellow Handkerchief was on top of me. I struggled around to no purpose in the bottom of the junk, while my legs and arms were tied and my mouth securely bound in what I afterward found out to be a cotton shirt. Then I was left lying in the bottom. Yellow Handkerchief took the tiller, issuing his orders in whispers; and from our position at the time, and from the alteration of the sail, which I could dimly make out above me as a blot against the stars, I knew the junk was being headed into the mouth of a small slough which emptied at that point into San Rafael Creek. In a couple of minutes we ran softly alongside the bank, and the sail was silently lowered. The Chinese kept very quiet. Yellow Handkerchief sat down in the bottom alongside of me, and I could feel him straining to repress his raspy, hacking cough. Possibly seven or eight minutes later I heard Charley's voice as the _Reindeer_ went past the mouth of the slough. "I can't tell you how relieved I am," I could plainly hear him saying to Neil, "that the lad has finished with the fish patrol without accident." Here Neil said something which I could not catch, and then Charley's voice went on: "The youngster takes naturally to the water, and if, when he finishes high school, he takes a course in navigation and goes deep sea, I see no reason why he shouldn't rise to be master of the finest and biggest ship afloat." It was all very flattering to me, but lying there, bound and gagged by my own prisoners, with the voices growing faint and fainter as the _Reindeer_ slipped on through the darkness toward San Rafael, I must say I was not in quite the proper situation to enjoy my smiling future. With the _Reindeer_ went my last hope. What was to happen next I could not imagine, for the Chinese were a different race from mine, and from what I knew I was confident that fair play was no part of their make-up. After waiting a few minutes longer, the crew hoisted the lateen sail, and Yellow Handkerchief steered down toward the mouth of San Rafael Creek. The tide was getting lower, and he had difficulty in escaping the mud-banks. I was hoping he would run aground, but he succeeded in making the Bay without accident. As we passed out of the creek a noisy discussion arose, which I knew related to me. Yellow Handkerchief was vehement, but the other four as vehemently opposed him. It was very evident that he advocated doing away with me and they were afraid of the consequences. I was familiar enough with the Chinese character to know that fear alone restrained them. But what plan they offered in place of Yellow Handkerchief's murderous one, I could not make out. My feelings, as my fate hung in the balance, may be guessed. The discussion developed into a quarrel, in the midst of which Yellow Handkerchief unshipped the heavy tiller and sprang toward me. But his four companions threw themselves between, and a clumsy struggle took place for possession of the tiller. In the end Yellow Handkerchief was over-come, and sullenly returned to the steering, while they soundly berated him for his rashness. Not long after, the sail was run down and the junk slowly urged forward by means of the sweeps. I felt it ground gently on the soft mud. Three of the Chinese--they all wore long sea-boots--got over the side, and the other two passed me across the rail. With Yellow Handkerchief at my legs and his two companions at my shoulders, they began to flounder along through the mud. After some time their feet struck firmer footing, and I knew they were carrying me up some beach. The location of this beach was not doubtful in my mind. It could be none other than one of the Marin Islands, a group of rocky islets which lay off the Marin County shore. When they reached the firm sand that marked high tide, I was dropped, and none too gently. Yellow Handkerchief kicked me spitefully in the ribs, and then the trio floundered back through the mud to the junk. A moment later I heard the sail go up and slat in the wind as they drew in the sheet. Then silence fell, and I was left to my own devices for getting free. I remembered having seen tricksters writhe and squirm out of ropes with which they were bound, but though I writhed and squirmed like a good fellow, the knots remained as hard as ever, and there was no appreciable slack. In the course of my squirming, however, I rolled over upon a heap of clam-shells--the remains, evidently, of some yachting party's clam-bake. This gave me an idea. My hands were tied behind my back; and, clutching a shell in them, I rolled over and over, up the beach, till I came to the rocks I knew to be there. Rolling about and searching, I finally discovered a narrow crevice, into which I shoved the shell. The edge of it was sharp, and across the sharp edge I proceeded to saw the rope that bound my wrists. The edge of the shell was also brittle, and I broke it by bearing too heavily upon it. Then I rolled back to the heap and returned with as many shells as I could carry in both hands. I broke many shells, cut my hands a number of times, and got cramps in my legs from my strained position and my exertions. While I was suffering from the cramps, and resting, I heard the familiar halloo drift across the water. It was Charley, searching for me. The gag in my mouth prevented me from replying, and I could only lie there, helplessly fuming, while he rowed past the island and his voice slowly lost itself in the distance. I returned to the sawing process, and at the end of half an hour succeeded in severing the rope. The rest was easy. My hands once free, it was a matter of minutes to loosen my legs and to take the gag out of my mouth. I ran around the island to make sure it _was_ an island and not by chance a portion of the mainland. An island it certainly was, one of the Marin group, fringed with a sandy beach and surrounded by a sea of mud. Nothing remained but to wait till daylight and to keep warm; for it was a cold, raw night for California, with just enough wind to pierce the skin and cause one to shiver. To keep up the circulation, I ran around the island a dozen times or so, and clambered across its rocky backbone as many times more--all of which was of greater service to me, as I afterward discovered, than merely to warm me up. In the midst of this exercise I wondered if I had lost anything out of my pockets while rolling over and over in the sand. A search showed the absence of my revolver and pocket-knife. The first Yellow Handkerchief had taken; but the knife had been lost in the sand. I was hunting for it when the sound of rowlocks came to my ears. At first, of course, I thought of Charley; but on second thought I knew Charley would be calling out as he rowed along. A sudden premonition of danger seized me. The Marin Islands are lonely places; chance visitors in the dead of night are hardly to be expected. What if it were Yellow Handkerchief? The sound made by the rowlocks grew more distinct. I crouched in the sand and listened intently. The boat, which I judged a small skiff from the quick stroke of the oars, was landing in the mud about fifty yards up the beach. I heard a raspy, hacking cough, and my heart stood still. It was Yellow Handkerchief. Not to be robbed of his revenge by his more cautious companions, he had stolen away from the village and come back alone. I did some swift thinking. I was unarmed and helpless on a tiny islet, and a yellow barbarian, whom I had reason to fear, was coming after me. Any place was safer than the island, and I turned immediately to the water, or rather to the mud. As he began to flounder ashore through the mud. I started to flounder out into it, going over the same course which the Chinese had taken in landing me and in returning to the junk. Yellow Handkerchief, believing me to be lying tightly bound, exercised no care, but came ashore noisily. This helped me, for, under the shield of his noise and making no more myself than necessary, I managed to cover fifty feet by the time he had made the beach. Here I lay down in the mud. It was cold and clammy, and made me shiver, but I did not care to stand up and run the risk of being discovered by his sharp eyes. He walked down the beach straight to where he had left me lying, and I had a fleeting feeling of regret at not being able to see his surprise when he did not find me. But it was a very fleeting regret, for my teeth were chattering with the cold. What his movements were after that I had largely to deduce from the facts of the situation, for I could scarcely see him in the dim starlight. But I was sure that the first thing he did was to make the circuit of the beach to learn if landings had been made by other boats. This he would have known at once by the tracks through the mud. Convinced that no boat had removed me from the island, he next started to find out what had become of me. Beginning at the pile of clam-shells, he lighted matches to trace my tracks in the sand. At such times I could see his villanous face plainly, and, when the sulphur from the matches irritated his lungs, between the raspy cough that followed and the clammy mud in which I was lying, I confess I shivered harder than ever. The multiplicity of my footprints puzzled him. Then the idea that I might be out in the mud must have struck him, for he waded out a few yards in my direction, and, stooping, with his eyes searched the dim surface long and carefully. He could not have been more than fifteen feet from me, and had he lighted a match he would surely have discovered me. He returned to the beach and clambered about over the rocky backbone, again hunting for me with lighted matches. The closeness of the shore impelled me to further flight. Not daring to wade upright, on account of the noise made by floundering and by the suck of the mud, I remained lying down in the mud and propelled myself over its surface by means of my hands. Still keeping the trail made by the Chinese in going from and to the junk, I held on until I had reached the water. Into this I waded to a depth of three feet, and then I turned off to the side on a line parallel with the beach. The thought came to me of going toward Yellow Handkerchief's skiff and escaping in it, but at that very moment he returned to the beach, and, as though fearing the very thing I had in mind, he slushed out through the mud to assure himself that the skiff was safe. This turned me in the opposite direction. Half swimming, half wading, with my head just out of water and avoiding splashing. I succeeded in putting about a hundred feet between myself and the spot ashore where the Chinese had begun to wade ashore from the junk. I drew myself out on the mud and remained lying flat. Again Yellow Handkerchief returned to the beach and made a search of the island, and again he returned to the heap of clam-shells. I knew what was running in his mind as well as he did himself. No one could leave or land without making tracks in the mud. The only tracks to be seen were those leading from his skiff and from where the junk had been. I was not on the island. I must have left it by one or other of those two tracks. He had just been over the one to his skiff, and was certain I had not left that way. Therefore I could have left the island only by going over the tracks of the junk landing. This he proceeded to verify by wading out over them himself, lighting matches as he came along. When he arrived at the point where I had first lain, I knew, by the matches he burned and the time he took, that he had discovered the marks left by my body. These he followed straight to the water and into it, but in three feet of water he could no longer see them. On the other hand, as the tide was still falling, he could easily make out the impression made by the junk's bow, and could have likewise made out the impression of any other boat if it had landed at that particular spot. But there was no such mark; and I knew that he was absolutely convinced that I was hiding somewhere in the mud. But to hunt on a dark night for a boy in a sea of mud would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack, and he did not attempt it. Instead he went back to the beach and prowled around for some time. I was hoping he would give up and go, for by this time I was suffering severely from the cold. At last he waded out to his skiff and rowed away. What if this departure of Yellow Handkerchief's were a sham? What if he had done it merely to entice me ashore? The more I thought of it the more certain I became that he had made a little too much noise with his oars as he rowed away. So I remained, lying in the mud and shivering. I shivered till the muscles of the small of my back ached and pained me as badly as the cold, and I had need of all my self-control to force myself to remain in my miserable situation. It was well that I did, however, for, possibly an hour later, I thought I could make out something moving on the beach. I watched intently, but my ears were rewarded first, by a raspy cough I knew only too well. Yellow Handkerchief had sneaked back, landed on the other side of the island, and crept around to surprise me if I had returned. After that, though hours passed without sign of him, I was afraid to return to the island at all. On the other hand, I was equally afraid that I should die of the exposure I was undergoing. I had never dreamed one could suffer so. I grew so cold and numb, finally, that I ceased to shiver. But my muscles and bones began to ache in a way that was agony. The tide had long since begun to rise, and, foot by foot, it drove me in toward the beach. High water came at three o'clock, and at three o'clock I drew myself up on the beach, more dead than alive, and too helpless to have offered any resistence had Yellow Handkerchief swooped down upon me. But no Yellow Handkerchief appeared. He had given up and gone back to Point Pedro. Nevertheless, I was in a deplorable, not to say a dangerous, condition. I could not stand upon my feet, much less walk. My clammy, muddy, garments clung to me like sheets of ice. I thought I should never get them off. So numb and lifeless were my fingers, and so weak was I, that it seemed to take an hour to get off my shoes. I had not the strength to break the porpoise-hide laces, and the knots defied me. I repeatedly beat my hands upon the rocks to get some sort of life into them. Sometimes I felt sure I was going to die. But in the end,--after several centuries, it seemed to me,--I got off the last of my clothes. The water was now close at hand, and I crawled painfully into it and washed the mud from my naked body. Still, I could not get on my feet and walk and I was afraid to lie still. Nothing remained but to crawl weakly, like a snail, and at the cost of constant pain, up and down the island. I kept this up as along as possible, but as the east paled with the coming of dawn I began to succumb. The sky grew rosy-red, and the golden rim of the sun, showing above the horizon, found me lying helpless and motionless among the clam-shells. As in a dream, I saw the familiar mainsail of the _Reindeer_ as she slipped out of San Rafael Creek on a light puff of morning air. This dream was very much broken. There are intervals I can never recollect on looking back over it. Three things, however, I distinctly remember: the first sight of the _Reindeer's_ mainsail; her lying at anchor a few hundred feet away and a small boat leaving her side; and the cabin stove roaring red-hot, myself swathed all over with blankets, except on the chest and shoulders, which Charley was pounding and mauling unmercifully, and my mouth and throat burning with the coffee which Neil Partington was pouring down a trifle too hot. But burn or no burn, I tell you it felt good. By the time we arrived in Oakland I was as limber and strong as ever,--though Charley and Neil Partington were afraid I was going to have pneumonia, and Mrs. Partington, for my first six months of school, kept an anxious eye upon me to discover the first symptoms of consumption. Time flies. It seems but yesterday that I was a lad of sixteen on the fish patrol. Yet I know that I arrived this very morning from China, with a quick passage to my credit, and master of the barkentine _Harvester_. And I know that to-morrow morning I shall run over to Oakland to see Neil Partington and his wife and family, and later on up to Benicia to see Charley Le Grant and talk over old times. No; I shall not go to Benicia, now that I think about it. I expect to be a highly interested party to a wedding, shortly to take place. Her name is Alice Partington, and, since Charley has promised to be best man, he will have to come down to Oakland instead. 
57471	----	produced from scans of public domain works at The National Library of Australia.) _ADVANCE AUSTRALIA._ A SETTLER'S 35 YEARS' EXPERIENCE IN VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA, And how £6 8s. became £8,000. WITH ADVICE TO SETTLERS, &c. "Men are agents for the future, As they work so ages win, Either harvest of advancement, Or the product of their sin." _Inscribed by the kind permission of the HONOURABLE ALFRED DEAKIN, Chief Secretary of Victoria._ Melbourne: M.L. Hutchinson, 305 & 307 Little Collins Street, Nearly Opposite Royal Arcade. Rae Bros., Printers, 547 and 549 Elizabeth Street North. [Illustration: "Off for 200 Miles' Tramp." See Page 10.] CONTENTS. PAGE. Sketch of Artist Life 1 Farewell to Dear Old England 3 Melbourne at Last 6 Christian Socialism 7 Melbourne Experience 9 Off to the Diggings 10 Ten Years on the Diggings 12 Commence Farming 18 Increase of Holdings 25 The Consummation 26 A Dissertation on Temperance 28 The Vine Industry 31 The Settlement of the Lands 32 Irrigation 35 A Scheme of Settlement 37 A Glimpse at the Future of Australia 45 Conclusion 48 Poetry, "All the Way" 49 Introduction. In giving this little "Life Sketch," I am actuated by a desire to assist many, not only hard-handed men in the "Old Country," but many soft-handed ones also, as I was, and especially those who have large families, as I had, and who are struggling for a living, and see but little hope for the future in the already over-crowded hive in the "Old Land," and a still poorer prospect for the new swarms; I, therefore, think a little advice and encouragement to those desirous to "cast off," from one who has been through it all, will be welcomed by many.--E.H. Sketch of My Artist Life. When living in the "Old Land," over 35 years since, I belonged to a class of which there are many thousands--a struggling professor--and of the class I have designated as "soft-handed." I was an artist by profession; studied from a child; never did anything else; and in 1850 and 1851 had so far advanced in my profession to have the honor of having my works hung in a creditable position on the walls of the Royal Academy of Arts, of which I was also a student. I married rather young (at 25), and soon had little ones running round. I started fairly well in the neighborhood of London, at Clapham, adding teaching. Just about this time (1847) artists were invited by the Government to send in specimens of their works for exhibition in Westminster Hall, for competition for the decoration of the new Houses of Parliament, then just finished. I was rather too young and inexperienced an artist for so great and honored an undertaking; however, I thought I would venture. I got my large picture finished, but from over-study, excitement, and anxiety, my health gave way. I contracted nervous typhus fever, and consequently could not finish the other one, which was required by the Commissioners to enable me to compete. But Sir Chas. Eastlake, the President, whose letter I still have, said my painting--under the section of "Scriptural Allegory," subject, "The King of Kings and Lord of Lords"--though not entitled to compete, could, if I liked, be hung in the vestibule of the hall; which was an honor I gladly consented to. On getting up from my long and dangerous illness, my medical advisers persuaded me to go to a milder climate for perfect restoration, and to give up my profession for a time; at least, to do but very little painting. South Devonshire was recommended. We therefore left our home at Clapham, and took up our residence about four miles from that lovely spot, Torquay. To our residence was attached a small farm and a splendid orchard. In this beautiful climate I soon regained my strength. I did all sorts of labor on the farm, so that I got a general insight into all sorts of farming work. This I have found exceedingly useful since taking to farming in Australia. I found many kind friends in Devonshire. (I cannot help naming the Savile family. God bless them for their kind patronage and introduction in my profession!) We resided in Devonshire about four years. We then came again to London, but found a difficulty in looking up a connection again; had to fill up my time in decorating in the various courts of the Crystal Palace, at Sydenham, just then being erected. I, however, saw but little prospect of advancing in my profession, or even making a living, and less prospect for a large and increasing family; we having by this time seven children, six boys and one baby girl; besides, I had contracted a great taste for a rural life while in Devonshire. We determined, therefore, to depart for Australia--the land of gold! The goldfields being at that time in full swing. A wide field indeed for enterprise, and anticipated prosperity, with God's blessing; for, I am happy to say, I had long sought His grace and guidance, and committed my ways unto Him, and was sure He would guide our steps. In the first place, I applied to the Commissioners of Emigration for a situation as schoolmaster for the voyage, on a Government emigration ship; my wife to act as matron. I presented letters of recommendation--one from the Bishop of London (Blomfield). I was well known to him, as Fulham, near London, where he resided, was my native place. The commissioners said my letters were more than enough, but desired to know the number of children I had. On hearing the number they informed me that they regretted to say that, according to their regulations, this would be a bar to my appointment. Three, I think, was the number allowed. This was a great blow to us, as we should have saved our passage money, and had a salary besides; I think about £150 as schoolmaster, and wife as matron. Parties told me I could have managed it if I had liked, by getting some of the passengers to take the other four children; but this I could not do from principle. To pay our passage in a general passage ship, therefore, exhausted all our little means. Farewell to Dear Old England. We did intend taking our passage in the new ship "Schomberg," just launched, and owned by "The White Star Company." On enquiring at the London office, they informed me that I could send our goods on to Liverpool, but they would not be put on board any ship until our passage money was paid, and that I should find them in the company's warehouse in Liverpool; consequently, I sent the goods on. We could not, however, get ready to go by the "Schomberg." On arriving at Liverpool, and enquiring for our luggage, I found it had been sent on in that vessel. Now, the fate of that fine new ship, I presume, is generally known. The captain had a bet with the captain of the ship "Kent," a well known clipper, and declared "if he did not beat the 'Kent,' he would knock her ('the Schomberg's') bows in." On hearing that the "Kent" had made the passage before him, the "Schomberg" was wilfully run on shore, just a little way from Cape Otway. Luckily, it was fair weather, and the passengers and crew were taken safely off, but with only the luggage they could carry in their hands; there being only just standing room on board the rescuing steamboat. The "Schomberg" became a total wreck. This, I suppose, is one of the most wicked and shameful incidents that ever happened on the shores of Australia. We took our passage in the next ship; the good ship "Sultana," from Liverpool, on the 21st October, 1855. I remember, as we weighed anchor, being some distance out in the stream, and out of hearing of any friendly cheer, a serious calm appeared to pervade the ship; all appeared absorbed with their own thoughts, when we found the ship was under way, more by the apparent moving of the receding shore; she being a sailing vessel. I don't know the feelings of the other passengers; possibly many were like our own, at departing from the good "Old Land." Hitherto, we had borne up well in parting from kindred and friends. We said "Good-bye" in London; but now, in those few calm moments, seated upon the ship's deck, with wife, six sons, and a baby girl around us, we felt the necessity of faith in that good Providence on Whom we had cast the future. Our feelings, however, would have vent in a few hot tears, but these had to be brushed quickly on one side. I do not think it necessary in this little sketch to give a long account of our voyage, or the various incidents that happened. There was nothing very sensational; our worst experience was our first night out. The ship was so crowded that there were not berths enough, and, as we came late on board, ours had to be erected, so that we had to huddle down between decks, the best we could. The children being our great care, there was no rest for wife or self. We had fearful weather in the Channel, and, everything being loose on board, the din was fearful; the heavy iron cable on deck rolling from side to side, and the ship's bell tolling at every roll of the ship, and the carpenters working all night, fitting up berths, and the state of the passengers--one can guess the confusion! And what added to it more--just as we reached the most dangerous part of the Channel, off the coast of Ireland, the tug-hawser parted, but, when pulled on board, it evidently had been cut adrift with an axe--a most shameful act. The contract was to take us clear of the Channel. This, then, made further trouble, as all hands had now to set to and work the ship, and there was great danger in working her out of the difficult position she was left in, and anxiously did all wait for the morning. It may be imagined that the whole of the voyage was no pleasure trip for wife or self, in a crowded ship, and seven children (under 12 years of age) to look after. Neither do I think the children liked it; they were too young, and they did not thrive at all on the rough ship's fare, particularly the hard ship's biscuits--they could not manage them at all. After a time, though, we got on better; I had a carpenter's plane with my goods, and we shaved the biscuits down on that, and made it into puddings, and so managed to get rid of them in this way. The plane went the round of the ship after this, particularly among the old people. We had, however, on arriving at Melbourne, an American cask full, unconsumed; these we took on shore with us, and they went fine in soups, &c., with good Australian beef, at 3d. a pound. Melbourne, at Last. We were thankful to arrive safely, after a fine passage of 81 days. We arrived off Cape Otway in the night, and stood "off and on" until daylight, when the pilot came on board, and the first thing he told us was the loss of the "Schomberg." Well, of course, we then knew also that all our goods were at the bottom of the sea. We were thankful, though, that we did not ship on board that ill-fated vessel; but ought we to attribute her loss to _fate_? No! It was wilful wickedness. I regretted our loss the more as my Westminster Hall picture was among the things lost, as it was the highest class work I ever attempted. It was with anxious eyes myself and several other heads of families viewed the shore of the "promised land." It certainly (from the deck of the vessel) did not look very prepossessing; not even with a good glass, and more particularly as we went up the bay nearer to Melbourne. It being the dry season--January--nothing looked green, and the dry grass looked more like sand, and the trees looked stunted. It was a hot wind and dust storm on the day we landed, and the place looked very dreary; what few shops there were, were nearly closed to keep out the dust. We were brought up the Yarra River to Melbourne from the ship by steam tugs. Of course, most of us had on our "Old Country" clothes; it was quite easy to know a "New Chum." I don't remember seeing a belltopper hat, or a coat, being worn in Melbourne at that time, and "New Chums" hated to be conspicuous, as they were always "Joed," that they soon dropped their "Old Country" style, and took to jumpers and straw, or slouched felt hats. The highest style, however, was the cabbage-tree hat. I had carefully preserved a nearly new belltopper hat through the voyage, but somehow had forgotten it in the bustle of leaving. The last I saw of it, however, it was being kicked about on the other lighter as a football, which I did not after regret. There were several parties with large families on board. The head of one, who had been on shore to look round for a few hours, and had been a schoolmaster, took charge of the women and children (about 30 children), and conducted them to a place he had seen--"the Wesleyan Home"--about a mile and a quarter from the landing place, leaving myself and the other males to look after the luggage, and follow on with the drays. It was after dark when we arrived at the "home." It was a pleasant sight to see the dear children sitting round the table enjoying their tea and nice "soft tack" (bread, &c.), after roughing it so long on board ship. "The Wesleyan Emigrants' Home"--I believe it is still in existence; it was a few years since--was a fine institution, and a great boon to emigrants. It was a peaceful, christian home, and the only one, I think, at that time. Hotels and restaurants were the resort of the lowest characters, and hardly safe for anyone to enter; most people in them went armed, and fearful scenes took place. Christian Socialism. The manager of the "home" had a book, in which he entered the names of all who lodged there. He also entered your nationality and religion; also denomination. When he put the last question to me, I answered, "A Christian Brother." "Why," said he, "yours is the first entry I have made in my book of such a sect." "Sect!" I replied, "I did not know it was a sect at all." I hoped not, for I had adopted it in opposition to sectarianism, of which I had seen so much evil in the "Old Country." I therefore determined to drop "isms" in the sea, and, on arriving at this new and good land, hoped to be known simply as a christian, and "give the right hand of fellowship to all who loved the Lord Jesus in sincerity and truth," irrespective of denominations. I regret, however, that the old animosities have reached this new land. The old bickerings and trifles, non-essentials, about "Apostolic Succession," "Dipping or Sprinkling," "Free-will," "Election," "Reprobation," &c., &c.--neglecting the more paramount matters, "Belief," and a "consistent walk in life." But now, at this time (1891), I am glad to see a growing desire for unity and christian socialism in Victoria, and more particularly in the country districts; and I think they are setting an example to the towns, where there is a sad want of unity among the clergy, and christian socialism among the people. The congregations even are divided into "sets," or, as the Yankee would call them, "grades," who "stand off" from each other, and think it quite condescending, in any way, to recognise the lower "set." The visitations, also, of the clergy, are in very many cases confined to the higher "grades." There are, though, a few grand exceptions. Now, all this should be broken down if the church is ever to take its true place in the world. We should rather begin at the bottom--with men of low estate--for, hath not God chosen such? In my long life I have found the best traits of character among the poor. Verily, many that we think last shall stand first on _that day_. In my humble opinion, nothing will tend to overthrow the sceptical and atheistical tendencies of the age so much as christian fellowship and brotherhood; in fact, it is the want of this, with the dissensions and bickerings of professors, which create this scepticism; and this will continue until the world can say of christians of to-day, as it was said of old, "See how these christians love each other." "Dearly beloved brethren" will then not only be upon the lips, but in the heart. I must, however, stop this homilistical strain, and return to my narrative. Melbourne Experience. I stepped on shore in Melbourne, with my dear wife and seven children, with the grand sum of _ten shillings_ in my pocket; but, with a stout heart and willing hands, and a firm reliance on God's blessings, things did not appear so very hard. We stayed two or three days at the "Wesleyan home." On the second day after landing I got work, digging potatoes at 14s. per day. We then rented a small two-roomed house in Collingwood; had our boxes, at first, for furniture; but the grand wages of fourteen shillings per day soon provided what other little furniture we required. It appeared a poor home, though, after the style of the "Old Country;" but it is astonishing how soon one gets over this feeling, where love and happiness reign. I am not a believer in that foolish saying, that "when want comes in at the door, love flies out of the window." No; true hearts cling the tighter. On looking round Melbourne, I found some few parties I knew in England. They were very old settlers long before the discovery of gold; they were in affluent circumstances. They kindly gave me a commission to paint a few portraits in oils, which led to one or two more. I also painted a few fancy pictures. The colony, however, was too young to appreciate the _fine_ arts to any extent. The _rougher_ arts were more in vogue, and the gold fever was not abated. I also got a touch of it, my wife having two brothers on the Ovens diggings, who had been in the colony about a year. I determined, therefore, to join them. Off to the Diggings. I started alone with swag, blankets, billy, pannikin, etc., in orthodox style, for a 200 miles' tramp through the bush. (See frontispiece.) This, however, was not much of an undertaking for me, as I was a great pedestrian, could do my six miles an hour easy, and often over 50 miles per day on my sketching tours in the "Old Country;" being tall (fully six feet), I had a good stride. At that time the Sydney Road was only formed a few miles out of Melbourne, and from the Rockey Waterholes to the foot of the Big Hill (commonly then called Pretty Sally's Hill) was swamp ground. I found a difficulty in getting over this; I had to tread the thistles down for miles to prevent bogging, and it was raining fast. The contractors were just forming the road, and on the first rise on the other side of the swamp the camp was formed. The men had knocked off on account of the rain. Just as I was level with the camp, I heard my name called out in true Irish accent, and out ran one of our shipmates to greet me. He occupied the next berth to us on board ship, and was ill a great part of the way. He had been a tradesman in Dublin. He was lively enough now, as he grasped my hand and cut a real Irish caper, with "Hurrah! for Australia and 14s. a day, and wood and water!" He was driving one of the contractor's drays. He wanted me to stay, as it was far into the afternoon, but no--my alloted mileage was not done, so I marched on. My first night's "bushing" was a strange experience. Rolled up in blankets, at the foot of a gum tree, I had not turned _down_ long (I cannot say turned _in_) when I was conscious of something being upon my shoulder, and, cautiously turning round, saw an animal perched quite innocently there. It was an opossum. I presume he did not recognise me from a log. He appeared quite content to sit there until I gave him a cant, and sent him some distance off. This "camping out" is not at all an unpleasant experience, as many might think, and this was a splendid moonlight night. At that time it was far more safe to keep clear of restaurants and shanties, as they were the resort of the vilest characters. Neither was it safe to camp out alone with a fire at night, as this was an attraction, and you were pretty sure to get objectionable company. The plan, therefore, generally adopted, was to boil the billy for tea, then, after tea, leave, and go on a little distance in the dark, and turn off the road or track into the silent bush, and roll up in your blankets; thus you avoided unpleasant company. I got through in about seven days. I passed through the famous "Woolshed Diggings," where the rich claims were, and where the men had to wash the gold off their boots when they left work. There was a "strike" on just then. The claim-holders wanted to reduce the wages to £1 per day. I was interviewed, and offered work at that price, but, of course, I refused, as I was on my way to join my wife's brothers. I then went on through Beechworth--Spring Creek diggings. The scenes on the diggings were strange and novel to me. Beechworth was the chief centre of the mining district, and the other diggings around were named by the distance from Beechworth, thus--"The One Mile," "The Three Mile," and "The Nine Mile." This last was my destination. It was also called "Snake Valley," from the winding course of the creek. It was late in the evening when I arrived, quite dark and pouring rain, and there had been a long rain before, so that the roads in the township were wretched. At the crossings of the creek it was impassable, and was only indicated by side logs, on which I had to crawl. The worst of it was, I had to wander up and down the creek to find my brothers' hut. The storekeepers knew them by sight, but could not say where they lived. I was directed to a large restaurant, about a mile down the creek. There were about 40 diggers, just at tea. I walked up and down between the tables, and I think they were the finest, strongest, and roughest set of men I ever saw. I did not see my brothers, though. Came back, enquired at the police camp, also to no purpose. Over the creek again, when at last I found a butcher who pointed out on the bank, on the other side of the creek, the light shining through the calico top of their hut. He lent me a piece of candle to cross the creek with, and I managed to work my way among the holes and sludge, etc., to the other side. And glad I was to get there, and I was as "wet as a rat," and pretty well tired out. I soon got "a shift" however, and such a fire as they had I never saw before; enough to roast a bullock; at which also I got a good roasting; and after a good supper of beef, damper and tea, soon felt all right. This for my first tramp in Australia. Ten Years on the Diggings. I joined my brothers in their claim, and we had two other mates, making a party of five. We were driving out wash-dirt, and sluicing it in long boxes with the creek water. We did fairly well--made from £6 to £7 per week for each man. This year (1856) was an exceedingly wet one, particularly in the winter and early spring. This drove the miners, out of shallow sinking, and the great "Woolshed Diggings" (Read's Creek) were flooded out, and thousands rushed the shallow sluicing ground of the Nine-mile Creek; in consequence, there was great trouble about water, and "water rights," which caused endless litigation. The creek could not supply half the water required; therefore, all the hills for miles round were tunneled for water, and an astonishing number of springs were opened. These were recognised by the Mining Warden as independent--independent of the creek--and a permit given for the sole use of the same. Many of these cost hundreds of pounds to cut. It was also called "created water;" that is, water before locked up in the hills, and not feeding the creek. The creek water was available to all, but this would not command one-thousandth part of the mining ground. Our party, therefore, looked about for indications of springs, by sinking trial shafts, and then driving tunnels. We were fortunate in tapping water. This we conducted to dams, and used for sluicing purposes in shallow ground, from 3ft. to 10ft. deep, washing away the whole of it. I could not rest long with my family remaining in Melbourne, as some of the children had colonial fever; a very distressing complaint, but not very fatal. Most "new chums" had it at that time, but I don't hear anything of it now. Therefore, I tramped down to Melbourne and back twice during the first year to see them; the last time to bring them up; so that during my first year in Australia I walked about 1000 miles. The last time I was over two months in Melbourne, as our eighth child was near at hand, and I thought it my duty to be with them. I filled up my time in Melbourne decorating the new Legislative Chambers, just then finished. My wages were just about the same as what I was getting in the claim, viz., £6 to £7 per week--good wages too; but not high for that class of work. Masons at that time got over £1 per day. I then started with the wife and family in the arduous duty of taking them 200 miles through the bush in an American waggon. We were 20 days on the road. It is now done in about six hours per rail. We had a fearful time on "Pretty Sally's Hill" (before mentioned); it blew a gale with heavy rain. It would have blown our tent clean away had I not "turned out" and cut saplings down and logged it all round. We pitched our tent every night, and had a long picnicing all the way. We could only procure milk at one place (Benalla) the whole 200 miles. We went per coach from Beechworth to the Nine Mile; had to place all the children in the bottom to prevent them being pitched out, the roads being so rough, and hills all the way. Glad, indeed, were we (dear wife, in particular, with baby) to arrive at our digger's home. I had previously erected the sides and skeleton of our future residence, and had only to put the calico top on, and stretch the fly roof. The sides were made of split slabs, the plates and rafters trimmed saplings, so that it took us, with the assistance of our mates, only a few hours to get it ready for occupying. It was very cold up there in the winter. I think the altitude is over 3000 feet. I often had to "turn out" in the night to shake the snow off the fly roof. We managed to keep nice and warm, though, with the huge logs on the fire--the fire-place almost as wide as the hut. It took two men to roll some of the back-logs in, and the fire was kept burning all night. In a few years we put up a better residence. Sawn timber for the frame, shingle top and a verandah; and we started a good garden from the very first, and were the first to introduce fruit trees in the district. Mine was the second formed garden on the Creek, and out of which we made many a pound in vegetables--sold cabbages at sixpence per pound. Had splendid flowers also. I likewise introduced the watercress, and had a sale for them even in Beechworth. They grew to perfection with our spring water running over the beds. The boys carried them round among the miners, and they were greatly appreciated. This was long before the Chinamen thought of gardening (which they monopolize now), and there were about 4000 of them then on the Nine Mile. I will not dwell long on our life on the diggings. I was not a "lucky digger," with the exception of one little patch (which see particulars further on). We lived, however, a comfortable, happy, healthy, and a very independent life, and brought up a large family--they now had increased to eleven, seven boys and four girls. This ten years on the diggings was, by far, the longest rest down, up to then, of our married life. For instance, of our seven children born in England, not two were born in one house; here, in our digger's home, we had three in addition, one being also born in Melbourne. It will be imagined that by this time I had worn off all my "smooth-handedness." Yes, indeed, I had become a "horny-handed" working man, and considered it no disgrace either. "Who will hang his head in blushes For the stains to toiling due? There is dignity in labor, If the laborer be true." I worked like a navvy for ten years, through many hardships and danger. I had two narrow escapes in falling banks of earth--had my pick caught each time, and buried as I was dragging it in running out of the way of the fall. I had also, during the first year, a very narrow escape of being buried alive, working underground when the ground was rotten and dangerous from the continued wet, mentioned before. It happened thus: Just before knocking-off for dinner, I had given up the wash-dirt to the man at the windlass, and put a prop in. On resuming work after dinner, I remarked that the prop had got "as firm as a church," and that I did not like the appearance of things at all, as this was a sign that the ground was giving. I also said that, as the stuff would hardly pay for driving much further, I would sweep it out and try in another direction from the shaft which my brother had pointed out, where he had got a fair prospect. I had just sent up the few buckets of sweepings, and was pointing out to the windlass-man the direction I intended driving, when, all of a sudden, without the least warning, the sides of the shaft commenced cracking; large masses also from the lower part breaking off. Of course, the rope was immediately let down, and I was hauled up, but not before a large block of earth struck me on the knee, which lamed me for about a week. Well, in about an hour afterwards, the whole of the ground, for about half an acre, sunk bodily down. The ground was completely honeycombed with drives. I was thankful I put that prop in before dinner, as it gave the indication of danger. As the mines are not now very interesting or attractive to intended emigrants, it is not necessary to enlarge further. It will be sufficient to say that when we broke up our partnership, my wife's brothers, being single men, had saved, I think, about £400 each, but I only had my share of the water right, which we also sold. My share was about £60. The whole of my earnings, therefore, had gone to bring up my large family. My money was invested in them, to be drawn upon some day, by God's blessing, with interest--and compound interest, too. Neighbors used to think they could command and use my boys as they liked. "No," I said, "you cannot draw upon my bank in this way; you must remunerate them for their services." About this time, the Government were beginning to sell the country lands in the district. My brothers went with their savings and purchased land some thirty miles from the diggings, and started farming--an occupation they had been used to in the "Old Country." I continued working on the diggings with the boys for some time longer, sinking and driving for "a patch" I thought should exist from the formation and dip of the ground--but failed. A short time after, though, a party went down one of my shafts, and only drove a few feet and struck what I had been looking for so long. I believe it was about £90 worth. This is a very common fate on the diggings. The largest nugget ever got in Australia was found in an old drive only two or three inches under the bottom. The original occupiers had actually driven over and knelt over it, but the mass of gold, being so heavy, had sunk into the pipe-clay, below the ordinary run of wash-dirt. I could tell of many curious incidents of the sort. After this I and the boys worked a puddling machine; some of them were able to do a fine day's work now. We only just made a living, though, and had to keep the horse; feed, also, was very expensive. I can remember hay being worth £50 per ton, and that only bush hay; of course, it was only then used for the Government--for police and gold escort horses. By this time (1865), these old diggings were nearly worn out. About this time (1865) the Government passed a new Land Act, opening the lands of the colony for free selection, and deferred payment at £1 per acre, payable in half-yearly payments of one shilling per acre, without interest; certain improvements to be effected in residence, fencing, clearing, cultivation, etc., enforced. Of this liberal Land Act I thought I would avail myself. I could select up to 320 acres; but that was beyond my means. At the next sitting of the Land Board I selected 128 acres--the most suitable to my capital. A river-side lot. Of this, 30 acres were river flat, not suitable for cultivation, being subject to floods; 35 acres only were fit for cultivation, the other portion being inferior, crab-holey, grass land. I said above, this was most suitable to my capital. Upon selecting, I had only just cash sufficient to pay the first deposit, as the first half-year's rent, viz., £6 8s. Little enough, it will be said, after 10 years' hard labor in the colony. But, remember, labor is equivalent to capital, and I was backed with that banking account named before, viz., my seven good boys. Commencing Farming. Now, striking out my digger's experience, I will dwell a little. It may be asked, Why did I put upon the title page of this "Life Sketch," "How £6 8s. became £8000?" Why did I not start with the 10s. I landed with? It is this. My object in writing at all is to induce others, under similar circumstances and conditions, to settle upon the land; therefore, I put down £6 8s., the amount I started farming with; or it may be seen further on that I might have put down £76 8s., but, the other £70 was only prospective, or hardly that at the time, as will be seen. Well, even this is no great sum, as many a laborer can earn that, or rather, can save that sum, in a little more than a year, at present wages; pick and shovel men getting 7s. to 8s. per day. Had I a large sum of money saved from mining, it might have been said--"Oh! with that amount of capital, anyone ought to succeed." So myself and two eldest sons started to make a home on the land. At this time I had one son, the third, aged about 16, living upon a station with squatters, not far from where we selected. He was getting small wages, but at the same time he was getting good experience with cattle, &c., and his masters were gentlemen of high character, and for whom I have the greatest respect. The two who joined me were now able to do a good hard day's work, and they had to do it, too. So we started at once. I left the wife and the smallest of the children (seven of them, one other son being at a dairy some few miles off) for a time, at the home on the diggings, and registered our claim for a few months to prevent anyone "jumping" it. We put up residence No. 1 on the farm, composed of two side logs, and sheets of bark for top. We got a party to plough about an acre ready for potatoes and vegetables, and then started into the bush, about six miles off, to split fencing stuff; living under a few sheets of bark, for about two months. While there, I wrote a letter to my good mother in dear old England, and just in fun, headed it, "Splitters' Hall." This was taken in earnest, and I received a letter in due course, addressed to "Splitters' Hall." This gave us much amusement. Having got our stuff split, a difficulty arose. How to get it out of the bush! We must either give our labor to some farmer for a time for fetching it out for us, or return to the claim, and try for a few pounds, as we only had one old horse we used in the puddling machine, and no dray. We determined, therefore, to go and wash a few machines of stuff on the claim. I took one of the boys with me, and, to our agreeable surprise and astonishment, we washed out £70 worth of gold (alluded to before at page 18) in one week. The only "patch" we ever got, and for which I trust we were thankful enough; and grand indeed did it look as we washed it off, and it followed the sluicing fork in the clean water in washing down the boxes. But it was only just a "patch," and ran out the next day. We call it our "Providential patch." On coming from the bank, where I sold it, my pocket felt nicer than I ever recollected (except upon one other occasion), and we all felt quite jubilant! This other occasion I will insert here, although it should have been in the sketch of my "Artist Experience." This is an occasion which I shall always remember with pleasure and gratitude to the individual who interested himself so kindly in my interest. I went into Norfolk professionally, portrait painting, drawn on this occasion in that direction by the attractions of a certain individual whose acquaintance I had formed in London. The Bishop of London, who was always my friend, and always kindly gave me letters of introduction, gave me one to the Bishop of Norwich (Bishop Stanley), the father of the late honoured Dean Stanley, of Westminster. He kindly introduced me to the Mayor of Norwich, Mr. Freeman, as the best way to introduce my profession. The first portrait I painted there was the Mayor's, in his robes of office. He also kindly took charge of some paintings of fancy subjects I took with me, to show to his friends. After painting for some time in various parts of the country, in the meantime I got married, and this act, I suppose, under the circumstances, would be considered (and what is generally called) "improvident" and "imprudent," as I had no settled home of my own. It then became imperative that I got one. My wife's home was about 22 miles from Norwich, and, as I always was a great pedestrian, which I have mentioned before, I started off one fine morning early to Norwich, to see my good friend, the Mayor, and inform him of my position, and see what could be done with the paintings he had charge of. We were dining together when I broached the subject. He said my pictures had been much admired, and he thought several of his fellow citizens would like to purchase them. He at once then, at the table, wrote a note stating my intention of leaving for London, and would they make me an offer for one or more of my pictures. An answer was soon back, but the answer and offer was not satisfactory to him. "No," he said, "he shan't have it for that;" sent a note to another, and thus this novel auction went on until he got rid of several of my pictures, and, as the term is, "at satisfactory prices," and before the evening I had the money in my pocket (between £66 and £70), and, indeed, it felt warm, as my heart also did, with gratitude. On starting back _the same evening_, how I "lift my feet!" Like Jacob of old, after his dream and receiving the blessing. (Read from Gen. 10th v. xxviii ch. to 1st v. xxix ch.). It says--"_He went on his journey_;" but the Heb. in the margin is far more expressive to one who has gone through a somewhat similar experience. It there says--"_He lift up his feet_." Light of heart, light of heel. I well remember the son of the Mayor, a fine young fellow, about my own age, accompanying me for a few miles on my journey back, conversing by the way (as christians love to do) of God's good providence and love; and who knows but what there was a third person in _spirit_ with us, as He was in _person_ with the "two disciples on the road that evening journeying to Emmaus?" But it could not be said of us that "we were sad," as they were. They were sad because the "Comforter" had not then come, but we were in full enjoyment of that "Comforter." And they, also, when the Saviour revealed Himself, had "burning hearts of love;" and did not our hearts burn with love also? On our parting, with a good-bye and a hearty and friendly grip, I shall never forget his kindly words. They were these--"_Remember how sweet is the day of prosperity to those who have tasted adversity's cup_." And thus we parted on that memorable day and evening on the Norwich high road. I hardly felt the remainder of my long walk. It was rather late in the evening (or rather night) when I reached home, and, upon entering, threw the proceeds of my trip into my young wife's lap. Our feelings may be imagined. We then went up to London and furnished our first home at Clapham, as narrated in the sketch of "My Artist's Life." It will be seen that this transpired before my health broke down from over study. But to resume. With this £70 from the claim we purchased a good draught horse, new dray, etc., so that we were enabled to cart our fencing stuff, and felt quite like getting on. After erecting the fence around a good part of the allotment, we commenced clearing the land, as there was a good bit of timber on. Grubbing trees, chopping up, and burning off, occupied us during the winter. We found hut No. 1 rather cold some nights, as our fire was outside. I often took my blankets and slept outside by the large fires, where the large logs were being burned off; these, also, required "rounding up" during the night. We got about 12 acres cleared, ploughed, and sown with wheat and oats by the month of June. We started then with the orchard and garden, planted about 50 fruit trees of various sorts, and put in a few vines. This should always be done as soon as possible, but very few do it. We considered now we had got fairly started. Thus: A good deal of the fencing done, 12 acres cleared and under crop, orchard and garden dug and planted, one good horse and dray, also old puddling horse, being light, was useful for riding, etc.; three cows, with calves, from the station; out of my son's wages--2 pigs in the sty, and a few dozen fowls. Therefore we began thinking of shifting the family down. I sold our claim for a few pounds, and as our house on the diggings was still good, we shifted the materials down, and erected farm residence No. 2. This put us up till nearly our first harvest time. Thus we were all together again, except the son at the station, but he was only a few miles off. Our youngest child at this time--a boy--was 2 years old. We did not leave the digging's home, though, without some regrets. God having blessed us with many peaceful years of comfort and independence, and, although we had not saved much money, it did not interfere with our happiness; and the hills were very healthy, abounding in crystal springs, as will be supposed, for during the 10 years' residence I had no occasion to consult a medical man. It was a great blessing with 11 young children. I had, however, made it a duty to study medicine to some extent, which is necessary in a colony like this, and, particularly in those early days. Up to this time all our furniture had been home-made bush furniture, with the exception of one sofa-bedstead, and one American rocking chair, but then it matched with the bush residences. I now made a new set of furniture for our farm-house. I have now to record a great sorrow which befell us. We had not all been together on the farm many weeks, when we lost our fifth son, by drowning. He was a fine lad of 15 years. It happened in this way. He was out with the gun, keeping the cockatoos off the crops, but seeing some ducks in a lagoon near the river, he shot one of them, and stripped and swam in to secure it. He was a fine swimmer. He, however, did not, in his hurry, take the precaution to keep his cap on, as he always did when bathing, and, it being an exceedingly hot day, I believe he got sunstruck, as his younger brother, who was with him, said he laid upon the top of the water some time. There were several parties sunstruck on that day. He was a good boy, and had that morning, as usual, with his brothers and sisters, said their prayers, and sang together their little hymn-- "Come to this happy land, Why will you doubting stand?" There is one there awaiting us "beyond the river." Myself and boys kept grubbing and clearing, and got in four acres of maize by harvest time. Two of them then went to assist their uncles at harvest; they resided about six miles from us. They coming, in return, to help us. So our first harvest-home in Victoria was completed. "The wilderness was, indeed, blossoming as the rose," and we felt proud at being permitted to fulfil the Heavenly behest of "subduing and replenishing the earth." What occupation on earth can equal that of the husbandman, to raise man's mind from "Nature to Nature's God"; that is, to a properly-regulated mind. To see the beautiful order of all Creation. The unerring instinct of animals. The song and wonderful plumage of birds, so very beautiful in Australia. The sweet hum of the busy bee fructifying the beautiful flowers, and modelling their cells so wonderfully and as unerringly as in the garden of Eden. Man, in his regenerate state, standing thus amid these surroundings, and leaning upon the merits of his Saviour alone, to atone for the sin of the first Adam, and with his face and aspirations raised heavenward, must feel that Paradise is, in a measure, restored even in this world. He has, at least, a foretaste of the Paradise above. Unregenerate man alone appears the only contradictory element and anomaly in the universe. Increasing our Holdings. We selected 115 acres more land the next year, and 95 the year after. All spare time, the two eldest sons went out fencing, etc., for other settlers, but, in a few years, we had plenty of work at home, and our son from the station joined us; the other sons, as well, growing up strong and useful. My wife and daughters also busy attending to housework, dairying, etc., which now had increased considerably by natural increase and further purchases. Horse stock also increased in the same way. Thus we have gone on year after year, all working for one common object and mutual welfare, and which we have now continued to do for nearly 25 years on the farm up to this time, 1891. Two of my sons have selected other allotments, and we have purchased two "drunk out" farms from the mortgagees. We also, in 1884, purchased a very eligible block of land. We had to pay dearly for it, though. It contained about 400 acres of good tillage land--good for this district, where land is not first-class, like many parts of Victoria. For this, we gave £8 per acre, and for 636 acres of grass land adjoining, £4 per acre, costing altogether over £6000. This we had to get partly upon loan. With our own great strength, now of six grown-up sons, and plenty of horse strength besides, we have reaped in produce and stock from the same land, quite two-thirds of the amount, and expect in a few more years' crops to clear it, so that it was a good investment, but there has been very heavy labor attached to it. Although we have a large quantity of the finest land in the district suitable for Hop-growing, we have scrupulously and conscientiously refrained from growing the same; considering it would be most inconsistent with our principles to have anything whatever, directly or indirectly, to do with any product that contributed to the production of that substance that has been the greatest curse to the world; also putting some of the best land to a base use, instead of using it for the benefit of mankind. The Hop is different altogether from the Grape, or Barley, as they are in themselves a blessing, and of eminent use to man, properly and rationally used. The Consummation. About six years since we erected on the "Home Farm"--our first selection--Residence No. 3, a superior brick house, which cost about £500, and very desirable now and appreciated, as wife and I are growing old--self, 74; wife, a few years younger. The bush furniture has given place to as good a suite of furniture as anyone could wish for in sitting, bedrooms, etc., also a superior organ, with which to praise and glorify the good God who has blessed and prospered us. I have, besides, taken the brush in hand again to adorn the walls, and leave some of my handiwork behind me for the children. In fact, for the last eight years I have done a few paintings, sold a few landscapes, and exhibited them at various places in the colonies; also sent a large one to the Colonial and Indian Exhibition in London, for which I got a certificate and medal. Heavy, laborious work, of course, begins to tell upon me now if long continued, so that this "soft-handed" work is a relaxation. My department now in the firm is principally in the garden and orchard, of which we have now a large one, both fancy and useful. We have also an orangery recently planted, have also a good many old trees, which bear wonderfully well. We irrigate with a horse-pump. We are all still working together in partnership, as it has always been my policy to give my sons a direct interest in all our undertakings and property, and this is only right and just, as to them mainly, under God's blessing, I must attribute our success; anyhow, the labor portion has largely devolved upon them. We stand now (1891), after 25 years on the farms, thus:-- Amount of Land, 2,523 acres At a fair valuation, free £6,150 Stock, cattle, horses, etc. 1,500 Plants, Machinery, etc. 550 ------ £8,200 Thus I have shown, as I promised, how £6 8s., or, if you like, £76 8s., has increased to £8,000. It must be remembered, although this looks a nice sum of money, that if divided between six sons and four daughters, the amount for each would not be large; say among the six sons, the amount to each would only be about £1,350. However, by still holding together in partnership, they can increase it much more than if they divided; in fact, they are just doing so by purchasing a property in New South Wales of 3,000 acres, mainly for sheep-farming. Besides, I have known steady, single farm-men, as hired hands at £1 per week and "found," and £1 10s. per week for harvest work, who have banked at least £40 per year, for over 20 years, which, with compound interest, I presume would total up to the above sum. Not that I am an advocate for this style of saving, as, when the money was about half that sum, they would have the means to marry and settle down; thus be better citizens, and add more to the prosperity of the colony. Now, doubtless, the question will be asked by many situated as I was, and others, "Can I do the same?" My answer is, I really cannot see why they cannot. But they must have seen that even upon the land, there is a very rough time to go through, especially in new country, and many years of careful labor, though, with all, a pleasant, healthful, and independent occupation, and, "with a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether," and a firm reliance on God's blessing, a peaceful and restful end. A Dissertation on Temperance. It must be born in mind, however, that there was one great and important, if not indispensable factor, which I have not mentioned in the foregoing sketch, that has greatly contributed to our success, viz.:--The curse of alcohol was never permitted to enter or pollute our home. I was early in life (1840) convinced of the advantages, physically and morally, of abstaining from the narcotic poison--alcohol. My pledge card, which I still have and keep with much pride, is dated 1841. I had abstained some time before, so that I can count over half a century in this good cause. And I am happy to say the whole of my children have followed our example, and it was only natural that they should do so, as I am a firm believer in parental example. When this great cause was first advocated, we all gladly joined it, as we, as a family, had suffered from the curse--and what family has not, in some measure? My own father was a victim to the demon; but those were days of ignorance, and drunkenness was only looked upon as a venial weakness, and almost as a virtue among all classes--the clergy not even exempt; and it was considered a breach of hospitality if you did not make your guests drunk. Thank God those bad old times are past! My dear parent was more excused as he was a naval man--a "man-of-war's-man," and fought under the great Nelson, and at that time it was thought necessary to make men half mad with rum before they could fight. Now: how changed! The commanders call for the teetotalers when they want any particular or dangerous duty performed. I said, as a family we suffered, for he died early in life, and left his widow with six very young children to battle alone in the world. But I must draw the curtain; we cannot claim ignorance now. Now, do not let it be understood that I mean to say that no one will succeed unless they are abstainers; but from my long experience and extensive observation, it is extremely rare to find those who started with moderation in intoxicants, can continue so, at least with the potations in the same quantity or strength; it is almost physically impossible to do so. Alcohol is a substance that principally exerts its influence on the nervous system, like opium--a kindred substance. It creates an artificial appetite or craving, and nervous prostration is the result, which can only be relieved, in thousands of cases, by a continued increase in quantity or strength, and a diseased state of the system is insensibly created. In very many cases moderation is impossible. No man ever started in life with the intention of being a drunkard, and if you suggested the possibility of such, he would be most indignant. Nevertheless, they fall against their will. Neither do I think any man leaves his home and family with the deliberate intention of getting drunk, and coming home to abuse those who, in his sober moments, he treats with affection. If he did so, such a man has fallen far below the brute creation. Man is simply deluding himself with this alluring and fascinating "serpent." In fact, "mocked," and "he that is deceived thereby is not wise." And the true wisdom is to banish this "curse of the race" from your home, as no one knows how soon they or someone dear to them, may be drawn into this snare. I never knew an abstainer but what prospered in this colony, and I have known hundreds of drinkers "go to the wall." I have not known a single farmer in this district who planted a vineyard, and made wine, who has not been "bitten by his own dog," and died prematurely; except one, and he sold out, but is still a confirmed drunkard. Alas! what shocking tales I could tell of wasted homes. I have already mentioned two "drunk out" farms we purchased--premature deaths, violent deaths. Children turned adrift on the world, sacred and loving ties sundered, etc., etc., simply from indulgence in this most insidious, useless, and dangerous habit. However, a brighter day is dawning even for Australia, which, as yet, is far behind in this glorious movement of true temperance (temperance in all lawful things). Alcohol is unlawful, being foreign and destructive to man's physical nature, but the total abstinence cause is destined also to be the moral salvation of the world, and the hand-maid and stepping-stone to a religious and Christian life. And I am happy to say many of our youth are seeing the advantages and duty of abstinence from intoxicants. The Vine Industry. On the other hand, many of our politicians and others are advocating the advantages of the vine-growing industry for making wine, and have even dubbed Australia--"John Bull's Vineyard." Yes, vineyard, I will, if you like, endorse, but "Wine Shop," which they mean, I will ignore. The grape, rightly used, is one of God's greatest gifts, and I would like to see every hill-top clothed with the vine, but not quite so, for we are, or should be, wise enough to know that the hill-tops should never be denuded of their forest's adornment. Say every hill-side. The pure "fruit of the vine," the blood of the grape unfermented, or grapes preserved as raisins, are wonderfully nutritious, and contain many of the elements of the blood. By fermentation, which is a process of decay and destruction, nearly the whole of the nutriment is destroyed. Thus, the gluten and gum are entirely destroyed. Six-sevenths of the albumen, and four-fifths of the sugar, and most of the others, are also destroyed. And what do we get _in lieu_. Why, a narcotic, sleeping, irritant (irritating) poison; irritating, though, should have been placed first, as it excites the passions to commit every evil deed, long before the drunken or sleepy stage commences. Now, will any sane person have the temerity to say that this poison alcohol, the substance created by the destruction of all these life-sustaining constituents, is "the good gift of God" as "received from His hand?" There is hardly a substance on earth but what can be and has, in like manner, been perverted. Grain of all sorts, fruit, rice, potatoes, beet-root, starchy substances of all sorts, in fact, anything that can be converted into saccharine (sugar: the foundation of alcohol), milk also, and even meat. Were all these good gifts ever intended to be worse than destroyed? In the United Kingdom, 80,000,000 bushels of bread food are thus destroyed, when millions of people are in a state of pauperism or semi-starvation. And all this waste, to do what? To feed men? No. To give health? No. Strength? No. To warm? No. To allay this? No. It is of no earthly use whatever. But this it does. Debases men below the beast, also producing crime, poverty, disease, and moral degradation. This is the sum total that man reaps for destroying the bountiful fruits of the Creator. Is it then a wise policy on the part of a paternal Government to unduly encourage the manufacture of wine in bonuses and viticultural colleges? Is it patriotic? Is it philanthropic? Is it Christian! With a climate that can produce wine by natural fermentation up to 34 per cent. (this is disputed by experts in Europe) of alcoholic strength, two-thirds the strength of brandy, and a very large quantity is being distilled into brandy, how can we expect a sober people? It may appear to some that I have dwelt unreasonably long upon this question, but feeling strongly, I must write strongly. Having, therefore, pointed out to the best of my ability what I consider the greatest drawback to the advancement of this fair colony, viz., the wasteful expenditure of 6,000,000 of money annually for Victoria alone, I will return to consider at greater length the object for which this sketch was mainly written. The Settlement of the Lands. Husbandry is the source of all true wealth, and the back-bone of every country. I regret to say the farming interest in Victoria has been heavily handicapped by the protective duties, to sustain the interests of the manufacturers and importers. The crisis came upon the farmers first, as soon as they had to compete in the world's market, and it will come upon the manufacturers just in the same way, when they have over-produced for the home market. It is just now upon the turning point. Can they compete with the world with men's present wages, and eight hours' labor? I very much doubt it. If not, what will they do with their surplus goods. Farmers' sons have had to rush the cities for employment, and there is a vast population just growing into manhood--sons of artisans, which our football matches testify. Can these be absorbed into the various trades? I don't like taking a gloomy view of things, but I think the subject should have very serious thought. It is very easy to boast about the eight hours' movement, and wages to be fixed, and "strikes" ordered by a Trades' Hall Council. But will they provide an outlet for the working man's commodities at colonial prices? But to return to the land. In the first place, I may say as regards Victoria, the open selection of Crown land has ceased. Even the grazing blocks, under the new Act, 1884, which nearly covers all the inferior or waste land, I think are all pretty well taken up, and the only hope now is the breaking up or sub-division of the large estates, and they comprise, luckily, the very finest runs of land, on 100 acres of which, a family could live better than on 320 of ordinary land. Of course, to get this good land requires some capital, but the return lies surely in the soil, and it only requires labor--the poor man's capital--with strict economy, to recover the first expenditure. The breaking up of these large estates will be the making of Victoria. Or the cutting up into tenant blocks would be even better for the owners, and better for men of limited means. A ten years' lease on prime land should make him independent. I don't mean make his fortune, but should place him in a position to go ahead. This is the only land that will bear a dense population, or bear intense cultivation, and is, in fact, the only hope for the colony. This want of land for the rising generation is the cause of so many of our young men--farmers' sons--seeking employment in Melbourne, their parents' holdings not being sufficient to maintain the whole of the family, and many are marrying, and desire to have homes of their own. I trust the large owners of estates are patriotic, if not philanthropic enough to see the necessity of this, which is also a duty to God and man, for it is pitiable to see men willing to go upon the land, and many with sufficient means, looking about in vain. Without these are cultivated, how can the population increase as it should? And how can work be found for the artisans in the cities? These and the farmers must go hand in hand, and prosper together; for if the 130,000 farmers have only a surplus of an average of £10 each yearly, it throws into their hands £1,300,000--no insignificant sum. To a small extent, there has been a disposition to sub-divide. I trust they will increase a hundred-fold. I think it will be seen from what I have written, that for "New Chums," at least in Victoria, there is not much chance for settling on the land, without they possess a few hundreds in cash. Therefore they must be satisfied with patient, frugal labor for a few years, to save sufficient capital. But there are the other colonies of Australia--New South Wales, South Australia, Queensland, and Western Australia, where they have liberal land laws. Splendid countries, inviting capital and labor, and upon which, in the various latitudes, the products of the whole world can be grown to the greatest perfection, and the area so vast, that the population of another Europe could be set down; but a very great portion of it, from its position, climate, etc., is not very inviting, or hardly suitable for needy emigrants. There is, though, a vast outlet for the profitable investment of capital in those outlying districts. Capital and labor must go hand in hand like twin brothers. Then the waste places of the earth would soon "blossom as the rose," and we should soon find the over-stocked hives of the old lands relieved of the burden of humanity, for as yet it is idle to talk of the "over-population of the world;" why, we know in fact that as yet it is not half populated, not only Australia. Look at the vast country of South America, watered by that mighty river the Amazon, also the Argentine Republic. Then the great north-west of Canada, also the regions of the Congo and Central Africa, and many other considerable and desirable places. Yes, there is room enough yet in the ample and bountiful bosom of "Mother Earth," and she is inviting, with open arms, her children to partake of her bounties. We hear a great deal about "over-population" and "over-production." Why is it? Simply because the great masses of the working bees are not placed in a position to gather the world's honey, and thus to become customers for the products of the manufacturing countries. _The cry should be--Put the people on the lands, at whatever cost!_ They will return interest an hundred-fold. Irrigation. At the present time the subject of irrigation is absorbing the attention of the Government and the community in general. The appointment of the Royal Commission on Water Supply was a grand idea, and for which the colony should be grateful, and particularly to the president, the Honourable Alfred Deakin, M.P., for his arduous and indefatigable labor to promote a general interest in the subject. The visit also of the Commission to America, and the report of the same, are highly interesting and useful, and which led to the establishment of Messrs Chaffey Bros.' Irrigation Colony at Mildura. This will do immense good. It will be an open book, giving ocular and practical demonstration of the advantages of water and intense cultivation, but above all, to show how capital can be advantageously invested for the mutual and common good, and I think it will lead to many such in Victoria, and also extend right across the continent to the Gulf of Carpentaria, and thus make a profitable outlet for English capital, and at the same time relieve the old lands of the plethora of humanity. What can be done in arid countries without water? What would India, Egypt, Italy, &c., be without irrigation? In fact, it is the life of all nature. We can hardly estimate its value. It is the only solvent and menstruum to set free the constituents of the soil. Intense culture with water requires intense labor and intense manuring. It will also require cheap labor and cheap mechanical appliances. At present our machinery is nearly double the price it is in America. How then can we compete with the world without we start fairly? A 50-acre irrigated farm will suffice to keep a family comfortably, as crops are not only doubled, but you can double crop. That is, take at least two crops, one grain and the other roots or fodder plants, in one season, and you can cut fodder crops three or four times, and lucerne five or six. I have experimented for some years, and I have come to the conclusion that "soakage" is the best; that is, run the water in the furrows between the lands or beds, not too wide, so that the water, by capillary attraction, may soak quite through. There is a very great deal to learn. The right time to put the water on, and the time to leave off, otherwise it will do more harm than good. For fruit, also, you must not keep watering too long, or the fruit will never mature properly, and be of inferior flavor and quality, and the young wood will not mature for the next year's crop. Independent of fruit growing, which is so much advocated just now, I think irrigation is of as much advantage to the general farmer, not so much for corn growing, as it is difficult to catch the right time, and an excess is pretty sure to create mildew and rust; but for roots and fodder crops, and "catching crops" after harvests, for the dairy, etc., too much cannot be said in favor of irrigation. Every stream, however small, running through a dry country, should be utilised, if not, it is so much wealth running to waste, and its use to the dairy industry, which has advanced with such strides during the last few years, is not half enough appreciated. The Government has aided this industry most liberally, and it has been the making of thousands of families, but improved methods of growing crops by irrigation and better feeding, and an improved breed of dairy cattle, would quite double the produce. I think I have said enough as to the advantages and difficulties of irrigation, difficulties which experience will overcome. As this "Life's Sketch" was written mainly to induce the settlement of the people on the land, my concluding division will be an endeavour to propound. A Scheme of Settlement. It appears strange that the wealth of Great Britain has not gone in this direction long ago for the benefit of her own sons. "Charity should begin at home." The poverty and the drudgery of the masses is appalling in England, and this by the side of enormous wealth. A burden of poverty and a burden of wealth. Strange anomaly! Not only the produce market, but the money market as well, is regulated by Great Britain. The hands and eyes of the whole world are lifted up to her! What would be the state of most countries without the markets and wealth of England? Look at the millions wasted in worthless Turkey. Then we see the millions that have been spent in India and Egypt. Blessing indeed, no doubt, to those countries. Then it appears so passing strange that a portion of this British wealth has not been diverted more to the lands of her colonies _in a systematic way_, and there can be no safer investment. N.B.--The Chaffey Brothers' scheme. We find, however, that the British Government are commencing action in this direction, at least at home, in establishing peasant proprietary, and millions of money is to be appropriated to this purpose in purchasing land, &c. This is a step in the right direction, and I trust this sort of thing will be extended to the colonies, where, as I said before, there is room for another Europe. Britain's sons and our colonies should be thought of first. It would not be charity. Charity in this sense is rather an unchristian term; the benefits would be reciprocal. When her sons are wanted for the defence of the Empire, they are willing to lay down their lives by thousands, and millions upon millions of money, for the purpose of war, is forthcoming. Is it, then, too much to ask that a few millions be spent in the cause of peace, to enable them to do battle with rugged nature? As regards the extension of settlements in Victoria, I think I have hinted enough respecting the necessity of sub-division and irrigation. I think after a few years, when the advantages of irrigation have been proved, many will be glad to sub-divide their present holdings of 320 acres, and confine themselves to half the quantity, especially if the anticipations of the fruit industry are realised, and I have considerable faith in them, but not such glowing results as are held out; only one-half of the profits stated would suffice. One thing we know: this generation appears to have made the discovery that man is more of a fruit and vegetable eater than was before supposed, so that therein a good deal of our hope lies. By the partaking of fruit, we require much less drink, as a pound of most fruits contain more than three-quarters of a pound of water; we may say three-quarters of a pint to one pound, so that they are eminently meat and drink. As to the other vast portions of Australia, I can see no hope for settlement, particularly in the arid districts, without either the Governments at home or in the colonies, or syndicates, take the matter up. With respect to individual settlements in these parts, we cannot compare it with North America; the conditions are so very different, there is such a very small portion of Australia in the temperate zone, the climate of which is so suitable for European constitutions, whereas, in North America and Canada, there is an enormous territory congenial for the products and people of temperate climates. In Australia, wheat appears to fail north of 30deg., at least, it does not pay to grow it without it is on table-land, such as part of New England district in New South Wales. It is strange that as yet that great colony, four times as large as Victoria, does not grow near corn enough to feed her own people, and Victoria has already exported this year, 1891, millions of bushels. Well, as regards that, Victoria cannot boast, and it is quite as strange that they cannot, or do not grow half meat enough for the insignificant population. The facilities and inducements for settlement in America are grand. Many a sturdy man has "gone west" into the wild woods, and made a home with nothing more than his axe, and a bag of seeds, living well in the meantime upon the indigenous products of that splendid country, which are abundant. Wild animals, large and small, birds, fish, native fruits and nuts, and sugar from the maple tree, &c. Truly, that was a rich land! But nothing of this sort can be attempted in Australia. If I were to draw up a plan of settlement, basing the costs according to my own personal experience, but depending upon a company for the capital to start with, I would advise, after the company had agreed with the Government for the purchase of the land, and the same was surveyed in blocks of 200 acres each, to settle down 200 families, which would amount to 40,000 acres, and a reserved right for 40,000 more at a somewhat higher figure. The cost to place each family of say five individuals, would be about £200 each family; that is, to pay passage, supply them with food, implements, stock, seeds, &c., for the first year, until some produce came to hand. Residences, of course, would be rough, and should be erected by themselves. Thus far the support and provision of the 200 families for one year would be £40,000, or for 1600 families--8000 souls--£500,000. Say, for illustration, the company got the land for two shillings per acre, and gave each family a lease for 10 years at two shillings an acre per annum, the payment to be for purchase money, so that at the end of 10 years it would be his own, having paid the company £1 per acre. The £200 also, advanced in the first instance, to be paid off by instalments with 6 per cent. interest per annum added, so that at the end of ten years or a little more, each family should be possessed of their own freehold, and a considerable increase of stock, etc. The company should have a depôt, where everything necessary for the settlement could be supplied at the lowest possible rate, and also undertake to preserve and market the produce of the settlers to the best advantage, to ensure them the highest possible price, like Chaffey Bros. propose doing. To go more into detail and figures as to the first year's expenses of a family of five, I would put it down thus:-- Cost of bringing out and placing upon the land a family of five individuals £50 0 0 Provisions for one year 50 0 0 -------- £100 0 0 Stock-- 2 horses at £10 20 0 0 4 cows at £7 28 0 0 4 pigs 3 0 0 Fowls 2 0 0 -------- 53 0 0 Implements-- Dray 10 0 0 Plough 6 0 0 Harrows 5 0 0 Sundry tools 2 10 0 Dairy utensils 2 10 0 Harness 6 0 0 House utensils 5 0 0 -------- 37 0 0 Seeds-- For 20 acres of wheat 6 0 0 For 10 acres of oats 2 5 0 For 5 acres of maize 0 5 0 For garden seeds 1 0 0 50 fruit trees (various) 3 0 0 -------- 12 10 0 --------- Total £202 10 0 --------- If a family of five--husband, wife, one daughter, and two strong lads of from 14 to 16 years of age--entered upon the land in the month of January, and started at once putting up a house and getting stuff ready, they should be able to do all the work among themselves, and get the wheat and oats in in June--orchard and garden in July. The maize ground could be left until the fence was up round the crop. The amounts put down for food may look small, but it would not be more than that, as in six months (and before, with milk, butter and eggs) they would have potatoes, &c., from the garden, and one pig killed, which together would be half a living. Such a scheme as this could be easily worked out in detail, and thus I think millions of capital could be profitably invested. In fact, without some such scheme I don't know how the vast territories under the British Crown, now lying waste, can be utilised. A few such settlements would give an immense impetus to trade and manufacture, and we should soon cease to hear the cries of "want of employment," "over-population," and "over-production." N.B.--Such a scheme should commend itself to General Booth. It may further be said as regards settling a large population upon the land with intense culture--What is the amount of land a family can comfortably live upon? The sub-division of land has taken place considerably in the original eastern States of America. I see by the Government reports of the State of Massachusetts, 71,000 persons live from the products of farms averaging only 56 acres, and the average size of farms over the whole State in 1850 was 99 acres; in 1875, 76 acres, so that they are now being reduced. The income of these farmers average about £125 per year, independent, I presume, of farm products consumed by themselves. Any way, it shows a very thrifty, frugal, and industrious people. The population also has increased in the 13 original States from 15 per square mile in 1780, including towns, to 55 in 1880, _or over 11 individuals to the acre_. This is amazing! Then take Belgium, France, and Ireland, where families live, or appear to do so, or are compelled to do so, comfortably upon only five, eight, and ten acres of land. Take France, as its position, various industries, and climate much resemble Victoria. I find by the Government reports that there is a population of nineteen millions (19,000,000) existing on farms of about eight acres each. This is wonderful! And, as our Governments are partial to commissions, it would be very interesting and instructive if we had one to go through France, as they did through California, to see how these farmers manage their system of farming, various products, prices, &c., also diet, beverages and social standing. It would, I think, open the eyes of some of the settlers in Victoria who say they cannot make a living on 320 acres. I can give a very good example of frugality, and also details of a farm in Ireland under Earl Spencer's prize system, on his estates. A tenant named Hill was awarded the first prize; area, 11 acres. Division of Land. 1 acre 1 rood, turnips and mangles. 1 acre 2 roods, potatoes. 4 acres, oats. --------- 6 acres. 1 acre 2 roods, upland. 1 acre, lowland. 1 acre 3 roods, permanent pasture. --------- 11 acres. Half an acre of land seeded after potatoes, 1-1/4 after manured roots, 2-1/2 under lea-oats. Live stock consisted of 1 horse, 3 dairy cows, 2 heifers, 2 pigs, and 46 poultry. [Illustration] Balance-sheet. Cr. £ s. d. Dr. £ s. d. Produce of cows 35 0 0 Rent and taxes 12 18 4 Oats (exclusive of horse feed) 21 0 0 Wages and keep of servant 22 0 0 Profit on beast sold 19 0 0 Seeds 1 1 0 Potatoes (5-1/2 tons at £3) 16 10 0 Labour (spring and harvest) 5 0 0 2 calves 9 0 0 Hand feed to cows 1 12 0 Profit on pigs 6 0 0 Eggs 6 10 0 ---------- --------- £113 0 0 £42 11 4 ---------- --------- Balance. Cr. £113 0 0 Dr. 42 11 4 ---------- Profit £70 8 8 ---------- I (the reporter) asked Hill what wages weekly would have been equal to this. He seemed astonished at such a question, and confessed that no reasonable wages could have placed him in such a comfortable and independent position. This is a modest affair, and yet the tenant was most contented and happy. In concluding this section, I must say I would very much like to see in Victoria, a small model farm of say 25 acres of tillage as a dairy farm; everything to be consumed on the farm; that is, all the produce from the land--hay, straw, fodder plants, roots, etc.--and the whole to be under the direction and supervision of the Minister of Agriculture, and the Government Agricultural Chemist, ---- Martin, Esq., and everything carried out under an intelligent tenant and his family, and a strict balance-sheet kept. A Glimpse at the Future of Australia. I am not so sanguine as many that Australia, in the near future, will have such a very large population, and particularly a European one. There is not temperate climate enough. I have already stated that wheat cannot be profitably grown beyond 30 degrees of latitude north, and we may say most of the European products also, and the climate, beyond another 20 degrees, is not suitable for European constitutions to labor in. If we, therefore, draw a line at 30 degrees across the map of Australia, we shall see the insignificant portion there is left in the temperate zone; we shall find it not one-fourth of the continent. Take it through Western Australia, and there is just a little corner. What, then, is the future of the enormous country north of 30 degrees, and which is only suitable for tropical and semi-tropical products, all of which will grow to the greatest perfection? The question then is, will Europeans grow these products? I think not. At least, not European labor. It must, and no doubt will be done, by large companies, by employing Chinese, Coolie, or Kanaka labor, under the superintendence of Europeans. These hotter regions, otherwise, will never be utilized. Therefore, it is my belief that instead of persecuting and expelling these races as the fashion now is, we shall be glad to invite them to assist in developing this vast territory. I think this conclusion will strike everyone as correct, who calmly reflects upon the subject. Besides, the products of these districts, such as sugar, rice, tea, coffee, etc., require so much hand labor, that to compete with these with other countries which have cheap labor, will be impossible. Even at the present day, neither Englishmen nor Europeans will do the necessary work in the northern districts, and even in Victoria our tobacco, hops, and vine industries can hardly be carried on without the despised Chinese. We have an example already in the sugar industry in Queensland. Recently a plant was up for sale that cost £26,000, and the highest offer was £5000. What are we then to do without this cheap labor? Without it this vast territory must evidently remain in a state of nature, or still be devoted to wandering herds of cattle, and by their vast numbers cripple the farmers of the more temperate parts by competition. Where, then, are the boasted millions of population to come from, which so many calculate upon? One great factor which will stay the progress of this great country more than any other is the present jealousy and war between Capital and Labor. No country can advance without there is perfect security for life and property. If capital cannot find security in one country, it can easily go to another. Social order must be maintained at all costs. It appears coming to this, whether the Elected Government is to rule the country, or the Trades' Hall Council. There is a class of men in Melbourne who want to fix things according to their own Utopian ideas, and upon such "hard and fast" lines that would be totally unbearable and tyrannical even to their own class. It would be well for them to ponder the wise words recently uttered by President Harrison, viz., "_The safety of the State, the good order of the community, all that is good, the capacity, indeed, to produce material wealth, is dependent upon the intelligence and social order. Wealth and commerce are timid creatures, they must be assured that the rest will be safe before they build. So it is always in those communities where the most perfect order is maintained, where intelligence is protected, where the Church of God, and the institutions of religion are revered and respected, we find the largest developments of material wealth._" There is far too much "dog in the manger" feeling among the well-to-do artisans in Melbourne. They are jealous of others coming into this good land. They were glad enough to come themselves. It is the fear that a few shillings will come off their own wages. It is strange that sensible men, with any idea in their own heads, can listen to, or be guided by the strange contradictory logic of the leaders of the labor party. Recently, one of them said, speaking against the "Bloated Capitalists," "those who are living without working, you may depend upon it, are living upon those who do work, and that all independent people are 'loafers or parasites' on the State." Holding that independence is a crime. Well, many of their own class, by industry and frugality, are independent or approaching to it. These, then, are graduating to this new species of crime. Another said these "loafers and parasites" should be compelled to turn out and work, and in the next breath called competition the work of the devil, and over-production the curse of the colony. According to this logic, if all were workers and all producers--what then? The greatness of Melbourne consists of the great number of independent non-workers, who employ and consume the produce of the workers, and this is also the secret of England's greatness, and their wealth is assisting the great national works of the whole world. These wiseacres even dictate to the farmers in this matter, thinking, I suppose, that they cannot see a yard from the plough-tail. If we get an overplus, and the prices consequently lower, and of which they reap the benefit, they tell us it is over-production again, and say, "Why don't you just produce what the colony requires, and then you would be all right?" But should we do so, and their loaf be double the price, which it would be, they would be the first to cry out that "we were not utilising the land." Not considering that in advocating this grand remedy, this colony, instead of exporting millions of bushels of wheat to feed the hungry in Europe, would simply revert to a sheep walk, or nearly so, and two-thirds of the agricultural population would swell the present too over-crowded cities, and increase their own ranks with double the number of workers--and what then? The railways also might shut up, as sheep, &c., can travel to market on their own legs. But enough of this. The farming and the town interests are identical, the one cannot prosper without the other, but the farmer can get over a pinch best. Farming also is paramount, and Governments should see to it as soon as possible and establish farm colonies--see that the large estates are put to the best use. Previous Governments have frittered away the best of the land by special surveys, and permitting dummyism. _They should also see that the remaining unalienated land is kept in the hands of the State, and only leased to tenants._ A 20 years' lease, renewable, is almost as good as a freehold, and suits thousands better. Large estates in England have been let in this way, and have remained in the hands of the same tenants for generations. As I have previously said, I now emphasize again, viz.--PUT THE PEOPLE ON THE LAND AT ALL COSTS!--without which it is impossible, even in Victoria, to have a large population or prosperity in town or country. Conclusion. In concluding, I trust this little "Sketch from Life" and personal experience and advice therein contained, may cause many in the "dear old land" who are situated as I was, and others, to take heart and courage, and I doubt not the same blessing will attend them. They may have a rough time for a few years, and many ups and downs, but what of that? Labor with plenty, gives the best health, strength, enjoyment and longevity. Thus, with a firm trust in the "All-wise" to direct their path, their feet shall never slip, and they shall cause the "wilderness to blossom as the rose," and, "by the good hand of God upon them," build up a home, as surely as Nehemiah built up Jerusalem, and to cheer their hearts I will give them a song to sing all along their pilgrim journey. ALL THE WAY. All the way my Saviour leads me, What have I to ask beside? Can I doubt His tender mercy, Who through life has been my guide? Heavenly peace, divinest comfort, Here by faith in Him to dwell! For I know whate'er befalls me, Jesus doeth all things well. All the way my Saviour leads me, Cheers each winding path I tread, Gives me grace for every trial, Feeds me with the living bread. Though my weary steps may falter, And my soul athirst may be, Gushing from the rock before me, Lo, a spring of joy I see! All the way my Saviour leads me, Oh, the fullness of His love! Perfect rest to me is promised In my Father's house above. When my spirit, clothed immortal, Wings its flight to realms of day, This my song, through endless ages, JESUS LED ME ALL THE WAY. N.B.--The profit, if any, from the sale of this little sketch will be devoted to the furtherance of True Temperance. [Illustration] Melbourne: Rae Bros., Printers, 547 & 549 Elizabeth Street 1891. [Illustration] 
7090	----	Thanks to Robert Stern, great-grandson of the author, for donating this eBook. INTRODUCTION In 1921, my great-grandmother, wrote this book about how her parents met, married and began a family. Eva's mother, Ernestine, was presumably "the little immigrant." The book was privately printed, and only a few copies survive. The names of most of the characters have been disguised, although thinly. In the table below, the fictitious names appear on the left, the real names, where known, on the right: Renestine Jewel Ernestine Jacobowsky Aldine Bilter (her married sister) Jaffray Starr Jacob Sterne Lola, the Starrs' first-born Laura Sterne Ena, their second-born Eva Sterne Lester Leopold Sterne Andrew Alfred Sterne Frank, the youngest child Fred Sterne Josiah, longtime family slave Caroline, Josiah's wife Sarah, successor to Carolina One name that is authentic is that of Gen. Buell, whom the Starrs put up during the Reconstruction period after the Civil War and who in fact was sent to Jefferson following a breakout of violence during this period. Eva Sterne, who became the wife of Leopold Stern (with only one e), was 59 when this book was printed. THE LITTLE IMMIGRANT Eva Stern CHAPTER I "NAH! Renestine, cannot you come with the skirt and let me lay it in your trunk? You are dreaming, dreaming all the time. My child, these things must be ready by midnight tonight." The girl was thirteen years old and her mother was getting her possessions together to send her to America to join a sister who had already gone there and was married and now sent to have her little sister journey to the States, too. "Oh, Mutterchen, I do not want to go," burst out Renestine. "I want to stay with you. I do not want to go." "Nah! Kindlein, stay then," said the mother, keeping her own grief away from her child. Just then the door to the little room flew open and three excited girls of about Renestine's own age or perhaps one or two years older, bustled themselves inside. "Why, Renestine, you are not finished packing yet! We are ready and our trunks are roped and standing at the door for Laaskar to put on the post-wagon when he drives by on his way to the post-house tonight." The speaker stopped confused seeing that Renestine was silent with no joy in her eyes and the mother sat quietly with flushed checks and said nothing. "What has happened?" said the three girls in chorus. "You are not going to back out, are you?" Still Renestine did not look up or make any sign that she was interested in the preparations for her arranged trip. Presently the mother spoke and her voice trembled. "Renestine has changed her mind and will remain at home." Then the girls broke into a laugh and chided Renestine, saying she was a baby and would never see the ocean or go to America and ride in carriages. The mental picture was doing its work. Not ride in carriages and have pretty clothes and .learn to speak English? That was too much to refuse. Renestine raised her head, wiped the tears out of her eyes, brought the skirt neatly folded to her mother and said: "Mutterchen, finish my trunk. I am going with Yetta, Selma and Polly to America." The journey began and Renestine made the voyage over in a sailing vessel which took six weeks to make her port at Galveston, Texas, in the early fifties. The girls experienced days of seasickness when they thought it was better to die than to ride in carriages and were weary and homesick. But when, at last, they walked again upon land and were welcomed in Galveston by their relatives, all the melancholy hours were forgotten. The girls had separated into their different families on arriving at Houston, but frequently met just as they had before leaving their home town, and were observing everything with eagerness and getting their first impressions of America. One balmy Sunday morning they took a walk and marveled much that Houston had so many houses and such large ones. While they walked they chatted and were merry. Finally, they noticed that a great many looked at them curiously, and some smiled. They were at last spoken to by an old lady, who reminded them that it was not customary for girls to walk in the middle of the street. This was a conceit that pleased them, to walk in the middle of the street just to see people walking on either side of them. The ringing of the Sunday morning church bells was a startling sound and Paula exclaimed, as the three stood still listening: "Oh, listen to the music box!" Solemnly they walked on and wondered that the world was so large and full of beautiful things. Itwas a long time before Renestine realized that they had gone a great distance. "We will return now," she said. But when they turned to retrace their steps they found themselves in a wood of large, dark trees with heavy gray moss dropping from their branches and a solemn stillness over all. It was growing dusk, too, and the trees looked ghostly in the falling gloom. "Do you know which way to go?" asked Yetta. "Oh, come with me and I will show you," said Paula. Trustingly they followed Paula. But the brave girl, after a half hour's vain effort, had to admit that she was puzzled herself and did not know how to get out of the wood. Yetta showed the nearness of tears, but Renestine set to work to extricate themselves. Before she had decided what to do they all three heard horses' hoofs trampling down bush-wood and dry twigs not far away. The riders, or whatever it was, came nearer until the girls saw a young man on horseback, a boy accompanying him. The horsemen reined in their horses and stopped when they saw the girls standing before them. The older man, who was about twenty-eight, asked how they came to be so far in the depth of the trackless woods. When they had told him, he dismounted, throwing the reins over his arm and leading his horse, he walked along by the side of the girls guiding them out of their difficulty; the boy followed on his horse which carried the saddle-bags containing the personal belongings of both of them. As they walked many questions were asked and answered and in a little time the woods were left behind and the. girls were opening the gate of Renestine's sister's home. The young rescuer, after seeing them safely disappear in the doorway, got on his horse again and trotted off to his hotel, the boy following. CHAPTER II SEATED at her work table in her sitting room, Mrs. Bilter was putting the last stitches in a white Swiss dress that Renestine was to wear that night to a ball. The puff sleeve close to the shoulder was the last of the dainty dress to be put on. Mrs. Bilter took eager pleasure in dressing her pretty sister in the daintiest of gowns. When she looked up she saw her husband coming through the gate for his noon dinner. She put down her sewing and moved to meet him on the porch. "Well, dear, how are you getting on with the ball dress?" For Mr. Bilter was as interested in his little sister-in-law as his wife was. "Renestine will have to look her prettiest to-night. There are some visiting young men in the town and they will be at the ball." They went in together and were received by old Aunt Mary, a colored family servant who was much respected and held in affection by the members. "Dinnah jest put on de table, Missus." "Has Miss Renestine come home?" "No'm. I's hasn't seen her; prehaps she's kept in fer not knowin' her lessons." Just then Renestine came in, her cheeks rosy and her large black eyes luminous with the exercise of walking home from school. She entered the dining-room laughing and sat down next to her brother-in-law. "How were the lessons today, Renestine?" he asked, patting her hand that lay in his. "Arithmetic right?" "No trouble at all. Oh, I am so glad that you both had the idea to send me to school, I love it. I love to be puzzled over a question and find it out for myself. I love to feel myself gaining knowledge and understanding many things that used to be dark and incomprehensible to me and that seem plain now. I rejoice that I am able to think and speak English," and Renestine turned her head toward her sister and her eyes were moist. "You are very good to me, Aldine, and besides you are spoiling me with all the pretty dresses you make for me." "Oh, do come in right after dinner and look at your dress for to-night. It is just lovely with the little rosebuds around the shoulders," said Mrs. Bilter. It did not take long before the three were admiring the fluffy white dress and predicting its success at the ball. Renestine hurried home after school and sat down by the side of her sister to help sew rosebuds on the flounces of the wide skirt. When the dress was finished Renestine took it to her room and pinned it up on the curtains of her bed to look at it and get the effect of it. Then she got out her little white satin slippers and began the ceremony of the toilette for the ball. Carriages were coming and going before the brilliantly lighted Colonial house owned by the Good Fellowship Club. The colored drivers sat proud and erect on their boxes and held in their restive horses while their masters and mistresses alighted. Young dandies in ruffled shirts and flowered velvet waistcoats came on foot and sprang eagerly up the steps and vanished through the double doors swung back by colored attendants. Strains of music reached the street and ceased when the doors opened and shut and the sound of many voices in conversation and happy laughter burst upon the ear of the passer-by. Inside, all was gaiety and animation. Festoons of greens hung from the chandelier of kerosene lights and garlands and wreaths decorated the walls of the wide hall and rooms where there was dancing. In the ballroom five colored musicians were the orchestra and the leader "called out" the figures of the lancers and quadrilles. "Face your pardners," he called out as the square dance was begun. Several sets of four couples were formed ready for the first strains of the lancers music and the prompter. "Forward all," and all the couples advanced to the center. "Swing your pardners," "balance corners," the lady and gentleman faced to the right and took steps to the music. "Swing," and they swung around. The next figure was the "Grand right and left," called out by the prompter and the couples circled around and after a large ring was formed by taking hands and going first to the right and then to the left, amid laughter the dance broke up. Standing near the window on the porch were two young men. They were smoking cigars and commenting on the guests and the surroundings generally. "There's a little Queen Esther with her black hair braided and folded over her shell pink ears. Look at her graceful walk. Do you see the one I mean?".asked the taller of the two men. "Do you mean the one with the rosebuds on her gown?" "Yes, the very one. She has the most beautiful black eyes I have ever seen." "Yes, she is a beautiful girl," assented his companion. "Where have I seen her before? I recognize those eyes." "You are not captured, are you, Jaffray?" "Well, I don't know." And they both laughed. "Let us go inside." They threw away their cigars and went in. "Miss Jewel, Mr. Starr would like to be presented to you, may I bring him to you?" Renestine looked up and found a friend speaking to her, but before she could answer the tall stranger was at her friend's elbow. "This is a great pleasure for me," said the newly introduced guest. "But, Miss Jewel, it has been an impression of mine since I first saw you this evening that we have met before. Can you help me settle upon the place, time and occasion?" "Why, no," laughed Renestine, showing two rows of small, white teeth that enhanced her charm. "I am sure if we try hard enough we shall soon discover," Jaffray said. "May I sit down?" Renestine drew sideways to allow him to draw up a chair, her hoop skirt spreading her tarlatan flounces some space around her. "Why, yes, indeed, now that I look at you, the woods, gray moss, three frightened young ladies; it was in the dusk of evening as I was riding from McKinney, all of that picture returns," he put his forefinger to his lips, and looked down at the floor in deep reflection. For a moment Renestine was silent, then turned rosy red. "Oh, Mr. Starr, was it you who brought us out of the Wilderness and restored us to our families? You appeared at the most fortunate moment, we were really lost," and she laughed heartily. "You are a stranger here, Mr. Starr?" "Not altogether. I have visited here before on business. Where I live it is lonesome for me and I take my vacations with much the spirit of a school boy. Shall we dance?" The "Kiss Waltz" was a great favorite and the opening bars were beginning, "Hun" Williams, leader of the orchestra, putting a good swing into it. Renestine and Jaffrey glided with the rhythm of the music and danced until the last strains closed the tuneful composition. Throwing a lace scarf about her shoulders, Jaffray led Renestine to the balcony. The moon was bright as day and the early May dew brought out the fragrance of the jessamine and clematis climbing over the balustrade. They stood for a time without speaking, feeling the spell of the Southern spring time. "Is not this solemn beauty? Somehow it hurts, it is so beautiful," said Renestine quietly, her large eyes dreamy and full of softness. "Ah, you have a poet's soul, Miss Jewel. Will you tell me something of your life? You were not born here?" They were walking up and down the broad verandah and Renestine was telling him of the little mother so far away, parted from, perhaps never to be seen again. She was saying, "At last when the time came to say good-bye, I clung to my mother's form and in that moment could see my soul, bared, bruised, wounded and somehow the little girl passed with that parting and although I was but a few months younger than I am to-night, I am here just one year, I feel much changed and older." Her lids closed and Jaffray did not interrupt. "Mr. Starr, do you know of any experience more cruel than this parting of parents in Europe with their children to come to America? I think of it now so often. I think there cannot be in all life . . . ." Jaffray saw the tears in those wonderful eyes. "No, Miss Jewel, no. I know of nothing more humanly cruel! I, too, parted from my beloved mother and twin sister when a mere lad to cross the ocean to seek my fortune in America. A lad barely fifteen years of age, I had no idea of what I was going out to meet in the world when I took my small belongings and journeyed toward these shores. There were no friends, no relatives where I was going; all those were being left behind; but the spirit of adventure possessed me and I wanted more freedom to work out my destiny in and the parting had to be for me and I cannot tell you how I have suffered from homesickness for the beloved Mother and good sister, for the little home in the Rhine village where the terraces of grapes lay just back of our house; that never is forgotten, no matter how long one lives. We have a common bond of sympathy, may I hope it means a tie of friendship?" She gave him her hand and shortly afterwards he led her back into the ballroom; but the music could not tempt them to dance again and, after seeing Renestine with friends, he said good-night and left. It was near daylight when Jaffray smoked his last cigar and finally put out the light in his little room in the hotel and went to bed. Jaffray paid frequent visits to Houston from McKinney, after he met Miss Jewel. Although Renestine was busy with her school work, her sister permitted her, like all the young girls, to accept the attentions of young men who wished to call or who invited her to social affairs. Jaffray was some years older than Renestine and was aware that she was but a school girl, untutored in the ways of the world, even less than most girls of her age. But Renestine's modesty, her innocence, her beauty, appealed to him as no other woman's charms had done and thoughts of her took possession him. His stuffy little office in McKinney, in the long, narrow store where general merchandise was rather irregularly piled around in high wooden boxes, in barrels, and on shallow shelves, became a prison house and the weeks endless terms of sentence. It happened that be could not absent himself from duty oftener than once every month and then only from Friday to Sunday night. These days of freedom were now prized tenfold more dearly than if he had had his time free to do as he wished. Heretofore it had been his dearest wish to employ his spare time with books, reading and studying to improve his mind and for the pleasure that books gave him. Now his thoughts refused to concentrate upon anything but Miss Jewel. After some weeks of acquaintance there was an exchange of letters which grew into a long correspondence. Those were happy days for Jaffray! Eagerly he would look forward to the mail and from the receipt of each of Renestine's letters to the next he would be in a heaven all his own. He sent her songs and books of verse; he wrote long and throbbing letters, and Winter and Spring, Summer and Autumn were just one long summer day for him with the music of the birds overhead and the earth a garden of blossoms. CHAPTER III TWO years went by and Renestine had been the bride of Jaffray Starr three months. Grown into womanhood, she was radiant; happy in her love and secure in the faith of her choice, she went forth from her sister's home full of hope and cheer. Renestine had had many suitors, had had much admiration. She could have become the wife of a young adoring banker; she had refused to listen to the suit of men of more substance than her husband; but because of the quiet manliness of Jaffray Starr, because of his keen intellect, because of his nobility of heart and generous nature, she gave her heart into his keeping, sure that she had made no mistake, and set out with him to share his fortune, whatever it would bring. They had been married and left at once for Jaffray's home at Jefferson, where he had a position in the County Clerk's office. Now they were settled and housekeeping. But it was a long, rough journey they had made from Houston to Jefferson. The railroads had not been built in that section of the country and travel was done by horse teams and in covered wagons. Two good colored servants accompanied them; old Josiah, who drove and took care of the rough work, and his wife; Caroline, to look after the "Missus" and do the cooking. Bringing out kettles and pans tucked away in the wagon, Josiah would build a brushwood fire and Caroline would cook the meals, rations for two weeks having been provided. When it was time to stop for a meal or to rest the horses, Josiah would be on the watch for a clear spring of water along the roadside, would draw up by the side of it and begin preparations for camping. It was not as much of a hardship as Pullman travelers would conclude. The wagons were fitted with springs which gave easily over rough roads and even had a fascination and romance, and in the cool of the evening when a stretch of smooth road lay before them it was delicious to feel the soft air blowing into their faces and to experience the exhilaration of the rapid motion of the wagon. There were also arrangements for comfortable beds. Word had gone ahead that Jaffray was bringing home a bride and the people were alert to give her welcome. Jaffray never realized how much he was thought of until he came back a Benedict. Homes were thrown open to him and his young wife with offers to remain as long as they would, and all .kinds of propositions made for their comfort and welfare. "No, thank you, John or Tom or Buck," he would reply, kindly but firmly. "We shall go to the hotel until we can arrange a home. I have already rented a house and it won't take us long to get settled." Nor did it. In a few weeks Jaffray and Renestine were occupying a small house, not far from the river that skirted the town, with Josiah and Caroline in charge. "I do not see how anything can be prettier," said Renestine one day after they had been in their home about a week. She had just finished looping the pretty Swiss curtains at the windows of their living room. "I really do not," she continued, stepping back, her finger tips together, her head quizzically on one side. "Nothing can be sweeter or prettier than our home. Jaffray, have you noticed how dainty the chintz furniture is and how well it goes with the walls? I think I deserve commendation for that wall paper, Jaffray." "Indeed, you do, my darling," returned Jaffray, pulling solemnly at his pipe and looking half amused, half serious, at his young wife. "Are you quite sure the pattern is large enough?" he said, laughing. "Oh, you ungrateful man, you are making fun of me, I do believe. Come into the dining-room and have dinner. Caroline is just bringing it in." Arm in arm, they stepped into a long, narrow room which went the width of the house, only excepting a little room off the main bedroom which was used for a dressing room. The house consisted of a living room, a small hall and across from the living room, the bedroom. Back of the little room was a small porch and detached from the house, but connected by a covered walk, was the kitchen. The dining-room was a foot below the two front rooms, the kitchen joining it by the covered passage way. They could never explain why the dining-room was so arranged, but concluded that the owner had added it on at a later time. It was cosy and comfortable and became attractive under the deft fingers of Renestine. The little covered porch in front of the house was screened by running vines from the gaze of the street. "Now for my book shelf!" exclaimed Jaffray, after he had smoked his afternoon pipe. "You must help me arrange them, Renestine. No real home without books, little girl." Josiah brought in the large drygoods box, which he opened, and together Jaffray and Renestine took out the books, dusted them and placed them on the shelves built in one side of the wall. Among them were Byron, Moore, Pope, History of the United States, Josephus, Irving's Life of Washington. It was late when the last one had been put away, and they were glad enough to rest in their rockers on the porch in the gloaming. CHAPTER IV THE day was hot and sultry. The chinaberry trees gave out their sweet flower fragrance, almost too sweet to breathe freely in, while their lacy leaves scarcely stirred. A great shady one grew in the corner of the paling-fence around the yard and close to the two-room living quarters for the negro servants. Aunt Caroline sat in the door combing her wiry hair with a curry comb, a jagged piece of broken mirror in her lap to guide her in her hairdressing; close by were a couple of rush-bottom chairs set face to face and holding across their seats a pillow with a mosquito netting pulled tight across the top of the backs. Every once in a while Aunt Caroline would twist her neck in the direction of the improvised bed and, finding nothing stirring, would resume her hair-brushing. "Oh, Aunt Caroline," rushed out of the air and a two-year-old little girl threw herself heavily against the old servant's knees, nearly dashing her toilet articles to the ground. Aunt Caroline started, raised her curry brush over her head and shook it hard at the child. "My lands," she said, in a low voice. "Whar you come from and making all dat noise and your sister lying dar asleep. Ain't you never swine to renembar what I's al'ays tellin' yer, not ter brash up against one like out de Sperrit world and nearly scare yer old mammy ter deth? Ennyhow yer look tired; come heah in my lap and le' me rock yer." "May I have your looking glass, then, Aunt Caroline?" "Look out, chile, you'll cut yerself! No. I's got to lay dis up on de shelf for mahself. Dis no lookin' glass fer a white chile. Now you come heah and get in my lap dis minute." The child, tired from play and romping around, lifted her arms to be taken up into her dear old mammy's lap. With her curlv head pressed against Aunt Caroline's breast, she fell asleep in a little while and was resting there long after Aunt Caroline had stopped tilting her chair forward and backward--a way quite familiar to Southern nurses in lulling children to sleep. In a little while she had succumbed to the silent noon hour herself. "Looka heah, nigger. What you mean holden dat chile in yer lap and you fast ter sleep? Wake up. Yer heah? Miss Tiny is comin!" Josiah shoved his brogan over Aunt Caroline's thinly shod foot and she jerked her head up with a start. "Bless mah soul!" She looked around with a frightened appearance at the chairs with the mosquito netting over them and two blue gray eyes were looking up into hers and a little fist was being devoured. "Here you are with the children," said a low, sweet voice. "I've wondered if Lola was with you. Has the baby been asleep a long time, Aunt Caroline?" "Yes'm. She jest now waken up. Ain't she purty, Miss Tiny? Just look at her little face looken like a cherub's. She shore is a buiful chile. Looks a hole lot like you wid her big eyes, on'y dey gray 'stead of black." "Let me take Lola from you and you lift the baby and bring her to the house." "Yes'm." Aunt Caroline didn't lose an opportunity, however, to turn around to remark to Josiah, who was hoeing not far away, "Yer, Josiah, you jes come heah, suh, and tote dis chile up to de house. She too hebby fer de Missus. You lubbering black nigger, you jes good fer nothin' nohow and doan you eber stamp on my foot agin! Go long, Miss Tiny, we will bring up de chillens!" Jaffray was home for midday dinner. "I've bought a nurse girl for you, Renestine. Here is the bill of sale," he said, handing a light blue paper to her. Renestine read: "A copper colored girl," etc. When they were seated at the table Jaffray said: "I felt like a mean creature when I paid the money for that girl, but I knew we needed a nurse girl. Aunt Caroline can't cook and care any longer for the children too, so what was to be done? This slavery system is frightful, and mark my words, Renestine, the day will come when the darkies will be free. Where I was born on the Rhine, no one would believe for a moment that I would buy a human being. They would hate me as I hate myself for bartering in human flesh." "I know, I know, Jaffray. I remember when my sister used to send Josiah out in the morning to work, he would come back in the evening with his pay that he had earned in the blacksmith shop and give it to her, and Aunt Caroline would bring her money, too, that she had made by a hard day's, washing and ironing. Oh, yes, it is all wrong and dreadful, but we will treat them well and wait for the day to set them free!" "It will not be long now. There are all sorts of rumors about Lincoln doing this 'and that." "You mean about setting the negroes free?" "Yes." "But how? People will not just let them walk away! "Walk away! Oh, little woman, if it could be brought around that way the threatening clouds would not be so dark ahead! 'Just walk away.' The President is offering to find a way out. One is to 'compensate' owners out of Government funds for the release of their slaves; another is sending them to some warm country for colonization. Of course, he would ask Congress for an appropriation for this." For long hours they sat reading the latest news in the day's paper and discussing the war reports with a very solemn foreboding of coming events. CHAPTER V WHEN the Civil War broke out the women of the South blanched with the terrible ordeal before them, but never for one moment doubted but that their beloved ones would come out of it all victorious. To them it was not conceivable that a cause so plainly one of individual rights could be lost. Sacrifice upon sacrifice was cheerfully made, even gloried in by these wonderful women of the South in 1861 and to the bitter end. Delicately nurtured women denied themselves comforts, sleep, food and drink; they were reduced to personal hardships which were met and borne with a sublime fortitude. When it was all over those families which had possessed wealth and culture were in the grip of poverty, and it was then that the spirit of Southern womanhood showed its divine strength. Facing family troubles with the courage of noble resignation, those women who had been educated--some abroad--and accomplished, became school teachers at five dollars a month for a pupil, and many a woman to-day bears gratitude in her heart for the sweet influence of these school teachers, which has gone with her into every clime, into every condition, and proved an unfailing guide to the uplands and the heights. Many became seamstresses, some governesses and others traveling companions. But wherever these gentlewoman went they carried refinement and ideals. The heroism of the Southern women in the Civil War is an Epic in American History! Renestine was the mother now of three little daughters. Jaffray had gone to Mexico to buy up horses, saddles and commissaries for the army. Caroline and Josiah were her bodyguards and, faithful servants, they saved her little anxieties and looked after the welfare of the children. Renestine made their little shoes by shaping cloth after their worn ones and sewing them together with pieces of soft cardboard for soles. She made coffee by drying beets, and flour by drying potatoes. Her practical little head was resourceful for any emergency. She felt sad at the separation from her husband, and her large black eyes were mournful but not tearful. To be and doing was her spirit. In spare moments she sat down to her tambourine to do crewel work on a tapestry picture. It was a large subject--The bard Ossian playing his harp to Malvino. Ossian seated on the front of some brown rocks, Malvino seated before him, her hands folded across his knees, full of tender regard for the gentle musician. This work was her pastime and recreation. She selected the worsteds and worked her needle out and in, shading and coloring and outlining with the skill of an artist in paints. Three years she worked on this picture, almost to the end of the war, almost as long as Penelope worked on her task awaiting Ulysses' return. In the meantime Jaftray paid short visits to his family and made them as comfortable for periods of his absence as he had it in his power to do. Texas was too far away to be the theatre of battles during the conflict, so that no real harassing of the families by the invading Northern soldiers took place, but her people suffered privations and danger just as much as her sister states and perhaps more after the war was over and the reconstruction period set in. In 1870 the town of Jefferson was thrown into a panic by the murder one night of a "carpet-bagger." Carpet-bagger was a name given to those men who came into Southern towns after the war to stir up the people, and particularly the darkies, against the authorities. It was necessary for Washington to send troops to Jefferson to restore order. A stockade was built up on the hill near the new home of Jaffray, for he had found his first little house too small for his growing family, and into this stockade some of Jefferson's prominent citizens were thrown and kept until they could prove their innocence of the charges brought against them, namely, that they had knowledge of the murder of the carpet-bagger. Those were trying days. Jaffray had returned from Mexico in impaired health, which had been caused by the impure drinking water in the country and also the intense heat there. The doctors told him he had to take a long rest. Things were going badly in the town, military law was established and all men found implicated in the disturbance were drastically punished. The war bad reduced the prosperous store holder to penury, there was little money left to circulate among the people and Jefferson was demoralized in its business, civic and social life. General Buell, commanding the military occupation, asked as a favor to be put up at Jaffray's house, as it was one of the largest in the town and near the camp. Jaffray consented. So General Buell and his wife came to live with Renestine and Jaffray, and afterwards one or two other officers and their wives joined General Buell. This was a courageous thing for Jaffray to have done, for, with the spirit existing in the town at that critical time, not many residents would harbor the Yankees. It was so dangerous that one night, when the General wished to retire to his rooms across the broad hall, he turned to Jaffray and said: "Jaffray, put out the lamps before I cross over." Kerosene lamps were in use and Jaffray put out the light before the officer walked from the sitting room across to his own rooms. In politics Jaffray was a Republican and he had the courage to live up to his convictions in a community that was enraged against Lincoln and his party. But the Republicans stood for free men, whatever color or creed, and Jaffray championed their doctrines. For him humanity, justice and liberty was the breath of his nostrils. This passion for men's rights he had inherited from a long line of ancestors reaching back into the mists of "In the beginning." He was an Israelite. Renestine was glad to accept this change in their lives, as she realized that Jaffray's affairs were not prosperous and with the assistance of her servants she could help him very well, particularly as he was not in robust health. Whatever situation faced her she met it with high courage and a spirit to do. Their devotion was deep and with their little family they were happy and contented. Sorrow had not spared them, however, for their baby daughter bad contracted whooping cough and died a few months before. Jaffray grieved deeply for the little child and Renestine was almost overcome. But she straightened up herb beautiful head, like a flower after the storm has passed, and comforted her husband. CHAPTER VI JAFFRAY was now Postmaster of Jefferson. he city had resumed its normal life and gained in population and wealth. The streets were filled with wagons loaded with bales of cotton brought from as far away as 250 miles by ox teams, which took three weeks. Jefferson was at the head of navigation on an arm of the Red River. Steamboats came up once or twice a week and the cotton was shipped to New Orleans and from that city to the mills in the East. When the boats arrived the scene on the levee was a very animated one. Negroes would fix large bill hooks into the bagging around the cotton bales and load them into drays. Some of them worked singing, as sailors do when they haul and pull. Sometimes the captains of the larger steamboats would issue invitations to the families for a soiree, when the excitement would fill society for days. The ladies would dress in their silks and laces and the men spruce up in their frock coats and flowered waistcoats and cross the gang plank into the kerosene-lighted steamboats and dance until morning. Those were red letter days for Jefferson. As a matter of etiquette, when the steamboat was loaded and about to start back, everybody would be at the levee to wave good-bye. The side paddle would turn and the hospitable captain would be up in the pilot house, waving his cap in return until the churning side-wheel carried him around the bend. New houses were dotting the town here and there, some of them large and handsome with spacious grounds. Kerosene oil lamps were put up to light the streets and an "Opera House" was built, where many a stock company came to play in tragedy or comedy. Shakespeare's plays were the favorites of the community and Jaffray and Renestine went often to the theatre, accompanied by their two daughters, who were in their advanced school-day years and able to appreciate it. There were two little sons added to their family circle; they remained asleep in their trundle beds with old Aunt Caroline watching over them, as she had watched over the little daughters. Josiah had died right after the war was over, but he lived to see his people freed and schools opened where they could be taught to read and write--a precious privilege. He had said to Aunt Caroline just before his last illness: "Thanks be to God that He has set the colored folks free, but thanks be to Him mosen for gibbin' me a good marsa and missus who gibs me my close, my vittles and my me'cine." The relation of the household servants to the Southern family was that of trust and affection after their liberation. In advanced years, like old Aunt Caroline, the younger servants saved them unnecessary steps and their days were happy and peaceful. Near the home which Renestine and Jaffrav occupied almost touching the porch was a huge oak tree spreading wide shade around it. Here the children played; or, if it was a rainy day, they carried their precious dolls and drums into the latticed summer house built for ornamentation and use in very hot weather, where woodbine and honeysuckle ran along its diamond-shaped walls and hung thick and colorful in great waves. Jaffray loved his home and spared nothing that would make it comfortable and attractive. His days were very arduous now, as he had to learn the methods of a government position. It appealed to him, though, for it was a pursuit which required reading up on rules, laws and regulations, and his bent was for books and instruction from them. While his days passed in attending to the business of the Post Office, his nights were given to study and self-improvement. He was never satisfied with what he achieved; to learn and to know more and more was his ruling passion. Many citizens now called upon him for advice. He would be asked to speak when a new building was opened or a public movement was on foot. They knew him to be generous and full of civic pride. He belonged to the Board of Aldermen and at one time was offered the office of Mayor. He had the confidence and respect of all the inhabitants of the town and his politeness and gentleness were the qualifications which made them love him. He was a tall, spare figure, with black, well-set eyes, black hair, now showing thin at the temples and somewhat bald; he had a short black beard and moustache and his carriage was upright and dignified. He could be stern, even severe, when things aroused his anger, and nothing could touch his temper quicker than underhand dealings or a mean act. But his whole being was steeped with love of his kind and sympathy with the poor. In the early days of Jefferson he and a friend bought a deed for a cemetery and presented it to the Jewish community. His home was opened to social and political gatherings where his friends were sure of a warm welcome. Renestine was always the center of attraction of these social affairs. She was proud of her husband and flushed with happiness when she saw him surrounded by admiring groups of men. At this time a new influence came into their lives. It was a fine old Frenchman, who had drifted down to Jefferson from Alabama, where he had been a professor of piano teaching. His name was D'Archais, and by degrees they learned his history. But the immediate result of their meeting was to give their two little daughters, now eight and ten years old, to him to be instructed in music. The history of this new friend was a romantic one. During the time of Louis Philippe he left Paris. His property and title had been taken by the revolutionists for he was an aristocrat, a Count, and he found that he was safer with the ocean between him and his beloved Paris. He landed in Mobile, Alabama, and used his accomplishments of painting and music as a means of gaining a livelihood. For many years he worked in his profession and accumulated enough to lay aside. This he invested in cotton which was destroyed in a warehouse by fire. It was hard, but he began all over again and in the meantime married a widow with a daughter. This step-daughter won his complete affection, and when she married he devoted himself to her two children, a girl and a boy. It was because of these two children that he came to Jefferson, where they were then living. The music teacher was 70 years old when he came into the lives of Jaffray and Renestine; a polished, grand old man of kingly soul and manners. The little daughters quickly learned to love their dear old teacher and all his life time he was their dear friend. Jaffray was much impressed by this gentle nobleman and was glad to have the privilege of his friendship for himself and his family. He found that he was easily tired in these days and welcomed nightfall when he could sit on the porch in the twilight of summer and feel the peace of evening creep on apace. Often Mr. D'Archais would join him and chat about travel and the fall and rise of political parties in France. "I left France after the fall of Louis Philippe," he said, "and came to America. My property was confiscated and I arrived here penniless. A friend of mine had gone to Mobile, Alabama, some years before, and I resolved to follow him. I began life over again and took a position in a young ladies' academy there to teach piano. I had taken lessons from renowned musicians in Paris, the same as taught Napoleon's sister, Pauline, and this was my only means now of making a living. "I did very well, lived comfortably and saved a little besides, so that when the war broke out I had invested in cotton which was in a warehouse waiting to be sold. A large fire destroyed the warehouse with its contents, leaving me penniless once more, as there was not a dollar of insurance on it. "In the meantime my friend had died leaving his family--wife and daughter--in my care. I decided to carry out his wish on his deathbed and married his wife soon after. His daughter became my joy and happiness. She was docile, ma foi, so perfect, that in a few years, when she married, I was irreconcilable." Here the music master would stop, let his face drop into his big, white, soft hands for a moment and then go on with his story. "She died three years after her marriage, leaving two children, a boy and a girl. These children were adopted by people here in this state and I followed. Jefferson was recommended to me as a good place to begin a class in music. I am not sorry I came as I have made friends and in my old age I can look forward to peace and a few devoted pupils to brighten the days." Many times during his recital he would exclaim: "Mon Dieu, mon dieu, I have seen many trials and tribulations." Jaffray was always sorry to see Mr. D'Archais leave; his personality and story were romantic and picturesque. Long into the shadows of the night he would sit watching the stars come out one by one, thinking of the troublous life of the nobleman and simple music teacher. In the Autumn Jaffray took to his bed utterly worn out and grew very ill, so ill that the family doctor felt a great deal of concern about his symptoms. He instructed that Jaffray be kept very quiet on a low diet and stimulants, to be given every few hours. This treatment benefited Jaffray so that he was able to sit up in a favorite arm chair now and then and listen to Charles Dickens' story, "Our Mutual Friend," then running as a serial in Harper's Magazine, read to him by his little gray-eyed daughter now ten years old. At the close of the reading one morning he said: "What a great man! I'd rather die to-day and leave behind me the fame of Charles Dickens than live to be a hundred years old." Much encouraged by Jaffray's condition, Renestine took fresh hope and went about her daily occupation with more energy. She knew Jaffray's tender affection for his children and when on his good days he had been made comfortable in his big arm chair the two young daughters, Lola and Ena, and their little brothers, Lester, Andrew and Frank, were allowed to come into his room and be near him, the infant son Frank resting in his arms, Lola standing by like a little mother watching over them all. Other days he would look out of the window and watch the big oak tree standing near, with its leaves turning brown, shaking in the wind. Winter was turning the vines on the summer house into lifeless twists of runners and bending the rose hushes until the petals were strewn about the ground. It was not until the first week in November that Renestine noticed that Jaffray was not as strong as usual. He kept to his bed now altogether, and his great heart seemed to speak to her of what was uppermost there--the parting; after only thirteen years of wedded life the end had come. His little Queen Esther with the rosebuds on her gown! In his last moments he said to a friend: "What does it matter whether a man lives a little longer or not? It is only the loved ones he leaves that matter." At his death the city closed the places of business by proclamation of the Mayor, and the long line of followers at his bier to the little cemetery he had given testified to the love his fellow men bore him. Renestine was crushed. Her five children were to be lived for, of course, but how could she face the long years before her? She was young, inexperienced, unused to the world and its ways. She was overwhelmed by her fate. The assets of a generous man at his death are debts and some friends. Had it not been for the advice and devotion of a few friends, Renestine would have gone down in the black waters that were now surging around her. The Post Office was looked after until she could find strength in body and mind to assume the duties of Post Mistress to which she was appointed. When she entered the door that first morning it was as a broken spirit without any idea of what she was about to undertake. The task was serious and exacting, she realized, but how to grasp its thousand details? Her master would be the U. S. Government, an uncompromising, stern and bloodless one. Not many years before, this little woman was an immigrant child, landing with timid step on strange soil. To-day she was ushered into the important office of Government Mail and Money matters, one of the most responsible positions in the country. With her usual courage and determination to learn, Renestine set about the long figures of quarterly returns and register reports, money order and stamp reports, making up and distributing mail, prompt deliveries and sending out of mail. Her pride in her new life responded to the demands made upon her and she went forward. Unafraid now, for she had a grasp of the difficulties, she bent her work. She pored over her monthly and quarterly returns in the quiet of night, and over and over again she wrote and figured until she understood and could make them out correctly. She was encouraged by her friends, and complimented by the bankers and merchants in the city for her successful efforts. The first year was a long trial to Renestine. Her children were young and needed her care and guidance as well as the new occupation. But the little mother was all the busier when she returned home in the evening. With a divine strength to perform and serve, she labored. The education of each child was followed patiently, eagerly, unceasingly, by her. Music and languages, besides the fundamentals, were to be given to each. The bodies were clothed by her flying fingers at night. What a boon ready-to-wear would have been to this little mother. Not a boy's garment could be had unless it was the handiwork of the household. One evening, many years afterward, Renestine returned to her home with her sixteenth commission in her hand. She had served the public of Jefferson faithfully and efficiently and the people had honored her. During these years her elder daughter had married but only lived a year after her marriage. This was another searing sorrow and for many days seemed to consume her. Now her second daughter was about to become the wife of a noble man who had long wished to wed her and take her back with him to make their home in New York City. This evening she sat in the midst of her little family and recalled many scenes of her life. She was still a young woman, forty-eight, and she intended sending her resignation to Washington. She was about to leave Jefferson and follow her daughter to New York where there were better opportunities for the advancement of her three sons. The following day she went with her prospective son-in-law and her daughter to pay a farewell visit to Mr. D'Archais at his little two-roomed house. The old man rose with his arms outstretched to meet them and his "little girl" was soon enclosed in them. On parting he turned to her soon-to-be husband and said: "Make her happy. Make my little girl happy," and held his hand affectionately in his own. So it was that Renestine, the little immigrant girl, became a superb woman of deeds, a wonderful American mother whose grandchildren have fought in this last war to win democracy for the world! THE END 
23264	----	The Settlers at Home, by Harriet Martineau. ________________________________________________________________________ This shortish novel first appeared in 1841, and was published in a collection of the author's four short 1841 novels, "The Playfellow". The scene is set in Lincolnshire, a part of England much of which is flat and prone to flooding by the sea. It was drained in the 1600s by Dutch engineers by the creation of drains and sea defences. To this day part of the county is called Holland. After the draining the land was leased by the King to various settlers from overseas, among whom were the Linacres, the hero-family of this book. The King's enemies break down the sea defences, and the land is flooded, with haystacks, mills and barns floating away, farm animals drowning, and everyone in great peril. By various mishaps the three Linacre children and a boy from a roguish nomadic family, are deprived of the Linacre mother and father just when they most need them, and find themselves in the care of Ailwin, the strong and sturdy maid-of-all-work. Before they can get reunited with the parents, Geordie, the weakly two-year-old, dies, and they have various struggles for survival, with foul water killing many of the animals they would rely on for food. At last help comes in the form of the local pastor, who has enlisted the aid of some men to row him to wherever he is needed. This book is pretty strong reading, and probably more of a tragedy than any other category. ________________________________________________________________________ THE SETTLERS AT HOME, BY HARRIET MARTINEAU. CHAPTER ONE. THE SETTLERS AT HOME. Two hundred years ago, the Isle of Axholme was one of the most remarkable places in England. It is not an island in the sea. It is a part of Lincolnshire--a piece of land hilly in the middle, and surrounded by rivers. The Trent runs on the east side of it; and some smaller rivers formerly flowed round the rest of it, joining the Humber to the north. These rivers carried down a great deal of mud with them to the Humber, and the tides of the Humber washed up a great deal of sea-sand into the mouths of the rivers; so that the waters could not for some time flow freely, and were at last prevented from flowing away at all: they sank into the ground, and made a swamp of it--a swamp of many miles round the hilly part of the Isle of Axholme. This swamp was long a very dismal place. Fish, and water-birds, and rats inhabited it: and here and there stood the hut of a fowler; or a peat-stack raised by the people who lived on the hills round, and who obtained their fuel from the peat-lands in the swamp. There were also, sprinkled over the district, a few very small houses--cells belonging to the Abbey of Saint Mary, at York. To these cells some of the monks from Saint Mary's had been fond of retiring, in old times, for meditation and prayer, and doing good in the district round; but when the soil became so swampy as to give them the ague as often as they paid a visit to these cells, the monks left off their practice of retiring hither; and their little dwellings stood empty, to be gradually overgrown with green moss and lank weeds, which no hand cleared away. At last a Dutchman, having seen what wonders were done in his own country by good draining, thought he could render this district fit to be inhabited and cultivated; and he made a bargain with the king about it. After spending much money, and taking great pains, he succeeded. He drew the waters off into new channels, and kept them there by sluices, and by carefully watching the embankments he had raised. The land which was left dry was manured and cultivated, till, instead of a reedy and mossy swamp, there were fields of clover and of corn, and meadows of the finest grass, with cattle and sheep grazing in large numbers. The dwellings that were still standing were made into farm-houses, and new farmhouses were built. A church here, and a chapel there was cleaned, and warmed, and painted, and opened for worship; and good roads crossed the district into all the counties near. Instead of being pleased with this change, the people of the country were angry and discontented. Those who lived near had been long accustomed to fishing and fowling in the swamp, without paying any rent, or having to ask anybody's leave. They had no mind now to settle to the regular toilsome business of farming,--and to be under a landlord, to whom they must pay rent. Probably, too, they knew nothing about farming, and would have failed in it if they had tried. Thus far they were not to be blamed. But nothing can exceed the malignity with which they treated the tenants who did settle in the isle, and the spiteful spirit which they showed towards them, on every occasion. These tenants were chiefly foreigners. There was a civil war in England at that time: and the Yorkshire and Lincolnshire people were so much engaged in fighting for King Charles or for the Parliament, that fewer persons were at liberty to undertake new farms than there would have been in a time of peace. When the Dutchman and his companions found that the English were not disposed to occupy the Levels (as the drained lands were called), they encouraged some of their own countrymen to come over. With them arrived some few Frenchmen, who had been driven from France into Holland, on account of their being Protestants. From first to last, there were about two hundred families, Dutch and French, settled in the Levels. Some were collected into a village, and had a chapel opened, where a pastor of their own performed service for them. Others were scattered over the district, living just where their occupations required them to settle. All these foreigners were subject to bad treatment from their neighbours; but the stragglers were the worst off; because it was easiest to tease and injure those who lived alone. The disappointed fishers and fowlers gave other reasons for their own conduct, besides that of being nearly deprived of their fishing and fowling. These reasons were all bad, as reasons for hating always are. One excuse was that the new settlers were foreigners--as if those who were far from their own land did not need particular hospitality and kindness. Another plea was that they were connected with the king, by being settled on the lands which he had bargained to have drained: so that all who sided with the parliament ought to injure the new tenants, in order to annoy the king. If the settlers had tried to serve the king by injuring his enemies, this last reason might have passed in a time of war. But it was not so. It is probable that the foreigners did not understand the quarrel. At any rate, they took no part in it. All they desired was to be left in peace, to cultivate the lands they paid rent for. But instead of peace, they had little but persecution. One of these settlers, Mr Linacre, was not himself a farmer. He supplied the farmers of the district with a manure of a particular kind, which suited some of the richest soils they cultivated. He found, in the red soil of the isle, a large mass of that white earth, called gypsum, which, when wetted and burnt, makes plaster of Paris; and which, when ground, makes a fine manure for some soils, as the careful Dutchmen well knew. Mr Linacre set up a windmill on a little eminence which rose out of the Level, just high enough to catch the wind; and there he ground the gypsum which he dug from the neighbouring patch or quarry. He had to build some out-houses, but not a dwelling-house; for, near his mill, with just space enough for a good garden between, was one of the largest of the old cells of the monks of Saint Mary's, so well built of stone, and so comfortably arranged, that Mr Linacre had little to do but to have it cleaned and furnished, and the windows and doors made new, to fit it for the residence of his wife and children, and a servant. This building was round, and had three rooms below, and three over them. A staircase of stone was in the very middle, winding round, like a corkscrew,--leading to the upper rooms, and out upon the roof, from which there was a beautiful view,--quite as far as the Humber to the north-east, and to the circle of hills on every other side. Each of the rooms below had a door to the open air, and another to the staircase;-- very unlike modern houses, and not so fit as they to keep out wind and cold. But for this, the dwelling would have been very warm, for the walls were of thick stone; and the fire-places were so large, that it seemed as if the monks had been fond of good fires. Two of these lower rooms opened into the garden; and the third, the kitchen, into the yard;--so that the maid, Ailwin, had not far to go to milk the cow and feed the poultry. Mrs Linacre was as neat in the management of her house as people from Holland usually are; and she did not like that the sitting-room, where her husband had his meals, and spent his evenings, should be littered by the children, or used at all by them during her absence at her daily occupation, in the summer. So she let them use the third room for their employments and their play. Her occupation, every summer's day, was serving out the waters from a mineral spring, a good deal frequented by sick people, three miles from her house, on the way to Gainsborough. She set off, after an early breakfast, in the cool of the morning, and generally arrived at the hill-side where the spring was, and had unlocked her little shed, and taken out her glasses, and rinsed them, before any travellers passed. It was rarely indeed that a sick person had to wait a minute for her appearance. There she sat, in her shed when it rained, and under a tree when it was fine, sewing or knitting very diligently when no customers appeared, and now and then casting a glance over the Levels to the spot where her husband's mill rose in the midst of the green fields, and where she almost fancied sometimes that she could see the children sitting on the mill-steps, or working in the garden. When customers appeared, she was always ready in a moment to serve them; and her smile cheered those who were sick, and pleased those who came merely from curiosity. She slipped the halfpence she received into a pocket beneath her apron; and sometimes the pocket was such a heavy one to carry three miles home, that she just stepped aside to the village shop at Haxey, or into a farm-house where the people would be going to market next day, to get her copper exchanged for silver. Since the times had become so troubled as they were now, however, she had avoided showing her money anywhere on the road. Her husband's advice was that she should give up attending the spring altogether; but she gained so much money by it, and it was so likely that somebody would step into her place there as soon as she gave it up, so that she would not be able to regain her office when quieter times should come, that she entreated him to allow her to go on while she had no fears. She took the heavy gold ear-rings out of her ears, wore a plainer cap, and left her large silver watch at home; so that she looked like a poor woman whom no needy soldier or bold thief would think of robbing. She guessed by the sun what was the right time for locking up her glasses and going home; and she commonly met her husband, coming to fetch her, before she had got half-way. The three children were sure to be perched on the top of the quarry bank, or on the mill-steps, or out on the roof of the house, at the top of the winding staircase. Little George himself, though only two years old, knew the very moment when he should shout and clap his hands, to make his mother wave her handkerchief from the turn of the road. Oliver and Mildred did not exactly feel that the days were too long while their mother was away, for they had plenty to do; but they felt that the best part of the day was the hour between her return and their going to bed: and, unlike people generally, they liked winter better than summer, because at that season their mother never left them, except to go to the shop, or the market at Haxey. Though Oliver was only eleven, and Mildred nine, they were not too young to have a great deal to do. Oliver was really useful as a gardener; and many a good dish of vegetables of his growing came to table in the course of the year. Mildred had to take care of the child almost all day; she often prepared the cabbage, and cut the bacon for Ailwin to broil. She could also do what Ailwin could not,--she could sew a little; and now and then there was an apron or a handkerchief ready to be shown when Mrs Linacre came home in the evening. If she met with any difficulty in her job, the maid could not help her, but her father sometimes could; and it was curious to see Mildred mounting the mill when she was at any loss, and her father wiping the white plaster off his hands, and taking the needle or the scissors in his great fingers, rather than that his little girl should not be able to surprise her mother with a finished piece of work. Then, both Oliver and Mildred had to learn their catechism, to say to Pastor Dendel on Sunday; and always a copy or an exercise on hand, to be ready to show him when he should call; and some book to finish that he had lent them to read, and that others of his flock would be ready for when they had done. Besides all this, there was an occupation which both boy and girl thought more of than of all others together. Among the loads of gypsum that came to the mill, there were often pieces of the best kind,--lumps of real, fine alabaster. Alabaster is so soft as to be easily worked. Even a finger-nail will make a mark upon it. Everybody knows how beautiful vases and little statues, well wrought in alabaster, look on a mantelpiece, or a drawing-room table. Oliver had seen such in France, where they are very common: and his father had carried one or two ornaments of this kind into Holland, when he had to leave France. It was a great delight for Oliver to find, on settling in Axholme, that he could have as much alabaster as he pleased, if he could only work it. With a little help from Pastor Dendel and his father, he soon learned to do so; and of all his employments, he liked this the best. Pastor Dendel brought him a few bowls and cups of pretty shapes and different sizes, made of common wood by a turner, who was one of his flock; and Oliver first copied these in clay, and then in alabaster. By degrees he learned to vary his patterns, and at last to make his clay models from fancies of his own,--some turning out failures, and others prettier than any of his wooden cups. These last he proceeded to carve out of alabaster. Mildred could not help watching him while he was about his favourite work, though it was difficult to keep little George from tossing the alabaster about, and stamping on the best pieces, or sucking them. He would sometimes give his sister a few minutes' peace and quiet by rolling the wooden bowls the whole length of the room, and running after them: and there was also an hour, in the middle of the day, when he went to sleep in his large Dutch cradle. At those times Mildred would consult with her brother about his work; or sew or watch him by turns; or read one of the pastor's little books, stopping occasionally to wonder whether Oliver could attend at once to his carving, and to what she was reading. When she saw that he was spoiling any part, or that his hand was shaking, she would ask whether he had not been at work long enough; and then they would run out to the garden or the quarry, or to jump George (if he was awake again) from the second mill-step. One fine month of August, not a breath of wind had been blowing for a week or two, so that the mill-sails had not made a single turn; not a load of gypsum had been brought during the time, and Oliver was quite out of alabaster; though, as it happened, he much wanted a good supply, for a particular reason. Every morning he brought out his tools; and every morning the sky was so clear, the corn-fields so still--the very trees so silent, that he wondered whether there had ever been so calm a month of August before. His father and he employed their time upon the garden, while they had so good an opportunity. Before it was all put in order, and the entire stock of autumn cabbages set, there came a breezy day; and the children were left to finish the cabbage patch by themselves. While they were at work, it made them merry to hear the mill-sails whirring through the air, and to see, at intervals, the trees above the quarry bowing their heads, and the reeds waving in the swamp, and the water of the meadow-ponds dimpling and rippling, as the wind swept over the Levels. Oliver soon heard something that he liked better still--the creak of the truck that brought the gypsum from the quarry, and the crack of the driver's whip. He threw down the dibble with which he was planting out his cabbages-- tripped over the line he had set to direct his drilling, tumbled on his face, scrambled up again, and ran, rubbing the dirt from his knees as he went, to look out some alabaster from the load. Mildred was not long after him, though he called to her that she had better stay and finish the cabbages, and though little George, immediately on feeling himself at liberty, threw himself upon the fresh mould of the cabbage bed, and amused himself with pulling up, and flinging right and left, the plants that had just been set. How could Mildred attend to this, when she was sure she was wanted to turn over the gypsum, and see what she could find? So Master George went on with his pranks, till Ailwin, by accident, saw him from the yard, ran and snatched him up, flung him over her shoulder, and carried him away screaming, till, to pacify him, she set him down among the poultry, which he presently found more amusing than young cabbage plants. "Now we shall have a set of new cups for the spring, presently," said Oliver, as he measured lump after lump with his little foot-rule. "Cups for the waters!" exclaimed his father. "So that is the reason of this prodigious hurry, is it, my boy? You think tin cups not good enough for your mother, or for her customers, or for the waters. Which of them do you think ought to be ashamed of tin cups?" "The water, most of all. Instead of sparkling in a clear bright glass, it looks as nasty as it tastes in a thing that is more brown and rusty every time it is dipped. I will give the folk a pair of cups that shall tempt them to drink--a pair of cups as white as milk." "They will not long remain white: and those who broke the glasses will be the more bent upon spoiling your cups, the more pains you spend upon them." "I hope the Redfurns will not happen to hear of them. We need not blab; and the folk who drink the waters go their way, as soon as they have done." "Whether the Redfurns be here or there, my boy, there is no want of prying eyes to see all that the poor foreigners do. Your mother is watched, it is my belief, every time she dips her cup; and I in the mill, and you in the garden. There is no hope of keeping anything from our enemies." Seeing Oliver look about him uneasily, Mr Linacre reproached himself for having said anything to alarm his timid boy: so he added what he himself always found the most comforting thought, when he felt disturbed at living among unkind neighbours. "Let them watch us, Oliver. We do nothing that we need be ashamed of. The whole world is welcome to know how we live,--all we do, from year's end to year's end." "Yes, if they would let us alone, father. But it is so hard to have our things broken and spoiled!" "So it is; and to know what ill-natured talk is going on about us. But we must let them take their own way, and bear it as well as we can; for there is no help for it." "I wish I were a justice!" cried Mildred. "How I would punish them, every one!" "Then I wish you were a justice, my dear; for we cannot get anybody punished as it is." "Mildred," said Oliver, "I wish you would finish the cabbages. You know they must be done; and I am very busy." "Oh, Oliver! I am such a little thing to plant a whole cabbage bed. You will be able to come by and by; I want to help you." "You cannot help me, dear: and you know how to do the cabbages as well as anybody. You really cannot help me." "Well, I want to see you then." "There is nothing to see yet. You will have done, if you make haste, before I begin to cut. Do, dear!" "Well, I will," replied Mildred, cheerfully. Her father caught her up, and gave her one good jump down the whole flight of steps, then bidding her work away before the plants were all withered and dead. She did work away, till she was so hot and tired that she had to stop and rest. There were still two rows to plant; and she thought she should never get through them,--or at any rate, not before Oliver had proceeded a great way with his carving. She was going to cry; but she remembered how that would vex Oliver: so she restrained herself, and ran to ask Ailwin whether she could come and help. Ailwin always did what everybody asked her; so she gave over sorting feathers, and left them all about, while she went down the garden. Mildred knew she must take little George away, or he would be making confusion among the feathers that had been sorted. She invited him to go with her, and peep over the hedge at the geese in the marsh; and the little fellow took her fore-finger, and trotted away with his sister to the hedge. There were plenty of water-fowl in the marsh; and there was something else which Mildred did not seem to like. While George was quack-quacking, and making himself as like a little goose as he could, Mildred softly called to Ailwin, and beckoned her to the hedge. Ailwin came, swinging the great spade in her right hand, as easily as Mildred could flourish George's whip. "Look,--look there!--under that bank, by the dyke!" said Mildred, as softly as if she had been afraid of being heard at a yard's distance. "Eh! Look--if it be not the gipsies!" cried Ailwin, almost as loud as if she had been talking across the marsh. "Eh dear! We have got the gipsies upon us now; and what will become of my poultry? Yon is a gipsy tent, sure; and we must tell the master and mistress, and keep an eye on the poultry. Sure, yon is a gipsy tent." Little George, thinking that everybody was very much frightened, began to roar; and that made Ailwin talk louder still, to comfort him; so that nothing that Mildred said was heard. At last, she pulled Ailwin's apron, so that the tall woman stooped down, to ask what she wanted. "I do not think it is the gipsies," said she. "I am afraid it is worse than that. I am afraid it is the Redfurns. This is just the way they settle themselves--in just that sort of tent--when they come to fowl, all autumn." "If I catch that Roger," said Ailwin, "I'll--." And she clenched her hand, as if she meant to do terrible things, if she caught Roger. "I will go and call father, shall I?" said Mildred, her teeth chattering, as she stood in the hot sun. She was turning to go up the garden, when a laugh from George made her look back again. She saw a head covered with an otter-skin cap,--the face looking very cross and threatening, peeping over the hedge,--which was so high above the marsh, that the person must have climbed the bank on purpose to look into the garden. There was no mistaking the face. It was certainly Roger Redfurn--the plague of the settlers, who, with his uncle, Stephen Redfurn, was always doing all the mischief he could to everybody who had, as he said, trespassed on the marshes. Nobody liked to see the Redfurns sitting down in the neighbourhood; and still less, skulking about the premises. Mildred flew towards the mill; while Ailwin, who never stopped to consider what was wise, and might not, perhaps, have hit upon wisdom if she had, took up a stone, and told Roger he had better be gone, for that he had no friends here. Roger seemed to have just come from some orchard; for he pulled a hard apple out of his pocket, aimed it at Ailwin's head, and struck her such a blow on the nose as made her eyes water. While she was wiping her eyes with her apron, and trying to see again, Roger coaxed the child to bring him his apple again, and disappeared. When Mildred reached the mill, she found Pastor Dendel there, talking with her father about sending some manure to his land. The pastor was so busy, that he only gave her a nod; and she had therefore time to recover herself, instead of frightening everybody with her looks and her news at once. Oliver could not stay in the house while the pastor was at the mill: so he stood behind him, chipping away at the rough part of his work. Mildred whispered to him that the Redfurns were close at hand. She saw Oliver turn very red, though he told her not to be frightened. Perhaps the pastor perceived this too, when he turned round, for he said-- "What is the matter, children? Mildred, what have you been doing, that you are so out of breath? Have you been running all the way from Lincoln spire?" "No, sir; not running--but--" "The Redfurns are come, sir," cried Oliver. "Father, the Redfurns are come." "Roger has been peeping over the hedge into the garden," cried Mildred, sinking into tears. The miller looked grave, and said here was an end of all peace, for some time to come. "Are you all at the mercy of a boy like Roger Redfurn," asked the pastor, "so that you look as if a plague had come with this fresh breeze?" "And his uncle, sir." "And his aunt," added Mildred. "You know what Stephen Redfurn is, sir," observed Mr Linacre. "Roger beats even him for mischief. And we are at their mercy, sir. There is not a magistrate, as you know, that will hear a complaint from one of us against the country-people. We get nothing but trouble, and expense, and ridicule, by making complaints. We know this beforehand; for the triumph is always on the other side." "It is hard," said the pastor: "but still,--here is only a man, a woman, and a boy. Cannot you defend yourselves against them?" "No, sir; because they are not an honourable enemy," replied Mr Linacre. "If Stephen would fight it out with me on even ground, we would see who would beat: and I dare say my boy there, though none of the roughest, would stand up against Roger. But such fair trials do not suit them, sir. People who creep through drains, to do us mischief, and hide in the reeds when we are up and awake, and come in among us only when we are asleep, are a foe that may easily ruin any honest man, who cannot get protection from the law. They houghed my cow, two years ago, sir." "And they mixed all mother's feathers, for the whole year," exclaimed Mildred. "And they blinded my dog," cried Oliver;--"put out its eyes." "Oh! What will they do next?" said Mildred, looking up through her tears at the pastor. "Worse things than even these have been done to some of the people in my village," replied the pastor: "and they have been borne, Mildred, without tears." Mildred made haste to wipe her eyes. "And what do you think, my dears, of the life our Protestant brethren are leading now, in some parts of the world?" "Father came away from France because he was ill-used for being a Protestant," said Oliver. "The pastor knows all about that, my boy," observed Mr Linacre. "Yes, I do," said the pastor. "I know that you suffered worse things there than here; and I know that things worse than either are at present endured by our brethren in Piedmont. You have a warm house over your heads; and you live in sunshine and plenty. They are driven from their villages, with fire and sword--forced to shelter among the snow-drifts, and pent up in caves till they rush out starving, to implore mercy of their scoffing persecutors. Could you bear this, children?" "They suffer these things for their religion," observed Oliver. "They feel that they are martyrs." "Do you think there is comfort in that thought,--in the pride of martyrdom,--to the son who sees his aged parents perish by the wayside,--to the mother whose infant is dashed against the rock before her eyes?" "How _do_ they bear it all, then?" "They keep one another in mind that it is God's will, my dears; and that obedient children can, if they try, bear all that God sees fit to lay upon them. So they praise His name with a strong heart, though their voices be weak. Morning and night, those mountains echo with hymns; though death, in one form or another, is about the sufferers on every side. "My dear," said Mr Linacre, "let us make no more complaints about the Redfurns. I am ashamed, when I think of our brethren abroad, that we ever let Stephen and Roger put us up to anger. You will see no more tears here, sir, I hope." "Mildred will not quite promise that," said the pastor, smiling kindly on the little girl. "Make no promises, my dear, that a little girl like you may be tempted to break. Only try to forgive all people who tease and injure you; and remember that nothing more ever happens than God permits,--though He does not yet see fit to let us know why." "I would only just ask this, sir," said Mr Linacre. "Is there anything going forward just now which particularly encourages our enemies to attack us?" "The parliament have a committee sitting at Lincoln, at present; and the king's cause seems to be low in these parts. We are thus at the mercy of such as choose to consider us king's men: but there is a higher and truer mercy always about us." The miller took off his hat in token of respect. The pastor's eye had been upon Oliver for some time. He now asked whether he meant to make his new cups plain, like all the rest, or to try to ornament them. Mildred assured him that Oliver had carved a beading round the two last bowls that he had cut. "I think you might attempt something far prettier than beading," said the pastor; "particularly with so many patterns before your eyes to work by." He was looking up at the little recess above the door of the house, near which they were standing. This recess, in which there had formerly been an image, was surrounded with carved stone-work. "I see some foliage there which would answer your purpose, Oliver, if you could make a model from it. Let us look closer." And Pastor Dendel fixed a short ladder against the house wall, and went up, with Oliver before him. They were so busy selecting the figures that Oliver thought he could copy, and drawing them upon paper, and then setting about modelling them in clay, that the Redfurns did not prevent their being happy for this day, at least. Mr Linacre, too, was hard at work all day, grinding, that the pastor's manure might be served to-morrow; and he found hard work as good for an anxious mind as those who have tried generally find it to be. CHAPTER TWO. NEIGHBOURLY OFFICES. When Mrs Linacre was told in the evening of the arrival of the disagreeable neighbours who were in the marsh, she was sorry; but when she had gone round the premises with her husband at night, and found all safe, and no tokens of any intrusion, she was disposed to hope that the Redfurns would, this time, keep to their fishing and fowling, and make no disturbance. Oliver and Mildred crept down to the garden hedge at sunrise, and peeped through it, so as to see all that was doing in the carr, as the marsh was called. [In that part of the country, a carr means a morass.] After watching some time, they saw Stephen and Roger creep out from under the low brown tent. As the almost level sun shone full in their faces, they rubbed their eyes; then they stretched and yawned, and seemed to be trying hard to wake themselves thoroughly. "They have been sound asleep, however," observed Oliver to his sister; "and it is still so early, that I do not believe they have been abroad about mischief in the night. They would not have been awake yet if they had." "Look! There is a woman!" exclaimed Mildred. "Is that Nan?" "Yes; that is Nan Redfurn,--Stephen's wife. That is their great net that she has over her arm. They are going to draw the oval pond, I think. We can watch their sport nicely here. They cannot see an inch of us." "But we do not like that they should watch us," said Mildred, drawing back. "We should not like to know that they were peeping at us from behind a hedge." "We should not mind it if we were not afraid of them," replied Oliver. "It is because they plot mischief that we cannot bear their prying. We are not going to do them any mischief, you know; and they cannot mean to make any secret of what they are doing in the middle of the carr, with high ground all about it." Satisfied by this, Mildred crouched down, with her arm about her brother's neck, and saw the great net cast, and the pond almost emptied of its fish,--some few being kept for food, and the small fry--especially of the stickleback--being thrown into heaps, to be sold for manure. "Will they come this way when they have done drawing the pond?" asked Mildred, in some fear, as she saw them moving about. "I think they will sweep the shallow waters, there to the left, for more stickleback," replied Oliver. "They will make up a load, to sell before the heat of the day, before they set about anything else." Oliver was right. All the three repaired to the shallow water, and stood among the reeds, so as to be half hidden. The children could see, however, that when little George came down the garden, shouting to them to come to breakfast, the strangers took heed to the child. They turned their heads for a moment towards the garden, and then spoke together and laughed. "There, now!" cried Oliver, vexed: "that is all because we forgot to go to breakfast. So much for my not having a watch! Mother need not have sent George to make such a noise; but, if I had had a watch, he would not have come at all; and these people would not have been put in mind of us." "You will soon be able to have a watch now, like the boys in Holland," said Mildred. "Your alabaster things will change away for a watch; will not they? But we might not have remembered breakfast, if you had had a watch." "We are forgetting it now," said Oliver, catching up George and running to the house, followed by Mildred, who could not help feeling as if Roger was at her heels. They were surprised to find how late it was. Their father was already gone with Pastor Dendel's load of manure. Their mother only waited to kiss them before she went, and to tell them the their father meant to be back as soon as he could; and that meantime, neighbour Gool had promised to keep an eye on the mill. If anything happened to frighten them, Oliver or Ailwin had only to set the mill-sails agoing, and neighbour Gool and his men would be with them presently. She did not think, however, that anything would happen in the little time that their father would be away. "I will tell you what we will do!" cried Oliver, starting from his chair, after he had been eating his bread and milk, in silence, for some time after his mother's departure. "Let us dress up a figure to look like father, and set him at the mill-window; so that those Redfurns shall not find out that he is away. Won't that be good?" "Put him on the mill-steps. They may not look up at the window." "The mill-steps, then. Where is father's old hat? Put it on the broom there, and see how it looks. Run up to the mill, dear, and bring his jacket--and his apron," he shouted as his sister ran. Mildred brought both, and they dressed up the broom. "That will never do," said Mildred. "Look how the sleeves hang; and how he holds his head! It is not a bit like a man." "'Tis a good scarecrow," declared Ailwin. "I have seen many a worse scarecrow than that." "But this is to scare the Redfurns, and they are far wiser than crows," said Mildred. "Look how George pulls at the apron, and tugs at the broomstick behind! It does not scare even him." "It will look very different on the steps--in the open air," Oliver declared. "A bunch or two of straw in the sleeves, and under the jacket, will make it seem all alive." And he carried it out, and tied it upon the mill-steps. It was no easy matter to fasten it so as to make it look at all like a man naturally mounting stairs. The more difficult it was, however, the more they all became interested in the business. Mildred brought straw, and Ailwin tied a knot here, and another knot there, while Oliver cocked the hat in various directions upon the head, till they all forgot what they were dressing up the figure for. The reason popped into Ailwin's head again, when she had succeeded in raising the right arm to the rail, in a very life-like manner. "There!" said she, stepping backwards to view her work, "that makes a very good master for me. I will obey him in everything he bids me till master comes home." At the same moment, she walked backwards against something, and little George clung screaming to Mildred's knees. Roger had spread his arms for Ailwin to walk back into; and Stephen was behind, leaning against the cow-shed. They had been watching all that the party had been doing, and, having overheard every word, had found out the reason. The children saw at once how very foolish they had been; and the thought confused them so much, that they did not know what to do next. Poor Ailwin, who could never learn wisdom, more or less, now made matters worse by all she said and did. Stout and strong as she was, she could do nothing, for Roger had taken the hint she had given by walking backwards, with her arms crossed behind her: he had pinioned her. She cried out to Oliver to run up, and set the mill-sails agoing, to bring neighbour Gool. Stephen took this second hint. He quietly swung Oliver off the steps, sent down his scarecrow after him, and himself took his seat on the threshold of the mill. There he sat, laughing to see how Ailwin wearied herself with struggles, while Roger, by merely hanging on her arms, prevented her getting free. When, however, Oliver flew at the boy, and struck him some fierce blows, Stephen came down, drove the little girl and the baby into the house, and locked them in, and then went to help Roger with his strong arm. It was clear to Mildred what she ought to do. Crying as she was, she put George in a corner, with some playthings, to keep him from the fire till she came to him again, and then mounted the stairs, as quickly as her trembling limbs would let her,--first to her mother's room, and then out upon the roof. She tied a large red handkerchief of her mother's upon her father's Sunday walking-stick, and then waved it, as high as she could hold it, above her head, while she considered how she could fasten it; for it would never do to leave George alone below for many minutes. Perhaps neighbour Gool had seen it already, and would soon be here with his men. But, lest he should not, she must fix her flag, and trust to Stephen and Roger not thinking of looking up to the roof from the yard below. At last, after many attempts, she thrust the stick into a crevice of the roof, and fixed it with heavy things round it,--having run down three or four times, to see that George was safe. There was, indeed, no time to be lost, for the intruders below were doing all the mischief they could think of, short of robbing and burning the premises. The great tall man, Stephen, strolling about the lower rooms, found Mrs Linacre's knitting, and pulled out the needles, and unravelled the work. Roger spied a heap of bulbs on the corner of a high shelf. They were Mr Linacre's rare and valuable tulip-roots, brought from Holland. Roger cut one of them open, to see what it looked like, and then threw the whole lot into the boiler, now steaming over the fire, saying the family should have a dish the more at dinner to-day. They got hold of Oliver's tools, and the cup he was at work upon. Stephen raised his arm, about to dash the cup to the ground, when Oliver sprang forward, and said-- "You shall have it,--you shall have my cup;--you don't know what a beauty it will be, when it is done. Only let me finish it, and you shall have it in exchange for the stickleback you caught this morning. The stickleback will do to manure our garden; and I am sure you will like the cup, if you will only let me finish it." "Manure your garden, indeed!" cried Stephen, gruffly. "I'll cut up your garden to shreds first. What business has your garden in our carr? You and your great landlord will find what it is to set your outlandish plants growing where our geese ought to be grazing. We'll show you that we don't want any foreigners here; and if you don't like our usage, you may go home again; and nobody will cry for you back." "We pay for our garden and our mill," said Oliver. "We wrong nobody, and we work for our living, and you are a very cruel man." "You pay the king: and the parliament does not choose that the king should have any more money to spend against them. Mind you that, boy! And--" "I am sure I don't know anything about the king and the parliament, or any such quarrels," said Oliver. "It is very hard to punish us for them, it is very cruel." "You shall have reason to call me cruel twenty times over, if you don't get away out of our carr," said Stephen. "Manure your garden, indeed! Not I! And you shall not manure another yard in these Levels. Come here, Roger." They went out again into the yard, and Oliver, now quite overcome, laid down his head on his arms, and cried bitterly. "Here's your cup, however," said Ailwin, now released by Roger's being employed elsewhere. "This bit of plaster is the only thing they have laid hands on that they have not ruined." Oliver started up, and hid his work and tools in a bundle of straw, in the corner of the kitchen. "What Mildred will say, I don't know," said Ailwin. "That boy has wrung the neck of her white hen." Oliver was desperate on hearing this. He ran out to see whether he could not, by any means, get into the mill, to set the sails agoing: but there were Stephen and Roger, carrying water, which they threw over all the gypsum that was ground,--floating away as much as they could of it, and utterly spoiling the rest, by turning it into a plaster. "Did you ever see the like?" cried Ailwin. "And there is nothing master is so particular about as keeping that stuff dry. See the woman, too! How I'd like to tug the hair off her head! She looks badly, poor creature, too." Stephen's wife had, indeed, come up to enjoy the sport, when she found that no man was on the premises, and that there was no danger. There she stood, leaning against a post of the mill, her black, untidy hair hanging about her pale, hollow cheeks, and her lean arms crossed upon her bosom. "There were such ague-struck folk to be seen at every turn," said Ailwin, "before the foreigners came to live in the carr. I suppose they brought some healing with them; for one does not often see now such a poor creature as that. She might be ashamed of herself,--that woman; she laughs all her poor sides can, at every pailful Roger pours out.-- Eh! But she's not laughing now! Eh! What's the matter now?" The matter was that neighbour Gool was in sight, with three or four men. A cheer was heard from them while they were still some way off. Oliver ran out and cheered, waving his hat over his head. Ailwin cheered, waving a towel out of the window. Mildred cheered from the roof, waving her red flag; and George stood in the doorway, shouting and clapping his little hands. If the object was to catch the trespassers, all this cheering took place a little too soon. Stephen and Roger were off, like their own wild-ducks,--over the garden hedge, and out of sight. Neighbour Gool declared that if they were once fairly among the reeds in the marsh, it would be sheer waste of time to search for them; for they could dodge and live in the water, in a way that honest people that lived on proper hard ground could not follow. Here was the woman; and yonder was the tent. Revenge might be taken that way, better than by ducking in the ponds after the man and boy. Suppose they took the woman to prison, and made a great fire in the carr, of the tent and everything in it! Oliver did not see that it could make up to them for what they had lost, to burn the tent; and he was pretty sure his father would not wish such a thing to be done. His father would soon be home. As for the woman, he thought she ought to go to prison, if Mr Gool would take her there. "That I will," said Gool. "I will go through with the thing now I am in it. I came off the minute I saw your red flag; and I might have been here sooner, if I had not been so full of watching the mill-sails, that I never looked off from them till my wife came to help to watch. Come, you woman," said he to Nan Redfurn, "make no faces about going to prison, for I am about to give you a ride there." "She looks very ill," thought Oliver,--"not fit to be jolted on a horse." "You'll get no magistrate to send me to prison," said the woman. "The justices are with the parliament, every one. You will only have to bring me back, and be sorry you caught me, when you see what comes of it." "Cannot we take care of her here till father comes home?" said Oliver, seeing that neighbour Gool looked perplexed, and as if he believed what the woman said. "No, no," said Mildred, whispering to her brother. "Don't let that woman stay here." "Neighbour Gool will take care of us till father comes home," said Oliver: "and the woman looks so ill! We can lock her up here: and, you see, Ailwin is ever so much stronger than she is, poor thing!" Neighbour Gool put on an air of being rather offended that nothing great was to be done, after his trouble in coming to help. In his heart, however, he was perhaps not very sorry; for he knew that the magistrates were not willing to countenance the king's settlers in the Levels, while the Parliament Committee was sitting at Lincoln. Gool patted Oliver's head when the boy thanked him for coming; and he joked Mildred about her flag: so he could not be very cross. He left two men to guard the prisoner and the premises, till Mr Linacre should return. These two men soon left off marching about the garden and yard, and sat down on the mill-steps; for the day grew very hot. There they sat talking in the shade, till their dinners should be ready. Nan Redfurn was so far from feeling the day to be hot, that when her cold ague-fit came on, she begged to be allowed to go down to the kitchen fire. Little George stood staring at her for some time, and then ran away; and Mildred, not liking to be in the same room with a woman who looked as she did, and who was a prisoner, stole out too, though she had been desired to watch the woman till dinner should be ready. Ailwin was so struck with compassion, that she fetched her warmest woollen stockings and her winter cloak of linsey-woolsey,--it was such a piteous thing to hear a woman's teeth chattering in her head, in that way, at noon in the middle of August. Having wrapped her up, she put her on a stool, close to the great kitchen fire; and drew out the screen that was used only in winter, to keep off the draughts from the door. If the poor soul was not warm in that corner, nothing could make her so. Then Ailwin began to sing to cheer her heart, and to be amazingly busy in cooking dinner for three additional persons. She never left off her singing but when she out went for the vegetables, and other things she wanted for her cooking; and when she came in again she resumed her song,--still for the sake of the poor creature behind the screen. "Do you feel yourself warmer now, neighbour?" said she at the end of an hour. "If not, you are past my understanding." There was no answer; and Ailwin did not wonder, as she said to herself, that it was too great a trouble for one so poorly to be answering questions: so Ailwin went on slicing her vegetables and singing. "Do you think a drop of cherry-brandy would warm you, neighbour?" she asked, after a while. "I wonder I never thought of that before; only, it is a sort of thing one does not recollect till winter comes. Shall I get you a sup of cherry-brandy?" Ailwin thought it so odd that such an offer as this should not be replied to, that she looked hastily behind the screen, to see what could be the reason. There was reason enough. Nobody was there. Nan Redfurn had made her way out as soon as she found herself alone, and was gone, with Ailwin's best winter stockings and linsey-woolsey cloak. In a minute the whole party were looking over the hedge into the marsh. Nothing was to be seen but the low brown tent, and the heap of little fish. Neither man, woman, nor boy appeared when their names were shouted forth. "Oh! My best stockings!" said Ailwin, half crying. "You have saved your cherry-brandy, my woman, that is certain," observed one of Gool's men. "I shall never have any pleasure in it," sighed the maid. "I shall never enjoy it on account of its reminding me how yon woman has fooled me." "Then we will save you that pain," said the man. "If you will oblige us with it to-day we won't leave any to pain you in the winter." "For shame," cried Oliver, "when you know she has lost her stockings and her cloak already! And all out of kindness! I would not drink a drop of her cherry-brandy, I am sure." "Then you shall, Oliver, for saying so, and taking my part," said Ailwin. "I am not going to give it to anyone else that has not the ague; some people may be assured of that." "If I thought there was any cherry-brandy for me when I came back," said the man, throwing a stone down to try the nature of the bog-ground beneath, "I would get below there, and try what I could find. I might lay hold of a linsey-woolsey cloak somewhere in the bog." "You can never catch the Redfurns, I doubt," said Ailwin. "What was it they said to you, Oliver, as they were going off?" "They laughed at me for not being able to catch eels, and asked how I thought I should catch _them_. They said when I could decoy wild-fowl, I might set a trap for the Redfurns. But it does not follow that that is all true because they said it. I don't see but they might be caught if there was anyone to do us justice afterwards. That's the worst part of it, father says." "There's father!" cried Mildred, as the crack of a whip was heard. All started off, as if to see who could carry bad news fastest. All arrived in the yard together, except Ailwin, who turned back to take up George, as he roared at being left behind. "We must want a wise head or two among us," said the vexed miller. "If we were as sharp as these times require, we surely could not be at the mercy of folk we should scorn to be like. We must give more heed and see what is to be done." "Rather late for that, neighbour, when here is the stock you were grinding and grinding for a week, all gone to plaster," said one of Gool's men. "That is what I say," replied the miller, contemplating the waste; "but it may be better late than not at all." Mrs Linacre was more affected than her husband by what had happened. When she came home, poor Mildred's fortitude had just given way, and she was crying over the body of her dear white hen. This caused Ailwin's eyes to fill at the thought of her stockings and cloak, so that the family faces looked cheerless enough. "We deserve it all," said Mrs Linacre, "for leaving our place and our children to the care of Gool's men, or of anybody but ourselves. I will go no more to the spring. I have been out of my duty; and we may be thankful that we have been no further punished." As she spoke a few tears started. Her tears were so rare, that the children looked in dismay at their father. He gently declared that the more injury they suffered from the country-people the more they needed all the earnings they could make. They must cling to the means of an honest maintenance, and not throw away such an employment as hers. He would not leave the children again while the Redfurns were in the neighbourhood. He would not have left them to-day, to serve anyone but the pastor; nor to serve even him, if he had not thought he had bespoken sufficient protection. Nothing should take him from home, or his eye off the children, to-morrow, she might depend upon it. Mrs Linacre said that if she must go she should take a heavy heart with her. This was, she feared, but the first of a fresh series of attacks. If so, what might not they look for next? However, she only asked to be found in her duty. If her husband desired her to go, she would go; but she should count over the hours of the day sadly enough. Oliver ventured to bring up an old subject. He said what he most wanted was to have earned money enough to get a watch. He was sure he could hide it so that Roger should never guess he had one; and it would be such a comfort to know exactly how the time was going, and when to look for his mother home, instead of having to guess, in cloudy weather, the hour of the day, and to argue the matter with Ailwin, who was always wrong about that particular thing. His father smiled mournfully, as he observed, that he hoped Oliver would never so want bread as to leave off longing for anything made of gold or silver. CHAPTER THREE. ONE WAY OF MAKING WAR. Mrs Linacre went to the spring as usual, the next morning. If the weather had been doubtful--if there had been any pretence for supposing that the day might not be fine, she would have remained at home. But she looked in vain all round the sky for a cloud: and the wide expanse of fields and meadows in the Levels, with their waving corn and fresh green grass, seemed to bask in the sunshine, as if they felt its luxury. It was a glowing August day;--just such a day as would bring out the invalids from Gainsborough to drink the waters;--just such a day as would tempt the traveller to stop under the shady shed, where he could see waters bubbling up, and taste of the famous medicinal spring, which would cure the present evil of heat, whatever effect it might have on any more lasting ailment. It was just the day when Mrs Linacre must not be missed from her post, and when it would be wrong to give up the earnings which she might expect before sun-down. So she desired her children not to leave the premises,--not even to go out of their father's sight and hearing; and left them, secure, at least, that they would obey her wishes. They were quite willing to do so. Mildred looked behind her, every few minutes, while she worked in the garden, to see whether Roger was not there, and at every rustle that the birds made among the trees on the Red-hill,--the eminence behind the house,--she fancied that some one was hidden there. Oliver let his tools and his alabaster lie hidden, much as he longed to be at work with them. Mildred had lost her greatest treasure,--the white hen. He must take care of his greatest treasure. Twice, in the course of the morning, he went in, having thought of a safer place; and twice more he put them back among the straw, as safest there after all. He let them alone at last, on Mildred saying that she was afraid Roger might somehow discover why he went in and out so often. They ran to the mill three or four times to tell their father that the brown tent was still under the bank in the carr, and that they could see nobody; though the wild-ducks and geese made such a fluttering and noise, now and then, that it seemed as if some one was lurking about the ponds. Often in the course of the morning, too, did Mr Linacre look out of the mill-window, or nod to them from the top of the steps, that they might see that he did not forget them. Meantime, the white smoke curled up from the kitchen chimney, as Ailwin cooked the dinner; and little George's voice and hers were often heard from within, as if they were having some fun together. The children were very hot, and began to say that they were hungry, and thought dinner-time was near, when they suddenly felt a strong rush of wind from the west. Oliver lost his cap, and was running after it, when both heard a loud shout from their father, and looked up. They had never heard him shout so loud as he now did, bidding them run up the Red-hill that moment. He waved his arm and his cap in that direction, as if he was mad. Mildred scampered up the hill. She did not know why, nor what was the meaning of the rolling, roaring thunder which seemed to convulse the air: but her head was full of Roger; and she thought it was some mischief of his. One part of the Red-hill was very steep, and the ground soft. Her feet slipped on the moss first, and when she had got above the moss, the red earth crumbled; and she went back at every step, till she caught hold of some brambles, and then of the trunk of a tree; so that, trembling and panting, she reached at last the top of the eminence. When she looked round, she saw a rushing, roaring river where the garden had been, just before. Rough waters were dashing up against the hill on which she stood,--against the house,--and against the mill. She saw the flood spreading, as rapidly as the light at sunrise, over the whole expanse of the Levels. She saw another flood bursting in from the Humber, on the north-east, and meeting that which had just swept by;-- she saw the two floods swallowing up field after field, meadow after meadow, splashing up against every house, and surrounding all, so that the roofs, and the stacks beside them, looked like so many little islands. She saw these things in a moment, but did not heed them till afterwards,--for, where was Oliver? Oliver was safe, though it was rather a wonder that he was so, considering his care for his cap. Oliver was an orderly boy, accustomed to take great care of his things; and it did not occur to him to let his cap go, when he had to run for his life. He had to part with it, however. He was flying after it, when another shout from his father made him look round; and then he saw the wall of water, as he called it, rolling on directly upon the house. He gave a prodigious spring across the garden ditch, and up the hill-side, and but just escaped; for the wind which immediately preceded the flood blew him down; and it was clinging to the trunk of a tree that saved him, as his sister had been saved just before. As it was, his feet were wet. Oliver panted and trembled like his sister, but he was safe. Every one was safe. Ailwin appeared at an upper window, exhibiting little George. Mr Linacre stood, with folded arms, in the doorway of his mill; and his wife was (he was thankful to remember) on the side of a high hill, far away. The children and their father knew, while the flood was roaring between them, what all were thinking of; and at the same moment, the miller and his boy waved, the one his hat, and the other a green bough, high and joyously over their heads. Little George saw this from the window, and clapped his hands, and jumped, as Ailwin held him on the window-sill. "Look at Geordie!" cried Mildred. "Do look at him! Don't you think you hear him now?" This happy mood could not last very long, however, as the waters, instead of going down, were evidently rising every moment. From the first, the flood had been too deep and rapid to allow of the miller crossing from his mill to his house. He was a poor swimmer; and no swimmer, he thought, could have avoided being carried away into the wide marsh, where there was no help. Then, instead of the stream slackening, it rushed more furiously as it rose,--rose first over the wall of the yard, and up to the fourth--fifth--sixth step of the mill-ladder, and then almost into the branches of the apple-trees in the garden. "I hope you will not mind being hungry, Mildred," said her brother, after a time of silence. "We are not likely to have any dinner to-day, I think." "I don't mind that, very much," said Mildred, "but how do you think we are to get away, with this great river between us and home?" "We shall see what father does," said Oliver. "He is further off still, on the other side." "But what is all this water? When will it go away?" "I am afraid the embankments have burst. And yet the weather has been fine enough lately. Perhaps the sluices are broken up." Seeing that Mildred did not understand the more for what he said, he explained-- "You know, all these Levels were watery grounds once; more wet than the carr yonder. Well,--great clay banks were made to keep out the Humber waters, over there, to the north-east, and on the west and north-west yonder, to keep two or three rivers there from overflowing the land. Then several canals and ditches were cut, to drain the land; and there are great gates put up, here and there, to let the waters in and out, as they are wanted. I am afraid those gates are gone, or the clay banks broken down, so that the sea and the rivers are pouring in all the water they have." "But when will it be over? Will it ever run off again? Shall we ever get home again?" "I do not know anything about it. We must wait, and watch what father will do. See! What is this coming?" "A dead horse!" exclaimed Mildred. "Drowned, I suppose. Don't you think so, Oliver?" "Drowned, of course.--Do you know, Mildred," he continued, after a silence, during which he was looking towards the sheds in the yard, while his sister's eyes were following the body of the horse as it was swept along, now whirled round in an eddy, and now going clear over the hedge into the carr,--"do you know, Mildred," said Oliver, "I think father will be completely ruined by this flood." "Do you?" said Mildred, who did not quite know what it was to be ruined. "How? Why?" "Why, it was bad enough that so much gypsum was spoiled yesterday. I am afraid now the whole quarry will be spoiled. And then I doubt whether the harvest will not be ruined all through the Levels: and I am pretty sure nothing will be growing in the garden when the waters are gone. That was not our horse that went by; but our horse may be drowned, and the cow, and the sow, and everything." "Not the fowls," said Mildred. "Look at them, all in a row on the top of the cow-shed. They will not be drowned, at any rate." "But then they may be starved. O dear!" he continued, with a start of recollection, "I wonder whether Ailwin has thought of moving the meal and the grain up-stairs. It will be all rotted and spoiled if the water runs through it." He shouted, and made signs to Ailwin, with all his might; but in vain. She could not hear a word he said, or make anything of his signs. He was vexed, and said Ailwin was always stupid. "So she is," replied Mildred; "but it does not signify now. Look how the water is pouring out of the parlour-window. The meal and grain must have been wet through long ago. Is not that a pretty waterfall? A waterfall from our parlour-window, down upon the tulip-bed! How very odd!" "If one could think how to feed these poor animals," said Oliver,--"and the fowls! If there was anything here that one could get for them! One might cut a little grass for the cow;--but there is nothing else." "Only the leaves of the trees, and a few blackberries, when they are ripe," said Mildred, looking round her, "and flowers,--wild-flowers, and a few that mother planted." "The bees!" cried Oliver. "Let us save them. They can feed themselves. We will save the bees." "Why, you don't think they are drowned?" said Mildred. The bees were not drowned; but they were in more danger of it than Mildred supposed. Their little shed was placed on the side of the Red-hill, so as to overlook the flowery garden. The waters stood among the posts of this shed; and the hives themselves shook with every wave that rolled along. "You cannot do it, Oliver," cried Mildred, as her brother crept down the slope to the back of the shed. "You can never get round, Oliver. You will slip in, Oliver!" Oliver looked round and nodded, as there was no use in speaking in such a noise. He presently showed that he did not mean to go round to the front of the shed. That would never have done; for the flood had washed away the soil there, and left nothing to stand upon. He broke away the boards at the back of the bee-shed, which were old and loosely fastened. He was glad he had come; for the bees were bustling about in great confusion and distress, evidently aware that something great was the matter. Oliver seized one of the hives, with the board it stood on, and carried it, as steadily as he could, to a sunny part of the hill, where he put it down on the grass. He then went for another, asking Mildred to come part of the way down to receive the second hive, and put it by the first, as he saw there was not a moment to lose. She did so; but she trembled so much, that it was probable she would have let the hive fall, if it had ever been in her hands. It never was, however. The soil was now melting away in the water, where Oliver had stood firmly but a few minutes before. He had to take great care, and to change his footing every instant; and it was not without slipping and sliding, and wet feet, that he brought away the second hive. Mildred saw how hot he was, as he sat resting, with the hive, before climbing the bank, and begged that he would not try any more. "These poor bees!" exclaimed Oliver, beginning to move again, on the thought of the bees being drowned. But he had done all he could. The water boiled up between the shed and the bank, lifted the whole structure, and swept it away. Oliver hastened to put down the second hive beside the first; and when he returned, saw that the posts had sunk, the boards were floating away, and the remaining hive itself sailing down the stream. "How it rocks!" cried Mildred. "I wish it would turn quite over, so that the poor things might get out, and fly away." "They never will," said Oliver. "I wish I had thought of the bees a little sooner. It is very odd that you did not, Mildred." "I don't know how to think of anything," said Mildred, dolefully; "it is all so odd and so frightful!" "Well, don't cry, if you can help it, dear," said her brother. "We shall see what father will do. He won't cry;--I am sure of that." Mildred laughed: for she never had seen her father cry. "He was not far off crying yesterday, though," said Oliver, "when he saw your poor hen lying dead. He looked--but, O Mildred! What can have become of the Redfurns? We have, been thinking all this while about the bees; and we never once remembered the Redfurns. Why, their tent was scarcely bigger than our hives; and I am sure it could not stand a minute against the flood." While he spoke, Oliver was running to the part of the hill which commanded the widest view of the carr, and Mildred was following at his heels,--a good deal startled by the hares which leaped across her path. There seemed to be more hares now on the hill than she had seen in all her life before. She could not ask about the hares, however, when she saw the brown tent, or a piece of it, flapping about in the water, a great way off, and sweeping along with the current. "Hark! What was that? Did you hear?" said Oliver, turning very pale. "I thought I heard a child crying a great way off," said Mildred, trembling. "It was not a child, dear. It was a shriek,--a woman's shriek, I am afraid. I am afraid it is Nan Redfurn, somewhere in the carr. O dear, if they should all be drowned, and nobody there to help them!" "No, no,--I don't believe it," said Mildred. "They have got up somewhere,--climbed up something,--that bank or something." They heard nothing more, amidst the dash of the flood, and they fancied they could see some figures moving on the ridge of the bank, far out over the carr. When they were tired of straining their eyes, they looked about them, and saw, in a smoother piece of water near their hill, a dog swimming, and seeming to labour very much. "It has got something fastened to it," cried Mildred;--"something tied round its neck." "It is somebody swimming," replied Oliver. "They will get safe here now. Cannot we help them? I wish I had a rope! A long switch may do. I will get a long switch." "Yes, cut a long switch," cried Mildred: and she pulled and tugged at a long tough thorny bramble, not minding its pricking her fingers and tearing her frock. She could not help starting at the immense number of large birds that flew out, and rabbits that ran away between her feet, while she was about it; but she never left hold, and dragged the long bramble down to the part of the hill that the dog seemed to be trying to reach. Oliver was already there, holding a slip of ash, such as he had sometimes cut for a fishing-rod. "It is Roger, I do believe; but I see nothing of the others," said he. "Look at his head, as it bobs up and down. Is it not Roger?" "O dear! I hope not!" cried Mildred, in a tone of despair. "What shall we do if he comes?" "We must see that afterwards: we must save him first. Now for it!" As Oliver spoke, the dog ducked, and came up again without Roger, swimming lightly to the bank, and leaping ashore with a bark. Roger was there, however,--very near, but they supposed, exhausted, for he seemed to fall back, and sink, on catching hold of Oliver's switch, and by the jerk twitched it out of the boy's hand. "Try again!" shouted Oliver, as he laid Mildred's bramble along the water. "Don't let go, Mildred." Mildred let the thorns run deep into her fingers without leaving her hold. Roger grasped the other end: and they pulled, without jerking, and with all their strength, till he reached the bank, and they could help him out with their hands. "Oh, I am so glad you are safe, Roger!" said Oliver. "You might have found something better than that thorny switch to throw me," said Roger. "My hands are all blood with the spikes." "Look at hers!" cried Oliver, intending to show the state that his sister's hands were in, for Roger's sake; but Mildred pulled away her hands, and hid them behind her as she retreated, saying,-- "No, no. Never mind that now." Oliver saw how drenched the poor boy looked, and forgave whatever he might say. He asked Mildred to go back to the place where they had been standing, opposite the house; and he would come to her there presently. He then begged Roger to slip off his coat and trousers, that they might wring the wet out of them. He thought they would soon dry in the sun. But Roger pushed him away with his shoulder, and said he knew what he wanted;--he wanted to see what he had got about him. He would knock anybody down who touched his pockets. It was plain that Roger did not choose to be helped in any way; so Oliver soon ran off, and joined Mildred, as he had promised. "I do not like to leave him, all wet, and so tired that I could knock him over with my little finger," exclaimed Oliver. "But he won't trust me about any thing." "There is father again! Tell him," cried Mildred. Both children shouted that Roger was here, and pointed behind them; but it was plain that their father could not make out a word they said, though they had never called out so loud in their lives. Roger heard them, however, as they judged by seeing him skulking among the trees behind, watching what use they were making of his name. The children thought their father was growing very anxious. He still waved his hat to them, now and then, when he looked their way; but they saw him gazing abroad, as if surprised that the rush of waters did not abate. They observed him glance often round the sky, as if for signs of wind; and they longed to know whether he thought a wind would do good or harm. They saw him bring out, for the third time, a rope which he had seemed to think too short to be of any use; and this appeared to be the case, now as at first. Then he stooped down, as if to make a mark on the side of the white door-post (for the water had by this time quite hidden the steps); and Oliver thought this was to make out, for certain, whether the flood was regularly rising or not. They could not imagine why he examined so closely as they saw him do the door lintel, and the window-frame. It did not occur to them, as it did to him, that the mill might break down under the force of the current. At last it was clear that he saw Roger; and from that moment, he scarcely took his eyes from his children. Oliver put his arm round Mildred's neck, and said in her ear,-- "I know what father is watching us for. He is afraid that Stephen is here too, and no one to take care of us;--not even Ailwin." "Perhaps Stephen is here,--in the wood," cried Mildred, in terror. "I wish this water would make haste and run away, and let us get home." "It cannot run faster than it does. Look how the waves dash along! That is the worst of it:--it shows what a quantity there is, where this came from. But I don't believe Stephen is here. I have a good mind to ask Roger, and make him tell me." "No, don't, Oliver! Stephen may be drowned. Do not put him in mind." "Why, you see he does not care for anything. He is teasing some live thing at this minute,--there, on the ground." Oliver himself forgot everything but the live animals before his eyes, when he saw how many there were under the trees. The grass was swarming with mice, moles, and small snakes; while rabbits cocked up their little white tails, in all directions, and partridges flew out of every bush, and hares started from every hollow that the boy looked into. "All soaked out of their holes;--don't know what to do with themselves;-- fine sport for those that have a mind to it," said Roger, as he lay on the ground, pulling back a little mouse by its long tail, as often as it tried to run away. "You have no mind for sport to-day, I suppose, Roger. I should not think anybody has." "I don't know;--I'm rarely hungry," said the boy. "So were we; but we forgot it again. Father is in the mill there..." "You need not tell me that. Don't I see him?" "But we think he is looking out for Stephen." "He won't find him," said Roger, in a very low voice; so low that Oliver was not sure what he said. "He is not here on the hill, then, Roger?" "On the hill,--no! I don't know where he is, nor the woman either. I suppose they are drowned, as I was, nearly. If they did not swim as I did, they must be drowned: and they could hardly do that, as I had the dog." The children looked at each other; and their looks told that they thought Roger was shocked and sorry, though he tried not to appear so. "There might have been a boat, perhaps, out on the carr. Don't you think the country-people in the hills would get out boats when they saw the flood spreading?" "Boats, no! The hill-people have not above three boats among them all. There are about three near the ponds; and they are like nut-shells. How should any boat live in such a flood as that? Why, that flood would sweep a ship out to sea in a minute. You need not think about boats, I can tell you." "But won't anybody send a boat for us?" inquired Mildred, who had drawn near to listen. "If they don't send a boat, and the flood goes on, what are we to do? We can't live here, with nothing to eat, and no beds, and no shelter, if it should rain." "Are you now beginning to cry about that? Are you now beginning to find that out, after all this time?" said Roger, contemptuously. "I thought we should get away," sobbed the little girl. "I thought a boat or something would come." "A pretty silly thing you must be!" exclaimed Roger. "If she is silly, I am silly too," declared Oliver. "I am not sure that it is silly to look for a boat. There are plenty out on the coast there." "They are all dashed to pieces long ago," decided Roger. "And they that let in the flood will take good care you don't get out of it,--you, and your outlanders. It is all along of you that I am in this scrape. But it was shameful of them not to give us notice;--it was too bad to catch us in the same trap with you. If uncle is drowned, and I ever get out alive, I will be revenged on them." Mildred stopped crying, as well as she could, to listen; but she felt like Oliver when he said,-- "I don't know a word of what you mean." "I dare say not. You foreigners never know anything like other people." "But won't you tell us? Who made this flood?" "To be sure, you weren't meant to know this. It would not have done to show you the way out of the trap. Why--the Parliament Committee at Lincoln ordered the Snow-sewer sluice to be pulled up to-day, to drown the king's lands, and get rid of his tenants. It will be as good as a battle gained to them." The children were aghast at the wickedness of this deed. They would not believe it. It would have been tyrannical and cruel to have obliged the settlers, who were not interested in a quarrel between the king of England and his people, to enlist, and be shot down in war. They would have complained of this as tyrannical and cruel. But when they were living in peace and quiet on their farms, paying their rents, and inclined to show good-will to everybody, to pull up the flood-gates, and let in the sea and the rivers to drown them because they lived in the king's lands, was a cruelty too dreadful to be believed. Oliver and Mildred did not believe it. They were sure their father would not believe it; and that their mother, if ever she should return to her home and family, would bring a very different account--that the whole misfortune would turn out to be accidental. So they felt assured: but the fact was as Roger had said. The Snow-sewer sluice had been pulled up, by the orders of the Committee of the Parliament, then sitting at Lincoln: and it was done to destroy the king's new lands, and deprive him of the support of his tenants. The jealous country-people round hoped also that it would prevent foreigners from coming to live in England, however much they might want such a refuge. Some of the sufferers knew how their misfortune happened. Others might be thankful that they did not; for the thought of the malice of their enemies must have been more bitter than the fear of ruin and death. CHAPTER FOUR. A HUNGRY DAY. "We shall see what father does," was still the consolation with which Oliver kept down his sister's fears. He had such confidence in his father's knowing what was best to be done on all occasions, that he felt they had only to watch him, and imitate whatever he might attempt. They remained quiet on the island now, hungry and tired as they were, because he remained in the mill, and seemed to expect the water to subside. The most fearful thought was what they were to do after dark, if they should not get home before that. They supposed, at last, that their father was thinking of this too; for he began to move about, when the sun was near setting, more than he had done all the afternoon. They saw him go carefully down into the stream, and proceed cautiously for some way--till the water was up to his chin. Then he was buffeted about so terribly that Mildred could not bear to look. Both Oliver and Roger were sure, by what he ventured, and by the way he pulled himself back at last to the steps, that he had tied himself by the rope they had seen him measure. It was certainly too short for any good purpose; for he had to go back, having only wetted himself to the skin. They saw this by the yellow light from the west which shone upon the water. In a few minutes they could distinguish him no longer, though the mill stood up black against the sky, and in the midst of the gleaming flood. "Father will be wet, and so cold all night!" said Mildred, crying. "If I could only swim," exclaimed Oliver, "I would get over to him somehow, and carry a rope from the house. I am sure there must be a rope long enough somewhere about the yard. If I could only swim, I would get to him." "That you wouldn't," said Roger. "Your father can swim; and why does not he? Because nobody could swim across that stream. It is a torrent. It would carry any stout man out over the carr; and you would be no better than a twig in the middle of it." "I am afraid now this torrent will not slacken," said Oliver, thoughtfully. "I am afraid there is some hollow near which will keep up the current." "What do you mean by that?" "They say in Holland, where they have floods sometimes, that when water flows into a hollow, it gets out in a current, and keeps it up for some way. Oh! The quarry!" he cried, with sudden recollection. "Mildred, let us go, and look what is doing on that side before it is dark." They ran round the hill; and there they saw indeed that the flood was tumbling in the quarry, like water boiling in a pot. When it rushed out, it carried white earth with it, which made a long streak in the flood, and explained how it was that the stream between the house and the mill was whiter and more muddy than that between their hill and the house. At once it occurred to Roger that the stream between the hill and the house was probably less rapid than the other; and he said so. Oliver ran back; and so did Mildred, pleased at the bare idea of getting to the house. Once more arrived opposite the house, they saw a strange sight. The mill no longer stood in its right place. It had moved a good way down towards the carr. Not only that, but it was still moving. It was sailing away like a ship. After the first exclamation, even Roger stood as still as death to watch it. He neither moved nor spoke till the mill was out of sight in the dusk. When Mildred burst into a loud cry, and Oliver threw himself down, hiding his face on the ground, Roger spoke again. "Be quiet--you must," he said, decidedly, to the little girl. "We must bestir ourselves now, instead of stopping to see what other folks will do." "Oh, father! Father will be drowned!" cried they. "You don't know that. If he drifts out to the Humber, which is likely, by the way he is going, some ship may pick him up--or he may light upon some high ground. We can't settle that now, however; and the clear thing is that he wouldn't wish us to starve, whether he drowns or not. Come, get up, lad!" said he, stirring Oliver with his foot. "Don't lie there, Oliver; do get up!" begged Mildred. Oliver rose, and did all that Roger bade him. "You say there is a long rope somewhere about the house," said Roger. "Where is it?" "There is one in the cow-shed, I know." "And if I cannot get there, is there one in the house?" "In the lumber-room," said Mildred. "The spare bed is tied round and round with a long rope--I don't know how long." "I wish we had set about it an hour ago," muttered Roger, "instead of waiting for dark. A pretty set of fools we have been to lose the daylight! I say, lad, can you think of anyway of making a fire? Here are sticks enough, if one could set them alight." "To cook a supper?" asked Mildred. "No; I mean to sup within doors; only we must do some work first." Oliver had a steel knife; but it was too dark to look for a flint, if any other plan than a fire would do. "Well, don't plague any more about a fire," said Roger, "but listen to me. Can you climb a tree? I'll be bound you can't: and now you'll die if you can't." "I can," said Oliver; "but what is Mildred to do?" "We'll see that afterwards. Which of these trees stands nearest to the nearest of yon upper windows?" Oliver and Mildred pointed out a young ash, which now quite bent over the water. "That is not strong enough," said Roger, shaking the tree, and finding it loosened at the roots. "Show me a stouter one." A well-grown beech was the next nearest. Roger pulled Oliver by the arm, and made him stand directly under the tree, with his sister beside him. He desired them not to move from where they were, and to give a loud halloo together, or a shriek (or anything that might be heard furthest)--about once in a minute for an hour to come, unless they should hear a rope fall into the tree, or anywhere near them. They were to watch for this rope, and use all their endeavours to catch it. There would be a weight at the end, which would make it easier to catch. Oliver must tie this rope to the trunk of the tree, stretching it tight, with all his strength, and then tying it so securely that no weight would unfasten it. "Mind you that," said Roger. "If you don't, you will be drowned, that's all. Do as I tell you, and you'll see what you will see." Roger then whistled for his dog, snatched Oliver's black ribbon from about his neck, and fastened it round the dog's neck, to hold by. He then showed the dog the house, and forced him into the water, himself following, till the children could no longer see what became of them. "What do you think he means?" asked poor Mildred, shivering. "I don't know exactly. He cannot mean that we are to climb over by a rope. I do not think I could do that; and I am sure you could not." "Oh, no, no! Let us stay here! Stay with me under the trees, here, Oliver." "Why, it would be much more comfortable to be at home by the fire. You are shivering now, already, as if it was winter: and the night will be very long, with nothing to eat." "But Roger is gone; and I don't like to be where he is,--he is such a rude boy! How he snatched your ribbon, and pulled you about! And he calls you `lad,' when he might just as well say `Oliver.'" "We must not mind such things now, dear. And we must get home, if he can show us how. Think how glad Ailwin and George will be: and I am sure father would wish it, and mother too. You must not cry now, Mildred; indeed you must not. People must do what they can at such a time as this. Come, help me to shout. Shriek as loud and as long as ever you can." "I wish I might say my prayers," said Mildred, presently. "Do, dear. Kneel down here;--nobody sees us. Let us ask God to save father,--and us too, and George and Ailwin, if it pleases Him;--and Roger." They kneeled down, and Oliver said aloud to God what was in his heart. It was a great comfort to them both; for they knew that while no human eye saw them in the starlight, under the tree, God heard their words, and understood their hearts. "Now again!" said Oliver, as they stood up. They raised a cry about once a minute, as nearly as they could guess: and they had given as many as thirty shouts, and began to find it very hard work, before anything happened to show them that it was of any use. Then something struck the tree over their heads, and pattered down among the leaves, touching Oliver's head at last. He felt about, and caught the end of a rope, without having to climb the tree, to search for it. They set up a shout of a different kind now; for they really were very glad. This shout was answered by a gentle tug at the rope: but Oliver held fast, determined not to let anything pull the precious line out of his hand. "What have we here?" said he, as he felt a parcel tied to the rope, a little way from the end. He gave it to Mildred to untie and open; which she did with some trouble, wishing the evening was not so dark. It was a tinder-box. "There now!" said Oliver, "we shall soon know what we are about. Do you know where the tree was cut down, the other day?" "Close by? Yes." "Well; bring a lapful of chips,--quick; and then any dry sticks you can find. We can get on twice as fast with a light; and then they will see from the house how we manage." In a few minutes, there was a fire blazing near the tree. The rope must have come straight over from the house, without dipping once into the water; for not only were the flint and steel safe, but the tinder within, and the cloth that the box was done up in, were quite dry. "Roger is a clever fellow,--that is certain," said Oliver. "Now for fastening the rope. Do you take care that the fire keeps up. Don't spare for chips. Keep a good fire till I have done." Oliver gave all his strength to pulling the rope tight, and winding it round the trunk of the beech, just above a large knob in the stem. It seemed to him that the rope stretched pretty evenly, as far as he could see,--not slanting either up or down; so that the sill of the upper window must be about upon a level with the great knob in the beech-trunk. Oliver tied knot upon knot, till no more rope was left to knot. It still hung too slack, if it was meant for a bridge. He did not think he could ever cross the water on a rope that would keep him dangling at every move: but he had pulled it tight with all his force, and he could do no more. When he had tied the last knot, he and Mildred stood in front of the fire, and raised one more great shout, waving their arms--sure now of being seen as well as heard. "Look! Look!" cried Oliver, "it is moving;--the rope is not so slack! They are tightening it. How much tighter it is than I could pull it! That must be Ailwin's strong arm,--together with Roger's." "But still I never can creep across that way," declared Mildred. "I wish you would not try. Oliver. Do stay with me!" "I will not leave you, dear: but we do not know what they mean us to do yet. There! Now the rope is shaking! We shall see something. Do you see anything coming? Don't look at the flashing water. Fix your eye on the rope, with the light upon it. What do you see?" "I see something like a basket,--like one of our clothes' baskets,-- coming along the line." It was one of Mrs Linacre's clothes' baskets, which was slung upon the rope; and Roger was in it. He did not stay a minute. He threw to Oliver a line which was fastened to the end of the basket, with which he might pull it over, from the window to the tree, when emptied of Roger. He was then to put Mildred into the basket, carefully keeping hold of the line, in order to pull it back for himself when his sister should be safely landed. Ailwin held a line fastened to the other end of the basket, with which to pull it the other way. Oliver was overjoyed. He said he had never seen anything so clever; and he asked Mildred whether she could possibly be afraid of riding over in this safe little carriage. He told her how to help her passage by pulling herself along the bridge-rope, as he called it, instead of hindering her progress by clinging to the rope as she sat in the basket. Taking care not to let go the line for a moment, he again examined the knots of the longer rope, and found they were all fast. In a few minutes he began hauling in his line, and the empty basket came over very easily. "How shall I get in?" asked Mildred, trembling. "Here," said Oliver, stooping his back to her. "Climb upon my back. Now hold by the tree, and stand upon my shoulders. Don't be afraid. You are light enough. Now, can't you step in?" Feeling how much depended upon this, the little girl managed it. She tumbled into the basket, took a lesson from Oliver how to help her own passage, and earnestly begged him to take care of his line, that nothing might prevent his following her immediately. Then came a great tug, and she felt herself drawn back into the darkness. She did not like it at all. The water roared louder than ever as she hung over it; and the light which was cast upon it from the fire showed how rapidly it was shooting beneath. Then she saw Oliver go, and throw some more chips and twigs on the fire; and she knew by that that he could see her no longer. She worked as hard as she could, putting her hands one behind the other along the rope: but her hands were weak, and her head was very dizzy. She had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and was quite tired out. While still keeping her eyes upon Oliver, she felt a jerk. The basket knocked against something; and it made her quite sick. She immediately heard Ailwin's voice saying, "'tis one of them, that's certain. Well! If I didn't think it was some vile conjuring trick, up to this very moment!" The poor dizzy child felt a strong arm passed round her waist, and found herself carried near a fire in a room. She faltered out, "Ailwin, get something for Oliver to eat. He will be here presently." "That I will: and for you first. You shall both have a drop of my cherry-brandy too." Mildred said she had rather have a draught of milk; but Ailwin said there was no milk. She had not been able to reach the cow, to milk her. What had poor little George done, then?--He had had some that had been left from the morning. Ailwin added that she was very sorry,--she could not tell how she came to be so forgetful; but she had never thought of not being able to milk the cow in the afternoon, and had drunk up all that George left of the milk; her regular dinner having been drowned in the kitchen. Neither had she remembered to bring anything eatable up-stairs with her when the flood drove her from the lower rooms. The flour and grain were now all under water. The vegetables were, no doubt, swimming about in the cellar; and the meat would have been where the flour was, at this moment, if Roger, who said he had no mind to be starved, had not somehow fished up a joint of mutton. This was now stewing over the fire; but it was little likely to be good; for besides there being no vegetables, the salt was all melted, and the water was none of the best. Indeed, the water was so bad that it could not be drunk alone: and again good Ailwin pressed a drop of her cherry-brandy. Mildred, however, preferred a cup of the broth, which, poor as it was, was all the better for the loaf--the only loaf of bread--being boiled in it. Just when Mildred thought she could stand at the window, and watch for Oliver, Oliver came in at the window. He was not too tired to have his wits about him, as Ailwin said;--wits, she added, that were worth more than hers. He had brought over some dry wood with him,--as much as the basket would hold; thinking that the peat-stack was probably all afloat, and the wood-heap wetted through. All were pleased at the prospect of keeping up a fire during this strange night. All agreed that the bridge-rope must be left as it was, while the flood lasted. There were wild animals and birds enough on the Red-hill to last for food for a long while; and there alone could they get fuel. "You can't catch game without my dog," cried Roger, surlily, to Ailwin; "and my dog shan't put his nose to the ground, if you don't feed him well: and he shall be where I am,--mind you that." As he spoke, he opened the door to admit the dog, which Ailwin had put out upon the stairs, for the sake of her pet hen and chicks which were all in the room. The hen fluttered up to a beam below the ceiling, on the appearance of the dog, and the chicks cluttered about, till Ailwin and Mildred caught them, and kept them in their laps. They glanced timidly at Roger, remembering the fate of the white hen, the day before. Roger did not heed them. He had taken out his knife, forked up the mutton out of the kettle, and cut off the best half for himself and his dog. Probably Oliver was thinking that Roger deserved the best they could give him, for his late services; for he said,-- "I am sure, Roger, Mildred and I shall never forget,--nor father and mother either, if ever they know, it,--what you have done for us to-night. We might have died on the Red-hill but for you." "Stuff!" muttered Roger, as he sat, swinging his legs, with his open knife in his hand, and his mouth crammed,--"Stuff! As if I cared whether you and she sink or swim! I like sport that's all." Nobody spoke. Ailwin helped the children to the poor broth, and the remains of the meat, shaking her head when they begged her to take some. She whispered a good deal to Oliver about cherry-brandy; but he replied aloud that it looked and smelled very good; but that the only time he had tasted it, it made him rather giddy; and he did not wish to be giddy to-night;--there was so much to think about; and he was not at all sure that the flood had got to its height. He said no more, though his mind was full of his father. Neither he nor Mildred could mention their father to Ailwin to-night, even if Roger had been out of the way. Roger probably thought what Oliver did say very silly; for he sat laughing as he heard it, and for some time after. Half an hour later, when Ailwin passed near him, while she was laying down a bed for Oliver, so that they might be all together during this night of alarm, she thought there was a strong smell of brandy. She flew to her bottle, and found it empty,--not a drop left. Roger had drained it all. His head soon dropped upon his breast, and he fell from his chair in a drunken sleep. Mildred shrank back from him in horror; but Ailwin and Oliver rolled him into a corner of the room, where his dog lay down beside him. Ailwin could not refrain from giving him a kick, while he lay thus powerless, and sneering in his face because he could not see her. "Don't, Ailwin,--don't!" said Oliver. "Mildred and I should not have been here now but for him." "And I should not have been terrified out of my wits, for these two hours past, nor have lost my cherry-brandy, but for him. Mercy! I shall never forget his popping up his face at that window, and sending his dog in before him. I was as sure as death that the flood was all of their making, and that they were come for me, after having carried off my master, and as I thought, you two." "Why, Ailwin, what nonsense!" cried Mildred from her bed,--trembling all over as she spoke. "How could a boy make a flood?" "And you see what he has done, instead of carrying us off," observed Oliver. "Well, it is almost worth my cherry-brandy to see him lie so,--dead drunk,--only it would be better still to see him really dead.--Well, that may be a wicked thing to say; but it is not so wicked as some things he has done;--and I am so mortally afraid of him!" "I wish you would say your prayers, Ailwin, instead of saying such things: and then, perhaps, you would find yourself not afraid of anybody." "Well, that is almost as good as if the pastor had preached it. I will just hang up the chicks in the hand-basket, for fear of the dog; and then we will say our prayers, and go to sleep, please God. I am sure we all want it." Oliver chose to examine first how high the water stood in the lower rooms. He lighted a piece of wood, and found that only two steps of the lower flight of stairs remained dry. Ailwin protested so earnestly that the waters had not risen for two or three hours, that he thought they might all lie down to sleep. Ailwin and he were the only ones who could keep watch. He did not think Ailwin's watching would be worth much; he was so tired that he did not think he could keep awake; and he felt that he should be much more fit for all the business that lay before him for the next day, if he could get a good rest now. So he kissed little George, as he lay down beside him, and was soon as sound asleep as all his companions. CHAPTER FIVE. SUNRISE OVER THE LEVELS. All the party slept for some hours, as quietly and unconsciously as little George himself. If the children were so weary that the dreadful uncertainty about their father's fate could not keep them awake, it is probable that a knowledge of their own danger might have failed to disturb them. But they had little more idea than George himself of the extent of the peril they were in. They did not know that the Levels were surrounded by hills on every side but towards the sea; or, if they knew, they did not consider this, because the hills were a great way off. But, whether they were far or near, this circle of hills was the cause of the waters rising to a great height in the Levels, when once the defences that had kept out the sea and the rivers were broken down. As the hills prevented the overflowing waters from running off on three sides, it was clear that the waters must rise to the level of the sea and the rivers from which they flowed in. They had not reached this height when the children lay down to rest, though Ailwin was so sure that the worst was over; and the danger increased as they slept; slept too soundly even to dream of accidents. The first disturbance was from the child. Oliver became aware, through his sleep, that little George was moving about and laughing. Oliver murmured, "Be quiet, George. Lie still, dear," and the child was quiet for a minute. Presently, however, he moved again, and something like a dabbling in water was heard, while, at the same moment, Oliver found his feet cold. He roused himself with a start, felt that his bed was wet, and turning out, was up to the ankles in water. By the light of the embers, he saw that the floor was a pond, with some shoes floating on it. His call woke Ailwin and Mildred at once. Roger did not stir, though there was a good deal of bustle and noise. Mildred's bed was so high above the floor as to be still quite dry. Oliver told her to stay there till he should settle what was to be done next: and he took up the child to put him with Mildred, asking her to strip off his drenched clothes, and keep him warm. All the apparel that had been taken off was luckily on the top of a chest, far above the water. Oliver handed this to his sister, bidding her dress herself, as well as the child. He then carefully put the fire together, to make as much light as possible, and then told Ailwin that they must bestir themselves, as the fire would presently be drowned out. Ailwin was quite ready to bestir herself; but she had no idea beyond mounting on chests, chairs, and drawers; unless, indeed, she thought of the beam which crossed the ceiling, to which she was seen to cast her eyes, as if envying the chicks which hung there, or the hen which still slept, with her head beneath her wing, out of present reach of the flood. Oliver disapproved of the plan of mounting on the furniture of the room. It might be all very well, he said, if there were nothing better to be done. But, by the time the water would reach the top of the chests, it would be impossible to get out by the door. He thought it would be wisest to reach the roof of the house while they could, and to carry with them all the comforts they could collect, while they might be removed in a dry condition. Ailwin agreed, and was going to throw open the door, when Oliver stopped her hand. "Why, Oliver," she cried, "you won't let one do anything; and you say, all the time, that there is not a minute to be lost." Oliver showed her that water was streaming in at the sides of the door, a good way higher up than it stood on the floor. He said that the door was a defence at present,--that the water was higher on the stairs than in the room, and that there would be a great rush as soon as the door should be opened. He wished, therefore, that the bedding, and the clothes from the drawers, and all else that they could remove to the top of the house, should be bundled up, and placed on the highest chest of drawers, before the water should be let in. They must borrow the line from the clothes' basket, to tie round George's waist, that they might not lose him in the confusion. One other thing must be done: they must rouse Roger, or he might be drowned. Ailwin was anxious that this last piece of duty should be omitted:--not that she exactly wished that Roger should be drowned,--at least, not through her means; but she, ignorant as she was,--had a superstitious feeling that Roger and his family had caused this flood, and that he could save himself well enough, though he appeared to be sunk in a drunken sleep. She indulged Oliver, however, so far as to help him to seize the lad, neck and heels, and lay him, dripping as he was, upon the table. Before the bedding and clothes were all tied up, the door of the room shook so as to threaten to burst in, from the latch giving way. It struck everybody that the person who should open it would run the risk of being suffocated, or terribly knocked about; and yet, it was hardly wise to wait for its bursting. Oliver, therefore, tied a string to the knob of the bolt, then slipped the bolt, to keep the door fastened while he lifted and tied up the latch. The door shook more and more; so, having set the window wide open, he made haste to scramble up to where Mildred was, wound the cord which was about George's waist round his own arm, bade Mildred hold the child fast, and gave notice that he was going to open the door. It was a strange party, as the boy could not help noting at the moment,--the maid standing on the bed, hugging the bed-post, and staring with frightened eyes; Roger snoring on the table, just under the sleeping hen on the beam; and the three children perched on the top of a high chest of drawers. George took it all for play,-- the new sash he had on and the bolting the door, and the climbing and scrambling. He laughed and kicked, so that his sister could scarcely hold him. "Now for it!" cried Oliver. "Oh, Oliver, stop a minute!" cried Ailwin. "Don't be in such a hurry to drown us all, Oliver. Stop a moment, Oliver." Oliver knew, however, that the way to drown them all was to stop. At the first pull the bolt gave way, the door burst open, as if it would break from its hinges, and a great body of water dashed in. The first thing the wave did was to wash Roger off the table; the next, to put out the fire with a fizz,--so that there was no other light but the dawn, now advancing. The waters next dashed up against the wall opposite the door; and then by the rebound, with less force, against the drawers on which the children sat. It then leaped out of the window, leaving a troubled surface at about half the height of the room. Above the noise, Ailwin was heard lamenting, the chicks cluttering, the hen fluttering, and George laughing and clapping his hands. "You have George safe?" said Oliver. "Very well! I believe we can all get out. There is Roger's head above water; and I don't think it is more than up to my neck; though everybody laughs at me for being a short boy." He stepped down upon a chair, and then cautiously into the water. It was very nearly up to his chin. "That will do," said he, cheerfully. "Now, Ailwin, you are the tallest;--please carry George out on the roof of the house, and stay there with him till I come." Ailwin made many lamentations at having to step down into the water; but she took good care of the child, carrying him quite high and dry. Oliver followed, to see that he was tied securely to the balustrade on the roof. While he was doing this, Ailwin brought Mildred in the same way. Mildred wanted to be of use below; but her brother told her the best thing she could do was to watch and amuse George, and to stand ready to receive the things saved from the chambers,--she not being tall enough to do any service in four feet of water. It was a strange forlorn feeling to Mildred,--the being left on the house-top in the cold grey morning, at an hour when she had always hitherto been asleep in bed. The world itself, as she looked round her, seemed unlike the one she had hitherto lived in. The stars were in the sky; but they were dim,--fading before the light of morning. There were no fields, no gardens, no roads to be seen;--only grey water, far away on every side. She could see nothing beyond this grey water, except towards the east, where a line of low hills stood between her and the brightening sky. Poor Mildred felt dizzy, with so much moving water before her eyes, and in her ears the sound of the current below. The house shook and trembled, too, under the force of the flood: so that she was glad to fix her sight on the steady line of the distant hills. She spoke to George occasionally, to keep him quiet; and she was ready to receive every article that was handed up the stairs from below: but, in all the intervals, she fixed her eyes on the distant hills. She thought how easy it would be to reach that ridge, if she were a bird; and how hard it would be to pine away on this house-top, or to sink to death in these waters, for want of the wings which inferior creatures had. Then she thought of superior creatures that had wings too: and she longed to be an angel. She longed to be out of all this trouble and fear; and considered that it would be worth while to be drowned, to be as free as a bird or an angel. She resolved to remember this, and not to be frightened, if the water should rise and rise, till it should sweep her quite away. She thought that this might have befallen her mother yesterday. No boat had been seen on the waters in the direction of Gainsborough; no sign had reached the family that any one was thinking of them at a distance, and trying to save them: and Oliver and Mildred had agreed that it was likely that Mrs Linacre had heard some report of the pulling up of the sluices, and might have been on her way home when the flood overtook and drowned her. If so, she might be now an angel. If an angel, Mildred was sure her first thought would be, as it had ever been, of her home and her children; and the little girl looked up to see whether there was anything like the shadow of wings between her and the dim stars. She saw nothing; but still, in some kind of hope, she softly breathed the words, "O, mother! Mother!" "Mother! Mother!" shouted little George, as he overheard her. Oliver leaped up the stairs, and inquired whether there was a boat,--whether mother was coming. "No, Oliver, no. I was only thinking about mother; and so, I suppose, was George. I am afraid you are disappointed;--I am sorry." Oliver bit his lip to prevent crying, and could not speak directly; but seemed to be gazing carefully all around the waste. He said, at last, that he had many times thought that his mother might come in a boat: and he thought she might still, unless... "Unless she should be an angel now," whispered Mildred,--"unless she died yesterday; and then she might be with us now, at this very moment, though we cannot see her;--might not she?" "Yes, I believe so, dear. And, for one thing, I almost wish she may not come in a boat. Who should tell her that father was carried away into all those waters, without having spoken one word to us?" "If they are both dead, do you not think they are together now?" asked Mildred. "Certainly. Pastor Dendel says that all who love one another well enough will live together, where they will never die any more." "And I am sure they did," said Mildred. "If they see us now," said Oliver, "it must make a great difference to them whether we are frightened and miserable, or whether we behave as we ought to do. Let us try not to be frightened, for their sakes, dear." "And if they are not with us all the while, God is," whispered Mildred. "O, yes; but God knows ... God will not expect..." "Surely He will feel in some way as they do about us," said Mildred, remembering and repeating the verse Pastor Dendel had taught her. "`Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'" "`For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.'" So Oliver continued the psalm. "There comes the sun!" exclaimed Mildred, happy to greet some one familiar object amidst this strange scene. The scene hardly appeared the same when the sun, after first peeping above the hills like a golden star, flamed up to its full size, and cast a broad glittering light over the wide waters, and into the very eyes of the children. They felt the warmth too, immediately; and it was very cheering. The eastern hills now almost disappeared in the sun's blaze; and those to the west shone very clearly; and the southern ridge near Gainsborough, looked really but a little way off. The children knew, however, that there were three full miles between them and any land, except their Red-hill, and a few hillocks which peeped above the flood in the Levels: and there was no sign of a boat, far or near. Oliver checked a sigh, when he had convinced himself of this; and began to look what had become of the people they knew in the Levels. Neighbour Gool's dwelling stood low; and nothing was now to be seen of it but a dark speck, which might be the top of a chimney. It was possible that the whole family might have escaped; for Gool and his wife were to be at Haxey yesterday; and they might there hear of the mischief intended or done to the sluices, in time to save the rest of the household. Some of the roofs of the hamlet of Sandtoft stood above the waters; and the whole upper part of the chapel used by the foreigners; and many might easily have found a refuge there. Further off, a conspicuous object was the elegant crocketed spire of one of the beautiful Lincolnshire churches, standing high, as if inviting those who were dismayed to come and save themselves in the air from the dangers of the waters. Oliver wondered whether any sufferers were now watching the sunrise from the long ridge of the church-roof, or from the windows of the spire. One of the most curious sights was the fleets of haystacks that were sailing along in the courses of the currents. As the smaller stacks were sometimes shot forward rapidly, and whirled round by an eddy, while a large stately stack followed forwards, performing the same turns of the voyage, Mildred compared them to a duck and her ducklings in the pond, and Oliver to a great ship voyaging with a fleet of small craft. They saw sights far more sorrowful than this. They grieved over the fine large trees--some in full leaf--that they saw tumbling about in the torrents which cut through the stiller waters; but it was yet worse to see dead cows, horses, pigs, and sheep carried past--some directly through the garden, or over the spot where the mill had stood. There were also thatched roofs carried away entire; and many a chest, chair, and cow-rack--showing the destruction that had gone on during the night. While the distant scene was all bright and lovely in the sunrise, these nearer objects, thickly strewn in the muddy waters, were ugly and dismal; and Oliver saw that it did him and his sister no good to watch them. He started, and said they must not be idle any longer. Just then Ailwin called from the stairs,-- "I say, Oliver, the cow is alive. I heard her low, I'm certain." "I am afraid it was only George," said Mildred. "He was lowing like the cow, a minute ago." "That might be because he heard the real cow," cried Oliver, with new hope. "I had rather save the cow than anything. I will see if I cannot get into one of the upper rooms that looks towards the yard. We might have a bridge-rope from more windows than one. Where is Roger? What is he fit for? Is he awake?" "Awake! Yes, indeed," whispered Ailwin, coming close up to the children. "There is more mischief about that boy than you think for. He is now on the stairs, with more mice, and rats, and spiders, and creeping things about him than I ever saw before in all my days. We are like to be devoured as we stand on our feet; to say nothing of what is to become of us if we lie down." Mildred looked at her brother in great terror. "We must get rid of them, if they really do us hurt," said Oliver, decidedly, though with an anxious look. "We must drown them, if they are mischievous. We can do that, you know--at least with the larger things. They cannot get away from us." "Drown away!" said Ailwin, mysteriously. "Drown away! The more you drown the more will come up. Why, did you never hear of the plagues of Egypt?" "Yes, to be sure. What then?" "I take this to be a plague of Egypt that that boy has brought upon us. It is his doing; and you will see that, if you will just look down from where I stand, and watch him making friends with them all." Mildred's eyes were on her brother's face as he stood where Ailwin desired him, watching Roger. After looking very thoughtful for some moments, he turned and exclaimed,-- "There is not one word of sense in it all, Mildred. There is a wonderful number of live things there, to be sure; and here, too, all over the roof--if you look. But Roger is not making friends with them. He is teasing them--hurting all he can get hold of. I think the creatures have come up here because the water has driven them out of their holes; and that there would have been quite as many if Roger had been drowned in the carr. They have nothing to do with Roger, or the plagues of Egypt, Mildred. Don't believe a word of it." "Then I wish Ailwin would not say such things," replied Mildred. Ailwin persisted that time would show what Roger was--to which they all agreed. Oliver observed that meanwhile Ailwin, who was the oldest person among them, should not try to frighten a little girl, who was the youngest of all, except George. Ailwin said she should keep her own thoughts; though, to be sure, she need not always say what they were to everybody. "About this cow," thought Oliver, aloud. "We must plan some way to feed her." "Take care!" exclaimed Mildred, as he began to descend the stairs. But the words were scarcely out of her mouth when her brother called to her that the water had sunk. She ran to see, and saw, with her own eyes, that the water did not quite come up to the wet mark it had left on the wall of the stairs. Ailwin thought but little of it--it was such a trifle; and Oliver allowed that it might be a mere accident, arising from the flood having found some new vent about the house; but still, the water had sunk; and that was a sight full of hope. "Have you heard the cow low, Roger?" asked Oliver. "Yes, to be sure. She may well low; for she must be hungry enough." "And wet and cold enough, too, poor thing! I am going to see whether, I can find out exactly where she is, and whether we cannot do something for her." Ailwin called down-stairs to Oliver, to say that there was a washtub floating about in the room they had slept in. If he could find it, he might row himself about in that, in the chambers, instead of always wading in the water, catching his death of cold. Oliver took the hint, and presently appeared in the tub, rowing himself with a slip of the wood he had brought over from the Red-hill. Roger stared at him as he rowed himself out of one chamber, and opened the door of another, entering it in fine style. Roger presently followed to see what was doing, and perhaps to try how he liked a voyage in a tub in a large chamber. "I see her," cried Oliver, from the window. "I see poor cow's head, and the ridge of her back above water." Roger came splashing to the window to look, and jumped into the tub, making it sink a good deal; but it held both the boys very well. Roger thought the cow very stupid that she did not get upon the great dunghill behind her, which would keep her whole body out of the water. Oliver thought that, as the dunghill was behind her, she could not see it. He wished he could go, and put her in mind of it. He thought he would try to cross in the tub, if he could so connect it with the window as that it might be drawn back, in case of his being unable to pass the little current that there was between the house and the ruins of the yard-buildings--of which little remained. "I'll go, too," said Roger. "Either you will go, or I," said Oliver. "One must stay to manage the rope, in case of the tub upsetting. You had better let me go, Roger, because poor cow knows me." Roger, however, chose to go. Oliver asked him whether he could milk a cow; because some milk must be got for George, if possible. He said, very gravely, that his poor little brother would die, he thought, if they could not get milk for him. Roger laughed at the doubt whether he could milk cows. He did it every day of his life, when fishing and fowling, with his uncle, in the carr. Oliver now guessed how it was that the milk of their good cow had sometimes unaccountably run short. Ailwin had observed that this never happened but when the Redfurns were in the neighbourhood; and she had always insisted upon it that they had bewitched the cow. Oliver knew that she would say so now. He said so much, and said it so seriously, about the necessity of milk for little George, that he thought not even a Redfurn could have the heart to drink up all the milk. He gave Roger a brown pitcher for the milk, and helped, very cleverly, to fasten the cord to the tub. They passed the cord through the back of a heavy old-fashioned chair that stood in the room, lest any sudden pull should throw Oliver out of the window; he then established himself on the window-sill, above the water, to manage his line, and watch what Roger would do. Roger pulled very skilfully;--much more so, from his strength and from practice, than Oliver could have done. He avoided logs of wood, trees, and other heavy things that floated past; and this was nearly all he did till the line had quite run out, so that he could not be carried any further down. Then he began diligently working his way up towards the cow. He had got half-way to his object, when he paused a moment, and then changed his course--to Oliver's surprise; for the thing which appeared to have attracted his attention was a small copper boiler. Plenty of such things swept past before, and nobody had thought of wanting them. It was plain, however, that Roger had a fancy for this particular copper boiler; for he carefully waylaid it, and arrested it with his paddle. Oliver then saw that some live animal leaped from the boiler into the tub. He saw Roger seize the boiler, and take it into the tub; catch up the animal, whatever it might be, and nurse it in his arms; and then take something out of his pocket, and stoop down. Oliver was pretty sure he was killing something with his knife. Whatever Roger was doing he had soon done. By this time he had again been carried down as far as the line would allow; and the additional weight he had now on board his tub made it harder work for him to paddle up again. He did it, however, and brought his odd little boat into still water, between the dunghill and the cow. After looking about him for a while, he threw out the boiler and the pitcher upon the dunghill, seized a pitchfork which was stuck upright in it, and, his craft being thus lightened, made for the ruins of the cart shed and stable. Of these buildings there remained only wrecks of the walls, and a few beams and rafters standing up in the air, or lying across each other, without any thatch to cover them. Something must be left inside, however; for Roger was busy with his pitchfork. This something must be valuable, too; for Roger, after carefully feeling the depth, jumped out of the tub, and went on filling it, while he stood in the water. Oliver thought this very daring, till, glancing at the cow, he was sure he saw more of her neck and back; and examining the wall of the house, he perceived that the flood had sunk some inches since Roger began to cross. When the tub was heaped up with what looked like wet straw, Roger pushed it before him towards the cow, carefully feeling his way, but never sinking so much as to have the water above his shoulders. "Capital! Now that is clever!" said Oliver, aloud, as he sat at the window, and saw what Roger was about. "He is going to lift her up out of the water. How she struggles to help herself! She knows there is somebody caring for her; and she will do what she can for herself." This was true. Roger thrust the straw he had brought under the cow, with his pitchfork. He had to bring three loads before she could raise her whole body; but then she stood, poor thing! With only her trembling legs in the water. Roger turned her head so that she saw the dunghill just behind her, and with some encouragement, made one more vigorous scramble to reach it. She succeeded; and Roger whipped up the pitcher, and was certainly trying to milk her. She could not, however, be prevented from lying down. Oliver was more angry than he had almost ever been in his life, when he saw Roger kick her repeatedly, in different parts of her body, pull her by the tail, and haul up her head with a rope he had found in the stable. The poor cow never attempted to rise; and it was clear that she wanted comfort, and not ill-usage. Oliver determined that, when Roger came back, he would not speak a word to him. Roger set about returning presently, when he found that nothing could be got from the cow. He took his boiler on board, and pulled himself in by the line, without troubling himself to paddle. When he came in at the window, he threw down the pitcher, swearing at himself for the trouble he had taken about a good-for-nothing beast that had been standing starving in the water till she had not a drop of milk to give. He looked at Oliver, as if rather surprised that he did not speak; but Oliver took no notice of him. It was a hare that Roger had in his boiler,--a hare that had, no doubt, leaped into the boiler when pressed by a still more urgent danger than sailing down the stream in such a boat. Roger had cut her throat with his pocket-knife; and there she lay in her own blood. "Don't you touch that," said Roger, as he landed his booty upon the window-sill. "If you lay a finger on that, it will be the worse for you. They are mine--both puss and the boiler." Still Oliver did not speak. He wondered what Roger meant to do with these things, if nobody else was to touch them. Roger soon made it clear what his intentions were. He whistled to his dog, which scampered down-stairs to him from the top of the house; put dog, puss, and boiler into the clothes' basket, and pulled himself over with them to the Red-hill, taking care to carry the tinder-box with him. There he made a fire, skinned and cooked his hare, and, with his dog, made a feast of it, under a tree. Nobody grudged him his feast; though the children were sorry to find that any one could be so selfish. Ailwin was glad to be rid of him, on any terms; and, as soon as Oliver was sure that he was occupied for some time to come, so that he would not be returning to make mischief, he resolved to go over to the cow, and give her something better than kicks;--food, if, as he thought, he could procure some. Saying nothing to any one, he tied the tub-line to a bed-post, as being more trustworthy still than the heavy chair, and carried with him the great knife that the meat had been cut with the evening before. He made for the stable first, and joined the rope he knew to be there to his line, so as to make it twice the length it was before. He could now reach the field behind the stable, where the corn, just turning from green to yellow, had been standing high at this hour yesterday. He had to paddle very carefully here, lest his tub should be knocked to pieces against the stone wall. But the wall, though not altogether thrown down, had so many breaches made in it, that he found himself in the field, without exactly knowing whether he had come through the gate-posts or through the wall. He lost no time in digging with his paddle; and, as he had hoped, he turned up ears of corn from under the water, which he could catch hold of, a handful at a time, and cut off with his knife. It was very tiresome, slow work; and sometimes he was near losing his paddle, and sometimes his knife. He persevered, however: now resting for a minute or two, and then eating a few of the ears, and thinking that only very hungry people could swallow them, soaked as they were with bad water. He ate more than he would have done, remembering that the more he took now, the less he should want of the portion he meant to carry to the house, when he should have fed the cow. He hoped they should obtain some better food; but, if no flour was to be had, and no other vegetable than this, it would be better than none. When he reached the cow, she devoured the heads of corn ravenously. She could not have appeared better satisfied with the sweetest spring grass. It was a pleasure to see her eyes as she lay, receiving her food from Oliver's hand. He emptied out all he had brought beside her, and patted her, saying he hoped she would give George some milk in the afternoon, in return for what had been done for her now. Oliver felt so tired and weak when he got home with his tub half full of soaked corn ears, that he felt as if he could not do anything more. He was very near crying when he found that there was not a morsel to eat; that the very water was too bad to drink; and that there was no fire, from Roger having carried off the tinder-box. But George was crying with hunger; and that made Oliver ashamed to do the same, and put him upon thinking what was to be done next. Ailwin was the only person who, being as strong as Roger could have got anything from him by force; and there was no use in asking Ailwin to cross the bridge-rope, or to do anything which would bring her nearer to the boy she feared so much. Besides that, Roger had carried over the clothes' basket without leaving any line to pull it back by. Oliver felt that he (if he were only a little less hungry and tired) could make the trip in a sack, or a tub, or even a kettle; but a tall woman like Ailwin could cross in nothing smaller than the missing clothes' basket. It was clear that Oliver alone could go; and that he must go for the tinder-box before any comfort was to be had. He made up his mind to this, therefore; and having, with Ailwin's help, slung the useful tub upon the bridge-rope, so that he might start the first moment that Roger should be out of sight or asleep, he rested himself in the window, watching what passed on the Red-hill. He observed that Roger seemed quite secure that no one could follow him, as he had carried off the basket. There he lay, near the fire, eating the meat he had broiled, and playing with his dog. It seemed to the hungry watchers as if he meant to lie there all day. After awhile, however, he rose, and sauntered towards the trees, among which he disappeared, as if going to the other side of the hill, to play, or to set his dog upon game. Oliver was off, sliding along the bridge-rope in his tub. He did not forget to carry the line with which to bring back the basket. It seemed to him that Roger intended to live by himself on the Red-hill; and to this none of the party had any objection. He had swum over to the house once, when the stream was higher and more rapid than now; and he could come again, if he found himself really in want of anything; so that nobody need be anxious for him. Meantime, no one at the house desired his company. Oliver therefore took with him a blanket and a rug, and a knife and fork for his accommodation. He alighted under the beech without difficulty, and laid down the articles he brought under the tree, where Roger would be sure to see them. He took the flint and the tinder from the tinder-box, and pocketed them, leaving the steel and the box for Roger's use, as there were knives at home, and Roger might perhaps find a flint on the hill. There were plenty in the quarry. Oliver knew he must be quick; but he could not help looking round for something to eat,--some one of the many animals and birds that he knew to be on the hill, and heard moving about him on every side. But he had no means of catching any. The bones of the hare were lying about, picked quite clean by the dog; but not a morsel of meat was left in sight. Something very precious, however, caught Oliver's eye;--a great heap of pebbly gravel thrown up by the flood. The water in the Levels was usually so bad that the settlers had to filter it; and Oliver knew that no water was purer than that which had been filtered through gravel. He believed now that poor George could have a good drink of water, at least; and he scooped up with his hands enough gravel to half fill the tub. It took a long time to heap up as much as he could carry upon the rug; and then it was hard work to empty it into the tub; and he fancied every moment that he heard Roger coming. It was a pity he did not know that Roger had fallen fast asleep in the sun, on the other side of the hill; and that his dog lay winking beside him, not thinking of stirring. One thing more must be had;--chips for fuel. When Oliver had got enough of these, and of sticks too, he found courage and strength to stay a few minutes more, to make up such a fire for Roger as would probably last till after he should have discovered the loss of the flint, and so prevent his being without fire till he could find another flint. In order to give him a broad hint, Oliver spread out the blanket on the ground, and set the tinder-box in the middle of it, where it would be sure to invite attention. He then climbed into the tub, and was glad to be off, drawing the basket with the fire-wood after him. "Here, Ailwin," said he, faintly, as he reached the window, "take the flint and the tinder, and the wood in the basket, and make a fire. I have brought you nothing to eat." "No need!" said Ailwin, with an uncommonly merry countenance. "You must broil the green corn, unless we can manage to get a fowl from across the yard. But I really cannot go any more errands till I am rested," said Oliver, dismally. "No need, Oliver dear!" said Ailwin again. "What do you think we have found to eat?" cried Mildred, from the stairs.--"What is the matter with him, Ailwin? Why does not he speak?" "He is so tired, he does not know what to do," said Ailwin. "No, don't get down into the water again, dear. I'll carry you. Put your arm round my neck, and I'll carry you." And the good-natured woman carried him up to the roof, and laid him down on a bundle of bedding there, promising to bring him breakfast presently. She threw an apron over his head, to cover it from the hot sun, and bade him lie still, and not think of anything till she came. "Only one thing," said Oliver. "Take particular care of the gravel in the tub." "Gravel!" exclaimed Ailwin. "The fowls eat gravel; but I don't see that we can. However, you shall have your way, Oliver." The tired boy was asleep in a moment. He knew nothing more till he felt vexed at somebody's trying to wake him. It was Mildred. He heard her say,-- "How very sound asleep he is! I can't make him stir. Here, Oliver,-- just eat this, and then you can go to sleep again directly." He tried to rouse himself, and sat up; but his eyes were so dim, and the light so dazzling, that he could not see, at first, what Mildred had in her hands. It was one of her mother's best china plates,--one of the set that was kept in a closet up-stairs; and upon it was a nice brown toasted fish, steaming hot. "Is that for me?" asked Oliver, rubbing his eyes. "Yes, indeed, for who but you?" said Ailwin, whose smiling face popped up from the stairs. "Who deserves it, if you do not, I should like to know? It is not so good as I could have wished, though, Oliver. I could not broil it, for want of butter and everything; and we have no salt, you know. But, come! Eat it, such as it is. Come, begin!" "But have you all got some too?" asked the hungry boy, as he eyed the fish. "Oh, yes,--George and all," said Mildred. "We ate ours first, because you were so sound asleep, we did not like to wake you." "How long have I been asleep?" asked Oliver, beginning heartily upon his fish. "How could you get this nice fish? How busy you must have been all this time that I have been asleep!" "All this time!" exclaimed Mildred. "Why, you have been asleep only half an hour; hardly so much. We have only just lighted the fire, and cooked the fish, and fed Geordie, and put him to sleep, and got our own breakfast;--and we were not long about that,--we were so very hungry! That is all we have done since you went to sleep." "It seems a great deal for half an hour," said Oliver. "How good this fish is! Where did you get it?" "I found it on the stairs. Ah! I thought you would not believe it; but we shall find more, I dare say, as the water sinks; and then you will believe what you see." "On the stairs! How did it get there?" "The same way that the water got there, I suppose, and the poor little drowned pig that lay close by the same place. There was a whole heap of fish washed up at the turn of the stairs; enough for us all to-day. Ailwin said we must eat them first, because the pig will keep. Such a nice little clean sucking-pig!" "That puts me in mind of the poor sow," said Oliver. "I forgot her when we were busy about the cow. I am afraid she is drowned or starved before this; but we must see about it." "Not now," said Mildred. "Do you go to sleep again now. There is not such a hurry as there was, the waters are going down so fast." "Are they, indeed?--Oh, I do not want to sleep any more. I am quite wide awake now. Are you sure the flood is going down?" "Only look! Look at that steep red bank on the Red-hill, where it was all a green slope yesterday, and covered with water this morning. Look at the little speck of a hillock, where neighbour Gool's house was. We could not see that this morning, I am sure. And if you will come down, you will find that there is scarcely any water in the upper rooms now. Geordie might play at paddling there, as he is so fond of doing in his tub. Ailwin thinks we might sleep there to-night, if we could only get everything dried." "We might get many things dried before night, in such a sun as this. How very hot it is!" Oliver ran down, and convinced himself that the flood was abating fast. It must have swelled up higher within the house than outside; for it had sunk three feet in the upper rooms, and two on the outer walls of the house. Now that the worst of the danger seemed to be past, the children worked with fresh spirit, making all possible use of the sunshine for drying their bedding and clothes, in hopes of sleeping in a chamber this night, instead of on the house-top, which they had feared would be necessary. Nothing could have made them believe, if they had been told at sunrise, how cheerfully they would sit down, in the afternoon, to rest and talk, and hope that they might, after all, meet their father and mother again soon, alive and well. CHAPTER SIX. ROGER HIS OWN MASTER. There lay Roger under the tree, thinking that there was nothing to prevent his having all his own way now, and that he was going to be very happy. He had always thought it hard that he could not have his own way entirely, and had been unsatisfied with a much greater degree of liberty than most people wish or have. He had hitherto led a wandering life, having no home duties, no school to go to, no trade to work at,--no garden, or other pleasure, to fix him to one spot. He had gone, with his uncle, from sporting on the moors, in one season of the year, to sporting in the marshes in another; and, wild as was this way of life, it made his will so much wilder, that he was always wishing for more liberty still. When his aunt had desired him to watch the kettle, as it hung over the fire near the tent, or asked him to help her in shaking out their bedding, or cleaning their utensils, he had turned sulky, and wished that he lived alone, where he need not be plagued about other people's affairs. When his uncle had ordered him to attend at a certain spot and hour, with nets or a gun, he had been wont to feel himself seized with a sudden desire to wander in an opposite direction, or to lie half asleep in the sun, too lazy to work at all. When he had played truant, and returned late to the tent, and found nothing better left to eat than a dry crust of bread, or the cold remains of a mess of fish, he had frequently thought how pleasant it would be to have the best of everything for himself, and only his dog to eat up the rest. So this boy had often felt and thought; and so would many think and feel, perhaps, if there were many as forlorn and friendless as he, with no one to love and be loved by. Though he had had an uncle and aunt, he had never had a friend. He knew that they cared about him only because he could help to keep the tent, and take the game; and, feeling this, it was irksome to him to be under their orders. The time was now come for which he had so often longed. He was his own master completely. There was nobody near who could order or compel him to do anything; while he, on his part, had an obedient servant in his dog. The sky was blue and warm overhead, and the trees cast a pleasant shade. The Red-hill was now an island, which he had all to himself; and it was richly stocked with game, for his food and sport. Here he could have his own way, and be completely happy. Such was Roger's idea when he stole the tinder-box, and crossed to the hill; and this was what he said to himself as he cooked his meal, and when he lay down after it on the grass, with the bees humming round him, and the sound of the waters being now a pleasant ripple, instead of the rush and roar of yesterday. He desired his dog to lie down, and not disturb him; and he took this opportunity to change the animal's name. Stephen Redfurn, taking up the quarrel of the day against the bishops, would have the dog called "Bishop," and nothing else. Roger had always wished to call him "Spy;" but Bishop would never answer to the name of Spy, or even seem to hear it. Now, however, Bishop was to be Spy, as there was no one here to indulge the dog with his old name; and Spy was told so many times over, and with all the devices that could be thought of for impressing the fact on his memory. This lesson being given, Roger shut his eyes, and thought he would sleep as long as he chose; but, in the first place, he found himself too much heated for sleep. He considered that it was no wonder, after broiling himself in making a fire to broil his hare. He wished animals ran about ready cooked--as fruits grow on the sunny side of trees. It was too bad to have to bustle and toil for an hour, to get ready what was eaten in ten minutes; and it just passed through his mind that, whatever Nan Redfurn might have sometimes said and done to him, she had usually saved him all trouble in cooking, and had had his meals ready for him whenever he chose to be at the tent at meal times. He rose, and thought he could find a cooler place, further under the trees. He did so, and again lay down. Sleep began to steal over him; and, at the same time, the thought crept into his mind that he should never more see Stephen Redfurn. The ideas that come when one is dropping asleep are very vivid; and this one startled Roger so, that Spy found it out, and pricked up his ears, as if at some alarm. This thought would not go away; for it so happened that the last words that Stephen and Roger had spoken together were angry ones. Stephen had ordered Roger to carry the fry they had fished for manure to a field, where he had promised to deposit it by a certain time. Roger had been sure that the fish would be better for lying in the sun a while longer, and refused to touch it. No matter which was right about the manure; both were wrong in being angry. Stephen had said that Roger was a young rascal, who would never come to good; and Roger had looked impertinently in his uncle's face, while whistling to the dog to come with him, and make sport among the water-fowl. It was that face--that countenance of his uncle's, as he had last seen it, which was before Roger's eyes now, as he lay dozing. With it came the angry tones of Stephen's voice, saying that he would never come to good. Mixed and confused with this was the roar of a coming flood, and a question (how and whence spoken he knew not) whether his uncle might not possibly have been saved, if he had not, against orders, carried away Bishop--for the dog was still Bishop in his master's dreams. Roger started bolt upright, and looked about him. He felt very tired; but he thought he would not lie down again just yet. It was odd that he could not get sound asleep, so tired as he was. If he should not sleep better than this at night, what should he do? He wished he had some more of that woman's cherry-brandy. He had slept sound enough after drinking that. It was well for Roger that he was not now within reach of intoxicating liquors--the state of his mind would probably have made a drunkard of him. His mind ran strangely on his uncle, and his uncle's last looks and words, even as he stood wide awake, and staring at the bee-hives. A rustle in the briars behind him made him jump as if he had been shot. It was only a partridge taking wing. "Whirr away!" said Roger to her. "You can't go far. You will have to light again upon my island. You all belong to me--you swarming creatures! You may run about awhile, and flutter away a bit; but you will all belong to me at last, with Spy to help me. I'll have some sport, now. Here, Spy! Spy!" Spy had disappeared, and did not come when called. A whistle brought him, however, at last. He came out of the thicket, licking his chops. Being commanded to bring his game, he soon produced two rabbits. It was easy work for the dog to catch them; for the poor creatures had no holes here. They had come to this raised ground from a warren some way off, where they had been soaked out of their holes. Spy was praised for everything but not answering to his name. For that he was lectured, and then sent off again, to try what he could find. He brought in prey of various kinds; for he could not stir among the trees without starting some. During the fun, as Roger thought it, while the terrified birds were fluttering among the branches of the trees, and the scared animals bursting through the thicket, Roger resolved that he would not plague himself with any more thoughts of Stephen and Nan. If they were drowned, it was none of his doing; and, as for Stephen's anger yesterday, there was nothing new in that; Stephen was angry every day of his life. He would not be scared out of his sleep any more by nonsense. He would not give up having his own way to see Stephen and Nan under these very trees; and, as he had got his own way at last, he would enjoy it. This mood went on till there was such a heap of dead animals, that Roger began to think whether he could skin them all, and clean their skins, in such hot weather as this, before they were unfit for any use. As for eating them, here was twenty times as much food as could be eaten while it was good. He did just remember the children and Ailwin, and how much they probably wanted food; but he settled that it was no business of his; and he was not going to trouble himself to leave his island for anybody. He would call in Spy, and tie him up; for there must be no more game killed to-day. Spy did not come for any calling,--for anything short of the well-known whistle, as Roger would not utter the name of Bishop. Roger grew very angry at being obeyed no better than this; and his last whistle was so shrill that the dog seemed to know what it threatened, refused to answer it as long as he dared, and then came unwillingly, with fear in every attitude. He gave a low whine when he saw his master; as he had good reason to do. Roger tied him to a tree, and then gave loose to his passion. He thrashed the dog with a switch till the poor creature's whine was heard and pitied by the children and Ailwin on their house-top; and there is no knowing how long the whipping might not have gone on, if the animal had not at last turned furious, and snapped at Roger in a way which made him think of giving over, and finding something else to do with his sovereignty. He found it was rather dull work, so far, having all his own way, in an island of his own. At last, he bethought himself of an amusement he had been fond of before he lived so much in the moors and the carrs. He bethought himself of bird's-nesting. It was too late for eggs; but he thought the bird-families might not have all dispersed. Here were plenty of trees, and they must be full of birds; for, though they were silent to-day (he did wish the place was not quite so silent!) they sometimes sent their warblings so far over the carr, that Nan Redfurn would mention them in the tent. He would see what ailed them, that they would not give him any music to-day. By incessant cooing, he obtained an answer from one solitary pigeon; which he took advantage of to climb the tree, and look for the nest. He found a nest; but there was nothing in it. He climbed several trees, and found abundance of nests; but all deserted. Except his solitary pigeon (which presently vanished), there appeared to be not a winged creature in all those trees. The birds had been frightened away by the roar of the flood of yesterday; and, perhaps, by seeing the fields, to which they had been wont to resort for their food, all turned into a waste of muddy waters. Roger threw to the ground every empty nest he found, from the common inability of a boy to keep his hands off a bird's-nest. When he was tired of climbing trees, he picked up all the scattered nests, and laid them in a long row on the grass. They looked dismal enough. It is disagreeable to see a range of houses left half-built (such as may be seen in the neighbourhood of large towns), with the doorways gaping, and the window-spaces empty, and roofs hardly covering in the dark inside; but such a row of houses is less dismal than Roger's array of birds'-nests. There is something in the very make of a bird's-nest which rouses thoughts of blue or red-spotted eggs, of callow young birds, with their large hungry eyes and beaks, or of twittering fledglings, training for a summer life of pleasure. To see, instead of these, their silent empty habitations, extended in a long row, would be enough to make any one dull and sad. So Roger found. He kicked them into a heap under a tree, and thought that they would make a fine crackling fire. He would burn them, every one. While he was wondering whether any birds would come back to miss their nests, it struck him that he had not thought how he was to pass the night. It was nothing new to him to sleep in the open air. He liked it best at this season. But he had usually had a rug to lie upon, with the tent over him; or a blanket; or, at worst, he had a sack to creep into. The clothes he had on were old and thin; and as he looked at them, it made him angry to think that he was not to have everything as he liked it, after all. Here he should have to pass a cold night, and with nothing between him and the hard ground. He thought of gathering leaves, moss, and high grass, to roll himself up in, like a squirrel in its hole; but the trouble was what he did not like. He stood listlessly thinking how much trouble it would cost to collect moss and leaves for the purpose; and, while he was so thinking, he went on pelting his dog with birds'-nests, and seeing how the angry dog, unable to get loose, snapped up and shook to pieces the nests which fell within his reach. Roger knew that he ought to be skinning some of the dead animals, if he really meant to secure all their skins, before it was too late; but this also was troublesome. Instead of doing this, he went round the hill, to see what the Linacres were about, resolving by no means to appear to see them, if they should be making signs from the window to have the things back again that he had carried away. On coming out of the shade on that side of the hill, he was surprised to see smoke still going up from his fire, considering that the fire was nearly out when he had left it. Something more strange met his eye as he ran forward. There was the nice clean blanket spread out on the ground, with the tinder-box in the middle. "Somebody has been here!" cried Roger, much offended. "What business has anybody in my island? Coming when my back is turned! If I had only heard them coming to meddle--!" Just then, his eye fell on the rug, blanket, and knife and fork left by Oliver,--the very accommodation he had been wishing for, and more. When he felt the thick warm rug, he gave over his anger at some one having entered his island without his leave, and, for a moment, again felt pleased and happy. But when he saw that the bridge-basket was gone-- that other people had the means of coming in upon him when they pleased--he was more angry than he had been all day. "However," thought he, "I got over to the house before anyone else crossed the water, and I can do the same again whenever I please. I have only to swim over with Spy, and bring away anything I like, while they are busy on the other side, about their good-for-nothing cow, or something. That will be tit-for-tat." He was doubly mistaken here. His going over to steal comforts from the Linacres would not be tit-for-tat for Oliver's coming over to his father's hill, to bring away his mother's clothes basket, and leave comforts for an unwelcome visitor! Neither could Roger now enter the Linacres' dwelling when he pleased, by swimming the stream. He saw this when he examined and considered. The water had sunk so as to show a few inches of the top of the entrance-door and lower windows. It was not high enough to allow of his getting in at the upper window, as he did yesterday; and too high for entrance below. The stream appeared to be as rapid and strong as ever; and it shot its force through the carr as vehemently as at first; for it was almost, or quite as deep as ever. It had worn away soil at the bottom of its channel, to nearly or quite the same depth as it had sunk at the surface; so that it was still working against the walls and foundation of the house, and the soil of the hill, with as much force as during the first hour. When Roger examined the red precipice from which he looked down upon the rushing stream, he perceived that not a yard of Linacres' garden could now be in existence. That garden, with its flourishing vegetables, its rare, gay, sweet flowers, and its laden fruit trees,--that garden which he and Stephen could not help admiring, while they told everybody that it had no business in the middle of their carr,--that garden, its earth and its plants, was all spread in ruins over the marsh; and instead of it would be found, if the waters could be dried up, a deep, gravelly, stony watercourse, or a channel of red mud. Roger wondered whether the boy and girl were aware of this fate of their garden; or whether they supposed that everything stood fast and in order under the waters. He wanted to point out the truth to them; and looked up to the chamber window, in hopes that they might be watching him from it. No one was there, however. On glancing higher, he saw them sitting within the balustrade on the roof. They were all looking another way, and not appearing to think of him at all. He watched them for a long while; but they never turned towards the Red-hill. He could have made them hear by calling; but they might think he wished to be with them, or wanted something from them, instead of understanding that he desired to tell them that their pretty garden was destroyed. So he began to settle with himself which of his dead game he would have for supper, and then fed his fire, in order to cook it. He now thought that he should have liked a bird for supper,--a pheasant or partridge instead of a rabbit or leveret; of which he had plenty. He felt it very provoking that he had neither a net nor a gun, for securing feathered game, when there was so much on the hill; so that he must put up with four-footed game, when he had rather have had a bird. There was no bread either, or vegetables; but he minded that less, because neither of these were at hand, and he had often lived for a long time together on animal food. During the whole time of his listless preparations for cooking his supper, he glanced up occasionally at the roof; but he never once saw the party look his way. He thought it very odd that they should care so much less about him, than he knew they did when Stephen and he came into the carr. They neither seemed to want him nor to fear him to-day. At length he went to set Spy loose, in order to feed him, and to have a companion, for he felt rather dull, while seeing how busily the party on the house-top were talking. When he returned with Spy, the sun had set, and there was no one on the house-top. A faint light from the chamber window told that Ailwin and the children were there. Roger wondered how they had managed to kindle a fire, while he had the tinder-box. He learned the truth, soon after, by upsetting the tinder-box, as he moved the blanket. The steel fell out; and the flint and tinder were found to be absent. In his present mood he considered it prodigious impertinence to impose upon him the labour of finding a flint the next day, and the choice whether to make tinder of a bit of his shirt, or to use shavings of wood instead. He determined to show, meanwhile, that he had plenty of fire for to-night, and therefore heaped it up so high, that there was some danger that the lower branches of the ash under which he sat would shrivel up with the heat. No blaze that he could make, however, could conceal from his own view the cheerful light from the chamber window. There was certainly a good fire within; and those who sat beside it were probably better companions to each other than Spy was to him. The dog was dull and would not play; and Roger himself soon felt too tired, or something, to wish to play. He could not conceal from himself that he should much like to be in that chamber from which the light shone, even though there was no cherry-brandy there now. The stars were but just beginning to drop into the sky, and the waste of waters still looked yellow and bright to the west; but Roger's first day of having his own way had been quite long enough; and he spread his rug, and rolled himself in his blanket for the night. Spy, being invited, drew near, and lay down too. Roger was still overheated, from having made such an enormous fire; but he muffled up his head in his blanket, as if he was afraid lest even his dog should see that he was crying. CHAPTER SEVEN. ROGER NOT HIS OWN MASTER. More than once during the long night, Roger heard strange sounds; and Spy repeatedly raised his head, and seemed uneasy. Above the constant flow of the stream, there came occasionally a sort of roar, then a rumble and a splash, and the stream appeared to flow on faster. Once Roger rose in the belief that the house,--the firm, substantial, stone house,--was washed down. But it was not so. There was no moon at the time of night when he looked forth; but it was clear starlight; and there stood the dark mass of the building in the midst of the grey waters. Roger vowed he would not get up from his warm rug again, on any false alarm; and so lay till broad daylight, sometimes quite asleep, and sometimes drowsily, resolving that he would think no more of uncle Stephen, except in the day-time. Soon after sunrise, however, a renewed rumble and splash roused him to open his eyes wide. What he saw made him jump up, and run to the edge of the precipice, to see all he could. The greater part of the roof of the house was gone; and there were cracks in the solid stone walls through which the yellow sunshine found its way. One portion of the wall leaned in; another leaned out towards the water. At first Roger expected to see the whole building crumble down into the stream, and supposed that the inhabitants might be swept quite away. He gazed with the strange feeling that not a creature might be now left alive in that habitation. Roger's heart sank within him at the idea of his own solitude, if this were indeed the case. He had nothing to fear for his own safety. The Red-hill would not be swept away. He could live as he was for a long time to come; till some some steps should be taken for repairing the damage of the flood; till some explorers should arrive in a boat; which he had no doubt would happen soon. It was not about his own safety that Roger was anxious; but it frightened him to think of being entirely alone in such a place as this, with the bodies of all whom he knew best lying under the waters on every side of him. If he could have Oliver with him to speak to, or even little George, it would make all the difference to him. He really hoped they were left alive. When he began to consider, he perceived that the bridge-rope remained, stretched as tight as ever. The chamber window, and indeed all that wall of the house, looked firm and safe; and such roof as was left was over that part. This was natural enough, as the violence of the flood was much greater on the opposite side of the house than on the garden side. The staircase was safe. It was laid open to view very curiously; but it stood upright and steady: and, at length, to Roger's great relief, Mildred appeared upon it. She merely ran up to fetch something from the roof; but her step, her run and jump, was, to Roger's mind, different from what it would have been if she had been in great affliction or fear. In his pleasure at this, he snatched his cap from his head, and waved it: but the little girl was very busy, and she did not see him. It was odd, Roger said to himself, that the Linacres were always now thinking of everything but him, when formerly they could never watch him enough. After a while he descended the bank, to fill his boiler with water. It was necessary to do this for some time before drinking, in order that the mud might settle. Even after standing for several hours, the day before, the water was far from clear; and it was very far from sweet. This was nothing new to Roger, however, who had been accustomed to drink water like this as often as he had been settled in the carr, though he had occasionally been allowed to mix with it some gin from his uncle's bottle. He was thirsty enough this morning to drink almost anything; but he did think the water in the boiler looked particularly muddy and disagreeable. Spy seemed as thirsty as himself, and as little disposed to drink of the stream as it ran below. He pranced about the boiler, as if watching for an opportunity to wet his tongue, if his master should turn his back for a minute. The opportunity soon came; for Roger saw the bridge-basket put out of the window by Ailwin; after which, Oliver got into it. Ailwin handed him something, as he pulled away for the Red-hill. With a skip and a jump Roger ran to the beach to await him. "Pull away! That's right! Glad to see you!" exclaimed Roger. "Halloo, Spy! Down, sir! Pleased to see you, Oliver." Oliver was glad to hear these words. He did not know but that he might have been met by abuse and violence, for having carried home the basket. "Would you like some milk?" asked Oliver, as he came near. "Ay, that I should," replied Roger. "Leave yonder water to your dog, then, and drink this," said Oliver, handing down a small tin can. "You must let me have the can, though. Almost all our kitchen things floated out through the wall, at that breach that you see, during the night. You must give me the can again, if you would like that I should bring you some more milk this afternoon. The poor cow is doing but badly, and we cannot feed her as we should like: but she has given milk enough for George this morning, with a little to spare for us and you. You seem to like it," he added, laughing to see how Roger smacked his lips over the draught. "That I do. It is good stuff, I know," said Roger, as he drained the last drop. "Then I will bring you some more in the afternoon, if there is any to spare from poor George's supper." "That's a pity. You've enough to do, I think. Suppose I come over. Eh?" "There is something to be said about that," replied Oliver, gravely. "We do not want to keep what we have to ourselves. We have got a chest of meal, this morning." "A chest of meal!" "Yes: a large chest, and not wet at all, except an inch deep all round the outside. We caught it just now as it was floating by; and we should like you to have some of it, as you have no bread here: but you know, Roger, you kicked our poor cow when she was too weak to stand; and you carried away our tinder-box when you knew we had no fire. We don't want to have you with us to do such things: and so I think I had better bring you some of the meal over here. And yet it is a pity; for the broth that Ailwin is making will be very good." "I'll come over," said Roger. "I am stronger than you, and I can help you to feed the cow, and everything." "I can do all that, with Ailwin to help: and I am sure Mildred had much rather you should stay here, unless you behave differently. And poor little George, too! He is not well, and we do not like that he should be frightened." "I sha'n't frighten him or anybody, you'll see. You had better let me come; and Spy and I will bring you a lot of game." "We don't want any game, at present. We have plenty to eat." "You had better let me come and help you. I won't hurt George, or anything. Come, I promise you you shan't repent doing me a good turn." "Then you shall come, Roger. But do remember that Mildred is only a little girl; and consider poor Geordie too; he is quite ill. You wont tease him? Well, here's the line. Come as soon as you please, after I am landed." Oliver had been in the basket, out of reach, during this conversation. He now flung down the basket line, and returned. Roger was not long in following, with some of his game, some fire-wood, and his dog. He left his bedding hidden in the thicket, and the tinder-box in a dry hole in a tree, that he might come back to his island at any time, in case of quarrel with the Linacres. Poor little George did indeed look ill. He was lying across Mildred's lap, very fretful, his cheeks burning hot, his lips dry, and his mouth sore. Ailwin had put a charm round his neck the day before; but he did not seem to be the better for it. Busy as she was, she tied on another the moment she heard from Oliver that Roger was coming. When Roger and the basket darkened the window, Ailwin and Mildred called out at once, "Here he is!" George turned his hot head that way, and repeated, "Here he is!" "Yes, here I am! And here's what I have brought," said Roger, throwing down two rabbits and a leveret. He took up the leveret presently, and brought it to George, that he might feel how soft the fur was. The child flinched from him at first, but was persuaded, at length, to stroke the leveret's back, and play with its paws. "That boy has some good in him after all," thought Ailwin, "unless this be a trick. It is some trick, I'll be bound." "You are tight and dry enough here," said Roger, glancing round the room. "By the look of the house from the hill, I thought you had been all in ruins." The minds of Ailwin and Mildred were full of the events of the night; and they forgot that it was Roger they were speaking to when they told what their terrors had been. Ailwin had started up in the middle of the night, and run to the door; and, on opening it, had seen the stars shining bright down into the house. The roof of the other side of the house was clean gone. When Mildred looked out from the same place at sunrise, she saw the water spread almost under her feet. The floor of the landing-place, and the ceiling of one of the lower rooms had been broken up, and the planks were floating about. "Where are they?" asked Roger, quickly. "To be sure you did not let them float off, along with the kitchen things that got away through the wall?" Mildred did not know that any care had been taken of the planks. Roger was off to see, saying that they might be glad of every foot of plank they could lay their hands on. Ailwin and Mildred saw no more of either of the boys during the whole morning. They might have looked out to discover what was doing, but that neither of them liked the sight of the bare rafters overhead, or of the watery precipice at their feet. So Ailwin went on making cakes of a curious sort, as she said; cakes of meal, made up with milk and water, without either yeast or salt. They would not be spoiled by the water; that was all that could be said for them. The water which was filtered through gravel turned out quite good enough to be used in cooking, and even for poor George to drink, so very thirsty as he was. While the fowl simmered in the pot, and the cakes lay toasting on the hob, Ailwin busied herself in making the beds, and then in rubbing, with her strong arm, everything in the room, helping the floor, the walls, and the furniture to dry from the wetting of yesterday. From the smell, she said, she should have thought that everything in the house was growing mouldy before her face. They were all aware that the bad smell which they had observed yesterday, was growing worse every hour. Roger had been much struck with it the moment he entered the window. When the boys at length appeared, to say how hungry they were, they burst in more like two schoolfellows who have been trying a new game, than little lads on whom others were depending for subsistence in the midst of a heavy calamity. They had made a raft--a real stout, broad raft, which would be of more use to them (now the currents were slackening) than anything they had attempted yet. Oliver told that among the many things which the current brought from poor neighbour Gool's, was a lot of harness from his stables. Roger had seen at once what strong fastenings this harness would make for their raft. They had then crossed to their own stable, and found their own suit of harness hanging safe against the wall which remained. They had tied their planks to three stout beams, which they had pulled out from the ruined part of their house wall. It had been pretty hard work; but the raft was secure, and well fastened, moreover, to a door-post, with a long line; so that they might row about without having always to be looking that they were not carried abroad into the carr. Oliver really thought it was almost as good as having a boat. Roger protested that it was better, because it would hold more goods: but the brother and sister could not think that the raft was the best of the two, when they remembered that a boat would carry them, perhaps, to their mother's arms. Oliver knew what Mildred was thinking of when he said,-- "We must not dream of getting away on our raft, dear. It would upset in the currents twenty times, between this place and the hills." "Well, what of that?" said Roger. "Who wants to get to the hills? We have got all we want for a good while here. We can take our pleasure, and live as free as wild-ducks in a pond that nobody comes near." Roger was quite in spirits and good humour. It may seem strange that a boy who was so lazy the day before, as to wish that hares ran about ready roasted, should work so hard this day at so severe a job as making a raft. But it was natural enough. There is nothing interesting to a dull and discontented person, all alone, in preparing a meal for his own self to eat: but there is something animating in planning a clever job, which can be set about immediately--a ready and willing companion being at hand to help, and to talk with. There was also something immediate to be gained by finishing this raft. One thing or another was floating by every quarter of an hour, which it would be worth while to seize and bring home. As Roger saw, now a hay-cock, and now a man's hat, float by, he worked harder and harder, that as few treasures as possible might be thus lost. Oliver felt much in the same way, particularly from his want of a hat or cap. Ailwin had made him tie a handkerchief round his head; but it heated him, without saving him much from the scorching of the sun on his head, and the glare from the waters to his eyes. Ailwin had looked for some compliments to her cookery from the hungry boys; but they forgot, in their eagerness about the raft, that it was a treat in these days to have meal-cakes; and they ate and talked, without thinking much of what it was that they were putting into their mouths. When they went off again to see what they could find, it is not to be told how Mildred would have liked to go with them. She did not want her dinner, to which Ailwin said they two would now sit down comfortably. She did not now mind the precipice and the broken walls, and the staring rafters. She longed to stand somewhere, and see the boys take prizes in the stream. She had held poor George all the morning; for he would not let her put him on the bed. Her back ached, her arms were stiff, and her very heart was sick with his crying. He had been fretting or wailing ever since daylight; and Mildred felt as if she could not bear it one minute longer. Just then she heard a laugh from the boys outside; and Ailwin began to sing, as she always did when putting away the pots and pans. Nobody seemed to care: nobody seemed to think of her; and Mildred remembered how different it would have been if her mother had been there. Her mother would have been thinking about poor George all the morning: but her mother would have thought of her too; would have remembered that she must be tired; and have cheered her with talk, or with saying something hopeful about the poor baby. When Ailwin stopped her loud singing, for a moment, while considering in which corner she should set down her stew-pan, she heard a gentle sob. Looking round, she saw Mildred's face covered with tears. "What's the matter now, dear?" said she. "Is the baby worse? No,--he don't seem worse to me." "I don't know, I'm sure. But, Ailwin, I am so tired, I don't know what to do; and I cannot bear to hear him cry so. He has been crying in this way all to-day; and it is the longest day I ever knew." "Well, I'm sure I wish we could think of anything that would quiet him. If we had only his go-cart, now, or his wooden lamb, with the white wool upon it, that he is so fond of ... But they are under water below." "But if you could only take him for a little while, Ailwin, I should be so glad! I would wash up all your dishes for you." "Take him! Oh, that's what you are at! To be sure I will; and I might have thought of that before,--only I had my pans and things to put away. I'll wash my hands now directly, and take him:--only, there is not much use in washing one's hands: this foul damp smell seems to stick to everything one touches. It is that boy's doing, depend upon it. He is at the bottom of all mischief.--Ay, Mildred, you need not object to what I say. After what I saw of him yesterday morning, with all that plague of animals about him on the stairs, you will never persuade me that he has not some league with bad creatures, a good way off. I don't half like Oliver's being with him on the raft, in the stream there. That raft was wonderfully ready made for two slips of boys." "They had the planks ready to their hands," said Mildred, trembling; "and leather harness and ropes to tie it with. I think they might to do it as they said. What harm do you suppose will happen, Ailwin? I am sure Oliver would do nothing wrong, about making the raft, or anything else.--O dear! I wish George would not cry so!" "Here, give him to me," said Ailwin, who had now washed her hands, and taken off her cooking apron. "There, go you and finish the dishes, and then to play,--there's a dear! And don't think about George, or about Roger, and the raft, or anything that will vex you,--there's a dear!" Ailwin gave Mildred a smacking kiss, as she received little George from her; and, though Mildred could not, as she was bid, put away all vexing thoughts, she was cheered by Ailwin's good-will. She had soon done washing the few plates they had used, though she did the washing with the greatest care, because it was her mother's best china, brought from Holland, and kept in the up-stairs cupboard,--ready, as it now seemed, to serve the present party, who must otherwise have gone without plates and cups, their common sets being all under water,-- broken to pieces, no doubt, by this time.--George was already quieter than he had been all day; so that Mildred felt the less scruple about going out to amuse herself,--or rather, to watch her brother; for she hardly dared to take any pleasure in the raft, after what Ailwin had said; though she kept repeating to herself that it was all nonsense, such as Ailwin often talked; such as Mrs Linacre said her children must neither believe nor laugh at. Mildred went at once to the top of the staircase, which stood up firm, though the building had fallen away on almost every side of it. It was rather a giddy affair at first, sitting on the top stair of a spiral staircase of which part of the walls were gone, while the bare rafters of the roof let the water be seen through them. Mildred soon grew accustomed to her place, however, and fixed her eyes on the raft with which the boys were plying in the stream. She supposed they had caught a hay-cock; for the cow was eating, very industriously,--no longer on the dunghill, but on a slip of ground which had been left dry between it and the stable. The cow had company to share her good cheer: whether invited or uninvited, there was no saying. A strange pony was there; and a sheep, and a well-grown calf. These animals all pressed upon one another on the narrow space of ground, thrusting their heads over or under one another's necks, to snatch the hay. "How hungry they are!" thought Mildred, "and how they tease one another!" She then remembered having read of men starving in a boat at sea, who became as selfish as these animals in snatching from one another their last remaining morsels of food. She hoped that she and Oliver should not be starved, at last, in the middle of this flood: but if they were, she did not believe that Oliver and she could ever snatch food from each other, or help themselves before Geordie, whatever Roger might do, or even Ailwin. Ailwin was very kind and good-tempered; but then she was apt to be so very hungry! However, there was no occasion to think of want of food yet. The meal which had been wetted, round the sides and under the lid of the chest, served well to feed the fowls; and they seemed to find something worth picking up in the mud and slime that the waters had left behind as they sank. The poor sow had farrowed too. She and her little pigs were found almost dead with hunger and wet: but the meal-chest had come just in time to save them. Ailwin had said it was worth while to spare them some of the meal; for the little pigs, if their mother was well fed, would give them many a good dinner. There was no occasion to fear want of food at present. The boys were on their raft in the middle of the stream, working away with their broad paddles, evidently wishing to catch something which was floating down. Mildred could see only a small tree bobbing about, sometimes showing its roots above water, and sometimes its leafy branches. What could they want with a young tree, so well off as they were for drier fire-wood than it would make? They were determined to have it, it was clear; for Roger threw down his paddle as they neared the tree, caught up a long rope, and gave it a cast towards the branching top as the rope went through the air, Mildred saw that it had a noose at the end. The noose caught:--the tree gave a topple in the water, when it found itself stopped in its course with a jerk; and the boys set up a shout as they pulled for the house, hauling in their prize after them. Mildred ran down the stairs as far as she dared,--almost to the very brink of the water. There she was near enough to see and hear what was doing. The tree was an apple-tree; and though the ripest apples were gone, a good many were left, which would be a treat when cooked. The boys saw her watching them, and Roger said it was not fair that she should stand idle while they were working like horses:--why should not she gather the apples before they were all knocked off, instead of keeping other people out of the stream to do such girls' work? Oliver said she had been as useful as anybody all day; and she should do as she liked now. He called out to Mildred; and asked her whether she should like to gather the apples off the tree, while they went to see what else they could find. Mildred replied that she should like it very much, if they could bring in the tree to the place where she was. Ailwin would find something for her to put the apples in. Neither the raft nor the tree, however, could be got through the breach in the wall. Oliver fetched the tub, which had been discarded since the raft had been thought of. He rowed himself to the staircase in this tub, and asked Mildred if she was afraid just to cross those few yards to the wall. He would find her a nice seat on the wall, where she could sit plucking the apples, and seeing all they did on the raft. He would be sure to come, for her, as soon as she should make a signal for him. Meantime, the tub would hold the apples. Mildred had a great fancy for sharing the boys' adventures; and though the tub looked a small, unsteady boat, she ventured to slide down into it, and sit in it, while her brother rowed her over to the broken wall. She was so silent that Oliver thought she was frightened; but she was considering whether or not to tell him of Ailwin's fears of his being on the raft with Roger. Before she had decided, they had come within hearing of Roger, and it was too late. After finding a steady broad stone in the wall for her to sit on, Oliver chose to stay a little while, to cut and break off from the trunk the branches that had the most fruit on them. This would make Mildred's work much easier. Oliver also chose, in spite of all Roger could say, to leave her one of their paddles. He considered (though he did not say it) that some accident might possibly happen to the raft, to prevent their returning for her: and he declared that Mildred should have an oar to row herself in with, if she should have a mind to join Ailwin, at any moment, instead of waiting where she was. So having moored the tub inside the house wall, and the apple-tree outside, and established Mildred on a good seat between, the boys pushed off again. Mildred found that she had undertaken a wet and dirty task. The branches of the apple-tree were dripping, and the fruit covered with slime; but these are things which must not be minded in times of flood. So she went on, often looking away, however, to wonder what things were which were swept past her, and to watch the proceedings of the boys. After a while, she became so bold as to consider what a curious thing it would be if she, without any raft, should pick up some article as valuable as any that had swum the stream. This thought was put into her head by seeing something occasionally flap out upon the surface of the muddy water, as if it were spread out below. It looked to her like the tail of a coat, or the skirt of a petticoat. She was just about to fish it up with her paddle, when it occurred to her that it might be the clothing of a drowned person. She shrank back at the thought, and in the first terror of having a dead body so near her, called Oliver's name. He did not hear; and she would not repeat the call when she saw how busy he was. She tried not to think of this piece of cloth; but it came up perpetually before her eyes, flap, flapping, till she felt that it would be best to satisfy herself at once, as to what it was. She poked her paddle underneath the flap, and found that it was caught and held down by something heavy. She tugged hard at it, and raised some more blue cloth. She did not believe there was a body now; and she laid hold of the cloth and drew it in. It was heavy in itself, and made more so by the wet, so that the little girl had to set her foot against a stone in the wall, and employ all her strength, before she could land the cloth, yard after yard, upon the wall. It was a piece of home-spun, probably laid out on the grass of some field in the Levels, after dyeing, and so carried away. When Mildred had pulled in a vast quantity, there was some resistance;--the rest would not come. Perhaps something heavy had lodged upon it, and kept it down. Again she used her paddle, setting her feet against one stone, and pressing her back against another, to give her more power. In the midst of the effort, the stone behind her gave way. It was her paddle now, resting against some support under water, which saved her from popping into the water with the great stone. As it was, she swayed upon her seat, and was very nearly gone, while the heavy stone slid in, and raised a splash which wetted her from head to foot, and left her trembling in every limb. She had fancied, once or twice before, that the wall shook under her: she was now persuaded that it was all shaking, and would soon be carried quite away. She screamed out to Oliver to come and save her. She must have called very loud; for Ailwin, with George in her arms, was out on the staircase in a moment. There was a scuffle on the raft. It seemed as if Oliver was paddling with one hand, and keeping off Roger with the other. It was terrible to see them,--it was so like fighting, in a most dangerous place. There was a splash. Mildred's eyes grew dim in a moment, and she could see nothing: but she heard Ailwin's voice,--very joyful,--calling out to Oliver,-- "Well done, Oliver! Well rid of him! Pull away from him, Oliver! He is full able to take care of himself, depend upon it. He was never made to be drowned. Come and help Mildred, there's a dear! Never mind Roger." Mildred soon saw the raft approaching her, with Oliver alone upon it. "Oh! Oliver, where is he? What have you done?" cried Mildred, as her brother arrived at the wall. Oliver was very hot, and his lips quivered as he answered,-- "I don't know what I have done. I could not help it. He wanted me not to come to you when you screamed. He wanted to catch the chest instead. I tripped him up--off into the water. He can swim. But there is the tub--give me hold of the rope--quick! I will send it out into the stream. He may meet it." Down went all the gathered apples into the water, within the wall, and off went the tub outside. Oliver fastened the line round a heavy stone in the wall. "I wish I had never screamed!" exclaimed Mildred. "I am sure I wish so too. You _must_ leave off screaming so, Mildred. I am sure I thought you were in the water, in the middle of all that splash, or I should not have been in such a hurry. If Roger should be drowned, it will be all your doing, for screaming so." Mildred did not scream now; but she cried very bitterly. It was soon seen, however, that Roger was safe. He was swimming in the still water on the opposite side, and presently landed beside the pony and cow. He left off wringing the wet out of his hair and clothes, to shake both his fists at Oliver in a threatening way. "Oh, look at him! He will kill you!" cried Mildred. "I never will scream again." "Never mind, as long as he is safe," said Oliver. "I don't care for his shaking his fists. It was my business to save you, before caring about him, or all the chests in the Levels. Never mind now, dear. You wont scream again without occasion, I know. What made you do so? You can't think what a shriek it was. It went through my head." "Part of the wall fell; and the whole of it shakes so, I am sure it will all be down presently. I wish we were at home. But what shall we ever do about Roger? He will kill you, if you go near him: and he can't stay there." "Leave Roger to me," said Oliver, feeling secretly some of his sister's fear of the consequences of what had just passed. He stepped on the wall, and was convinced that it was shaking,--almost rocking. He declared that it was quite unsafe, and that he must look to the remaining walls before they slept another night in the building. Mildred must get upon the raft immediately. What was that heap of blue cloth? Mildred explained, and the cloth was declared too valuable to be left behind. Two pairs of hands availed to pull up the end which stuck under water, and then the children found themselves in possession of a whole piece of home-spun. "May we use it? We did not make it, or buy it," said Mildred. "I thought of that too," replied her brother. "We will see about that. It is our business to save it, at any rate; so help me with it. How heavy it is with the water!" They pulled a dozen apples, and rowed away home with their prize. Ailwin said, as she met them on the stairs, that she was glad enough to see them home again; and more especially without Roger. "Roger must be fetched, however," said Oliver, "and the sooner the better." "Oh not yet!" pleaded Mildred. "He is so angry!" "That is the very thing," said Oliver. "I want to show him that I tripped him over, not in anger, but because I could not help it. He will never believe but that it was malice, from beginning to end, if I do not go for him directly." "But he will thrash you. You know he can. He is ever so much stronger than you; and he is in such a passion, I do not know what he may not do." "What can I do?" said Oliver. "I can't leave him there, standing dripping wet, with the cow and the pony." "Would it be of any use if I were to go with you, and say it was all my fault?" asked Mildred, trembling. "No, no; you must not go." "I would go, if there was no water between, and if Mildred would take care of the baby," said Ailwin. "Oh do,--do go! You are so strong!" said both the children. "Why, you see, I can't abide going on the water, any way, and never could: and most of all without so much as a boat." "But I will row you as carefully," said Oliver, "as safely as in any boat. You see how often we have crossed, and how easy it is. You cannot think what care I will take of you, if you will go." "Then there's the coming back," objected Ailwin. "If I am on board the same raft with Roger, we shall all go to the bottom, that's certain!" "How often have I been to the bottom? And yet I have been on the raft with Roger, ever since it was made." "Well, and think how near Mildred was going to the bottom, only just now. I declare I thought we had seen the last of her." "Roger had nothing to do with that, you know very well. But I will tell you how we can manage. You can carry your pail over, and,--(never mind its being so early)--you can be milking the cow while I bring Roger over here; and I can come back for you. That will do,--wont it? Come,-- fetch your pail. Depend upon it that is the best plan." Mildred remembered, with great fear, that by this plan Roger would be left with her and George while Oliver went to fetch Ailwin home: but she did not say a word, feeling that she who had caused the mischief ought not to object to Oliver's plan for getting out of the scrape. She need not have feared that Oliver would neglect her feelings. Just before he put off with Ailwin and her milk-pail, he said to his sister-- "I shall try to set Roger down somewhere, so that he cannot plague you and George; but you had better bolt yourself into the room up-stairs when you see us coming; and on no account open the door again till I bid you." Mildred promised, and then sat down with George asleep on her lap, to watch the event. She saw Ailwin make some odd gestures as she stood on the raft, balancing herself as if she thought the boards would gape under her feet. Oliver paddled diligently, looking behind him oftener and oftener, as he drew near the landing-place, as if to learn what Roger meant to do when they came within his reach. The moment the boys were within arm's length of each other, Roger sprang furiously upon Oliver, and would have thrown him down in an instant, if Oliver had not expected this, and been upon his guard. Oliver managed to jump ashore; and there the boys fought fiercely. There could be no doubt from the beginning which would be beaten,--Roger was so much the taller and stronger of the two, and so much the less peaceable in all his habits than Oliver: but yet Oliver made good fight for some time, before he was knocked down completely. Roger was just about to give his fallen enemy a kick in the stomach, when Ailwin seized him, and said she was not going to see her young master killed before her face, by boy or devil, whichever Roger might be. She tripped him up; and before Oliver had risen, Roger lay sprawling, with Ailwin kneeling upon him to keep him down. Roger shouted out that they were two to one,--cowards, to fight him two to one! "I am as sorry for that as you can be," said Oliver, dashing away the blood which streamed from his nose. "I wish I were as old and as tall as you: but I am not. And this is no fighting for play, when it would not signify if I was beaten every day for a week. Here are Mildred and the baby; I have to take care of them till we know what has become of my father and mother: and if you try to prevent me, I will get Ailwin, or anybody or thing I can, to help me, sooner than they shall be hurt. If father and mother ever come back to take care of Mildred, I will fight you every day till I beat you, and let nobody interfere: but till then, I will go to Mildred as often as she calls, if you drown for it, as I showed you this morning." Roger answered only by fresh kicks and struggles. Ailwin said aloud that she saw nothing for it but leaving him on this spit of land, to starve on the dunghill. There would be no taking him over to the house in this temper. Roger vowed he would drown all the little pigs, and hough the cow. He had done such a thing before; and he would do it again; so that they should not have a drop more milk for George. "That will never do," said Oliver. "Ailwin, do you think we could get him over to the Red-hill? He would have plenty to eat there, and might do as he pleased, and be out of our way and the cow's. I could carry him his dog." Ailwin asked Oliver to bring her the cord from off the raft, and they two could tie up the boy from doing mischief. Oliver brought the cord, but he could not bear to think of using it so. "Come, now, Roger," said he, "you picked this quarrel; and you may get out of it in a moment. We don't want to quarrel at such a time as this. Never mind what has happened. Only say you wont meddle between me and the others while the flood lasts; and you shall help me to row home, and I will thank you. After all, we can fight it out some other day, if you like." More kicks from Roger. No other answer. So Oliver and Ailwin tied his arms and legs with the cord; and then Ailwin proceeded to milk the cow, and Oliver, after washing his face, to give the pony some more hay, and see how the little pigs went on. The animals were all drooping, and especially the cow. Oliver wished to have given the pigs some of her milk, as the poor sow seemed weak and ill; but the cow gave so very little milk this afternoon, that there was none to spare. Her legs trembled as she stood to be milked; and she lay down again, as soon as Ailwin had done. "The poor thing ain't long for this world," said Ailwin. "Depend upon it that boy has bewitched her. I don't believe she trembles in that way when he is on the other side of the water." "You will see that in the morning," said Oliver. "Shall we take him on the raft now? I don't like to carry him tied so, for fear he should throw himself about, and roll over into the water. He would certainly be drowned." "Leave that to him, Oliver: and take my word for it, that boy was never made to be drowned." "You thought the same about Stephen, you know; and he is drowned, I am afraid." "Neither you nor I know that. I will believe it when I see it," said Ailwin with a wise look. It was now Roger's mood to lie like one dead. He did not move a muscle when he was lifted, and laid on the raft. Ailwin was so delighted to see the boy she was so afraid of thus humbled, that she could not help giving his face a splash and rub with the muddy water of the stream as he lay. "Ailwin, for shame!" cried Oliver. "I will fight you next, if you do so. You know you durst not, if his hands were free." "To be sure, Oliver, that is the very reason. One must take one's revenge while one can. However, I wont notice him any more till you do." "Cannot you set down your pail, and help me to row?" asked Oliver. He was quite tired. The raft was heavy now; his nose had not left off bleeding, and his head ached sadly. Three pulls from Ailwin brought them nearer home than all Oliver's previous efforts. He observed that they must get round the house, if possible, and into the stream which ran through the garden, so as to land Roger on the Red-hill. There was not much difficulty in getting round, as everything like a fence had long been swept away. As they passed near the entrance-door to the garden, they observed that the waters were still sinking. They stood now only half-way up the door-posts. Oliver declared that when he was a little less tired, he would go through the lower rooms in a tub, and see whether he could pick up anything useful. He feared, however, that almost everything must have been swept off through the windows, in the water-falls that Mildred had thought so pretty, the first day of the flood. "There is a chest!" exclaimed Oliver, pointing to a little creek in which a stout chest had stuck. "Roger, I do believe it is the very chest that ... that we began our quarrel about. Come, now, is not this a sign that we ought to make it up?" Roger would not appear to hear: so his companions made short work of it. They pulled in for the shore of the Red-hill, and laid Roger on the slimy bank:--for they saw no occasion to carry one so heavy and so sulky up to the nice bed of grass which was spread at the top of the red precipice that the waters had cut Oliver knew that there was a knife in Roger's pocket. He took it out, cut the cord which tied his wrists, and threw the knife to a little distance, where Roger could easily reach it in order to free his legs; but not in time to overtake them before they should have put off again. Roger made one catch at Oliver's leg, but missing it, lay again as if dead; and Ailwin believed he had not yet stirred when the raft rounded the house again, with the great chest in tow. Mildred was delighted to see them back, and especially without Roger. She thought Oliver's face looked very shocking, but Oliver would not say a word about this, or anything else, till he had found Roger's dog, and gone over in the basket, to set him ashore with his master. "There!" said he, as he stepped in at the window when this was accomplished, "we have done their business. There they are, in their desert island, as they were before. Now we need not think any more about them, but attend to our own affairs." "Your face, Oliver! Pray do--" "Never mind my face, dear, if it does not frighten poor Geordie. How is poor Geordie?" "I do not think he is any better. I never saw him so fretful, and so hot and ill. And he cries so dreadfully!" CHAPTER EIGHT. NEW QUARTERS. Ailwin presently made George's supper, with milk, a little thickened with meal. They were all about the child, watching how he would take it, when a loud crack was heard. "What is that?" cried Oliver. "It is a crack," said Ailwin, "in the wall or somewhere. I heard just such a one while Mildred was gone out to play, after dinner." "And there was another while you were away," said Mildred. "Some plaster fell that time:--look here! In this corner.--What is the matter, Oliver? What makes you look so frightened? What does it mean?" "It means, I am afraid, that more of the house is coming down. Look at this great zigzag crack in the wall!--and how loose the plaster hangs in that part of the ceiling! I really think,--I am quite sure, we ought not to stay here any longer." "But where can we go? What shall we do?" "We must think about that, and lose no time. I think this room will fall very soon." Mildred could not help crying, and saying that they could not settle themselves, and rest at all. She never saw anything like it. They were all so tired they did not know what to do; and now they should have to work as hard as ever. She never saw anything like it. "No, dear, never," said her brother: "and thousands of people, far older than you, never saw anything like this flood. But you know, Mildred, we must not die, if we can help it." This reminded Mildred who it was that set them these heavy tasks,--that bade them thus labour to preserve the lives He gave. She was silent. Oliver went on-- "If ever we meet father and mother again, we shall not mind our having been ever so much tired now. We shall like telling them all our plans and doings, if it should please God that we should ever sit with them by the fire-side." "Or whenever we meet them in heaven, if they should not be alive now," said Mildred. "Yes, dear; but we will talk over all that when we get to the Red-hill:--we must not talk any more now, but set to work. However, I really think, Mildred, that father and mother are still alive somewhere. I feel as if they were." "But the Red-hill," said Mildred, "what do you mean about the Red-hill? We are not going there, where Roger is,--are we?" "We must, dear. There is no other place. Roger is very unkind: but floods and falling houses are unkinder still. Come, Ailwin, help me with the raft. We must carry away what we can before dark. There will be no house standing to-morrow morning, I am afraid." "Sleep on the ground!" exclaimed Ailwin. "Without a roof to cover us! My poor grandfather little thought I should ever come to that." "If you will move the beds, you need not sleep on the bare ground," said Oliver. "Now, Ailwin, don't you begin to cry. Pray don't. You are a grown-up woman, and Mildred and I are only children. You ought to take care of us, instead of beginning to cry." "That is pretty true," said Ailwin: "but I little thought ever to sleep without a roof over my head." "Come, come, there are the trees," said Oliver. "They are something of a roof, while the leaves are on." "And there is all that cloth," said Mildred; "that immensely long piece of cloth. Would not that make a tent, somehow?" "Capital!" cried Oliver. "How well we shall be off with a cloth tent! It seems as if that cloth was sent on purpose. It is so spoiled already, that we can hardly do it any harm. And I am sure the person that wove it would be very glad that it should cover our heads to-night. I shall carry it and you across before anything else--this very minute. I will run down and bring the raft round to the door below. The water is low enough now for you to get out that way.--Oh dear! I wish I was not so tired! I can hardly move. But I must forget all that; for it will not do to stay here." While he was gone, Mildred asked Ailwin whether she was very tired. "Pretty much; but not so bad as he," replied Ailwin. "Then do not you think you and I could fetch off a good many things, while he watches Geordie on the grass? If you thought you could row the raft, I am sure I could carry a great many things down-stairs, and land them on the hill." Ailwin had no doubt she could row, in such a narrow and gentle stream as now ran through the garden. She made the trial first when Oliver was on board, and several other times with Mildred, succeeding always very well. Oliver was extremely glad of this; for the bridge-basket had been used so much, and sometimes for such heavy weights, that it was wearing out, and might break down at any moment. The bridge-rope, too, being the stoutest cord they had, was very useful for tying the raft to the trunk of the beech, so that it could not be carried away. When once this rope was well fastened, Oliver was content to rest himself on the grass beside Geordie, and let the strong Ailwin and little Mildred work as they wished. It surprised him, well as he knew Ailwin, to see the loads she could carry, bringing a good-sized mattress up the bank as easily as he could have carried a pillow. She wrung the wet out of the long piece of home-spun, and spread it out in the sun, to dry as much as it could before dark, and seemed to think no more of it than Mildred did of washing her doll's petticoat. Mildred took charge of the lighter articles that required care--her mother's china, for one thing; for it was found that nothing made of earthenware remained unbroken in the lower rooms. There were some pewter plates, which were now lodged under the beech, together with pots and pans, knives and forks, and horn spoons. There was no table light enough to be moved, but a small one of deal, which Ailwin dragged out from under water, with all its legs broken: but enough of it remained entire to make it preferable to the bare ground for preparing their food on, when once it should be dry. There was a stool a-piece--not forgetting one for Roger; and Mildred took care that Geordie should have his own little chair. Not even Ailwin could carry a chest of drawers: but she carried down the separate drawers, with the clothes of the family in them. No one of the household had ever seen a carpet; but there was matting on some of the floors. Ailwin pulled up pieces of this, to be some protection against the damp and insects of the ground. "It is as wet as water now," said she; "but we must not quarrel with anything to-day on that account; and matting will dry on the hill better than at home. If it turns out rotten, we must try and spare a piece of the cloth from overhead, to lay underfoot: but George will feel it more like home, if he has a bit of matting to trip his little foot against." So down-stairs went a great bundle of wet matting. "Will not that do for to-night?" asked Oliver, languidly, as he saw Ailwin preparing to put off again, when the sun was just touching the western hills. "You know we have to put up the tent, and get something to eat before we can go to sleep; and it has been such a long, long day!" "As you please," said Ailwin; "but you said the house would be down in the night; and there are many things yet that we should be sorry to have to do without." "Never mind them:--let them go, I am sure we all want to be asleep more than anything else." "Sleep, indeed! Do you suppose I shall sleep with that boy hid among the trees? Not I, you may rely upon it. Those may that can: and I will watch." No one had yet mentioned Roger, though all felt that his presence was a terrible drawback to the comfort of their establishment on the hill, which might otherwise be, in fine weather, a tolerably pleasant one. It made Oliver indignant to think that a stout lad, whom they had wished to make welcome to all they had, in their common adversity, should be skulking in the wood as an enemy, instead of helping them in their labours, under circumstances in which all should be friends. This thought made Oliver so angry that he did not choose to speak of Roger. When Ailwin offered to seek him out, and do her best to tie his limbs again, and carry him away to any place the children chose, Oliver begged her to say no more about it; and observed that they had better forget Roger altogether, if they could, unless he should come to make peace. There was one, however, who could not for a moment forget who was the cause of the late quarrel. Mildred was very unhappy at the thought of the mischief she had done by her shriek. Not all her hard toil of this evening could console her. When the cloth had been spread over the lower branches of a great ash, so as to shelter the party, in a careless way, for this one night (when there was no time to make a proper tent), and while Ailwin was heating something for supper, and Oliver dozing with George on one of the beds, Mildred stole away, to consider whether there was anything that she could do to cure Roger's anger. It did her good, at least, to sit down and think about it. She sat down under a tree, above where the bee-shed had stood. The moon had just risen, and was very bright, being near the full. The clouds seemed to have come down out of the sky, to rest upon the earth; for white vapours, looking as soft as wreaths of snow, were hovering over the wide waste of waters. Some of these were gently floating or curling, while others brooded still, like large white birds over their hidden nests. It seemed to Mildred's eye, however, as if a clear path had been cut through these mists, from the Red-hill to the moon on the horizon, and as if this path had been strewed with quivering moonbeams. She forgot, while gazing, that she was looking out upon the carr,--upon muddy waters which covered the ruins of many houses, and in which were hidden the bodies of drowned animals, and perhaps of some people. She looked upon the train of trembling light, and felt not only how beautiful it was, but that He whose hand kindled that mild heavenly lamp, and poured out its rays before his children's eyes, would never forget and forsake them. While everything was made so beautiful as to seem ordered for the pleasure of men, their lives and common comforts could not be overlooked. So plain did this now appear to Mildred, that she felt less and less anxious and fearful; and, after a time, as if she was afraid of nothing at all, and could never be afraid again. She determined to go and seek Roger,--not with any wish like Ailwin's, that he could be bound by force, and carried away, to be alone and miserable,--but with a much happier hope and purpose. She did not think he would hurt her; but, if he did, she had rather that he should strike her than that Oliver and he should fight, day after day, as Ailwin had whispered to her they meant to do. She did not believe he could come to blows with Oliver again, after she had taken all the blame upon herself. So she set forth to do so. She went on quickly enough while she was upon the slope, in the full moonlight, and with the blaze of Ailwin's fire not far off on her right hand. But she felt the difference when she entered the shade of the trees. It was rather chilly there, and very silent. There was only a rustle in the grass and brambles about her feet, as if she disturbed some small animals hidden there. When she thought she was far enough away from her party not to be heard by them, she began to call softly, hoping that Roger might presently answer, so that she should not have to go much further into the darkness. But she heard nothing but her own voice, as she called, "Roger! Where are you, Roger? I want to speak to you." Further and further on she went; and still there was no reply. Though she knew every inch of her way, she tripped several times over the roots of the trees; and once she fell. She saw the stars in the spaces of the wood, as she looked up, and knew that she should soon come out upon the grass again. But when she did so, she found it almost as dark as in the wood, though the moon shone on the waters afar. She still went on calling Roger--now a little louder, till she stumbled over something which was not the root of a tree, for it was warm, and it growled. "Bishop!" she exclaimed, in alarm; for next to Roger, she had always been afraid of Roger's dog. "Why don't you call him Spy?" said Roger's voice, from the ground just before her. "What business have you to call him by his wrong name?--how is he ever to learn his name if people come calling him by the wrong one? Get away--will you? I know what I'll do if you come here, spoiling my dog." "I will go back directly when I have said one thing. It was all my fault that you and Oliver quarrelled this morning. I was frightened, and screamed when I ought not; and it is my fault that you are not now by our fire, getting your supper with us, in our tent. I am sure, I wish you were there." "Very fine," said Roger. "He knows I thrashed him; and he does not want any more of it. But I'll thrash him as long as I live; I tell you that." "Oliver does not know about my coming--he is asleep in the tent," protested Mildred. "Nobody knows of my coming. I don't believe Oliver would have let me come, if he had known it. Only go and look yourself; and you will see how he lies asleep on the grass. We know you can beat him in fighting, because you are so much bigger; and that is why I cannot bear that he should fight. It was all about me this time; and I know he will never give up; and I don't know how long it will be before he is big enough to thrash you." "Long enough, I can tell you: so get away, and let me go to sleep; or I'll thrash you too." "How can you talk so, Roger, and keep your anger so, when we are all so unhappy? I did not wonder much before, when Ailwin had to help Oliver... That was enough to make you or anybody be angry. But now, when I come to tell you how sorry I am, and that I know, if I ask Oliver, that he will be glad to forget everything, and that you should come to supper with us, instead of lying here in the dark, with nothing to eat, I do think you ought to forgive and forget; to forgive me, and forget all about thrashing Oliver." Roger made no answer. "Good-bye, Roger," said Mildred. "I am sorry that you choose to lie here, hungry and cold, instead of..." "What business have you in my island?" interrupted Roger, fiercely. "How dared you settle upon my ground, to mock me with your fire and your supper? I'll have my fire and my supper too." "I hope you will, if you will not come to ours. We were obliged to settle here--the house is all cracking, and falling to pieces. We were very sorry to come,--we were all so tired;--but we dared not stay in the house." Roger uttered an exclamation which showed that a new light had broken upon him, as to the causes of their removal. "Poor Geordie is so ill, we were most sorry to have to move him. The time will come, Roger, though you don't think so now, when you will be vexed that while we cannot tell whether father and mother are alive or dead, and whether George will live or die, you put the pain of quarrels upon us too." "Well, get you gone now!" said Roger, not immediately discovering that she was some paces on her way home again before he said that much. Mildred heard Ailwin calling her to supper, as she drew near the tent. She did not say where she had been; but perhaps she was more on the watch, in consequence of what had passed. She soon saw that Roger was sauntering under the trees; and indeed what she had said, and what he now saw together, had altered Roger's mind. He was hungry, and once more tired of being alone and sulky. He was thinking how comfortable the fire and the steaming kettle looked, and considering how he should make his approach, when Mildred jumped up, and came running to him. "They don't know that I came to find you," said she. "Oliver will think it so kind of you to come and be friends! He will be so pleased! And there is plenty of supper for everybody." She ventured to put her hand in his, and lead him forwards into the light. She told Oliver that Roger was willing to forgive and forget; and Oliver said that he was quite willing too. Oliver set a stool for Roger, and offered him his own basin of broth. Ailwin held her tongue;--which was the most that could be expected of her. Roger did not quite know what to say and do, when he had finished his supper, and fed Spy. He swung his legs, as he sat upon his stool, stared into the fire, and began to whistle. Roger's shrillest whistle, as it had been sometimes heard in the carr, was anything but agreeable: but his low whistle, when he was not thinking about it, was soft and sweet. A gentle chuckle was soon heard from George, as he lay across Mildred's knees. "He likes it! He likes such a whistle as that!" exclaimed Mildred. Her eyes said to Roger, "Do go on!" Roger went on whistling, better and better,--more and more softly, he drawing nearer, till he quite bent over the poor sick child, who, after many signs of pleasure, dropped off into a sleep,--a quiet, sound sleep. "Thank you!" said Oliver, heartily. "Thank you, Roger!" "You will do it again to-morrow, will not you, if he should be fretful?" said Mildred. Roger nodded. Then he made the cloth drapery hang better over the pillows on which the child was laid,--so as to keep off the dew completely, he said. Then he nodded again, when Oliver gave him a blanket: and once more he nodded good night, before he rolled himself up in it under a neighbouring tree. CHAPTER NINE. ONE PRISONER RELEASED. In the morning, it appeared that it had been right to remove to the Red-hill the night before. Only some fragments of the roof of the house remained. Some beams and a quantity of rubbish had fallen into the room where the party had lived since the flood came; and a heap of this rubbish lay on the very spot where Mildred would have been sleeping if they had stayed. All saw and considered this with awe. Roger himself looked first at the little girl, and then at that part of the ruin, as if imagining what it would have been for her to be lying there, and wondering to see her standing here, alive and unhurt. "Look how that wall stands out;" said Oliver. "The faster the house falls, the more haste we must make to save what we can." "Oh! Cannot you stay quietly to-day?" asked Mildred. "I think we have got all we really want; and this bustle and hurry and hard work every day are so tiresome! Cannot we keep still and rest to-day?" "To-morrow, dear," replied her brother. "To-morrow is Sunday! And we will try to rest. But there is no knowing how long we may have to live in this place, in the middle of the waters; and it is my duty to save everything I can that can make George and you and the rest of us comfortable when the colder weather comes on." "I wonder what all the world is about, that nobody comes to see after us," said Mildred, sighing. "Out of sight, out of mind, Mildred," said Ailwin. "That is the way, all the world over." "I am sure it is not," said Oliver. "Mildred and I say as little as we can about father and mother, but don't you imagine such a thing as that they are out of our minds. I know Mildred never shuts her eyes, but she sees the mill floating away, as it did that evening, and father standing..." He could not go on about that. Presently he said, "When the flood came, I suppose, there were no boats to be had. It would take the first day to bring them from a distance, and get them afloat. Then the people would look round (as they ought to do) to see where they could do most good. Nobody who looked through a glass this way, since the day before yesterday, and saw those rafters sticking up in the air,--the house in ruins as it is,--would suppose that any one could be left alive here. From a distance, they can hardly fancy that even any little mouse could help being either drowned or starved. This will be about the last spot in the Levels that any boat will come to.--You see, Mildred, our Red-hill, though it is everything to us, is but a speck compared with the grounds that have stood above water since the waters began to sink. We had better not think of anything but living on as we can, unless it should please God that we should die." Roger did not want to hear anything more of this kind; so he went to where George was lying, and began to whistle softly to him. The child was so altered that his own mother would hardly have known him: but he smiled when he heard the whistle; and the smile was his own. He put up his hand and patted Roger's face, and even pulled his hair with a good stout pull. Roger had been used to nurse his dog, though not little children. He now took George into his arms, and laid him comfortably across his knees, while he whistled till the little fellow looked full in his face, and puckered up his poor white lips, as if he would whistle too. This made Roger laugh aloud; and then George laughed. Ailwin heard them, and peeped into the corner of the tent where they were. She flew to Oliver, to tell him that Roger was at his tricks worse than ever,--he was bewitching the baby. She was angry at Oliver for telling his sister, when he had looked in too, that they might have been very glad any of them, to bewitch poor baby in this manner, when he was crying so sadly all yesterday. Mildred, for her part, ran to thank Roger, and say how glad she should be to be able to whistle as he could. "How should you?" said Roger,--"you who never had a dog, or caught any sort of a bird in your life, I dare say." "No, I never could. One day, long ago, when mother was very busy, and I was tired of playing, she gave me some salt into my hand, and told me I might put it upon the birds' tails in the garden, and so catch them: but I did not get one. At last, half the salt was spilt, and the other half was melted in my hand; and then dinner was ready. I suppose that was a joke of mother's." "She wanted you out of the way; and what a fool you must have been not to find that out! Why, the birds could not have been sillier, if they had let you put the salt upon their tails." "It was a long while ago," pleaded Mildred. "Here, take him," said Roger, popping George into her arms. "Show him how to catch birds if you like. I can't spend my time any longer here." "How he cries after you!" exclaimed Mildred. It was the first time Roger had ever known anybody to be sorry for his going away. The child was certainly crying after him. He half turned back, but turned again, saying-- "Can't you tell him I will come again by-and-by? I must be off now." The truth was, Roger had never forgotten the chest--the oaken chest which looked so tempting when he saw it floating down, and Oliver would not stop to catch it,--the stout chest which he knew to be now safe and sound somewhere about the house, unless harm had happened to it during the night. Oliver agreed that it was of importance to bring this chest on shore: and the boys lost no time in doing it. Mildred came out with George to watch their proceedings, and found that Oliver had already made one trip, and brought over some articles of use and value. He came up to his sister, with something which he held carefully covered up in both hands. He said gravely-- "Here, dear, put this in some safe place,--where no one will know of it but you and me." "A watch!--mother's watch!" "I found it, with several things in her cupboard, thrown down by the wall breaking." "It does not seem to be hurt," observed Mildred. "And how often you have wished for a watch!" "I think I shall never wish for anything again," said Oliver. Mildred saw his face as he turned away, and began to consider where she could put the watch, so that it might be safe, and that Roger might not see it, nor Oliver be reminded of it. Ailwin and Roger were meantime disputing about which should have the raft first,--Roger wanting to secure the chest, and Ailwin insisting that it was high time the cow was milked. Oliver said he was master here in his father's absence, and he would have no quarrels. All three should go on the raft. Roger should be landed at the staircase, where he could be collecting what he wanted to bring over, while Oliver proceeded to set Ailwin ashore beside the cow. By working to the number of three, in harmony, far more would be gained than by using up strength in fighting and disputing. He did not care how many times he crossed the water this day, if those whom he rowed would but keep the peace. He would willingly be their servant in rowing, though he chose to be their master in deciding. Ailwin stared at Oliver. It had struck her, and Mildred too, that Oliver seemed to have grown many years older since the flood came. He was no taller, and no stronger;--indeed he seemed to-day to be growing weaker with fatigue; but he was not the timid boy he had always appeared before. He spoke like a man; and there was the spirit of a man in his eyes. It was not a singular instance. There have been other cases in which a timid boy has been made a man of, on a sudden, by having to protect, from danger or in sorrow, some weaker than himself. Roger felt something of the truth; and this had as much to do with making him quiet and tractable to-day as his interest about George, or his liking to live in a tent with companions, rather than in the open air and alone. Ailwin was but a short time gone. She came up the bank to Mildred, swinging her empty milk-pail, and sobbing, as if from the bottom of her heart. Mildred did not think she had ever seen Ailwin cry so before; and she could imagine nothing now but that Oliver was lost. She turned so giddy in a moment that she could not see Ailwin, and so sick that she could not speak to her. "So you have heard, Mildred,--you have heard, I see by your being so white. Oliver says she has been dead ever so many hours. I say, if we had gone the first thing, instead of staring and poking about yon tumble-down house, we might have saved her. I shall never milk her again,--not a drop!--nor any other either, so far as I see; for there is no saying that we shall ever get away. Here I have not a drop of milk to give you, my dear, though you are as white as the wall." "Never mind," gasped Mildred, "if it is only the cow. I thought it had been Oliver." "Oliver! Bless your heart! There he is as busy about the house and things, as if nothing had happened; and just as provoking as you for caring nothing about the poor cow. There she lies, poor soul! Dead and cold, half in the water, and half out. She was worth you two put together, for some things,--I can tell you that." "Indeed I am very sorry," said Mildred; and as she saw George pulling about the empty can, she melted into tears, which would come faster and faster till Oliver again stood by her side. She tried to tell him what she had been afraid of, and how she thought she should not have cried but for that;--or, at least, not so much; but she really could not explain what she felt, her sobs came so thick. "I do not know exactly what you mean, dear," said Oliver; "but I understand that you must be crying about the cow. I am very sorry,-- very. I had rather have lost anything we have left than the cow, now George is so ill."--Here he bit his lip, and looked away from George, lest he should cry like his sister. He went on, however, talking rather quickly at first, but becoming more composed as he proceeded. He said, "I have been thinking that it will never do for us who may be near losing everything we have, and our lives, after all, to grieve over each separate loss as it happens. When you said your prayers the first night of the flood..." "How long ago that does seem!" exclaimed Mildred. "It does, indeed!" replied Oliver, glad to hear her say something distinctly. "When we said our prayers that night, and whenever we have said them since, we begged that we might be able to bear dying in this flood,--to bear whatever it pleased God to do. Now, our right way is to make up our minds at once to everything, and just in the way it pleases God. Let us try to bear it cheerfully, whether we lose the cow or anything else first; or whether we all die together. That is the way, Mildred!--And if you and I should not die together, that must be the way too." "I hope we shall though." "I think it is very likely; and that before long. And then how useless it will have been to be unhappy about anything we can lose here! People who may be so near to death need not be anxious about this and that, like those who seem to have long to live. So come, dear, and see this chest; and help us to settle what should be done with it." There was nothing about the outside of the chest to show whose it might be. Everybody agreed that it ought to be opened immediately, lest all that it contained should be spoiled by the wet. But how to open it was the question; for it had a very stout lock, and strong hinges. After many attempts, it was found that nothing short of proper tools would answer the purpose: and Oliver went to see if his could be reached. Through piles of rubbish, and a puddle of slimy water, he got to the spot where he had left them,--hidden behind straw, that the Redfurns might not discover and spoil them. The straw was washed away, and his beautiful lump of alabaster reduced to slime; but his tools were there,--in no very bright condition, but safe. He hastened away from the spot; for thoughts crowded upon his mind of the day when he had last used these tools, and the way of life in which he and Mildred had been so happy, and which seemed now to be over for ever. He thought of the beautiful stone carvings over the doorway, and of what Pastor Dendel had said to him about them. They had fallen; and who knew what had become of kind Pastor Dendel? The garden, with all its fresh green and gay blossoms, was now a muddy stream; rank smells and thick mists now came up from what had been meadows and corn-fields; and his father, whose manly voice had been daily heard singing from the mill, where was he? It would not do to stay thinking of these things; so Oliver hastened back with his tools, and with the heavy kitchen hammer, which he also found. None of these would open the chest. The party managed it at last by heating a large nail, which they drew out from a shattered door-post, and burning holes in the wood of the chest, close by the nails which fastened the hinges, so as to loosen them, and make them drop out. The lid being raised, a great variety of articles was found within, so nicely packed that the wet had penetrated but a very little way. Mildred had looked on thoughtfully; and she saw that Oliver paused when the contents lay open to view. She looked in her brother's face, and said-- "I wonder who this chest belonged to?" "I was just thinking so," observed Oliver. "Never mind that," said Ailwin. "We may know, some day or other, or we may not. Meantime, it is ours. Come, make haste, and see what there is to wrap up poor baby in, on cold nights." "We will look for something of that sort,--I am sure we might use such a thing as that," said Oliver: "but..." "But," said Mildred, "I don't think these other things are ours, any more than they ever were. Nobody ever gave them to us. They have belonged to somebody else;--to somebody that may be wondering at this moment where they are." "Nonsense, Mildred!" exclaimed Ailwin. "Who gave you the harness that braces the raft, or the meal you have been living on these two days, I wonder: and how do you know but somebody is hungry, and longing for it, at this minute?" "I wish they had it, then," replied Mildred. "But, Oliver, were we wrong to use the meal? I never thought of that." "Nor I: but I think we were right enough there. The meal would all have been spoiled presently; and meal (and the harness too) is a sort of thing that we can pay for, or make up for in some way, if ever we can meet with the people who lost that chest." "And George, and all of us, might have starved without it." "Yes: we must take what we want to eat, when it comes in our way, and there is nobody to ask leave of: and, if ever we get out of this place, we can inquire who lost a meal-chest or set of harness, and offer to pay for what we took. But I do think it is different with these things." "So do I," said Mildred. "Those table-cloths, and that embroidered cap,--somebody has taken pains to make them, and might not like to sell them. And look! Look at Roger! He has pulled out a great heavy bag of money." "Now, Roger, put that bag where you found it," said Oliver. "It is none of yours." "How do I know that I shall find it again, the next time I look?" replied Roger, walking off with the bag. Mildred was afraid of Oliver's following him, and of another quarrel happening. She put her arm within her brother's, and he could easily guess why. "Don't be afraid, dear," he said. "If Roger chooses to do a dishonest thing, it is his own affair. We have warned him; and that is all we have to do with it. We must be honest ourselves,--that is all." "Then I think we had better not look any further into the chest," said Mildred; "only just to find something warm to wrap Geordie in. The clothes look so nice--we might fancy we wanted things that we can very well do without." "I am not much afraid of that," replied her brother: "and it would be a pity the things should spoil with the damp. They would be dry in an hour in this warm sun; and we could pack them away again before night." "Roger will never let you do that," declared Ailwin. "Not a rag will he leave to anybody that you don't stow away while he is out of sight. Never did I see such perverse children as you, and so thankless for God's gifts. I should be ashamed to be no more grateful than you for what He puts into your very hands." Mildred looked at her brother now with a different face. She was perplexed and alarmed; but she saw that Oliver was not. "Roger cannot carry off anything," he replied. "He may bury and hide what he pleases; but they will all be somewhere about the Red-hill; and we can tell anybody who comes to fetch us off whatever we know about the goods." "Nobody will ever come and fetch us off," said Ailwin, beginning to cry. "The people at a distance don't care a straw what becomes of us; and you children here at hand are so perverse and troublesome, I don't know how to bear my life between you." "If nobody comes to save us," said Oliver, calmly, "I do not see what good this money and these fine clothes will do to Roger and you." "Roger and me! Pray what do you mean by that?" "I mean that you and he are for taking these things that do not belong to us; and Mildred and I are against it. Only tell me this one thing, Ailwin. Do you believe that your cloak and stockings were sent in Nan Redfurn's way, that she might take them? And do you think it would have been perverse in her not to run away with them?" "Now, Oliver, what nonsense you talk! As if I wanted a rag of these things for my own wear! As if I would touch a penny that was not honestly got!" "So I always thought before; and so I shall think now, if you will help Mildred to dry whatever is damp, and then pack all away safely--all but such things as may do poor Geordie good." Roger was not long in finding a hole in a tree where he could hide his bag of money. He cut a small cross in the bark by which he might know the tree again, and hastened back, to see what else he could secure. He found plenty of pretty things hanging on the bushes, and did not wait for their being quite dry to dress himself as he had never been dressed before. With the embroidered cap above mentioned on his head, a scarlet waistcoat, worked with silver thread, hanging loose about his body, and a light blue coat, whose skirts reached his heels, he looked so little like the dirty ragged Roger, that Geordie shrank back from him, at first sight, and did not smile till he heard the soft whistle again. After that, he seemed more pleased with the finery than all the rest of the party together. Ailwin glanced scornfully upon it, as if she had disapproved from the beginning its being touched; and Oliver and Mildred looked grave. So very much pleased was Geordie with the gay waistcoat, that Roger took him into his arms, that he might be able to stroke it, and play with the silver flowers. It was little fatigue, now, except to the spirits, to nurse poor George. He was shrunk to skin and bone, and so light as to startle those who had been accustomed to lift him. It was grievous, however, to look at the ghastly stretched features, the flabby tremulous little arms, and the suffering expression of countenance. To hear his feeble cry was worse still. Oliver was really glad to take Mildred away from seeing and hearing him, as long as the child would be quiet with Roger: so he asked her to filter more water through the gravel. He begged her to get ready a great deal--enough for them all to drink, and to bathe George in; for the water about them was becoming of a worse quality every day. It was unsafe even to live near; and much more to drink. So he scraped up a quantity of clean dry gravel from the ledges of the precipice where the first flood had thrown it, and helped Mildred to press this gravel down in the worn old basket. This basket they set across the tub, which they first thoroughly cleaned. Mildred poured water upon the gravel by degrees; and it was astonishing how much purer and better it came out of the tub than it went into the basket. When the tub was full, Ailwin heated some of the water presently over her large fire, and made a warm bath for the child. Roger was unwilling to give him up when the bath was ready, so new and so pleasant did he find it to be liked and loved by anybody--to have power over any one, so much more easy and delightful to exercise than that of force. But, not only was the bath ready, and must not be left to cool, but Oliver beckoned him away on some very particular business. This business was indeed pressing. All the party had complained that the bad smells about the Red-hill became really oppressive. They did not know how great was the danger of their all falling ill of fever, in consequence; but every one of them felt languid and uncomfortable. Oliver made the circuit of the hill, to discover whether there was any cause for this evil that could be removed. He was surprised to find the number of dead animals that were lying about in holes and corners, as well as the heap of Roger's game, now actually putrefying in the sun. There was also a dead horse thrown up, on the side where the quarry was; and about this horse were such swarms of flies as Oliver had never seen. It was to consult about pushing back this horse into the stream, and clearing away all other dead things that they could find, that Oliver now called Roger. Roger was struck with what he observed. He saw no difficulty in clearing away the game he ought never to have left lying in a heap in the sun. He believed, too, that with stout poles he and Oliver could shove the horse into the water; and, with a line tied to its head, tow it out of the still water into the current which yet ran from the quarry. But what troubled him more was, that there was evidently a mortality among the animals on the hill. They were dying in all directions; some for want of proper food, and from being put out of their usual habits: others from being preyed upon by their stronger neighbours. Nothing seemed to thrive but the ravenous birds which came in clusters, winging their way over the waters, and making a great rustling of their pinions as they descended to perch upon some dead animal, pulling it to pieces before the very eyes of the boys, as they stood consulting what to do. It was a horrid sight: and it brought the horrid thought that soon probably there would be no game left for food for the party; and that what there was meantime might be unwholesome. Oliver had never imagined that the bold boy, Roger Redfurn, could look so alarmed as he did at this moment. "Never mind, now, Roger," said he, "what is likely to become of you and me. Wait, and find that out by-and-by. What I am afraid of is seeing Mildred look at all as George does now. Come, let us set to work! Don't stand looking up in the sky, in that way. Help me--do. Cannot Spy help? Call him; will you?" "We can't get away!" exclaimed Roger, as if now, for the first time, awakened to his situation. "Those vile birds--they can go where they like--nasty creatures--and we cannot stir from where we are!" "I wish we had our singing birds back again, instead of these creatures," said Oliver. "Our shy, pretty, innocent little birds, that used to be so pleased to pick up twigs and straws to build their nests with, and be satisfied with the worms and slugs and flies that they cleared away from the garden. I wish we had them, instead of these ugly, saucy, dirty birds. But our birds are happier somewhere else, I dare say; in some dry, pleasant place among those hills, all sweet with flowers, and cool with clear running water." "They can get there, and we can't. We can't get out of this hot steaming place: and those hills look further off every day. I wish my uncle had been dead before he brought us down off the moors last time. I wish he had, I know. If I was on the moor now, after the plovers..." "Come, come; forget all that now, and set to work," interrupted Oliver. "If you won't call Spy to help, I will see whether he will mind me." Spy came, with some hesitation, in answer to a whistle which was like his master's, but not exactly the same. His master soon set him to work, and began to work himself, in a sort of desperation. It was astonishing what a clearance was made in a short time. But it did not do all the good that was expected. There was so much vegetable decay in the region round, that the floating dead animals off to a distance caused only a partial relief. While the boys were hard at work at their disagreeable task, Mildred was enjoying seeing George in his warm bath. Ailwin held him there, while Mildred continued her useful business of filtering water, talking to the child all the while. The poor little fellow soon left off crying, and moved his weak limbs about in the tepid water, trying to splash Ailwin, as he had been wont to splash his mother in play, every morning when she washed and dressed him. "I am sure it does him a great deal of good," exclaimed Mildred. "I will filter quantities of water; and he shall have a bath as often as ever it is good for him. Suppose it should make him well!" Ailwin shook her head. She saw how impossible it would be even to keep a healthy child well in the absence of proper food, in an unwholesome atmosphere, and without sufficient shelter from the changes of weather which might come at any hour, and must come soon. How unlikely it was that a sick baby should recover under such circumstances, she was well aware. Yet she little thought how near the end was. After his bath, Geordie lay, nicely covered up, on a mattress under the tent. One or other of his nurses visited, him every few minutes; and both were satisfied that he was comfortably asleep. The boys came for some dinner, at last; and while Oliver went to wash his hands in clean water, Roger stooped over the child to kiss him. Before doing so, however, he started back, and asked Ailwin why the baby's eyes looked so strangely. They were half closed, and seemed like neither sleep nor waking. Ailwin sat down on the mattress, and took him into her arms, while Mildred ran to call Oliver. The poor child stretched himself stiff across Ailwin's knees, and then breathed no more. When Oliver and Mildred came running back, Ailwin was putting her cheek near the child's mouth, to feel if there was indeed no breath. She shook her head, and her eyes ran over with tears. Oliver kneeled down, and put his hand to the heart--it did not beat. He lifted the wasted arm--it fell, as if it had never had life in it. There lay the little body, still unmoved, with the face composed,--the eyes dim and half closed, the ear hearing nothing, the tongue silent, while all were calling on little George to say something he had been fond of saying, to hearken to something he had loved to hear, and--all in vain. "Whistle to him, Roger!" exclaimed Mildred, through her trembling. "Try if he cannot hear that. Whistle to him softly." Roger tried; but no notice was taken of the forced, irregular whistle which was the best he could give at the moment. "Listen, dear! Hark, George! Only hear!" exclaimed Mildred and Ailwin. "O hush! All of you!" exclaimed Oliver. "Be quiet, Mildred dear! Our little brother is dead." Roger threw himself on the grass, and hid his face on his arms. He moaned and rocked himself about, so that, even in the first moments of their grief, the brother and sister looked at each other with awe. "Come away with me, dear," whispered Oliver to his sister. "Ailwin, give George to me. Let me have him in my arms." "Bless you, my dears; it is not George any longer. It is a poor little dead body. You must not call it George." "Give him to me," said Oliver. He took the body from Ailwin's arms, carrying it as gently as if anything could have hurt it now; and he and Mildred walked away towards the spot where the bee-shed had stood. Ailwin gazed after them, dashing away the tears with the back of her hand, when they gathered so that she could not see. Oliver and Mildred walked on till they could descend the bank a little, and sit, just above the waters, where they knew they were out of sight of everybody. This bank presented a strange appearance, such as the children had been wondering at for some days, till Ailwin remembered that she had often heard say that there was once a thick forest growing where the Levels were now spread, and that the old trees were, every one, somehow underground. It now appeared that this was true. As the earth was washed away in the channel, and cut down along the bank, large trunks of trees were seen lying along, black as coal. Some others started out of the bank; and the roots of a few spread like network, holding the soil together, and keeping the bank firm in that part. Upon one of the trunks, that jutted out, Oliver took his seat; and Mildred placed herself beside him. "Let him lie on my knee now," said she. "Presently," said Oliver. "How easy and quiet he looks!" "And how quietly he died!" observed Mildred. "I did not think it had been such an easy thing to die,--or half so easy for us to bear to see." "The hard part is to come, dear. We are glad now to see him out of his pain--so comfortable as he looks at this moment. The hard part will be not to hear his little voice any more--never ... But we must not think of that now. I hope, Mildred, that you are not sorry that George is dead. I am not, when I think that he may be with father and mother already." "Already?" "Yes--if they are dead. Perhaps they have been pitying poor baby all the time he has been ill, crying and moaning so sadly; and now he may be with them, quite happy, and full of joy to meet them again." "Then they may be seeing us now." "Yes; they will not forget us, even the first moment that George's little spirit is with them. Do not let them see us sad, Mildred. Let them see that we are glad that they should have George, when we could do nothing for him." "But we shall miss him so when ... Oliver! He must be buried!" "Yes. When that is done, we shall miss him sadly. We must expect that. But we must bear it." "If we die here," said Mildred, "it will be easy to do without, him for such a little while. But if we ever get away, if we grow up to be as old as father and mother, what shall we do, all those years, without once hearing Geordie laugh, or having him to wake us in the morning? What long things people's lives are! It will seem as if ours would never be done, if we have to wait all that time to see Geordie again." "I wish we were dead!" sighed Oliver. "I am sure, so do I. And dying is so very easy!" "The pastor always said there was nothing to be afraid of," said Oliver--"I mean, for innocent people. And Geordie was so innocent, he was fit to go directly to God." "If we die here," said Mildred, "Roger must too. What was the matter with him just now, do you think? Was he thinking about that?" "He was very miserable about something. Oh, Mildred, do look! Did you ever see Geordie look sweeter? Yes, you may have him now." And Oliver quietly laid the child in Mildred's arms. "Yet," said he, sighing, "we must bury him." "Oh, when?" asked Mildred. "Better do it while his face looks as it does now. To-morrow is Sunday. We will do no work to-morrow, and bury Geordie." "Where? How?" "We will choose the prettiest place we can find, and the quietest." "I wish the pastor was here," said Mildred. "I never saw a funeral, except passing one in the road sometimes." "We need not be afraid of doing wrong about the funeral, dear. We must make some kind of little coffin; and Roger will help me to dig a grave, and if we have no pastor to say prayers, you and I know that in our hearts we shall be thanking God for taking our little brother to be safe and happy with him." "And then I may plant some flowers upon his grave, may not I? And that will bring the bees humming over it. How fond he was of going near the hives, to hear the bees hum! Where shall his grave be?" "Under one of the trees, one of the shadiest." "Oh, dear--here comes Ailwin! I wish she would let us alone." Ailwin was crying too much to speak. She took the body from Mildred's arms with a gentle force, kissing the little girl as she did so. She covered up the baby's face with her apron as she walked away. The children went among the trees to fix on a spot for the grave. They found more than one that they liked; but suddenly remembered that the ground was hard, and that they had no spade, nor any tool with which they could make a deep hole. Oliver was greatly disturbed at this,--more than he chose to show when he saw how troubled his sister also was. After thinking for some time to no purpose,--feeling that he could not bear to commit the body to the foul flood, and remembering with horror how many animals were scratching up the earth all over the Red-hill, where the ground was not too hard, and how many odious birds of prey were now hovering in the air, at all hours,--after thinking over these things with a heavy heart, he begged Mildred to go home to Ailwin, and to ask Roger to come to him in the wood, to consult what must be done. Mildred readily went: but she hardly liked to speak to Roger when she saw him. He was watching, with a sulky air, what Ailwin was doing, as she bent over the mattress. His eyes were red with crying; but he did not seem the more gentle for that. When Mildred had given her message, he moved as if he thought it a great trouble to go; but Mildred then suspected what was indeed the truth,--that he was unhappy at the child's death, and was ashamed of appearing so, and put on a gruff manner to hide it. Seeing this, the little girl ran after him, as he sauntered away, put her hand in his, and said,-- "Do help Oliver all you can. I know how he would have tried to help you if George had been your little brother." "'Tis all the same as if he had been," muttered Roger. "I'm sure I am just as sorry." "Are you, indeed?" said Mildred, her eyes now filling with tears. Roger could not bear to see that; and he hastened away. Mildred found a great change when she looked on the baby's face again. The eyes were quite closed, and Ailwin had tied a bandage round his head,--under the chin, and among the thick hair which used to curl so prettily, but which had hung straight and damp since he had been ill. He was now strangely dressed, and laid out straight and stiff. He did not look like Geordie; and now Mildred began to know the dreary feelings that death brings into families. She longed for Oliver to come home; and would have gone to see what he was about, but that she did not like to leave the tent and the body while Ailwin was busy elsewhere, which was now the case. When, at length, the boys returned, they reported that, for many reasons, there could not be a grave under the trees, as they would have liked. They had hopes of making one which would save the body from the flood, and would serve at least till the day (if that day ever came) when it might be removed to some churchyard. They had no tools to dig a deep hole with; and if there was a hole, it must be deep: but they found they could excavate a space in the bank, under the trunk of one of the large buried forest-trees. They could line this hole with hewn stones brought from the shattered wall of the house, and could close it in also with a stone,--thus making the space at once a coffin and a grave, as secure from beast or bird of prey as any vault under any church-wall. Oliver had found among the ruins one of the beautiful carved stones which he had always admired as it surmounted the doorway of their home. With this he meant to close in the little vault. At some future time, if no one should wish to disturb the remains, ivy might be led over the face of the bank, and about this sculptured stone; and then, he thought, even those who most loved little George could not wish him a better grave. CHAPTER TEN. GRAVES IN THE LEVELS. Oliver so much wished that the next day (Sunday, and the day of his little brother's funeral) should be one of rest and decent quiet, that he worked extremely hard, as long as the light lasted, and was glad of all the help the rest of the party could give. To make an excavation large enough for the body was no difficult task;-- the earth being soft, and easily removed from the trunks, roots, and branches of buried trees, which seemed to run all through the interior of the bank. But the five stones with which the grave was to be lined were of considerable thickness; and Oliver chose to have them nicely fitted in, that no living creature should be able to enter this place sacred to the dead. How astonished were they all to find that this was already a place of the dead! While Ailwin was holding one of the stones against one end of the excavation, and Oliver was striking and fixing it with the great hammer, Roger was emptying out soil from the other end. He exclaimed that he had come upon some large thing made of leather. "I dare say you have," said Ailwin. "There are all manner of things found by those who dig in the Levels--except useful things, I mean. No one ever knew anything useful come out of these odd places." "You are wrong there," said Roger. "I have got useful things myself from under the carr, that brought me more money than any fish and fowl I ever took out of the ponds on it. Uncle and I found some old red earthenware things..." "Old red earthenware!" exclaimed Ailwin. "As if old earthenware was better than fish and fowl, when there is so much new to be had now-a-days! My uncle is a sailor, always going between this and Holland; and he says the quantity of ware they bring over in a year will hold victuals for all Lincolnshire. And Dutch ware does not cost above half what it did in my grandfather's time: so don't you be telling your wonderful tales, Roger. We sha'n't believe them." "Well, then don't. But I say again, uncle Stephen and I took gold for the old red ware we got out of a deep hole in the carr." "Very likely, indeed. I wonder who has gold to throw away in that manner. However, I don't say but there may be such. `Fools and their money are soon parted,' some folks say." "Who gave you the gold?" asked Oliver. "You may ask that," said Roger; "but you may not believe me when I tell you. You know the Earl of Arundel comes sometimes into these parts. Well,--it was he." "When? Why?" "He often comes down to see the Trent, having the care of the forests upon it: and one time he stopped near here, on his way into Scotland, about some business. They say he has a castle full of wonderful things somewhere." "What sort of things?" asked Ailwin. "Horn spoons and pewter drinking-mugs to his old red earthenware?" "Perhaps," replied Roger, "But I heard nothing of them. What I heard of was old bricks, and stone figures, and all manner of stone jars. Well, a gentleman belonging to the Earl of Arundel chanced to come across us, just after we had found a pitcher or two down in the moss; and he made us go with him to the Earl..." "You don't mean that you ever saw a lord to speak to!" exclaimed Ailwin, turning sharp round upon Roger. "I tell you I did, and uncle too." Ailwin muttered that she did not believe a word of it; but her altered manner towards Roger at the moment, and ever after, showed that she did. "He asked us all manner of questions about the Levels," continued Roger:--"I mean about the things that lie in the moss. He did not seem to care about the settlers and the crops, otherwise than in the way of business. All that he did about the earthenware was plainly for his pleasure. He bought all we could find on that spot; and he said if we found any more curiosities at any time, we were ... But I can't stand talking any more." And Roger glanced with suspicious eyes from the piece of leather (as he called it) that he had met with in the bank to Oliver. He wanted to have the sole benefit of this new discovery. "And what were you to do, if you found anything more?" asked Ailwin. "One might easily bury some of the ware my uncle brings, and keep it in the moss till it is well wetted; and then some earl might give one gold for it. Come, Roger, tell me what you were to do with your findings. You owe it to me to tell me; considering that your people have got away my cloak and warm stockings." "Look for them in the moss,--you had better," said Roger. "You will find them there or nowhere." Not a word more would he say of his own concerns. Oliver did not want to hear more. On being told of the Earl of Arundel's statues and vases, he had, for a moment, longed to see them, and wondered whether there were any alabaster cups in the collection; but his thoughts were presently with George again. He remembered that Mildred had been left long enough alone with the body; and he dismissed Ailwin, saying that he himself should soon have done, it was now growing so dark. As he worked on silently and thoughtfully, Roger supposed he was observing nothing; and therefore ventured, turning his back on Oliver, to investigate a little more closely the leathern curiosity he had met with. He disengaged the earth more and more, drew something out, and started at what he saw. "You _have_ found a curiosity," observed Oliver, quietly. "That is a mummy." "No--'tis a man," exclaimed Roger, in some agitation. "At least it is something like a man. Is not this like an arm, with a hand at the end of it?--a little dried, shrunk, ugly arm. 'Tis not stiff, neither. Look! It can't be Uncle Stephen, sure--or Nan!" "No, no: it is a mummy--a human body which has been buried for hundreds and thousands of years." Roger had never heard of a mummy; and there was no great wonder in that, when even Oliver did not rightly know the meaning of the word. All animal bodies (and not only human bodies) which remain dry, by any means, instead of putrefying, are called mummies. "What do you mean by hundreds and thousands of years?" said Roger. "Look here, how the arm bends, and the wrist! I believe I could make its fingers close on mine," he continued, stepping back--evidently afraid of the remains which lay before him. "If I was sure now, that it was not Stephen or Nan ... But the peat water does wonders, they say, with whatever lies in it." "So it does. It preserves bodies, as I told you. I will show you in a minute that it is nobody you have ever known." And Oliver took from Roger's hand the slip of wood with which he had been working, and began to clear out more soil about the figure. "Don't, don't now!" exclaimed Roger. "Don't uncover the face! If you do, I will go away." "Go, then," replied Oliver. It appeared as if the bold boy and the timid one had changed characters. The reason was that Roger had some very disagreeable thoughts connected with Stephen and Nan Redfurn. He never forgot, when their images were before him, that they had died in the midst of angry and contemptuous feelings between them and him. Oliver, on the other hand, was religious. Though, in easy times, more afraid than he ought to have been of dishonest and violent persons, he had yet enough trust in God to support his spirits and his hope in trial, as we have seen: and about death and the grave, and the other world, where he believed the dead went to meet their Maker and Father, he had no fear at all. Nothing that Roger now said, therefore, made him desist, till he had uncovered half the dried body. "Look here!" said he--for Roger had not gone away as he had threatened--"come closer and look, or you will see nothing in the dusk. Did either Stephen or Nan wear their hair this way? And is this dress anything like Ailwin's cloak? Look at the long black hair hanging all round the little flat brown face. And the dress: it is the skin of some beast, with the hair left on--a rough-edged skin, fastened with a bit of something like coal on the left shoulder. I dare say it was once a wooden skewer. I wonder how long ago this body was alive. I wonder what sort of a country this was to live in, at that day." Roger's fear having now departed, his more habitual feelings again prevailed. "I say," said he, returning to the spot, and wrenching the tool from Oliver's hand; "I say--don't you meddle any more. The curiosity is mine, you know. I found it, and it's mine." "What will you do with it?" asked Oliver, who saw that, even now, Roger rather shrank from touching the limbs, and turned away from the open eyes of the body. "It will make a show. If I don't happen to see the earl, so as to get gold for it, I'll make people give me a penny a piece to see it; and that will be as good as gold presently." "I wish you would bury it," earnestly exclaimed Oliver, as the thought occurred to him that the time might come, though perhaps hundreds of years hence, when dear little George's body might be found in like manner. He could not endure the idea of that body being ever made a show of. Of course, Roger would not hear of giving up his treasure; and Oliver was walking away, when Roger called after him-- "Don't go yet, Oliver. Wait a minute, and I will come with you." Oliver proceeded, however, thinking that Roger would have to acquire some courage yet before he could carry about his mummy for a show. Oliver was only going for Mildred--to let her see, before it was quite dark, what had been done, and what found. When they returned, Roger was standing at some distance from the bank, apparently watching his mummy as it lay in the cleft that he had cleared. He started when he heard Mildred's gentle voice exclaiming at its being so small and so dark-coloured. She next wondered how old it was. After the boys had examined the ground again, and put together all they had heard about the ancient condition of the Levels, they agreed that this person must have been buried, or have died alone in the woods, before the district became a marsh. Pastor Dendel had told Oliver about the thick forest that covered these lands when the Romans invaded Britain; and how the inhabitants fled to the woods, and so hid themselves there that the Roman soldiers had to cut down the woods to get at them; and how the trees, falling across the courses of the streams, dammed them up, so that the surrounding soil was turned into a swamp; and how mosses and water-plants grew over the fallen trees, and became matted together, so that more vegetation grew on the top of that, till the ancient forest was, at length, quite buried in the carr. Oliver now reminded his sister of all this: and they looked with a kind of veneration on the form which they supposed was probably that of an ancient Briton, who, flying from the invaders, into the recesses of the forest, had perished there alone. There was no appearance of his having been buried. No earthen vessels, or other remains, such as were usually found in the graves of the ancients, appeared to be contained in the bank. If he had died lying along the ground, his body would have decayed like other bodies, or been devoured by wild beasts. Perhaps he was drowned in one of the ponds or streams of the forest, and the body, being immediately washed over with sand or mud, was thus preserved. "What is the use of guessing and guessing?" exclaimed Roger. "If people should dig up George's bones, out of this bank, a thousand years hence, and find them lying in a sort of oven, as they would call it, with a fine carved stone for one of the six sides, do you think they could ever guess how all these things came to be here?" "This way of burying is an accident, such as no one would think of guessing," said Oliver, sighing. "And this dried body may be here, to be sure, by some other accident that we know nothing about. I really wish, Roger, you would cover up the corpse again; at least, till we know whether we shall all die together here." This was what Roger could never bear to hear of. He always ran away from it: and so he did now. Dark as it was growing, he passed over to the house, and mounted the staircase (which stood as firm as ever, and looked something like a self-supported ladder). While he was vainly looking abroad for boats, which the shadows of the evening would have prevented his seeing if they had been there by hundreds, the brother and sister speculated on one thing more, in connection with the spectacle which had powerfully excited their imaginations. Mildred whispered to Oliver-- "If this old man and George lie together here, I wonder whether their spirits will know it, and come together in heaven." They talked for some time about the difference there must be between the thoughts of an ancient Briton, skin-clothed, a hunter of the wolf, and living on the acorns and wild animals of the forest, and the mind of a little child, reared in the Levels, and nourished and amused between the farm-yard and the garden. Yet they agreed that there must have been some things in which two so different thought and felt alike. The sky was over the heads of both, and the air around them, and the grass spread under their feet:--both, too, had, no doubt, had relations, by whom they had been beloved: and there is no saying how many things may become known alike to all, on entering upon the life after death. Oliver and Mildred resolved that if ever they should see Pastor Dendel again, they would ask him what he thought of all this. They agreed that they would offer to help Roger to seek for other curiosities, to make a show of; and would give him, for his own, all they could find, if he would but consent to bury this body again, decently, and beside little George. The supper was eatable to-night; and so was the breakfast on the Sunday morning; and yet Roger scarcely touched anything. Oliver heard him tossing and muttering during the night, and was sure that he was ill. He was ill. He would not allow that he was so, however; and dressed himself again in the fine clothes he had taken from the chest. It was plain, from his shaking hand and his heavy eye, that he was too weak, and his head aching too much for him to be able to do any work; therefore Ailwin helped Oliver to finish the grave. Roger inquired how the work proceeded: and it appeared that he meant to attend the funeral, when he found that it was to be in the afternoon. His companions did not believe him able: and he himself doubted it in his heart, resolved as he was to refuse to believe himself very ill, as long as he could keep off the thought. He found an excuse, however, for lying on the grass while the others were engaged at the grave. Oliver hinted to him, very gently, that Mildred and he had rather see him dressed in the shabbiest clothes of his own, than following their little brother to his grave in fine things which they could not but consider stolen. Roger was, in reality, only ashamed; but he pretended to be angry; and made use of the pretence to stay behind. While he lay, ill and miserable, remembering that little George alone had seemed to love him, and that George was dead, he believed it impossible that any one should mourn the child as he did in his heart. Oliver himself took something from the chest--carefully and reverently; and carefully and reverently he put it back before night. There was a Bible, in Dutch; and with it a Prayer-book. He carried these, while Ailwin carried the body, wrapped in cloth, with another piece hanging over it, like a pall. As Oliver took Mildred's hand, and saw how pale and sorrowful she looked (though quite patient), he felt how much need they all had of the consolations and hopes which speak to mourners from the book he held. Ailwin did not understand Dutch; so Oliver thought it kindest and best to say in English what he read, both from the Bible and Prayer-book. He read a short portion of what Saint Paul says about the dead and their rising again. Then all three assisted in closing the tomb, firmly and completely; and then they kneeled down, and Oliver read a prayer for mourners from his book. They did not sing; for he was not sure that Mildred could go through a hymn. He made a sign to her to stay when Ailwin went home; and they two sat down on the grass above the bank, and read together that part of the Scripture in which Jesus desires his followers not to let their hearts be troubled, but to believe in God and in him. Mildred was soon quite happy; and Oliver was cheered to see her so. He even began, after a time, to talk of the future. He pointed out how the waters had sunk, leaving now, he supposed, only about three feet of depth, besides mud and slime. This mud would make the soil more fertile than it had ever been, if the remainder of the flood could by any means be drawn off. He thought his father might return, and drain his ground, and rebuild the house. Then the bank they sat on would overlook a more beautiful garden than they had ever yet possessed. The whole land had been so well _warped_ (that is, flooded with fertilising mud) that everything that was planted would flourish. They might get the finest tulip-roots from Holland, and have a bed of them; and another of choice auriculas, just below George's tomb; and honeysuckles might be trained round it, to attract the bees. Mildred liked to hear all this; and she said so; but she added that she should like it better still to-morrow, perhaps. She felt so strangely tired now, that she could not listen any more, even to what she liked to hear. "Are you going to be ill, do you think, dear?" "I don't know. Don't you think Roger is ill?" "Yes; and I dare say we shall all have the fever, from the damps and bad smells of this place." "Well--never mind about me, Oliver. I am only very, very tired yet." "Come home, and lie down, and I will sit beside you," said Oliver. "You will be patient, I know, dear. I will try if I can be patient, if I should see you very ill." He led her home, and laid her down, and scarcely left her for many hours. It was plain now that the fever had seized upon them; and where it would stop, who could tell? During the night he and Ailwin watched by turns beside their sick companions. This would not have been necessary for Mildred; but Roger was sometimes a little delirious; and they were afraid of his frightening Mildred by his startings and strange sayings. When Ailwin came, at dawn, to take Oliver's place, she patted him on the shoulder, and bade him go to sleep, and be in no hurry to rouse himself again; for he would not be wanted for anything if he should sleep till noon. Oliver was tired enough; but there was one thing which he had a great mind to do before he slept. He wished to look out once again from the staircase, when the sun should have risen, to see whether there was no moving speck on the wide waters--no promise of help in what now threatened to be his extremity. Ailwin thought him perverse; but did not oppose his going when he said he was sure he should sleep better after it. She soon, therefore, saw his figure among the ruins of the roof, standing up between her and the brightening sky. CHAPTER ELEVEN. MORE HARDSHIP. This morning was unlike the mornings which Oliver had watched since the flood came. There was no glowing sky towards the east; and he saw that there would be no broad train of light over the waters, which should so dazzle his eyes as almost to prevent his seeing anything else. It was now a stormy-looking sunrise. Huge piles of clouds lay on the eastern horizon, through which it seemed impossible that the rays of the sun should pierce. The distant church-spire looked black amidst the grey flood: and the houses and chapel at Sandtoft, which now stood high out of the water, had a dark and dismal air. Oliver would have been rather glad to believe that there would be no sunshine this day, if he had not feared there would be storm. He had so learned, in these few days, to associate reeking fogs and putrid smells with hot sunshine, that a shady day would have been a relief: but it there should come a tempest, what could be done with the sick members of the party? It was dangerous to stand under the trees in a thunderstorm; and the poor tent would be soaked through with a quarter of an hour's rain. He thought it would be best to take down the tent, and wrap up Mildred and Roger in the cloth; and to pile the mattresses, one upon another, at the foot of the thickest tree they could find; so that there might be a chance of one bed being left dry for poor Mildred. While arranging this in his mind, Oliver had been anxiously looking abroad for any moving speck on the grey waters. Seeing none, but perceiving that the clouds were slowly mounting the sky, and moving onwards, he felt that he ought to be going to the hill, to make such preparations as were possible before the first raindrops should fall. Slowly and sadly he turned away to do so, when, casting one more glance eastwards, he perceived something moving--a dark speck, leaving the ruined roof of a dwelling which stood about half-way between himself and the hamlet. There could be no doubt that this speck was a boat; and as it came nearer, Oliver saw that it was--a large boat, but quite full. He could distinguish no figures in it, so heavy seemed the mass of people, or of goods, with which it was crowded. It came on and on, however; and Oliver's heart beat faster as it came. How he wished now that he had kept a flag flying from the spot on which he stood! How he wished he now had a signal to fix on this height! Though the boat-people were still too far off to distinguish figures, a signal might catch their eye. If he went to the Red-hill for a flag, the boat might be gone away before his return. Trembling with haste, he stripped off his shirt, and swung it in the air. He even mounted the top stone, which, surrounded by no wall, or other defence, hung over the waters below. Oliver would have said, half an hour before, that he could not have stood alone on this perilous point: now, he not only stood there, but waved his white signal with all his strength. Did anybody notice it? He once thought he saw what might have been an oar lifted in the air; but he was not sure. He was presently only too certain of something else--that the boat was moving away, not in the direction in which it had approached, but southwards. He tried, as long as he could, to disbelieve this; but there it went--away--away--and Oliver had to come down from his stone, put on his clothes again, and find how thirsty he was. There was hope still, he felt--great hope: but he must keep it from Mildred, who was in no condition to bear the disappointment of such a hope. He doubted whether Ailwin could control her tongue and her countenance, while possessed of such news. It would be hard not to be able to tell any one of what so filled his thoughts; and he resolved to see first what state Roger was in. When he reached the tent, Roger was not there. Ailwin could not tell where he was. He had staggered away, like a drunken person, she said-- he seemed so giddy; but she could not leave Mildred to see after him, though he had spoken to a lord; if indeed that could be true of a boy like him. Ailwin looked up at the clouds, every moment, as she spoke; and Mildred shivered, as if she missed the morning sunshine. Oliver saw that he must make ready for the storm, before he prepared for what might follow. He and Ailwin pulled down the long piece of cloth from its support, doubled it again and again, and put Mildred into the middle of it. Oliver longed to lay her under a leafy tree; but he dared not, on account of the lightning, which was already beginning to flash. He and Ailwin set up the deal table as a sort of penthouse over her; and then busied themselves, in her sight, in piling together everything else they had, to keep as many articles as possible from spoiling. Oliver was just thinking that he might slip away to seek Roger, when he saw that Mildred was sobbing, under the heap of cloth they had laid upon her. In a moment he was by her side, saying-- "What is the matter, dear? Are you afraid of the storm? I never knew you afraid of thunder and lightning; but perhaps you may be now, because you are ill." "No," sobbed Mildred. "I cannot help being glad of this storm," continued Oliver, "though it is disagreeable, at the time, to people who have no house to go to. I hope it will clear the air, and freshen it; and that is the very thing we want, to make you better." "It is not that, Oliver. I don't mind the storm at all." "Then what makes you cry so, dear? Is it about Geordie?" "Yes. Something about him that I don't think you know; something that I shall never bear to think of. It will make me miserable as long as I live. Do you know, I was tired of nursing him, and hearing him cry; and I gave it up--the only thing I could do for him! I asked Ailwin to take him. And in two days he was dead; and I could never do anything for him any more." Here a burst of grief stopped her voice. Her brother said, very solemnly,-- "Now, Mildred, listen to me,--to the little I can say--for you know I cannot, in this place, stay and talk with you as we should both like, and as we might have done at home. I think you were almost always very kind to Geordie; and I am sure he loved you very dearly. But I have heard mother say that the worst part of losing dear friends is that we have to blame ourselves, more or less, for our behaviour to them,--even to those we loved the very most. So I will not flatter you, dear: though I don't at all wonder at your being tired of hearing Geordie cry that day. I will not say whether you were right or wrong; but only put you in mind that we may always ask for pardon. Remember, too, that you may meet Geordie again; and perhaps be kinder to him than we ever are to one another here. Now I will go, and come back again soon." "Stop one minute," implored Mildred. "I dreamed that you all went away from this hill, and left me alone." As she said this, she looked at her brother, with such a painful wistfulness, that he saw that she had had a fever-dream, and was not yet quite clear from its remains. He laughed, as at something ridiculous; which Mildred seemed to like: and then he reminded her more gravely, that they could not get away from this place if they would. If an opportunity should occur, he assured her he would not leave hold of her hand. Nothing should make him step into a boat without her. Poor Mildred had fancied, bewildered as she was this morning, that if Oliver knew of what she had done about George, he would think himself justified in leaving her to perish on the hill; and yet she could not help telling him. Her mind was relieved, for the present, and she let him go. He found Roger where he first looked for him,--near the mummy. The poor lad was too ill to stand; but he lay on the slimy bank, poking and grubbing, with a stick and with his fingers, as deep in the soft soil as he could penetrate. Oliver saw that he had found some more curiosities;--bunches of nuts,--nuts which were ripening on the tree many hundreds of seasons ago; but which no hand had plucked till now. Oliver could neither wonder nor admire, at this moment: nor was he vexed (as he might have been at another time) at Roger's crawling hither, in pursuit of gain, to be made more ill by every breath he drew while stooping over the rank mud. "Don't be afraid, Roger," said Oliver. "I am not going to touch your findings, or meddle with you. I want you to change your clothes,--to put off that finery,--and to let me know where the bag of money is that you took out of the chest." Roger stared. "I am going to pack that chest again; and I want to see everything in it, that it may be ready if any boat should come." "Boat!" exclaimed Roger. "Yes: a boat may come, you know; and we must not detain it, if such a thing should happen. If you die without restoring that money, Roger, it will be a sin upon your soul: so tell me where it is, and have an easy mind, I advise you. That will be a good thing, if you live an hundred years." "There is a boat here now! You are going to leave me behind!" cried Roger, scrambling up on his feet, and falling again from weakness, two or three times. "I knew it," he continued; "I dreamt it all last night; and it is going to come true to-day." "Mildred dreamed the same thing; and it is because you are both ill," said Oliver. "Lean upon me--as heavily as you like--and I will go home with you, as slowly as you will, if you will tell me where the money-bag is. You will find no boat there now, whatever there may be by-and-by: but if you will not tell me where the money-bag is, I will shake you off now, and leave you here. It is another person's money: and I must have it." Roger said he would tell, if Oliver would promise him not to leave him alone on the island. Oliver assured him that there was no danger whatever of the deliverers of some of the party leaving others to perish. He owned that he was bound to make his sister his first care, and Ailwin his next. As boys, Roger and himself must be satisfied to be thought of last; but he hoped they should neither of them do an ill turn by the other. He asked if Roger had ever received an ill turn from him. "That is the thing," said Roger, sorrowfully: "and you have had so many from me and mine!" "I am sure I forgive them all, now you have once said that," cried Oliver. "I forgive and forget them all: and so would father, if he heard you." "No! Would he? And he said once that he and his would scorn to be like me and mine." "Did you hear him say that? You used to hear every word we said to one another, I think." "It was Ailwin that threw that in my teeth." "Father would not say so now: never after you had had Geordie on your knees and made him fond of you, as you did." "Do you really think so?" "I am almost sure of it. But he could not help thinking badly of you if you keep that money." "I am not going to keep it. Do you go and find it, if you like, for I can't. It is in a hollow elm that stands between two beeches, on the other side of the wood. There is a little cross cut in the bark, on the south side--that will help you to find it. But don't you go till you have got me to the tent." Oliver helped him home, amidst lightning and splashing rain, explaining as they went why the tent was down, but thinking it best to say nothing of the boat to one so weak-spirited as Roger was now. He then ran off, and found the money-bag. He wished the weather would clear, that he might look out again: but, meanwhile, he felt that he was not losing time in collecting together all the goods that were on the hill; for the tempest so darkened and filled the air, that he knew he could not have seen a furlong into the distance, if he had been on his perch at this moment. He wore his mother's watch in his pocket, feeling as if it promised that he should meet her again, to put it back into her hands. "Now, Oliver," said Ailwin, "I am vexed with you that you did not sleep while you might, before this growling, splashing weather came on, and while there was something of a shelter over your head. If you don't go to sleep the minute this tempest is over, I must see what I must do to you: for you will be having the fever else; and then what is to become of me, among you all, I should like to know? I wish you would creep in now between the mattresses under the tree, and never think of the storm, but go to sleep like a good boy. It is hardly likely that the lightning should strike that particular tree, just while you are under it." "But if you should chance to find me a cinder, when you thought it time for me to be waking, Ailwin--would not that be as bad as my having the fever?" "Oliver! How can you talk so? How dare you think of such a shocking thing?" "You put it into my head, Ailwin. But come--let me tell you a thing I want you to do, if I should be away when it stops raining. Here are Roger's old clothes, safe and dry here between the beds. When it leaves off raining, make him pull off his wet finery, and put on his own dry things; and keep that finery somewhere out of his way, that I may put it back into the chest, where it ought to be lying now. Will you do this, Ailwin?" "Why, I'll see. If I was quite sure that he had nothing to do with this storm, I might manage him as I could any other boy." "Anybody may manage him to-day, with a little kindness. He is ill and weak-spirited; and you can touch his heart with a word. If you only remember how George cried after him, you will be gentle with him, I know." "Well, that's true: and I doubt whether a lord would have spoken with him, if he had been so dangerous as he seems sometimes. Now, as to dinner to-day, Oliver--I really don't like to give Mildred such food as the game on the island now is. I am sure it is downright unwholesome. Bird and beast, they are all dying off faster than we can kill them." "The fowls are not all done, I hope. I thought we had some meal-fed fowls left." "Just two; and that is all: and the truth is, I don't like to part those two poor things, enjoying the meal-picking together; and then, they are the last of our wholesome food." "Then let us have them while they are wholesome. Boil one to-day, and make the broth as nice as you can for Mildred. We will cook the other to-morrow." "And what next day?" "We will see to that when the day comes. Oh dear! When will these clouds have emptied themselves? Surely they cannot pour down at this rate long." "The thunder and lightning are just over, and that's a comfort," said Ailwin. "You might stand under any tree, now, Oliver; and you go wandering about, as if you were a duck in your heart, and loved the rain." Ailwin might wonder, for Oliver was indeed very restless. While waiting the moment when he might again cross to the staircase, he could not even stand still under a tree. The secret of his having seen the boat was too heavy a one to be borne when he was no longer busy. He felt that he should tell, if he remained beside his sister and Ailwin; so he wandered off, through the wood, to try how far he could see over the waters to the south, now that the tempest was passing away. Through the trees he saw some one--a tall person, walking on the grass by the water-side. He ran--he flew. There was a boat lying against the bank, and two or three men walking towards the wood. The foremost was Pastor Dendel. Oliver sprang into his arms, clung round his neck for a moment, and then fainted away. CHAPTER TWELVE. NEWS. Oliver soon recovered. The strong, manly caress of the pastor seemed to revive him, even more than the water the others threw on his face. His first word was "Mother." "She is safe, my boy: and she will be well when I take you to her. Are you alone here, Oliver?" "Alone! O no! Don't let these men go and startle Mildred and the rest--" "Thank God!" exclaimed Pastor Dendel. The two men who were with him seemed about to raise a shout, and wave their hats, but the pastor forbade them by a gesture. He whispered to Oliver,-- "Mildred, and who else, my dear? We know nothing, you are aware. Your father--?" "He was carried off in the mill,--out to the Humber--" Oliver stopped, as he saw the men exchange a look of awe, which took his breath away again. "We have something like news of your father too, Oliver. There is a rumour which makes us hope that he may be safe at a distance. Your mother believes it, as she will tell you. Is it possible that you are all alive, after such a calamity as this?" "George is dead, sir. We buried him yesterday. Ailwin is here, with Mildred and me; and Roger Redfurn." One of the men observed that he had hoped, as one good that would come of the flood, that the Levels were rid of the Redfurns. "Do not say that," said Oliver. "Roger has helped us in many things; and he was kind to little George. Let me go, sir. I can walk now very well: and I want to tell them that you are come." "Go, my boy: but do it gently, Oliver,--gently." "That is what I want, sir,--that they should not see or hear you: for Mildred is ill,--and Roger too. Please keep out of sight till I come for you. So mother is safe,--really?" "Really, and we will take you all to her." Mildred, lying uncomfortably in the soaked cloth (for the rain had penetrated everything), was yet dozing,--now and then starting and calling out. Oliver took her hand, to wake her up, and asked her, with a smile, as she opened her eyes, whether she was dreaming of a boat again. Mildred believed not, but her head was sadly confused; so much so, that she heard of the boat which had really come, and the pastor and her parents, without showing any surprise or pleasure. Little ceremony was necessary with the strong Ailwin; and one of the men made short work with Roger, by lifting him and carrying him into the boat. Oliver said a word to the pastor about seeing George's grave, and about the chest and the money-bag which belonged to somebody who might want them much. The pastor took charge of the bag, but declared that everything else must be left for another trip, at a more leisure time. Mrs Linacre was waiting,--and in what a state of expectation! While the two stout rowers were pulling rapidly away from the Red-hill, and in the direction of Gainsborough, the pastor explained to the party what they most wanted to know. Mrs Linacre had heard some rumour which alarmed her on the day of the flood, and had locked up her shed, and set out homewards when the waters gushed over her road, and compelled her to turn back. Like a multitude of others, as anxious and miserable as herself, she had ever since been wandering about in search of a boat, and imploring aid from every one she met. For three days, it appeared as if there really were no boats in all the district. Some had certainly been swamped and broken by the rush of the flood: and there was great difficulty in bringing round from the coast such as could there be had from the fishermen. Some farmers on the hill had lent their oxen, to bring boats over the hills; and others, men to row them; and this was in time to save many lives. What number had been lost, it was impossible yet to say; but the cleverness and the hopefulness with which a multitude had struggled for life, during five days of hardship and peril were wonderful and admirable. Mrs Linacre had trusted in the power which God gives his children in such extremity, and had been persuaded throughout (except during short moments of despair), that she should see her husband and children again. In this persuasion she had been sustained by the pastor, from the moment of his finding her, after his own escape. Of his own escape the pastor would say nothing at present. The children's minds were too full now for such tales of wonder and of horror as they must hear hereafter. Neither would he permit a word on the origin of the flood. He said they must think as little as they could of the wicked deeds of men, in this hour of God's mercy. One prayer, in every heart, that God would forgive all evil-minded men,--one such prayer let there be; and then, no more disturbing thoughts of enemies in the hour of preservation. Oliver could not trust himself to ask, in the presence of strangers, what the rumour was, which the pastor had mentioned, about his father. The pastor was very apt to understand what was stirring in people's hearts; and he knew Oliver's at this moment. He explained to him that a sailor had declared, on landing at Hull, that the ship in which he was had spoken with a Dutch vessel, off the Humber, in the night, by the light of lanterns only, when a voice was heard, as if from the deck of the Dutchman, crying out, "Will some one have the charity to tell the wife of Linacre of the Levels that he is saved?" The sailors had some fears about this voice--thought the message odd--fancied the voice was like what they should suppose a ghost's to be; and at length, persuaded one another that it came, not from any ship, but from the air overhead; and that the message meant that Linacre was dead, and that his soul was saved. When they came ashore, however, and found what had befallen the Levels, they began to doubt whether it was not, after all, the voice of a flesh and blood man that had called out to them. When the pastor now heard how the miller was floated off in his mill, he had little doubt of the good man having been picked up in the Humber, by a vessel sailing for Holland, which could not stop to set him ashore, but which now contained him, safe and well. Within two months, he would be heard of or seen, it might fairly be hoped. Mrs Linacre was kindly taken care of in a farm-house, near the spring-- that farm-house where she had often taken her copper money to be changed for silver: but she had been little within doors, day or night. She had paced all day by the brink of the flood; and as long as the moon was up, had sat at night on a rising ground, looking over the waters towards the Red-hill. She had discovered that the mill was gone, when other eyes could distinguish nothing so far off. No one had a glass to lend her-- so, at least, it was said; but some whispered that a glass might have been procured, but that it was thought she could see only what would distress her, and nothing that could do her any good. She was on the brink of the water when the boat came near. She would have thrown herself in to meet her children, if a neighbour had not been there to hold her back. Oliver's first words to her were, that he believed his father was safe on his way to Holland, and would soon be coming back. The pastor's first words were, as he placed Mildred in her arms-- "Two children are here restored to you. Will you not patiently resign your other little one?" The speechless mother was hurrying away, with Mildred on her bosom, and drawing Oliver by the hand, which she clasped convulsively, when he said-- "Mother, help me to keep a promise I have made. Here is Roger Redfurn-- very ill. I promised we would not forsake him. Let him go with us, till he is well." "Whatever you will, my boy; but do not leave me, Oliver,--not for a moment." "Go on," said the pastor. "We are bringing Roger after you. We shall be at home as soon as you." "Home," was the friendly farm-house. There, before the end of the day, had Oliver learned that his morning signal had been seen from the large boat; and that the reason why the large boat had rowed away was, not only that it was full, but that the waters were now too shallow about the Red-hill for any but small craft. Before the end of the day Mrs Linacre had been seen to look like herself once more; and Ailwin had told to the wondering neighbours the tale of the few days, which seemed now like years to look back upon. She told more than even Oliver had observed of the miserable state of their place of refuge, which would soon have been a place of death. Scarcely a breathing thing, she said, was left alive: and, in going to the boat, she had seen the soaked bee-hives upset, and the chilled bees lying about, as if there was no spirit left in them. She shuddered when she thought of the Red-hill. Then she stimulated the farm-house people to take care of Roger,--a task in which Oliver left them little to do. They were willing enough, however; for Ailwin told them that though Roger had been an odd boy in his time, owing to his having been brought up by queer people, yet, considering that those people were drowned and gone, and that Roger had been noticed by a lord, she did not doubt he might turn out well, if it so pleased God. How closely did Mildred clasp her mother's neck that evening! Knowing nothing else, and feeling very strangely, she yet understood that she was in a place of shelter and comfort, and felt that her head rested on her mother's bosom--on that pillow which has something so far better than all warmth and softness. By degrees she began to be aware that there was cool and fresh water, and sweet-smelling flowers, and that she was tenderly bathed, and laid to rest on a bed which was neither wet nor under a tree. There was a surprising silence all round her, she felt, as she grew stronger, which no one yet attempted to explain to her; but her mother smiled at her so happily, that she supposed she was recovering. Mrs Linacre did look happy, even in the midst of her tears for her poor baby. Mildred _was_ recovering, Oliver ate and slept, and whistled under the window--like a light-hearted boy, as he once again amused himself with carving every piece of hard wood he could find. It was clear that he had escaped the fever; and every day that refreshed his colour, and filled out his thin face again, brought nearer the hour of his father's return. 
14825	----	TEXTBOOK EDITION THE CHRONICLES OF AMERICA SERIES ALLEN JOHNSON EDITOR GERHARD R. LOMER CHARLES W. JEFFERYS ASSISTANT EDITORS OUR FOREIGNERS A CHRONICLE OF AMERICANS IN THE MAKING BY SAMUEL P. ORTH [Illustration] NEW HAVEN: YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS TORONTO: GLASGOW, BROOK & CO. LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS _1920, by Yale University Press_ PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA CONTENTS Page I. OPENING THE DOOR 1 II. THE AMERICAN STOCK 21 III. THE NEGRO 45 IV. UTOPIAS IN AMERICA 66 V. THE IRISH INVASION 103 VI. THE TEUTONIC TIDE 124 VII. THE CALL OF THE LAND 147 VIII. THE CITY BUILDERS 162 IX. THE ORIENTAL 188 X. RACIAL INFILTRATION 208 XI. THE GUARDED DOOR 221 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 235 INDEX 241 OUR FOREIGNERS CHAPTER I OPENING THE DOOR Long before men awoke to the vision of America, the Old World was the scene of many stupendous migrations. One after another, the Goths, the Huns, the Saracens, the Turks, and the Tatars, by the sheer tidal force of their numbers threatened to engulf the ancient and medieval civilization of Europe. But neither in the motives prompting them nor in the effect they produced, nor yet in the magnitude of their numbers, will such migrations bear comparison with the great exodus of European peoples which in the course of three centuries has made the United States of America. That movement of races--first across the sea and then across the land to yet another sea, which set in with the English occupation of Virginia in 1607 and which has continued from that day to this an almost ceaseless stream of millions of human beings seeking in the New World what was denied them in the Old--has no parallel in history. It was not until the seventeenth century that the door of the wilderness of North America was opened by Englishmen; but, if we are interested in the circumstances and ideas which turned Englishmen thither, we must look back into the wonderful sixteenth century--and even into the fifteenth, for; it was only five or six years after the great Christopher's discovery, that the Cabots, John and Sebastian, raised the Cross of St. George on the North American coast. Two generations later, when the New World was pouring its treasure into the lap of Spain and when all England was pulsating with the new and noble life of the Elizabethan Age, the sea captains of the Great Queen challenged the Spanish monarch, defeated his Great Armada, and unfurled the English flag, symbol of a changing era, in every sea. The political and economic thought of the sixteenth century was conducive to imperial expansion. The feudal fragments of kingdoms were being fused into a true nationalism. It was the day of the mercantilists, when gold and silver were given a grotesquely exaggerated place in the national economy and self-sufficiency was deemed to be the goal of every great nation. Freed from the restraint of rivals, the nation sought to produce its own raw material, control its own trade, and carry its own goods in its own ships to its own markets. This economic doctrine appealed with peculiar force to the people of England. England was very far from being self-sustaining. She was obliged to import salt, sugar, dried fruits, wines, silks, cotton, potash, naval stores, and many other necessary commodities. Even of the fish which formed a staple food on the English workman's table, two-thirds of the supply was purchased from the Dutch. Moreover, wherever English traders sought to take the products of English industry, mostly woolen goods, they were met by handicaps--tariffs, Sound dues, monopolies, exclusions, retaliations, and even persecutions. So England was eager to expand under her own flag. With the fresh courage and buoyancy of youth she fitted out ships and sent forth expeditions. And while she shared with the rest of the Europeans the vision of India and the Orient, her "gentlemen adventurers" were not long in seeing the possibilities that lay concealed beyond the inviting harbors, the navigable rivers, and the forest-covered valleys of North America. With a willing heart they believed their quaint chronicler, Richard Hakluyt, when he declared that America could bring "_as great a profit to the Realme of England as the Indes to the King of Spain_," that "_golde, silver, copper, leade and perales in aboundaunce_" had been found there: also "_precious stones, as turquoises and emauraldes; spices and drugges; silke worms fairer than ours in Europe; white and red cotton; infinite multitude of all kind of fowles; excellent vines in many places for wines; the soyle apte to beare olyves for oyle; all kinds of fruites; all kindes of odoriferous trees and date trees, cypresses, and cedars; and in New-founde-lande aboundaunce of pines and firr trees to make mastes and deale boards, pitch, tar, rosen; hempe for cables and cordage; and upp within the Graunde Baye excedinge quantitie of all kinde of precious furres_." Such a catalogue of resources led him to conclude that "_all the commodities of our olde decayed and daungerous trades in all Europe, Africa and Asia haunted by us, may in short space and for little or nothinge, in a manner be had in that part of America which lieth between 30 and 60 degrees of northerly latitude_." Even after repeated expeditions had discounted the exuberant optimism of this description, the Englishmen's faith did not wane. While for many years there lurked in the mind of the Londoner, the hope that some of the products of the Levant might be raised in the fertile valleys of Virginia, the practical English temperament none the less began promptly to appease itself with the products of the vast forests, the masts, the tar and pitch, the furs; with the fish from the coast waters, the abundant cod, herring, and mackerel; nor was it many years before tobacco, indigo, sugar, cotton, maize, and other commodities brought to the merchants of England a great American commerce. The first attempts to found colonies in the country by Sir Humphrey Gilbert and Sir Walter Raleigh were pitiable failures. But the settlement on the James in 1607 marked the beginning of a nation. What sort of nation? What race of people? Sir Walter Raleigh, with true English tenacity, had said after learning of the collapse of his own colony, "I shall yet live to see it an English nation." The new nation certainly was English in its foundation, whatever may be said of its superstructure. Virginia, New England, Maryland, the Carolinas, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Georgia were begun by Englishmen; and New England, Virginia, and Maryland remained almost entirely English throughout the seventeenth century and well into the eighteenth. These colonies reproduced, in so far as their strange and wild surroundings permitted, the towns, the estates, and the homes of Englishmen of that day. They were organized and governed by Englishmen under English customs and laws; and the Englishman's constitutional liberties were their boast until the colonists wrote these rights and privileges into a constitution of their own. "Foreigners" began early to straggle into the colonies. But not until the eighteenth century was well under way did they come in appreciable numbers, and even then the great bulk of these non-English newcomers were from the British Isles--of Welsh, Scotch, Irish, and Scotch-Irish extraction. These colonies took root at a time when profound social and religious changes were occurring in England. Churchmen and dissenters were at war with each other; autocracy was struggling to survive the representative system; and agrarianism was contending with a newly created capitalism for economic supremacy. The old order was changing. In vain were attempts made to stay progress by labor laws and poor laws and corn laws. The laws rather served to fill the highways with vagrants, vagabonds, mendicants, beggars, and worse. There was a general belief that the country was overpopulated. For the restive, the discontented, the ambitious, as well as for the undesirable surplus, the new colonies across the Atlantic provided a welcome outlet. To the southern plantations were lured those to whom land-owning offered not only a means of livelihood but social distinction. As word was brought back of the prosperity of the great estates and of the limitless areas awaiting cultivation, it tempted in substantial numbers those who were dissatisfied with their lot: the yeoman who saw no escape from the limitations of his class, either for himself or for his children; the younger son who disdained trade but was too poor to keep up family pretensions; professional men, lawyers, and doctors, even clergymen, who were ambitious to become landed gentlemen; all these felt the irresistible call of the New World. The northern colonies were, on the other hand, settled by townfolk, by that sturdy middle class which had wedged its way socially between the aristocracy and the peasantry, which asserted itself politically in the Cromwellian Commonwealth and later became the industrial master of trade and manufacture. These hard-headed dissenters founded New England. They built towns and almost immediately developed a profitable trade and manufacture. With a goodly sprinkling of university men among them, they soon had a college of their own. Indeed, Harvard graduated its first class as early as 1642. Supplementing these pioneers, came mechanics and artisans eager to better their condition. Of the serving class, only a few came willingly. These were the "free-willers" or "redemptioners," who sold their services usually for a term of five years to pay for their passage money. But the great mass of unskilled labor necessary to clear the forests and do the other hard work so plentiful in a pioneer land came to America under duress. Kidnaping or "spiriting" achieved the perfection of a fine art under the second Charles. Boys and girls of the poorer classes, those wretched waifs who thronged the streets of London and other towns, were hustled on board ships and virtually sold into slavery for a term of years. It is said that in 1670 alone ten thousand persons were thus kidnaped; and one kidnaper testified in 1671 that he had sent five hundred persons a year to the colonies for twelve years and another that he had sent 840 in one year. Transportation of the idle poor was another common source for providing servants. In 1663 an act was passed by Parliament empowering Justices of the Peace to send rogues, vagrants, and "sturdy beggars" to the colonies. These men belonged to the class of the unfortunate rather than the vicious and were the product of a passing state of society, though criminals also were deported. Virginia and other colonies vigorously protested against this practice, but their protests were ignored by the Crown. When, however, it is recalled that in those years the list of capital offenses was appalling in length, that the larceny of a few shillings was punishable by death, that many of the victims were deported because of religious differences and political offenses, then the stigma of crime is erased. And one does not wonder that some of these transported persons rose to places of distinction and honor in the colonies and that many of them became respected citizens. Maryland, indeed, recruited her schoolmasters from among their ranks. Indentured service was an institution of that time, as was slavery. The lot of the indentured servant was not ordinarily a hard one. Here and there masters were cruel and inhuman. But in a new country where hands were so few and work so abundant, it was wisdom to be tolerant and humane. Servants who had worked out their time usually became tenants or freeholders, often moving to other colonies and later to the interior beyond the "fall line," where they became pioneers in their turn. The most important and influential influx of non-English stock into the colonies was the copious stream of Scotch-Irish. Frontier life was not a new experience to these hardy and remarkable people. Ulster, when they migrated thither from Scotland in the early part of the seventeenth century, was a wild moorland, and the Irish were more than unfriendly neighbors. Yet these transplanted Scotch changed the fens and mires into fields and gardens; in three generations they had built flourishing towns and were doing a thriving manufacture in linens and woolens. Then England, in her mercantilist blindness, began to pass legislation that aimed to cut off these fabrics from English competition. Soon thousands of Ulster artisans were out of work. Nor was their religion immune from English attack, for these Ulstermen were Presbyterians. These civil, religious, and economic persecutions thereupon drove to America an ethnic strain that has had an influence upon the character of the nation far out of proportion to its relative numbers. In the long list of leaders in American politics and enterprise and in every branch of learning, Scotch-Irish names are common. There had been some trade between Ulster and the colonies, and a few Ulstermen had settled on the eastern shore of Maryland and in Virginia before the close of the seventeenth century. Between 1714 and 1720, fifty-four ships arrived in Boston with immigrants from Ireland. They were carefully scrutinized by the Puritan exclusionists. Cotton Mather wrote in his diary on August 7, 1718: "But what shall be done for the great number of people that are transporting themselves thither from ye North of Ireland?" And John Winthrop, speaking of twenty ministers and their congregations that were expected the same year, said, "I wish their coming so over do not prove fatall in the End." They were not welcome, and had, evidently, no intention of burdening the towns. Most of them promptly moved on beyond the New England settlements. The great mass of Scotch-Irish, however, came to Pennsylvania, and in such large numbers that James Logan, the Secretary of the Province, wrote to the Proprietors in 1729: "It looks as if Ireland is to send all its inhabitants hither, for last week not less than six ships arrived, and every day two or three arrive also."[1] These colonists did not remain in the towns but, true to their traditions, pushed on to the frontier. They found their way over the mountain trails into the western part of the colony; they pushed southward along the fertile plateaus that terrace the Blue Ridge Mountains and offer a natural highway to the South; into Virginia, where they possessed themselves of the beautiful Shenandoah Valley; into Maryland and the Carolinas; until the whole western frontier, from Georgia to New York and from Massachusetts to Maine, was the skirmish line of the Scotch-Irish taking possession of the wilderness. The rebellions of the Pretenders in Scotland in 1715 and 1745 and the subsequent break-up of the clan system produced a considerable migration to the colonies from both the Highlands and the Lowlands. These new colonists settled largely in the Carolinas and in Maryland. The political prisoners, of whom there were many in consequence of the rebellions, were sold into service, usually for a term of fourteen years. In Pennsylvania the Welsh founded a number of settlements in the neighborhood of Philadelphia. There were Irish servants in all the colonies and in Maryland many Irish Catholics joined their fellow Catholics from England. In 1683 a group of religious refugees from the Rhineland founded Germantown, near Philadelphia. Soon other German communities were started in the neighboring counties. Chief among these German sectarians were the Mennonites, frequently called the German Quakers, so nearly did their religious peculiarities match those of the followers of Penn; the Dunkers, a Baptist sect, who seem to have come from Germany boot and baggage, leaving not one of their number behind; and the Moravians, whose missionary zeal and gentle demeanor have made them beloved in many lands. The peculiar religious devotions of the sectarians still left them time to cultivate their inclination for literature and music. There were a few distinguished scholars among them and some of the finest examples of early American books bear the imprint of their presses. This modest beginning of the German invasion was soon followed by more imposing additions. The repeated strategic devastations of the Rhenish Palatinate during the French and Spanish wars reduced the peasantry to beggary, and the medieval social stratification of Germany reduced them to virtual serfdom, from which America offered emancipation. Queen Anne invited the harassed peasants of this region to come to England, whence they could be transferred to America. Over thirty thousand took advantage of the opportunity in the years 1708 and 1709.[2] Some of them found occupation in England and others in Ireland, but the majority migrated, some to New York, where they settled in the Mohawk Valley, others to the Carolinas, but far more to Pennsylvania, where, with an instinct born of generations of contact with the soil, they sought out the most promising areas in the limestone valleys of the eastern part of that colony, cleared the land, built their solid homes and ample barns, and clung to their language, customs, and religion so tenaciously that to this day their descendants are called "Pennsylvania Dutch." After 1717 multitudes of German peasants were lured to America by unscrupulous agents called "new-landers" or "soul-stealers," who, for a commission paid by the shipmaster, lured the peasant to sell his belongings, scrape together or borrow what he could, and migrate. The agents and captains then saw to it that few arrived in Philadelphia out of debt. As a result the immigrants were sold to "soul-drivers," who took them to the interior and indentured them to farmers, usually of their own race. These redemptioners, as they were called, served from three to five years and generally received fifty acres of land at the expiration of their service. On the revocation of the Edict of Nantes by Louis XIV in 1685 French Protestants fled in vast numbers to England and to Holland. Thence many of them found their way to America, but very few came hither directly from France. South Carolina, Virginia, New York, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts were favored by those noble refugees, who included in their numbers not only skilled artisans and successful merchants but distinguished scholars and professional men in whose veins flowed some of the best blood of France. They readily identified themselves with the industries and aspirations of the colonies and at once became leaders in the professional and business life in their communities. In Boston, in Charleston, in New York, and in other commercial centers, the names of streets, squares, and public buildings attest their prominence in trade and politics. Few names are more illustrious than those of Paul Revere, Peter Faneuil, and James Bowdoin of Massachusetts; John Jay, Nicholas Bayard, Stephen DeLancey of New York; Elias Boudinot of New Jersey; Henry Laurens and Francis Marion of South Carolina. Like the Scotch-Irish, these French Protestants and their descendants have distinguished themselves for their capacity for leadership. The Jews came early to New York, and as far back as 1691 they had a synagogue in Manhattan. The civil disabilities then so common in Europe were not enforced against them in America, except that they could not vote for members of the legislature. As that body itself declared in 1737, the Jews did not possess the parliamentary franchise in England, and no special act had endowed them with this right in the colonies. The earliest representatives of this race in America came to New Amsterdam with the Dutch and were nearly all Spanish and Portuguese Jews, who had found refuge in Holland after their wholesale expulsion from the Iberian peninsula in 1492. Rhode Island, too, and Pennsylvania had a substantial Jewish population. The Jews settled characteristically in the towns and soon became a factor in commercial enterprise. It is to be noted that they contributed liberally to the patriot cause in the Revolution. While the ships bearing these many different stocks were sailing westward, England did not gain possession of the whole Atlantic seaboard without contest. The Dutch came to Manhattan in 1623 and for fifty years held sway over the imperial valley of the Hudson. It was a brief interval, as history goes, but it was long enough to stamp upon the town of Manhattan the cosmopolitan character it has ever since maintained. Into its liberal and congenial atmosphere were drawn Jews, Moravians, and Anabaptists; Scotch Presbyterians and English Nonconformists; Waldenses from Piedmont and Huguenots from France. The same spirit that made Holland the lenient host to political and religious refugees from every land in that restive age characterized her colony and laid the foundations of the great city of today. England had to wrest from the Dutch their ascendancy in New Netherland, where they split in twain the great English colonies of New England and of the South and controlled the magnificent harbor at the mouth of the Hudson, which has since become the water gate of the nation. While the English were thus engaged in establishing themselves on the coast, the French girt them in by a strategic circle of forts and trading posts reaching from Acadia, up the St. Lawrence, around the Great Lakes, and down the valley of the Mississippi, with outposts on the Ohio and other important confluents. When, after the final struggle between France and Britain for world empire, France retired from the North American continent, she left to England all her possessions east of the Mississippi, with the exception of a few insignificant islands in the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the West Indies; and to Spain she ceded New Orleans and her vast claims beyond the great river. Thus from the first, the lure of the New World beckoned to many races, and to every condition of men. By the time that England's dominion spread over half the northern continent, her colonies were no longer merely English. They were the most cosmopolitan areas in the world. A few European cities had at times been cities of refuge, but New York and Philadelphia were more than mere temporary shelters to every creed. Nowhere else could so many tongues be heard as in a stroll down Broadway to the Battery. No European commonwealths embraced in their citizenry one-half the ethnic diversity of the Carolinas or of Pennsylvania. And within the wide range of his American domains, the English King could point to one spot or another and say: "Here the Spaniards have built a chaste and beautiful mission; here the French have founded a noble city; here my stubborn Roundheads have planted a whole nest of commonwealths; here my Dutch neighbors thought they stole a march on me, but I forestalled them; this valley is filled with Germans, and that plateau is covered with Scotch-Irish, while the Swedes have taken possession of all this region." And with a proud gesture he could add, "But everywhere they read their laws in the King's English and acknowledge my sovereignty." Against the shifting background of history these many races of diverse origin played their individual parts, each contributing its essential characteristics to the growing complex of a new order of society in America. So on this stage, broad as the western world, we see these men of different strains subduing a wilderness and welding its diverse parts into a great nation, stretching out the eager hand of exploration for yet more land, bringing with arduous toil the ample gifts of sea and forest to the townsfolk, hewing out homesteads in the savage wilderness, laboring faithfully at forge and shipyard and loom, bartering in the market place, putting the fear of God into their children and the fear of their own strong right arm into him whosoever sought to oppress them, be he Red Man with his tomahawk or English King with his Stamp Act. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: In 1773 and 1774 over thirty thousand came. In the latter year Benjamin Franklin estimated the population of Pennsylvania at 350,000, of which number one-third was thought to be Scotch-Irish. John Fiske states that half a million, all told, arrived in the colonies before 1776, "making not less than one-sixth part of our population at the time of the Revolution."] [Footnote 2: John Fiske: _The Dutch and Quaker Colonies in America_, vol. II, p. 351.] CHAPTER II THE AMERICAN STOCK In the history of a word we may frequently find a fragment, sometimes a large section, of universal history. This is exemplified in the term American, a name which, in the phrase of George Washington, "must always exalt the pride of patriotism" and which today is proudly borne by a hundred million people. There is no obscurity about the origin of the name America. It was suggested for the New World in 1507 by Martin Waldseemüller, a German geographer at the French college of Saint-Dié. In that year this savant printed a tract, with a map of the world or _mappemonde_, recognizing the dubious claims of discovery set up by Amerigo Vespucci and naming the new continent after him. At first applied only to South America, the name was afterwards extended to mean the northern continent as well; and in time the whole New World, from the Frozen Ocean to the Land of Fire, came to be called America. Inevitably the people who achieved a preponderating influence in the new continent came to be called Americans. Today the name American everywhere signifies belonging to the United States, and a citizen of that country is called an American. This unquestionably is geographically anomalous, for the neighbors of the United States, both north and south, may claim an equal share in the term. Ethnically, the only real Americans are the Indian descendants of the aboriginal races. But it is futile to combat universal usage: the World War has clinched the name upon the inhabitants of the United States. The American army, the American navy, American physicians and nurses, American food and clothing--these are phrases with a definite geographical and ethnic meaning which neither academic ingenuity nor race rivalry can erase from the memory of mankind. This chapter, however, is to discuss the American stock, and it is necessary to look farther back than mere citizenship; for there are millions of American citizens of foreign birth or parentage who, though they are Americans, are clearly not of any American stock. At the time of the Revolution there was a definite American population, knit together by over two centuries of toil in the hard school of frontier life, inspired by common political purposes, speaking one language, worshiping one God in divers manners, acknowledging one sovereignty, and complying with the mandates of one common law. Through their common experience in subduing the wilderness and in wresting their independence from an obstinate and stupid monarch, the English colonies became a nation. Though they did not fulfill Raleigh's hope and become an English nation, they were much more English than non-English, and these Revolutionary Americans may be called today, without abuse of the term, the original American stock. Though they were a blend of various races, a cosmopolitan admixture of ethnic strains, they were not more varied than the original admixture of blood now called English. We may, then, properly begin our survey of the racial elements in the United States by a brief scrutiny of this American stock, the parent stem of the American people, the great trunk, whose roots have penetrated deep into the human experience of the past and whose branches have pushed upward and outward until they spread over a whole continent. The first census of the United States was taken in 1790. More than a hundred years later, in 1909, the Census Bureau published _A Century of Population Growth_ in which an attempt was made to ascertain the nationality of those who comprised the population at the taking of the first census. In that census no questions of nativity were asked. This omission is in itself significant of the homogeneity of the population at that time. The only available data, therefore, upon which such a calculation could be made were the surnames of the heads of families preserved in the schedules. A careful analysis of the list disclosed a surprisingly large number of names ostensibly English or British. Fashions in names have changed since then, and many that were so curious, simple, or fantastically compounded as to be later deemed undignified have undergone change or disappeared.[3] Upon this basis the nationality of the white population was distributed among the States in accordance with Table A printed on pages 26-27. Three of the original States are not represented in this table: New Jersey, Delaware, and Georgia. The schedules of the First Census for those States were not preserved. The two new States of Kentucky and Tennessee are also missing from the list. Estimates, however, have been made for these missing States. For Delaware, the schedules of the Second Census, 1800, survived. As there was little growth and very little change in the composition of the population during this decade, the Census Bureau used the later figures as a basis for calculating the population in 1790. Of three of the missing Southern States the report says: "The composition of the white population of Georgia, Kentucky, and of the district subsequently erected into the State of Tennessee is also unknown; but in view of the fact that Georgia was a distinctly English colony, and that Tennessee and Kentucky were settled largely from Virginia and North Carolina, the application of the North Carolina proportions to the white population of these three results in what is doubtless an approximation of the actual distribution." TABLE A[4] DISTRIBUTION OF THE WHITE POPULATION, 1790, IN EACH STATE, ACCORDING TO NATIONALITY AS INDICATED BY NAMES OF HEADS OF FAMILIES Note: The first column under each State gives the number of persons; the second, the percentage. The asterisk indicates less than one-tenth of one per cent. -------------+-------------+--------------+-------------+-------------- NATIONALITY | MAINE | NEW HAMPSHIRE| VERMONT | MASSACHUSETTS -------------+-------+-----+--------+-----+-------+-----+--------+----- All | | | | | | | | Nationalities| 96,107|100.0| 141,112|100.0| 85,072|100.0| 373,187|100.0 | | | | | | | | English | 89,515| 93.1| 132,726| 94.1| 81,149| 95.4| 354,528| 95.0 Scotch | 4,154| 4.3| 6,648| 4.7| 2,562| 3.0| 13,435| 3.6 Irish | 1,334| 1.4| 1,346| 1.0| 597| 0.7| 3,732| 1.0 Dutch | 279| 0.3| 153| 0.1| 428| 0.5| 373| 0.1 French | 115| 0.1| 142| 0.1| 153| 0.2| 746| 0.2 German | 436| 0.5| | | 35| *| 75| * Hebrew | 44| *| | | | | 67| * All others | 230| 0.2| 97| 0.1| 148| 0.2| 231| * -------------+-------+-----+--------+-----+-------+-----+--------+----- -------------+-------------+--------------+--------------+-------------- NATIONALITY | RHODE ISLAND| CONNECTICUT | NEW YORK | PENNSYLVANIA -------------+-------+-----+--------+-----+--------+-----+--------+----- All | | | | | | | | Nationalities| 64,670|100.0| 232,236|100.0| 314,366|100.0| 423,373|100.0 | | | | | | | | English | 62,079| 96.0| 223,437| 96.2| 245,901| 78.2| 249,656| 59.0 Scotch | 1,976| 3.1| 6,425| 2.8| 10,034| 3.2| 49,567| 11.7 Irish | 459| 0.7| 1,589 | 0.7| 2,525| 0.8| 8,614| 2.0 Dutch | 19| *| 258 | 0.1| 50,600| 16.1| 2,623| 0.6 French | 88| 0.1| 512| 0.2| 2,424| 0.8| 2,341| 0.6 German | 33| 0.1| 4| *| 1,103| 0.4| 110,357| 26.1 Hebrew | 9| *| 5| *| 385| 0.1| 21| * All others | 7| *| 6| *| 1,394| 0.4| 194| * -------------+-------+-----+--------+-----+--------+-----+--------+----- -------------+--------------+--------------+--------------+-------------- NATIONALITY | MARYLAND | VIRGINIA |NORTH CAROLINA|SOUTH CAROLINA -------------+--------+-----+--------+-----+--------+-----+--------+----- All | | | | | | | | Nationalities| 208,649|100.0| 442,117|100.0| 289,181|100.0| 140,178|100.0 | | | | | | | | English | 175,265| 84.0| 375,799| 85.0| 240,309| 83.1| 115,480| 82.4 Scotch | 13,562| 6.5| 31,391| 7.1| 32,388| 11.2| 16,447| 11.7 Irish | 5,008| 2.4| 8,842| 2.0| 6,651| 2.3| 3,576| 2.6 Dutch | 209| 0.1| 884| 0.2| 578| 0.2| 219| 0.2 French | 1,460| 0.7| 2,653| 0.6| 868| 0.3| 1,882| 1.8 German | 12,310| 5.9| 21,664| 4.9| 8,097| 2.8| 2,343| 1.7 Hebrew | 626| 0.3| | | 1| *| 85| * All others | 209| 0.1| 884| 0.2| 289| 0.1| 146| 0.1 -------------+--------+-----+--------+-----+--------+-----+--------+----- TABLE B COMPUTED DISTRIBUTION OF WHITE POPULATION, 1790, ACCORDING TO NATIONALITY, IN EACH STATE FOR WHICH SCHEDULES ARE MISSING --------------+-----------------+-----------------+---------------- NATIONALITY | NEW JERSEY | DELAWARE | GEORGIA --------------+---------+-------+---------+-------+---------+------ All | | | | | | Nationalities | 169,954 | 100.0 | 46,310 | 100.0 | 52,886 | 100.0 | | | | | | English | 98,620 | 58.0 | 39,966 | 86.3 | 43,948 | 83.1 Scotch | 13,156 | 7.7 | 3,473 | 7.5 | 5,923 | 11.2 Irish | 12,099 | 7.1 | 1,806 | 3.9 | 1,216 | 2.3 Dutch | 21,581 | 12.7 | 463 | 1.0 | 106 | 0.2 French | 3,565 | 2.1 | 232 | 0.5 | 159 | 0.3 German | 15,678 | 9.2 | 185 | 0.4 | 1,481 | 2.8 All others[A] | 5,255 | 3.1 | 185 | 0.4 | 53 | 0.1 --------------+---------+-------+---------+-------+---------+------ --------------+-----------------+---------------- NATIONALITY | KENTUCKY | TENNESSEE --------------+---------+-------+---------+------ All | | | | Nationalities | 61,133 | 100.0 | 31,918 | 100.0 | | | | English | 50,802 | 83.1 | 26,519 | 83.1 Scotch | 6,847 | 11.2 | 3,574 | 11.2 Irish | 1,406 | 2.3 | 734 | 2.8 Dutch | 122 | 0.2 | 64 | 0.2 French | 183 | 0.3 | 96 | 0.3 German | 1,712 | 2.8 | 894 | 2.8 All others[A] | 61 | 0.1 | 32 | 0.1 --------------+---------+-------+---------+------ [Note A: Including Hebrews.] New Jersey presented a more complex problem. Here were Welsh and Swedes, Finns and Danes, as well as French, Dutch, Scotch, Irish, and English. A careful analysis was made of lists of freeholders, and other available sources, in the various counties. The results of these computations in the States from which no schedules of the First Census survive are given in Table B printed on page 28. The calculations for the entire country in 1790, based upon the census schedules of the States from which reports are still available and upon estimates for the others are summed up in the following manner: _Number and per cent distribution of the white population, 1790:_ _Nationality_ _Number_ _Per Cent_ All Nationalities 3,172,444 100.0 English 2,605,699 82.1 Scotch 221,562 7.0 Irish 61,534 1.9 Dutch 78,959 2.5 French 17,619 0.6 German 176,407 5.6 All others 10,664 0.3 To this method of estimating nationality, it will at once be objected that undue prominence is given to the derivation of the surname, an objection fully understood by those who made the estimate and one which deprives their conclusions of strict scientific verity. In a new country, where the population is in a constant flux and where members of community composed of one race easily migrate to another part of the country and fall in with people of another race, it is very easy to modify the name to suit new circumstances. We know, for instance that Isaac Isaacks of Pennsylvania was not a Jew, that the Van Buskirks of New Jersey were German, not Dutch, that D'Aubigné was early shortened into Dabny and Aulnay into Olney. So also many a Brown had been Braun, and several Blacks had once been only Schwartz. Even the universal Smith had absorbed more than one original Schmidt. These rather exceptional cases, however, probably, do not vitiate the general conclusion here made as to the British and non-British element in the population of America, for the Dutch, the German, the French, and the Swedish cognomens are characteristically different from the British. But the differentiation between Irish, Welsh, Scotch, Scotch-Irish, and English names is infinitely more difficult. The Scotch-Irish particularly have challenged the conclusions reached by the Census Bureau. They claim a much larger proportion of the original bulk of our population than the seven per cent included under the heading Scotch. Henry Jones Ford considers the conclusions as far as they pertain to the Scotch-Irish as "fallacious and untrustworthy." "Many Ulster names," he says,[5] "are also common English names.... Names classed as Scotch or Irish were probably mostly those of Scotch-Irish families.... The probability is that the English proportion should be much smaller and that the Scotch-Irish, who are not included in the Census Bureau's classification, should be much larger than the combined proportions allotted to the Scotch and the Irish." Whatever may be the actual proportions of these British elements, as revealed by a study of the patronymics of the population at the time of American independence, the fact that the ethnic stock was overwhelmingly British stands out most prominently. We shall never know the exact ratios between the Scotch and the English, the Welsh and the Irish blended in this hardy, self-assertive, and fecund strain. But we do know that the language, the political institutions, and the common law as practiced and established in London had a predominating influence on the destinies of the United States. While the colonists drifted far from the religious establishments of the mother country and found her commercial policies unendurable and her political hauteur galling, they nevertheless retained those legal and institutional forms which remain the foundation of Anglo-Saxon life. For nearly half a century the American stock remained almost entirely free from foreign admixture. It is estimated that between 1790 and 1820 only 250,000 immigrants came to America, and of these the great majority came after the War of 1812. The white population of the United States in 1820 was 7,862,166. Ten years later it had risen to 10,537,378. This astounding increase was almost wholly due to the fecundity of the native stock. The equitable balance between the sexes, the ease of acquiring a home, the vigorous pioneer environment, and the informal frontier social conditions all encouraged large families. Early marriages were encouraged. Bachelors and unmarried women were rare. Girls were matrons at twenty-five and grand-mothers at forty. Three generations frequently dwelt in one homestead. Families of five persons were the rule; families of eight or ten were common, while families of fourteen or fifteen did not elicit surprise. It was the father's ambition to leave a farm to every son and, if the neighborhood was too densely settled easily to permit this, there was the West--always the West. This was a race of nation builders. No sooner had he made the Declaration of Independence a reality than the eager pathfinder turned his face towards the setting sun and, prompted by the instincts of conquest, he plunged into the wilderness. Within a few years western New York and Pennsylvania were settled; Kentucky achieved statehood in 1792 and Tennessee four years later, soon to be followed by Mississippi in 1817 and Alabama in 1819. The great Northwest Territory yielded Ohio in 1802, Indiana in 1816, Illinois in 1818, and Michigan in 1837. Beyond the Mississippi the empire of Louisiana doubled the original area of the Republic; Louisiana came into statehood in 1812 and Missouri in 1821. Texas, Oregon, and the fruits of the Mexican War extended its confines to the Western Sea. Incredibly swift as was this march of the Stars, the American pioneer was always in advance. The pathfinders were virtually all of American stock. The States admitted to the Union prior to 1840 were not only founded by them; they were almost wholly settled by them. When the influx of foreigners began in the thirties, they found all the trails already blazed, the trading posts established, and the first terrors of the wilderness dispelled. They found territories already metamorphosed into States, counties organized, cities established. Schools, churches, and colleges preceded the immigrants who were settlers and not strictly pioneers. The entire territory ceded by the Treaty of 1783 was appropriated in large measure by the American before the advent of the European immigrant. Washington, with a ring of pride, said in 1796 that the native population of America was "filling the western part of the State of New York and the country on the Ohio with their own surplusage." And James Madison in 1821 wrote that New England, "which has sent out such a continued swarm to other parts of the Union for a number of years, has continued at the same time, as the census shows, to increase in population although it is well known that it has received but comparatively few emigrants from any quarter." Beyond the Mississippi, Louisiana, with its Creole population, was feeling the effect of American migration. A strange restlessness, of the race rather than of the individual, possessed the American frontiers-man. He moved from one locality to another, but always westward, like some new migratory species that had willingly discarded the instinct for returning. He never took the back trail. A traveler, writing in 1791 from the Ohio Valley, rather superficially observed that "the Americans are lazy and bored, often moving from place to place for the sake of change; in the thirty years that the [western] Pennsylvania neighborhood has been settled, it has changed owners two or three times. The sight of money will tempt any American to sell and off he goes to a new country." Foreign observers of that time constantly allude to this universal and inexplicable restiveness. It was obviously not laziness, for pioneering was a man's task; nor boredom, for the frontier was lonely and neighbors were far apart It was an ever-present dissatisfaction that drove this perpetual conqueror onward--a mysterious impulse, the urge of vague and unfulfilled desires. He went forward with a conquering ambition in his heart; he believed he was the forerunner of a great National Destiny. Crude rhymes of the day voice this feeling: So shall the nation's pioneer go joyful on his way, To wed Penobscot water to San Francisco Bay. The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea, And mountain unto mountain call, praise God, for we are free! Again a popular chorus of the pathfinder rang: Then o'er the hills in legions, boys; Fair freedom's star Points to the sunset regions, boys, Ha, Ha, Ha-ha! Many a New Englander cleared a farm in western New York, Ohio, or Indiana, before settling finally in Wisconsin, Iowa, or Minnesota, whence he sent his sons on to Dakota, Montana, Oregon, and California. From Tennessee and Kentucky large numbers moved into southern Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and across the river into Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Texas. Abraham Lincoln's father was one of these pioneers and tried his luck in various localities in Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois. Nor had the movement ceased after a century of continental exploitation. Hamlin Garland in his notable autobiography, _A Son of the Middle Border_, brings down to our own day the evidence of this native American restiveness. His parents came of New England extraction, but settled in Wisconsin. His father, after his return from the Civil War, moved to Iowa, where he was scarcely ensconced before an opportunity came to sell his place. The family then pushed out farther upon the Iowa prairie, where they "broke" a farm from the primeval turf. Again, in his ripe age, the father found the urge revive and under this impulse he moved again, this time to Dakota, where he remained long enough to transform a section of prairie into wheat land before he took the final stage of his western journeyings to southern California. Here he was surrounded by neighbors whose migration had been not unlike his own, and to the same sunny region another relative found his way "by way of a long trail through Iowa, Dakota, Montana, Oregon, and North California." When the last frontier had vanished, it was seen that men of this American stock had penetrated into every valley, traversed every plain, and explored every mountain pass from Atlantic to Pacific. They organized every territory and prepared each for statehood. It was the enterprise of these sons and grandsons and great-grandsons of the Revolutionary Americans, obeying the restless impulse of a pioneer race, who spread a network of settlements and outposts over the entire land and prepared it for the immigrant invasion from Europe. Owing to this influx of foreigners, the American stock has become mingled with other strains, especially those from Great Britain. The Census Bureau estimated that in 1900 there were living in the United States approximately thirty-five million white people who were descended from persons enumerated in 1790. If these thirty-five million were distributed by nationality according to the proportions estimated for 1790, the result would appear as follows: English 28,735,000 Scotch 2,450,000 Irish 665,000 Dutch 875,000 French 210,000 German 1,960,000 All others 105,000 In 1900 there were also thirty-two million descendants of white persons who had come to the United States after the First Census, yet of these over twenty million were either foreign born or the children of persons born abroad. If this ratio of increase remained the same, the American stock would apparently maintain its own, even in the midst of twentieth century immigration. But the birth rate of the foreign stock, especially among the recent comers, is much higher than of the native American stock. Conditions have so changed that, according to the Census, the American people "have concluded that they are only about one-half as well able to rear children--at any rate, without personal sacrifice--under the conditions prevailing in 1900 as their predecessors proved themselves to be under the conditions which prevailed in 1790." The difficulty of ascertaining ethnic influences increases immeasurably when we pass from the physical to the mental realm. There are subtle interplays of delicate forces and reactions from environment which no one can measure. Leadership nevertheless is the gift of but few races; and in the United States eminence in business, in statecraft, in letters and learning can with singular directness be traced in a preponderating proportion to this American stock. In 1891 Henry Cabot Lodge published an essay on _The Distribution of Ability in the United States_,[6] based upon the 15,514 names in Appleton's _Cyclopedia of American Biography_ (1887). He "treated as immigrants all persons who came to the United States after the adoption of the Constitution," and on this division he found 14,243 "Americans" and 1271 "immigrants" distributed racially as follows: AMERICANS IMMIGRANTS English 10,376 English 345 Scotch-Irish 1439 German 245 German 659 Irish 200 Huguenot 589 Scotch 151 Scotch 436 Scotch-Irish 88 Dutch 336 French 63 Welsh 159 Canadian and Irish 109 British Colonial 60 French 85 Scandinavian 18 Scandinavian 31 Welsh 16 Spanish 7 Belgian 15 Italian 7 Swiss 15 Swiss 5 Dutch 14 Greek 3 Polish 13 Russian 1 Hungarian 11 Polish 1 Italian 10 Greek 3 Russian 2 Spanish 1 Portuguese 1 Of the total number of individuals selected, a large number were chosen by the editors as being of enough importance to entitle them to a small portrait in the text, and fifty-eight persons who had achieved some unusual distinction were accorded a full-page portrait. These, however, represented achievement rather than ability, for they included the Presidents of the United States and other political personages. Of the total number selected for the distinction of a small portrait, 1200 were "Americans" and 71 "immigrants." Of the 1200 "Americans," 856 were of English extraction, 129 Scotch-Irish, 57 Huguenot, 45 Scotch, 39 Dutch, 37 German, 15 Welsh, 13 Irish, 6 French, and one each of Scandinavian, Spanish, and Swiss. Of the "immigrants" 15 were English, 14 German, 11 Irish, 8 Scotch-Irish, 7 Scotch, 6 Swiss, 4 French, 3 from Spanish Provinces, and 1 each from Scandinavia, Belgium, and Poland. All the 58 whose full-page portraits are presumed to be an index to unusual prominence were found to be "Americans" and by race extraction they were distributed as follows: English 41, Scotch-Irish 8, Scotch 4, Welsh 2, Dutch, Spanish, and Irish 1 each. Whatever may be said in objection to this index of ability (and Senator Lodge effectively answered his critics in a note appended to this study in his volume of _Historical and Political Essays_), it is apparent that a large preponderance of leadership in American politics, business, art, literature, and learning has been derived from the American stock. This is a perfectly natural result. The founders of the Republic themselves were in large degree the children of the pick of Europe. The Puritan, Cavalier, Quaker, Scotch-Irish, Huguenot, and Dutch pioneers were not ordinary folk in any sense of the term. They were, in a measure, a race of heroes. Their sons and grandsons inherited their vigor and their striving. It is not at all singular that every President of the United States and every Chief Justice of the Federal Supreme Court has come from this stock, nor that the vast majority of Cabinet members, of distinguished Senators, of Speakers of the House, and of men of note in the House of Representatives trace back to it their lineage in whole or in part. After the middle of the nineteenth century the immigrant vote began to make itself felt, and politicians contended for the "Irish vote" and the "German vote" and later for the "Italian vote" the "Jewish vote," and the "Norwegian vote." Members of the immigrant races began to appear in Washington, and the new infusion of blood made itself felt in the political life of the country. But, if material were available for a comprehensive analysis of American leadership in life and thought today, a larger number of names of non-native origin would no doubt appear than was disclosed in 1891 by Senator Lodge's analysis. All the learned professions, for instance, and many lines of business are finding their numbers swelled by persons of foreign parentage. This change is to be expected. The influence of environment, especially of free education and unfettered opportunity, is calling forth the talents of the children of the immigrants. The number of descendants from the American stock yearly becomes relatively less; intermarriage with the children of the foreign born is increasingly frequent. Profound changes have taken place since the American pioneers pushed their way across the Alleghanies; changes infinitely more profound have taken place even since the dawn of the twentieth century and have put to the test of Destiny the institutions which are called "American." Nevertheless in a large sense every great tradition of the original American stock lives today: the tradition of free movement, of initiative and enterprise; the tradition of individual responsibility; the primary traditions of democracy and liberty. These give a virile present meaning to the name American. A noted French journalist received this impression of a group of soldiers who in 1918 were bivouacked in his country: "I saw yesterday an American unit in which men of very varied origin abounded--French, Polish, Czech, German, English, Canadian--such their names and other facts revealed them. Nevertheless, all were of the same or similar type, a fact due apparently to the combined influences of sun, air, primary education, and environment. And one was not long in discovering that the intelligence of each and all had manifestly a wider outlook than that of the man of single racial lineage and of one country." And these men were Americans. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 3: Among the names which have quite vanished were those pertaining to household matters, such as Hash, Butter, Waffle, Booze, Frill, Shirt, Lace; or describing human characteristics, as Booby, Dunce, Sallow, Daft, Lazy, Measley, Rude; or parts of the body and its ailments, as Hips, Bones, Chin, Glands, Gout, Corns, Physic; or representing property, as Shingle, Gutters, Pump, Milkhouse, Desk, Mug, Auction, Hose, Tallow. Nature also was drawn upon for a large number of names. The colors Black, Brown, and Gray survive, but Lavender, Tan, and Scarlet have gone out of vogue. Bogs, Hazelgrove, Woodyfield, Oysterbanks, Chestnut, Pinks, Ragbush, Winterberry, Peach, Walnut, Freeze, Coldair, Bear, Tails, Chick, Bantam, Stork, Worm, Snake, and Maggot indicate the simple origin of many names. There were many strange combinations of Christian names and surnames: Peter Wentup, Christy Forgot, Unity Bachelor, Booze Still, Cutlip Hoof, and Wanton Bump left little to the imagination.] [Footnote 4: These tables and those on the pages immediately following are taken from _A Century of Population Growth_, issued by the United States Census Bureau in 1908.] [Footnote 5: _The Scotch-Irish in America_ pp. 219-20.] [Footnote 6: See _The Century Magazine_, September, 1891, and Lodge's _Historical and Political Essays_, 1892.] CHAPTER III THE NEGRO Not many years ago a traveler was lured into a London music hall by the sign: _Spirited American Singing and Dancing_. He saw on the stage a sextette of black-faced comedians, singing darky ragtime to the accompaniment of banjo and bones, dancing the clog and the cakewalk, and reciting negro stories with the familiar accent and smile, all to the evident delight of the audience. The man in the seat next to him remarked, "These Americans are really lively." Not only in England, but on the continent, the negro's melodies, his dialect, and his banjo, have always been identified with America. Even Americans do not at once think of the negro as a foreigner, so accustomed have they become to his presence, to his quaint mythology, his soft accent, and his genial and accommodating nature. He was to be found in every colony before the Revolution; he was an integral part of American economic life long before the great Irish and German immigrations, and, while in the mass he is confined to the South, he is found today in every State in the Union. The negro, however, is racially the most distinctly foreign element in America. He belongs to a period of biological and racial evolution far removed from that of the white man. His habitat is the continent of the elephant and the lion, the mango and the palm, while that of the race into whose state he has been thrust is the continent of the horse and the cow, of wheat and the oak. There is a touch of the dramatic in every phase of the negro's contact with America: his unwilling coming, his forcible detention, his final submission, his emancipation, his struggle to adapt himself to freedom, his futile competition with a superior economic order. Every step from the kidnaping, through "the voiceless woe of servitude" and the attempted redemption of his race, has been accompanied by tragedy. How else could it be when peoples of two such diverse epochs in racial evolution meet? His coming was almost contemporaneous with that of the white man. "American slavery," says Channing,[7] "began with Columbus, possibly because he was the first European who had a chance to introduce it: and negroes were brought to the New World at the suggestion of the saintly Las Casas to alleviate the lot of the unhappy and fast disappearing red man" They were first employed as body servants and were used extensively in the West Indies before their common use in the colonies on the continent. In the first plantations of Virginia a few of them were found as laborers. In 1619 what was probably the first slave ship on that coast--it was euphemistically called a "Dutch man-of-war"--landed its human cargo in Virginia. From this time onward the numbers of African slaves steadily increased. Bancroft estimated their number at 59,000 in 1714, 78,000 in 1727, and 263,000 in 1754. The census of 1790 recorded 697,624 slaves in the United States. This almost incredible increase was not due alone to the fecundity of the negro. It was due, in large measure, to the unceasing slave trade. It is difficult to imagine more severe ordeals than the negroes endured in the day of the slave trade. Their captors in the jungles of Africa--usually neighboring tribesmen in whom the instinct for capture, enslavement, and destruction was untamed--soon learned that the aged, the inferior, the defective, were not wanted by the trader. These were usually slaughtered. Then followed for the less fortunate the long and agonizing march to the seaboard. Every one not robust enough to endure the arduous journey was allowed to perish by the way. On the coast, the agent of the trader or the middle-man awaited the captive. He was an expert at detecting those evidences of weakness and disease which had eluded the eye of the captor or the rigor of the march. "An African factor of fair repute," said a slave captain,[8] "is ever careful to select his human cargo with consummate prudence, so as not only to supply his employers with athletic laborers, but to avoid any taint of disease." But the severest test of all was the hideous "middle passage" which remained to every imported slave a nightmare to the day of his death. The unhappy captives were crowded into dark, unventilated holds and were fed scantily on food which was strange to their lips; they were unable to understand the tongue of their masters and often unable to understand the dialects of their companions in misfortune; they were depressed with their helplessness on the limitless sea, and their childish superstitions were fed by a thousand new terrors and emotions. It was small wonder that, when disease began its ravages in the shipload of these kidnaped beings, "the mortality of thirty per cent was not rare." That this was primarily a physical selection which made no allowance for mental aptitudes did not greatly diminish in the eyes of the master the slave's utility. The new continent needed muscle power; and so tens of thousands of able-bodied Africans were landed on American soil, alien to everything they found there. These slaves were kidnaped from many tribes. "In our negro population," says Tillinghast, "as it came from the Western Coast of Africa, there were Wolofs and Fulans, tall, well-built, and very black, hailing from Senegambia and its vicinity; there were hundreds of thousands from the Slave Coast--Tshis, Ewes, and Yorubans, including Dahomians; and mingled with all these Soudanese negroes proper were occasional contributions of mixed stock, from the north and northeast, having an infusion of Moorish blood. There were other thousands from Lower Guinea, belonging to Bantu stock, not so black in color as the Soudanese, and thought by some to be slightly superior to them."[9] No historian has recorded these tribal differences. The new environment, so strange, so ruthless, swallowed them; and, in the welter of their toil, the black men became so intermingled that all tribal distinctions soon vanished. Here and there, however, a careful observer may still find among them a man of superior mien or a woman of haughty demeanor denoting perhaps an ancestral prince or princess who once exercised authority over some African jungle village. Slavery was soon a recognized institution in every American colony. By 1665 every colony had its slave code. In Virginia the laws became increasingly strict until the dominion of the master over his slaves was virtually absolute. In South Carolina an insurrection of slaves in 1739, which cost the lives of twenty-one whites and forty-four blacks, led to very drastic laws. Of the Northern colonies, New York seems to have been most in fear of a black peril. In 1700 there were about six thousand slaves in this colony, chiefly in the city, where there were also many free negroes, and on the large estates along the Hudson. Twice the white people of the city for reasons that have not been preserved, believing that slave insurrections were imminent, resorted to extreme and brutal measures. In 1712 they burned to death two negroes, hanged in chains a third, and condemned a fourth to be broken on the wheel. In 1741 they went so far as to burn fourteen negroes, hang eighteen, and transport seventy-one. In New England where their numbers were relatively small and the laws were less severe, the negroes were employed chiefly in domestic service. In Quaker Pennsylvania there were many slaves, the proprietor himself being a slave owner. Ten years after the founding of Philadelphia, the authorities ordered the constables to arrest all negroes found "gadding about" on Sunday without proper permission. They were to remain in jail until Monday, receiving in lieu of meat or drink thirty-nine lashes on the bare back. Protests against slavery were not uncommon during the colonial period; and before the Revolution was accomplished several of the States had emancipated their slaves. Vermont led the way in 1777; the Ordinance of 1787 forbade slavery in the Northwest Territory; and by 1804 all the Northern States had provided that their blacks should be set free. The opinion prevailed that slavery was on the road to gradual extinction. In the Federal Convention of 1787 this belief was crystallized into the clause making possible the prohibition of the slave trade after the year 1808. Mutual benefit organizations among the negroes, both slave and free, appeared in many States, North and South. Negro congregations were organized. The number of free negroes increased rapidly, and in the Northern States they acquired such civil rights as industry, thrift, and integrity commanded. Here and there colored persons of unusual gifts distinguished themselves in various callings and were even occasionally entertained in white households. The industrial revolution in England, with its spinning jenny and power loom, indirectly influenced the position of the negro in America. The new machinery had an insatiable maw for cotton. It could turn such enormous quantities of raw fiber into cloth that the old rate of producing cotton was entirely inadequate. New areas had to be placed under cultivation. The South, where soil and climate combined to make an ideal cotton land, came into its own. And when Eli Whitney's gin was perfected, cotton was crowned king. Statistics tell the story: the South produced about 8000 bales of cotton in 1790; 650,000 bales in 1820; 2,469,093 bales in 1850; 5,387,052 bales in 1860.[10] This vast increase in production called for human muscle which apparently only the negro could supply. Once it was shown that slavery paid, its status became fixed as adamant. The South forthwith ceased weakly to apologize for it, as it had formerly done, and began to defend it, at first with some hesitation, then with boldness, and finally with vehement aggressiveness. It was economically necessary; it was morally right; it was the peculiar Southern domestic institution; and, above all, it paid. On every basis of its defense, the cotton kingdom would brook no interference from any other section of the country. So there was formed a race feudality in the Republic, rooted in profits, protected by the political power of the slave lords, and enveloped in a spirit of defiance and bitterness which reacted without mercy upon its victims. Tighter and tighter were drawn the coils of restrictions around the enslaved race. The mind and the soul as well as the body were placed under domination. They might marry to breed but not to make homes. Such charity and kindness as they experienced, they received entirely from individual humane masters; society treated them merely as chattels. Attempted insurrections, such as that in South Carolina in 1822 and that in Virginia in 1831 in which many whites and blacks were killed, only produced harsher laws and more cruel punishments, until finally the slave became convinced that his only salvation lay in running away. The North Star was his beacon light of freedom. A few thousand made their way southward through the chain of swamps that skirt the Atlantic coast and mingled with the Indians in Florida. Tens of thousands made their way northward along well recognized routes to the free States and to Canada: the Appalachian ranges with their far-spreading spurs furnished the friendliest of these highways; the Mississippi Valley with its marshlands, forests, and swamps provided less secure hiding places; and the Cumberland Mountains, well supplied with limestone caves, offered a third pathway. At the northern end of these routes the "Underground Railway"[11] received the fugitives. From the Cumberlands, leading through the heart of Tennessee and Kentucky, this benevolent transfer stretched through Ohio and Indiana to Canada; from southern Illinois it led northward through Wisconsin; and from the Appalachian route mysterious byways led through New York and New England. How many thus escaped cannot be reckoned, but it is known that the number of free negroes in the North increased so rapidly that laws discriminating against them were passed in many States. Nowhere did the negro enjoy all the rights that the white man had. In some States the free negroes were so restricted in settling as to be virtually prohibited; in others they were disfranchised; in others they were denied the right of jury duty or of testifying in court. But in spite of this discrimination on the part of the law, a great sympathy for the runaway slave spread among the people, and the fugitive carried into the heart of the North the venom of the institution of which he was the unhappy victim. Meanwhile the slave trade responded promptly to the lure of gain which the increased demand for cotton held out. The law of 1807 prohibiting the importation of slaves had, from the date of its enactment, been virtually a dead letter. Messages of Presidents, complaints of government attorneys, of collectors and agents called attention to the continuous violation of the law; and its nullity was a matter of common knowledge. When the market price of a slave rose to $325 in 1840 and to $500 after 1850, the increase in profits made slave piracy a rather respectable business carried on by American citizens in American built ships flying the American flag and paying high returns on New York and New England capital. Owing to this steady importation there was a constant intermingling of raw stock from the jungles with the negroes who had been slaves in America for several generations. In 1860 there were 4,441,830 negroes in the United States, of whom only 488,070 were free. About thirteen per cent of the total number were mulattoes. Among the four million slaves were men and women of every gradation of experience with civilization, from those who had just disembarked from slave ships to those whose ancestry could be traced to the earliest days of the colonies. It was not, therefore, a strictly homogeneous people upon whom were suddenly and dramatically laid the burdens and responsibilities of the freedman. Among the emancipated blacks were not a few in whom there still throbbed vigorously the savage life they had but recently left behind and who could not yet speak intelligible English. Though there were many who were skilled in household arts and in the useful customary handicrafts, large numbers were acquainted only with the simplest toil of the open fields. There were a few free blacks who possessed property, in some instances to the value of many thousands of dollars, but the great bulk were wholly inexperienced in the responsibilities of ownership. There were some who had mastered the rudiments of learning and here and there was to be found a gifted mind, but ninety per cent of the negroes were unacquainted with letters and were strangers to even the most rudimentary learning. Their religion was a picturesque blend of Christian precepts and Voodoo customs. The Freedmen's Bureau, authorized by Congress early in 1865, had as its functions to aid the negro to develop self-control and self-reliance, to help the freedman with his new wage contracts, to befriend him when he appeared in court, and to provide for him schools and hospitals. It was a simple, slender reed for the race to lean upon until it learned to walk. But it interfered with the orthodox opinion of that day regarding individual independence and was limited to the period of war and one year thereafter. It was eyed with suspicion and was regarded with criticism by both the keepers of the _laissez faire_ faith and the former slave owners. It established a number of schools and made a modest beginning in peasant proprietorship and free labor.[12] When this temporary guide was withdrawn, private organizations to some extent took its place. The American Missionary Association continued the educational work, and volunteers shouldered other benevolences. But no power and no organization could take the place of the national authority. If the Freedmen's Bureau could have been stripped of those evil-intentioned persons who used it for private gain, been so organized as to enlist the support of the Southern white population, and been continued until a new generation of blacks were prepared for civil life, the colossal blunders and criminal misfits of that bitter period of transition might have been avoided. But political opportunism spurned comprehensive plans, and the negro suddenly found himself forced into social, political, and economic competition with the white man. The social and political struggle that followed was short-lived. There were a few desperate years under the domination of the carpetbagger and the Ku Klux Klan, a period of physical coercion and intimidation. Within a decade the negro vote was uncast or uncounted, and the grandfather clauses soon completed the political mastery of the former slave owner. A strict interpretation of the Civil Rights Act denied the application of the equality clause of the Constitution to social equality, and the social as well as the political separation of the two stocks was also accomplished. "Jim Crow," cars, separate accommodations in depots and theaters, separate schools, separate churches, attempted segregations in cities--these are all symbolic of two separate races forcibly united by constitutional amendments. But the economic struggle continued, for the black man, even if politically emasculated and socially isolated, had somehow to earn a living. In their first reaction of anger and chagrin, some of the whites here and there made attempts to reduce freedmen to their former servitude, but their efforts were effectually checked by the Fifteenth Amendment. An ingenious peonage, however, was created by means of the criminal law. Strict statutes were passed by States on guardianship, vagrancy, and petty crimes. It was not difficult to bring charges under these statutes, and the heavy penalties attached, together with the wide discretion permitted to judge and jury, made it easy to subject the culprit to virtual serfdom for a term of years. He would be leased to some contractor, who would pay for his keep and would profit by his toil. Whatever justification there may have been for these statutes, the convict lease system soon fell into disrepute, and it has been generally abandoned. It was upon the land that the freedman naturally sought his economic salvation. He was experienced in cotton growing. But he had neither acres nor capital. These he had to find and turn to his own uses ere he could really be economically free. So he began as a farm laborer, passed through various stages of tenantry, and finally graduated into land ownership. One finds today examples of every stage of this evolution.[13] There is first the farm laborer, receiving at the end of the year a fixed wage. He is often supplied with house and garden and usually with food and clothing. There are many variations of this labor contract. The "cropper" is barely a step advanced above the laborer, for he, too, furnishes nothing but labor, while the landlord supplies house, tools, live stock, and seed. His wage, however, is paid not in cash but in a stipulated share of the crop. From this share he must pay for the supplies received and interest thereon. This method, however, has proved to be a mutually unsatisfactory arrangement and is usually limited to hard pressed owners of poor land. The larger number of the negro farmers are tenants on shares or metayers. They work the land on their own responsibility, and this degree of independence appeals to them. They pay a stipulated portion of the crop as rent. If they possess some capital and the rental is fair, this arrangement proves satisfactory. But as very few negro metayers possess the needed capital, they resort to a system of crop-lienage under which a local retail merchant advances the necessary supplies and obtains a mortgage on the prospective crop. Many negro farmers, however, have achieved the independence of cash renters, assuming complete control of their crops and the disposition of their time. And finally, 241,000 negro farmers are landowners.[14] By 1910 nearly 900,000 negroes had achieved some degree of rural economic stability. The negro has not been so fortunate in his attempts to make a place for himself in the industrial world. The drift to the cities began soon after emancipation. During the first decade, the dissatisfaction with the landlordism which then prevailed, seconded by the demand for unskilled labor in the rapidly growing cities, drew the negroes from the land in such considerable numbers that the landowners were induced to make more liberal terms to keep the laborers on their farms. While there has been a large increase in the number of negroes engaged in agriculture, there has at the same time been a very marked current from the smaller communities to the new industrial cities of the South and to some of the manufacturing centers of the North. In recent years there have been wholesale importations of negro laborers into many Northern cities and towns, sometimes as strike breakers but more frequently to supply the urgent demand for unskilled labor. Many of the smaller manufacturing towns of New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois, and Indiana are accumulating a negro population. Very few of these industrial negroes, however, are skilled workers. They toil rather as ordinary day laborers, porters, stevedores, teamsters, and domestics. There has been a great deal written of the decline of the negro artisan. Walter F. Willcox, the eminent statistician, after a careful study of the facts concludes that economically "the negro as a race is losing ground, is being confined more and more to the inferior and less remunerative occupations, and is not sharing proportionately to his numbers in the prosperity of the country as a whole or of the section in which he mainly lives." It appears, therefore, that the pathway of emancipation has not led the negro out of the ranks of humble toil and into racial equality. In order to equip him more effectively for a place in the world, industrial schools have been established, among which the most noted is the Tuskegee Institute. Its founder, Booker T. Washington, advised his fellow negroes to yield quietly to the political and social distinctions raised against them and to perfect themselves in handicrafts and the mechanic arts, in the faith that civil rights would ultimately follow economic power and recognized industrial capacity. His teaching received the almost unanimous approval of both North and South. But opinion among his own people was divided, and in 1905 the "Niagara Movement" was launched, followed five years later by the organizing of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. This organization advised a more aggressive attitude towards race distinctions, outspokenly advocated race equality, demanded the negro's rights, and maintained a restless propaganda. These champions of the race possibilities of the negro point to the material advance made since slavery; to the 500,000 houses and the 221,000 farms owned by them; their 22,000 small retail businesses and their 40 banks; to the 40,000 churches with nearly 4,000,000 members; to the 200 colleges and secondary schools maintained for negroes and largely supported by them; to their 100 old people's homes, 30 hospitals, 300 periodicals; to the 6000 physicians, dentists, and nurses; the 30,000 teachers, the 18,000 clergymen. They point to the beacon lights of their genius: Frederick Douglass, statesman; J.C. Price, orator; Booker T. Washington, educator; W.E.B. DuBois, scholar; Paul Laurence Dunbar, poet; Charles W. Chestnutt, novelist. And they compare this record of 50 years' achievement with the preceding 245 years of slavery. This, however, is only one side of the shield. There is another side, nowhere better illustrated, perhaps, than in the neglected negro gardens of the South. Near every negro hut is a garden patch large enough to supply the family with vegetables for the entire year, but it usually is neglected. "If they have any garden at all," says a negro critic from Tuskegee, "it is apt to be choked with weeds and other noxious growths. With every advantage of soil and climate and with a steady market if they live near any city or large town, few of the colored farmers get any benefit from this, one of the most profitable of all industries." In marked contrast to these wild and unkempt patches are the gardens of the Italians who have recently invaded portions of the South and whose garden patches are almost miraculously productive. And this invasion brings a real threat to the future of the negro. His happy-go-lucky ways, his easy philosophy of life, the remarkable ease with which he severs home ties and shifts from place to place, his indifference to property obligations--these negative defects in his character may easily lead to his economic doom if the vigorous peasantry of Italy and other lands are brought into competition with him. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 7: _History of the United States_, vol. I, p. 116.] [Footnote 8: _Captain Canot: or Twenty Years in a Slaver_, by Brantz Mayer. p. 94 ff.] [Footnote 9: _The Negro in Africa and America_, p. 113.] [Footnote 10: Coman, _Industrial History of the United States_, p. 238. Bogart gives the figures as 1,976,000 bales in 1840, and 4,675,000 bales in 1860. _Economic History of the United States_, p. 256.] [Footnote 11: See _The Anti-Slavery Crusade_, by Jesse Macy (in _The Chronicles of America_), Chapter VIII.] [Footnote 12: See _The Sequel of Appomattox_, by Walter L. Fleming (in _The Chronicles of America_), Chapter IV.] [Footnote 13: See _The New South_ by Holland Thompson (in _The Chronicles of America_), Chapters IV and VII.] [Footnote 14: _Negroes in the United States_, Census Bulletin No. 129, p. 37.] CHAPTER IV UTOPIAS IN AMERICA America has long been a gigantic Utopia. To every immigrant since the founding of Jamestown this coast has gleamed upon the horizon as a Promised Land. America, too, has provided convenient plots of ground, as laboratories for all sorts of vagaries, where, unhampered by restrictions and unannoyed by inquisitive neighbors, enthusiastic dreamers could attempt to reconstruct society. Whenever an eccentric in Europe conceived a social panacea no matter how absurd, he said, "Let's go to America and try it out." There were so many of these enterprises that their exact number is unknown. Many of them perished in so brief a time that no friendly chronicler has even saved their names from oblivion. But others lived, some for a year, some for a decade, and few for more than a generation. They are of interest today not only because they brought a considerable number of foreigners to America, but also because in their history may be observed many of the principles of communism, or socialism, at work under favorable conditions. While the theory of Marxian socialism differs in certain details from these communistic experiments, the foreign-made nostrums so brazenly proclaimed today wherever malcontents are gathered together is in essence nothing new in America. Communism was tried and found wanting by the Pilgrim Fathers; since then it has been tried and found wanting over and over again. Some of the communistic colonies, it will appear, waxed fat out of the resources of their lands; but, in the end, even those which were most fortunate and successful withered away, and their remnants were absorbed by the great competitive life that surrounded them. There were two general types of these communities, the sectarian and the economic. Frequently they combined a peculiar religious belief with the economic practice of having everything in common. The sectarians professed to be neither proselyters nor propagandists but religious devotees, accepting communism as a physical advantage as well as a spiritual balm, and seeking in seclusion and quiet merely to save their own souls. The majority of the religious communists came from Germany--the home, also, of Marxian socialism in later years--where persecution was the lot of innumerable little sects which budded after the Reformation. They came usually as whole colonies, bringing both leaders and membership with them.[15] Probably the earliest to arrive in America were the Labadists, who denied the doctrine of original sin, discarded the Sabbath, and held strict views of marriage. In 1684, under the leadership of Peter Sluyter or Schluter (an assumed name, his original name being Vorstmann), some of these Labadists settled on the Bohemia River in Delaware. They were sent out from the mother colony in West Friesland to select a site for the entire body, but it does not appear that any others migrated, for within fifteen years the American colony was reduced to eight men. Sluyter evidently had considerable business capacity, for he became a wealthy tobacco planter and slave trader. In 1693 Johann Jacob Zimmermann, a distinguished mathematician and astronomer and the founder of an order of mystics called Pietists, started for America, to await the coming of the millennium, which his calculations placed in the autumn of 1694. But the fate of common mortals overtook the unfortunate leader and he died just as he was ready to sail from Rotterdam. About forty members of his brotherhood settled in the forests on the heights near Germantown, Pennsylvania, and, under the guidance of Johann Kelpius, achieved a unique influence over the German peasantry in that vicinity. The members of the brotherhood made themselves useful as teachers and in various handicrafts. They were especially in demand among the superstitious for their skill in casting horoscopes, using divining rods, and carving potent amulets. Their mysterious astronomical tower on the heights of the Wissahickon was the Mecca of the curious and the distressed. To the gentle Kelpius was ascribed the power of healing, but he was himself the victim of consumption. The brotherhood did not long survive his death in 1708 or 1709. Their astrological instruments may be seen in the collections of the Pennsylvania Philosophical Society. The first group of Dunkards (a name derived from their method of baptism, _eintunken_, to immerse) settled in Pennsylvania in 1719. A few years later they were joined by Conrad Beissel (Beizel or Peysel). This man had come to America to unite with the Pietist group in Germantown, but, as Kelpius was dead and his followers dispersed he joined the Dunkards. His desires for a monastic life drove him into solitary meditation--tradition says he took shelter in a cave--where he came to the conviction that the seventh day of the week should be observed as the day of rest. This conclusion led to friction with the Dunkards; and as a result, with three men and two women, Beissel founded in 1728 on the Cocalico River, the cloister of Ephrata. From this arose the first communistic Eden successfully established in America and one of the few to survive to the present century. Though in 1900 the community numbered only seventeen members, in its prime while Beissel was yet alive it sheltered three hundred, owned a prosperous paper mill, a grist mill, an oil mill, a fulling mill, a printing press, a schoolhouse, dwellings for the married members, and large dormitories for the celibates. The meeting-house was built entirely without metal, following literally the precedent of Solomon, who built his temple "so that there was neither hammer nor ax nor any tool of iron heard in the house while it was building." Wooden pegs took the place of nails, and the laths were fastened laboriously into grooves. Averse to riches, Beissel's people refused gifts from William Penn, King George III, and other prominent personages. The pious Beissel was a very capable leader, with a passion for music and an ardor for simplicity. He instituted among the unmarried members of the community a celibate order embracing both sexes, and he reduced the communal life of both the religious and secular members to a routine of piety and labor. The society was known, even in England, for the excellence of its paper, for the good workmanship of its printing press, and especially for the quality of its music, which was composed largely by Beissel. His chorals were among the first composed and sung in America. His school, too, was of such quality that it drew pupils from Baltimore and Philadelphia. After his death in 1786, in his seventy-second year, his successor tried for twenty-eight years to maintain the discipline and distinction of the order. It was eventually deemed prudent to incorporate the society under the laws of the State and to entrust its management to a board of trustees, and the cloistered life of the community became a memory. A community patterned after Ephrata was founded in 1800 by Peter Lehman at Snow Hill, in Franklin County, Pennsylvania. It consisted of some forty German men and women living in cloisters but relieving the monotony of their toil and the rigor of their piety with music. As in Ephrata, there was a twofold membership, the consecrated and the secular. The entire community, however, vanished after the death of its founder. When Beissel's Ephrata was in its heyday, the Moravians, under the patronage of Count Zinzendorf of Saxony, established in 1741 a community on the Lehigh River in Pennsylvania, named Bethlehem in token of their humility. The colony provided living and working quarters for both the married and unmarried members. After about twenty years of experimenting, the communistic regimen was abandoned. Bethlehem, however, continued to thrive, and its schools and its music became widely known. The story of the Harmonists, one of the most successful of all the communistic colonies is even more interesting. The founder, Johann Georg Rapp, had been a weaver and vine gardener in the little village of Iptingen in Württemberg. He drew upon himself and his followers the displeasure of the Church by teaching that religion was a personal matter between the individual and his God; that the Bible, not the pronouncements of the clergy, should be the guide to the true faith, and that the ordinances of the Church were not necessarily the ordinances of God. The petty persecutions which these doctrines brought upon him and his fellow separatists turned them towards liberal America. In 1803 Rapp and some of his companions crossed the sea and selected as a site for their colony five thousand acres of land in Butler County, Pennsylvania. There they built the new town of Harmony, to which came about six hundred persons, all told. On February 15, 1805 they organized the Harmony Society and signed a solemn agreement to merge all their possessions in one common lot.[16] Among them were a few persons of education and property, but most of them were sturdy, thrifty mechanics and peasants, who, under the skillful direction of Father Rapp, soon transformed the forest into a thriving community. After a soul stirring revival in 1807, they adopted celibacy. Those who were married did not separate but lived together in solemn self-restraint, "treating each other as brother and sister in Christ."[17] Their belief that the second coming of the Lord was imminent no doubt strengthened their resolution. At this time, also, the men all agreed to forego the use of tobacco--no small sacrifice on the part of hard-working laborers. The region, however, was unfavorable to the growth of the grape, which was the favorite Württemberg crop. In 1814 the society accordingly sold the communal property for $100,000 and removed to a site on the Wabash River, in Indiana, where, under the magic of their industry, the beautiful village of New Harmony arose in one year, and where many of their sturdy buildings still remain a testimony to their honest craftsmanship. Unfortunately, however, two pests appeared which they had not foreseen. Harassed by malaria and meddlesome neighbors, Father Rapp a third time sought a new Canaan. In 1825 he sold the entire site to Robert Owen, the British philanthropic socialist, and the Harmonists moved back to Pennsylvania. They built their third and last home on the Ohio, about twenty miles from Pittsburgh, and called it Economy in prophetic token of the wealth which their industry and shrewdness would soon bring in. The chaste and simple beauty of this village was due to the skill and good taste of Friedrich Reichert Rapp, an architect and stone cutter, the adopted son of Father Rapp. The fine proportions of the plain buildings, with their vines festooned between the upper and lower windows, the quaint and charming gardens, the tantalizing labyrinth where visitors lost themselves in an attempt to reach the Summer House--these were all of his creation. Friedrich Rapp was also a poet, an artist, and a musician. He gathered a worthy collection of paintings and a museum of Indian relics and objects of natural history. He composed many of the fine hymns which impress every visitor to Economy. He was likewise an energetic and skillful business man and represented the colony in its external affairs until his death in 1834. He was elected a member of the convention that framed the first constitution of Indiana, and later he was made a member of the legislature. Father Rapp, who possessed rare talents as an organizer, controlled the internal affairs of the colony. Those who left the community because unwilling to abide its discipline often pronounced their leader a narrow autocrat. But there can be no doubt that eminent good sense and gentleness tempered his judgments. He personally led the community in industry, in prayers, and in faith, until 1847, when death removed him. A council of nine elders elected by the members was then charged with the spiritual guidance of the community, and two trustees were appointed to administer its business affairs. Economy was a German community where German was spoken and German customs were maintained, although every one also spoke English. As there were but few accessions to the community and from time to time there were defections and withdrawals, the membership steadily declined[18]; but while the community was dwindling in membership it was rapidly increasing in wealth. Oil and coal were found on some of its lands; the products of its mills and looms, of its wine presses and distilleries, were widely and favorably known; and its outside investments, chiefly in manufactories and railroads, yielded even greater returns. These outside interests, indeed, became in time the sole support of the community for, as the membership fell away, the local industries had to be shut down. Then it was that communistic methods of doing business became inadequate and the colony ran into difficulties. An expert accountant in 1892 disclosed the debts of the community to be about one and a half million dollars. But the outside industrial enterprises in which the community had invested were sound; and the vast debt was paid. The society remained solvent, with a huge surplus, though out of prosperity not of its own making. When the lands at Economy were eventually sold, about eight acres were reserved to the few survivors of the society, including the Great House of Father Rapp and its attractive garden, with the use of the church and dwellings, so that they might spend their last days in the peaceful surroundings that had brought them prosperity and happiness. Lead me, Father, out of harm To the quiet Zoar farm If it be Thy will. So sang another group of simple German separatists, of whom some three hundred came to America from Württemberg in 1817, under the leadership of Joseph Bimeler (Bäumeler) and built the village of Zoar in Tuscarawas County, Ohio. They acquired five thousand acres of land and signed articles of association in April, 1819, turning all their individual property and all their future earnings into a common fund to be managed by an elected board of directors. The community provided its members with their daily necessities and two suits of clothes a year. The members were assigned to various trades which absorbed all their time and left them very little strength for amusement or reading. Their one recreation was singing. The society was bound to celibacy until the marriage of Bimeler to his housekeeper; thereafter marriage was permitted but not encouraged. In 1832 the society was incorporated under the laws of Ohio, and until its dissolution it was managed as a corporation. A few Germans joined the society. No American ever requested admission. Joseph Bimeler was elected Agent General and thereby became the chosen as well as the natural leader of the community. Like other patriarchs of that epoch who led their following into the wilderness, he was a man of some education and many gifts. He was the spiritual mentor; but his piety, which was sincere and simple, did not rob him of the shrewdness necessary to material success. His followers were loyally devoted to him. They built for him the largest house in the community, a fine colonial manor house, where he dwelt in comparative luxury and reigned as their "King." When he died in 1853 he had seen the prosperity of his colony reach its zenith. It remained small. Scarcely more than three hundred members ever dwelt in the village which, in spite of its profusion of vines and flowers, lacked the informal quaintness and originality of Rapp's Economy. The Tuscarawas River furnished power for their flour mill, whose products were widely sought. There was also a woolen mill, a planing mill, a foundry, and a machine shop. The beer made by the community was famous all the country round, and for a time its pottery and tile works turned out interesting and quaint products. But one by one these small industries succumbed to the competition of the greater world. At last even an alien brew supplanted the good local beer. When the railroad tapped the village, and it was incorporated (1884) and assumed an official worldliness with its mayor and councilmen, it lost its isolation, summer visitors flocked in, and a "calaboose" was needed for the benefit of the sojourners! The third generation was now grown. A number of dissatisfied members had left. Many of the children never joined the society but found work elsewhere. A great deal of the work had to be done by hired help. Under the leadership of the younger element it was decided in 1898 to abandon communism. Appraisers and surveyors were set to work to parcel out the property. Each of the 136 members received a cash dividend, a home in the village, and a plot of land. The average value of each share, which was in the neighborhood of $1500, was not a large return for three generations of communistic experimentation. But these had been, after all, years of moderate competence and quiet contentment, and if they took their toll in the coin of hope, as their song set forth, then these simple Württembergers were fully paid. The Inspirationists were a sect that made many converts in Germany, Holland, and Switzerland in the eighteenth century. They believed in direct revelations from God through chosen "instruments." In 1817, a new leader appeared among them in the person of Christian Metz, a man of great personal charm, worldly shrewdness, and spiritual fervor. Allied with him was Barbara Heynemann, a simple maid without education, who learned to read the Scriptures after she was twenty-three years of age. Endowed with the peculiar gift of "translation," she was cherished by the sect as an instrument of God for revealing His will. To this pair came an inspiration to lead their harassed followers to America. In 1842 they purchased the Seneca Indian Reservation near Buffalo, New York. They called their new home Ebenezer, and in 1843 they organized the Ebenezer Society, under a constitution which pledged them to communism. Over eight hundred peasants and artisans joined the colony, and their industry soon had created a cluster of five villages with mills, workshops, schools, and dwellings. But they were continually annoyed by the Indians from whom they had purchased the site and were distracted by the rapidly growing city of Buffalo, which was only five miles away! This threat of worldliness brought a revelation that they must seek greater seclusion. A large tract on the Iowa River was purchased, and to this new site the population was gradually transferred. There they built Amana. Within a radius of six miles, five subsidiary villages sprang up, each one laid out like a German _dorf_, with its cluster of shops and mills, and the cottages scattered informally on the main road. When the railway tapped the neighborhood, the community in self-defense purchased the town that contained the railway station. So when the good Christian Metz died in 1867, at the age of seventy-two, his pious followers, thanks to his sagacity, were possessed of some twenty-six thousand acres of rich Iowa land and seven thriving villages, comfortably housing about 1400 of the faithful. Barbara Heynemann died in 1883, and since her death no "instrument" has been found to disclose the will of God. But many ponderous tomes of "revelations" have survived and these are faithfully read and their naïve personal directions and inhibitions are still generally obeyed. The Bible, however, remains the main guide of these people, and they follow its instructions with childish literalism. Until quite recently they clung to the simple dress and the austere life of their earlier years. The solidarity of the community has been maintained with rare skill. The "Great Council of the Brethren" upon whom is laid the burden of directing all the affairs, has avoided government by mass meeting, discouraged irresponsible talk and criticism, and, as an aristocracy of elders, has shrewdly controlled the material and spiritual life of the community. The society has received many new members. There have been accessions from Zoar and Economy and one or two Americans have joined. The "Great Council," in its desire to maintain the homogeneity of the group, rejects the large number of applications for membership received every year. Over sixty per cent of the young people who have left the community to try the world have come back to "colony trousers" or "colony skirts," symbols of the complete submergence of the individual. Celibacy has been encouraged but never enjoined, and the young people are permitted to marry, if the Spirit gives its sanction, the Elders their consent, and if the man has reached the age of twenty-four years. The two sexes are rigidly separated in school, in church, at work, and in the communal dining rooms. Each family lives in a house, but there are communal kitchens, where meals are served to groups of twenty or more. Every member receives an annual cash bonus varying from $25 to $75 and a pass book to record his credits at the "store." The work is doled out among the members, who take pride in the quality rather than in the quantity of their product. All forms of amusement are forbidden; music, which flourished in other German communities, is suppressed; and even reading for pleasure or information was until recently under the ban. The only symbols of gayety in the villages are the flowers, and these are everywhere in lavish abundance, softening the austere lines of the plain and unpainted houses. No architect has been allowed to show his skill, no artist his genius, in the shaping of this rigorous life. But its industries flourish. Amana calico and Amana woolens are known in many markets. The livestock is of the finest breeds; the products of the fields and orchards are the choicest. But the modern visitor wonders how long this prosperity will be able to maintain that isolation which alone insured the communal solidarity. Already store clothes are being worn, photographs are seen on the walls, "worldly" furniture is being used, libraries, those openers of closed minds, are in every schoolhouse, and newspapers and magazines are "allowed." The experiences of Eric Janson and his devotees whom he led out of Sweden to Bishop Hill Colony, in Illinois, are replete with dramatic and tragic details. Janson was a rugged Swedish peasant, whose eloquence and gift of second sight made him the prophet of the Devotionalists, a sect that attempted to reëstablish the simplicity of the primitive church among the Lutherans of Scandinavia. Driven from pillar to post by the relentless hatred of the Established Church, they sought refuge in America, where Janson planned a theocratic socialistic community. Its communism was based entirely upon religious convictions, for neither Janson nor any of his illiterate followers had heard of the politico-economic systems of French reformers. Over one thousand young and vigorous peasants followed him to America. The first contingent of four hundred arrived in 1846 and spent their first winter in untold miseries and privations, with barely sufficient food, but with enough spiritual fervor to kindle two religious services a day and three on Sunday. Attacking the vast prairies with their primitive implements, harvesting grain with the sickle and grinding it by hand when their water power gave out, sheltering themselves in tents and caves, enduring agues and fevers, hunger and cold, the majority still remained loyal to the leader whose eloquence fired them with a sustaining hope. Thrift, unremitting toil, the wonderful fertility of the prairie, the high price of wheat, flax, and broom corn, were bound to bring prosperity. In 1848 they built a huge brick dormitory and dining hall, a great frame church, and a number of smaller dwellings. Improved housing at once told on the general health, though in the next year a scourge of cholera, introduced by some newcomer, claimed 143 members. In the meantime John Root, an adventurer from Stockholm, who had served in the American army, arrived at the colony and soon fell in love with the cousin of Eric Janson. The prophet gave his consent to the marriage on condition that, if at any time Root wished to leave the colony, his wife should be permitted to remain if she desired. A written agreement acknowledged Root's consent to these conditions. He soon tired of a life for which he had not the remotest liking, and, failing to entice his wife away with him, he kidnaped her and forcibly detained her in Chicago, whence she was rescued by a valiant band of the colonists. In retaliation the irate husband organized a mob of frontiers folk to drive out the fanatics as they had a short time before driven out Brigham Young and his Mormons. But the neighbors of the colonists, having learned their sterling worth, came to the rescue. Root then began legal proceedings against Janson. In May, 1850, while in court the renegade deliberately shot and killed the prophet. The community in despair awaited three days the return to life of the man whom they looked upon as a representative of Christ sent to earth to rebuild the Tabernacle. Janson had been a very poor manager, however, and the colony was in debt. In order quickly to obtain money, he had sent Jonas Olsen, the ablest and strongest of his followers, to California to seek gold to wipe out the debt. Upon hearing of the tragedy, Olsen hastened back to Bishop Hill and was soon in charge of affairs. In 1853 he obtained for the colony a charter of incorporation which vested the entire management of the property in seven trustees. These men, under the by-laws adopted, became also the spiritual mentors, and the colonists, unacquainted with democratic usages in government, submitted willingly to the leadership of this oligarchy. A new era of great material prosperity now set in. The village was rebuilt. The great house was enlarged so that all the inhabitants could be accommodated in its vast communal dining room. Trees were planted along the streets. Shops and mills were erected, and a hotel became the means of introducing strangers to the community. Meanwhile Olsen was growing more and more arbitrary and, after a bitter controversy, he imposed celibacy upon the members. This was the beginning of the end. One of the trustees, Olaf Jansen, a good-natured peasant who could not keep his accounts but who had a peasant's sagacity for a bargain, wormed his way into financial control. He wanted to make the colony rich, but he led it to the verge of bankruptcy. He became a speculator and promoter. Stories of his shortcomings were whispered about and in 1860 the peasant colony revolted and deposed Olaf from office. He then had himself appointed receiver to wind up the corporation's affairs, and in the following year the communal property was distributed. Every member, male and female, thirty-five years of age received a full share which "consisted of 22 acres of land, one timber lot of nearly 2 acres, one town lot, and an equal part of all barns, houses, cattle, hogs, sheep or other domestic animals and all farming implements and household utensils." Those under thirty-five received according to their age. Had these shares been unencumbered, this would have represented a fair return for their labor. But Olaf had made no half-way business of his financial ambitions, and the former members who now were melting peacefully and rather contentedly into the general American life found themselves saddled with his obligations. The "colony case" became famous among Illinois lawyers and dragged through twelve years of litigation. Thus the glowing fraternal communism of poor Janson ended in the drab discord of an American lawsuit. In 1862 the followers of Jacob Hutter, a Mennonite martyr who was burned at the stake in Innsbruck in the sixteenth century, founded the Old Elmspring Community on the James River in South Dakota. During the Thirty Years' War these saintly Quaker-like German folk had found refuge in Moravia, whence they had been driven into Hungary, later into Rumania, and then into Russia. As their objection to military service brought them into conflict with the Czar's government, they finally determined to migrate to America. In 1874 they had all reached South Dakota, where they now live in five small communities. Scarcely four hundred all told, they cling to their ancient ambition to keep themselves "unspotted from the world," and so have evolved a self-sustaining communal life, characterized by great simplicity of dress, of speech, and of living. They speak German and refrain entirely from voting and from other political activity. They are farmers and practise only those handicrafts which are necessary to their own communal welfare. While most of these German sectarian communities had only a slight economic effect upon the United States, their influence upon immigration has been extensive. In the early part of the last century, it was difficult to obtain authentic news concerning America in the remote hamlets of Europe. All sorts of vague and grotesque notions about this country were afloat. Every member of these communities, when he wrote to those left behind, became a living witness of the golden opportunities offered in the new land. And, unquestionably, a considerable share of the great German influx in the middle of the nineteenth century can be traced to the dissemination of knowledge by this means. Mikkelsen says of the Jansonists that their "letters home concerning the new country paved the way for that mighty tide of Swedish immigration which in a few years began to roll in upon Illinois and the Northwest." The Shakers are the oldest and the largest communistic sect to find a congenial home in America. The cult originated in Manchester, England, with Ann Lee, a "Shaking Quaker" who never learned to read or write but depended upon revelation for doctrine and guidance. "By a direct revelation," says the Shaker Compendium, she was "instructed to come to America." Obedient to the vision, she sailed from Liverpool in the summer of 1774, accompanied by six men and two women, among whom were her husband, a brother, and a niece. This little flock settled in the forests near Albany, New York. Abandoned by her husband, the prophetess went from place to place, proclaiming her peculiar doctrines. Soon she became known as "Mother Ann" and was reputed to have supernatural powers. At the time of her death in 1784 she had numerous followers in western New England and eastern New York. In 1787 they founded their first Shaker community at Mount Lebanon. Within a few years other societies were organized in New York, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, and Connecticut. On the wave of the great religious revival at the beginning of the nineteenth century their doctrines were carried west. The cult achieved its highest prosperity in the decade following 1830, when it numbered eighteen societies and about six thousand members. In shrewd and capable hands, the sect soon had both an elaborate system of theology based upon the teachings of Mother Ann and also an effective organization. The communal life, ordaining celibacy, based on industry, and constructed in the strictest economy, achieved material prosperity and evidently brought spiritual consolation to those who committed themselves to its isolation. Although originating in England, the sect is confined wholly to America and has from the first recruited its membership almost wholly from native Americans. Another of these social experiments was the Oneida Community and its several ephemeral branches. Though it was of American origin and the members were almost wholly American, it deserves passing mention. The founder, John Humphrey Noyes, a graduate of Dartmouth and a Yale divinity student, conceived a system of communal life which should make it possible for the individual to live without sin. This perfectionism, he believed, necessitated the abolition of private property through communism, the abolition of sickness through complete coöperation of the individual with God, and the abolition of the family through a "scientific" coöperation of the sexes. The Oneida Community was financially very prosperous. Its "stirpiculture," Noyes's high-sounding synonym for free love, brought it, however, into violent conflict with public opinion, and in 1879 "complex marriages" gave way to monogamous families. In the following year the communistic holding of property gave way to a joint stock company, under whose skillful management the prosperity of the community continues today. The American Utopias based upon an assumed economic altruism were much more numerous than those founded primarily upon religion but, as they were recruited almost wholly from Americans, they need engage our attention only briefly. There were two groups of economic communistic experiments, similar in their general characteristics but differing in their origin. One took its inspiration directly from Robert Owen, the distinguished philanthropist and successful cotton manufacturer of Scotland; the other from Fourier, the noted French social philosopher. In 1825 Robert Owen purchased New Harmony, Rapp's village in Indiana and its thirty thousand appurtenant acres. When Owen came to America he was already famous. Great throngs flocked to hear this practical man utter the most visionary sentiments. At Washington, for instance, he lectured to an auditory that included great senators and famous representatives, members of the Supreme Court and of the Cabinet, President Monroe and Adams, the President-elect. He displayed to his eager hearers the plans and specifications of the new human order, his glorified apartment house with all the external paraphernalia of selective human perfection drawn to scale. For a brief period New Harmony was the communistic capital of the world. It was discussed everywhere and became, says its chronicler, "the rendezvous of the enlightened and progressive people from all over the United States and northern Europe." It achieved a sort of motley cosmopolitanism. A "Boat Load of Knowledge" carried from Pittsburgh the most distinguished group of scientists that had hitherto been brought together in America. It included William Maclure, a Scotchman who came to America, at the age of thirty-three, ambitious to make a geological survey of the country and whose learning and energy soon earned him the title of "Father of American Geology"; Thomas Say, "the Father of American Zoölogy"; Charles Alexander Lesueur, a distinguished naturalist from the _Jardin des Plantes_ of Paris; Constantine S. Rafinesque, a scientific nomad whose studies of fishes took him everywhere and whose restless spirit forbade him remaining long anywhere; Gerard Troost, a Dutch scientist who later did pioneer work in western geology; Joseph Neef, a well-known Pestalozzian educator, together with two French experts in that system; and Owen's four brilliant sons. A few artists and musicians and all sorts of reformers, including Fanny Wright, an ardent and very advanced suffragette, joined these scientists in the new Eden. Owen had issued a universal invitation to the "industrious and well disposed," but his project offered also the lure of a free meal ticket for the improvident and the glitter of novelty for the restless. "I am come to this country," Owen said in his opening words at New Harmony, "to introduce an entire new state of society, to change it from the ignorant, selfish system to an enlightened social system, which shall gradually unite all interests into one, and remove all causes for contests between individuals."[19] But the germs of dissolution were already present in the extreme individuality of the members of this new society. Here was no homogeneous horde of docile German peasants waiting to be commanded. What Father Rapp could do, Owen could not. The sifting process had begun too late. Seven different constitutions issued in rapid succession attempted in vain to discover a common bond of action. In less than two years Owen's money was gone, and nine hundred or more disillusioned persons rejoined the more individualistic world. Many of them subsequently achieved distinction in professional and public callings. Owen's widely advertised experiment was fecund, however, and produced some eleven other short-lived communistic attempts, of which the most noted were at Franklin, Haverstraw, and Coxsackie in New York, Yellow Springs and Kendal in Ohio, and Forestville and Macluria in Indiana. Fourierism found its principal apostle in this country in Arthur Brisbane, whose _Social Destiny of Man_, published in 1840, brought to America the French philosopher's naïve, social regimen of reducing the world of men to simple units called phalanxes, whose barrack-like routine should insure plenty, equality, and happiness. Horace Greeley, with characteristic, erratic eagerness, pounced upon the new gospel, and Brisbane obtained at once a wide circle of sympathetic readers through the _Tribune_. Thirty-four phalanxes were organized in a short time, most of them with an incredible lack of foresight. They usually lasted until the first payment on the mortgage was due, though a few weathered the buffetings of fortune for several years. Brook Farm in Massachusetts and the Wisconsin phalanx each endured six years, and the North American phalanx at Red Bank, New Jersey, lasted thirteen years. Icaria is a romantic sequel to the Owen and Fourier colonies. It antedated Brisbane's revival of Fourierism, was encouraged by Owenism, survived both, and formed a living link between the utopianism of the early nineteenth century and the utilitarian socialism of the twentieth. �tienne Cabet was one of those interesting Frenchmen whose fertile minds and instinct for rapid action made France during the nineteenth century kaleidoscopic with social and political events. Though educated for the bar, Cabet devoted himself to social and political reform. As a young man he was a director in that powerful secret order, the Carbonari, and was elected to the French chamber of deputies, but his violent attitude toward the Government was such that in 1834 he was obliged to flee to London to escape imprisonment. Here, unmolested, he devoted himself for five years to social and historical research. He returned to France in 1839 and in the following year published his _Voyage en Icarie_, a book that at once took its place by the side of Sir Thomas More's _Utopia_. Cabet pictured in his volume an ideal society where plenty should be a substitute for poverty and equality a remedy for class egoism. So great was the cogency of his writing that Icaria became more than a mere vision to hundreds of thousands in those years of social ferment and democratic aspirations. From a hundred sources the demand arose to translate the book into action. Cabet thereupon framed a constitution and sought the means of founding a real Icaria. After consulting Robert Owen, he unfortunately fell into the clutches of some Cincinnati land speculators and chose a site for his colony in the northeastern part of Texas. When the announcement was made in his paper, _Le Populaire_, the responses were so numerous that Cabet believed that "more than a million coöperators" were eager for the experiment. In February, 1848, sixty-nine young men, all carefully selected volunteers, were sent forth from Havre as the vanguard of the contemplated exodus. But the movement was halted by the turn of great events. Twenty days after the young men sailed, the French Republic was proclaimed, and in the fervor and distraction of this immediate political victory the new and distant Utopia seemed to thousands less alluring than it had been before. The group of young volunteers, however, reached America. After heart-rending disillusionment in the swamps and forests of Louisiana and on the raw prairies of Texas, they made their way back to New Orleans in time to meet Cabet and four hundred Icarians, who arrived early in 1849. The Gallic instinct for factional differences soon began to assert itself in repeated division and subdivision on the part of the idealists. One-half withdrew at New Orleans to work out their individual salvation. The remainder followed Cabet to the deserted Mormon town of Nauvoo, Illinois, where vacant houses offered immediate shelter and where they enjoyed an interval of prosperity. The French genius for music, for theatricals, and for literature relieved them from the tedium that characterized most co-operative colonies. Soon their numbers increased to five hundred by accessions which, with few exceptions, were French. But Cabet was not a practical leader. His pamphlet published in German in 1854, entitled _If I had half a million dollars_, reveals the naïveté of his mind. He wanted to find money, not to make it. The society soon became involved in a controversy in which Cabet's immediate following were outnumbered. The minority petulantly stopped working but continued to eat. "The majority decided that those who would not work should not eat ... and gave notice that those who absented themselves from labor would be cut off from rations."[20] As a result, Cabet, in 1856, was expelled from his own Icaria! With 170 faithful adherents he went to St. Louis, and there a few days later he died. The minority buried their leader, but their faith in communal life survived this setback. At Cheltenham, a suburb of St. Louis, they acquired a small estate, where proximity to the city enabled the members to get work. Here they lived together six years before division disrupted them permanently. At Nauvoo in the meantime there had been other secessions, and the property, in 1857, was in the hands of a receiver. The plucky and determined remnant, however, removed to Iowa, where on the prairie near Corning they planted a new Icaria. Here, by hard toil and in extreme poverty, but in harmony and contentment, the communists lived until, in 1876, the younger members wished to adopt advanced methods in farming, in finance, and in management. The older men, with wisdom acquired through bitter experience, refused to alter their methods. The younger party won a lawsuit to annul the communal charter. The property was divided, and again there were two Icarias, the "young party" retaining the old site and the "old party" moving on and founding New Icaria, a few miles from the old. But Old Icaria was soon split: one faction removed to California, where the Icaria-Speranza community was founded; and the other remained at Old Icaria. Both came to grief in 1888. Finally in 1895 New Icaria, then reduced to a few veterans, was dissolved by a unanimous vote of the community. * * * * * In 1854 Victor Considérant, the French socialist, planted a Fourieristic phalanx in Texas, under the liberal patronage of J.B.A. Godin, the godfather of Fourierism in France who founded at Guise the only really successful phalanx. A French communistic colony was also attempted at Silkville, Kansas. But both ventures lasted only a few years. Since the subsidence of these French communistic experiments, there have been many sporadic attempts at founding idealistic communities in the United States. Over fifty have been tried since the Civil War. Nearly all were established under American auspices and did not lure many foreigners. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 15: As is usual among people who pride themselves on their peculiarities there were variations of opinion among these sects which led to schisms. The Mennonites contained at one time no less than eleven distinct branches, among them the Amish, Old and New, whose ridiculous singularity of dress, in which they discarded all ornaments and even buttons, earned them the nickname "Hooks and Eyes." But no matter how aloof these sects held themselves from the world, or what asceticism they practiced upon themselves, or what spiritual and economic fraternity they displayed to each other, they possessed a remarkable native cunning in bargaining over a bushel of wheat or a shoat, and for a time most of their communities prospered.] [Footnote 16: Under the communal contract, which was later upheld by the Supreme Court of the United States, members agreed to merge their properties and to renounce all claims for services; and the community, on its part, agreed to support the members and to repay without interest, to any one desiring to withdraw, the amount he had put into the common fund.] [Footnote 17: _Communistic Societies of the United States_, by Charles Nordhoff, p. 73.] [Footnote 18: The largest membership was attained in 1827, when 522 were enrolled. There were 391 in 1836; 321 in 1846; 170 in 1864; 146 in 1866; 70 in 1879; 34 in 1888; 37 in 1892; 10 in 1897; 8 in 1902, only two of whom were men; and in 1903, three women and one man. The population of Economy, however, was always much larger than the communal membership.] [Footnote 19: _The New Harmony Movement_, by G.B. Lockwood, p. 83.] [Footnote 20: _Icaria, A Chapter in the History of Communism_, by Albert Shaw, p. 58.] CHAPTER V THE IRISH INVASION After the Revolution, immigrants began to filter into America from Great Britain and continental Europe. No record was kept of their arrival, and their numbers have been estimated at from 4000 to 10,000 a year, on the average. These people came nearly all from Great Britain and were driven to migrate by financial and political conditions. In 1819 Congress passed a law requiring Collectors of Customs to keep a record of passengers arriving in their districts, together with their age, sex, occupation, and the country whence they came, and to report this information to the Secretary of State. This was the Federal Government's first effort to collect facts concerning immigration. The law was defective, yet it might have yielded valuable results had it been intelligently enforced.[21] From all available collateral sources it appears that the official figures greatly understated the actual number of arrivals. Great Britain kept an official record of those who emigrated from her ports to the United States and the numbers so listed are nearly as large as the total immigration from all sources reported by the United States officials during a time when a heavy influx is known to have been coming from Germany and Switzerland. Inaccurate as these figures are, they nevertheless are a barometer indicating the rising pressure of immigration. The first official figures show that in 1820 there arrived 8385 aliens of whom 7691 were Europeans. Of these 3614, or nearly one-half, came from Ireland. Until 1850 this proportion was maintained. Here was evidence of the first ground swell of immigration to the United States whose subsequent waves in sixty years swept to America one-half of the entire population of the Little Green Isle. Since 1820 over four and a quarter million Irish immigrants have found their way hither. In 1900 there were nearly five million persons in the United States descended from Irish parentage. They comprise today ten per cent of our foreign born population. The discontent and grievances of the Irish had a vivid historical background in their own country. There were four principal causes which induced the transplanting of the race: rebellion, famine, restrictive legislation, and absentee landlordism. Every uprising of this bellicose people from the time of Cromwell onward had been followed by voluntary and involuntary exile. It is said that Cromwell's Government transported many thousand Irish to the West Indies. Many of these exiles subsequently found their way to the Carolinas, Virginia, and other colonies. After the great Irish rebellion of 1798 and again after Robert Emmet's melancholy failure in the rising of 1803 many fled across the sea. The Act of Union in 1801 brought "no submissive love for England," and constant political agitations for which the Celtic Irish need but little stimulus have kept the pathway to America populous. The harsh penal laws of two centuries ago prescribing transportation and long terms of penal servitude were a compelling agency in driving the Irish to America. Illiberal laws against religious nonconformists, especially against the Catholics, closed the doors of political advancement in their faces, submitted them to humiliating discriminations, and drove many from the island. Finally, the selfish Navigation Laws forbade both exportation of cattle to England and the sending of foodstuffs to the colonies, dealing thereby a heavy blow to Irish agriculture. These restrictions were followed by other inhibitions until almost every industry or business in which the Irish engaged was unduly limited and controlled. It should, however, not be forgotten that these restrictions bore with equal weight upon the Ulster settlers from Scotland and England, who managed somehow to endure them successfully. Absentee landlordism was oppressive both to the cotter's body and to his soul, for it not only bound him to perpetual poverty but kindled within him a deep sense of injustice. The historian, Justin McCarthy, says that the Irishman "regarded the right to have a bit of land, his share, exactly as other people regard the right to live." So political and economic conditions combined to feed the discontent of a people peculiarly sensitive to wrongs and swift in their resentments. But the most potent cause of the great Irish influx into America was famine in Ireland. The economist may well ascribe Irish failure to the potato. Here was a crop so easy of culture and of such nourishing qualities that it led to overpopulation and all its attendant ills. The failure of this crop was indeed an "overwhelming disaster," for, according to Justin McCarthy, the Irish peasant with his wife and his family lived on the potato, and whole generations grew up, lived, married, and passed away without ever having tasted meat. When the cold and damp summer of 1845 brought the potato rot, the little, overpopulated island was facing dire want. But when the next two years brought a plant disease that destroyed the entire crop, then famine and fever claimed one quarter of the eight million inhabitants. The pitiful details of this national disaster touched American hearts. Fleets of relief ships were sent across from America, and many a shipload of Irish peasants was brought back. In 1845 over 44,821 came; 1847 saw this number rise to 105,536 and in the next year to 112,934. Rebellion following the famine swelled the number of immigrants until Ireland was left a land of old people with a fast shrinking population. There is a prevailing notion that this influx after the great famine was the commencement of Irish migration. In reality it was only the climax. Long before this, Irishmen were found in the colonies, chiefly as indentured servants; they were in the Continental Army as valiant soldiers; they were in the western flux that filled the Mississippi Valley as useful pioneers. How many there were we do not know. As early as 1737, however, there were enough in Boston to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, and in 1762 they poured libations to their favorite saint in New York City, for the _Mercury_ in announcing the meeting said, "Gentlemen that please to attend will meet with the best Usage." On March 17, 1776, the English troops evacuated Boston and General Washington issued the following order on that date: Parole Boston Countersign St. Patrick The regiments under marching orders to march tomorrow morning. By His Excellency's command. Brigadier of the Day GEN. JOHN SULLIVAN. Thus did the Patriot Army gracefully acknowledge the day and the people. In 1784, on the first St. Patrick's Day after the evacuation of New York City by the British, there was a glorious celebration "spent in festivity and mirth." As the newspaper reporter put it, "the greatest unanimity and conviviality pervaded" a "numerous and jovial company." Branches of the Society of United Irishmen were formed in American cities soon after the founding of the order in Ireland. Many veterans of '98 found their way to America, and between 1800 and 1820 many thousand followed the course of the setting sun. Their number cannot be ascertained; but there were not a few. In 1818 Irish immigrant associations were organized by the Irish in New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore to aid the newcomers in finding work. Many filtered into the United States from Canada, Newfoundland, and the West Indies. These earlier arrivals were not composed of the abjectly poor who comprised the majority of the great exodus, and especially among the political exiles there were to be found men of some means and education. America became extremely popular in Ireland after the Revolution of 1776, partly because the English were defeated, partly because of Irish democratic aspirations, but particularly because it was a land of generous economic and political possibilities. The Irish at once claimed a kinship with the new republic, and the ocean became less of a barrier than St. George's Channel. "The States," as they were called, became a synonym of abundance. The most lavish reports of plenty were sent back by the newcomers--of meat daily, of white bread, of comfortable clothing. "There is a great many ill conveniences here," writes one, "but no empty bellies." In England and Ireland and Scotland the number of poor who longed for this abundance exceeded the capacity of the boats. Many who would have willingly gone to America lacked the passage money. The Irish peasant, born and reared in extreme poverty, was peculiarly unable to scrape together enough to pay his way. The assistance which he needed, however, was forthcoming from various sources. Friends and relatives in America sent him money; in later years this practice was very common. Societies were organized to help those who could not help themselves. Railroad and canal companies, in great need of labor, imported workmen by the thousands and advanced their passage money. And finally, the local authorities found shipping their paupers to another country a convenient way of getting rid of them. England early resorted to the same method. In 1849 the Irish poor law guardians were given authority to borrow money for such "assistance," as it was called. In 1881 the Land Commission and in 1882 the Commissioner of Public Works were authorized to advance money for this purpose. In 1884 and 1885 over sixteen thousand persons were thus assisted from Galway and Mayo counties. Long before the great Irish famine of 1846-47 America appeared like a mirage, and wondering peasants in their dire distress exaggerated its opulence and opportunities. They braved the perils of the sea and trusted to luck in the great new world. The journey in itself was no small adventure. There were some sailings directly from Ireland; but most of the Irish immigrants were collected at Liverpool by agents not always scrupulous in their dealings. A hurried inspection at Liverpool gained them the required medical certificates, and they were packed into the ships. Of the voyage one passenger who made the journey from Belfast in 1795 said: "The slaves who are carried from the coast of Africa have much more room allowed them than the immigrants who pass from Ireland to America, for the avarice of captains in that trade is such that they think they can never load their vessels sufficiently, and they trouble their heads in general no more about the accommodation and storage of their passengers than of any other lumber aboard." When the great immigrant invasion of America began, there were not half enough ships for the passengers, all were cruelly overcrowded, and many were so filthy that even American port officials refused a landing before cleansing. Under such conditions sickness was a matter of course, and of the hordes who started for the promised land thousands perished on the way.[22] Hope sustained the voyagers. But what must have been the disappointment of thousands when they landed! No ardent welcome awaited them, nor even jobs for the majority. Alas for the rosy dreams of opulence! Here was a prosaic place where toil and sweat were the condition of mere existence. As the poor creatures had no means of moving on, they huddled in the ports of arrival. Almshouses were filled, beggars wandered in every street, and these peasants accustomed to the soil and the open country were congested in the cities, unhappy misfits in an entirely new economic environment. Unskilled in the handicrafts, they were forced to accept the lot of the common laborer. Fortunately, the great influx came at the time of rapid turnpike, canal, and railroad expansion. Thousands found their way westward with contractors' gangs. The free lands, however, did not lure them. They preferred to remain in the cities. New York in 1850 sheltered 133,000 Irish. Philadelphia, Boston, New Orleans, Cincinnati, Albany, Baltimore, and St. Louis, followed, in the order given, as favorite lodging places, and there was not one rapidly growing western city, such as Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit, and Chicago, that did not have its "Irish town" or "Shanty town" where the immigrants clung together. Their brogue and dress provoked ridicule; their poverty often threw them upon the community; the large percentage of illiteracy among them evoked little sympathy; their inclinations towards intemperance and improvidence were not neutralized by their great good nature and open-handedness; their religion reawoke historical bitterness; their genius for politics aroused jealousy; their proclivity to unite in clubs, associations, and semi-military companies made them the objects of official suspicion; and above all, their willingness to assume the offensive, to resent instantly insult or intimidation, brought them into frequent and violent contact with their new neighbors. "America for Americans" became the battle cry of reactionaries, who organized the American or "Know-Nothing" party and sought safety at the polls. While all foreign elements were grouped together, indiscriminately, in the mind of the nativist, the Irishman unfortunately was the special object of his spleen, because he was concentrated in the cities and therefore offered a visual and concrete example of the danger of foreign mass movements, because he was a Roman Catholic and thus awakened ancient religious prejudices that had long been slumbering, and because he fought back instantly, valiantly, and vehemently. Popular suspicion against the foreigner in America began almost as soon as immigration assumed large proportions. In 1816 conservative newspapers called attention to the new problems that the Old World was thrusting upon the New: the poverty of the foreigner, his low standard of living, his illiteracy and slovenliness, his ignorance of American ways and his unwillingness to submit to them, his clannishness, the danger of his organizing and capturing the political offices and ultimately the Government. In addition to the alarmist and the prejudiced, careful and thoughtful citizens were aroused to the danger. Unfortunately, however, religious antagonisms were aroused and, as is always the case, these differences awakened the profoundest prejudices and passions of the human heart. There were many towns in New England and in the West where Roman Catholicism was unknown except as a traditional enemy of free institutions. It is difficult to realize in these days of tolerance the feelings aroused in such communities when Catholic churches, parochial schools, and convents began to appear among them; and when the devotees of this faith displayed a genius for practical politics, instinctive distrust developed into lively suspicion. The specter of ecclesiastical authority reared itself, and the question of sharing public school moneys with parochial schools and of reading the Bible in the public schools became a burning issue. Here and there occurred clashes that were more than barroom brawls. Organized gangs infested the cities. Both sides were sustained and encouraged by partisan papers, and on several occasions the antagonism spent themselves in riots and destruction. In 1834 the Ursuline convent at Charlestown, near Boston, was sacked and burned. Ten years later occurred the great anti-Irish riots in Philadelphia, in which two Catholic churches and a schoolhouse were burned by a mob inflamed to hysteria by one of the leaders who held up a torn American flag and shouted, "This is the flag that was trampled on by Irish papists." Prejudice accompanied fear into every city and "patented citizens" were often subject to abuse and even persecution. Tammany Hall in New York City became the political fortress of the Irish. Election riots of the first magnitude were part of the routine of elections, and the "Bloody Sixth Ward Boys" were notorious for their hooliganism on election day. The suggestions of the nativists that paupers and criminals be excluded from immigration were not embodied into law. The movement soon was lost in the greater questions which slavery was thrusting into the foreground. When the fight with nativism was over, the Irish were in possession of the cities. They displayed an amazing aptitude for political plotting and organization and for that prime essential to political success popularly known as "mixing." Policemen and aldermen, ward heelers, bosses, and mayors, were known by their brogue. The Irish demonstrated their loyalty to the Union in the Civil War and merged readily into American life after the lurid prejudices against them faded. Unfortunately, a great deal of this prejudice was revived when the secret workings of an Irish organization in Pennsylvania were unearthed. Among the anthracite coal miners a society was formed, probably about 1854, called the Molly Maguires, a name long known in Ireland. The members were all Irish, professed the Roman Catholic faith, and were active in the Ancient Order of Hibernians. The Church, the better class of Irishmen, and the Hibernians, however, were shocked by the doings of the Molly Maguires and utterly disowned them. They began their career of blackmail and bullying by sending threats and death notices embellished with crude drawings of coffins and pistols to those against whom they fancied they had a grievance, usually the mine boss or an unpopular foreman. If the recipient did not heed the threat, he was waylaid and beaten and his family was abused. By the time of the Civil War these bullies had terrorized the entire anthracite region. Through their political influence they elected sheriffs and constables, chiefs of police and county commissioners. As they became bolder, they substituted arson and murder for threats and bullying, and they made life intolerable by their reckless brutality. It was impossible to convict them, for the hatred against an informer, inbred in every Irishman through generations of experience in Ireland, united with fear in keeping competent witnesses from the courts. Finally the president of one of the large coal companies employed James McParlan, a remarkably clever Irish detective. He joined the Mollies, somehow eluded their suspicions, and slowly worked his way into their confidence. An unusually brutal and cowardly murder in 1875 proved his opportunity. When the courts finished with the Mollies, nineteen of their members had been hanged, a large number imprisoned, and the organization was completely wiped out. Meantime the Fenian movement served to keep the Irish in the public eye. This was no less than an attempt to free Ireland and disrupt the British Empire, using the United States as a fulcrum, the Irish in America as the power, and Canada as the lever. James Stephens, who organized the Irish Republican Brotherhood, came to America in 1858 to start a similar movement. After the Civil War, which supplied a training school for whole regiments of Irish soldiers, a convention of Fenians was held at Philadelphia in 1865 at which an "Irish Republic" was organized, with a full complement of officers, a Congress, a President, a Secretary of the Treasury, a Secretary of War, in fact, a replica of the American Federal Government. It assumed the highly absurd and dangerous position that it actually possessed sovereignty. The luxurious mansion of a pill manufacturer in Union Square, New York, was transformed into its government house, and bonds, embellished with shamrocks and harps and a fine portrait of Wolfe Tone, were issued, payable "ninety days after the establishment of the Irish Republic." Differences soon arose, and Stephens, who had made his escape from Richmond, near Dublin, where he had been in prison, hastened to America to compose the quarrel which had now assumed true Hibernian proportions. An attempt to land an armed gang on the Island of Campo Bello on the coast of New Brunswick was frustrated; invaders from Vermont spent a night over the Canadian border before they were driven back; and for several days Fort Erie on Niagara River was held by about 1500 Fenians.[23] General Meade was thereupon sent by the Federal authorities to put an end to these ridiculous breaches of neutrality. Neither Meade nor any other authority, however, could stop the flow of Fenian adjectives that now issued from a hundred indignation meetings all over the land when Canada, after due trial, proceeded to sentence the guilty culprits captured in the "Battle of Limestone Ridge," as the tussle with Canadian regulars near Fort Erie was called. Newspapers abounded with tales of the most startling designs upon Canada and Britain. There then occurred a strong reaction to the Fenian movement, and the American people were led to wonder how much of truth there was in a statement made by Thomas D'Arcy McGee.[24] "This very Fenian organization in the United States," he said, "what does it really prove but that the Irish are still an alien population, camped but not settled in America, with foreign hopes and aspirations, unshared by the people among whom they live?" The Irishman today is an integral part of every large American community. Although the restrictive legislation of two centuries ago has long been repealed and a new land system has brought great prosperity to his island home, the Irishman has not abated one whit in his temperamental attitude towards England and as a consequence some 40,000 or 50,000 of his fellow countrymen come to the United States every year. Here he has been dispossessed of his monopoly of shovel and pick by the French Canadian in New England and by the Italian, Syrian, and Armenian in other parts of the country. He finds work in factories, for he still shuns the soil, much as he professes to love the "old sod." A great change has come over the economic condition of the second and third generation of Irish immigrants. Their remarkable buoyancy of temperament is everywhere displayed. Bridget's daughter has left the kitchen and is a school teacher, a stenographer, a saleswoman, a milliner, or a dressmaker; her son is a clerk, a bookkeeper, a traveling salesman, or a foreman. Wherever the human touch is the essential of success, there you find the Irish. That is why in some cities one-half the teachers are Irish; why salesmanship lures them; why they are the most successful walking delegates, solicitors, agents, foremen, and contractors. In the higher walks of life you find them where dash, brilliance, cleverness, and emotion are demanded. The law and the priesthood utilize their eloquence, journalism their keen insight into the human side of news, and literature their imagination and humor. They possess a positive genius for organization and management. The labor unions are led by them; and what would municipal politics be without them? The list of eminent names which they have contributed to these callings will increase as their generations multiply in the favorable American environment. But remote indeed is the day and complex must be the experience that will erase the memory of the ancient Erse proverb, which their racial temperament evoked: "Contention is better than loneliness." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 21: The immigration reports were perfunctory and lacking in accuracy. Passengers were frequently listed as belonging to the country whence they sailed. An Irishman taking passage from Liverpool was quite as likely to be reported English as Irish. Large numbers of immigrants were counted who merely landed in New York and proceeded immediately to Canada, while many thousands who landed in Canada and moved at once across the border into northern New York and the West did not appear in the reports.] [Footnote 22: According to the _Edinburgh Review_ of July, 1854, "Liverpool was crowded with emigrants, and ships could not be found to do the work. The poor creatures were packed in dense masses, in ill-ventilated and unseaworthy vessels, under charge of improper masters, and the natural results followed. Pestilence chased the fugitive to complete the work of famine. Fifteen thousand out of ninety thousand emigrants in British bottoms, in 1847, died on the passage or soon after arrival. The American vessels, owing to a stringent passenger law, were better managed, but the hospitals of New York and Boston were nevertheless crowded with patients from Irish estates."] [Footnote 23: Oberholtzer, _History of the United States since the Civil War_, vol. 1, p. 526 ff.] [Footnote 24: Thomas D'Arcy McGee (1825-1868), one of the leaders of the "Young Ireland" party, fled for political reasons to the United States in 1848, where he established the _New York Nation_ and the _American Celt_. When he changed his former attitude of opposition to British rule in Ireland he was attacked by the extreme Irish patriots in the United States and in consequence moved to Canada, where he founded the _New Era_ and began to practice law. Subsequently, with the support of the Irish Canadians, he represented Montreal in the Parliament of United Canada (1858) and was President of the Council (1862) in the John Sandfield Macdonald Administration. When the Irish were left unrepresented in the reorganized Cabinet in the following year, McGee became an adherent of Sir John A. Macdonald, and in 1864 he was made Minister of Agriculture in the Taché-Macdonald Administration. An ardent supporter of the progressive policies of his adopted country, he was one of the Fathers of Confederation and was a member of the first Dominion Parliament in 1867. His denunciations, both in Ireland (1865) and in Canada, of the policies and activities of the Fenians led to his assassination at Ottawa on April 7, 1868.] CHAPTER VI THE TEUTONIC TIDE As the Irish wave of immigration receded the Teutonic wave rose and brought the second great influx of foreigners to American shores. A greater ethnic contrast could scarcely be imagined than that which was now afforded by these two races, the phlegmatic, plodding German and the vibrant Irish, a contrast in American life as a whole which was soon represented in miniature on the vaudeville stage by popular burlesque representations of both types. The one was the opposite of the other in temperament, in habits, in personal ambitions. The German sought the land, was content to be let alone, had no desire to command others or to mix with them, but was determined to be reliable, philosophically took things as they came, met opposition with patience, clung doggedly to a few cherished convictions, and sought passionately to possess a home and a family, to master some minute mechanical or technical detail, and to take his leisure and his amusements in his own customary way. The reports of the Immigration Commissioner disclose the fact that well over five and a third millions of Germans migrated to America between 1823 and 1910. If to this enormous number were added those of German blood who came from Austria and the German cantons of Switzerland, from Luxemburg and the German settlements of Russia, it would reach a grand total of well over seven million Germans who have sought an ampler life in America. The Census of 1910 reports "that there were 8,282,618 white persons in the United States having Germany as their country of origin, comprising 2,501,181 who were born in Germany, 3,911,847 born in the United States both of whose parents were born in Germany, and 1,869,590 born in the United States and having one parent born in the United States and the other in Germany."[25] The coming of the Germans may be divided into three quite distinct migrations: the early, the middle, and the recent. The first period includes all who came before the radical ferment which began to agitate Europe after the Napoleonic wars. The Federal census of 1790 discloses 176,407 Germans living in America. But German writers usually maintain that there were from 225,000 to 250,000 Germans in the colonies at the time of the Declaration of Independence. They had been driven from the fatherland by religious persecution and economic want. Every German state contributed to their number, but the bulk of this migration came from the Palatinate, Württemberg, Baden, and Alsace, and the German cantons of Switzerland. The majority were of the peasant and artisan class who usually came over as redemptioners. Yet there were not wanting among them many persons of means and of learning. Pennsylvania was the favorite distributing point for these German hosts. Thence they pushed southward through the beautiful Shenandoah Valley into Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina, and northward into New Jersey. Large numbers entered at Charleston and thence went to the frontiers of South Carolina. The Mohawk Valley in New York and the Berkshires of Massachusetts harbored many. But not all of them moved inland. They were to be found scattered on the coast from Maine to Georgia. Boston, New York City, Baltimore, New Bern, Wilmington, Charleston, and Savannah, all counted Germans in their populations. However strictly these German neighborhoods may have maintained the customs of their native land, the people thoroughly identified themselves with the patriot cause and supplied soldiers, leaders, money, and enthusiasm to the cause of the Revolutionary War. Benjamin Rush, the distinguished Philadelphia physician and publicist, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, wrote in 1789 a description of the Germans of Pennsylvania which would apply generally to all German settlements at that time and to many of subsequent date. The Pennsylvania German farmer, he says, was distinguished above everything else for his self-denying thrift, housing his horses and cattle in commodious, warm barns, while he and his family lived in a log hut until he was well able to afford a more comfortable house; selling his "most profitable grain, which is wheat" and "eating that which is less profitable but more nourishing, that is, rye or Indian corn"; breeding the best of livestock so that "a German horse is known in every part of the State" for his "extraordinary size or fat"; clearing his land thoroughly, not "as his English or Irish neighbors"; cultivating the most bountiful gardens and orchards; living frugally, working constantly, fearing God and debt, and rearing large families. "A German farm may be distinguished," concludes this writer, "from the farms of other citizens by the superior size of their barns, the plain but compact form of their houses, the height of their enclosures, the extent of their orchards, the fertility of their fields, the luxuriance of their meadows, and a general appearance of plenty and neatness in everything that belongs to them."[26] Rush's praise of the German mechanics is not less stinted. They were found in that day mainly as "weavers, taylors, tanners, shoe-makers, comb-makers, smiths of all kinds, butchers, paper makers, watchmakers, and sugar bakers." Their first desire was "to become freeholders," and they almost invariably succeeded. German merchants and bankers also prospered in Philadelphia, Germantown, Lancaster, and other Pennsylvania towns. One-third of the population of Pennsylvania, Rush says, was of German origin, and for their convenience a German edition of the laws of the State was printed. After the Revolution, a number of the Hessian hirelings who had been brought over by the British settled in America. They usually became farmers, although some of the officers taught school. They joined the German settlements, avoiding the English-speaking communities in the United States because of the resentment shown towards them. Their number is unknown. Frederick Kapp, a German writer, estimates that, of the 29,875 sent over, 12,562 never returned--but he fails to tell us how many of these remained because of Yankee bullets or bayonets. The second period of German migration began about 1820 and lasted through the Civil War. Before 1830 the number of immigrants fluctuated between 200 and 2000 a year; in 1832 it exceeded 10,000; in 1834 it was over 17,000; three years later it reached nearly 24,000; between 1845 and 1860 there arrived 1,250,000, and 200,000 came during the Civil War. There were several causes, working in close conjunction, that impelled these thousands to leave Germany. Economic disturbances doubtless turned the thoughts of the hungry and harassed to the land of plenty across the sea. But a potent cause of the great migration of the thirties and forties was the universal social and political discontent which followed in the wake of the Napoleonic wars. The German people were still divided into numberless small feudalities whose petty dukes and princes clung tenaciously to their medieval prerogatives and tyrannies. The contest against Napoleon had been waged by German patriots not only to overcome a foreign foe but to break the tyrant at home. The hope for constitutional government, for a representative system and a liberal legislation in the German States rose mightily after Waterloo. But the promises of princes made in days of stress were soon forgotten, and the Congress of Vienna had established the semblance of a German federation upon a unity of reactionary rulers, not upon a constitutional, representative basis. The reaction against this bitter disappointment was led by the eager German youth, who, inspired by liberal ideals, now thirsted for freedom of thought, of speech, and of action. Friedrich Ludwig Jahn, a German patriot, organized everywhere _Turnvereine_, or gymnastic clubs, as a tangible form of expressing this demand. Among the students of the universities liberal patriotic clubs called _Burschenschaften_ were organized, idealistic in their aims and impractical in their propaganda, where "every man with his bonnet on his head, a pot of beer in his hand, a pipe or seegar in his mouth, and a song upon his lips, never doubting but that he and his companions are training themselves to be the regenerators of Europe," vowed "the liberation of Germany." Alas for the enthusiasms of youth! In 1817 the _Burschenschaften_ held a mass reunion at the Wartburg. Their boyish antics were greatly exaggerated in the conservative papers and the governments increased their vigilance. In 1819 Kotzebue, a reactionary publicist, was assassinated by a member of the Jena _Burschenschaft_, and the retaliation of the government was prompt and thoroughly Prussian--gagging of the press and of speech, dissolution of all liberal organizations, espionage, the hounding of all suspects. There seemed to remain only flight to liberal democratic America. But the suppression of the clubs did not entirely put out the fires of constitutional desires. These smoldered until the storms of '48 fanned them into a fitful blaze. For a brief hour the German Democrat had the feudal lords cowed. Frederick William, the "romantic" Hohenzollern, promised a constitution to the threatening mob in Berlin; the King of Saxony and the Grand Duke of Bavaria fled their capitals; revolts occurred in Silesia, Posen, Hesse-Cassel, and Nassau. Then struck the first great hour of modern Prussia, as, with her heartless and disciplined soldiery, she restored one by one the frightened dukes and princes to their prerogatives and repressed relentlessly and with Junker rigor every liberal concession that had crept into laws and institutions. Strangled liberalism could no longer breathe in Germany, and thousands of her revolutionists fled to America, bringing with them almost the last vestige of German democratic leadership. In the meantime, economic conditions in Germany remained unsatisfactory and combined with political discontent to uproot a population and transplant it to a new land. The desire to immigrate, stimulated by the transportation companies, spread like a fever. Whole villages sold out and, with their pastor or their physician at their head, shipped for America. A British observer who visited the Rhine country in 1846 commented on "the long files of carts that meet you every mile, carrying the whole property of these poor wretches who are about to cross the Atlantic on the faith of a lying prospectus." But these people were neither "poor wretches" nor dupes. They had coin in their pockets, and in their heads a more or less accurate knowledge of the land of their desires. At this time the German bookshops were teeming with little volumes giving, in the methodical Teutonic fashion, conservative advice to prospective immigrants and rather accurate descriptions of America, with statistical information and abstracts of American laws. Many of the immigrants had further detailed information from relatives and friends already prospering on western farms or in rapidly growing towns. This was, therefore, far from a pauper invasion. It included every class, even broken-down members of the nobility. The majority were, naturally, peasants and artisans, but there were multitudes of small merchants and farmers. And the political refugees included many men of substantial property and of notable intellectual attainments.[27] Bremen was the favorite port of departure for these German emigrants to America. Havre, Hamburg, and Antwerp were popular, and even London. During the great rush every ship was overcrowded and none was over sanitary. Steerage passengers were promiscuously crowded together and furnished their own food; and the ship's crew, the captain, the agents who negotiated the voyage, and the sharks who awaited their arrival in America, all had a share in preying upon the inexperience of the immigrants. Arrived in America, these Germans were not content to settle, like dregs, in the cities on the seacoast. They were land lovers, and westward they started at once, usually in companies, sometimes as whole communities, by way of the Erie Canal and the Great Lakes, and later by the new railway lines, into Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Missouri, Wisconsin, and Iowa, where their instinct for the soil taught them to select the most fertile spots. Soon their log cabins and their ample barns and flourishing stock bespoke their success. The growing Western cities called to the skilled artisan, the small tradesman, and the intellectuals. Cincinnati early became a German center. In 1830 the Germans numbered five per cent of its population; in 1840, twenty-three per cent; and in 1869, thirty-four per cent. Milwaukee, "the German Athens," as it was once called, became the distributing point of German immigration and influence in the Northwest. Its _Gesangvereine_ and _Turnvereine_ became as famous as its lager beer, and German was heard more frequently than English upon its streets. St. Louis was the center of a German influence that extended throughout the Missouri Valley. Cleveland, Chicago, Detroit, Buffalo, and many of the minor towns in the Middle West received substantial additions from this migration. Unlike the Irish, the Germans brought with them a strange language, and this proved a strong bond in that German solidarity which maintained itself in spite of the influence of their new environment. In the glow of their first enthusiasm many of the intellectuals believed they could establish a German state in America. "The foundations of a new and free Germany in the great North American Republic shall be laid by us," wrote Follenius, the dreamer, who desired to land enough Germans in "one of the American territories to establish an essentially German state." In 1833 the Giessener Gesellschaft, a company organized in the Grand Duchy of Hesse, grew out of this suggestion and chose Arkansas as the site for its colony. But unfavorable reports turned the immigrants to Missouri, where settlements were made. These, however, never grew into a German state but merged quite contentedly into the prosperous American population. A second attempt, also from Hesse, had a tragic dénouement. A number of German nobles formed a company called the Mainzer Adelsverein and in 1842 sent two of their colleagues to Texas to seek out a site. The place chosen was ill-suited for a colony, however, and the whole enterprise from beginning to end was characterized by princely incompetence. Thousands of immigrants, lured by the company's liberal offers and glowing prospectus, soon found themselves in dire want; many perished of disease and hunger; and the company ended in ignominious disaster. The surviving colonists in Texas, however, when they realized that they must depend upon their own efforts, succeeded in finding work and eventually in establishing several flourishing communities. Finally, Wisconsin and Illinois were considered as possible sites for a Germany in America. But this ambition never assumed a concrete form. Everywhere the Americans, with their energy and organizing capacity, had preceded the incoming Germans and retained the political sovereignty of the American state. But while they did not establish a German state, these immigrants did cling to their customs wherever they settled in considerable numbers. Especially did they retain their original social life, their _Turnvereine_, their musical clubs, their sociable beer gardens, their picnics and excursions, their churches and parochial schools. They still celebrated their Christmas and other church festivals with German cookery and _Kuchen_, and their weddings and christenings were enlivened but rarely debauched with generous libations of lager beer and wine. In the Middle West were whole regions where German was the familiar language for two generations. There were three strata to this second German migration. The earlier courses were largely peasants and skilled artisans, those of the decade of the Civil War were mostly of the working classes, and between these came the "Forty-eighters." Upon them all, however, peasant, artisan, merchant, and intellectual, their experiences in their native land had made a deep impression. They all had a background of political philosophy the nucleus of which was individual liberty; they all had a violent distaste for the petty tyrannies and espionages which contact with their own form of government had produced; and in coming to America they all sought, besides farms and jobs, political freedom. They therefore came in humility, bore in patience the disappointments of the first rough contacts with pioneer America and its nativism, and few, if any, cherished the hope of going back to Germany. Though some of the intellectual idealists at first had indefinite enthusiasms about a _Deutschtum_ in America, these visions soon vanished. They expressed no love for the governments they had left, however strong the cords of sentiment bound them to the domestic and institutional customs of their childhood. This was to a considerable degree an idealistic migration and as such it had a lasting influence upon American life. The industry of these people and their thrift, even to paring economy, have often been extolled; but other nationalities have worked as hard and as successfully and have spent as sparingly. The special contribution to America which these Germans made lay in other qualities. Their artists and musicians and actors planted the first seeds of æsthetic appreciation in the raw West where the repertoire had previously been limited to _Money Musk_, _The Arkansas Traveler_, and _Old Dog Tray_. The liberal tendencies of German thought mellowed the austere Puritanism of the prevalent theology. The respect which these people had for intellectual attainments potently influenced the educational system of America from the kindergarten to the newly founded state universities. Their political convictions led them to espouse with ardor the cause of the Union in the war upon slavery; and their sturdy independence in partisan politics was no small factor in bringing about civil service reform. They established German newspapers by the hundreds and maintained many German schools and German colleges. They freely indulged their love for German customs. But while their sentimentalism was German, their realism was American. They considered it an honor to become American citizens. Their leaders became American leaders. Carl Schurz was not an isolated example. He was associated with a host of able, careful, constructive Germans. The greatest quarrels of these German immigrants with American ways were over the so-called "Continental Sabbath" and the right to drink beer when and where they pleased. "Only when his beer is in danger," wrote one of the leading Forty-eighters, "does the German-American rouse himself and become a berserker." The great numbers of these men in many cities and in some of the Western States enabled them to have German taught in the public schools, though it is only fair to say that the underlying motive was liberalism rather than Prussian provincialism. Frederick Kapp, a distinguished interpreter of the spirit of these Forty-eighters, expressed their conviction when he said that those who cared to remain German should remain in Germany and that those who came to America were under solemn obligations to become Americans. The descendants of these immigrants, the second and the third and fourth generations, are now thoroughly absorbed into every phase of American life. Their national idiosyncrasies have been modified and subdued by the gentle but relentless persistence of the English language and the robust vigor of American law and American political institutions. After 1870 a great change came over the German immigration. More and more industrial workers, but fewer and fewer peasants, and very rarely an intellectual or a man of substance, now appeared at Ellis Island for admission to the United States.[28] The facilities for migrating were vastly increased by the great transatlantic steamship companies. The new Germans came in hordes even outnumbering the migrations of the fifties. From 1870 to 1910 over three and a quarter millions arrived. The highest point of the wave, however, was reached in 1882, when 250,630 German immigrants entered the United States. Thereafter the number rapidly subsided; the lowest ebb, in 1898, brought only 17,111, but from that time until the Great War the number of annual arrivals fluctuated between 25,000 and 40,000. The majority of those who came in the earlier part of this period made their way to the Western lands. The Dakotas, Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, and the Far West, still offered alluring opportunities. But as these lands were gradually taken, the later influx turned towards the cities. Here the immigrants not only found employment in those trades and occupations which the Germans for years had virtually monopolized, but they also became factory workers in great numbers, and many of them went into the mining regions. It soon became apparent that the spirit of this latest migration was very different from that of the earlier ones. "I do not believe," writes a well-informed and patriotic Lutheran pastor in 1917, "that there is one among a thousand that has emigrated on account of dissatisfaction with the German Government during the last forty-five years." Humility on the part of these newcomers now gradually gave way to arrogance. Instead of appearing eager to embrace their new opportunities, they criticized everything they found in their new home. The contemptuous hauteur and provincial egotism of the modern Prussian, loathsome enough in the educated, were ridiculous in the poor immigrants. Gradually this Prussian spirit increased. In 1883 it could still be said of the three hundred German-American periodicals, daily, weekly, and monthly, that in their tone they were thoroughly American. But ten or fifteen years later changes were apparent. In 1895 there were some five hundred German periodicals published in America, and many of the newer ones were rabidly Germanophile. The editors and owners of the older publications were dying out, and new hands were guiding the editorial pens. Often when there was no American-born German available, an editor was imported fresh from Germany. He came as a German from a new Germany--that Prussianized Germany which unmasked itself in August, 1914, and which included in its dream of power the unswerving and undivided loyalty of all Germans who had migrated. The traditional American indifference and good nature became a shield for the Machiavellian editors who now began to write not for the benefit of America but for the benefit of Germany. Political scandals, odious comparisons of American and German methods, and adroit criticisms of American ways were the daily pabulum fed to the German reader, who was left with the impression that everything in the United States was wrong, while everything in Germany was right. Before the United States entered the Great War, there was a most remarkable unanimity of expression among these German publications; afterwards, Congress found it necessary to enact rigorous laws against them. As a result, many of them were suppressed, and many others suspended publication. German pastors, also, were not infrequently imported and brought with them the virus of the new Prussianism. This they injected into their congregations and especially into the children who attended their catechetical instruction. German "exchange professors," in addition to their university duties, usually made a pilgrimage of the cities where the German influence was strong. The fostering of the German language became no longer merely a means of culture or an appurtenance to business but was insisted upon as a necessity to keep alive the German spirit, _der Deutsche Geist_. German parents were warned, over and over again, that once their children lost their language they would soon lose every active interest in _Kultur_. The teaching of German in the colleges and universities assumed, undisguised and unashamed, the character of Prussian propaganda. The new immigrants from Germany were carefully protected from the deteriorating effect of American contacts, and, unlike the preceding generations of German immigrants, they took very little part in politics. Those who arrived after 1900 refused, usually, to become naturalized. The diabolical ingenuity of the German propaganda was subsequently laid bare, and it is known today that nearly every German club, church, school, and newspaper from about 1895 onward was being secretly marshaled into a powerful Teutonic homogeneity of sentiment and public opinion. The Kaiser boasted of his political influence through the German vote. The German-American League, incorporated by Congress, had its branches in many States. Millions of dollars were spent by the Imperial German Government to corrupt the millions of German birth in America. These disclosures, when they were ultimately made, produced in the United States a sharp and profound reaction against everything Teutonic. The former indifference completely vanished and hyphen-hunting became a popular pastime. The charter of the German-American League was revoked by Congress. City after city took German from its school curriculum. Teutonic names of towns and streets were erased--half a dozen Berlins vanished overnight--and in their places appeared the names of French, British, and American heroes. But though the names might be erased, the German element remained. It had become incorporated into the national bone and sinew, contributing its thoroughness, stolidity, and solidity to the American stock. The power of liberal political institutions in America has been revealed, and thousands upon thousands of the sons and grandsons of German immigrants crossed the seas in 1917 and 1918 to bear aloft the starry standard upon the fields of Flanders against the arrogance and brutality of the neo-Prussians. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 25: According to the Census of 1910 the nationality of the total number of white persons of foreign stock in the United States is distributed chiefly as follows: Germany 8,282,618 or 25.7 per cent Ireland 4,504,360 or 14.0 " " Canada 2,754,615 or 8.6 " " Russia 2,541,649 or 7.9 " " England 2,322,442 or 7.2 " " Italy 2,098,360 or 6.5 " " Austria 2,001,559 or 6.2 " " Furthermore, the significance of the foreign born element in the population of the United States can be gathered from the fact that, in 1910, of the 91,972,266 inhabitants of the United States, no less than 13,515,836 or 14.6 per cent were born in some other country.] [Footnote 26: _An Account of the Manners of the German Inhabitants of Pennsylvania._] [Footnote 27: J.G. Häcker, a well-informed and prosperous German who took the journey by steerage in a sailing vessel in 1849, wrote an instructive description of his experiences. Of his fellow passengers he said: "Our company was very mixed. There were many young people: clerks, artists, musicians, architects, miners, mechanics, men of various professions, peasants, one man seventy-eight years old, another very aged Bavarian farmer, several families of Jews, etc., and a fair collection of children."] [Footnote 28: There were three potent reasons for this migration: financial stringency, overpopulation, and the growing rigor of the military service. Over ten thousand processes a year were issued by the German Government in 1872 and 1873 for evasion of military duty. Germans who had become naturalized American citizens were arrested when they returned to the Fatherland for a visit on the charge of having evaded military service. A treaty between the two countries finally adjusted this difficulty.] CHAPTER VII THE CALL OF THE LAND For over a century after the Revolution the great fact in American life was the unoccupied land, that vast stretch of expectant acreage lying fallow in the West. It kept the American buoyant, for it was an insurance policy against want. When his crops failed or his business grew dull, there was the West. When panic and disaster overtook him, there remained the West. When the family grew too large for the old homestead, the sons went west. And land, unlimited and virtually free, was the magnet that drew the foreign home seeker to the American shores. The first public domain after the formation of the Union extended from the Alleghanies to the Mississippi. This area was enlarged and pushed to the Rockies by the Louisiana Purchase (1803) and was again enlarged and extended to the Pacific by the acquisition of Oregon (1846) and the Mexican cession (1848). The total area of the United States from coast to coast then comprised 3,025,000[29] square miles, of which over two-thirds were at one time or another public domain. Before the close of the Civil War the Government had disposed of nearly four hundred million acres but still retained in its possession an area three times as great as the whole of the territory which had been won from Great Britain in the Revolution. The public domain was at first looked upon as a source of revenue, and a minimum price was fixed by law at $2 an acre, though this rate was subsequently (1820) lowered to $1.25 an acre. The West always wanted liberal land laws, but the South before the Civil War, fearing that the growth of the West would give the North superior strength, opposed any such generosity. When the North dominated Congress, the Homestead Law of 1862 provided that any person, twenty-one years of age, who was a citizen of the United States or who had declared his intention of becoming one, could obtain title to 160 acres of land by living upon it five years, making certain improvements, and paying the entry fee of ten dollars. The Government laid out its vast estate in townships six miles square, which it subdivided into sections of 640 acres and quarter sections of 160 acres. The quarter section was regarded as the public land unit and was the largest amount permitted for individual preëmption and later for a homestead. Thus was the whole world invited to go west. Under the new law, 1,160,000 acres were taken up in 1865.[30] The settler no longer had to suffer the wearisome, heart-breaking tasks that confronted the pioneer of earlier years, for the railway and steamboat had for some time taken the place of the Conestoga wagon and the fitful sailboat. But the movement by railway and by steamboat was merely a continuation on a greater scale of what had been going on ever since the Revolution. The westward movement was begun, as we have seen, not by foreigners but by American farmers and settlers from seaboard and back country, thousands of whom, before the dawn of the nineteenth century, packed their household goods and families into covered wagons and followed the sunset trail. The vanguard of this westward march was American, but foreign immigrants soon began to mingle with the caravans. At first these newcomers who heard the far call of the West were nearly all from the British Isles. Indeed so great was the exodus of these farmers that in 1816 the British journals in alarm asked Parliament to check the "ruinous drain of the most useful part of the population of the United Kingdom." Public meetings were held in Great Britain to discuss the average man's prospect in the new country. Agents of land companies found eager crowds gathered to learn particulars. Whole neighborhoods departed for America. In order to stop the exodus, the newspapers dwelt upon the hardship of the voyage and the excesses of the Americans. But, until Australia, New Zealand, and Canada began to deflect migration, the stream to the United States from England, Scotland, and Wales was constant and copious. Between 1820 and 1910 the number coming from Ireland was 4,212,169, from England 2,212,071, from Scotland 488,749, and from Wales 59,540. What proportion of this host found their way to the farms is not known.[31] In the earlier years, the majority of the English and Scotch sought the land. In western New York, in Ohio, Indiana, Michigan, and contiguous States there were many Scotch and English neighborhoods established before the Civil War. Since 1870, however, the incoming British have provided large numbers of skilled mechanics and miners, and the Welsh, also, have been drawn largely to the coal mines. The French Revolution drove many notables to exile in the United States, and several attempts were made at colonization. The names Gallipolis and Gallia County, Ohio, bear witness to their French origin. Gallipolis was settled in 1790 by adventurers from Havre, Bordeaux, Nantes, La Rochelle, and other French cities. The colony was promoted in France by Joel Barlow, an Ananias even among land sharks, representing the Scioto Land Company, or Companie du Scioto, one of the numerous speculative concerns that early sought to capitalize credulity and European ignorance of the West. The Company had, in fact, no title to the lands, and the wretched colonists found themselves stranded in a wilderness for whose conquest they were unsuited. Of the colonists McMaster says: "Some could build coaches, some could make perukes, some could carve, others could gild with such exquisite carving that their work had been thought not unworthy of the King."[32] Congress came to the relief of these unfortunate people in 1795 and granted them twenty-four thousand acres in Ohio. The town they founded never fully realized their early dreams, but, after a bitter struggle, it survived the log cabin days and was later honored by a visit from Louis Philippe and from Lafayette. Very few descendants of the French colonists share in its present-day prosperity. The majority of the French who came to America after 1820 were factory workers and professional people who remained in the cities. There are great numbers of French Canadians in the factory towns of New England. There are, too, French colonies in America whose inhabitants cannot be rated as foreigners, for their ancestors were veritable pioneers. Throughout the Mississippi Valley, such French settlements as Kaskaskia, Prairie du Rocher, Cahokia, and others have left much more than a geographical designation and have preserved an old world aroma of quaintness and contentment. Swiss immigrants, to the number of about 250,000 and over 175,000 Dutch have found homes in America. The majority of the Swiss came from the German cantons of Switzerland. They have large settlements in Ohio, Wisconsin, and California, where they are very successful in dairying and stock raising. The Hollanders have taken root chiefly in western Michigan, between the Kalamazoo and Grand rivers, on the deep black bottom lands suitable for celery and market gardening. The town of Holland there, with its college and churches, is the center of Dutch influence in the United States. Six of the eleven Dutch periodicals printed in America are issued from Michigan, and the majority of newcomers (over 80,000 have arrived since 1900) have made their way to that State. These sturdy and industrious people from Holland and Switzerland readily adapt themselves to American life. No people have answered the call of the land in recent years as eagerly as have the Scandinavians. These modern vikings have within one generation peopled a large part of the great American Northwest. In 1850 there were only eighteen thousand Scandinavians in the United States. The tide rose rapidly in the sixties and reached its height in the eighties, until over two million Scandinavian immigrants have made America their home. They and their descendants form a very substantial part of the rural population. There are nearly half as many Norwegians in America as in Norway, which has emptied a larger proportion of its population into the American lap than any other country save Ireland. About one-fourth of the world's Swedes and over one-tenth of the world's Danes dwell in America. The term Scandinavian is here used in the loose sense to embrace the peoples of the two peninsulas where dwell the Danes, the Norwegians, and the Swedes. These three branches of the same family have much in common, though for many years they objected to being thus rudely shaken together into one ethnic measure. The Swede is the aristocrat, the Norwegian the democrat, the Dane the conservative. The Swede, polite, vivacious, fond of music and literature, is "the Frenchman of the North," the Norwegian is a serious viking in modern dress: the Dane remains a landsman, devoted to his fields, and he is more amenable than his northern kinsmen to the cultural influence of the South. The Norwegian, true to viking traditions, led the modern exodus. In 1825 the sloop _Restoration_, the _Mayflower_ of the Norse, landed a band of fifty-three Norwegian Quakers on Manhattan. These peasants settled at first in western New York. But within a few years most of them removed to Fox River, Illinois, whither were drawn most of the Norwegians who migrated before 1850. After the Civil War, the stream rapidly rose, until nearly seven hundred thousand persons of Norwegian birth have settled in America. The Swedish migration started in 1841, when Gustavus Unonius, a former student of the University of Upsala, founded the colony of Pine Lake, near Milwaukee. His followers have been described as a strange assortment of "noblemen, ex-army officers, merchants, and adventurers," whose experiences and talents were not of the sort that make pioneering successful. Frederika Bremer, the noted Swedish traveler, has left a description of the little cluster of log huts and the handful of people who "had taken with them the Swedish inclination for hospitality and a merry life, without sufficiently considering how long it could last." Their experiences form a romantic prelude to the great Swedish migration, which reached its height in the eighties. Today the Swedes form the largest element in the Scandinavian influx, for well over one million have migrated to the United States. Nearly three hundred thousand persons of Danish blood have come into the country since the Civil War. A large number migrated from Schleswig-Holstein, after the forcible annexation of that province by Prussia in 1866, preferring the freedom of America to the tyranny of Berlin. Whatever distinctions in language and customs may have characterized these Northern peoples, they had one ambition in common--the desire to own tillable land. So they made of the Northwest a new Scandinavia, larger and far more prosperous than that which Gustavus Adolphus had planned in colonial days for his colony in Delaware. One can travel today three hundred miles at a stretch across the prairies of the Dakotas or the fields of Minnesota without leaving land that is owned by Scandinavians. They abound also in Wisconsin, Northern Illinois, Eastern Nebraska, and Kansas, and Northern Michigan. Latterly the lands of Oregon and Washington are luring them by the thousands, while throughout the remaining West there are scattered many prosperous farms cultivated by representatives of this hardy race. Latterly this stream of Scandinavians has thinned to about one-half its former size. In 1910, 48,000 came; in 1911, 42,000; in 1912, 27,000; in 1913, 33,000. The later immigrant is absorbed by the cities, or sails upon the Great Lakes or in the coastwise trade, or works in lumber camps or mines. Wherever you find a Scandinavian, however, he is working close to nature, even though he is responding to the call of the new industry. It is the consensus of opinion among competent observers that these northern peoples have been the most useful of the recent great additions to the American race. They were particularly fitted by nature for the conquest of the great area which they have brought under subjugation, not merely because of their indomitable industry, perseverance, honesty, and aptitude for agriculture, but because they share with the Englishman and the Scotchman the instinct for self-government. Above all, the Scandinavian has never looked upon himself as an exile. From the first he has considered himself an American. In Minnesota and Dakota, the Norse pioneer often preceded local government. "Whenever a township became populous enough to have a name as well as a number on the surveyor's map, that question was likely to be determined by the people on the ground, and such names as Christiana, Swede Plain, Numedal, Throndhjem, and Vasa leave no doubt that Scandinavians officiated at the christening." These people proceeded with the organizing of the local government and, "except for the peculiar names, no one would suspect that the town-makers were born elsewhere than in Massachusetts or New York."[33] This, too, in spite of the fact that they continued the use of their mother tongue, for not infrequently election notices and even civic ordinances and orders were issued in Norwegian or Swedish. In 1893 there were 146 Scandinavian newspapers, and their number has since greatly increased. In politics the Norseman learned his lesson quickly. Governors, senators, and representatives in Congress give evidence to a racial clannishness that has more than once proven stronger than party allegiance. Yet with all their influence in the Northwest, they have not insisted on unreasonable race recognition, as have the Germans in Wisconsin and other localities. Minnesota and Dakota have established classes in "the Scandinavian language" in their state universities, evidently leaving it to be decided as an academic question which is _the_ Scandinavian language. Without brilliance, producing few leaders, the Norseman represents the rugged commonplace of American life, avoiding the catastrophes of a soaring ambition on the one hand and the pitfalls of a jaded temperamentalism on the other. Bent on self-improvement, he scrupulously patronizes farmers' institutes, high schools, and extension courses, and listens with intelligent patience to lectures that would put an American audience to sleep. This son of the North has greatly buttressed every worthy American institution with the stern traditional virtues of the tiller of the soil. Strength he gives, if not grace, and that at a time when all social institutions are being shaken to their foundations. Among the early homesteaders in the upper Mississippi Valley there were a substantial number of Bohemians. In Nebraska they comprise nine per cent of the foreign born population, in Oklahoma seven per cent, and in Texas over six per cent. They began migrating in the turbulent forties. They were nearly all of the peasant class, neat, industrious and intelligent, and they usually settled in colonies where they retained their native tongue and customs. They were opposed to slavery and many enlisted in the Union cause. Among the Polish immigrants who came to America before 1870, many settled on farms in Illinois, Wisconsin, Texas, and other States. They proved much more clannish than the Bohemians and more reluctant to conform to American customs. Many farms in the Northwest are occupied by Finns, of whom there were in 1910 over two hundred thousand in the United States. They are a Tatar race, with a copious sprinkling of Swedish blood. Illiteracy is rare among them. They are eager patrons of night schools and libraries and have a flourishing college near Duluth. They are eager for citizenship and are independent in politics. The glittering generalities of Marxian socialism seem peculiarly alluring to them; and not a few have joined the I.W.W. Drink has been their curse, but a strong temperance movement has recently made rapid headway among them. They are natural woodmen and wield the axe with the skill of our own frontiersmen. Their peculiar houses, made of neatly squared logs, are features of every Finnish settlement. All of the North European races and a few from Southern and Eastern Europe have contributed to the American rural population; yet the Census of 1910 disclosed the fact that of the 6,361,502 white farm operators in the United States, 75 per cent were native American and only 10.5 per cent were foreign born. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 29: Oberholtzer, _History of the United States since the Civil War_, vol I, p. 275.] [Footnote 30: Oberholtzer, _supra cit._, p. 278.] [Footnote 31: The census of 1910 discloses the fact that of the 6,361,502 farms in the United States 75 per cent were operated by native white Americans and only 10.5 per cent by foreign born whites. The foreign born were distributed as follows: Austria, 33,336; Hungary, 3827; England, 39,728; Ireland, 33,480; Scotland, 10,220; Wales, 4110; France, 5832; Germany, 221,800; Holland, 13,790; Italy, 10,614; Russia, 25,788; Poland, 7228; Denmark, 28,375; Norway, 59,742; Sweden, 67,453; Switzerland, 14333; Canada, 61,878.] [Footnote 32: _History of the People of the United States_, vol. VII, p. 203.] [Footnote 33: K.C. Babcock, _The Scandinavian Element in the United States_, p. 143.] CHAPTER VIII THE CITY BUILDERS "What will happen to immigration when the public domain has vanished?" was a question frequently asked by thoughtful American citizens. The question has been answered: the immigrant has become a job seeker in the city instead of a home seeker in the open country. The last three decades have witnessed "the portentous growth of the cities"--and they are cities of a new type, cities of gigantic factories, towering skyscrapers, electric trolleys, telephones, automobiles, and motor trucks, and of fetid tenements swarming with immigrants. The immigrants, too, are of a new type. When Henry James revisited Boston after a long absence, he was shocked at the "gross little foreigners" who infested its streets, and he said it seemed as if the fine old city had been wiped with "a sponge saturated with the foreign mixture and passed over almost everything I remembered and might have still recovered."[34] Until 1882 the bulk of immigration, as we have seen, came from the north of Europe, and these immigrants were kinsmen to the American and for the most part sought the country. The new immigration, however, which chiefly sought the cities, hailed from southern and eastern Europe. It has shown itself alien in language, custom, in ethnic affinities and political concepts, in personal standards and assimilative ambitions. These immigrants arrived usually in masculine hordes, leaving women and children behind, clinging to their own kind with an apprehensive mistrust of all things American, and filled with the desire to extract from this fabulous mine as much gold as possible and then to return to their native villages. Yet a very large number of those who have gone home to Europe have returned to America with bride or family. As a result the larger cities of the United States are congeries of foreign quarters, whose alarming fecundity fills the streets with progeny and whose polyglot chatter on pay night turns even many a demure New England town into a veritable babel. There are in the United States today roughly eight or ten millions of these new immigrants. A line drawn southward from Minneapolis to St. Louis and thence eastward to Washington would embrace over four-fifths of them, for most of the great American cities lie in this northeastern corner of the land. Whence come these millions? From the vast and mysterious lands of the Slavs, from Italy, from Greece, and from the Levant. The term Slav covers a welter of nationalities whose common ethnic heritage has long been concealed under religious, geographical, and political diversities and feuds. They may be divided into North Slavs, including Bohemians, Poles, Ruthenians, Slovaks, and "Russians," and South Slavs, including Bulgarians, Serbians and Montenegrins, Croatians, Slovenians, and Dalmatians. As one writer on these races says, "It is often impossible in America to distinguish these national groups.... Yet the differences are there.... In American communities they have their different churches societies, newspapers, and a separate social life.... The Pole wastes no love on the Russian, nor the Ruthenian on the Pole, and a person who acts in ignorance of these facts, a missionary for instance, or a political boss, or a trade union organizer, may find himself in the position of a host who should innocently invite a Fenian from Cork County to hobnob with an Ulster Orangeman on the ground that both were Irish."[35] The Bohemians (including the Moravians) are the most venturesome and the most enlightened of the great Slav family. Many of them came to America in the seventeenth century as religious pilgrims; more came as political refugees after 1848; and since 1870, they have come in larger numbers, seeking better economic conditions. All told, they numbered over 220,000, from which it may be estimated that there are probably today half a million persons of Bohemian parentage in the United States. Chicago alone shelters over 100,000 of these people, and Cleveland 45,000. These immigrants as a rule own the neat, box-like houses in which they live, where flower-pots and tiny gardens bespeak a love of growing things, and lace curtains, carpets, and center tables testify to the influence of an American environment. The Bohemians are much given to clubs, lodges, and societies, which usually have rooms over Bohemian saloons. The second generation is prone to free thinking and has a weakness for radical socialism. The Bohemians are assiduous readers, and illiteracy is almost unknown among them. They support many periodicals and several thriving publishing houses. They cling to their language with a religious fervor. Their literature and the history which it preserves is their pride. Yet this love of their own traditions is no barrier, apparently, to forming strong attachments to American institutions. The Bohemians are active in politics, and in the cities where they congregate they see that they have their share of the public offices. There are more highly skilled workmen among them than are to be found in any other Slavic group; and the second generation of Bohemians in America has produced many brilliant professional men and successful business men. As one writer puts it: "The miracle which America works upon the Bohemians is more remarkable than any other of our national achievements. The downcast look so characteristic of them in Prague is nearly gone, the surliness and unfriendliness disappear, and the young Bohemian of the second or third generation is as frank and open as his neighbor with his Anglo-Saxon heritage."[36] The bitter, political and racial suppression that made the Bohemian surly and defiant seem, on the other hand, to have left the Polish peasant stolid, patient, and very illiterate. Polish settlements were made in Texas and Wisconsin in the fifties and before 1880 a large number of Poles were scattered through New York, Pennsylvania, and Illinois. Since then great numbers have come over in the new migrations until today, it is estimated, at least three million persons of Polish parentage live in the United States.[37] The men in the earlier migrations frequently settled on the land; the recent comers hasten to the mines and the metal working centers, where their strong though untrained hands are in constant demand. The majority of the Poles have come to America to stay. They remain, however, very clannish and according to the Federal Industrial Commission, without the "desire to fuse socially." The recent Polish immigrant is very circumscribed in his mental horizon, clings tenaciously to his language, which he hears exclusively in his home and his church, his lodge, and his saloon, and is unresponsive to his American environment. Not until the second and third generation is reached does the spirit of American democracy make headway against his lethal stolidity. Now that Poland has been made free as a result of the Great War, it may be that the Pole's inherited indifference will give way to national aspirations and that, in the resurrection of his historic hope of freedom, he will find an animating stimulant. The Pole, however, is more independent and progressive than the Slovak, his brother from the northeastern corner of Hungary. For many generations this segment of the Slav race has been pitifully crushed. Turks, Magyars, and Huns have taken delight in oppressing him. An early, sporadic migration of Slovaks to America received a sudden impulse in 1882. About 200,000 have come since then, and perhaps twice that number of persons of Slovak blood now dwell in the mining and industrial centers of the United States. Many of them, however, return to their native villages. They keep aloof from things American and only too often prefer to live in squalor and ignorance. Their social life is centered in the church, the saloon, and the lodge. It is asserted that their numerous organizations have a membership of over 100,000, and that there were almost as many Slovak newspapers in America as in Hungary.[38] Little Russia, the seat of turmoil, is the home of the Ruthenians, or Ukranians. They are also found in southeastern Galicia, northern Hungary, and in the province of Bukowina. They have migrated from all these provinces and about 350,000, it is estimated, now reside in the United States. They, too, are birds of passage, working in the mines and steel mills for the coveted wages that shall free them from debt at home and insure their independence. Such respite as they take from their labors is spent in the saloon, in the club rooms over the saloon, or in church, where they hear no English speech and learn nothing of American ways. It is impossible to estimate the total number of Russian Slavs in the United States, as the census figures until recently included as "Russian" all nationalities that came from Russia. They form the smallest of the Slavic groups that have migrated to America. From 1898 to 1909 only 66,282 arrived, about half of whom settled in Pennsylvania and New York. It is surprising to note, however, that every State in the Union except Utah and every island possession except the Philippines has received a few of these immigrants. The Director of Emigration at St. Petersburg in 1907 characterized these people as "hardy and industrious," and "though illiterate they are intelligent and unbigoted."[39] So much in brief for the North Slavs. Of the South Slavs, the Bulgarians possess racial characteristics which point to an intermixture in the remote past with some Asiatic strain, perhaps a Magyar blend. Very few Bulgarian immigrants, who come largely from Macedonia, arrived before the revolution of 1904, when many villages in Monastir were destroyed. For some years they made Granite City, near St. Louis, the center of their activities but, like the Serbians, they are now well scattered throughout the country. In Seattle, Butte, Chicago, and Indianapolis they form considerable colonies. Many of them return yearly to their native hills, and it is too early to determine how fully they desire to adapt themselves to American ways. Montenegro, Serbia, and Bulgaria, countries that have been thrust forcibly into the world's vision by the Great War, have sent several hundred thousand of their hardy peasantry to the United States. The Montenegrins and Serbians, who comprise three-fourths of this migration, are virtually one in speech and descent. They are to be found in New England towns and in nearly every State from New York to Alaska, where they work in the mills and mines and in construction gangs. The response which these people make to educational opportunities shows their high cultural possibilities. The Croatians and Dalmatians, who constitute the larger part of the southern Slav immigration, are a sturdy, vigorous people, and splendid specimens of physical manhood. The Dalmatians are a seafaring folk from the Adriatic coast, whose sailors may be found in every port of the world. The Dalmatians have possessed themselves of the oyster fisheries near New Orleans and are to be found in Mississippi making staves and in California making wine. In many cities they manage restaurants. The exceptional shrewdness of the Dalmatians is in bold contrast to their illiteracy. They get on amazingly in spite of their lack of education. Once they have determined to remain in this country, they take to American ways more readily than do the other southern Slavs. Croatia, too, has its men of the sea, but in America most of the immigrants of this race are to be found in the mines and coke furnaces of Pennsylvania and West Virginia. In New York City there are some 15,000 Croatian mechanics and longshoremen. The silver and copper mines of Montana also employ a large number of these people. It is estimated that fully one-half of the Croatians return to their native hills and that they contribute yearly many millions to the home-folks. From the little province of Carniola come the Slovenians, usually known as "Griners" (from the German _Krainer_, the people of the Krain), a fragment of the Slavic race that has become much more assimilated with the Germans who govern them than any other of their kind. Their national costume has all but vanished and with it the virile traditions of their forefathers. They began coming to America in the sixties, and in the seventies they founded an important colony at Joliet, Illinois. Since 1892 their numbers have increased rapidly, until today about 100,000 live in the United States. Over one-half of these immigrants are to be found in the steel and mining towns of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Illinois, where the large majority of them are unskilled workmen. Among the second generation, however, are to be found a number of successful merchants. All these numerous peoples have inherited in common the impassive, patient temperament and the unhappy political fate of the Slav. Their countries are mere eddies left by the mighty currents of European conquest and reconquest, backward lands untouched by machine industry and avoided by capital, whose only living links with the moving world are the birds of passage, the immigrants who flit between the mines and cities of America and these isolated European villages. Held together by national costume, song, dance, festival, traditions, and language, these people live in the pale glory of a heroic past. Most of those who come to America are peasants who have been crushed by land feudalism, kept in ignorance by political intolerance, and bound in superstition by a reactionary ecclesiasticism. The brutality with which they treat their women, their disregard for sanitary measures, and their love for strong drink are evidences of the survival of medievalism in the midst of modern life, as are their notions of class prerogative and their concept of the State. Buffeted by the world, their language suppressed, their nationalism reviled, poor, ignorant, unskilled, these children of the open country come to the ugliest spots of America, the slums of the cities, and the choking atmosphere of the mines. Here, crowded in their colonies, jealously shepherded by their church, neglected by the community, they remain for an entire generation immune to American influences. According to estimates given by Emily G. Balch,[40] between four and six million persons of Slavic descent are now dwelling among us, and their fecundity is amazing. Equally amazing is the indifference of the Government and of Americans generally to the menace involved in the increasing numbers of these inveterate aliens to institutions that are fundamentally American. The Lithuanians and Magyars are often classed with the Slavs. They hotly resent this inclusion, however, for they are distinct racial strains of ancient lineage. An adverse fate has left the Lithuanian little of his old civilization except his language. Political and economic suppression has made sad havoc of what was once a proud and prosperous people. Most of them are now crowded into the Baltic province that bears their name, and they are reduced to the mental and economic level of the Russian moujik. In 1868 a famine drove the first of these immigrants to America, where they were soon absorbed by the anthracite mines of Pennsylvania. They were joined in the seventies by numbers of army deserters. The hard times of the nineties caused a rush of young men to the western El Dorado. Since then the influx has steadily continued until now over 200,000 are in America. They persistently avoid agriculture and seek the coal mine and the factory. The one craft in which they excel is tailoring, and they proudly boast of being the best dressed among all the Eastern-European immigrants. The one mercantile ambition which they have nourished is to keep a saloon. Drinking is their national vice; and they measure the social success of every wedding, christening, picnic, and jollification by its salvage of empty beer kegs. Over 338,000 Magyars immigrated to the United States during the decade ending 1910. These brilliant and masterful folk are a Mongoloid blend that swept from the steppes of Asia across eastern Europe a thousand years ago. As the wave receded, the Magyars remained dominant in beautiful and fertile Hungary, where their aggressive nationalism still brings them into constant rivalry on the one hand with the Germans of Austria and on the other with the Slavs of Hungary. The immigrants to America are largely recruited from the peasantry. They almost invariably seek the cities, where the Magyar neighborhoods can be easily distinguished by their scrupulously neat housekeeping, the flower beds, the little patches of well-swept grass, the clean children, and the robust and tidy women. Among them is less illiteracy than in any other group from eastern and southern Europe, excepting the Finns, who are their ethnic brothers. As a rule they own their own homes. They learn the English language quickly but unfortunately acquire with it many American vices. Drinking and carousing are responsible for their many crimes of personal violence. They are otherwise a sociable, happy people, and the cafes kept by Hungarians are islands of social jollity in the desert of urban strife. In bold contrast to these ardent devotees of nationalism, the Jew, the man of no country and of all countries, is an American immigrant still to be considered. By force of circumstance he became a city dweller; he came from the European city; he remained in the American city; and all attempts to colonize Jews on the land have failed. The doors of this country have always been open to him. At the time of the Revolution several thousand Jews dwelt in American towns. By 1850 the number had increased to 50,000 and by the time of the Civil War to 150,000. The persecutions of Czar Alexander III in the eighties swelled the number to over 400,000, and the political reactions of the nineties added over one million. Today at least one fifth of the ten million Jews in the world live in American cities. The first to seek a new Zion in this land were the Spanish-Portuguese Jews, who came as early as 1655. They remain a select aristocracy among their race, clinging to certain ritualistic characteristics and retaining much of the pride which their long contact with the Spaniard has engendered. They are found almost exclusively in the eastern cities, as successful bankers, merchants, and professional men. There next came on the wave of the great German immigration the German Jews. They are to be found in every city, large and small, engaged in mercantile pursuits, especially in the drygoods and the clothing business. Nearly all of the prominent Jews in America have come from this stock--the great bankers, financiers, lawyers, merchants, rabbis, scholars, and public men. It was, indeed, from their broad-minded scholars that there originated the widespread liberal Judaism which has become a potent ethical force in our great cities. The Austrian and Hungarian Jews followed. The Jews had always received liberal treatment in Hungary, and their mingling with the social Magyars had produced the type of the coffeehouse Jew, who loved to reproduce in American cities the conviviality of Vienna and Budapest but who did not take as readily to American ways as the German Jew. Most of the Jews from Hungary remained in New York, although Chicago and St. Louis received a few of them. In commercial life they are traders, pawnbrokers, and peddlers, and control the artificial-flower and passementerie trade. By far the largest group are the latest comers, the Russian Jews. "Ultra orthodox," says Edward A. Steiner, "yet ultra radical; chained to the past, and yet utterly severed from it; with religion permeating every act of life, or going to the other extreme and having 'none of it'; traders by instinct, and yet among the hardest manual laborers of our great cities. A complex mass in which great things are yearning to express themselves, a brooding mass which does not know itself and does not lightly disclose itself to the outside."[41] Nearly a million of these people are crowded into the New York ghettos. Large numbers of them engage in the garment industries and the manufacture of tobacco. They graduate also into junk-dealers, pawnbrokers, and peddlers, and are soon on their way "up town." Among them socialism thrives, and the second generation displays an unseemly haste to break with the faith of its fathers. The Jews are the intellectuals of the new immigration. They invest their political ideas with vague generalizations of human amelioration. They cannot forget that Karl Marx was a Jew: and one wonders how many Trotzkys and Lenines are being bred in the stagnant air of their reeking ghettos. It remains to be seen whether they will be willing to devote their undoubted mental capacities to other than revolutionary vagaries or to gainful pursuits, for they have a tendency to commercialize everything they touch. They have shown no reluctance to enter politics; they learn English with amazing rapidity, throng the public schools and colleges, and push with characteristic zeal and persistence into every open door of this liberal land. From Italy there have come to America well over three million immigrants. For two decades before 1870 they filtered in at the average rate of about one thousand a year; then the current increased to several thousand a year; and after 1880 it rose to a flood.[42] Over two-thirds of these Italians live in the larger cities; one-fourth of them are crowded into New York tenements.[43] Following in order, Philadelphia, Chicago, Boston, New Orleans, Cleveland, St. Louis, Baltimore, Detroit, Portland, and Omaha have their Italian quarters, all characterized by overcrowded boarding houses and tenements, vast hordes of children, here and there an Italian bakery and grocery, on every corner a saloon, and usually a private bank with a steamship agency and the office of the local _padrone_. Scores of the lesser cities also have their Italian contingent, usually in the poorest and most neglected part of the town, where gaudily painted door jambs and window frames and wonderfully prosperous gardens proclaim the immigrant from sunny Italy. Not infrequently an old warehouse, store, or church is transformed into an ungainly and evil-odored barracks, housing scores of men who do their own washing and cooking. Those who do not dwell in the cities are at work in construction camps--for the Italian has succeeded the Irishman as the knight of the pick and shovel. The great bulk of these swarthy, singing, hopeful young fellows are peasants, unskilled of hand but willing of heart. Nearly every other one is unable to read or write. They have not come for political or religious reasons but purely as seekers for wages, driven from the peasant villages by overpopulation and the hazards of a precarious agriculture. They have come in two distinct streams: one from northern Italy, embracing about one-fifth of the whole; the other from southern Italy. The two streams are quite distinct in quality. Northern Italy is the home of the old masters in art and literature and of a new industrialism that is bringing renewed prosperity to Milan and Turin. Here the virile native stock has been strengthened with the blood of its northern neighbors. They are a capable, creative, conservative, reliable race. On the other hand, the hot temper of the South has been fed by an infusion of Greek and Saracen blood. In Sicily this strain shows at its worst. There the vendetta flourishes; and the Camorra and its sinister analogue, the Black Hand, but too realistically remind us that thousands of these swarthy criminals have found refuge in the dark alleys of our cities. Even in America the Sicilian carries a dirk, and the "death sign" in a court room has silenced many a witness. The north Italians readily identify themselves with American life. Among them are found bakers, barbers, and marble cutters, as well as wholesale fruit and olive oil merchants, artists, and musicians. But the south Italian is a restless, roving creature, who dislikes the confinement and restraint of the mill and factory. He is found out of doors, making roads and excavations, railways, skyscrapers, and houses. If he has a liking for trade he trundles a pushcart filled with fruit or chocolates; or he may turn a jolly hurdy-gurdy or grind scissors. In spite of his native sociability, the south Italian is very slow to take to American ways. As a rule, he comes here intending to go back when he has made enough money. He has the air of a sojourner. He is picturesque, volatile, and incapable of effective team work. About 300,000 Greeks have come to America between 1908 and 1917, nearly all of them young men, escaping from a country where they had meat three times a year to a land where they may have it three times a day. "The whole Greek world," says Henry P. Fairchild, writing in 1911, "may be said to be in a fever of emigration.... The strong young men with one accord are severing home ties, leaving behind wives and sweethearts, and thronging to the shores of America in search of opportunity and fortune." Every year they send back handsome sums to the expectant family. Business is an instinct with the Greek, and he has almost monopolized the ice cream, confectionery, and retail fruit business, the small florist shops and bootblack stands in scores of towns, and in every large city he is running successful restaurants. As a factory operative he is found in the cotton mills of New England, but he prefers merchandizing to any other calling. Years ago when New Bedford was still a whaling port a group of Portuguese sailors from the Azores settled there. This formed the nucleus of the Portuguese immigration which, in the last decade, included over 80,000 persons. Two-thirds of these live in New England factory towns, the remaining third, strange to say, have found their way to the other side of the continent, where they work in the gardens and fruit orchards of California. New Bedford is still the center of their activity. They are a hard-working people whose standard of living, according to official investigations "is much lower than that of any other race," of whom scarcely one in twenty become citizens, and who evince no interest in learning or in manual skill. Finally, American cities are extending the radius of their magnetism and are drawing ambitious tradesmen and workers from the Levant. Over 100,000 have come from Arabia, Syria, Armenia, and Turkey. The Armenians and Syrians, forming the bulk of this influx, came as refugees from the brutalities of the Mohammedan régime. The Levantine is first and always a bargainer. His little bazaars and oriental rug shops are bits of Cairo and Constantinople, where you are privileged to haggle over every purchase in true oriental style. Even the peddlers of lace and drawn-work find it hard to accustom themselves to the occidental idea of a market price. With all their cunning as traders, they respect learning, prize manual skill, possess a fine artistic sense, and are law-abiding. The Armenians especially are eager to become American citizens. Since the settlement of the Northwestern lands, many thousands of Scandinavians and Finns have flocked to the cities, where they are usually employed as skilled craftsmen.[44] Thus the United States, in a quarter of a century, has assumed a cosmopolitanism in which the early German and Irish immigrants appear as veteran Americans. This is not a stationary cosmopolitanism, like that of Constantinople, the only great city in Europe that compares with New York, Chicago, or Boston in ethnic complexity. It is a shifting mass. No two generations occupy the same quarters. Even the old rich move "up town" leaving their fine houses, derelicts of a former splendor, to be divided into tenements where six or eight Italian or Polish families find ample room for themselves and a crowd of boarders. Thousands of these migratory beings throng the steerage of transatlantic ships every winter to return to their European homes. The steamship companies, whose enterprise is largely responsible for this flow of populations, reap their harvest; and many a decaying village buried in the southern hills of Europe, or swept by the winds of the great Slav plains, owes its regeneration ultimately to American dollars. They pay the price of their success, these flitting beings, links between distant lands and our own. The great maw of mine and factory devours thousands. Their lyric tribal songs are soon drowned by the raucous voices of the city; their ancient folk-dances, meant for a village green, not for a reeking dance-hall, lose here their native grace; and the quaint and picturesque costumes of the European peasant give place to American store clothes, the ugly badge of equality. The outward bound throng holds its head high, talks back at the steward, and swaggers. It has become "American." The restless fever of the great democracy is in its veins. Most of those who return home will find their way back with others of their kind to the teeming hives and the coveted fleshpots they are leaving. And again they will tax the ingenuity of labor unions, political and social organizations, schools, libraries, and churches, in the endeavor to transform medieval peasants into democratic peers. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 34: This lament of Henry James's is cited by E.A. Ross in _The Old World in the New_, p. 101.] [Footnote 35: Emily Greene Balch, _Our Slavic Fellow Citizens_, p. 8-9.] [Footnote 36: Edward A. Steiner, _On the Trail of the Immigrant_, p. 228.] [Footnote 37: This is an estimate made by the Reverend W.X. Kruszka of Ripon, Wisconsin, as reported by E.G. Balch in _Our Slavic Fellow Citizens_, p. 262. Of this large number, Chicago claims 350,000; New York City, 250,000; Buffalo, 80,000; Milwaukee, 75,000; Detroit, 75,000; while at least a dozen other cities have substantial Polish settlements. These numbers include the suburbs of each city.] [Footnote 38: This is accounted for by the fact that the Hungarian Government rigorously censored Slovak publications.] [Footnote 39: Since the Russo-Japanese War, Siberia has absorbed great numbers of Russian immigrants. This accounts for the small number that have come to America.] [Footnote 40: _Our Slavic Fellow Citizens_, p. 280.] [Footnote 41: _On the Trail of the Immigrant_, p. 27.] [Footnote 42: The census figures show that approximately half the Italian immigrants return to their native land. American officers in the Great War were surprised to find so many Italian soldiers who spoke English. In 1910 there remained in the United States only 1,343,000 Italians who were born in Italy, and the total number of persons of Italian stock in the United States was 2,098,000.] [Footnote 43: According to the Census of 1910 there were 544,000 Italians in New York City] [Footnote 44: The Census of 1910 gives the following distribution of the American white population by percentages: ------------------------+--------+-----------------+--------- | | Native born | | Native | of Foreign or | Foreign Location | stock | mixed parentage | born ------------------------+--------+-----------------+--------- Rural districts | 64.1 | 13.3 | 7.5 | | | Cities 2,500- 10,000 | 57.5 | 20.6 | 13.9 " 10,000- 25,000 | 50.4 | 24.6 | 17.4 " 25,000-100,000 | 45.9 | 26.5 | 20.2 " 100,000-500,000 | 38.9 | 31.3 | 22.1 " 200,000 and over | 25.6 | 37.2 | 33.6 ------------------------+--------+-----------------+--------- The native white element predominates in the country but is only a fraction of the population in the larger cities.] CHAPTER IX THE ORIENTAL America, midway between Europe and Asia, was destined to be the meeting-ground of Occident and Orient. It was in the exciting days of '49 that gold became the lodestone to draw to California men from the oriental lands across the Pacific. The Chinese for the moment overcame their religious aversion to leaving their native haunts and, lured by the promise of fabulous wages, made their way to the "gold hills." Of the three hundred thousand who came to America during the three decades of free entry, the large majority were peasants from the rural districts in the vicinity of Canton. They were thrifty, independent, sturdy, honest young men who sought the great adventure unaccompanied by wife or family. Chinese tradition forbade the respectable woman to leave her home, even with her husband; and China was so isolated from the world, so encrusted in her own traditions that out of her uncounted millions even the paltry thousands of peasants and workmen who filtered through the port of Canton into the great world were bound by ancient precedent as firmly as if they had remained at home. They invariably planned to return to the Celestial Empire and it was their supreme wish that, if they died abroad, their bodies be buried in the land of their ancestors. The Chinaman thus came to America as a workman adventurer, not as a prospective citizen. He preserved his queue, his pajamas, his chopsticks, and his joss in the crude and often brutal surroundings of the mining camp. He maintained that gentle, yielding, unassertive character which succumbs quietly to pressure at one point, only to reappear silently and unobtrusively in another place. In the wild rough and tumble of the camp, where the outlaw and the bully found congenial refuge, the celestial did not belie his name. He was indeed of another world, and his capacity for patience, his native dignity without suspicion of hauteur, baffled the loud self-assertion of the Irish and the Anglo-Saxon. During the first years of the gold rush, the Chinaman was welcome in California because he was necessary. He could do so many things that the miner disdained or found no time to do. He could cook and wash, and he could serve. He was a rare gardener and a patient day laborer. He could learn a new trade quickly. In the city he became a useful domestic servant at a time when there were very few women. In all his tasks he was neat and had a genius for noiselessly minding his own business. As the number of miners increased, race prejudice asserted itself. "California for Americans" came to be a slogan that reflected their feelings against Mexicans, Spanish-Americans, and Chinese in the mines. Race riots, often instigated by men who had themselves but recently immigrated to America, were not infrequent. In these disorders the Chinese were no match for the aggressors and in consequence were forced out of many good mining claims. The labor of the cheap and faithful Chinese appealed to the business instincts of the railroad contractors who were constructing the Pacific railways and they imported large numbers. In 1866 a line of steamships was established to run regularly between Hong Kong and San Francisco. In 1869 the first transcontinental railway was completed and American laborers from the East began to flock to California, where they immediately found themselves in competition with the Mongolian standard of living. Race rivalry soon flared up and the anti-Chinese sentiment increased as the railroads neared completion and threw more and more of the oriental laborers into the general labor market. Chinese were hustled out of towns. Here and there violence was done. For example, in the Los Angeles riots of October 24, 1871, fifteen Chinamen were hanged and six were shot by the mob. This prejudice, based primarily upon the Chinaman's willingness to work long hours for little pay and to live in quarters and upon fare which an Anglo-Saxon would find impossible, was greatly increased by his strange garb, language, and customs. The Chinaman remained in every essential a foreigner. In his various societies he maintained to some degree the patriarchal government of his native village. He shunned American courts, avoided the Christian religion, rarely learned much of the English language, and displayed no desire to become naturalized. Instead of sympathy in the country of his sojourn he met discrimination, jealousy, and suspicion. For many years his testimony was not permitted in the courts. His contact with only the rough frontier life failed to reveal to him the gentle amenities of the white man's faith, and everywhere the upper hand seemed turned against him. So he kept to himself, and this isolation fed the rumors that were constantly poisoning public opinion. Chinatown in the public mind became a synonym for a nightmare of filth, gambling, opium-smoking, and prostitution. Alarm was spreading among Americans concerning the organizations of the Chinese in the United States. Of these, the Six Companies were the most famous. Mary Roberts Coolidge, after long and careful research, characterized these societies as "the substitute for village and patriarchal association, and although purely voluntary and benevolent in their purpose, they became, because of American ignorance and prejudice, the supposed instruments of tyranny over their countrymen."[45] They each had a club house, where members were registered and where lodgings and other accommodations were provided. The largest in 1877 had a membership of seventy-five thousand; the smallest, forty-three thousand. The Chinese also maintained trade guilds similar in purpose to the American trade union. Private or secret societies also flourished among them, some for good purposes, others for illicit purposes. Of the latter the Highbinders or Hatchet Men became the most notorious, for they facilitated the importation of Chinese prostitutes. Many of these secret societies thrived on blackmail, and the popular antagonism to the Six Companies was due to the outrages committed by these criminal associations. When the American labor unions accumulated partisan power, the Chinese became a political issue. This was the greatest evil that could befall them, for now racial persecution received official sanction and passed out of the hands of mere ruffians into the custody of powerful political agitators. Under the lurid leadership of Dennis Kearney, the Workingman's party was organized for the purpose of influencing legislation and "ridding the country of Chinese cheap labor." Their goal was "Four dollars a day and roast beef"; and their battle cry, "The Chinese must go." Under the excitement of sand-lot meetings, the Chinese were driven under cover. In the riots of July, 1877, in San Francisco, twenty-five Chinese laundries were burned. "For months afterward," says Mary Roberts Coolidge, "no Chinaman was safe from personal outrage even on the main thoroughfares, and the perpetrators of the abuses were almost never interfered with so long as they did not molest white men's property."[46] This anti-Chinese epidemic soon spread to other Western States. Legislatures and city councils vied with each other in passing laws and ordinances to satisfy the demands of the labor vote. All manner of ingenious devices were incorporated into tax laws in an endeavor to drive the Chinese out of certain occupations and to exclude them from the State. License and occupation taxes multiplied. The Chinaman was denied the privilege of citizenship, was excluded from the public schools, and was not allowed to give testimony in proceedings relating to white persons. Manifold ordinances were passed intended to harass and humiliate him: for instance, a San Francisco ordinance required the hair of all prisoners to be cut within three inches of the scalp. Most extreme and unreasonable discriminations against hand laundries were framed. The new California constitution of 1879 endowed the legislature and the cities with large powers in regulating the conditions under which Chinese would be tolerated. In 1880 a state law declared that all corporations operating under a state charter should be prohibited from employing Chinese under penalty of forfeiting their charter. Chinese were also excluded from employment in all public works. Nearly all these laws and ordinances, however, were ultimately declared to be unconstitutional on account of their discriminatory character or because they were illegal regulations of commerce. The States having failed to exclude the Chinese, the only hope left was in the action of the Federal Government. The earliest treaties and trade conventions with China (1844 and 1858) had been silent upon the rights and privileges of Chinese residing or trading in the United States. In 1868, Anson Burlingame, who had served for six years as American Minister to China, but who had now entered the employ of the Chinese Imperial Government, arrived at the head of a Chinese mission sent for the purpose of negotiating a new treaty which should insure reciprocal rights to the Chinese. The journey from San Francisco to Washington was a sort of triumphal progress and everywhere the Chinese mission was received with acclaim. The treaty drawn by Secretary Seward was ratified on July 28, 1868, and was hailed even on the Pacific coast as the beginning of more fortunate relations between the two countries. The treaty acknowledged the "inherent and inalienable right of man to change his home and allegiance, and also the mutual advantage of the free migration and emigration of their citizens and subjects respectively, from the one country to the other, for purposes of curiosity, of trade or as permanent residents." It stated positively that "citizens of the United States visiting or residing in China shall enjoy the same privileges, immunities, and exemptions in respect to travel and residence as may be enjoyed by the citizens of the most favored nation. And, reciprocally, Chinese subjects visiting or residing in the United States shall enjoy the same privileges, immunities, and exemptions in respect to travel or residence." The right to naturalization was by express statement not conferred by the treaty upon the subjects of either nation dwelling in the territory of the other. But it was not in any way prohibited. The applause which greeted this international agreement had hardly subsided before the anti-Chinese agitators discovered that the treaty was in their way and they thereupon demanded its modification or abrogation. They now raised the cry that the Chinese were a threat to the morals and health of the country, that the majority of Chinese immigrants were either coolies under contract, criminals, diseased persons, or prostitutes. As a result, in 1879 a representative from Nevada, one of the States particularly interested, introduced in Congress a bill limiting to fifteen the Chinese passengers that any ship might bring to the United States on a single voyage, and requiring the captains of such vessels to register at the port of entry a list of their Chinese passengers. The Senate added an amendment requesting the President to notify the Chinese Government that the section of the Burlingame treaty insuring reciprocal interchange of citizens was abrogated. After a very brief debate the measure that so flagrantly defied an international treaty passed both houses. It was promptly vetoed, however, by President Hayes on the ground that it violated a treaty which a friendly nation had carefully observed. If the Pacific cities had cause of complaint, the President preferred to remedy the situation by the "proper course of diplomatic negotiations."[47] The President accordingly appointed a commission, under the chairmanship of James B. Angell, president of the University of Michigan, to negotiate a new treaty. The commission proceeded to China and completed its task in November, 1880. The new treaty provided that, "whenever, in the opinion of the Government of the United States, the coming of Chinese laborers to the United States, or their residence therein, affects or threatens to affect the interests of that country, or to endanger the good order of the said country or of any locality within the territory thereof, the Government of China agrees that the Government of the United States may regulate, limit, or suspend such coming or residence, but may not absolutely prohibit it." Other Chinese subjects who had come to the United States, "as travelers, merchants, or for curiosity," and laborers already in the United States, were to "be allowed to go and come of their own free will," with all of the "rights, privileges, immunities, and exemptions which are accorded to the citizens of the most favored nation." The United States furthermore undertook to protect the Chinese in the United States against "ill treatment" and to "devise means for their protection." Two years after the ratification of this treaty, a bill was introduced to prohibit the immigration of Chinese labor for twenty years. Both the great political parties had included the subject in their platforms in 1880. The Democrats had espoused exclusion and were committed to "No more Chinese immigration"; the Republicans had preferred restriction by "just, humane, and reasonable laws." The bill passed, but President Arthur vetoed it on the ground that prohibiting immigration for so long a period transcended the provisions of the treaty. A bill which was then passed shortening the period of the restriction to ten years received the President's signature, and on August 5, 1882, America shut the door in the face of Chinese labor. The law, however, was very loosely drawn and administrative confusion arose at once. Chinese laborers leaving the United States were required to obtain a certificate from the collector of customs at the port of departure entitling them to reëntry. Other Chinese--merchants, travelers, or visitors--who desired to come to the United States were required to have a certificate from their Government declaring that they were entitled to enter under the provisions of the treaty. As time went on, identification became a joke, trading in certificates a regular pursuit, and smuggling Chinese across the Canadian border a profitable business. Moreover, in the light of the law, who was a "merchant" and who a "visitor"? In 1884 Congress attempted to remedy these defects of phraseology and administration by carefully framed definitions and stringent measures.[48] The Supreme Court upheld the constitutionality of exclusion as incident to American sovereignty. Meanwhile in the West the popular feeling against the Chinese refused to subside. At Rock Springs, Wyoming, twenty-eight Chinese were killed and fifteen were injured by a mob which also destroyed Chinese property amounting to $148,000. At Tacoma and Seattle, also, violence descended upon the Mongolian. In San Francisco a special grand jury which investigated the operation of the exclusion laws and a committee of the Board of Supervisors which investigated the condition of Chinatown both made reports that were violently anti-Chinese. A state anti-Chinese convention soon thereafter declared that the situation "had become well-nigh intolerable." So widespread and venomous was the agitation against Chinese that President Cleveland was impelled to send to Congress two special messages on the question, detailing the facts and requesting Congress to pay the Chinese claims for indemnity which Wyoming refused to honor. The remonstrances of the Chinese Government led to the drafting of a new treaty in 1888. But while China was deliberating over this treaty, Congress summarily shut off any hope for immediate agreement by passing the Scott Act prohibiting the return of any Chinese laborer after the passage of the act, stopping the issue of any more certificates of identification, and declaring void all certificates previously issued. It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that this brutal political measure was passed with an eye to the Pacific electoral vote in the pending election. In the next presidential year the climax of harshness was reached in the Geary law, which required, within an unreasonably short time, the registration of all Chinese in the United States. The Chinese, under legal advice, refused to register until the Federal Supreme Court had declared the law constitutional. Subsequently the time for registration was extended. The anti-Chinese fanaticism had now reached its highest point. While the Government maintained its policy of exclusion, it modified the drastic details of the law. In 1894 a new treaty provided for the exclusion of laborers for ten years, excepting registered laborers who had either parent, wife, or child in the United States, or who possessed property or debts to the amount of one thousand dollars. It required all resident Chinese laborers to register, and the Chinese Government was similarly entitled to require the registration of all American laborers resident in China. The treaty made optional the clause requiring merchants, travelers, and other classes privileged to come to the United States, to secure a certificate from their Government vised by the American representative at the port of departure. In 1898 General Otis extended the exclusion acts to the Philippines by military order, owing to the fact that the country was in a state of war, and Congress extended them to the Hawaiian Islands. In 1904 China refused to continue the treaty of 1894, and Congress substantially reenacted the existing laws "in so far as not inconsistent with treaty obligations." Thus the legal _status quo_ has been maintained, and the Chinese population in America is gradually decreasing. No new laborers are permitted to come and those now here go home as old age overtakes them. But the public has come to recognize that diplomatic circumlocution cannot conceal the crude and harsh treatment which the Chinaman has received; that the earlier laws were based upon reports that greatly exaggerated the evils and were silent upon the virtues of the Oriental; and that a policy which had its conception in frontier fears and in race prejudice was sustained by politicians and perpetuated by demagogues. Rather suddenly the whole drama of discrimination was re-opened by the arrival of a considerable number of Japanese laborers in America. In 1900, there were some twenty-four thousand in the United States and a decade later this number had increased threefold. About one-half of them lived in California, and the rest were to be found throughout the West, especially in Washington, Colorado, and Oregon. They were nearly all unmarried young men of the peasant class. Unlike the Chinese, they manifested a readiness to conform to American customs and an eagerness to learn the language and to adopt American dress. The racial gulf, however, is not bridged by a similarity in externals. The Japanese possess all the deep and subtle contrasts of mentality and ideality which differentiate the Orient from the Occident. A few are not averse to adopting Christianity; many more are free-thinkers; but the bulk remain loyal to Buddhism. They have reproduced here the compact trade guilds of Japan. The persistent aggressiveness of the Japanese, their cunning, their aptitude in taking advantage of critical circumstances in making bargains, have by contrast partially restored to popular favor the patient, reliable Chinaman. At first the Japanese were welcomed as unskilled laborers. They found employment on the railroads, in lumber mills and salmon canneries, in mines and on farms, and in domestic service. But they soon showed a keen propensity for owning or leasing land. The Immigration Commission found that in 1909 they owned over sixteen thousand acres in California and leased over one hundred and thirty-seven thousand. Nearly all of this land they had acquired in the preceding five years. In Colorado they controlled over twenty thousand acres, and in Idaho and Washington over seven thousand acres each. This acreage represents small holdings devoted to intensive agriculture, especially to the raising of sugar beets, vegetables, and small fruits. The hostility which began to manifest itself against the Japanese especially in California brought that State into sharp contact with the Federal Government. In 1906 the San Francisco authorities excluded the Japanese from the public schools. This act was immediately and vigorously protested by the Japanese Government. After due investigation, the matter was finally adjusted at a conference held in Washington between President Roosevelt and a delegation from California. This incident served to re-awaken the ghost of Mongolian domination on the Pacific coast, for it occurred during the notorious regime of Mayor Schmitz. Labor politics were rampant. Isolated instances of violence against Japanese occurred, and hoodlums, without fear of police interference, attacked a number of Japanese restaurants. Political candidates were pledged to an anti-Japanese policy. In 1907 the two governments reached an agreement whereby the details of issuing passports to Japanese laborers who desired to return to the United States was virtually left in the hands of the Japanese Government, which was opposed to the emigration of its laboring population. As a consequence of this agreement, passports are granted only to laborers who had previously been residents of the United States or to parents, wives, and children of Japanese laborers resident in America. Under authority of the immigration law of 1907, the President issued an order (March 14, 1907) denying admission to "Japanese and Korean laborers, skilled or unskilled, who have received passports to go to Mexico, Canada, Hawaii and come therefrom" to the United States. Anti-Japanese feeling was crystallized into the alien land bill of California in 1913. So serious was the international situation that President Wilson sent Mr. Bryan, then Secretary of State, across the continent to confer with the California legislature and to determine upon some action that would at the same time meet the needs of the State and "leave untouched the international obligations of the United States." The law subsequently passed was thought by the Californians to appease both of these demands.[49] But the Japanese Government made no less than five vigorous formal protests and filled a lengthy brief which characterized the law as unfair and intentionally discriminating and in violation of the treaty of Commerce and Navigation entered into in 1911. While anti-Japanese demonstrations were taking place in Washington, there was a corresponding outbreak of anti-American feeling in the streets of Tokyo. On February 2, 1914, during the debate on a new immigration bill, an amendment was proposed in the House of Representatives, at the instigation of members from the Pacific coast, excluding all Asiatics, except such as had their entry right established by treaty. But this drastic proposal was defeated by a decisive vote. The oriental question in America is further complicated by the fact that since 1905 some five thousand East Indians have come to the United States. Of these the majority are Hindoos, the remainder being chiefly Afghans. How these people who have lived under British rule will adapt themselves to American life and institutions remains to be seen. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 45: _Chinese Immigration_, p. 402.] [Footnote 46: _Chinese Immigration_, p. 265.] [Footnote 47: So intense was the feeling in the West that at this time a letter purporting to have been written by James A. Garfield, the Republican candidate, favoring unrestricted immigration, was published on the eve of the Presidential election (1880). Though the letter was shown to be a forgery, yet it was not without influence. In California Garfield received only one of the six electoral votes; and in Nevada he received none. In Denver, where only four hundred Chinese lived, race riots occurred which cost one Chinaman his life and destroyed Chinese property to the amount of $50,000.] [Footnote 48: Wong Wing _vs_. U.S., 163 U.S. 235.] [Footnote 49: The Alien Land Act of May 19, 1913, confers upon all aliens eligible to citizenship the same rights as citizens in the owning and leasing of real property; but in the case of other aliens (_i.e._ Asiatics) it limits leases of land for agricultural purposes to terms not exceeding three years and permits ownership "to the extent and for the purposes prescribed by any treaty."] CHAPTER X RACIAL INFILTRATION With the free land gone and the cities crowded to overflowing, the door of immigration, though guarded, nevertheless remains open and the pressure of the old-world peoples continues. Where can they go? They are filling in the vacant spots of the older States, the abandoned farms, stagnant half-empty villages, undrained swamps, uninviting rocky hillsides. This infiltration of foreigners possessing themselves of rejected and abandoned land, which has only recently begun, shows that the peasant's instinct for the soil will reassert itself when the means are available and the way opens. It is surprising, indeed, how many are the ways that are opening for this movement. Transportation companies are responsible for a number of colonies planted bodily in cut-over timber regions of the South. The journals and the real estate agents of the different races are always alert to spy out opportunities. Dealing in second-hand farms has become a considerable industry. The advertising columns of Chicago papers announce hundreds of farms for sale in northern Michigan and Wisconsin. In all the older States there are for sale thousands of acres of tillable land which have been left by the restless shiftings of the American population. In New England the abandoned farm has long been an institution. Throughout the East there are depleted and dying villages, their solidly built cottages hidden in the matting of trees and shrubs which neglect has woven about them. One can see paralysis creeping over them as the vines creep over their deserted thresholds and they surrender one by one the little industries that gave them life. These are the opportunities of the immigrant peasant. Wherever the new migration swarms, there the receding tide leaves a few energetic individuals who have made for themselves a permanent home. In the wake of construction gangs and along the lines of railways and canals one discovers these immigrant families taking root in the soil. In the smaller cities, an immigrant day laborer will often invest his savings in a tumble-down house and an acre of land, and almost at once he becomes the nucleus for a gathering of his kind. The market gardens that surround the large cities offer work to the children of the factory operatives, and there they swarm over beet and onion fields like huge insects with an unerring instinct for weeds. Now and then a family finds a forgotten acre, builds a shack, and starts a small independent market garden. Within a few years a whole settlement of shacks grows up around it, and soon the trucking of the neighborhood is in foreign hands. Seasonal agricultural work often carries the immigrant into distant canning centers, hop fields, cranberry marshes, orchards, and vineyards. Every time a migration of this sort occurs, some settlers remain on land previously thought unfit for cultivation--perhaps a swamp which they drain or a sand-hill which they fertilize and nurture into surprising fertility by constant toil. This racial seepage is confined almost wholly to the Italian and the Slav. There is a vast acreage of unoccupied good land in the South, which the negro, usually satisfied with a bare living, has neither the enterprise nor the thrift to cultivate. The prejudice of the former slave owner against the foreign immigration for many years retarded the development of this land. About 1880, however, groups of Italians, attracted by the sunny climate and the opportunities for making a livelihood, began to seep into Louisiana. By 1900 they numbered over seventeen thousand. When direct sailings between the Mediterranean and the Gulf of Mexico were established, their numbers increased rapidly and New Orleans became one of the leading Italian centers in the United States. From the city they soon spread into the adjoining region. Today they grow cotton, sugar-cane, and rice in nearly all the Southern States. In the deep black loam of the Yazoo Delta they prosper as cotton growers. They have transformed the neglected slopes of the Ozarks into apple and peach orchards. New Orleans, Dallas, Galveston, Houston, San Antonio, and other Southern cities are supplied with vegetables from the Italian truck farms. At Independence, Louisiana, a colony raises strawberries. In the black belt of Arkansas they established Sunnyside in 1895, a colony which has survived many vicissitudes and has been the parent of other similar enterprises. In Texas there are a number of such colonies, of which the largest, at Bryan, numbers nearly two thousand persons. In California the Italian owns farms, orchards, vineyards, market gardens, and even ranches. Here he finds the cloudless sky and mild air of his native land. The sunny slopes invite vine culture. In the North and the East the alert Italian has found many opportunities to buy land. In the environs of nearly every city northward from Norfolk, Virginia, are to be found his truck patches. At Vineland and Hammonton, New Jersey, large colonies have flourished for many years. In New York and Pennsylvania, many a hill farm that was too rocky for its Yankee owner, and many a back-breaking clay moraine in Ohio and Indiana has been purchased for a small cash payment and, under the stimulus of the family's coaxing, now yields paying crops, while the father himself also earns a daily wage in the neighboring town. Where one such Italian family is to be found, there are sure to be found at least two or three others in the neighborhood, for the Italians hate isolation more than hunger. Often they are clustered in colonies, as at Genoa and Cumberland in Wisconsin, where most of them are railroad workmen paying for the land out of their wages. The Slavs, too, wedge into the most surprising spaces. Their colonies and settlements are to be found in considerable numbers in every part of the Union except the far South. They are on the cut-over timber lands of Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, usually engaged in dairying or raising vegetables for canning. On the great prairies in Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, and the Dakotas, the Bohemians and the Poles have learned to raise wheat and corn, and in Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas, they have shown themselves skillful in cotton raising. Wherever fruit is grown on the Pacific slope, there are Bohemians, Slavonians, and Dalmatians. In New England, Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, and Maryland, the Poles have become pioneers in the neglected corners of the land. For instance in Orange County, New York, a thriving settlement from old Poland now flourishes where a quarter of a century ago there was only a mosquito breeding swamp. The drained area produces the most surprising crops of onions, lettuce, and celery. Many of these immigrants own their little farms. Others work on shares in anticipation of ownership, and still others labor merely for the season, transients who spend the winter either in American factories or flit back to their native land. In Pennsylvania it is the mining towns which furnished recruits for this landward movement. In some of the counties an exchange of population has been taking place for a decade or more. The land dwelling Americans are moving into the towns and cities. The farms are offered for sale. Enterprising Slavic real estate dealers are not slow in persuading their fellow countrymen to invest their savings in land. The Slavonic infiltration has been most marked in New England, especially in the Connecticut Valley. From manufacturing centers like Chicopee, Worcester, Ware, Westfield, and Fitchburg, areas of Polish settlements radiate in every direction, alien spokes from American hubs. Here are little farming villages ready made in attractive settings whose vacant houses invite the alien peasant. A Polish family moves into a sedate colonial house; often a second family shares the place, sometimes a third or a fourth, each with a brood of children and often a boarder or two. The American families left in the neighborhood are scandalized by this promiscuity, by the bare feet and bare heads, by the unspeakable fare, the superstition and credulity, and illiteracy and disregard for sanitary measures, and by the ant-like industry from starlight to starlight. Old Hadley has become a prototype of what may become general if this racial infiltration is not soon checked. In 1906 the Poles numbered one-fifth of the population in that town, owned one-twentieth of the land, and produced two-thirds of the babies. Dignified old streets that formerly echoed with the tread of patriots now resound to the din of Polish weddings and christenings, and the town that sheltered William Goffe, one of the judges before whom Charles I was tried, now houses Polish transients at twenty-five cents a bed weekly. The transient usually returns to Europe, but the landowner remains. His kind is increasing yearly. It is even probable that in a generation he will be the chief landowner of the Connecticut Valley. It will take more than an association of old families, determined on keeping the ancient homes in their own hands, to check this transformation. The process of racial replacement is most rapid in the smaller manufacturing towns. In the New England mills the Yankee gave way to the Irish, the Irish gave way to the French Canadian, and the French Canadian has been largely superseded by the Slav and the Italian. Every one of the older industrial towns has been encrusted in layer upon layer of foreign accretions, until it is difficult to discover the American core. Everywhere are the physiognomy, the chatter, and the aroma of the modern steerage. Lawrence, Massachusetts, is typical of this change. In 1848 it had 5923 inhabitants, of whom 63.3 per cent were Americans, 36 per cent were Irish, and about forty white persons belonged to other nationalities. In 1910 the same city had 85,000 inhabitants, of whom only about 14 per cent were Americans, and the rest foreigners, two-thirds of the old and one-third of the new immigration. A like transformation has taken place in the manufacturing towns of New York, New Jersey, and Delaware and in the iron and steel towns of Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and the Middle West. For forty years after the establishment of the first iron furnace in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, in 1842, the mills were manned exclusively by Americans, English, Welsh, Irish, and Germans. In 1880 Slavic names began to appear on the pay rolls. Soon thereafter Italians and Syrians were brought into the town, and today sixty per cent of the population is of foreign birth, largely from southeastern Europe. The native Americans and Welsh live in two wards, and clustered around them are settlements of Italians, Slovaks, and Croatians. The new manufacturing towns which are dependent upon some single industry are almost wholly composed of recent immigrants. Gary, Indiana, built by the United States Steel Corporation, and Whiting, Indiana, established by the Standard Oil Company for its refining industry, are examples of new American towns of exotic populations. At a glass factory built in 1890 in the village of Charleroi, Pennsylvania, over ten thousand Belgians, French, Slavs, and Italians now labor. An example of lightning-like displacement of population is afforded by the steel and iron center at Granite City and Madison, Illinois. The two towns are practically one industrial community, although they have separate municipal organizations. A steel mill was erected in 1892 upon the open prairies, and in it American, Welsh, Irish, English, German, and Polish workmen were employed. In 1900 Slovaks were brought in, and two years later there came large numbers of Magyars, followed by Croatians. In 1905 Bulgarians began to arrive, and within two years over eight thousand had assembled. Armenians, Servians, Greeks, Magyars, every ethnic faction found in the racial welter of southeastern Europe, is represented among the twenty thousand inhabitants that dwell in this new industrial town. In "Hungary Hollow" these race fragments isolate themselves, effectively insulated against the currents of American influence. The mining communities reveal this relative displacement of races in its most disheartening form. As early as 1820 coal was taken from the anthracite veins of northeastern Pennsylvania, but until 1880 the industry was dominated by Americans and north Europeans. In 1870 out of 108,000 foreign born in this region, 105,000 or over ninety-seven per cent came from England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and Germany. In 1880 a change began and continued until in 1910 less than one-third of the 267,000 foreign born were of northern European extraction. In 1870 there were only 306 Slavs and Italians in the entire region; in 1890 there were 43,000; in 1909 there were 89,000; and in 1910 the number increased to 178,000. Today these immigrants from the south of Europe have virtually displaced the miner from the north. They have rooted out the decencies and comforts of the earlier operatives and have supplanted them with the promiscuity, the filth, and the low economic standards of the medieval peasant. There are no more desolate and distressing places in America than the miserable mining "patches" clinging like lichens to the steep hill sides or secluded in the valleys of Pennsylvania In the bituminous fields conditions are no better. In the town of Windber in western Pennsylvania, for example, some two thousand experienced English and American miners were engaged in opening the veins in 1897. No sooner were the mines in operation than the south European began to drift in. Today he outnumbers and underbids the American and the north European. He lives in isolated sections, reeking with everything that keeps him a "foreigner" in the heart of America. The coal regions of Virginia, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois and the ore regions of northern Michigan and Minnesota are rapidly passing under the same influence. Every mining and manufacturing community is thus an ethnic pool, whence little streams of foreigners trickle over the land. These isolated miners and tillers of the soil are more immune to American ideals than are their city dwelling brethren. They are not jostled and shaken by other races; no mental contagion of democracy reaches them. But within the towns and cities another process of replacement is going on. Its index is written large in the signs over shops and stores and clearly in the lists of professional men in the city directories and in the pay roll of the public school teachers. The unpronounceable Slavic combinations of consonants and polysyllabic Jewish patronymics are plentiful, while here and there an Italian name makes its appearance. The second generation is arriving. The sons and daughters are leaving the factory and the construction gang for the counter, the office, and the schoolroom. American ideals and institutions have borne and can bear a great deal of foreign infiltration. But can they withstand saturation? CHAPTER XI THE GUARDED DOOR "Whosoever will may come" was the generous welcome which America extended to all the world for over a century. Many alarms, indeed, there were and several well-defined movements to save America from the foreigner. The first of these attempts resulted in the ill-fated Alien and Sedition laws of 1798, which extended to fourteen years the period of probation before a foreigner could be naturalized and which attempted to safeguard the Government against defamatory attacks. The Jeffersonians, who came into power in 1801 largely upon the issue raised by this attempt to curtail free speech, made short shrift of this unpopular law and restored the term of residence to five years. The second anti-foreign movement found expression in the Know-Nothing party, which rose in the decade preceding the Civil War. The third movement brought about a secret order called the American Protective Association, popularly known as the A.P.A., which, like the Know-Nothing hysteria, was aimed primarily at the Catholic Church. Its platform stated that "the conditions growing out of our immigration laws are such as to weaken our democratic institutions," and that "the immigrant vote, under the direction of certain ecclesiastical institutions," controlled politics. In 1896 the organization claimed two and a half million adherents, and the air was vibrant with ominous rumors of impending events. But nothing happened. The A.P.A. disappeared suddenly and left no trace. For over a century it was almost universally believed that the prosperity of the country depended largely upon a copious influx of population. This sentiment found expression in President Lincoln's message to Congress on December 8, 1863, in which he called immigration a "source of national wealth and strength" and urged Congress to establish "a system for the encouragement of immigration." In conformity with this suggestion, Congress passed a law designed to aid the importation of labor under contract. But the measure was soon repealed, so that it remains the only instance in American history in which the Federal Government attempted the direct encouragement of general immigration.[50] It was in 1819 that the first Federal law pertaining to immigration was passed. It was not prompted by any desire to regulate or restrict immigration, but aimed rather to correct the terrible abuses to which immigrants were subject on shipboard. So crowded and unwholesome were these quarters that a substantial percentage of all the immigrants who embarked for America perished during the voyage. The law provided that ships could carry only two passengers for every five tons burden; it enjoined a sufficient supply of water and food for crew and passengers; and it required the captains of vessels to prepare lists of their passengers giving age, sex, occupation, and the country whence they came. The law, however good its intention, was loosely drawn and indifferently enforced. Terrible abuses of steerage passengers crowded into miserable quarters were constantly brought to the public notice. From time to time the law was amended, and the advent of steam navigation brought improved conditions without, however, adequate provision for Federal inspection. Indeed such supervision and care as immigrants received was provided by the various States. Boston, New York, Baltimore, and other ports of entry, found helpless hordes left at their doors. They were the prey of loan sharks and land sharks, of fake employment agencies, and every conceivable form of swindler. Private relief was organized, but it could reach only a small portion of the needy. About three-fourths of the immigrants disembarked at the port of New York, and upon the State of New York was imposed the obligation of looking after the thousands of strangers who landed weekly at the Battery. To cope with these conditions the State devised a comprehensive system and entrusted its enforcement to a Board of Commissioners of Immigration, erected hospitals on Ward's Island for sick and needy immigrants, and in 1855 leased for a landing place Castle Garden, which at once became the popular synonym for the nation's gateway. Here the Commissioners examined and registered the immigrants, placed at their disposal physicians, money changers, transportation agents, and advisers, and extended to them a helping hand. The Federal Government was represented only by the customs officers who ransacked their baggage. In 1875 the Federal Supreme Court decided that it was unconstitutional for a State to regulate immigration. "We are of the opinion," said the Court, "that this whole subject has been confided to Congress by the Constitution; that Congress can more appropriately and with more acceptance exercise it than any other body known to our law, state or national; that, by providing a system of laws in these matters applicable to all ports and to all vessels, a serious question which has long been a matter of contest and complaint may be effectively and satisfactorily settled."[51] Congress dallied seven years with this important question, and was finally forced to act when New York threatened to close Castle Garden. In 1882 a Federal immigration law assessed a head tax of fifty cents on every passenger, not a citizen, coming to the United States, and provided that the States should share with the Secretary of the Treasury the obligation of its enforcement. This law inaugurated the policy of selective immigration, as it excluded convicts, lunatics, idiots, and persons likely to become a public charge. Three years later, contract laborers were also excluded. The unprecedented influx of immigrants now began to arouse public discussion. Over 788,000 arrived in America during the first year the new law was in operation. In 1889 both the Senate and the House appointed standing committees on immigration. The several investigations which were held culminated in the law of 1891, wherein the list of ineligibles was extended to include persons suffering from a loathsome or contagious disease, polygamists, and persons assisted in coming by others, unless upon special inquiry they were found not to belong to any of the excluded classes. Thus for the first time the Federal Government assumed complete control of immigration. Now also both the great political parties adopted planks in their national platforms favoring the restriction of immigration. The Republicans favored "the enactment of more stringent laws and regulations for the restriction of criminal, pauper, and contract immigration." The Democrats "heartily" approved "all legislative efforts to prevent the United States from being used as a dumping ground for the known criminals and professional paupers of Europe," and they favored the exclusion of Chinese laborers. They favored, however, the admission of "industrious and worthy" Europeans. Selective immigration thus became a political issue in 1892, partly under the stimulus of labor unions, which feared an over-supply of labor, and partly because of the growing popular belief that many undesirable foreigners were entering the country. No adequate and just criteria for any process of selection have been discovered. In 1896 Senator Lodge introduced an immigration bill, which contained the famous literacy test, excluding all persons between fourteen and sixty years of age "who cannot both read and write the English language or some other language." The bill was simultaneously introduced into the House of Representatives by McCall of Massachusetts. The debate on this measure marks a new departure in immigration policy. A senatorial inquiry made among the States in the preceding year had disclosed a universal preference for immigrants from northern Europe. Moreover, a number of States through their governors, had declared that further immigration was not desired immediately; and the opinion prevailed that the great influx from southeastern Europe should be checked. Fortified by such solidarity of sentiment, Congress passed the Lodge bill with certain amendments. President Cleveland, however, returned it with a strong veto message on March 2, 1897. He could not concur in so radical a departure from the traditional liberal policy of the Government; and he believed the literacy test so artificial that it was more rational "to admit a hundred thousand immigrants who, though unable to read and write, seek among us only a home and opportunity to work, than to admit one of those unruly agitators and enemies of governmental control who can not only read and write, but delights in arousing by inflammatory speech the illiterate and peacefully inclined to discontent and tumult." The House passed the bill over the President's veto, but the Senate took no further action. In 1898 the Industrial Commission was empowered "to investigate questions pertaining to immigration" and presented a report which prepared the way for the immigration law of 1903, approved on the 3rd of March. This law, which was based upon a careful preliminary inquiry, may be called the first comprehensive American immigration statute. It perfected the administrative machinery, raised the head tax, and multiplied the vigilance of the Government against evasions by the excluded classes. Anarchists and prostitutes were added to the list of excluded persons. The literacy test was inserted by the House but was rejected by the Senate. This law, however, did not allay the demand for a more stringent restriction of immigration. A few persons believed in stopping immigration entirely for a period of years. Others would limit the number of immigrants that should be permitted to enter every year. But it was felt throughout the country that such arbitrary checks would be merely quantitative, not qualitative, and that undesirable foreigners should be denied admission, no matter what country they hailed from. A notable immigration conference which was called by the National Civic Federation in December, 1905, and which represented all manner of public bodies, recommended the "exclusion of persons of enfeebled vitality" and proposed "a preliminary inspection of intending immigrants before they embark." President Roosevelt laid the whole matter before Congress in several vigorous messages in 1906 and 1907. He pointed to the fact that In the year ending June 30, 1905, there came to the United States 1,026,000 alien immigrants. In other words, in the single year ... there came ... a greater number of people than came here during the one hundred and sixty-nine years of our colonial life. ... It is clearly shown in the report of the Commissioner General of Immigration that, while much of this enormous immigration is undoubtedly healthy and natural ... a considerable proportion of it, probably a very large proportion, including most of the undesirable class, does not come here of its own initiative but because of the activity of the agents of the great transportation companies.... The prime need is to keep out all immigrants who will not make good American citizens. In consonance with this spirit, the law of 1907 was passed. It increased the head tax to four dollars and provided rigid scrutiny over the transportation companies. The excluded classes of immigrants were minutely defined, and the powers and duties of the Commissioner General of Immigration were very considerably enlarged. The act also created the Immigration Commission, consisting of three Senators, three members of the House, and three persons appointed by the President, for making "full inquiry, examination, and investigation ... into the subject of immigration." Endowed with plenary power, this commission made a comprehensive investigation of the whole question. The President was authorized to "send special commissioners to any foreign country for the purpose of regulating by international agreement ... the immigration of aliens to the United States." Here at last is congressional recognition of the fact that immigration is no longer merely a domestic question, but that it has, through modern economic conditions, become one of serious international import. No treaties have been perfected under this authority. The question, however, received serious attention in 1909 when Lieutenant Joseph Petrosino of the New York police was murdered in Sicily by banditti, whither he had pursued a Black Hand criminal from the East Side. In the meantime many measures for restricting immigration were suggested in Congress. Of these, the literacy test met with the most favor. Three times in recent years Congress enacted it into law, and each time it was returned with executive disapproval: President Taft vetoed the provision in 1913, and President Wilson vetoed the acts of 1915 and 1917. In his last veto message on January 29, 1917, President Wilson said that "the literacy test ... is not a test of character, of quality, or of personal fitness, but would operate in most cases merely as a penalty for lack of opportunity in the country from which the alien seeking admission came." Congress, however, promptly passed the bill over the President's objections, and so twenty years after President Cleveland's veto of the Lodge Bill, the literacy test became the standard of fitness for immigrant admission into the United States.[52] The law excludes all aliens over sixteen years of age who are physically capable of reading and yet who cannot read. They are required to read "not less than thirty or more than eighty words in ordinary use" in the English language or some other language or dialect. Aliens who seek admission because of religious persecution, and certain relatives of citizens or of admissible aliens, are exempted. The debate upon this law disclosed the transformation that has come over the nation in its attitude towards the alien. Exclusion was the dominant word. Senator Reed of Missouri wished to exclude African immigrants; the Pacific coast Representatives insisted upon exclusion of Asiatics, in the face of serious admonitions of the Secretary of State that such a course would cause international friction; the labor members were scornful in their denunciation of "the pauper and criminal classes" of Europe. The traditional liberal sympathies of the American people found but few champions, so completely had the change been wrought in the thirty years since the Federal Government assumed control of immigration. By these tokens the days of unlimited freedom in migration are numbered. Nations are beginning to realize that immigration is but the obverse of emigration. Its dual character constitutes a problem requiring delicate international readjustments. Moreover, the countries released to a new life and those quickened to a new industrialism by the Great War will need to employ all their muscle and talents at home. It is an inspiring drama of colonization that has been enacted on this continent in a relatively short period. Its like was never witnessed before and can never be witnessed again. Thirty-three nationalities were represented in the significant group of American pilgrims that gathered at Mount Vernon on July 4, 1918, to place garlands of native flowers upon the tomb of Washington and to pledge their honor and loyalty to the nation of their adoption. This event is symbolic of the great fact that the United States is, after all, a nation of immigrants, among whom the word foreigner is descriptive of an attitude of mind rather than of a place of birth. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 50: Congress has on several occasions granted aid for specific colonies or groups of immigrants.] [Footnote 51: Henderson et al. _vs_. The Mayor of New York City et al. 92 U.S., 259.] [Footnote 52: The new act took effect May 1, 1917.] BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE GENERAL HISTORIES EDWARD CHANNING, _History of the United States_, 4 vols. (1905). Vol. II. Chapter XIV contains a fascinating account of "The Coming of the Foreigner." John Fiske, _Dutch and Quaker Colonies in America_, 2 vols. (1899). The story of "The Migration of the Sects" is charmingly told. John B. McMaster, _History of the People of the United States_, 8 vols. (1883-1913). Scattered throughout the eight volumes are copious accounts of the coming of immigrants, from the year of American independence to the Civil War. The great German and Irish inundations are dealt with in volumes VI and VII. J.H. Latané, _America as a World Power_ (1907). Chapter XVII gives a concise summary of immigration for the years 1880-1907. WORKS ON IMMIGRATION _Reports of the Immigration Commission, appointed under the Congressional Act of Feb. 20, 1907_. 42 vols. (1911). This is by far the most exhaustive study that has been made of the immigration question. It embraces a wide range of details, especially upon the economic and sociological aspects of the problem. Census Bureau, _A Century of Population Growth from the First Census of the United States to the Twelfth, 1790-1900_ (1909). The best analysis of the population of the United States. It contains a number of chapters on the population at the time of the First Census in 1790. John R. Commons, _Races and Immigrants in America_ (1907). Prescott F. Hall, _Immigration and its Effects upon the United States_ (1906). Henry P. Fairchild, _Immigration, a World Movement and its American Significance_ (1913). A good historical survey of immigration as well as a suggestive discussion of its sociological and economic bearings. Jeremiah W. Jenks and W. Jett Lauck, _The Immigration Problem_ (1913). A summary of the Report of the Immigration Commission. Peter Roberts, _The New Immigration_ (1912). A discussion of the recent influx from Southeastern Europe. E.A. Ross, _The Old World in the New_ (1914) contains some refreshing racial characteristics. Richmond Mayo-Smith, _Emigration and Immigration_ (1890). This is one of the oldest American works on the subject and remains the best scientific discussion of the sociological and economic aspects of immigration. Edward A. Steiner, _On the Trail of the Immigrant_ (1906). A popular and sympathetic account of the new immigration. THE NEGRO B.G. Brawley, _A Short History of the American Negro_ (1913). W.E.B. Du Bois, _The Negro_ (1915). A small well-written volume, with a useful bibliography and an illuminating chapter on the negro in the United States; also, by the same author, _Suppression of the African Slave Trade_ (1896). Carter G. Woodson, _A Century of Negro Migration_ (1918). J.R. Spears, _The American Slave Trade_ (1900). A.H. Stone, _Studies in the American Race Problem_ (1908). Contains several of Walter F. Wilcox's valuable statistical studies on this subject. J.A. Tillinghast, _The Negro in Africa and America_ (1902) contains a suggestive comparison of negro life in Africa and America. SPECIAL GROUPS Kendrick C. Babcock, _The Scandinavian Element in the United States_ (1914). The best treatise on this subject. Emily Greene Balch, _Our Slavic Fellow Citizens_ (1910). A comprehensive study of the Slav in America. J.M. Campbell, _A History of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick_ (1892). Mary Roberts Coolidge, _Chinese Immigration_ (1909). A sympathetic and detailed account of the Chinaman's experience in America. A.B. Faust, _The German Element in the United States_ 2 vols. (1909). Like some other books written to prove the vast influence of certain elements of the population, this work is not modest in its claims. Henry Jones Ford, _The Scotch-Irish in America_ (1915). Lucian J. Fosdick, _The French Blood in America_ (1906). Devoted principally to the Huguenot exiles and their descendants. Charles A. Hanna, _The Scotch-Irish, or the Scot in North Britain, North Ireland, and North America_. 2 vols. (1902). Eliot Lord, John J.D. Trevor, and Samuel J. Barrows, _The Italian in America_ (1905). T. D'Arcy McGee, _History of the Irish Settlers in North America_ (1852). O.N. Nelson, _History of the Scandinavians and Successful Scandinavians in the United States_, 2 vols. (1900). J.G. Rosengarten, _French Colonists and Exiles in the United States_ (1907). Contains an interesting bibliography of French writings on early American conditions. UTOPIAS J.A. Bole, _The Harmony Society_ (1904). Besides a concise history of the Rappists, this volume contains many letters and documents illustrative of their customs and business methods. W.A. Hinds, _American Communities and Cooperative Colonies_. (2d revision 1908.) A useful summary based on personal observations. G.B. Lockwood, _The New Harmony Communities_ (1902). It contains a detailed description of Owen's experiment and interesting details of the Rappists during their sojourn in Indiana. M.A. Mikkelsen, _The Bishop Hill Colony, A Religious Communistic Settlement in Henry County, Illinois_ (1892). Charles Nordhoff, _The Communistic Societies of the United States_ (1875). A description of communities visited by the author. J.H. Noyes, _History of American Socialisms_ (1870). W.R. Perkins, _History of the Amana Society or Community of True Inspiration_ (1891). E.O. Randall, _History of the Zoar Society_ (2d ed. 1900). Bertha M. Shambaugh, _Amana, the Community of True Inspiration_ (1908) gives many interesting details. Albert Shaw, _Icaria, a Chapter in the History of Communism_ (1884). A brilliant account. INDEX A.P.A., _see_ American Protective Association Acadia, French in, 18 Adams, J.Q., and Owen, 94 Afghans in United States, 207 Africans, Reed favors exclusion of, 232; _see also_ Negroes Alabama admitted as State (1819), 33 Albany, Shakers settle near, 91; Irish in, 113 Alien and Sedition laws (1798), 221 Amana, 82-84 America, cosmopolitan character, 19-20; American stock, 21 _et seq._; origin of name, 21-22; now applied to United States, 22; Shakers confined to, 92; "America for Americans," 114; _see also_ United States _American Celt_, McGee establishes, 120 (note) American Missionary Association, work with negroes, 58 American party, 114; _see also_ Know-Nothing party American Protective Association, 221-22 Amish, 68 (note) Anabaptists in Manhattan, 17 Ancient Order of Hibernians, 117 Angell, J.B., on commission to negotiate treaty with China, 198 Antwerp, German emigrants embark at, 134 Arkansas, frontiersmen in, 36; chosen as site by Giessener Gesellschaft, 136; Italians in, 211; Slavs in, 213 Armenians, 184; as laborers, 122; at Granite City (Ill.), 217 Arthur, C.A., and Chinese exclusion act, 199 Asiatics, Pacific coast favors exclusion of, 232; _see also_ Orientals Australia deflects migration to United States, 150 Babcock, K.C., _The Scandinavian Element in the United States_, quoted, 158 Balch, E.G., _Our Slavic Fellow Citizens_, quoted, 164-65; cited, 167 (note), 174 Baltimore, Ephrata draws pupils from, 71; Irish immigrant association, 109; Irish in, 113; Germans in, 127; Italians in, 180; condition of immigrants landing in, 224 Bancroft, George, estimates number of slaves, 47 Barlow, Joel, 151 Bäumeler, _see_ Bimeler Bayard, Nicholas, 16 Beissel, Conrad (or Beizel, or Peysel), 70, 71 Belgians in Charleroi (Penn.), 217 Berkshires, Germans in, 127 Bethlehem, communistic colony, 72 Bimeler, Joseph (or Bäumeler), 78-79 Bishop Hill Colony, 85-89 Black Hand, 182 "Boat Load of Knowledge," 94 Bogart, E.L., _Economic History of the United States_, cited, 52 (note) Bohemians, in United States, 159-60, 165-66; as North Slavs, 164; on the prairies, 213; on Pacific slope, 213 Boston, immigrants from Ireland (1714-20), 11; French in, 16; Irish in, 108, 113; Germans in, 127; Italians in, 180; condition of immigrants landing in, 224 Boudinot, Elias, 16 Bowdoin, James, 16 Bremen, German emigrants embark at, 134 Bremer, Frederika, quoted, 155 Brisbane, Arthur, _Social Destiny of Man_, 96 Brook Farm, 97 Bryan, W.J., Secretary of State, and California Alien Land Act, 206 Bryan (Tex.) Italian colony, 211 Buffalo, Inspirationists near, 81; Irish in, 113; Germans in, 135; Poles in, 167 (note) Bulgarians, as South Slavs, 164; in United States, 170; in Granite City (Ill.), 170, 217 Burlingame, Anson, 195 Burlingame treaty, 195-96, 197 _Burschenschaften_, 131 Butler County (Penn.), Harmonists in, 73 Butte, Bulgarians in, 170 Cabet, �tienne, 97-98, 99, 100; _Voyage en Icarie_, 98; _Le Populaire_, 98 Cabinet, President's, majority of members from American stock, 42 Cabot, John, 2 Cabot, Sebastian, 2 Cahokia, French settlement, 152 California, frontiersmen in, 36, 37; Icaria-Speranza community, 101; Swiss in, 153; Dalmatians in, 171; Portuguese in, 184; discovery of gold, 188; Chinese in, 189-190; "California for Americans," 190; constitution (1879), 194; legislation against Chinese, 194-95; vote for Garfield (1880), 197 (note); Japanese in, 203; Alien Land Act (1913), 206; Italians in, 211 Campo Bello, Island, Fenians attempt to land on, 119 Canada, fugitive slaves, 54; Irish come through, 109; Fenian raids, 120; deflects migration to United States, 150 Carbonari, Cabet and, 98 Carolinas, English settle, 5; Scotch-Irish in, 12; Scotch in, 12; Germans in, 14; cosmopolitan character of, 18; Irish in, 105; _see also_ North Carolina, South Carolina Castle Garden, landing place for immigrants in New York, 224, 225 Catholics, in Maryland, 13; Irish, 114; prejudice against, 115-16; American Protective Association against, 222 Census (1790), 24-25, 29; _A Century of Population Growth_ (1909), 24; (1800), 25; tables, 26-28; (1900), 38-39; slaves in United States, 47; Bulletin No. 129, _Negroes in the United States_, cited, 61 (note); (1910), Germans in United States, 125; foreigners in United States, 125-26 (note); foreign born on farms, 150-51 (note), 161; Italians in New York City, 180 (note); distribution of American white population, 187 Channing, Edward, _History of the United States_, quoted, 46-47 Charleroi (Penn.), foreigners in, 217 Charleston (S.C.), French in, 16; Germans in, 127 Charlestown (Mass.), Ursuline convent burned, 116 Cheltenham, Icarians in, 100 Chestnutt, C.W., negro novelist, 64 Chicago, Irish in, 113; Germans in, 135; Bohemians in, 165; Poles in, 167 (note); Bulgarians in, 170; Hungarian Jews in, 178; Italians in, 180; papers announce land for sale, 209 Chicopee, Poles in, 214 China, Burlingame treaty, 195-196, 197; treaty (1880), 198-199; treaty (1894), 202 Chinese, in United States, 188-203; societies, 192; mission to United States (1868), 195; exclusion act, 199, 201; Scott Act, 201; Geary law, 201 Cincinnati, Irish in, 113; German center, 135 Cities, immigration to, 162 _et seq._; cosmopolitanism, 185; racial changes in, 219-20 Civil Rights Act, 59 Civil War, German immigrants during, 130 Cleveland, Grover, messages to Congress on Chinese agitation, 201; vetoes Lodge bill, 227-28 Cleveland, Irish in, 113; Germans in, 135; Bohemians in, 165; Italians in, 180 Cocalico River, cloister of Ephrata on, 70 Colorado, Japanese in, 204 Coman, _Industrial History of the United States_, cited, 52 (note) Communistic colonies, 67 _et seq._; Labadists, 68-69; Pietists, 69-70; Ephrata, 70-72; Snow Hill, 72; Bethlehem, 72; Harmonist, 72-77; Harmony, 73; New Harmony, 74-75, 94-96; Economy, 75-77; Zoar, 78-80; Inspirationists, 80-84; Ebenezer, 81; Amana, 82-84; Bishop Hill Colony, 85-89; Old Elmspring Community, 89-90; Shakers, 91-92; Oneida Community, 92-93; Robert Owen and, 94-96; Brook Farm, 97; Fourierism, 96-97, 101-02; Icaria, 97-101; bibliography, 238-39 Congress, noted members from American stock, 42; authorizes Freedmen's Bureau (1865), 57; immigration law (1819), 103; laws against German newspapers, 144; German-American League incorporated by, 145; charter of German-American League revoked, 145; Homestead Law (1862), 148; grants land to French, 152; Cleveland's special messages, 201; Scott Act, 201; Geary law, 201; extends Chinese exclusion to Hawaii (1898), 202; Lincoln's message, Dec. 8. 1863, 222; and regulation of immigration, 225; Lodge bill, 227-28; Roosevelt's messages, 229 Connecticut, Shakers in, 91 Connecticut Valley, Poles in, 214-15 Considérant, Victor, 101 Constantinople, cosmopolitanism compared with American cities, 186 Constitution, Fifteenth Amendment, 59 Coolidge, M.R., _Chinese Immigration_, quoted, 192, 193-94 Cotton, effect on slavery, 52 Coxsackie (N.Y.), communistic attempt at, 96 Croatians, as South Slavs, 164; in United States, 171, 172; in Johnstown (Penn.), 216; in Granite City (Ill.), 217 Cumberland (Wis.), Italian colony, 212 Cumberland Mountains, fugitive slaves in, 54 Dakotas, frontiersmen in, 36; Germans in, 141; Scandinavians in, 156, 157; "Scandinavian language" in universities, 158-59; Slavs in, 213; _see also_ South Dakota Dallas (Tex.), Italians in, 211 Dalmatians, as South Slavs, 164; in United States, 171-172; on Pacific slope, 213 Danes, in America, 154, 156; character, 154; _see also_ Scandinavians DeLancey, Stephen, 16 Delaware, not represented in first census, 25; second census (1800), 25; Labadists in, 68-69; Scandinavian colony, 156; racial changes in manufacturing towns, 216 Democratic party on restriction of immigration, 226 Denver, anti-Chinese riots, 197-98 (note) Detroit, Irish in, 113; Germans in, 135; Poles in, 167 (note); Italians in, 180 Devotionalists, 85-89, 90 Douglass, Frederick, 64 DuBois, W.E.B., negro scholar, 64 Duluth, Finnish college near, 160 Dunbar, P.L., negro poet, 64 Dunkards, 70 Dunkers, 13 Dutch, in United States, 17-18; number of immigrants, 153 Ebenezer Society, 81 Economy, Harmonists establish, 75; Rapp as leader, 75-76; as a communistic community, 76-77; membership, 76 (note); Amana gains members from, 83 Emmet, Robert, emigration from Ireland after failure of, 105 England, reasons for expansion, 2-3; imports, 3; social and religious changes, 6-7; kidnaping, 8; emigration of poor, 9, 110, 111; criminals sent to colonies, 9; and Ulster, 10; French Protestants flee to, 15; Jews in, 16; industrial revolution and the American negro, 52; emigration from, 150 English, in Virginia, 1; in New World, 2-10; serving class, 8; Nonconformists in Manhattan, 17; and Dutch, 17-18; and French, 18; on land, 151; in Johnstown (Penn.), 216; in Granite City (Ill.), 217; in coal mines of Pennsylvania, 218 Ephrata, 70-72 Erie, Fort, Fenians hold, 120 Europe, migrations, 1-2; immigration from, 103; _see also_ names of peoples Fairchild, H.P., quoted, 183 Faneuil, Peter, 16 Fenian movement, 118-21 Finns in America, 160, 176, 185 Fiske, John, on Scotch-Irish in colonies, 12 (note); _The Dutch and Quaker Colonies in America_, cited, 14 (note) Fitchburg, Poles in, 214 Fleming, W.L., _The Sequel of Appomattox_, cited, 57 (note) Florida, fugitive slaves in, 54 Follenius quoted, 135-36 Ford, H.J., _The Scotch-Irish in America_, quoted, 31 Forestville (Ind.), communistic attempt, 96 Fourierism in United States, 93, 96-97, 101-02 Franklin, Benjamin, estimates population of Pennsylvania (1774), 12 (note) Franklin (N.Y.), communistic attempt at, 96 Freedmen's Bureau, 57, 58 French, Protestants leave France, 15; forts and trading posts of, 18; in United States, 151-53; in Charleroi (Penn.), 217; _see also_ Huguenots French Canadians in New England, 122, 152, 215 Frontiersmen, 34-36 Gallipolis (O.) settled by French, 151 Galveston, Italians in, 211 Garfield, J.A., and Chinese immigration, 197 (note) Garland, Hamlin, _A Son of the Middle Border_, 36-37 Gary (Ind.), character of town, 216-17 Genoa (Wis.), Italian colony, 212 Georgia, English settle, 5; not represented in first census, 25 German-American League, 145 Germans, in Pennsylvania, 13, 14; lured by "soul-stealers," 15; religious communists from, 68 _et seq._; contrasted with Irish, 124; immigration tide, 124 _et seq._; first period of migration, 126-29; second period of migration, 129-40; causes of emigration, 130; sailing conditions, 134; social life, 137, 140; laborers, 137, 141; "Forty-eighters," 137-138; contribution to America, 139; newspapers, 139, 142-144; number of immigrants (1870-1910), 141; third period of migration, 141-46; Prussian spirit among later immigrants, 142-44; propaganda, 143-45; "exchange professors," 144; in Great War, 146; in Johnstown (Penn.), 216; in Granite City (Ill.), 217; in coal mines of Pennsylvania, 218 Germantown (Penn.), founded, 13; Pietists at, 69 Giessener Gesellschaft, 136 Gilbert, Sir Humphrey, 5 Godin, J.B.A., 102 Granite City (Ill.), Bulgarians in, 170; racial changes in, 217 Great Britain, immigrants from, 103; record of emigration, 104; _see also_ England, English, Irish, Scotch, Scotch-Irish, Welsh Great Lakes, French on, 18 Great War, German newspapers in, 143-44; soldiers of German descent in, 146; Poland and, 168; effect on immigration, 233 Greeks in United States, 183, 217 Greeley, Horace, 97 Guise, only successful Fourieristic colony, 102 Häcker, J.G., quoted, 133-34 (note) Hadley, Poles in, 214-15 Hakluyt, Richard, quoted, 4 Hamburg, German emigrants embark at, 134 Hammonton (N.J.), Italian colony at, 212 Harmonists, 72-77 Harmony, town established, 73 Harmony Society, 73 Harvard College, 8 Hatchet Men, 193 Haverstraw (N.Y.), communistic attempt at, 96 Havre, German emigrants embark at, 134 Hayes, R.B., vetoes amendment to Burlingame treaty, 197; appoints commission to negotiate new treaty with China, 198 Hessians, settle in America, 129; Giessener Gesellschaft, 136 Heynemann, Barbara, leader of Inspirationists, 81, 82 Highbinders, 193 Hindoos in United States, 207 Holland, French Protestants flee to, 15; Spanish and Portuguese Jews find refuge in, 16-17; Inspirationists, 80 Holland (Mich.), center of Dutch influence, 153 Homestead Law (1862), 148 "Hooks and Eyes," nickname for Amish, 68 (note) Houston (Tex.), Italians in, 211 Hudson Valley, Dutch in, 17 Huguenots in Manhattan, 17; _see also_ French Hungarians, _see_ Jews, Magyars Hungary, Mennonites in, 89 Hutter, Jacob, Mennonite martyr, 89 I.W.W., _see_ Industrial Workers of the World Icaria, 97-101 Icaria-Speranza community, 101 Idaho, Japanese in, 204 Illinois, admitted as State (1818), 33; frontiersmen in, 36; "Underground Railway" in, 54; negroes in, 62; Bishop Hill Colony, 85-89; Swedish immigration, 91; Icarians in, 99-100; Germans in, 134, 137; Norwegians, 155; Scandinavians in, 156; Poles in, 160, 167, 213; Slovenians in, 173; racial changes in coal regions of, 219 Immigration (1790-1820), 32; legislation, 201, 207, 222 _et seq._; present opportunities, 208-10; Lincoln on, 222; only attempt of Federal Government to encourage, 222-23; state regulation, 224-25; bibliography, 235-236; _see also_ names of peoples Immigration Commission, created, 230; and Japanese, 204 Independence (La.), Italians in, 211 Indiana, admitted as State (1816), 33; western migration through, 36; "Underground Railway" in, 54; negroes in, 62; New Harmony, 74-75, 94-96; Germans in, 134; Scotch and English in, 151; Italian farmers in, 212; Poles in, 213; racial changes in coal regions, 219 Indianapolis, Bulgarians in, 170 Indians real Americans, 22 Indians, East, in America, 207 Industrial Commission, on Polish immigrants, 167; report on immigration, 228 Industrial Workers of the World, Finns in, 160 Inspirationists, 80-84 Iowa, frontiersmen in, 36; Inspirationists in, 82-84; Icarians in, 101; Germans in, 134, 141; Slavs in, 213 Irish, in America, 6, 103 _et seq._; half population of Ireland emigrates to America, 104; reasons for emigration, 105-107; in Continental Army, 108; pauper immigrants from, 110; travel conditions for immigrants, 111-12; present immigration, 121; economic advance in America, 122-23; contrasted with Germans, 124; number of immigrants (1820-1910), 150; in New England mills, 215; in Lawrence (Mass.), 216; in Johnstown (Penn.), 216; in Granite City (Ill.), 217; in coal mines of Pennsylvania, 218 Irish Republican Brotherhood, 119 Isaacks, Isaac, 30 Italians, in South, 65, 210-11; as laborers, 122; in United States, 180-83; on poor land, 210; in New England mills, 215; in Pennsylvania, 216, 217, 218 Jahn, F.L., organizes _Turnvereine_, 131 James, Henry, on foreigners in Boston, 162-63 Jansen, Olaf, 88, 89 Janson, Eric, 85-87, 89 Jansonists, 85-89, 90 Japan, agreement with (1907), 205-06 Japanese, in United States, 203-207; hostility toward, 205-207; order of exclusion from United States, 206 Jay, John, 16 Jews, in America, 16-17, 176-180; Spanish-Portuguese, 177; German, 177; Austrian, 178; Hungarian, 178; Russian, 178-79 Johnstown (Penn.), racial changes in, 216 Joliet (Ill.), Slovenians in, 172 Kansas, Germans in, 141; Scandinavians in, 156; Slavs in, 213 Kapp, Frederick, 129, 140 Kaskaskia, French settle, 152 Kearney, Dennis, 193 Kelpius, Johann, leader of Pietists, 69 Kendal (O.), communistic attempt at, 96 Kentucky, not represented in First Census, 25; admitted as State (1792), 33; pioneers leave, 36 Kidnaping, labor brought to America by, 8 "Know-Nothing" party, 114, 221 Kotzebue, German publicist, 131 Kruszka, Rev. W.X., estimates number of Poles, in United States, 167 (note) Ku Klux Klan, 58 Labadists, 68-69 Labor, kidnaping of, 8; indentured service, 9-10; Scotch political prisoners sold into service, 12-13; negro, 60-63; Irish displaced by other nationalities, 121-22; Italian, 181; Chinese, 190-91; attitude toward Chinese, 193, 194; treaty limiting Chinese,198; bill to prohibit immigration of Chinese, 199; Scott Act, 201; Japanese, 204; racial changes in, 216-17; law to aid importation of contract labor, 222; contract labor excluded, 225 Lafayette, Marquis de, visits Gallipolis, 152 Land, immigrants on the, 147 _et seq._; immigrants on abandoned or rejected land, 208-214 Laurens, Henry, 16 Lawrence (Mass.), racial changes in, 215-16 Lee, Ann, founder of Shakers, 91, 92 Legislation, negro, 59-60; Chinese immigration, 199-200, 201-03; California Alien Land Act, 206-07; immigration, 222 _et seq._ Lehigh River, Moravian community on, 72 Lehman, Peter, 72 Lesueur, C.A., 95 Levant, immigrants from the, 184 Limestone Ridge, Battle of, 120 Lincoln, Abraham, father a pioneer, 36; message to Congress Dec. 8, 1863, 222 Literacy test for immigrants, in Lodge bill, 227; rejected in law of 1903, 228-29; executive disapproval of, 231; bill passes over veto (1917), 232; provisions of act, 232 Lithuanians in United States, 174-75 Liverpool, Irish immigrants at, 111, 112 (note) Lockwood, G.B., _The New Harmony Movement_, cited, 96 (note) Lodge, H.C., _The Distribution of Ability in the United States_, 39-41, 43; immigration bill, 227 Logan, James, Secretary of Province of Pennsylvania, on Scotch-Irish, 11-12 London, German emigrants embark at, 134 Los Angeles, anti-Chinese riots, 191 Louis Philippe visits Gallipolis, 152 Louisiana, admitted as State (1812), 33; American migration to, 34; Icarians in, 99; Italians in, 211 Louisiana Purchase (1803), 147 McCall, of Massachusetts, introduces Lodge bill in House, 227 McCarthy, Justin, quoted, 106; cited, 107 Macedonia, Bulgarians from, 170 McGee, T. D'A., leader of "Young Ireland" party, 120-121 Maclure, William, "Father of American Geology," 94-95 Macluria (Ind.), communistic attempt, 96 McMaster, J.B., _History of the People of the United States_, quoted, 152 McParlan, James, 118 Macy, Jesse, _The Anti-Slavery Crusade_, cited, 54 (note) Madison, James, on population of New England, 34 Madison (Ill.), racial changes in, 217 Magyars, distinct race, 174; in United States, 175-76; in Granite City (Ill.), 217 Maine, Shakers in, 91 Mainzer Adelsverein, 136 Manchester (England), Shakers originate in, 91 Manhattan, Jewish synagogue in (1691), 16; Dutch in, 17; cosmopolitan character, 17; Norwegian Quakers land on, 155; _see also_ New York City Marion, Francis, 16 Marx, Karl, 179 Maryland, English settle, 5-6; recruits schoolmasters from criminals, 9; Scotch-Irish in, 11, 12; Scotch in, 12; Irish in, 13; Germans in, 127; Poles in, 213 Massachusetts, French in, 15; Shakers in, 91; Brook Farm, 97 Mather, Cotton, on Scotch-Irish, 11 Mayer, Brantz, _Captain Canot: or Twenty Years in a Slaver_, quoted, 48 Meade, General, against Fenians, 120 Mennonites, 13, 68 (note) _Mercury_, New York, quoted, 108 Metz, Christian, leader of Inspirationists, 81, 82 Mexican War extends United States territory, 33, 148 Mexicans, feeling against, in California, 190 Michigan, admitted as State (1837), 33; Germans in, 134; Scotch and English in, 151; Dutch in, 153; Scandinavians in, 156; farms for sale in, 209; Slavs in, 212; racial changes in ore regions of, 219 Mikkelsen, quoted, 90-91 Milwaukee, "the German Athens," 135; Poles in, 167 (note) Minnesota, frontiersmen in, 36; Scandinavians in, 157; "Scandinavian language" in university, 158-59; Slavs in, 212; racial changes in ore regions of, 219 Mississippi, admitted as State (1817), 33; American migration to, 34; Dalmatians in, 171 Mississippi River, French on, 18 Mississippi Valley, fugitive slaves in, 54; Irish in, 108; German influence, 135; French in, 152; Bohemians in, 159 Missouri, admitted as State (1821), 33; frontiersmen in, 36; Germans in, 134; Giessener Gesellschaft in, 136 Mohawk Valley, Germans in, 127 Molly Maguires, society among anthracite coal miners, 117-118 Monroe, James, and Owen, 94 Montenegrins, as South Slavs, 164; in United States, 171 Moravians, 13, 17, 72, 165 More, Sir Thomas, _Utopia_, 98 Mormons, 87 Mount Lebanon, Shaker community, 91 Mount Vernon, nationalities represented on July 4, 1918, at, 233 Names, disappearance of, 24-25 (note); modifications, 30 Nantes, Edict of, revocation of, 15 National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, 63 National Civil Federation calls immigration conference (1905), 229 Nauvoo (Ill.), Icarians at, 99-100, 101 Navigation Laws, 106 Nebraska, Germans in, 141; Scandinavians in, 156; Bohemians in, 159; Slavs in, 213 Neef, Joseph, 95 Negroes, 45 _et seq._; identified with America, 45; most distinctly foreign element, 46; tribes represented among slaves, 49; mutual benefit organizations, 51-52, 63; population (1860), 56; education, 57; religion, 57; as farmers, 59-60; advance, 64; characteristics shown by neglected gardens, 64-65; bibliography, 236-37; _see also_ Africans, Slavery, Slave trade Nevada, vote for Garfield (1880), 197 (note) New Amsterdam, Jews come to, 16 New Bedford, Portuguese in, 184 New Bern, Germans in, 127 New England, English settle, 5-6; dissenters found, 8; Scotch-Irish leave, 11; Dutch and, 17; Madison on population of, 34; slavery, 51; "Underground Railway" in, 54; capital in slave trade, 56; Montenegrins and Serbians in, 171; Portuguese in, 184; abandoned farms, 209; Poles in, 213; Slavs in, 214; racial changes in mills, 215-16 _New Era_ founded by McGee, 121 (note) New Hampshire, Shakers in, 91 New Harmony (Ind.), Rapp's colony, 74-75; sold to Robert Owen, 75; Owen's colony, 94-96 New Jersey, English settle, 5; not represented in first census, 25; census computations for 1790, 28-29; Germans in, 127; racial changes in manufacturing towns, 216 New Netherland, 17 New Orleans, Spain acquires, 18; Icarians in, 99; Irish in, 113; Dalmatians in, 171; Italians in, 180, 211 New York (State), Germans in, 14; French in, 15; Jews in, 16; western part settled, 33; migration through, 36; slavery, 50-51; "Underground Railway" in, 54; and slave trade, 56; negroes in, 62; Shakers in, 91; Scotch and English in, 151; Norwegians in, 155; Poles in, 167; Russians in, 169; Italian farmers, 212; racial changes in manufacturing towns, 216; State relief for immigrants, 224 New York City, French in, 16; cosmopolitanism, 18-19; Irish in, 108, 109, 113; Tammany Hall, 116; Germans in, 127; Poles in, 167 (note); Croatians in, 172; Hungarian Jews, 178; Russian Jews, 179; Italians, 180; _see also_ Manhattan _New York Nation_, McGee establishes, 120 (note) New Zealand, deflects migration to United States, 150 Newfoundland, Irish come through, 109 Newspapers, German, 139, 142-144; Scandinavian, 158; Slovak, 169 "Niagara Movement," 63 Norsemen, _see_ Scandinavians North, colonies settled by townfolk, 7-8; negroes in, 55; negro laborers, 62 North Carolina, Germans in, 127 Northwest, Scandinavians in, 156; _see also_ names of States Northwest Territory, slavery forbidden in, 51 Norwegians, number in America, 154; character, 154; lead Scandinavian migration, 155; _see also_ Scandinavians Noyes, J.H., 92, 93 Oberholtzer, _History of the United States since the Civil War_, cited, 120 (note), 148 (note), 149 (note) Ohio, admitted as State (1802), 33; western migration through, 36; "Underground Railway" in, 54; negroes in, 62; Zoar colony, 78-80; Germans in, 134; Scotch and English in, 151; French in, 151-52; Swiss in, 153; Slovenians in, 173; Italian farmers, 212; Poles in, 213; racial changes in coal regions of, 219 Ohio River, French on, 18 Oklahoma, Bohemians in, 159; Slavs in, 213 Old Elmspring Community, 89 Olsen, Jonas, 87, 88 Omaha, Italians in, 180 Oneida Community, 92-93 Orange County (N.Y.), Polish settlement, 213 Ordinance of 1787, 51 Oregon, acquisition of (1846), 33, 147; Scandinavians in, 156; Japanese in, 203 Orientals, 188 _et seq._; _see also_ Chinese, Indians, East, Japanese Otis, General, 202 Owen, Robert, 75, 93-96, 98 Ozark Mountains, Italians in, 211 Palatinate, peasants come to America from, 14 Penn, William, 71 Pennsylvania, English settle, 5; Scotch-Irish in, 11-12; Welsh in, 13; Germans in, 13, 14, 126-27; Dutch in, 14; Jews in, 17; cosmopolitan character, 19; western part settled, 33; slavery, 51; negroes in, 62; Dunkards in, 70; Poles in, 167; Russians in, 169; Croatians in, 172; Slovenians in, 173; Lithuanians in, 175; Italian farmers, 212; landward movement of Slavs in, 213-14; racial changes, 216, 218-19 Pennsylvania Philosophical Society, Pietists' astrological instruments in collection of, 70 Petrosino, Lieutenant Joseph, murdered, 231 Peysel, _see_ Beissel Philadelphia, Welsh near, 13; cosmopolitan character, 18; negroes arrested, 51; Ephrata draws pupils from, 71; Irish immigrant association, 109; Irish in, 113; Italians in, 180 Philippines, Chinese exclusion, 202 Pietists, 69-70 Pine Lake (Wis.), Swedish colony, 155 Pittsburgh, "Boat Load of Knowledge" from, 94 Poles, in America, 160, 167-69, 213, 214-15, 217; as North Slavs, 164 Politics, foreigners in, 42; Irish in, 116, 117; Germans in, 139, 144; Bohemians in, 166; Chinese as issue, 193; selective immigration as issue (1892), 226-27 Population, increase in, 32; _see also_ Census Portland, Italians in, 180 Portuguese in United States, 184 Prairie du Rocher, French settlement, 152 Presbyterians, Scotch-Irish, 10 Presidents of United States from American stock, 42 Price, J.C., negro orator, 64 Quakers, Norwegian, 155 Rafinesque, C.S., 95 Railroads, Chinese laborers on, 190 Raleigh, Sir Walter, 5 Rapp, F.R., adopted son of Father Rapp, 75-76 Rapp, J.G., founder of Harmonists, 73; "Father Rapp," 74; at Harmony, 73-74; at New Harmony, 74-75; at Economy, 75-77 Reconstruction after Civil War, 57-59 Red Bank (N.J.), communistic colony at, 97 Reed, of Missouri, wishes to exclude African immigrants, 232 Republican party on immigration restriction, 226 _Restoration_ (sloop), 155 Revere, Paul, 16 Revolutionary War, Irish in, 108; Germans and, 127 Rhode Island, French in, 15; Jews in, 17 Rock Springs (Wyo.), anti-Chinese riot, 200 Roosevelt, Theodore, conference with delegation from California, 205; on restriction of immigration, 229-30 Root, John, 86-87 Ross, E.A., _The Old World in the New_, cited, 163 (note) Rumania, Mennonites in, 89 Rush, Benjamin, _Manners of the German Inhabitants of Pennsylvania_, 127-29 Russia, Mennonites in, 89 Russians, as North Slavs, 164; in United States, 169-70 Ruthenians (Ukranians), as North Slavs, 164; in United States, 169 St. Lawrence River, French on, 18 St. Louis, Cabet in, 100; Irish in, 113; Germans in, 135; Hungarian Jews in, 178; Italians in, 180 St. Patrick's Day, observed in Boston (1737), 108; in New York City (1762), 108; (1776), 108; (1784), 109 San Antonio, Italians in, 211 San Francisco, anti-Chinese attitude, 193, 194, 200; Japanese excluded from public schools, 205 Savannah, Germans in, 127 Say, Thomas, "Father of American Zoölogy," 95 Scandinavians in United States, 85, 153-59, 185 Schleswig-Holstein, Danes emigrate from, 156 Schluter, _see_ Sluyter Schmitz, Mayor of San Francisco, 205 Schurz, Carl, 139 Scioto Land Company (Companie du Scioto), 151-52 Scotch, in America, 6, 12-13; in Manhattan, 17; immigrants, 110, 150; on the land, 151; in coal mines of Pennsylvania, 218 Scotch-Irish, in America, 6, 10, 11; in Pennsylvania, 11-12, 12 (note); names, 30-31 Seattle, Bulgarians in, 170; anti-Chinese feeling, 200 Seneca Indians Reservation, Inspirationists purchase (1841), 81 Serbians, as South Slavs, 164; in United States, 171, 217 Seward, W.H., Secretary of State, treaty with China (1868), 195-96 _Shaker Compendium_ quoted, 91 Shakers, 91-92 Shaw, Albert, _Icaria, A Chapter in the History of Communism_, quoted, 100 Siberia, Russian immigrants to, 170 (note) Sicilians, 182; _see also_ Italians Silkville (Kan.), French communistic colony in, 102 Six Companies, Chinese organization, 192, 193 Slavery, as recognized institution, 9, 50; Channing on, 46-47; protests against, 51; influence of cotton demand on, 52-53; fugitive slaves, 54-55; condition when emancipated, 56-57; Germans against, 139; _see also_ Negroes, Slave trade Slave trade, beginning of, 47; capture and transportation of slaves, 47-50; law prohibiting, 55; effect of cotton demand on, 55-56 Slavonians on Pacific slope, 213 Slavs, use of term, 164; on poor land, 210; colonies, 212-213; in New England mills, 214, 215; in Pennsylvania, 216, 217, 218; _see also_ Bohemians, Bulgarians, Croatians, Dalmatians, Montenegrins, Poles, Russians, Ruthenians, Serbians, Slovaks, Slovenians Slovaks, as North Slavs, 164; in United States, 168-69, 216, 217; _see also_ Slavs Slovenians, as South Slavs, 164; "Griners," 172; _see also_ Slavs Sluyter, Peter (or Schluter), (Vorstmann), leader of Labadists, 68 Snow Hill (Penn.), community, 72 Society of United Irishmen, 109 South, plantations lure English, 7; Scotch-Irish in, 12; cotton production, 52-53; Reconstruction, 57-59; opposes liberal land laws, 148; immigrants in cut-over timber regions, 208; opportunities for immigrants in, 210 South Carolina, French in, 15; slave laws, 50; insurrection (1822), 53; Germans in, 127 South Dakota, Old Elmspring Community, 89 Spain, England's victory over, 2; France cedes New Orleans to, 18 Spanish-Americans in California, 190 Standard Oil Company builds Whiting (Ind.), 217 Steiner, E.A., _On the Trail of the Immigrant_, quoted, 166, 178-79 Stephens, James, 119 Sullivan, General John, order of March 17, 1776, 108 Sunnyside (Ark.), Italians establish (1895), 211 Supreme Court, Chief Justices from American stock, 42; upholds communal contract, 73; upholds exclusion, 200; on state regulation of immigration, 225 Swedes, in America, 85, 154, 155-56; "Frenchmen of the North," 154; _see also_ Scandinavians Switzerland, Inspirationists from, 80; immigration from, 104; number of immigrants, 153 Syrians, as laborers, 122; in United States, 184; in Johnstown (Penn.), 216 Tacoma, anti-Chinese feeling, 200 Taft, W.H. vetoes literacy test provision (1913), 231 Tammany Hall, 116 Tennessee, not represented in First Census, 25; admitted as State (1796), 33; pioneers leave, 36 Texas, added to United States, 33; Icarians in, 99; Fourieristic community in, 101-02; Mainzer Adelsverein in, 136; Bohemians in, 159; Poles in, 160, 167; Italian colonies, 211; Slavs in, 213 Thompson, Holland, _The New South_, cited, 60 (note) Tillinghast, _The Negro in Africa_, quoted, 49 Tokyo, anti-American feeling, 207 Tone, Wolfe, portrait on Fenian bonds by, 119 Transportation, development of, 149 _Tribune_, New York, Brisbane and, 97 Troost, Gerard, 95 Turks in United States, 184 _Turnvereine_, 131, 137 Tuskegee Institute, 63 Ukranians, _see_ Ruthenians Ulster, Scotch in, 10 Ulstermen, _see_ Scotch-Irish "Underground Railway," 54 United States, now called America, 22; population at close of Revolution, 23; American stock, 23; census (1790), 24; names changed or disappeared, 24-25 (note); population (1820), 32; Irish population, 105; expansion, 147-48; nation of immigrants, 233; _see also_ America United States Steel Corporation builds Gary (Ind.), 216-17 Unonius, Gustavus, 155 Utopias in America, 66 _et seq._; bibliography, 238-39 Vermont, slaves emancipated, 51 Vespucci, Amerigo, claim of discovery recognized, 21 Vineland (N.J.), Italian colony at, 212 Virginia, English occupation (1607), 1; English in, 5; protests receiving criminals, 9; Scotch-Irish in, 11, 12; French in, 15; slavery, 47, 50; insurrection (1831), 53-54; Irish in, 105; Germans in, 127; racial changes in coal regions of, 219 Vorstmann, _see_ Sluyter Waldenses in Manhattan, 17 Waldseemüller, Martin, and name America, 21 Ward's Island, hospitals for immigrants on, 224 Ware, Poles in, 214 Washington, Booker T., 63 Washington, George, on name America, 21; on spread of native population, 34; order of March 17, 1776, 108 Washington (State), Scandinavians in, 156; Japanese in, 203, 204 Washington (D.C.) Owen lectures at, 94; anti-Japanese demonstration at, 207 Welsh, in United States, 6, 150, 151, 216, 217, 218 West, Far, Germans in, 142; draws homeseekers, 147; and land laws, 148; _see also_ names of States West Indies, French in, 18; negro slavery, 47; Irish transported to, 105; Irish come through, 109 West, Middle, racial changes in, 216; _see also_ names of States West Virginia, Croatians in, 172; racial changes in, 216, 219 Westfield, Poles in, 214 Whiting (Ind.), foreigners in, 217 Whitney, Eli, cotton gin, 52 Wilcox, W.F., quoted, 62-63 Wilmington, Germans in, 127 Wilson, Woodrow, and anti-Japanese feeling, 206; on literacy test, 231 Windber (Penn.), racial changes in, 219 Winthrop, John, on immigration of Scotch-Irish, 11 Wisconsin, frontiersmen in, 36; "Underground Railway" in, 54; Fourieristic colony in, 97; Germans in, 134, 137; Swiss in, 153; Scandinavians in, 156; Poles in, 160, 167; farms available in, 209; Slavs in, 212 Worcester, Poles in, 214 Workingmen's party, 193 Wright, Fanny, 95 Wyoming, and Chinese indemnity claim, 201 Yazoo Delta, Italians in, 211 Yellow Springs (O.), communistic attempt, 96 Young, Brigham, 87 "Young Ireland" party, 120 Zimmermann, J.J., founder of Pietists, 69 Zinzendorf, Count, 72 Zoar, colony at, 78-80; Amana gains members from, 83 
10025	----	and PG Distributed Proofreaders [Illustration: They walked, thus guided by an obsequious waiter, through a light _confetti_ of tossed greetings.] GASLIGHT SONATAS BY FANNIE HURST 1918 [Dedication: To my mother and my father] CONTENTS I. BITTER-SWEET II. SIEVE OF FULFILMENT III. ICE-WATER, PL--! IV. HERS _NOT_ TO REASON WHY V. GOLDEN FLEECE VI. NIGHTSHADE VII. GET READY THE WREATHS GASLIGHT SONATAS I BITTER-SWEET Much of the tragical lore of the infant mortality, the malnutrition, and the five-in-a-room morality of the city's poor is written in statistics, and the statistical path to the heart is more figurative than literal. It is difficult to write stylistically a per-annum report of 1,327 curvatures of the spine, whereas the poor specific little vertebra of Mamie O'Grady, daughter to Lou, your laundress, whose alcoholic husband once invaded your very own basement and attempted to strangle her in the coal-bin, can instantly create an apron bazaar in the church vestry-rooms. That is why it is possible to drink your morning coffee without nausea for it, over the head-lines of forty thousand casualties at Ypres, but to push back abruptly at a three-line notice of little Tony's, your corner bootblack's, fatal dive before a street-car. Gertie Slayback was statistically down as a woman wage-earner; a typhoid case among the thousands of the Borough of Manhattan for 1901; and her twice-a-day share in the Subway fares collected in the present year of our Lord. She was a very atomic one of the city's four millions. But after all, what are the kings and peasants, poets and draymen, but great, greater, or greatest, less, lesser, or least atoms of us? If not of the least, Gertie Slayback was of the very lesser. When she unlocked the front door to her rooming-house of evenings, there was no one to expect her, except on Tuesdays, which evening it so happened her week was up. And when she left of mornings with her breakfast crumblessly cleared up and the box of biscuit and condensed-milk can tucked unsuspectedly behind her camisole in the top drawer there was no one to regret her. There are some of us who call this freedom. Again there are those for whom one spark of home fire burning would light the world. Gertie Slayback was one of these. Half a life-time of opening her door upon this or that desert-aisle of hall bedroom had not taught her heart how not to sink or the feel of daily rising in one such room to seem less like a damp bathing-suit, donned at dawn. The only picture--or call it atavism if you will--which adorned Miss Slayback's dun-colored walls was a passe-partout snowscape, night closing in, and pink cottage windows peering out from under eaves. She could visualize that interior as if she had only to turn the frame for the smell of wood fire and the snap of pine logs and for the scene of two high-back chairs and the wooden crib between. What a fragile, gracile thing is the mind that can leap thus from nine bargain basement hours of hairpins and darning-balls to the downy business of lining a crib in Never-Never Land and warming No Man's slippers before the fire of imagination. There was that picture so acidly etched into Miss Slayback's brain that she had only to close her eyes in the slit-like sanctity of her room and in the brief moment of courting sleep feel the pink penumbra of her vision begin to glow. Of late years, or, more specifically, for two years and eight months, another picture had invaded, even superseded the old. A stamp-photograph likeness of Mr. James P. Batch in the corner of Miss Slayback's mirror, and thereafter No Man's slippers became number eight-and-a-half C, and the hearth a gilded radiator in a dining-living-room somewhere between the Fourteenth Street Subway and the land of the Bronx. How Miss Slayback, by habit not gregarious, met Mr. Batch is of no consequence, except to those snug ones of us to whom an introduction is the only means to such an end. At a six o'clock that invaded even Union Square with heliotrope dusk, Mr. James Batch mistook, who shall say otherwise, Miss Gertie Slayback, as she stepped down into the wintry shade of a Subway kiosk, for Miss Whodoesitmatter. At seven o'clock, over a dish of lamb stew _à la_ White Kitchen, he confessed, and if Miss Slayback affected too great surprise and too little indignation, try to conceive six nine-hour week-in-and-week-out days of hair-pins and darning-balls, and then, at a heliotrope dusk, James P. Batch, in invitational mood, stepping in between it and the papered walls of a dun-colored evening. To further enlist your tolerance, Gertie Slayback's eyes were as blue as the noon of June, and James P. Batch, in a belted-in coat and five kid finger-points protruding ever so slightly and rightly from a breast pocket, was hewn and honed in the image of youth. His the smile of one for whom life's cup holds a heady wine, a wrinkle or two at the eye only serving to enhance that smile; a one-inch feather stuck upright in his derby hatband. It was a forelock once stamped a Corsican with the look of emperor. It was this hat feather, a cock's feather at that and worn without sense of humor, to which Miss Slayback was fond of attributing the consequences of that heliotrope dusk. "It was the feather in your cap did it, Jimmie. I can see you yet, stepping up with that innocent grin of yours. You think I didn't know you were flirting? Cousin from Long Island City! 'Say,' I says to myself, I says, 'I look as much like his cousin from Long Island City, if he's got one, as my cousin from Hoboken (and I haven't got any) would look like my sister if I had one.' It was that sassy little feather in your hat!" They would laugh over this ever-green reminiscence on Sunday Park benches and at intermission at moving pictures when they remained through it to see the show twice. Be the landlady's front parlor ever so permanently rented out, the motion-picture theater has brought to thousands of young city starvelings, if not the quietude of the home, then at least the warmth and a juxtaposition and a deep darkness that can lave the sub-basement throb of temples and is filled with music with a hum in it. For two years and eight months of Saturday nights, each one of them a semaphore dropping out across the gray road of the week, Gertie Slayback and Jimmie Batch dined for one hour and sixty cents at the White Kitchen. Then arm and arm up the million-candle-power flare of Broadway, content, these two who had never seen a lake reflect a moon, or a slim fir pointing to a star, that life could be so manifold. And always, too, on Saturday, the tenth from the last row of the De Luxe Cinematograph, Broadway's Best, Orchestra Chairs, fifty cents; Last Ten Rows, thirty-five. The give of velvet-upholstered chairs, perfumed darkness, and any old love story moving across it to the ecstatic ache of Gertie Slayback's high young heart. On a Saturday evening that was already pointed with stars at the six-o'clock closing of Hoffheimer's Fourteenth Street Emporium, Miss Slayback, whose blondness under fatigue could become ashy, emerged from the Bargain-Basement almost the first of its frantic exodus, taking the place of her weekly appointment in the entrance of the Popular Drug Store adjoining, her gaze, something even frantic in it, sifting the passing crowd. At six o'clock Fourteenth Street pours up from its basements, down from its lofts, and out from its five-and-ten-cent stores, shows, and arcades, in a great homeward torrent--a sweeping torrent that flows full flush to the Subway, the Elevated, and the surface car, and then spreads thinly into the least pretentious of the city's homes--the five flights up, the two rooms rear, and the third floor back. Standing there, this eager tide of the Fourteenth Street Emporium, thus released by the six-o'clock flood-gates, flowed past Miss Slayback. White-nosed, low-chested girls in short-vamp shoes and no-carat gold vanity-cases. Older men resigned that ambition could be flayed by a yard-stick; young men still impatient of their clerkship. It was into the trickle of these last that Miss Slayback bored her glance, the darting, eager glance of hot eyeballs and inner trembling. She was not so pathetically young as she was pathetically blond, a treacherous, ready-to-fade kind of blondness that one day, now that she had found that very morning her first gray hair, would leave her ashy. Suddenly, with a small catch of breath that was audible in her throat, Miss Slayback stepped out of that doorway, squirming her way across the tight congestion of the sidewalk to its curb, then in and out, brushing this elbow and that shoulder, worming her way in an absolutely supreme anxiety to keep in view a brown derby hat bobbing right briskly along with the crowd, a greenish-black bit of feather upright in its band. At Broadway, Fourteenth Street cuts quite a caper, deploying out into Union Square, an island of park, beginning to be succulent at the first false feint of spring, rising as it were from a sea of asphalt. Across this park Miss Slayback worked her rather frenzied way, breaking into a run when the derby threatened to sink into the confusion of a hundred others, and finally learning to keep its course by the faint but distinguishing fact of a slight dent in the crown. At Broadway, some blocks before that highway bursts into its famous flare, Mr. Batch, than whom it was no other, turned off suddenly at right angles down into a dim pocket of side-street and into the illuminated entrance of Ceiner's Café Hungarian. Meals at all hours. Lunch, thirty cents. Dinner, fifty cents. Our Goulash is Famous. New York, which expresses itself in more languages to the square block than any other area in the world, Babylon included, loves thus to dine linguistically, so to speak. To the Crescent Turkish Restaurant for its Business Men's Lunch comes Fourth Avenue, whose antique-shop patois reads across the page from right to left. Sight-seeing automobiles on mission and commission bent allow Altoona, Iowa City, and Quincy, Illinois, fifteen minutes' stop-in at Ching Ling-Foo's Chinatown Delmonico's. Spaghetti and red wine have set New York racing to reserve its table d'hôtes. All except the Latin race. Jimmie Batch, who had first seen light, and that gaslight, in a block in lower Manhattan which has since been given over to a milk-station for a highly congested district, had the palate, if not the purse, of the cosmopolite. His digestive range included _borsch_ and _chow maigne; risotta_ and ham and. To-night, as he turned into Café Hungarian, Miss Slayback slowed and drew back into the overshadowing protection of an adjoining office-building. She was breathing hard, and her little face, somehow smaller from chill, was nevertheless a high pink at the cheek-bones. The wind swept around the corner, jerking her hat, and her hand flew up to it. There was a fair stream of passers-by even here, and occasionally one turned for a backward glance at her standing there so frankly indeterminate. Suddenly Miss Slayback adjusted her tam-o'-shanter to its flop over her right ear, and, drawing off a pair of dark-blue silk gloves from over immaculately new white ones, entered Ceiner's Café Hungarian. In its light she was not so obviously blonder than young, the pink spots in her cheeks had a deepening value to the blue of her eyes, and a black velvet tam-o'-shanter revealing just the right fringe of yellow curls is no mean aid. First of all, Ceiner's is an eating-place. There is no music except at five cents in the slot, and its tables for four are perpetually set each with a dish of sliced radishes, a bouquet of celery, and a mound of bread, half the stack rye. Its menus are well thumbed and badly mimeographed. Who enters Ceiner's is prepared to dine from barley soup to apple strudel. At something after six begins the rising sound of cutlery, and already the new-comer fears to find no table. Off at the side, Mr. Jimmie Batch had already disposed of his hat and gray overcoat, and tilting the chair opposite him to indicate its reservation, shook open his evening paper, the waiter withholding the menu at this sign of rendezvous. Straight toward that table Miss Slayback worked quick, swift way, through this and that aisle, jerking back and seating herself on the chair opposite almost before Mr. Batch could raise his eyes from off the sporting page. There was an instant of silence between them--the kind of silence that can shape itself into a commentary upon the inefficacy of mere speech--a widening silence which, as they sat there facing, deepened until, when she finally spoke, it was as if her words were pebbles dropping down into a well. "Don't look so surprised, Jimmie," she said, propping her face calmly, even boldly, into the white-kid palms. "You might fall off the Christmas tree." Above the snug, four-inch collar and bow tie Mr. Batch's face was taking on a dull ox-blood tinge that spread back, even reddening his ears. Mr. Batch had the frontal bone of a clerk, the horn-rimmed glasses of the literarily astigmatic, and the sartorial perfection that only the rich can afford not to attain. He was staring now quite frankly, and his mouth had fallen open. "Gert!" he said. "Yes," said Miss Slayback, her insouciance gaining with his discomposure, her eyes widening and then a dolly kind of glassiness seeming to set in. "You wasn't expecting me, Jimmie?" He jerked up his head, not meeting her glance. "What's the idea of the comedy?" "You don't look glad to see me, Jimmie." "If you--think you're funny." She was working out of and then back into the freshly white gloves in a betraying kind of nervousness that belied the toss of her voice. "Well, of all things! Mad-cat! Mad, just because you didn't seem to be expecting me." "I--There's some things that are just the limit, that's what they are. Some things that are just the limit, that no fellow would stand from any girl, and this--this is one of them." Her lips were trembling now. "You--you bet your life there's some things that are just the limit." He slid out his watch, pushing back. "Well, I guess this place is too small for a fellow and a girl that can follow him around town like a--like--" She sat forward, grasping the table-sides, her chair tilting with her. "Don't you dare to get up and leave me sitting here! Jimmie Batch, don't you dare!" The waiter intervened, card extended. "We--we're waiting for another party," said Miss Slayback, her hands still rigidly over the table-sides and her glance like a steady drill into Mr. Batch's own. There was a second of this silence while the waiter withdrew, and then Mr. Batch whipped out his watch again, a gun-metal one with an open face. "Now look here. I got a date here in ten minutes, and one or the other of us has got to clear. You--you're one too many, if you got to know it." "Oh, I do know it, Jimmie! I been one too many for the last four Saturday nights. I been one too many ever since May Scully came into five hundred dollars' inheritance and quit the Ladies' Neckwear. I been one too many ever since May Scully became a lady." "If I was a girl and didn't have more shame!" "Shame! Now you're shouting, Jimmie Batch. I haven't got shame, and I don't care who knows it. A girl don't stop to have shame when she's fighting for her rights." He was leaning on his elbow, profile to her. "That movie talk can't scare me. You can't tell me what to do and what not to do. I've given you a square deal all right. There's not a word ever passed between us that ties me to your apron-strings. I don't say I'm not without my obligations to you, but that's not one of them. No, sirree--no apron-strings." "I know it isn't, Jimmie. You're the kind of a fellow wouldn't even talk to himself for fear of committing hisself." "I got a date here now any minute, Gert, and the sooner you--" "You're the guy who passed up the Sixty-first for the Safety First regiment." "I'll show you my regiment some day." "I--I know you're not tied to my apron-strings, Jimmie. I--I wouldn't have you there for anything. Don't you think I know you too well for that? That's just it. Nobody on God's earth knows you the way I do. I know you better than you know yourself." "You better beat it, Gertie. I tell you I'm getting sore." Her face flashed from him to the door and back again, her anxiety almost edged with hysteria. "Come on, Jimmie--out the side entrance before she gets here. May Scully ain't the company for you. You think if she was, honey, I'd--I'd see myself come butting in between you this way, like--like a--common girl? She's not the girl to keep you straight. Honest to God she's not, honey." "My business is my business, let me tell you that." "She's speedy, Jimmie. She was the speediest girl on the main floor, and now that she's come into those five hundred, instead of planting it for a rainy day, she's quit work and gone plumb crazy with it." "When I want advice about my friends I ask for it." "It's not her good name that worries me, Jimmie, because she 'ain't got any. It's you. She's got you crazy with that five hundred, too--that's what's got me scared." "Gee! you ought to let the Salvation Army tie a bonnet under your chin." "She's always had her eyes on you, Jimmie. 'Ain't you men got no sense for seein' things? Since the day they moved the Gents' Furnishings across from the Ladies' Neckwear she's had you spotted. Her goings-on used to leak down to the basement, alrighty. She's not a good girl, May ain't, Jimmie. She ain't, and you know it. Is she? Is she?" "Aw!" said Jimmie Batch. "You see! See! 'Ain't got the nerve to answer, have you?" "Aw--maybe I know, too, that she's not the kind of a girl that would turn up where she's not--" "If you wasn't a classy-looking kind of boy, Jimmie, that a fly girl like May likes to be seen out with, she couldn't find you with magnifying glasses, not if you was born with the golden rule in your mouth and had swallowed it. She's not the kind of girl, Jimmie, a fellow like you needs behind him. If--if you was ever to marry her and get your hands on them five hundred dollars--" "It would be my business." "It'll be your ruination. You're not strong enough to stand up under nothing like that. With a few hundred unearned dollars in your pocket you--you'd go up in spontaneous combustion, you would." "It would be my own spontaneous combustion." "You got to be drove, Jimmie, like a kid. With them few dollars you wouldn't start up a little cigar-store like you think you would. You and her would blow yourselves to the dogs in two months. Cigar-stores ain't the place for you, Jimmie. You seen how only clerking in them was nearly your ruination--the little gambling-room-in-the-back kind that you pick out. They ain't cigar-stores; they're only false faces for gambling." "You know it all, don't you?" "Oh, I'm dealing it to you straight! There's too many sporty crowds loafing around those joints for a fellow like you to stand up under. I found you in one, and as yellow-fingered and as loafing as they come, a new job a week, a--" "Yeh, and there was some pep to variety, too." "Don't throw over, Jimmie, what my getting you out of it to a decent job in a department store has begun to do for you. And you're making good, too. Higgins told me to-day, if you don't let your head swell, there won't be a fellow in the department can stack up his sales-book any higher." "Aw!" "Don't throw it all over, Jimmie--and me--for a crop of dyed red hair and a few dollars to ruin yourself with." He shot her a look of constantly growing nervousness, his mouth pulled to an oblique, his glance constantly toward the door. "Don't keep no date with her to-night, Jimmie. You haven't got the constitution to stand her pace. It's telling on you. Look at those fingers yellowing again--looka--" "They're my fingers, ain't they?" "You see, Jimmie, I--I'm the only person in the world that likes you just for what--you ain't--and hasn't got any pipe dreams about you. That's what counts, Jimmie, the folks that like you in spite, and not because of." "We will now sing psalm number two hundred and twenty-three." "I know there's not a better fellow in the world if he's kept nailed to the right job, and I know, too, there's not another fellow can go to the dogs any easier." "To hear you talk, you'd think I was about six." "I'm the only girl that'll ever be willing to make a whip out of herself that'll keep you going and won't sting, honey. I know you're soft and lazy and selfish and--" "Don't forget any." "And I know you're my good-looking good-for-nothing, and I know, too, that you--you don't care as much--as much for me from head to toe as I do for your little finger. But I--I like you just the same, Jimmie. That--that's what I mean about having no shame. I--do like you so--so terribly, Jimmie." "Aw now--Gert!" "I know it, Jimmie--that I ought to be ashamed. Don't think I haven't cried myself to sleep with it whole nights in succession." "Aw now--Gert!" "Don't think I don't know it, that I'm laying myself before you pretty common. I know it's common for a girl to--to come to a fellow like this, but--but I haven't got any shame about it--I haven't got anything, Jimmie, except fight for--for what's eating me. And the way things are between us now is eating me." "I--Why, I got a mighty high regard for you, Gert." "There's a time in a girl's life, Jimmie, when she's been starved like I have for something of her own all her days; there's times, no matter how she's held in, that all of a sudden comes a minute when she busts out." "I understand, Gert, but--" "For two years and eight months, Jimmie, life has got to be worth while living to me because I could see the day, even if we--you--never talked about it, when you would be made over from a flip kid to--to the kind of a fellow would want to settle down to making a little--two-by-four home for us. A--little two-by-four all our own, with you steady on the job and advanced maybe to forty or fifty a week and--" "For God's sake, Gertie, this ain't the time or the place to--" "Oh yes, it is! It's got to be, because it's the first time in four weeks that you didn't see me coming first." "But not now, Gert. I--" "I'm not ashamed to tell you, Jimmie Batch, that I've been the making of you since that night you threw the wink at me. And--and it hurts, this does. God! how it hurts!" He was pleating the table-cloth, swallowing as if his throat had constricted, and still rearing his head this way and that in the tight collar. "I--never claimed not to be a bad egg. This ain't the time and the place for rehashing, that's all. Sure you been a friend to me. I don't say you haven't. Only I can't be bossed by a girl like you. I don't say May Scully's any better than she ought to be. Only that's my business. You hear? my business. I got to have life and see a darn sight more future for myself than selling shirts in a Fourteenth Street department store." "May Scully can't give it to you--her and her fast crowd." "Maybe she can and maybe she can't." "Them few dollars won't make you; they'll break you." "That's for her to decide, not you." "I'll tell her myself. I'll face her right here and--" "Now, look here, if you think I'm going to be let in for a holy show between you two girls, you got another think coming. One of us has got to clear out of here, and quick, too. You been talking about the side door; there it is. In five minutes I got a date in this place that I thought I could keep like any law-abiding citizen. One of us has got to clear, and quick, too. God! you wimmin make me sick, the whole lot of you!" "If anything makes you sick, I know what it is. It's dodging me to fly around all hours of the night with May Scully, the girl who put the tang in tango. It's eating around in swell sixty-cent restaurants like this and--" "Gad! your middle name ought to be Nagalene." "Aw, now, Jimmie, maybe it does sound like nagging, but it ain't, honey. It--it's only my--my fear that I'm losing you, and--and my hate for the every-day grind of things, and--" "I can't help that, can I?" "Why, there--there's nothing on God's earth I hate, Jimmie, like I hate that Bargain-Basement. When I think it's down there in that manhole I've spent the best years of my life, I--I wanna die. The day I get out of it, the day I don't have to punch that old time-clock down there next to the Complaints and Adjustment Desk, I--I'll never put my foot below sidewalk level again to the hour I die. Not even if it was to take a walk in my own gold-mine." "It ain't exactly a garden of roses down there." "Why, I hate it so terrible, Jimmie, that sometimes I wake up nights gritting my teeth with the smell of steam-pipes and the tramp of feet on the glass sidewalk up over me. Oh. God! you dunno--you dunno!" "When it comes to that the main floor ain't exactly a maiden's dream, or a fellow's, for that matter." "With a man it's different, It's his job in life, earning, and--and the woman making the two ends of it meet. That's why, Jimmie, these last two years and eight months, if not for what I was hoping for us, why--why--I--why, on your twenty a week, Jimmie, there's nobody could run a flat like I could. Why, the days wouldn't be long enough to putter in. I--Don't throw away what I been building up for us, Jimmie, step by step! Don't, Jimmie!" "Good Lord, girl! You deserve better 'n me." "I know I got a big job, Jimmie, but I want to make a man out of you, temper, laziness, gambling, and all. You got it in you to be something more than a tango lizard or a cigar-store bum, honey. It's only you 'ain't got the stuff in you to stand up under a five-hundred-dollar windfall and--a--and a sporty girl. If--if two glasses of beer make you as silly as they do, Jimmie, why, five hundred dollars would land you under the table for life." "Aw-there you go again!" "I can't help it, Jimmie. It's because I never knew a fellow had what's he's cut out for written all over him so. You're a born clerk, Jimmie. "Sure, I'm a slick clerk, but--" "You're born to be a clerk, a good clerk, even a two-hundred-a-month clerk, the way you can win the trade, but never your own boss. I know what I'm talking about. I know your measure better than any human on earth can ever know your measure. I know things about you that you don't even know yourself." "I never set myself up to nobody for anything I wasn't." "Maybe not, Jimmie, but I know about you and--and that Central Street gang that time, and--" "You!" "Yes, honey, and there's not another human living but me knows how little it was your fault. Just bad company, that was all. That's how much I--I love you, Jimmie, enough to understand that. Why, if I thought May Scully and a set-up in business was the thing for you, Jimmie, I'd say to her, I'd say, if it was like taking my own heart out in my hand and squashing it, I'd say to her, I'd say, 'Take him, May.' That's how I--I love you, Jimmie. Oh, ain't it nothing, honey, a girl can come here and lay herself this low to you--" "Well, haven't I just said you--you deserve better." "I don't want better, Jimmie. I want you. I want to take hold of your life and finish the job of making it the kind we can both be proud of. Us two, Jimmie, in--in our own decent two-by-four. Shopping on Saturday nights. Frying in our own frying-pan in our own kitchen. Listening to our own phonograph in our own parlor. Geraniums and--and kids--and--and things. Gas-logs. Stationary washtubs. Jimmie! Jimmie!" Mr. James P. Batch reached up for his hat and overcoat, cramming the newspaper into a rear pocket. "Come on," he said, stalking toward the side door and not waiting to see her to her feet. Outside, a banner of stars was over the narrow street. For a chain of five blocks he walked, with a silence and speed that Miss Slayback could only match with a running quickstep. But she was not out of breath. Her head was up, and her hand, where it hooked into Mr. Batch's elbow, was in a vise that tightened with each block. You who will mete out no other approval than that vouched for by the stamp of time and whose contempt for the contemporary is from behind the easy refuge of the classics, suffer you the shuddering analogy that between Aspasia who inspired Pericles, Theodora who suggested the Justinian code, and Gertie Slayback who commandeered Jimmie Batch, is a sistership which rounds them, like a lasso thrown back into time, into one and the same petticoat dynasty behind the throne. True, Gertie Slayback's _mise en scène_ was a two-room kitchenette apartment situated in the Bronx at a surveyor's farthest point between two Subway stations, and her present state one of frequent red-faced forays down into a packing-case. But there was that in her eyes which witchingly bespoke the conquered, but not the conqueror. Hers was actually the titillating wonder of a bird which, captured, closes its wings, that surrender can be so sweet. Once she sat on the edge of the packing-case, dallying a hammer, then laid it aside suddenly, to cross the littered room and place the side of her head to the immaculate waistcoat of Mr. Jimmie Batch, red-faced, too, over wrenching up with hatchet-edge a barrel-top. "Jimmie darling, I--I just never will get over your finding this place for us." Mr. Batch wiped his forearm across his brow, his voice jerking between the squeak of nails extracted from wood. "It was you, honey. You give me the to-let ad, and I came to look, that's all." "Just the samey, it was my boy found it. If you hadn't come to look we might have been forced into taking that old dark coop over on Simpson Street." "What's all this junk in this barrel?" "Them's kitchen utensils, honey." "Kitchen what?" "Kitchen things that you don't know nothing about except to eat good things out of." "What's this?" "Don't bend it! That's a celery-brush. Ain't it cute?" "A celery-brush! Why didn't you get it a comb, too?" "Aw, now, honey-bee, don't go trying to be funny and picking through these things you don't know nothing about! They're just cute things I'm going to cook something grand suppers in, for my something awful bad boy." He leaned down to kiss her at that. "Gee!" She was standing, her shoulder to him and head thrown back against his chest. She looked up to stroke his cheek, her face foreshortened. "I'm all black and blue pinching myself, Jimmie." "Me too." "Every night when I get home from working here in the flat I say to myself in the looking-glass, I say, 'Gertie Slayback, what if you're only dreamin'?'" "Me too." "I say to myself, 'Are you sure that darling flat up there, with the new pink-and-white wall-paper and the furniture arriving every day, is going to be yours in a few days when you're Mrs. Jimmie Batch?'" "Mrs. Jimmie Batch--say, that's immense." "I keep saying it to myself every night, 'One day less.' Last night it was two days. To-night it'll be--one day, Jimmie, till I'm--her." She closed her eyes and let her hand linger up at his cheek, head still back against him, so that, inclining his head, he could rest his lips in the ash-blond fluff of her hair. "Talk about can't wait! If to-morrow was any farther off they'd have to sweep out a padded cell for me." She turned to rumple the smooth light thatch of his hair. "Bad boy! Can't wait! And here we are getting married all of a sudden, just like that. Up to the time of this draft business, Jimmie Batch, 'pretty soon' was the only date I could ever get out of you, and now here you are crying over one day's wait. Bad honey boy!" He reached back for the pink newspaper so habitually protruding from his hip pocket. "You ought to see the way they're neck-breaking for the marriage-license bureaus since the draft. First thing we know, tine whole shebang of the boys will be claiming the exemption of sole support of wife." "It's a good thing we made up our minds quick, Jimmie. They'll be getting wise. If too many get exemption from the army by marrying right away, it'll be a give-away." "I'd like to know who can lay his hands on the exemption of a little wife to support." "Oh, Jimmie, it--it sounds so funny. Being supported! Me that always did the supporting, not only to me, but to my mother and great-grand-mother up to the day they died." "I'm the greatest little supporter you ever seen." "Me getting up mornings to stay at home in my own darling little flat, and no basement or time-clock. Nothing but a busy little hubby to eat him nice, smelly, bacon breakfast and grab him nice morning newspaper, kiss him wifie, and run downtown to support her. Jimmie, every morning for your breakfast I'm going to fry--" "You bet your life he's going to support her, and he's going to pay back that forty dollars of his girl's that went into his wedding duds, that hundred and ninety of his girl's savings that went into furniture--" "We got to meet our instalments every month first, Jimmie. That's what we want--no debts and every little darling piece of furniture paid up." "We--I'm going to pay it, too." "And my Jimmie is going to work to get himself promoted and quit being a sorehead at his steady hours and all." "I know more about selling, honey, than the whole bunch of dubs in that store put together if they'd give me a chance to prove it." She laid her palm to his lips. "'Shh-h-h! You don't nothing of the kind. It's not conceit, it's work is going to get my boy his raise." "If they'd listen to me, that department would--" "'Shh-h! J. G. Hoffheimer don't have to get pointers from Jimmie Batch how to run his department store." "There you go again. What's J. G. Hoffheimer got that I 'ain't? Luck and a few dollars in his pocket that, if I had in mine, would-- "It was his own grit put those dollars there, Jimmie. Just put it out of your head that it's luck makes a self-made man." "Self-made! You mean things just broke right for him. That's two-thirds of this self-made business." "You mean he buckled right down to brass tacks, and that's what my boy is going to do." "The trouble with this world is it takes money to make money. Get your first few dollars, I always say, no matter how, and then when you're on your feet scratch your conscience if it itches. That's why I said in the beginning, if we had took that hundred and ninety furniture money and staked it on--" "Jimmie, please--please! You wouldn't want to take a girl's savings of years and years to gamble on a sporty cigar proposition with a card-room in the rear. You wouldn't, Jimmie. You ain't that kind of fellow. Tell me you wouldn't, Jimmie." He turned away to dive down into the barrel. "Naw," he said, "I wouldn't." The sun had receded, leaving a sudden sullen gray, the little square room, littered with an upheaval of excelsior, sheet-shrouded furniture, and the paperhanger's paraphernalia and inimitable smells, darkening and seeming to chill. "We got to quit now, Jimmie. It's getting dark and the gas ain't turned on in the meter yet." He rose up out of the barrel, holding out at arm's-length what might have been a tinsmith's version of a porcupine. "What in--What's this thing that scratched me?" She danced to take it. "It's a grater, a darling grater for horseradish and nutmeg and cocoanut. I'm going to fix you a cocoanut cake for our honeymoon supper to-morrow night, honey-bee. Essie Wohlgemuth over in the cake-demonstrating department is going to bring me the recipe. Cocoanut cake! And I'm going to fry us a little steak in this darling little skillet. Ain't it the cutest!" "Cute she calls a tin skillet." "Look what's pasted on it. 'Little Housewife's Skillet. The Kitchen Fairy.' That's what I'm going to be, Jimmie, the kitchen fairy. Give me that. It's a rolling-pin. All my life I've wanted a rolling-pin. Look, honey, a little string to hang it up by. I'm going to hang everything up in rows. It's going to look like Tiffany's kitchen, all shiny. Give me, honey; that's an egg-beater. Look at it whiz. And this--this is a pan for war bread. I'm going to make us war bread to help the soldiers." "You're a little soldier yourself," he said. "That's what I would be if I was a man, a soldier all in brass buttons." "There's a bunch of the fellows going," said Mr. Batch, standing at the window, looking out over roofs, dilly-dallying up and down on his heels and breaking into a low, contemplative whistle. She was at his shoulder, peering over it. "You wouldn't be afraid, would you, Jimmie?" "You bet your life I wouldn't." She was tiptoes now, her arms creeping up to him. "Only my boy's got a wife--a brand-new wifie to support, 'ain't he?" "That's what he has," said Mr. Batch, stroking her forearm, but still gazing through and beyond whatever roofs he was seeing. "Jimmie!" "Huh?" "Look! We got a view of the Hudson River from our flat, just like we lived on Riverside Drive." "All the Hudson River I can see is fifteen smoke-stacks and somebody's wash-line out." "It ain't so. We got a grand view. Look! Stand on tiptoe, Jimmie, like me. There, between that water-tank on that black roof over there and them two chimneys. See? Watch my finger. A little stream of something over there that moves." "No, I don't see." "Look, honey-bee, close! See that little streak?" "All right, then, if you see it I see it." "To think we got a river view from our flat! It's like living in the country. I'll peek out at it all day long. God! honey, I just never will be over the happiness of being done with basements." "It was swell of old Higgins to give us this half-Saturday. It shows where you stood with the management, Gert--this and a five-dollar gold piece. Lord knows they wouldn't pony up that way if it was me getting married by myself." "It's because my boy 'ain't shown them down there yet the best that's in him. You just watch his little safety-first wife see to it that from now on he keeps up her record of never in seven years punching the time-clock even one minute late, and that he keeps his stock shelves O. K. and shows his department he's a comer-on." "With that bunch of boobs a fellow's got a swell chance to get anywheres." "It's getting late, Jimmie. It don't look nice for us to stay here so late alone, not till--to-morrow. Ruby and Essie and Charley are going to meet us in the minister's back parlor at ten sharp in the morning. We can be back here by noon and get the place cleared enough to give 'em a little lunch--just a fun lunch without fixings." "I hope the old guy don't waste no time splicing us. It's one of the things a fellow likes to have over with." "Jimmie! Why, it's the most beautiful thing in the world, like a garden of lilies or--or something, a marriage ceremony is! You got the ring safe, honey-bee, and the license?" "Pinned in my pocket where you put 'em, Flirty Gertie." "Flirty Gertie! Now you'll begin teasing me with that all our life--the way I didn't slap your face that night when I should have. I just couldn't have, honey. Goes to show we were just cut and dried for each other, don't it? Me, a girl that never in her life let a fellow even bat his eyes at her without an introduction. But that night when you winked, honey--something inside of me just winked back." "My girl!" "You mean it, boy? You ain't sorry about nothing, Jimmie?" "Sorry? Well, I guess not!" "You saw the way--she--May--you saw for yourself what she was, when we saw her walking, that next night after Ceiner's, nearly staggering, up Sixth Avenue with Budge Evans." "I never took any stock in her, honey. I was just letting her like me." She sat back on the box edge, regarding him, her face so soft and wont to smile that she could not keep her composure. "Get me my hat and coat, honey. We'll walk down. Got the key?" They skirmished in the gloom, moving through slit-like aisles of furniture and packing-box. "Ouch!" "Oh, the running water is hot, Jimmie, just like the ad said! We got red-hot running water in our flat. Close the front windows, honey. We don't want it to rain in on our new green sofa. Not 'til it's paid for, anyways." "Hurry." "I'm ready." They met at the door, kissing on the inside and the outside of it; at the head of the fourth, third, and the second balustrade down. "We'll always make 'em little love landings, Jimmie, so we can't ever get tired climbing them." "Yep." Outside there was still a pink glow in a clean sky. The first flush of spring in the air had died, leaving chill. They walked briskly, arm in arm, down the asphalt incline of sidewalk leading from their apartment house, a new street of canned homes built on a hillside--the sepulchral abode of the city's trapped whose only escape is down the fire-escape, and then only when the alternative is death. At the base of the hill there flows, in constant hubbub, a great up-and-down artery of street, repeating itself, mile after mile, in terms of the butcher, the baker, and the "every-other-corner drug-store of a million dollar corporation". Housewives with perambulators and oil-cloth shopping bags. Children on rollerskates. The din of small tradesmen and the humdrum of every city block where the homes remain unbearded all summer and every wife is on haggling terms with the purveyor of her evening roundsteak and mess of rutabaga. Then there is the soap-box provender, too, sure of a crowd, offering creed, propaganda, patent medicine, and politics. It is the pulpit of the reformer and the housetop of the fanatic, this soapbox. From it the voice to the city is often a pious one, an impious one, and almost always a raucous one. Luther and Sophocles, and even a Citizen of Nazareth made of the four winds of the street corner the walls of a temple of wisdom. What more fitting acropolis for freedom of speech than the great out-of-doors! Turning from the incline of cross-street into this petty Baghdad of the petty wise, the voice of the street corner lifted itself above the inarticulate din of the thoroughfare. A youth, thewed like an ox, surmounted on a stack of three self provided canned-goods boxes, his in-at-the-waist silhouette thrown out against a sky that was almost ready to break out in stars; a crowd tightening about him. "It's a soldier boy talkin', Gert." "If it ain't!" They tiptoed at the fringe of the circle, heads back. "Look, Gert, he's a lieutenant; he's got a shoulder-bar. And those four down there holding the flags are just privates. You can always tell a lieutenant by the bar." "Uh-huh." "Say, them boys do stack up some for Uncle Sam." "'Shh-h-h, Jimmie!" "I'm here to tell you that them boys stack up some." A banner stiffened out in the breeze, Mr. Batch reading: "Enlist before you are drafted. Last chance to beat the draft. Prove your patriotism. Enlist now! Your country calls!" "Come on," said Mr. Batch. "Wait. I want to hear what he's saying." "... there's not a man here before me can afford to shirk his duty to his country. The slacker can't get along without his country, but his country can very easily get along without him." Cheers. "The poor exemption boobs are already running for doctors' certificates and marriage licenses, but even if they get by with it--and it is ninety-nine to one they won't--they can't run away from their own degradation and shame." "Come on, Jimmie." "Wait." "Men of America, for every one of you who tries to dodge his duty to his country there is a yellow streak somewhere underneath the hide of you. Women of America, every one of you that helps to foster the spirit of cowardice in your particular man or men is helping to make a coward. It's the cowards and the quitters and the slackers and dodgers that need this war more than the patriotic ones who are willing to buckle on and go! "Don't be a buttonhole patriot! A government that is good enough to live under is good enough to fight under!" Cheers. "If there is any reason on earth has manifested itself for this devastating and terrible war it is that it has been a maker of men. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am back from four months in the trenches with the French army, and I've come home, now that my own country is at war, to give her every ounce of energy I've got to offer. As soon as a hole in my side is healed up. I'm going back to those trenches, and I want to say to you that them four months of mine face to face with life and with death have done more for me than all my twenty-four civilian years put together." Cheers. "I'll be a different man, if I live to come back home after this war and take up my work again as a draftsman. Why, I've seen weaklings and self-confessed failures and even ninnies go into them trenches and come out--oh yes, plenty of them do come out--men. Men that have got close enough down to the facts of things to feel new realizations of what life means come over them. Men that have gotten back their pep, their ambitions, their unselfishness. That's what war can do for your men, you women who are helping them to foster the spirit of holding back, of cheating their government. That's what war can do for your men. Make of them the kind of men who some day can face their children without having to hang their heads. Men who can answer for their part in making the world a safe place for democracy." An hour they stood there, the air quieting but chilling, and lavishly sown stars cropping out. Street lights had come out, too, throwing up in ever darker relief the figure above the heads of the crowd. His voice had coarsened and taken on a raw edge, but every gesture was flung from the socket, and from where they had forced themselves into the tight circle Gertie Slayback, her mouth fallen open and her head still back, could see the sinews of him ripple under khaki and the diaphragm lift for voice. There was a shift of speakers then, this time a private, still too rangy, but his looseness of frame seeming already to conform to the exigency of uniform. "Come on, Jimmie. I--I'm cold." They worked out into the freedom of the sidewalk, and for ten minutes, down blocks of petty shops already lighted, walked in a silence that grew apace. He was suddenly conscious that she was crying, quietly, her handkerchief wadded against her mouth. He strode on with a scowl and his head bent. "Let's sit down in this little park, Jimmie. I'm tired." They rested on a bench on one of those small triangles of breathing space which the city ekes out now and then; mill ends of land parcels. He took immediately to roving the toe of his shoe in and out among the gravel. She stole out her hand to his arm. "Well, Jimmie?" Her voice was in the gauze of a whisper that hardly left her throat. "Well, what?" he said, still toeing. "There--there's a lot of things we never thought about, Jimmie." "Aw!" "Eh, Jimmie?" "You mean _you_ never thought about it?" "What do you mean?" "I know what I mean alrighty." "I--I was the one that suggested it, Jimmie, but--but you fell in. I--I just couldn't bear to think of it, Jimmie--your going and all. I suggested it, but--but you fell in." "Say, when a fellow's shoved he falls. I never gave a thought to sneaking an exemption until it was put in my head. I'd smash the fellow in the face that calls me coward, I will." "You could have knocked me down with a feather, Jimmie, looking at it his way all of a sudden." "You couldn't knock me down. Don't think I was ever strong enough for the whole business. I mean the exemption part. I wasn't going to say anything. What's the use, seeing the way you had your heart set on--on things? But the whole business, if you want to know it, went against my grain. I'll smash the fellow in the face that calls me coward." "I know, Jimmie; you--you're right. It was me suggested hurrying things like this. Sneakin'! Oh, God! ain't I the messer-up!" "Lay easy, girl. I'm going to see it through. I guess there's been fellows before me and will be after me who have done worse. I'm going to see it through. All I got to say is I'll smash up the fellow calls me coward. Come on, forget it. Let's go." She was close to him, her cheek crinkled against his with the frank kind of social unconsciousness the park bench seems to engender. "Come on, Gert. I got a hunger on." '"Shh-h-h, Jimmie! Let me think. I'm thinking." "Too much thinking killed a cat. Come on." "Jimmie!" "Huh?" "Jimmie--would you--had you ever thought about being a soldier?" "Sure. I came in an ace of going into the army that time after--after that little Central Street trouble of mine. I've got a book in my trunk this minute on military tactics. Wouldn't surprise me a bit to see me land in the army some day." "It's a fine thing, Jimmie, for a fellow--the army." "Yeh, good for what ails him." She drew him back, pulling at his shoulder so that finally he faced her. "Jimmie!" "Huh?" "I got an idea." "Shoot." "You remember once, honey-bee, how I put it to you that night at Ceiner's how, if it was for your good, no sacrifice was too much to make." "Forget it." "You didn't believe it." "Aw, say now, what's the use digging up ancient history?" "You'd be right, Jimmie, not to believe it. I haven't lived up to what I said." "Oh Lord, honey! What's eating you now? Come to the point." She would not meet his eyes, turning her head from him to hide lips that would quiver. "Honey, it--it ain't coming off--that's all. Not now--anyways." "What ain't?" "Us." "Who?" "You know what I mean, Jimmie. It's like everything the soldier boy on the corner just said. I--I saw you getting red clear behind your ears over it. I--I was, too, Jimmie. It's like that soldier boy was put there on that corner just to show me, before it was too late, how wrong I been in every one of my ways. Us women who are helping to foster slackers. That's what we're making of them--slackers for life. And here I been thinking it was your good I had in mind, when all along it's been mine. That's what it's been, mine!" "Aw, now, Gert--" "You got to go, Jimmie. You got to go, because you want to go and--because I want you to go." "Where?" "To war." He took hold of her two arms because they were trembling. "Aw, now, Gert, I didn't say anything complaining. I--" "You did, Jimmie, you did, and--and I never was so glad over you that you did complain. I just never was so glad. I want you to go, Jimmie. I want you to go and get a man made out of you. They'll make a better job out of you than ever I can. I want you to get the yellow streak washed out. I want you to get to be all the things he said you would. For every line he was talking up there, I could see my boy coming home to me some day better than anything I could make out of him, babying him the way I can't help doing. I could see you, honey-bee, coming back to me with the kind of lift to your head a fellow has when he's been fighting to make the world a safe place for dem--for whatever it was he said. I want you to go, Jimmie. I want you to beat the draft, too. Nothing on earth can make me not want you to go." "Why, Gert--you're kiddin'!" "Honey, you want to go, don't you? You want to square up those shoulders and put on khaki, don't you? Tell me you want to go!" "Why--why, yes, Gert, if--" "Oh, you're going, Jimmie! You're going!" "Why, girl--you're crazy! Our flat! Our furniture--our--" "What's a flat? What's furniture? What's anything? There's not a firm in business wouldn't take back a boy's furniture--a boy's everything--that's going out to fight for--for dem-o-cracy! What's a flat? What's anything?" He let drop his head to hide his eyes. Do you know it is said that on the Desert of Sahara, the slope of Sorrento, and the marble of Fifth Avenue the sun can shine whitest? There is an iridescence to its glittering on bleached sand, blue bay, and Carrara façade that is sheer light distilled to its utmost. On one such day when, standing on the high slope of Fifth Avenue where it rises toward the Park, and looking down on it, surging to and fro, it was as if, so manifest the brilliancy, every head wore a tin helmet, parrying sunlight at a thousand angles of refraction. Parade-days, all this glittering midstream is swept to the clean sheen of a strip of moire, this splendid desolation blocked on each side by crowds half the density of the sidewalk. On one of these sun-drenched Saturdays dedicated by a growing tradition to this or that national expression, the Ninety-ninth Regiment, to a flare of music that made the heart leap out against its walls, turned into a scene thus swept clean for it, a wave of olive drab, impeccable row after impeccable row of scissors-like legs advancing. Recruits, raw if you will, but already caparisoned, sniffing and scenting, as it were, for the great primordial mire of war. There is no state of being so finely sensitized as national consciousness. A gauntlet down and it surges up. One ripple of a flag defended can goose-flesh a nation. How bitter and how sweet it is to give a soldier! To the seething kinetic chemistry of such mingling emotions there were women who stood in the frontal crowds of the sidewalks stifling hysteria, or ran after in terror at sight of one so personally hers, receding in that great impersonal wave of olive drab. And yet the air was martial with banner and with shout. And the ecstasy of such moments is like a dam against reality, pressing it back. It is in the pompless watches of the night or of too long days that such dams break, excoriating. For the thirty blocks of its course Gertie Slayback followed that wave of men, half run and half walk. Down from the curb, and at the beck and call of this or that policeman up again, only to find opportunity for still another dive out from the invisible roping off of the sidewalk crowds. From the middle of his line, she could see, sometimes, the tail of Jimmie Batch's glance roving for her, but to all purports his eye was solely for his own replica in front of him, and at such times, when he marched, his back had a little additional straightness that was almost swayback. Nor was Gertie Slayback crying. On the contrary, she was inclined to laughter. A little too inclined to a high and brittle sort of dissonance over which she seemed to have no control. "'By, Jimmie! So long! Jimmie! You-hoo!" Tramp. Tramp. Tramp-tramp-tramp. "You-hoo! Jimmie! So long, Jimmie!" At Fourteenth Street, and to the solemn stroke of one from a tower, she broke off suddenly without even a second look back, dodging under the very arms of the crowd as she ran out from it. She was one and three-quarter minutes late when she punched the time-clock beside the Complaints and Adjustment Desk in the Bargain-Basement. II SIEVE OF FULFILMENT How constant a stream is the runnel of men's small affairs! Dynasties may totter and half the world bleed to death, but one or the other corner _pâtisserie_ goes on forever. At a moment when the shadow of world-war was over the country like a pair of black wings lowering Mrs. Harry Ross, who swooned at the sight of blood from a penknife scratch down the hand of her son, but yawned over the head-line statistics of the casualties at Verdun, lifted a lid from a pot that exuded immediate savory fumes, prodded with a fork at its content, her concern boiled down to deal solely with stew. An alarm-clock on a small shelf edged in scalloped white oilcloth ticked with spick-and-span precision into a kitchen so correspondingly spick and span that even its silence smelled scoured, rows of tins shining into it. A dun-colored kind of dusk, soot floating in it, began to filter down the air-shaft, dimming them. Mrs. Ross lowered the shade and lighted the gas-jet. So short that in the long run she wormed first through a crowd, she was full of the genial curves that, though they bespoke three lumps in her coffee in an elevator and escalator age, had not yet reached uncongenial proportions. In fact, now, brushing with her bare forearm across her moistly pink face, she was like Flora, who, rather than fade, became buxom. A door slammed in an outer hall, as she was still stirring and looking down into the stew. "Edwin!" "Yes, mother." "Don't track through the parlor." "Aw!" "You hear me?" "I yain't! Gee, can't a feller walk?" "Put your books on the hat-rack." "I am." She supped up bird-like from the tip of her spoon, smacking for flavor. "I made you an asafetida-bag, Edwin, it's in your drawer. Don't you leave this house to-morrow without it on." "Aw-w-w-w-w!" "It don't smell." "Where's my stamp-book?" "On your table, where it belongs." "Gee whiz! if you got my Argentine stamps mixed!" "Get washed." "Where's my batteries?" "Under your bed, where they belong." "I'm hungry." "Your father'll be home any minute now. Don't spoil your appetite." "I got ninety in manual training, mother." "Did yuh, Edwin?" "All the other fellows only got seventy and eighty." "Mamma's boy leads 'em." He entered at that, submitting to a kiss upon an averted cheek. "See what mother's fixed for you!" "M-m-m-m! fritters!" "Don't touch!" "M-m-m-m--lamb stew!" "I shopped all morning to get okra to go in it for your father." "M-m-m-m-m!" She tiptoed up to kiss him again, this time at the back of the neck, carefully averting her floury hands. "Mamma's boy! I made you three pen-wipers to-day out of the old red table-cover." "Aw, fellers don't use pen-wipers!" He set up a jiggling, his great feet coming down with a clatter. "Stop!" "Can't I jig?" "No; not with neighbors underneath." He flopped down, hooking his heels in the chair-rung. At sixteen's stage of cruel hazing into man's estate Edwin Ross, whose voice, all in a breath, could slip up from the quality of rock in the drilling to the more brittle octave of early-morning milk-bottles, wore a nine shoe and a thirteen collar. His first long trousers were let down and taken in. His second taken up and let out. When shaving promised to become a manly accomplishment, his complexion suddenly clouded, postponing that event until long after it had become a hirsute necessity. When he smiled apoplectically above his first waistcoat and detachable collar, his Adam's apple and his mother's heart fluttered. "Blow-cat Dennis is going to City College." "Who's he?" "A feller." "Quit crackin' your knuckles." "He only got seventy in manual training." "Tell them things to your father, Edwin; I 'ain't got the say-so." "His father's only a bookkeeper, too, and they live 'way up on a Hundred and Forty-fourth near Third." "I'm willing to scrimp and save for it, Edwin; but in the end I haven't got the say-so, and you know it." "The boys that are going to college got to register now for the High School College Society." "Your father, Edwin, is the one to tell that to." "Other fellers' mothers put in a word for 'em." "I do, Edwin; you know I do! It only aggravates him--There's papa now, Edwin, coming in. Help mamma dish up. Put this soup at papa's place and this at yours. There's only two plates left from last night." In Mrs. Ross's dining-room, a red-glass dome, swung by a chain over the round table, illuminated its white napery and decently flowered china. Beside the window looking out upon a gray-brick wall almost within reach, a canary with a white-fluted curtain about the cage dozed headless. Beside that window, covered in flowered chintz, a sewing-machine that could collapse to a table; a golden-oak sideboard laid out in pressed glassware. A homely simplicity here saved by chance or chintz from the simply homely. Mr. Harry Ross drew up immediately beside the spread table, jerking open his newspaper and, head thrown back, read slantingly down at the head-lines. "Hello, pop!" "Hello, son!" "Watch out!" "Hah--that's the stuff! Don't spill!" He jammed the newspaper between his and the chair back, shoving in closer to the table. He was blond to ashiness, so that the slicked-back hair might or might not be graying. Pink-shaved, unlined, nose-glasses polished to sparkle, he was ten years his wife's senior and looked those ten years younger. Clerks and clergymen somehow maintain that youth of the flesh, as if life had preserved them in alcohol or shaving-lotion. Mrs. Ross entered then in her crisp but faded house dress, her round, intent face still moistly pink, two steaming dishes held out. He did not rise, but reached up to kiss her as she passed. "Burnt your soup a little to-night, mother." She sat down opposite, breathing deeply outward, spreading her napkin out across her lap. "It was Edwin coming in from school and getting me worked up with his talk about--about--" "What?" "Nothing. Edwin, run out and bring papa the paprika to take the burnt taste out. I turned all the cuffs on your shirts to-day, Harry." "Lordy! if you ain't fixing at one thing, you're fixing another." "Anything new?" He was well over his soup now, drinking in long draughts from the tip of his spoon. "News! In A. E. Unger's office, a man don't get his nose far enough up from the ledger to even smell news." "I see Goldfinch & Goetz failed." "Could have told 'em they'd go under, trying to put on a spectacular show written in verse. That same show boiled down to good Forty-second Street lingo with some good shapes and a proposition like Alma Zitelle to lift it from poetry to punch has a world of money in it for somebody. A war spectacular show filled with sure-fire patriotic lines, a bunch of show-girl battalions, and a figure like Alma Zitelle's for the Goddess of Liberty--a world of money, I tell you!" "Honest, Harry?" "That trench scene they built for that show is as fine a contrivance as I've ever seen of the kind. What did they do? Set it to a lot of music without a hum or a ankle in it. A few classy nurses like the Mercy Militia Sextet, some live, grand-old-flag tunes by Harry Mordelle, and there's a half a million dollars in that show. Unger thinks I'm crazy when I try to get him interested, but I--" "I got ninety in manual training to-day, pop." "That's good, son. Little more of that stew, mother?" "Unger isn't so smart, honey, he can't afford to take a tip off you once in a while: you've proved that to him." "Yes, but go tell him so." "He'll live to see the day he's got to give you credit for being the first to see money in 'Pan-America.'" "Credit? Huh! to hear him tell it, he was born with that idea in his bullet head." "I'd like to hear him say it to me, if ever I lay eyes on him, that it wasn't you who begged him to get into it." "I'll show 'em some day in that office that I can pick the winners for myself, as well as for the other fellow. Believe me, Unger hasn't raised me to fifty a week for my fancy bookkeeping, and he knows it, and, what's more, he knows I know he knows it." "The fellers that are goin' to college next term have to register for the High School College Society, pop--dollar dues." "Well, you aren't going to college, and that's where you and I save a hundred cents on the dollar. Little more gravy, mother." The muscles of Edwin's face relaxed, his mouth dropping to a pout, the crude features quivering. "Aw, pop, a feller nowadays without a college education don't stand a show." "He don't, don't he? I know one who will." Edwin threw a quivering glance to his mother and gulped through a constricted throat. "Mother says I--I can go if only you--" "Your mother'd say you could have the moon, too, if she had to climb a greased pole to get it. She'd start weaving door-mats for the Cingalese Hottentots if she thought they needed 'em." "But, Harry, he--" "Your mother 'ain't got the bills of this shebang to worry about, and your mother don't mind having a college sissy a-laying around the house to support five years longer. I do." "It's the free City College, pop." "You got a better education now than nine boys out of ten. If you ain't man enough to want to get out after four years of high school and hustle for a living, you got to be shown the way out. I started when I was in short pants, and you're no better than your father. Your mother sold notions and axle-grease in an up-State general store up to the day she married. Now cut out the college talk you been springing on me lately. I won't have it--you hear? You're a poor man's son, and the sooner you make up your mind to it the better. Pass the chow-chow, mother." Nervousness had laid hold of her so that in and out among the dishes her hand trembled. "You see, Harry, it's the free City College, and--" "I know that free talk. So was high school free when you talked me into it, but if it ain't one thing it's been another. Cadet uniform, football suit--" "The child's got talent for invention, Harry; his manual-training teacher told me his air-ship model was--" "I got ninety in manual training when the other fellers only got seventy." "I guess you're looking for another case like your father, sitting penniless around the house, tinkering on inventions up to the day he died." "Pa never had the business push, Harry. You know yourself his churn was ready for the market before the Peerless beat him in on it." "Well, your son is going to get the business push trained into him. No boy of mine with a poor daddy eats up four years of his life and my salary training to be a college sissy. That's for the rich men's sons. That's for the Clarence Ungers." "I'll pay it back some day, pop; I--." "They all say that." "If it's the money, Harry, maybe I can--" "If it didn't cost a cent, I wouldn't have it. Now cut it out--you hear? Quick!" Edwin Ross pushed back from the table, struggling and choking against impending tears. "Well, then, I--I--" "And no shuffling of feet, neither!" "He didn't shuffle, Harry; it's just his feet growing so fast he can't manage them." "Well, just the samey, I--I ain't going into the theayter business. I--I--" Mr. Ross flung down his napkin, facing him. "You're going where I put you, young man. You're going to get the right kind of a start that I didn't get in the biggest money-making business in the world." "I won't. I'll get me a job in an aeroplane-factory." His father's palm came down with a small crash, shivering the china. "By Gad! you take that impudence out of your voice to me or I'll rawhide it out!" "Harry!" "Leave the table!" "Harry, he's only a child--" "Go to your room!" His heavy, unformed lips now trembling frankly against the tears he tried so furiously to resist, Edwin charged with lowered head from the room, sobs escaping in raw gutturals. Mr. Ross came back to his plate, breathing heavily, fist, with a knife upright in it, coming down again on the table, his mouth open, to facilitate labored breathing. "By Heaven! I'll cowhide that boy to his senses! I've never laid hand on him yet, but he ain't too old. I'll get him down to common sense, if I got to break a rod over him." Handkerchief against trembling lips, Mrs. Ross looked after the vanished form, eyes brimming. "Harry, you--you're so rough with him." "I'll be rougher yet before I'm through." "He's only a--" "He's rewarding the way you scrimped to pay his expenses for nonsense clubs and societies by asking you to do it another four years. You're getting your thanks now. College! Well, not if the court knows it--" "He's got talent, Harry; his teacher says he--" "So'd your father have talent." "If pa hadn't lost his eye in the Civil War--" "I'm going to put my son's talent where I can see a future for it." "He's ambitious, Harry." "So'm I--to see my son trained to be something besides a looney inventor like his grandfather before him." "It's all I want in life, Harry, to see my two boys of you happy." "It's your woman-ideas I got to blame for this. I want you to stop, Millie, putting rich man's ideas in his head. You hear? I won't stand for it." "Harry, if--if it's the money, maybe I could manage--" "Yes--and scrimp and save and scrooge along without a laundress another four years, and do his washing and--" "I--could fix the money part, Harry--easy." He regarded her with his jaw dropped in the act of chewing. "By Gad! where do you plant it?" "It--it's the way I scrimp, Harry. Another woman would spend it on clothes or--a servant--or matinées. It ain't hard for a home body like me to save, Harry." He reached across the table for her wrist. "Poor little soul," he said, "you don't see day-light." "Let him go, Harry, if--if he wants it. I can manage the money." His scowl returned, darkening him. "No. A. E. Unger never seen the inside of a high school, much less a college, and I guess he's made as good a pile as most. I've worked for the butcher and the landlord all my life, and now I ain't going to begin being a slave to my boy. There's been two or three times in my life where, for want of a few dirty dollars to make a right start, I'd be, a rich man to-day. My boy's going to get that right start." "But, Harry, college will--" "I seen money in 'Pan-America' long before Unger ever dreamed of producing it. I sicked him onto 'The Official Chaperon' when every manager in town had turned it down. I went down and seen 'em doing 'The White Elephant' in a Yiddish theater and wired Unger out in Chicago to come back and grab it for Broadway. Where's it got me? Nowhere. Because I whiled away the best fifteen years of my life in an up-State burg, and then, when I came down here too late in life, got in the rut of a salaried man. Well, where it 'ain't got me it's going to get my son. I'm missing a chance, to-day that, mark my word, would make me a rich man but for want of a few--" "Harry, you mean that?" "My hunch never fails me." She was leaning across the table, her hands clasping its edge, her small, plump face even pinker. He threw out his legs beneath the table and sat back, hands deep in pockets, and a toothpick hanging limp from between lips that were sagging. "Gad! if I had my life to live over again as a salaried man, I'd--I'd hang myself first! The way to start a boy to a million dollars in this business is to start him young in the producing-end of a strong firm." "You--got faith in this Goldfinch & Goetz failure like you had in 'Pan-America' and 'The Chaperon,' Harry?" "I said it five years ago and it come to pass. I say it now. For want of a few dirty dollars I'm a poor man till I die." "How--many dollars, Harry?" "Don't make me say it, Millie--it makes me sick to my stummick. Three thousand dollars would buy the whole spectacle to save it from the storehouse. I tried Charley Ryan--he wouldn't risk a ten-spot on a failure." "Harry, I--oh, Harry--" "Why, mother, what's the matter? You been overworking again, ironing my shirts and collars when they ought to go to the laundry? You--" "Harry, what would you say if--if I was to tell you something?" "What is it, mother? You better get Annie in on Mondays. We 'ain't got any more to show without her than with her." "Harry, we--have!" "Well, you just had an instance of the thanks you get." "Harry, what--what would you say if I could let you have nearly all of that three thousand?" He regarded her above the flare of a match to his cigar-end. "Huh?" "If I could let you have twenty-six hundred seventeen dollars and about fifty cents of it?" He sat well up, the light reflecting in points off his polished glasses. "Mother, you're joking!" Her hands were out across the table now, almost reaching his, her face close and screwed under the lights. "When--when you lost out that time five years ago on 'Pan-America' and I seen how Linger made a fortune out of it, I says to myself, 'It can never happen again.' You remember the next January when you got your raise to fifty and I wouldn't move out of this flat, and instead gave up having Annie in, that was what I had in my head, Harry. It wasn't only for sending Edwin to high school; it was for--my other boy, too, Harry, so it couldn't happen again." "Millie, you mean--" "You ain't got much idea, Harry, of what I been doing. You don't know it, honey, but, honest, I ain't bought a stitch of new clothes for five years. You know I ain't, somehow--made friends for myself since we moved here." "It's the hard shell town of the world!" "You ain't had time, Harry, to ask yourself what becomes of the house allowance, with me stinting so. Why, I--I won't spend car fare, Harry, since 'Pan-America,' if I can help it. This meal I served up here t-night, with all the high cost of living, didn't cost us two thirds what it might if--if I didn't have it all figured up. Where do you think your laundry-money that I've been saving goes, Harry? The marmalade-money I made the last two Christmases? The velvet muff I made myself out of the fur-money you give me? It's all in the Farmers' Trust, Harry. With the two hundred and ten I had to start with five years ago, it's twenty-six hundred and seventeen dollars and fifty cents now. I've been saving it for this kind of a minute, Harry. When it got three thousand, I was going to tell you, anyways. Is that enough, Harry, to do the Goldfinch-Goetz spectacle on your own hook? Is it, Harry?" He regarded her in a heavy-jawed kind of stupefaction. "Woman alive!" he said. "Great Heavens, woman alive!" "It's in the bank, waiting, Harry--all for you." "Why, Millie, I--I don't know what to say." "I want you to have it, Harry. It's yours. Out of your pocket, back into it. You got capital to start with now." "I--Why, I can't take that money, Millie, from you!" "From your wife? When she stinted and scrimped and saved on shoe-leather for the happiness of it?" "Why, this is no sure thing I got on the brain." "Nothing is." "I got nothing but my own judgment to rely on." "You been right three times, Harry." "There's not as big a gamble in the world as the show business. I can't take your savings, mother." "Harry, if--if you don't, I'll tear it up. It's what I've worked for. I'm too tired, Harry, to stand much. If you don't take it, I--I'm too tired, Harry, to stand it." "But, mother--" "I couldn't stand it, I tell you," she said, the tears now bursting and flowing down over her cheeks. "Why, Millie, you mustn't cry! I 'ain't seen you cry in years. Millie! my God! I can't get my thoughts together! Me to own a show after all these years; me to--" "Don't you think it means something to me, too, Harry?" "I can't lose, Millie. Even if this country gets drawn into the war, there's a mint of money in that show as I see it. It'll help the people. The people of this country need to have their patriotism tickled." "All my life, Harry, I've wanted a gold-mesh bag with a row of sapphires and diamonds across the top--" "I'm going to make it the kind of show that 'Dixie' was a song--" "And a gold-colored bird-of-paradise for a black-velvet hat, all my life, Harry--" "With Alma Zitelle in the part--" "Is it her picture I found in your drawer the other day, Harry, cut out from a Sunday newspaper?" "One and the same. I been watching her. There's a world of money in that woman, whoever she is. She's eccentric and they make her play straight, but if I could get hold of her--My God! Millie, I--I can't believe things!" She rose, coming round to lay her arms across his shoulders. "We'll be rich, maybe, Harry--" "I've picked the winners for the other fellows every time, Mil." "Anyhow, it's worth the gamble, Harry." "I got a nose for what the people want. I've never been able to prove it from a high stool, but I'll show 'em now--by God! I'll show 'em now!" He sprang up, pulling the white table-cloth awry and folding her into his embrace. "I'll show 'em." She leaned from him, her two hands against his chest, head thrown back and eyes up to him. "We--can educate our boy, then, Harry, like--like a rich man's son." "We ain't rich yet." "Promise me, Harry, if we are--promise me that, Harry. It's the only promise I ask out of it. Whatever comes, if we win or lose, our boy can have college if he wants." He held her close, his head up and gazing beyond her. "With a rich daddy my boy can go to college like the best of 'em." "Promise me that, Harry." "I promise, Millie." He released her then, feeling for an envelope in an inner pocket, and, standing there above the disarrayed dinner-table, executed some rapid figures across the back of it. She stood for a moment regarding him, hands pressed against the sting of her cheeks, tears flowing down over her smile. Then she took up the plate of cloying fritters and tiptoed out, opening softly the door to a slit of a room across the hall. In the patch of light let in by that opened door, drawn up before a small table, face toward her ravaged with recent tears, and lips almost quivering, her son lay in the ready kind of slumber youth can bring to any woe. She tiptoed up beside him, placing the plate of fritters back on a pile of books, let her hands run lightly over his hair, kissed him on each swollen lid. "My son! My little boy! My little boy!" Where Broadway leaves off its roof-follies and its water-dancing, its eighty-odd theaters and its very odd Hawaiian cabarets, upper Broadway, widening slightly, takes up its macadamized rush through the city in block-square apartment-houses, which rise off plate-glass foundations of the de-luxe greengrocer shops, the not-so-green beauty-parlors, and the dyeing-and-cleaning, automobile-supplies, and confectionery establishments of middle New York. In a no-children-allowed, swimming-pool, electric-laundry, roof-garden, dogs'-playground, cold-storage apartment most recently erected on a block-square tract of upper Broadway, belonging to and named after the youngest scion of an ancestor whose cow-patches had turned to kingdoms, the fifteenth layer of this gigantic honeycomb overlooked from its seventeen outside windows the great Babylonian valley of the city, the wide blade of the river shining and curving slightly like an Arabian dagger, and the embankment of New Jersey's Palisades piled against the sky with the effect of angry horizon. Nights, viewed from one of the seventeen windows, it was as if the river flowed under a sullen sheath which undulated to its curves. On clear days it threw off light like parrying steel in sunshine. Were days when, gazing out toward it, Mrs. Ross, whose heart was like a slow ache of ever-widening area, could almost feel its laving quality and, after the passage of a tug- or pleasure-boat, the soothing folding of the water down over and upon itself. Often, with the sun setting pink and whole above the Palisades, the very copper glow which was struck off the water would beat against her own west windows, and, as if smarting under the brilliance, tears would come, sometimes staggering and staggering down, long after the glow was cold. With such a sunset already waned, and the valley of unrest fifteen stories below popping out into electric signs and the red danger-lanterns of streets constantly in the remaking, Mrs. Harry Ross, from the corner window of her seventeen, looked down on it from under lids that were rimmed in red. Beneath the swirl of a gown that lay in an iridescent avalanche of sequins about her feet, her foot, tilted to an unbelievable hypothenuse off a cloth-of-silver heel, beat a small and twinkling tattoo, her fingers tattooing, too, along the chair-sides. How insidiously do the years nibble in! how pussy-footed and how cocksure the crow's-feet! One morning, and the first gray hair, which has been turning from the cradle, arrives. Another, the mirror shows back a sag beneath the eyes. That sag had come now to Mrs. Ross, giving her eye-sockets a look of unconquerable weariness. The streak of quicksilver had come, too, but more successfully combated. The head lying back against the brocade chair was guilty of new gleams. Brass, with a greenish alloy. Sitting there with the look of unshed tears seeming to form a film over her gaze, it was as if the dusk, flowing into a silence that was solemnly shaped to receive it, folded her in, more and more obscuring her. A door opened at the far end of the room, letting in a patch of hall light and a dark figure coming into silhouette against it. "You there?" She sprang up. "Yes, Harry--yes." "Good Lord! sitting in the dark again!" He turned a wall key, three pink-shaded lamps, a cluster of pink-glass grapes, and a center bowl of alabaster flashing up the familiar spectacle of Louis Fourteenth and the interior decorator's turpitude; a deep-pink brocade divan backed up by a Circassian-walnut table with curly legs; a maze of smaller tables; a marble Psyche holding out the cluster of pink grapes; a gilt grand piano, festooned in rosebuds. Around through these Mr. Ross walked quickly, winding his hands, rubbing them. "Well, here I am!" "Had your supper--dinner, Harry?" "No. What's the idea calling me off when I got a business dinner on hand? What's the hurry call this time? I have to get back to it." She clasped her hands to her bare throat, swallowing with effort. "I--Harry--I--" "You've got to stop this kind of thing, Millie, getting nervous spells like all the other women do the minute they get ten cents in their pocket. I ain't got the time for it--that's all there is to it." "I can't help it, Harry. I think I must be going crazy. I can't stop myself. All of a sudden everything comes over me. I think I must be going crazy." Her voice jerked up to an off pitch, and he flung himself down on the deep-cushioned couch, his stiff expanse of dress shirt bulging and straining at the studs. A bit redder and stouter, too, he was constantly rearing his chin away from the chafing edge of his collar. "O Lord!" he said. "I guess I'm let in for some cutting-up again! Well, fire away and have it over with! What's eating you this time?" She was quivering so against sobs that her lips were drawn in against her teeth by the great draught of her breathing. "I can't stand it, Harry. I'm going crazy. I got to get relief. It's killing me--the lonesomeness--the waiting. I can't stand no more." He sat looking at a wreath of roses in the light carpet, lips compressed, beating with fist into palm. "Gad! I dunno! I give up. You're too much for me, woman." "I can't go on this way--the suspense--can't--can't." "I don't know what you want. God knows I give up! Thirty-eight-hundred-dollar-a-year apartment--more spending-money in a week than you can spend in a month. Clothes. Jewelry. Your son one of the high-fliers at college--his automobile--your automobile. Passes to every show in town. Gad! I can't help it if you turn it all down and sit up here moping and making it hot for me every time I put my foot in the place. I don't know what you want; you're one too many for me." "I can't stand--" "All of a sudden, out of a clear sky, she sends for me to come home. Second time in two weeks. No wonder, with your long face, your son lives mostly up at the college. I 'ain't got enough on my mind yet with the 'Manhattan Revue' opening to-morrow night. You got it too good, if you want to know it. That's what ails women when they get to cutting up like this." She was clasping and unclasping her hands, swaying, her eyes closed. "I wisht to God we was back in our little flat on a Hundred and Thirty-seventh Street. We was happy then. It's your success has lost you for me. I ought to known it, but--I--I wanted things so for you and the boy. It's your success has lost you for me. Back there, not a supper we didn't eat together like clockwork, not a night we didn't take a walk or--" "There you go again! I tell you, Millie, you're going to nag me with that once too often. Then ain't now. What you homesick for? Your poor-as-a-church-mouse days? I been pretty patient these last two years, feeling like a funeral every time I put my foot in the front door--" "It ain't often you put it in." "But, mark my word, you're going to nag me once too often!" "O God! Harry, I try to keep in! I know how wild it makes you--how busy you are, but--" "A man that's give to a woman heaven on earth like I have you! A man that started three years ago on nothing but nerve and a few dollars, and now stands on two feet, one of the biggest spectacle-producers in the business! By Gad! you're so darn lucky it's made a loon out of you! Get out more. Show yourself a good time. You got the means and the time. Ain't there no way to satisfy you?" "I can't do things alone all the time, Harry. I--I'm funny that way. I ain't a woman like that, a new-fangled one that can do things without her husband. It's the nights that kill me--the nights. The--all nights sitting here alone--waiting." "If you 'ain't learned the demands of my business by now, I'm not going over them again." "Yes; but not all--" "You ought to have some men to deal with. I'd like to see Mrs. Unger try to dictate to him how to run his business." "You've left me behind, Harry. I--try to keep up, but--I can't. I ain't the woman to naturally paint my hair this way. It's my trying to keep up, Harry, with you and--and--Edwin. These clothes--I ain't right in 'em, Harry; I know that. That's why I can't stand it. The suspense. The waiting up nights. I tell you I'm going crazy. Crazy with knowing I'm left behind." "I never told you to paint up your hair like a freak." "I thought, Harry--the color--like hers--it might make me seem younger--" "You thought! You're always thinking." She stood behind him now over the couch, her hand yearning toward but not touching him. "O God! Harry, ain't there no way I can please you no more--no way?" "You can please me by acting like a human being and not getting me home on wild-goose chases like this." "But I can't stand it, Harry! The quiet. Nobody to do for. You always gone. Edwin. The way the servants--laugh. I ain't smart enough, like some women. I got to show it--that my heart's breaking." "Go to matinées; go--" "Tell me how to make myself like Alma Zitelle to you, Harry. For God's sake, tell me!" He looked away from her, the red rising up above the rear of his collar. "You're going to drive me crazy desperate, too, some day, on that jealousy stuff. I'm trying to do the right thing by you and hold myself in, but--there's limits." "Harry, it--ain't jealousy. I could stand anything if I only knew. If you'd only come out with it. Not keep me sitting here night after night, when I know you--you're with her. It's the suspense, Harry, as much as anything is killing me. I could stand it, maybe, if I only knew. If I only knew!" He sprang up, wheeling to face her across the couch. "You mean that?" "Harry!" "Well, then, since you're the one wants it, since you're forcing me to it--I'll end your suspense, Millie. Yes. Let me go, Millie. There's no use trying to keep life in something that's dead. Let me go." She stood looking at him, cheeks cased in palms, and her sagging eye-sockets seeming to darken, even as she stared. "You--her--" "It happens every day, Millie. Man and woman grow apart, that's all. Your own son is man enough to understand that. Nobody to blame. Just happens." "Harry--you mean--" "Aw, now, Millie, it's no easier for me to say than for you to listen. I'd sooner cut off my right hand than put it up to you. Been putting it off all these months. If you hadn't nagged--led up to it, I'd have stuck it out somehow and made things miserable for both of us. It's just as well you brought it up. I--Life's life, Millie, and what you going to do about it?" A sound escaped her like the rising moan of a gale up a flue; then she sat down against trembling that seized her and sent ripples along the iridescent sequins. "Harry--Alma Zitelle--you mean--Harry?" "Now what's the use going into all that, Millie? What's the difference who I mean? It happened." "Harry, she--she's a common woman." "We won't discuss that." "She'll climb on you to what she wants higher up still. She won't bring you nothing but misery, Harry. I know what I'm saying; she'll--" "You're talking about something you know nothing about--you--" "I do. I do. You're hypnotized, Harry. It's her looks. Her dressing like a snake. Her hair. I can get mine fixed redder 'n hers, Harry. It takes a little time. Mine's only started to turn, Harry, is why it don't look right yet to you. This dress, it's from her own dressmaker. Harry--I promise you I can make myself like--her--I promise you, Harry--" "For God's sake, Millie, don't talk like--that! It's awful! What's those things got to do with it? It's--awful!" "They have, Harry. They have, only a man don't know it. She's a bad woman, Harry--she's got you fascinated with the way she dresses and does--" "We won't go into that." "We will. We will. I got the right. I don't have to let you go if I don't want to. I'm the mother of your son. I'm the wife that was good enough for you in the days when you needed her. I--" "You can't throw that up to me, Millie. I've squared that debt." "She'll throw you over, Harry, when I'll stand by you to the crack of doom. Take my word for it, Harry. O God! Harry, please take my word for it!" She closed her streaming eyes, clutching at his sleeve in a state beyond her control. "Won't you please? Please!" He toed the carpet. "I--I'd sooner be hit in the face, Millie, than--have this happen. Swear I would! But you see for yourself we--we can't go on this way." She sat for a moment, her stare widening above the palm clapped tightly against her mouth. "Then you mean, Harry, you want--you want a--a--" "Now, now, Millie, try to keep hold of yourself. You're a sensible woman. You know I'll do the right thing by you to any amount. You'll have the boy till he's of age, and after that, too, just as much as you want him. He'll live right here in the flat with you. Money's no object, the way I'm going to fix things. Why, Millie, compared to how things are now--you're going to be a hundred per cent, better off--without me." She fell to rocking herself in the straight chair. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" "Now, Millie, don't take it that way. I know that nine men out of ten would call me crazy to--to let go of a woman like you. But what's the use trying to keep life in something that's dead? It's because you're too good for me, Millie. I know that. You know that it's not because I think any less of you, or that I've forgot it was you who gave me my start. I'd pay you back ten times more if I could. I'm going to settle on you and the boy so that you're fixed for life. When he's of age, he comes into the firm half interest. There won't even be no publicity the way I'm going to fix things. Money talks, Millie. You'll get your decree without having to show your face to the public." "O God--he's got it all fixed--he's talked it all over with her! She--" "You--you wouldn't want to force something between you and me, Millie; that--that's just played out--" "I done it myself. I couldn't let well enough alone. I was ambitious for 'em. I dug my own grave. I done it myself. Done it myself!" "Now, Millie, you mustn't look at things that way. Why, you're the kind of a little woman all you got to have is something to mother over. I'm going to see to it that the boy is right here at home with you all the time. He can give up those rooms at the college--you got as fine a son as there is in the country, Millie--I'm going to see to it that he is right here at home with you--" "O God--my boy--my little boy--my little boy!" "The days are over, Millie, when this kind of thing makes any difference. If it was--the mother--it might be different, but where the father is--to blame--it don't matter with the boy. Anyways, he's nearly of age. I tell you, Millie, if you'll just look at this thing sensible--" "I--Let me think, let--me--think." Her tears had quieted now to little dry moans that came with regularity. She was still swaying in her chair, eyes closed. "You'll get your decree, Millie, without--." "Don't talk," she said, a frown lowering over her closed eyes and pressing two fingers against each temple. "Don't talk." He walked to the window in a state of great perturbation, stood pulling inward his lips and staring down into the now brilliantly lighted flow of Broadway. Turned into the room with short, hasty strides, then back again. Came to confront her. "Aw, now, Millie--Millie--" Stood regarding her, chewing backward and forward along his fingertips. "You--you see for yourself, Millie, what's dead can't be made alive--now, can it?" She nodded, acquiescing, her lips bitterly wry. "My lawyer, Millie, he'll fix it, alimony and all, so you won't--" "O God!" "Suppose I just slip away easy, Millie, and let him fix up things so it'll be easiest for us both. Send the boy down to see me to-morrow. He's old enough and got enough sense to have seen things coming. He knows. Suppose--I just slip out easy, Millie, for--for--both of us. Huh, Millie?" She nodded again, her lips pressed back against outburst. "If ever there was a good little woman, Millie, and one that deserves better than me, it's--" "Don't!" she cried. "Don't--don't--don't!" "I--" "Go--quick--now!" He hesitated, stood regarding her there in the chair, eyes squeezed closed like Iphigenia praying for death when exiled in Tauris. "Millie--I--" "Go!" she cried, the wail clinging to her lips. He felt round for his hat, his gaze obscured behind the shining glasses, tiptoed out round the archipelago of too much furniture, groped for the door-handle, turning it noiselessly, and stood for the instant looking back at her bathed in the rosy light and seated upright like a sleeping Ariadne; opened the door to a slit that closed silently after him. She sat thus for three hours after, the wail still uppermost on the silence. At ten o'clock, with a gust that swayed the heavy drapes, her son burst in upon the room, his stride kicking the door before he opened it. Six feet in his gymnasium shoes, and with a ripple of muscle beneath the well-fitting, well-advertised Campus Coat for College Men, he had emerged from the three years into man's complete estate, which, at nineteen, is that patch of territory at youth's feet known as "the world." Gray eyed, his dark lashes long enough to threaten to curl, the lean line of his jaw squaring after the manner of America's fondest version of her manhood, he was already in danger of fond illusions and fond mommas. "Hello, mother!" he said, striding quickly through the chairs and over to where she sat. "Edwin!" "Thought I'd sleep home to-night, mother." He kissed her lightly, perking up her shoulder butterflies of green sequins, and standing off to observe. "Got to hand it to my little mother for quiet and sumptuous el-e-gance! Some classy spangy-wangles!" He ran his hand against the lay of the sequins, absorbed in a conscious kind of gaiety. She moistened her lips, trying to smile. "Oh, boy," she said--"Edwin!"--holding to his forearm with fingers that tightened into it. "Mother," he said, pulling at his coat lapels with a squaring of shoulders, "you--you going to be a dead game little sport?" She was looking ahead now, abstraction growing in her white face. "Huh?" He fell into short strides up and down the length of the couch front. "I--I guess I might have mentioned it before, mother, but--but--oh, hang!--when a fellow's a senior it--it's all he can do to get home once in a while and--and--what's the use talking about a thing anyway before it breaks right, and--well, everybody knows it's up to us college fellows--college men--to lead the others and show our country what we're made of now that she needs us--eh, little dressed-up mother?" She looked up at him with the tremulous smile still trying to break through. "My boy can mix with the best of 'em." "That's not what I mean, mother." "You got to be twice to me what you been, darling--twice to me. Listen, darling. I--Oh, my God!" She was beating softly against his hand held in hers, her voice rising again, and her tears. "Listen, darling--" "Now, mother, don't go into a spell. The war is going to help you out on these lonesome fits, mother. Like Slawson put it to-day in Integral Calculus Four, war reduces the personal equation to its lowest terms--it's a matter of--." "I need you now, Edwin--O God! how I need you! There never was a minute in all these months since you've grown to understand how--it is between your father and me that I needed you so much--" "Mother, you mustn't make it harder for me to--tell you what I--" "I think maybe something has happened to me, Edwin. I can feel myself breathe all over--it's like I'm outside of myself somewhere--" "It's nervousness, mother. You ought to get out more. I'm going to get you some war-work to do, mother, that 'll make you forget yourself. Service is what counts these days!" "Edwin, it's come--he's leaving me--it--" "Speaking of service, I--I guess I might have mentioned it before, mother, but--but--when war was declared the other day, a--a bunch of us fellows volunteered for--for the university unit to France, and--well, I'm accepted, mother--to go. The lists went up to-night. I'm one of the twenty picked fellows." "France?" "We sail for Bordeaux for ambulance service the twentieth, mother. I was the fourth accepted with my qualifications--driving my own car and--and physical fitness. I'm going to France, mother, among the first to do my bit. I know a fellow got over there before we were in the war and worked himself into the air-fleet. That's what I want, mother, air service! They're giving us fellows credit for our senior year just the same. Bob Vandaventer and Clarence Unger and some of the fellows like that are in the crowd. Are you a dead-game sport, little mother, and not going to make a fuss--" "I--don't know. What--is--it--I--" "Your son at the front, mother, helping to make the world a safer place for democracy. Does a little mother with something like that to bank on have time to be miserable over family rows? You're going to knit while I'm gone. The busiest little mother a fellow ever had, doing her bit for her country! There's signs up all over the girls' campus: 'A million soldiers "out there" are needing wool jackets and chest-protectors. How many will you take care of?' You're going to be the busiest little mother a fellow ever had. You're going to stop making a fuss over me and begin to make a fuss over your country. We're going into service, mother!" "Don't leave me, Edwin! Baby darling, don't leave me! I'm alone! I'm afraid." "There, there, little mother," he said, patting at her and blinking, "I--Why--why, there's men come back from every war, and plenty of them. Good Lord! just because a fellow goes to the front, he--" "I got nothing left. Everything I've worked for has slipped through my life like sand through a sieve. My hands are empty. I've lost your father on the success I slaved for. I'm losing my boy on the fine ideas and college education I've slaved for. I--Don't leave me, Edwin. I'm afraid--Don't--" "Mother--I--Don't be cut up about it. I--" "Why should I give to this war? I ain't a fine woman with the fine ideas you learn at college. I ask so little of life--just some one who needs me, some one to do for. I 'ain't got any fine ideas about a son at war. Why should I give to what they're fighting for on the other side of the ocean? Don't ask me to give up my boy to what they're fighting for in a country I've never seen--my little boy I raised--my all I've got--my life! No! No!" "It's the women like you, mother--with guts--with grit--that send their sons to war." "I 'ain't got grit!" "You're going to have your hands so full, little mother, taking care of the Army and Navy, keeping their feet dry and their chests warm, that before you know it you'll be down at the pier some fine day watching us fellows come home from victory." "No--no--no!" "You're going to coddle the whole fighting front, making 'em sweaters and aviation sets out of a whole ton of wool I'm going to lay in the house for you. Time's going to fly for my little mother." "I'll kill myself first!" "You wouldn't have me a quitter, little mother. You wouldn't have the other fellows in my crowd at college go out and do what I haven't got the guts to do. You want me to hold up my head with the best of 'em." "I don't want nothing but my boy! I--" "Us college men got to be the first to show that the fighting backbone of the country is where it belongs. If us fellows with education don't set the example, what can we expect from the other fellows? Don't ask me to be a quitter, mother. I couldn't! I wouldn't! My country needs us, mother--you and me--" "Edwin! Edwin!" "Attention, little mother--stand!" She lay back her head, laughing, crying, sobbing, choking. "O God--take him and bring him back--to me!" On a day when sky and water were so identically blue that they met in perfect horizon, the S. S. _Rowena_, sleek-flanked, mounted fore and aft with a pair of black guns that lifted snouts slightly to the impeccable blue, slipped quietly, and without even a newspaper sailing-announcement into a frivolous midstream that kicked up little lace edged wavelets, undulating flounces of them. A blur of faces rose above deck-rails, faces that, looking back, receded finally. The last flag and the last kerchief became vapor. Against the pier-edge, frantically, even perilously forward, her small flag thrust desperately beyond the rail, Mrs. Ross, who had lost a saving sense of time and place, leaned after that ship receding in majesty, long after it had curved from view. The crowd, not a dry-eyed one, women in spite of themselves with lips whitening, men grim with pride and an innermost bleeding, sagged suddenly, thinning and trickling back into the great, impersonal maw of the city. Apart from the rush of the exodus, a youth remained at the rail, gazing out and quivering for the smell of war. Finally, he too, turned back reluctantly. Now only Mrs. Ross. An hour she stood there, a solitary figure at the rail, holding to her large black hat, her skirts whipped to her body and snapping forward in the breeze. The sun struck off points from the water, animating it with a jewel-dance. It found out in a flash the diamond-and-sapphire top to her gold-mesh hand-bag, hoppity-skippiting from facet to facet. "My boy--my little boy!" A pair of dock-hands, wiping their hands on cotton-waste, came after a while to the door of the pier-house to observe and comment. Conscious of that observation, she moved then through the great dank sheds in and among the bales and boxes, down a flight of stairs and out to the cobbled street. Her motor-car, the last at the entrance, stood off at a slant, the chauffeur lopping slightly and dozing, his face scarcely above the steering-wheel. She passed him with unnecessary stealth, her heels occasionally wedging between the cobbles and jerking her up. Two hours she walked thus, invariably next to the water's edge or in the first street running parallel to it. Truck-drivers gazed at and sang after her. Deck- and dock-hands, stretched out in the first sun of spring, opened their eyes to her passing, often staring after her under lazy lids. Behind a drawn veil her lips were moving, but inaudibly now. Motor-trucks, blocks of them, painted the gray of war, stood waiting shipment, engines ready to throb into no telling what mire. Once a van of knitted stuffs, always the gray, corded and bound into bales, rumbled by, close enough to graze and send her stumbling back. She stood for a moment watching it lumber up alongside a dock. It was dusk when she emerged from the rather sinister end of West Street into Battery Park, receding in a gracious new-green curve from the water. Tier after tier of lights had begun to prick out in the back-drop of skyscraping office-buildings. The little park, after the six-o'clock stampede, settled back into a sort of lamplit quiet, dark figures, the dregs of a city day, here and there on its benches. The back-drop of office-lights began to blink out then, all except the tallest tower in the world, rising in the glory of its own spotlight into a rococo pinnacle of man's accomplishment. Strolling the edge of that park so close to the water that she could hear it seethe in the receding, a policeman finally took to following Mrs. Ross, his measured tread behind hers, his night-stick rapping out every so often. She found out a bench then, and never out of his view, sat looking out across the infinitude of blackness to where the bay so casually meets the sea. Night dampness had sent her shivering, the plumage of her hat, the ferny feathers of the bird-of-paradise, drooping almost grotesquely over the brim. A small detachment of Boy Scouts, sturdy with an enormous sense of uniform and valor, marched through the asphalt alleys of the park with trained, small-footed, regimental precision--small boys with clean, lifted faces. A fife and drum came up the road. Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! High over the water a light had come out--Liberty's high-flung torch. Watching it, and quickened by the fife and drum to an erect sitting posture, Mrs. Ross slid forward on her bench, lips opening. The policeman standing off, rapped twice, and when she rose, almost running toward the lights of the Elevated station, followed. Within her apartment on upper Broadway, not even a hall light burned when she let herself in with her key. At the remote end of the aisle of blackness a slit of yellow showed beneath the door, behind it the babble of servants' voices. She entered with a stealth that was well under cover of those voices, groping into the first door at her right, feeling round for the wall key, switching the old rose-and-gold room into immediate light. Stood for a moment, her plumage drooping damply to her shoulders, blue foulard dress snagged in two places, her gold mesh bag with the sapphire-and-diamond top hanging low from the crook of her little finger. A clock ticked with almost an echo into the rather vast silence. She entered finally, sidling in among the chairs. A great mound of gray yarn, uncut skein after uncut skein of it, rose off the brocade divan, more of them piled in systematic pyramids on three chairs. She dropped at sight of it to the floor beside the couch, burying her face in its fluff, grasping it in handfuls, writhing into it. Surges of merciful sobs came sweeping through and through her. After a while, with a pair of long amber-colored needles, she fell to knitting with a fast, even furious ambidexterity, her mouth pursing up with a driving intensity, her boring gaze so concentrated on the thing in hand that her eyes seemed to cross. Dawn broke upon her there, her hat still cockily awry, tears dried in a vitrified gleaming down her cheeks. Beneath her flying fingers, a sleeveless waistcoat was taking shape, a soldier's inner jacket against the dam of trenches. At sunup it lay completed, spread out as if the first of a pile. The first noises of the city began to rise remotely. A bell pealed off somewhere. Day began to raise its conglomerate voice. On her knees beside the couch there, the second waistcoat was already taking shape beneath the cocksure needles. The old pinkly moist look had come out in her face. One million boys "out there" were needing chest-protectors! III ICE-WATER, PL--! When the two sides of every story are told, Henry VIII. may establish an alibi or two, Shylock and the public-school system meet over and melt that too, too solid pound of flesh, and Xantippe, herself the sturdier man than Socrates, give ready, lie to what is called the shrew in her. Landladies, whole black-bombazine generations of them--oh, so long unheard!--may rise in one Indictment of the Boarder: The scarred bureau-front and match-scratched wall-paper; the empty trunk nailed to the floor in security for the unpaid bill; cigarette-burnt sheets and the terror of sudden fire; the silent newcomer in the third floor back hustled out one night in handcuffs; the day-long sobs of the blond girl so suddenly terrified of life-about-to-be and wringing her ringless hands in the fourth-floor hall-room; the smell of escaping gas and the tightly packed keyhole; the unsuspected flutes that lurk in boarders' trunks; towels, that querulous and endless paean of the lodger; the high cost of liver and dried peaches, of canned corn and round steak! Tired bombazine procession, wrapped in the greasy odors of years of carpet-sweeping and emptying slops, airing the gassy slit of room after the coroner; and padding from floor to floor on a mission of towels and towels and towels! Sometimes climbing from floor to floor, a still warm supply of them looped over one arm, Mrs. Kaufman, who wore bombazine, but unspotted and with crisp net frills at the throat, and upon whose soft-looking face the years had written their chirography in invisible ink, would sit suddenly, there in the narrow gloom of her halls, head against the balustrade. Oftener than not the Katz boy from the third floor front would come lickety-clapping down the stairs and past her, jumping the last four steps of each flight. "Irving, quit your noise in the hall." "Aw!" "Ain't you ashamed, a big boy like you, and Mrs. Suss with her neuralgia?" "Aw!"--the slam of a door clipping off this insolence. After a while she would resume her climb. And yet in Mrs. Kaufman's private boarding-house in West Eighty-ninth Street, one of a breastwork of brownstone fronts, lined up stoop for stoop, story for story, and ash-can for ash-can, there were few enough greasy odors except upon the weekly occasion of Monday's boiled dinner; and, whatever the status of liver and dried peaches, canned corn and round steak, her menus remained static--so static that in the gas-lighted basement dining-room and at a remote end of the long, well-surrounded table Mrs. Katz, with her napkin tucked well under her third chin, turned _sotto_ from the protruding husband at her right to her left neighbor, shielding her remark with her hand. "Am I right, Mrs. Finshriber? I just said to my husband in the five years we been here she should just give us once a change from Friday-night lamb and noodles." "Say, you should complain yet! With me it's six and a half years day after to-morrow, Easter Day, since I asked myself that question first." "Even my Irving says to me to-night up in the room; jumping up and down on the hearth like he had four legs--" "I heard him, Mrs. Katz, on my ceiling like he had eight legs." "'Mamma,' he says, 'guess why I feel like saying "Baa."'" "Saying what?" "Sheep talk, Mrs. Finshriber. B-a-a, like a sheep goes." "Oh!" "'Cause I got so many Friday nights' lamb in me, mamma,' he said. Quick like a flash that child is." Mrs. Finshriber dipped her head and her glance, all her drooping features pulled even farther down at their corners. "I ain't the one to complain, Mrs. Katz, and I always say, when you come right down to it maybe Mrs. Kaufman's house is as good as the next one, but--" "I wish, though, Mrs. Finshriber, you would hear what Mrs. Spritz says at her boarding-house they get for breakfast: fried--" "You can imagine, Mrs. Katz, since my poor husband's death, how much appetite I got left; but I say, Mrs. Katz, just for the principle of the thing, it would not hurt once if Mrs. Kaufman could give somebody else besides her own daughter and Vetsburg the white meat from everything, wouldn't it?" "It's a shame before the boarders! She knows, Mrs. Pinshriber, how my husband likes breast from the chicken. You think once he gets it? No. I always tell him, not 'til chickens come doublebreasted like overcoats can he get it in this house, with Vetsburg such a star boarder." "Last night's chicken, let me tell you, I don't wish it to a dog! Such a piece of dark meat with gizzard I had to swallow." Mrs. Katz adjusted with greater security the expanse of white napkin across her ample bosom. Gold rings and a quarter-inch marriage band flashed in and out among the litter of small tub-shaped dishes surrounding her, and a pouncing fork of short, sure stab. "Right away my husband gets mad when I say the same thing. 'When we don't like it we should move,' he says." "Like moving is so easy, if you got two chairs and a hair mattress to take with you. But I always say, Mrs. Katz, I don't blame Mrs. Kaufman herself for what goes on; there's _one_ good woman if there ever was one!" "They don't come any better or any better looking, my husband always says. 'S-ay,' I tell him, 'she can stand her good looks.'" "It's that big-ideaed daughter who's to blame. Did you see her new white spats to-night?" Right away the minute they come out she has to have 'em. I'm only surprised she 'ain't got one of them red hats from Gimp's what is all the fad. Believe me, if not for such ideas, her mother could afford something better as succotash for us for supper." "It's a shame, let me tell you, that a woman like Mrs. Kaufman can't see for herself such things. God forbid I should ever be so blind to my Irving. I tell you that Ruby has got it more like a queen than a boarding-housekeeper's daughter. Spats, yet!" "Rich girls could be glad to have it always so good." "I don't say nothing how her mother treats Vetsburg, her oldest boarder, and for what he pays for that second floor front and no lunches she can afford to cater a little; but that such a girl shouldn't be made to take up a little stenography or help with the housework!" "S-ay, when that girl even turns a hand, pale like a ghost her mother gets." "How girls are raised nowadays, even the poor ones!" "I ain't the one to complain, Mrs. Katz, but just look down there, that red stuff." "Where?" "Ain't it cranberry between Ruby and Vetsburg?" "Yes, yes, and look such a dish of it!" "Is it right extras should be allowed to be brought on a table like this where fourteen other boarders got to let their mouth water and look at it?" "You think it don't hurt like a knife! For myself I don't mind, but my Irving! How that child loves 'em, and he should got to sit at the same table without cranberries." From the head of the table the flashing implements of carving held in askance for stroke, her lips lifted to a smile and a simulation of interest for display of further carnivorous appetites, Mrs. Kaufman passed her nod from one to the other. "Miss Arndt, little more? No? Mr. Krakower? Gravy? Mrs. Suss? Mr. Suss? So! Simon? Mr. Schloss? Miss Horowitz? Mr. Vetsburg, let me give you this little tender--No? Then, Ruby, here let mama give you just a little more--" "No, no, mama, please!" She caught at the hovering wrist to spare the descent of the knife. By one of those rare atavisms by which a poet can be bred of a peasant or peasant be begot of poet, Miss Ruby Kaufman, who was born in Newark, posthumous, to a terrified little parent with a black ribbon at the throat of her gown, had brought with her from no telling where the sultry eyes and tropical-turned skin of spice-kissed winds. The corpuscles of a shah might have been running in the blood of her, yet Simon Kaufman, and Simon Kaufman's father before him, had sold wool remnants to cap-factories on commission. "Ruby, you don't eat enough to keep a bird alive. Ain't it a shame, Mr. Vetsburg, a girl should be so dainty?" Mr. Meyer Vetsburg cast a beetling glance down upon Miss Kaufman, there so small beside him, and tinked peremptorily against her plate three times with his fork. "Eat, young lady, like your mama wants you should, or, by golly! I'll string you up for my watch-fob--not, Mrs. Kaufman?" A smile lay under Mr. Vetsburg's gray-and-black mustache. Gray were his eyes, too, and his suit, a comfortable baggy suit with the slouch of the wearer impressed into it, the coat hiking center back, the pocket-flaps half in, half out, and the knees sagging out of press. "That's right, Mr. Vetsburg, you should scold her when she don't eat." Above the black-bombazine basque, so pleasantly relieved at the throat by a V of fresh white net, a wave of color moved up Mrs. Kaufman's face into her architectural coiffure, the very black and very coarse skein of her hair wound into a large loose mound directly atop her head and pierced there with a ball-topped comb of another decade. "I always say, Mr. Vetsburg, she minds you before she minds anybody else in the world." "Ma," said Miss Kaufman, close upon that remark, "some succotash, please." From her vantage down-table, Mrs. Katz leaned a bit forward from the line. "Look, Mrs. Finshriber, how for a woman her age she snaps her black eyes at him. It ain't hard to guess when a woman's got a marriageable daughter--not?" "You can take it from me she'll get him for her Ruby yet! And take it from me, too, almost any girl I know, much less Ruby Kaufman, could do worse as get Meyer Vetsburg." "S-say, I wish it to her to get him. For why once in a while shouldn't a poor girl get a rich man except in books and choruses?" "Believe me, a girl like Ruby can manage what she wants. Take it from me, she's got it behind her ears." "I should say so." "Without it she couldn't get in with such a crowd of rich girls like she does. I got it from Mrs. Abrams in the Arline Apartments how every week she plays five hundred with Nathan Shapiro's daughter." "No! Shapiro & Stein?" "And yesterday at matinée in she comes with a box of candy and laughing with that Rifkin girl! How she gets in with such swell girls, I don't know, but there ain't a nice Saturday afternoon I don't see that girl walking on Fifth Avenue with just such a crowd of fine-dressed girls, all with their noses powdered so white and their hats so little and stylish." "I wouldn't be surprised if her mother don't send her down to Atlantic City over Easter again if Vetsburg goes. Every holiday she has to go lately like it was coming to her." "Say, between you and me, I don't put it past her it's that Markovitch boy down there she's after. Ray Klein saw 'em on the boardwalk once together, and she says it's a shame for the people how they sat so close in a rolling-chair." "I wouldn't be surprised she's fresh with the boys, but, believe me, if she gets the uncle she don't take the nephew!" "Say, a clerk in his own father's hotel like the Markovitches got in Atlantic City ain't no crime." "Her mother has got bigger thoughts for her than that. For why I guess she thinks her daughter should take the nephew when maybe she can get the uncle herself. Nowadays it ain't nothing no more that girls marry twice their own age." "I always say I can tell when Leo Markovitch comes down, by the way her mother's face gets long and the daughter's gets short." "Can you blame her? Leo Markovitch, with all his monograms on his shirt-sleeves and such black rims on his glasses, ain't the Rosenthal Vetsburg Hosiery Company, not by a long shot! There ain't a store in this town you ask for the No Hole Guaranteed Stocking, right away they don't show it to you. Just for fun always I ask." "Cornstarch pudding! Irving, stop making that noise at Mrs. Kaufman! Little boys should be seen and not heard even at cornstarch pudding." "_Gott_! Wouldn't you think, Mrs. Katz, how Mrs. Kaufman knows how I hate desserts that wabble, a little something extra she could give me." "How she plays favorite, it's a shame. I wish you'd look, too, Mrs. Finshriber, how Flora Proskauer carries away from the table her glass of milk with slice bread on top. I tell you it don't give tune to a house the boarders should carry away from the table like that. Irving, come and take with you that extra piece cake. Just so much board we pay as Flora Proskauer." The line about the table broke suddenly, attended with a scraping of chairs and after-dinner chirrupings attended with toothpicks. A blowsy maid strained herself immediately across the strewn table and cloying lamb platter, and turned off two of the three gas jets. In the yellow gloom, the odors of food permeating it, they filed out and up the dim lit stairs into dim-lit halls, the line of conversation and short laughter drifting after. A door slammed. Then another. Irving Katz leaped from his third floor threshold to the front hearth, quaking three layers of chandeliers. From Morris Krakower's fourth floor back the tune of a flute began to wind down the stairs. Out of her just-closed door Mrs. Finshriber poked a frizzled gray head. "Ice-water, ple-ase, Mrs. Kauf-man." At the door of the first floor back Mrs. Kaufman paused with her hand on the knob. "Mama, let me run and do it." "Don't you move, Ruby. When Annie goes up to bed it's time enough. Won't you come in for a while, Mr. Vetsburg?" "Don't care if I do". She opened the door, entering cautiously. "Let me light up, Mrs. Kaufman." He struck a phosphorescent line on the sole of his shoe, turning up three jets. "You must excuse, Mr. Vetsburg, how this room looks. All day we've been sewing Ruby her new dress." She caught up a litter of dainty pink frills in the making, clearing a chair for him. "Sit down, Mr. Vetsburg." They adjusted themselves around the shower of gaslight. Miss Kaufman fumbling in her flowered work-bag, finally curling her foot up under her, her needle flashing and shirring through one of the pink flounces. "Ruby, in such a light you shouldn't strain your eyes." "All right, ma," stitching placidly on. "What'll you give me, Ruby, if I tell you whose favorite color is pink?" "Aw, Vetsy!" she cried, her face like a rose, "_your_ color's pink!" From the depths of an inverted sewing-machine top Mrs. Kaufman fished out another bit of the pink, ruffling it with deft needle. The flute lifted its plaintive voice, feeling for high C. Mr. Vetsburg lighted a loosely wrapped cigar and slumped in his chair. "If anybody," he observed, "should ask right this minute where I'm at, tell 'em for me, Mrs. Kaufman, I'm in the most comfortable chair in the house." "You should keep it, then, up in your room, Mr. Vetsburg, and not always bring it down again when I get Annie to carry it up to you." "Say, I don't give up so easy my excuse for dropping in evenings." "Honest, you--you two children, you ought to have a fence built around you the way you like always to be together." He sat regarding her, puffing and chewing his live cigar. Suddenly he leaped forward, his hand closing rigidly over hers. "Mrs. Kaufman!" "What?" "Quick, there's a hole in your chin." "_Gott_! a--a--what?" At that he relaxed at his own pleasantry, laughing and shrugging. With small white teeth Miss Kaufman bit off an end of thread. "Don't let him tease you, ma; he's after your dimple again." "_Ach, du_--tease, you! Shame! Hole in my chin he scares me with!" She resumed her work with a smile and a twitching at her lips that she was unable to control. A warm flow of air came in, puffing the lace curtains. A faint odor of departed splendor lay in that room, its high calcimined ceiling with the floral rosette in the center, the tarnished pier-glass tilted to reflect a great pair of walnut folding-doors which cut off the room where once it had flowed on to join the great length of _salon_ parlor. A folding-bed with an inlay of mirror and a collapsible desk arrangement backed up against those folding-doors. A divan with a winding back and sleek with horsehair was drawn across a corner, a marble-topped bureau alongside. A bronze clock ticked roundly from the mantel, balanced at either side by a pair of blue-glass cornucopias with warts blown into them. Mrs. Kaufman let her hands drop idly in her lap and her head fell back against the chair. In repose the lines of her mouth turned up, and her throat, where so often the years eat in first, was smooth and even slender above the rather round swell of bosom. "Tired, mommy?" "Always around Easter spring fever right away gets hold of me!" Mr. Vetsburg bit his cigar, slumped deeper; and inserted a thumb in the arm of his waistcoat. "Why, Mrs. Kaufman, don't you and Ruby come down by Atlantic City with me to-morrow over Easter? Huh? A few more or less don't make no difference to my sister the way they get ready for crowds." Miss Kaufman shot forward, her face vivid. "Oh, Vetsy," she cried, and a flush rushed up, completely dyeing her face. His face lit with hers, a sunburst of fine lines radiating from his eyes. "Eh?" "Why--why, we--we'd just love it, wouldn't we, ma? Atlantic City, Easter Day! Ma!" Mrs. Kaufman sat upright with a whole procession of quick emotions flashing their expressions across her face. They ended in a smile that trembled as she sat regarding the two of them. "I should say so, yes! I--You and Ruby go, Mr. Vetsburg. Atlantic City, Easter Day, I bet is worth the trip. I--You two go, I should say so, but you don't want an old woman to drag along with you." "Ma! Just listen to her, Vetsy! Ain't she--ain't she just the limit? Half the time when we go in stores together they take us for sisters, and then she--she begins to talk like that to get out of going!" "Ruby don't understand; but it ain't right, Mr. Vetsburg, I should be away over Saturday and Sunday. On Easter always they expect a little extra, and with Annie's sore ankle, I--I--" "Oh, mommy, can't you leave this old shebang for only two days just for an Easter Sunday down at Atlantic, where--where everybody goes?" "You know yourself, Ruby, how always on Annie's Sunday out--" "Well, what of it? It won't hurt all of them old things upstairs that let you wait on them hand and foot all year to go without a few frills for their Easter dinner." "Ruby!" "I mean it. The old gossip-pots! I just sat and looked at them there at supper, and I said to myself, I said, to think they drown kittens and let those poor lumps live!" "Ruby, aren't you ashamed to talk like that?" "Sat there and looked at poor old man Katz with his ear all ragged like it had been chewed off, and wondered why he didn't just go down to Brooklyn Bridge for a high jump." "Ruby, I--" "If all those big, strapping women, Suss and Finshriber and the whole gang of them, were anything but vegetables, they'd get out and hustle with keeping house, to work some of their flabbiness off and give us a chance to get somebody in besides a chocolate-eating, novel-reading crowd of useless women who think, mommy, you're a dumbwaiter, chambermaid, lady's maid, and French chef rolled in one! Honest, ma, if you carry that ice-water up to Katz to-night on the sly, with that big son of hers to come down and get it, I--I'll go right up and tell her what I think of her if she leaves to-morrow." "Mr. Vetsburg, you--you mustn't listen to her." "Can't take a day off for a rest at Atlantic City, because their old Easter dinner might go down the wrong side. Honest, mama, to--to think how you're letting a crowd of old, flabby women that aren't fit even to wipe your shoes make a regular servant out of you! Mommy!" There were tears in Miss Kaufman's voice, actual tears, big and bright, in her eyes, and two spots of color had popped out in her cheeks. "Ruby, when--when a woman like me makes her living off her boarders, she can't afford to be so particular. You think it's a pleasure I can't slam the door right in Mrs. Katz's face when six times a day she orders towels and ice-water? You think it's a pleasure I got to take sass from such a bad boy like Irving? I tell you, Ruby, it's easy talk from a girl that doesn't understand. _Ach_, you--you make me ashamed before Mr. Vetsburg you should run down to the people we make our living off of." Miss Kaufman flashed her vivid face toward Mr. Vetsburg, still low there in his chair. She was trembling. "Vetsy knows! He's the only one in this house does know! He 'ain't been here with us ten years, ever since we started in this big house, not--not to know he's the only one thinks you're here for anything except impudence and running stairs and standing sass from the bad boys of lazy mothers. You know, don't you, Vetsy?" "Ruby! Mr. Vetsburg, you--you must excuse--" From the depths of his chair Mr. Vetsburg's voice came slow and carefully weighed. "My only complaint, Mrs. Kaufman, with what Ruby has got to say is it ain't strong enough. It maybe ain't none of my business, but always I have told you that for your own good you're too _gemütlich_. No wonder every boarder what you got stays year in and year out till even the biggest kickers pay more board sooner as go. In my business, Mrs. Kaufman, it's the same, right away if I get too easy with--" "But, Mr. Vetsburg, a poor woman can't afford to be so independent. I got big expenses and big rent; I got a daughter to raise--" "Mama, haven't I begged you a hundred times to let me take up stenography and get out and hustle so you can take it easy--haven't I?" A thick coating of tears sprang to Mrs. Kaufman's eyes and muddled the gaze she turned toward Mr. Vetsburg. "Is it natural, Mr. Vetsburg, a mother should want her only child should have always the best and do always the things she never herself could afford to do? All my life, Mr. Vetsburg, I had always to work. Even when I was five months married to a man what it looked like would some day do big things in the wool business, I was left all of a sudden with nothing but debts and my baby." "But, mama--" "Is it natural, Mr. Vetsburg, I should want to work off my hands my daughter should escape that? Nothing, Mr. Vetsburg, gives me so much pleasure she should go with all those rich girls who like her well enough poor to be friends with her. Always when you take her down to Atlantic City on holidays, where she can meet 'em, it--it--" "But, mommy, is it any fun for a girl to keep taking trips like that with--with her mother always at home like a servant? What do people think? Every holiday that Vetsy asks me, you--you back out. I--I won't go without you, mommy, and--and I _want_ to go, ma, I--I _want_ to!" "My Easter dinner and--" "You, Mrs. Kaufman, with your Easter dinner! Ruby's right. When your mama don't go this time not one step we go by ourselves--ain't it?" "Not a step." "But--" "To-morrow, Mrs. Kaufman, we catch that one-ten train. Twelve o'clock I call in for you. Put ginger in your mama, Ruby, and we'll open her eyes on the boardwalk--not?" "Oh, Vetsy!" He smiled, regarding her. Tears had fallen and dried on Mrs. Kaufman's cheeks; she wavered between a hysteria of tears and laughter. "I--children--" She succumbed to tears, daubing her eyes shamefacedly. He rose kindly. "Say, when such a little thing can upset her it's high time she took for herself a little rest. If she backs out, we string her up by the thumbs--not, Ruby?" "We're going, ma. Going! You'll love the Markovitchs' hotel, ma dearie, right near the boardwalk, and the grandest glassed-in porch and--and chairs, and--and nooks, and things. Ain't they, Vetsy?" "Yes, you little Ruby, you," he said, regarding her with warm, insinuating eyes, even crinkling an eyelid in a wink. She did not return the glance, but caught her cheeks in the vise of her hands as if to stem the too quick flush. "Now you--you quit!" she cried, flashing her back upon him in quick pink confusion. "She gets mad yet," he said, his shoulders rising and falling in silent laughter. "Don't!" "Well," he said, clicking the door softly after him, "good night and sleep tight." "'Night, Vetsy." Upon the click of that door Mrs. Kaufman leaned softly forward in her chair, speaking through a scratch in her throat. "Ruby!" With her flush still high, Miss Kaufman danced over toward her parent, then as suddenly ebbed in spirit, the color going. "Why, mommy, what--what you crying for, dearie? Why, there's nothing to cry for, dearie, that we're going off on a toot to-morrow. Honest, dearie, like Vetsy says, you're all nerves. I bet from the way Suss hollered at you to-day about her extra milk you're upset yet. Wouldn't I give her a piece of my mind, though! Here, move your chair, mommy, and let me pull down the bed." "I--I'm all right, baby. Only I just tell you it's enough to make anybody cry we should have a friend like we got in Vetsburg. I--I tell you, baby, they just don't come better than him. Not, baby? Don't be ashamed to say so to mama." "I ain't, mama! And, honest, his--his whole family is just that way. Sweet-like and generous. Wait till you see the way his sister and brother-in-law will treat us at the hotel to-morrow. And--and Leo, too." "I always say the day what Meyer Vetsburg, when he was only a clerk in the firm, answered my furnished-room advertisement was the luckiest day in my life." "You ought to heard, ma. I was teasing him the other day, telling him that he ought to live at the Savoy, now that he's a two-thirds member of the firm." "Ruby!" "I was only teasing, ma. You just ought to seen his face. Any day he'd leave us!" Mrs. Kaufman placed a warm, insinuating arm around her daughter's slim waist, drawing her around the chair-side and to her. "There's only one way, baby, Meyer Vetsburg can ever leave me and make me happy when he leaves." "Ma, what you mean?" "You know, baby, without mama coming right out in words." "Ma, honest I don't. What?" "You see it coming just like I do. Don't fool mama, baby." The slender lines of Miss Kaufman's waist stiffened, and she half slipped from the embrace. "Now, now, baby, is it wrong a mother should talk to her own baby about what is closest in both their hearts?" "I--I--mama, I--I don't know!" "How he's here in this room every night lately, Ruby, since you--you're a young lady. How right away he follows us up-stairs. How lately he invited you every month down at Atlantic City. Baby, you ain't blind, are you?" "Why, mama--why, mama, what is Meyer Vetsburg to--to me? Why, he--he's got gray hair, ma; he--he's getting bald. Why, he--he don't know I'm on earth. He--he's--" "You mean, baby, he don't know anybody else is on earth. What's, nowadays, baby, a man forty? Why--why, ain't mama forty-one, baby, and didn't you just say yourself for sisters they take us?" "I know, ma, but he--he--. Why, he's got an accent, ma, just like old man Katz and--and all of 'em. He says 'too-sand' for thousand. He--" "Baby, ain't you ashamed like it makes any difference how a good man talks?" She reached out, drawing her daughter by the wrists down into her lap. "You're a bad little flirt, baby, what pretends she don't know what a blind man can see." Miss Kaufman's eyes widened, darkened, and she tugged for the freedom of her wrists. "Ma, quit scaring me!" "Scaring you! That such a rising man like Vetsburg, with a business he worked himself into president from clerk, looks every day more like he's falling in love with you, should scare you!" "Ma, not--not him!" In reply she fell to stroking the smooth black plaits, wound coronet fashion about Miss Kaufman's small head. Large, hot tears sprang to her eyes. "Baby, when you talk like that it's you that scares mama!" "He--he--" "Why, you think, Ruby, I been making out of myself a servant like you call it all these years except for your future? For myself a smaller house without such a show and maybe five or six roomers without meals, you think ain't easier as this big barn? For what, baby, you think I always want you should have extravagances maybe I can't afford and should keep up with the fine girls what you meet down by Atlantic City if it ain't that a man like Meyer Vetsburg can be proud to choose you from the best?" "Mama! mama!" "Don't think, Ruby, when the day comes what I can give up this white-elephant house that it won't be a happy one for me. Every night when I hear from up-stairs how Mrs. Katz and all of them hollers down 'towels' and 'ice-water' to me like I--I was their slave, don't think, baby, I won't be happiest woman in this world the day what I can slam the door, bang, right on the words." "Mama, mama, and you pretending all these years you didn't mind!" "I don't, baby. Not one minute while I got a future to look forward to with you. For myself, you think I ask anything except my little girl's happiness? Anyways, when happiness comes to you with a man like Meyer Vetsburg, don't--don't it come to me, too, baby?" "Please, I--" "That's what my little girl can do for mama, better as stenography. Set herself down well. That's why, since we got on the subject, baby, I--I hold off signing up the new lease, with every day Shulif fussing so. Maybe, baby, I--well, just maybe--eh, baby?" For answer a torrent of tears so sudden that they came in an avalanche burst from Miss Kaufman, and she crumpled forward, face in hands and red rushing up the back of her neck and over her ears. "Ruby!" "No, no, ma! No, no!" "Baby, the dream what I've dreamed five years for you!" "No, no, no!" She fell back, regarding her. "Why, Ruby. Why, Ruby, girl!" "It ain't fair. You mustn't!" "Mustn't?" "Mustn't! Mustn't!" Her voice had slipped up now and away from her. "Why, baby, it's natural at first maybe a girl should be so scared. Maybe I shouldn't have talked so soon except how it's getting every day plainer, these trips to Atlantic City and--" "Mama, mama, you're killing me." She fell back against her parent's shoulder, her face frankly distorted. A second, staring there into space, Mrs. Kaufman sat with her arm still entwining the slender but lax form. "Ruby, is--is it something you ain't telling mama?" "Oh, mommy, mommy!" "Is there?" "I--I don't know." "Ruby, should you be afraid to talk to mama, who don't want nothing but her child's happiness?" "You know, mommy. You know!" "Know what, baby?" "I--er--" "Is there somebody else you got on your mind, baby?" "You know, mommy." "Tell mama, baby. It ain't a--a crime if you got maybe somebody else on your mind." "I can't say it, mommy. It--it wouldn't be--be nice." "Nice?" "He--he--We ain't even sure yet." "He?" "Not--yet." "Who?" "You know." "So help me, I don't." "Mommy, don't make me say it. Maybe if--when his uncle Meyer takes him in the business, we--" "Baby, not Leo?" "Oh, mommy, mommy!" And she buried her hot, revealing face into the fresh net V. "Why--why, baby, a--a _boy_ like that!" "Twenty-three, mama, ain't a boy!" "But, Ruby, just a clerk in his father's hotel, and two older brothers already in it. A--a boy that 'ain't got a start yet." "That's just it, ma. We--we're waiting! Waiting before we talk even--even much to each other yet. Maybe--maybe his uncle Meyer is going to take him in the business, but it ain't sure yet. We--" "A little yellow-haired boy like him that--that can't support you, baby, unless you live right there in his mother's and father's hotel away--away from me!" "Ma!" "Ruby, a smart girl like you. A little snip what don't make salt yet, when you can have the uncle hisself!" "I can't help it, ma! If--if--the first time Vetsy took me down to--to the shore, if--if Leo had been a king or a--or just what he is, it wouldn't make no difference. I--I can't help my--my feelings, ma. I can't!" A large furrow formed between Mrs. Kaufman's eyes, darkening her. "You wouldn't, Ruby!" she said, clutching her. "Oh, mommy, mommy, when a--a girl can't help a thing!" "He ain't good enough for you, baby!" "He's ten times too good; that--that's all you know about it. Mommy, please! I--I just can't help it, dearie. It's just like when I--I saw him a--a clock began to tick inside of me. I--" "O my God!" said Mrs. Kaufman, drawing her hand across her brow. "His uncle Meyer, ma, 's been hinting all along he--he's going to give Leo his start and take him in the business. That's why we--we're waiting without saying much, till it looks more like--like we can all be together, ma." "All my dreams! My dreams I could give up the house! My baby with a well-to-do husband maybe on Riverside Drive. A servant for herself, so I could pass, maybe, Mrs. Suss and Mrs. Katz by on the street. Ruby, you--you wouldn't, Ruby. After how I've built for you!" "Oh, mama, mama, mama!" "If you 'ain't got ambitions for yourself, Ruby, think once of me and this long dream I been dreaming for--us." "Yes, ma. Yes." "Ruby, Ruby, and I always thought when you was so glad for Atlantic City, it was for Vetsburg; to show him how much you liked his folks. How could I know it was--." "I never thought, mommy. Why--why, Vetsy he's just like a relation or something." "I tell you, baby, it's just an idea you got in your head." "No, no, mama. No, no." Suddenly Mrs. Kaufman threw up her hands, clasping them tight against her eyes, pressing them in frenzy. "O my God!" she cried. "All for nothing!" and fell to moaning through her laced fingers. "All for nothing! Years. Years. Years." "Mommy darling!" "Oh--don't, don't! Just let me be. Let me be. O my God! My God!" "Mommy, please, mommy! I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it, mommy darling." "I can't go on all the years, Ruby. I'm tired. Tired, girl." "Of course you can't, darling. We--I don't want you to. 'Shh-h-h!" "It's only you and my hopes in you that kept me going all these years. The hope that, with some day a good man to provide for you, I could find a rest, maybe." "Yes, yes." "Every time what I think of that long envelope laying there on that desk with its lease waiting to be signed to-morrow, I--I could squeeze my eyes shut so tight and wish I didn't never have to open them again on this--this house and this drudgery. If you marry wrong, baby, I'm caught. Caught in this house like a rat in a trap." "No, no, mommy. Leo, he--his uncle--" "Don't make me sign that new lease, Ruby. Shulif hounds me every day now. Any day I expect he says is my last. Don't make me saddle another five years with the house. He's only a boy, baby, and years it will take, and--I'm tired, baby. Tired! Tired!" She lay back with her face suddenly held in rigid lines and her neck ribbed with cords. At sight of her so prostrate there, Ruby Kaufman grasped the cold face in her ardent young hands, pressing her lips to the streaming eyes. "Mommy, I didn't mean it. I didn't! I--We're just kids, flirting a little, Leo and me. I didn't mean it, mommy!" "You didn't mean it, Ruby, did you? Tell mama you didn't." "I didn't, ma. Cross my heart. It's only I--I kinda had him in my head. That's all, dearie. That's all!" "He can't provide, baby." "'Shh-h-h, ma! Try to get calm, and maybe then--then things can come like you want 'em. 'Shh-h-h, dearie! I didn't mean it. 'Course Leo's only a kid. I--We--Mommy dear, don't. You're killing me. I didn't mean it. I didn't." "Sure, baby? Sure?" "Sure." "Mama's girl," sobbed Mrs. Kaufman, scooping the small form to her bosom and relaxing. "Mama's own girl that minds." They fell quiet, cheek to cheek, staring ahead into the gaslit quiet, the clock ticking into it. The tears had dried on Mrs. Kaufman's cheeks, only her throat continuing to throb and her hand at regular intervals patting the young shoulder pressed to her. It was as if her heart lay suddenly very still in her breast. "Mama's own girl that minds." "It--it's late, ma. Let me pull down the bed." "You ain't mad at mama, baby? It's for your own good as much as mine. It is unnatural a mother should want to see her--" "No, no, mama. Move, dearie. Let me pull down the bed. There you are. Now!" With a wrench Mrs. Kaufman threw off her recurring inclination to tears, moving casually through the processes of their retirement. "To-morrow, baby, I tighten the buttons on them new spats. How pretty they look." "Yes, dearie." "I told Mrs. Katz to-day right out her Irving can't bring any more his bicycle through my front hall. Wasn't I right?" "Of course you were, ma." "Miss Flora looked right nice in that pink waist to-night--not? Four-eighty-nine only, at Gimp's sale." "She's too fat for pink." "You get in bed first, baby, and let mama turn out the lights." "No, no, mama; you." In her white slip of a nightdress, her coronet braids unwound and falling down each shoulder, even her slightness had waned. She was like Juliet who at fourteen had eyes of maid and martyr. They crept into bed, grateful for darkness. The flute had died out, leaving a silence that was plaintive. "You all right, baby?" "Yes, ma." And she snuggled down into the curve of her mother's arm. "Are you, mommy?" "Yes, baby." "Go to sleep, then." "Good night, baby." "Good night, mommy." Silence. Lying there, with her face upturned and her eyes closed, a stream of quiet tears found their way from under Miss Kaufman's closed lids, running down and toward her ears like spectacle frames. An hour ticked past, and two damp pools had formed on her pillow. "Asleep yet, baby?" "Almost, ma." "Are you all right?" "Fine." "You--you ain't mad at mama?" "'Course not, dearie." "I--thought it sounded like you was crying." "Why, mommy, 'course not! Turn over now and go to sleep." Another hour, and suddenly Mrs. Kaufman shot out her arm from the coverlet, jerking back the sheet and feeling for her daughter's dewy, upturned face where the tears were slashing down it. "Baby!" "Mommy, you--you mustn't!" "Oh, my darling, like I didn't suspicion it!" "It's only--" "You got, Ruby, the meanest mama in the world. But you think, darling, I got one minute's happiness like this?" "I'm all right, mommy, only--" "I been laying here half the night, Ruby, thinking how I'm a bad mother what thinks only of her own--" "No, no, mommy. Turn over and go to sl--" "My daughter falls in love with a fine, upright young man like Leo Markovitch, and I ain't satisfied yet! Suppose maybe for two or three years you ain't so much on your feet. Suppose even his uncle Meyer don't take him in. Don't any young man got to get his start slow?" "Mommy!" "Because I got for her my own ideas, my daughter shouldn't have in life the man she wants!" "But, mommy, if--" "You think for one minute, Ruby, after all these years without this house on my hands and my boarders and their kicks, a woman like me would be satisfied? Why, the more, baby, I think of such a thing, the more I see it for myself! What you think, Ruby, I do all day without steps to run, and my gedinks with housekeeping and marketing after eighteen years of it? At first, Ruby, ain't it natural it should come like a shock that you and that rascal Leo got all of a sudden so--so thick? I--It ain't no more, baby. I--I feel fine about it." "Oh, mommy, if--if I thought you did!" "I do. Why not? A fine young man what my girl is in love with. Every mother should have it so." "Mommy, you mean it?" "I tell you I feel fine. You don't need to feel bad or cry another minute. I can tell you I feel happy. To-morrow at Atlantic City if such a rascal don't tell me for himself, I--I ask him right out!" "Ma!" "For why yet he should wait till he's got better prospects, so his mother-in-law can hang on? I guess not!" "Mommy darling. If you only truly feel like that about it. Why, you can keep putting off the lease, ma, if it's only for six months, and then we--we'll all be to--" "Of course, baby. Mama knows. Of course!" "He--I just can't begin to tell you, ma, the kind of a fellow Leo is till you know him better, mommy dear." "Always Vetsburg says he's a wide-awake one!" "That's just what he is, ma. He's just a prince if--if there ever was one. One little prince of a fellow." She fell to crying softly, easy tears that flowed freely. "I--I can tell you, baby, I'm happy as you." "Mommy dear, kiss me." They talked, huddled arm in arm, until dawn flowed in at the window and dirty roofs began to show against a clean sky. Footsteps began to clatter through the asphalt court and there came the rattle of milk-cans. "I wonder if Annie left out the note for Mrs. Suss's extra milk!" "Don't get up, dearie; it's only five--" "Right away, baby, with extra towels I must run up to Miss Flora's room. That six o'clock-train for Trenton she gets." "Ma dear, let me go." "Lay right where you are! I guess you want you should look all worn out when a certain young man what I know walks down to meet our train at Atlantic City this afternoon, eh?" "Oh, mommy, mommy!" And Ruby lay back against the luxury of pillows. At eleven the morning rose to its climax--the butcher, the baker, and every sort of maker hustling in and out the basementway; the sweeping of upstairs halls; windows flung open and lace curtains looped high; the smell of spring pouring in even from asphalt; sounds of scrubbing from various stoops; shouts of drivers from a narrow street wedged with its Saturday-morning blockade of delivery wagons, and a crosstown line of motor-cars, tops back and nosing for the speedway of upper Broadway. A homely bouquet of odors rose from the basement kitchen, drifting up through the halls, the smell of mutton bubbling as it stewed. After a morning of up-stairs and down-stairs and in and out of chambers, Mrs. Kaufman, enveloped in a long-sleeved apron still angular with starch, hung up the telephone receiver in the hall just beneath the staircase and entered her bedroom, sitting down rather heavily beside the open shelf of her desk. A long envelope lay uppermost on that desk, and she took it up slowly, blinking her eyes shut and holding them squeezed tight as if she would press back a vision, even then a tear oozing through. She blinked it back, but her mouth was wry with the taste of tears. A slatternly maid poked her head in through the open door. "Mrs. Katz broke 'er mug!" "Take the one off Mr. Krakow's wash-stand and give it to her, Tillie." She was crying now frankly, and when the door swung closed, even though it swung back again on its insufficient hinge, she let her head fall forward into the pillow of her arms, the curve of her back rising and falling. But after a while the greengrocer came on his monthly mission, in his white apron and shirt-sleeves, and she compared stubs with him from a file on her desk and balanced her account with careful squinted glance and a keen eye for an overcharge on a cut of breakfast bacon. On the very heels of him, so that they met and danced to pass each other in the doorway, Mr. Vetsburg entered, with an overcoat flung across his right arm and his left sagging to a small black traveling-bag. "Well," he said, standing in the frame of the open door, his derby well back on his head and regarding her there beside the small desk, "is this what you call ready at twelve?" She rose and moved forward in her crackly starched apron. "I--Please, Mr. Vetsburg, it ain't right, I know!" "You don't mean you're not going!" he exclaimed, the lifted quality immediately dropping from his voice. "You--you got to excuse me again, Mr. Vetsburg. It ain't no use I should try to get away on Saturdays, much less Easter Saturday." "Well, of all things!" "Right away, the last minute, Mr. Vetsburg, right one things after another." He let his bag slip to the floor. "Maybe, Mrs. Kaufman," he said, "it ain't none of my business, but ain't it a shame a good business woman like you should let herself always be tied down to such a house like she was married to it?" "But--" "Can't get away on Saturdays, just like it ain't the same any other day in the week, I ask you! Saturday you blame it on yet!" She lifted the apron from her hem, her voice hurrying. "You can see for yourself, Mr. Vetsburg, how in my brown silk all ready I was. Even--even Ruby don't know yet I don't go. Down by Gimp's I sent her she should buy herself one of them red straw hats is the fad with the girls now. She meets us down by the station." "That's a fine come-off, ain't it, to disappoint--" "At the last minute, Mr. Vetsburg, how things can happen. Out of a clear sky Mrs. Finshriber has to-morrow for Easter dinner that skin doctor, Abrams, and his wife she's so particular about. And Annie with her sore ankle and--" "A little shyster doctor like Abrams with his advertisements all over the newspapers should sponge off you and your holiday! By golly! Mrs. Kaufman, just like Ruby says, how you let a whole houseful of old hens rule this roost it's a shame!" "When you go down to station, Mr. Vetsburg, so right away she ain't so disappointed I don't come, tell her maybe to-morrow I--." "I don't tell her nothing!" broke in Mr. Vetsburg and moved toward her with considerable strengthening of tone. "Mrs. Kaufman, I ask you, do you think it right you should go back like this on Ruby and me, just when we want most you should--" At that she quickened and fluttered. "Ruby and you! Ach, it's a old saying, Mr. Vetsburg, like the twig is bent so the tree grows. That child won't be so surprised her mother changes her mind. Just so changeable as her mother, and more, is Ruby herself. With that girl, Mr. Vetsburg, it's--it's hard to know what she does one minute from the next. I always say no man--nobody can ever count on a little harum-scarum like--like she is." He took up her hat, a small turban of breast feathers, laid out on the table beside him, and advanced with it clumsily enough. "Come," he said, "please now, Mrs. Kaufman. Please." "I--" "I--I got plans made for us to-morrow down by the shore that's--that's just fine! Come now, Mrs. Kaufman." "Please, Mr. Vetsburg, don't force. I--I can't! I always say nobody can ever count on such a little harum-scarum as--" "You mean to tell me, Mrs. Kaufman, that just because a little shyster doctor--" Her hand closed over the long envelope again, crunching it. "No, no, that--that ain't all, Mr. Vetsburg. Only I don't want you should tell Ruby. You promise me? How that child worries over little things. Shulif from the agency called up just now. He don't give me one more minute as two this afternoon I--I should sign. How I been putting them off so many weeks with this lease it's a shame. Always you know how in the back of my head I've had it to take maybe a smaller place when this lease was done, but, like I say, talk is cheap and moving ain't so easy done--ain't it? If he puts in new plumbing in the pantry and new hinges on the doors and papers my second floor and Mrs. Suss's alcove, like I said last night, after all I could do worse as stay here another five year--ain't it, Mr. Vetsburg?" "I--" "A house what keeps filled so easy, and such a location, with the Subway less as two blocks. I--So you see, Mr. Vetsburg, if I don't want I come back and find my house on the market, maybe rented over my head, I got to stay home for Shulif when he comes to-day." A rush of dark blood had surged up into Mr. Vetsburg's face, and he twiddled his hat, his dry fingers moving around inside the brim. "Mrs. Kaufman," he cried--"Mrs. Kaufman, sometimes when for years a man don't speak out his mind, sometimes he busts all of a sudden right out. I--Oh--e-e-e!" and, immediately and thickly inarticulate, made a tremendous feint at clearing his throat, tossed up his hat and caught it; rolled his eyes. "Mr. Vetsburg?" "A man, Mrs. Kaufman, can bust!" "Bust?" He was still violently dark, but swallowing with less labor. "Yes, from holding in. Mrs. Kaufman, should a woman like you--the finest woman in the world, and I can prove it--a woman, Mrs. Kaufman, who in her heart and my heart and--Should such a woman not come to Atlantic City when I got everything fixed like a stage set!" She threw out an arm that was visibly trembling. "Mr. Vetsburg, for God's sake, 'ain't I just told you how that she--harum-scarum--she--." "Will you, Mrs. Kaufman, come or won't you? Will you, I ask you, or won't you?" "I--I can't, Mr.--" "All right, then, I--I bust out now. To-day can be as good as to-morrow! Not with my say in a t'ousand years, Mrs. Kaufman, you sign that lease! I ain't a young man any more with fine speeches, Mrs. Kaufman, but not in a t'ousand years you sign that lease." "Mr. Vetsburg, Ruby--I--" "If anybody's got a lease on you, Mrs. Kaufman, I--I want it! I want it! That's the kind of a lease would suit me. To be leased to you for always, the rest of your life!" She could not follow him down the vista of fancy, but stood interrogating him with her heartbeats at her throat. "Mr. Vetsburg, if he puts on the doors and hinges and new plumbing in--." "I'm a plain man, Mrs. Kaufman, without much to offer a woman what can give out her heart's blood like it was so much water. But all these years I been waiting, Mrs. Kaufman, to bust out, until--till things got riper. I know with a woman like you, whose own happiness always is last, that first your girl must be fixed--." "She's a young girl, Mr. Vetsburg. You--you mustn't depend--. If I had my say--." "He's a fine fellow, Mrs. Kaufman. With his uncle to help 'em, they got, let me tell you, a better start as most young ones!" She rose, holding on to the desk. "I--I--" she said. "What?" "Lena," he uttered, very softly. "Lena, Mr. Vetsburg?" "It 'ain't been easy, Lenie, these years while she was only growing up, to keep off my lips that name. A name just like a leaf off a rose. Lena!" he reiterated and advanced. Comprehension came quietly and dawning like a morning. "I--I--. Mr. Vetsburg, you must excuse me," she said, and sat down suddenly. He crossed to the little desk and bent low over her chair, his hand not on her shoulder, but at the knob of her chair. His voice had a swift rehearsed quality. "Maybe to-morrow, if you didn't back out, it would sound finer by the ocean, Lenie, but it don't need the ocean a man should tell a woman when she's the first and the finest woman in the world. Does it, Lenie?" "I--I thought Ruby. She--" "He's a good boy, Leo is, Lenie. A good boy what can be good to a woman like his father before him. Good enough even for a fine girl like our Ruby, Lenie--_our_ Ruby!" "_Gott im Himmel_! then you--" "Wide awake, too. With a start like I can give him in my business, you 'ain't got to worry Ruby 'ain't fixed herself with the man what she chooses. To-morrow at Atlantic City all fixed I had it I should tell--" "You!" she said, turning around in her chair to face him. "You--all along you been fixing--" He turned sheepish. "Ain't it fair, Lenie, in love and war and business a man has got to scheme for what he wants out of life? Long enough it took she should grow up. I knew all along once those two, each so full of life and being young, got together it was natural what should happen. Mrs. Kaufman! Lenie! Lenie!" Prom two flights up, in through the open door and well above the harsh sound of scrubbing, a voice curled down through the hallways and in. "Mrs. Kaufman, ice-water--ple-ase!" "Lenie," he said, his singing, tingling fingers closing over her wrist. "Mrs. Kauf-man, ice-water, pl--" With her free arm she reached and slammed the door, let her cheek lie to the back of his hand, and closed her eyes. IV HERS _NOT_ TO REASON WHY In the third winter of a world-madness, with Europe guzzling blood and wild with the taste of it, America grew flatulent, stenching winds from the battle-field blowing her prosperity. Granaries filled to bursting tripled in value, and, in congested districts, men with lean faces rioted when bread advanced a cent a loaf. Munition factories, the fires of destruction smelting all night, worked three shifts. Millions of shells for millions of dollars. Millions of lives for millions of shells. A country feeding into the insatiable maw of war with one hand, and with the other pouring relief-funds into coffers bombarded by guns of its own manufacture--quelling the wound with a finger and widening it with a knife up the cuff. In France, women with blue faces and too often with the pulling lips of babes at dry breasts, learned the bitter tasks of sewing closed the coat sleeves and of cutting off and hemming the trousers leg at the knee. In America, women new to the feel of fur learned to love it and not question whence it came. Men of small affairs, suddenly earthquaked to the crest of the great tidal wave of new market-values, went drunk with wealth. In New York, where so many great forces of a great country coagulate, the face of the city photographed would have been a composite of fat and jowl, rouge and heavy lip--satiated yet insatiate, the head double-chinned and even a little loggy with too many satisfactions. But that is the New York of the Saturnite and of Teufelsdröckh alone with his stars. Upon Mrs. Blutch Connors, gazing out upon the tide of West Forty-seventh Street, life lay lightly and as unrelated as if ravage and carnage and the smell of still warm blood were of another planet. A shower of white light from an incandescent tooth-brush sign opposite threw a pallid reflection upon Mrs. Connors; it spun the fuzz of frizz rising off her blond coiffure into a sort of golden fog and picked out the sequins of her bodice. The dinner-hour descends glitteringly upon West Forty-seventh Street, its solid rows of long, lanky hotels, actors' clubs, and sixty-cent _tables d'hôte_ adding each its candle-power. From her brace of windows in the Hotel Metropolis, the street was not unlike a gully cut through mica, a honking tributary flowing into the great sea of Broadway. A low, high-power car, shaped like an ellipse, cut through the snarl of traffic, bleating. A woman, wrapped in a greatcoat of "baby" pelts and an almost undistinguishable dog in the cove of her arm, walked out from the Hotel Metropolis across the sidewalk and into a taxicab. An army of derby hats, lowered slightly into the wind, moved through the white kind of darkness. Standing there, buffeting her pink nails across her pink palms, Mrs. Connors followed the westward trend of that army. Out from it, a face lying suddenly back flashed up at her, a mere petal riding a swift current. But at sight of it Mrs. Blutch Connors inclined her entire body, pressing a smile and a hand against the cold pane, then turned inward, flashing on an electrolier--a bronze Nydia holding out a cluster of frosted bulbs. A great deal of the strong breath of a popular perfume and a great deal of artificial heat lay sweet upon that room, as if many flowers had lived and died in the same air, leaving insidious but slightly stale memories. The hotel suite has become the brocaded tomb of the old-fashioned garden. The kitchen has shrunk into the chafing-dish, and all the dear old concoctions that mother used to try to make now come tinned, condensed, and predigested in sixty-seven varieties. Even the vine-covered threshold survives only in the booklets of promoters of suburban real estate. In New York, the home-coming spouse arrives on the vertical, shunted out at whatever his layer. Yet, when Mrs. Connors opened the door of her pink-brocaded sitting-room, her spirit rose with the soughing rise of the elevator, and Romance--hardy fellow--showed himself within a murky hotel corridor. "Honeybunch!" "Babe!" said Mr. Blutch Connors, upon the slam of the lift door. And there, in the dim-lit halls, with its rows of closed doors in blank-faced witness thereof, they embraced, these two, despising, as Flaubert despised, to live in the reality of things. "My boy's beau-ful cheeks all cold!" "My girl's beau-ful cheeks all warm and full of some danged good cologne," said Mr. Connors, closing the door of their rooms upon them, pressing her head back against the support of his arm, and kissing her throat as the chin flew up. He pressed a button, and the room sprang into more light, coming out pinkly and vividly--the brocaded walls pliant to touch with every so often a gilt-framed engraving; a gilt table with an onyx top cheerfully cluttered with the sauciest short-story magazines of the month; a white mantelpiece with an artificial hearth and a pink-and-gilt _chaise-longue_ piled high with small, lacy pillows, and a very green magazine open and face downward on the floor beside it. "Comin' better, honeybunch?" "I dunno, Babe. The town's mad with money, but I don't feel myself going crazy with any of it." "What ud you bring us, honey?" He slid out of his silk-lined greatcoat, placing his brown derby atop. "Three guesses, Babe," he said, rubbing his cold hands in a dry wash, and smiling from five feet eleven of sartorial accomplishment down upon her. "Honey darlin'!" said Mrs. Connors, standing erect and placing her cheek against the third button of his waistcoat. "Wow! how I love the woman!" he cried, closing his hands softly about her throat and tilting her head backward again. "Darlin', you hurt!" "Br-r-r--can't help it!" When Mr. Connors moved, he gave off the scent of pomade freely; his slightly thinning brown hair and the pointy tips to a reddish mustache lay sleek with it. There was the merest suggestion of _embonpoint_ to the waistcoat, but not so that, when he dropped his eyes, the blunt toes of his russet shoes were not in evidence. His pin-checked suit was pressed to a knife-edge, and his brocaded cravat folded to a nicety; there was an air of complete well-being about him. Men can acquire that sort of eupeptic well-being in a Turkish bath. Young mothers and life-jobbers have it naturally. Suddenly, Mrs. Connors began to foray into his pockets, plunging her hand into the right, the left, then stopped suddenly, her little face flashing up at him. "It's round and furry--my honeybunch brought me a peach! Beau-ful pink peach in December! Nine million dollars my hubby pays to bring him wifey a beau-ful pink peach." She drew it out--a slightly runty one with a forced blush--and bit small white teeth immediately into it. "M-m-m!"--sitting on the _chaise-longue_ and sucking inward. He sat down beside her, a shade graver. "Is my babe disappointed I didn't dig her coat and earrings out of hock?" She lay against him. "I should worry!" "There just ain't no squeal in my girl." "Wanna bite?" "Any one of 'em but you would be hollering for their junk out of pawn. But, Lord, the way she rigs herself up without it! Where'd you dig up the spangles, Babe? Gad! I gotta take you out to-night and buy you the right kind of a dinner. When I walks my girl into a café, they sit up and take notice, all righty. Spangles she rigs herself up in when another girl, with the way my luck's been runnin', would be down to her shimmy-tail." She stroked his sleeve as if it had the quality of fur. "Is the rabbit's foot still kicking my boy?" "Never seen the like, honey. The cards just won't come. This afternoon I even played the wheel over at Chuck's, and she spun me dirt." "It's gotta turn, Blutch." "Sure!" "Remember the run of rotten luck you had that year in Cincinnati, when the ponies was runnin' at Latonia?" "Yeh." "Lost your shirt, hon, and the first day back in New York laid a hundred on the wheel and won me my seal coat. You--we--We couldn't be no lower than that time we got back from Latonia, hon?" He laid his hand over hers. "Come on, Babe. Joe'll be here directly, and then we're going and blow them spangles to a supper." "Blutch, answer!" "Now there's nothin' to worry about, Babe. Have I ever landed anywhere but on my feet? We'll be driving a racer down Broadway again before the winter's over. There's money in motion these wartimes, Babe. They can't keep my hands off it." "Blutch, how--how much did you drop to-day? "I could tell clear down on the street you lost, honey, the way you walked so round-shouldered." "What's the difference, honey? Come; just to show you I'm a sport, I'm going to shoot you and Joe over to Jack's in one of them new white taxi-cabs." "Blutch, how much?" "Well, if you gotta know it, they laid me out to-day, Babe. Dropped that nine hundred hock-money like it was a hot potato, and me countin' on bringin' you home your coat and junk again to-night. Gad! Them cards wouldn't come to me with salt on their tails." "Nine hundred! Blutch, that--that leaves us bleached!" "I know it, hon. Just never saw the like. Wouldn't care if it wasn't my girl's junk and fur coat. That's what hurts a fellow. If there's one thing he ought to look to, it's to keep his wimmin out of the game." "It--it ain't that, Blutch; but--but where's it comin' from?" He struck his thigh a resounding whack. "With seventy-five bucks in my jeans, girl, the world is mine. Why, before I had my babe for my own, many's the time I was down to shoe-shine money. Up to 'leven years ago it wasn't nothing, honey, for me to sleep on a pool-table one night and _de luxe_ the next. If life was a sure thing for me, I'd ask 'em to put me out of my misery. It's only since I got my girl that I ain't the plunger I used to be. Big Blutch has got his name from the old days, honey, when a dime, a dollar, and a tire-rim was all the same size." She sat hunched up in the pink-satinet frock, the pink sequins dancing, and her small face smaller because of the way her light hair rose up in the fuzzy aura. "Blutch, we--we just never was down to the last seventy-five before. That time at Latonia, it was a hundred and more." "Why, girl, once, at Hot Springs, I had to hock my coat and vest, and I got started on a run of new luck playin' in my shirt-sleeves, pretending I was a summer boy." "That was the time you gave Lenny Gratz back his losings and got him back to his wife." "Right-o! Seen him only to-night. He's traveling out of Cleveland for an electric house and has forgot how aces up looks. That boy had as much chance in the game as a deacon." Mrs. Connors laid hold of Mr. Connors's immaculate coat lapel, drawing him toward her. "Oh, Blutch--honey--if only--if only--" "If only what, Babe?" "If you--you--" "Why, honey, what's eatin' you? I been down pretty near this low many a time; only, you 'ain't known nothing about it, me not wanting to worry your pretty head. You ain't afraid, Babe, your old hubby can't always take care of his girl A1, are you?" "No, no, Blutch; only--" "What, Babe?" "I wish to God you was out of it, Blutch! I wish to God!" "Out of what, Babe?" "The game, Blutch. You're too good, honey, and too--too honest to be in it. What show you got in the end against your playin' pals like Joe Kirby and Al Flexnor? I know that gang, Blutch. I've tried to tell you so often how, when I was a kid livin' at home, that crowd used to come to my mother's--" "Now, now, girl; business is--" "You're too good, Blutch, and too honest to be in it. The game'll break you in the end. It always does. Blutch darling, I wish to God you was out of it!" "Why, Ann 'Lisbeth, I never knew you felt this way about it." "I do, Blutch, I do! For years, it's been here in me--here, under my heart--eatin' me, Blutch, eatin' me!" And she placed her hands flat to her breast. "Why, Babe!" "I never let on. You--I--You been too good, Blutch, to a girl like--like I was for me to let out a whimper about anything. A man that took a girl like--like me that had knocked around just like--my mother and even--even my grandmother before me had knocked around--took and married me, no questions asked. A girl like me 'ain't got the right to complain to no man, much less to one like you. The heaven you've given me for eleven years, Blutch! The heaven! Sometimes, darlin', just sittin' here in a room like this, with no--no reason for bein' here--it's just like I--" "Babe, Babe, you mustn't!" "Sittin' here, waiting for you to come and not carin' for nothing or nobody except that my boy's comin' home to me--it's like I was in a dream, Blutch, and like I was going to wake up and find myself back in my mother's house, and--" "Babe, you been sittin' at home alone too much. I always tell you, honey, you ought to make friends. Chuck De Roy's wife wants the worst way to get acquainted with you--a nice, quiet girl. It ain't right, Babe, for you not to have no friends at all to go to the matinée with or go buyin' knickknacks with. You're gettin' morbid, honey." She worked herself out of his embrace, withholding him with her palms pressed out against his chest. "I 'ain't got nothing in life but you, honey. There ain't nobody else under the sun makes any difference. That's why I want you to get out of it, Blutch. It's a dirty game--the gambling game. You ain't fit for it. You're too good. They've nearly got you now, Blutch. Let's get out, honey, while the goin's good. Let's take them seventy-five bucks and buy us a peanut-stand or a line of goods. Let's be regular folks, darlin'! I'm willin' to begin low down. Don't stake them last seventy-five, Blutch. Break while we're broke. It ain't human nature to break while your luck's with you." He was for folding her in his arms, but she still withheld him. "Blutch darlin', it's the first thing I ever asked of you." He grew grave, looking long into her blue eyes with the tears forming over them. "Why, Ann 'Lisbeth, danged if I know what to say! You sure you're feelin' well, Babe? 'Ain't took cold, have you, with your fur coat in hock?" "No, no, no!" "Well, I--I guess, honey, if the truth was told, your old man ain't cut out for nothing much besides the gamin'-table--a fellow that's knocked around the world the way I have." "You are, Blutch; you are! You're an expert accountant. Didn't you run the Two Dollar Hat Store that time in Syracuse and get away with it?" "I know, Babe; but when a fellow's once used to makin' it easy and spendin' it easy, he can't be satisfied lopin' along in a little business. Why, just take to-night, honey! I only brought home my girl a peach this evening, but that ain't sayin' that before morning breaks I can't be bringin' her a couple of two-carat stones." "No, no, Blutch; I don't want 'em. I swear to God I don't want 'em!" "Why, Babe, I just can't figure out what's got into you. I never heard you break out like this. Are you scared, honey, because we happen to be lower than--" "No, no, darlin'; I ain't scared because we're low. I'm scared to get high again. It's the first run of real luck you've had in three years, Blutch. There was no hope of gettin' you out while things was breakin' good for you; but now--" "I ain't sayin' it's the best game in the world. I'd see a son of mine laid out before I'd let him get into it. But it's what I'm cut out for, and what are you goin' to do about it? 'Ain't you got everything your little heart desires? Ain't we going down to Sheepshead when the first thaw sets in? Ain't we just a pair of love-birds that's as happy as if we had our right senses? Come, Babe; get into your jacket. Joe'll be here any minute, and I got that porterhouse at Jack's on the brain. Come kiss your hubby." She held up her face with the tears rolling down it, and he kissed a dry spot and her yellow frizzed bangs. "My girl! My cry-baby girl!" "You're all I got in the world, Blutch! Thinkin' of what's best for you has eat into me." "I know! I know!" "We'll never get nowheres in this game, hon. We ain't even sure enough of ourselves to have a home like--like regular folks." "Never you mind, Babe. Startin' first of the year, I'm going to begin to look to a little nest-egg." "We ought to have it, Blutch. Just think of lettin' ourselves get down to the last seventy-five! What if a rainy day should come--where would we be at? If you--or me should get sick or something." "You ain't all wrong, girl." "You'd give the shirt off your back, Blutch; that's why we can't ever have a nest-egg as long as you're playin' stakes. There's too many hard-luck stories lying around loose in the gamblin' game." "The next big haul I make I'm going to get out, girl, so help me!" "Blutch!" "I mean it. We'll buy a chicken-farm." "Why not a little business, Blutch, in a small town with--" "There's a great future in chicken-farmin'. I set Boy Higgins up with a five-hundred spot the year his lung went back on him, and he paid me back the second year." "Blutch darlin', you mean it?" "Why not, Babe--seein' you want it? There ain't no string tied to me and the green-felt table. I can go through with anything I make up my mind to." "Oh, honey baby, you promise! Darling little fuzzy chickens!" "Why, girl, I wouldn't have you eatin' yourself thisaway. The first ten-thou' high-water mark we hit I'm quits. How's that?" "Ten thousand! Oh, Blutch, we--" "What's ten thou', girl! I made the Hot Springs haul with a twenty-dollar start. If you ain't careful, we'll be buyin' that chicken-farm next week. That's what can happen to my girl if she starts something with her hubby." Suddenly Mrs. Connors crumpled in a heap upon the lacy pillows, pink sequins heaving. "Why, Babe--Babe, what is it? You're sick or something to-night, honey." He lifted her to his arms, bent almost double over her. "Nothin', Blutch, only--only I just never was so happy." "Lord!" said Blutch Connors. "All these years, and I never knew anything was eatin' her." "I--I never was, Blutch." "Was what?" "So--happy." "Lord bless my soul! The poor little thing was afraid to say it was a chicken-farm she wanted!" He patted her constantly, his eyes somewhat glazy. "Us two, Blutch, livin' regular." "You ain't all wrong, girl." "You home evenings, Blutch, regular like." "You poor little thing!" "You'll play safe, Blutch? Play safe to win!" "I wish I'd have went into the farmin' three years ago, Babe, the week I hauled down eleven thou'." "You was too fed up with luck then, Blutch. I knew better 'n to ask." "Lord bless my soul! and the poor little thing was afraid to say it was a chicken-farm she wanted!" "Promise me, Blutch, you'll play 'em close--to win!" "Al's openin' up his new rooms to-night. Me and Joe are goin' to play 'em fifty-fifty. It looks to me like a haul, Babe." "He's crooked, Blutch, I tell you." "No more 'n all of 'em are, Babe. Your eyes open and your pockets closed is my motto. What you got special against Joe? You mustn't dig up on a fellow, Babe." "I--. Why ain't he livin' in White Plains, where his wife and kids are?" "What I don't know about the private life of my card friends don't hurt me." "It's town talk the way he keeps them rooms over at the Liberty. 'Way back when I was a kid, Blutch, I remember how he used to--" "I know there ain't no medals on Joe, Babe, but if you don't stop listenin' to town talk, you're going to get them pretty little ears of yours all sooty." "I know, Blutch; but I could tell you things about him back in the days when my mother--" "Me and him are goin' over to Al's to-night and try to win my babe the first chicken for her farm. Whatta you bet? Us two ain't much on the sociability end, but we've played many a lucky card fifty-fifty. Saturday is our mascot night, too. Come, Babe; get on your jacket, and--" "Honeybunch, you and Joe go. I ain't hungry." "But--" "I'll have 'em send me up a bite from the grill." "You ain't sore because I asked Joe? It's business, Babe." "Of course I ain't, honey; only, with you and him goin' right over to Al's afterward, what's the sense of me goin'? I wanna stay home and think. It's just like beginnin' to-night I could sit here and look right into the time when there ain't goin' to be no more waitin' up nights for my boy. I--They got all little white chickens out at Denny's roadhouse, Blutch--white with red combs. Can we have some like them?" "You betcher life we can! I'm going to win the beginnings of that farm before I'm a night older. Lordy! Lordy! and to think I never knew anything was eatin' her!" "Blutch, I--I don't know what to say. I keep cryin' when I wanna laugh. I never was so happy, Blutch, I never was." "My little kitty-puss!" * * * * * At seven o'clock came Mr. Joe Kirby, dark, corpulent, and black of cigar. "Come right in, Joe! I'm here and waitin' for you." "Ain't the missis in on this killin'?" "She--Not this--" "No, Joe; not--to-night." "Sorry to hear it," said Mr. Kirby, flecking an inch of cigar-ash to the table-top. "Fine rig-up, with due respect to the lady, your missis is wearing to-night." "The wife ain't so short on looks, is she?" "Blutch!" "You know my sentiments about her. They don't come no ace-higher." She colored, even quivered, standing there beside the bronze Nydia. "I tell her we're out for big business to-night, Joe." "Sky's the limit. Picked up a pin pointin' toward me and sat with my back to a red-headed woman. Can't lose." "Well, good-night, Babe. Take care o' yourself." "Good night, Blutch. You'll play 'em close, honey?" "You just know I will, Babe." An hour she sat there, alone on the _chaise-longue_, staring into space and smiling at what she saw there. Finally she dropped back into the lacy mound of pillows, almost instantly asleep, but still smiling. * * * * * At four o'clock, that hour before dawn cracks, even the West Forties, where night is too often cacophonous with the sound of revelry, drop into long narrow aisles of gloom. Thin, high-stooped houses with drawn shades recede into the mouse-colored mist of morning, and, as through quagmire, this mist hovering close to ground, figures skulk--that nameless, shapeless race of many bloods and one complexion, the underground complexion of paste long sour from standing. At somewhat after that hour Mr. Blutch Connors made exit from one of these houses, noiseless, with scarcely a click after him, and then, without pause, passed down the brownstone steps and eastward. A taxicab slid by, its honk as sorrowful as the cry of a plover in a bog. Another--this one drawing up alongside, in quest of fare. He moved on, his breath clouding the early air, and his hands plunged deep in his pockets as if to plumb their depth. There was a great sag to the silhouette of him moving thus through the gloom, the chest in and the shoulders rounding and lessening their front span. Once he paused to remove the brown derby and wipe at his brow. A policeman struck his stick. He moved on. An all-night drug-store, the modern sort of emporium where the capsule and the herb have become side line to the ivoritus toilet-set and the pocket-dictionary, threw a white veil of light across the sidewalk. Well past that window, but as if its image had only just caught up with him, Mr. Connors turned back, retracing ten steps. A display-window, denuded of frippery but strewn with straw and crisscrossed with two large strips of poster, proclaimed Chicklet Face Powder to the cosmetically concerned. With an eye to fidelity, a small brood of small chickens, half dead with bad air and not larger than fists, huddled rearward and out of the grilling light--puny victims to an indorsed method of correspondence-school advertising. Mr. Connors entered, scouting out a dozy clerk. "Say, bo, what's one of them chicks worth?" "Ain't fer sale." Mr. Connors lowered his voice, nudging. "I gotta sick wife, bo. Couldn't you slip me one in a 'mergency?" "What's the idea--chicken broth? You better go in the park and catch her a chippie." "On the level, friend, one of them little yellow things would cheer her up. She's great one for pets." "Can't you see they're half-dead now? What you wanna cheer her up with--a corpse? If I had my way, I'd wring the whole display's neck, anyhow." "What'll you take for one, bo?" "It'll freeze to death." "Look! This side pocket is lined with velvet." "Dollar." "Aw, I said one, friend, not the whole brood." "Leave or take." Mr. Connors dug deep. "Make it sixty cents and a poker-chip, bo. It's every cent I got in my pocket." "Keep the poker-chip for pin-money." When Mr. Connors emerged, a small, chirruping bunch of fuzz, cupped in his hand, lay snug in the velvet-lined pocket. At Sixth Avenue, where the great skeleton of the Elevated stalks mid-street, like a prehistoric _pithecanthropus erectus_, he paused for an instant in the shadow of a gigantic black pillar, readjusting the fragile burden to his pocket. Stepping out to cross the street, simultaneously a great silent motor-car, noiseless but wild with speed, tore down the surface-car tracks, blacker in the hulking shadow of the Elevated trellis. A quick doubling up of the sagging silhouette, and the groan of a clutch violently thrown. A woman's shriek flying thin and high like a javelin of horror. A crowd sprung full grown out of the bog of the morning. White, peering faces showing up in the brilliant paths of the acetylene lamps. A uniform pushing through. A crowbar and the hard breathing of men straining to lift. A sob in the dark. Stand back! Stand back! * * * * * Dawn--then a blue, wintry sky, the color and hardness of enamel; and sunshine, bright, yet so far off the eye could stare up to it unsquinting. It lay against the pink-brocaded window-hangings of the suite in the Hotel Metropolis; it even crept in like a timid hand reaching toward, yet not quite touching, the full-flung figure of Mrs. Blutch Connors, lying, her cheek dug into the harshness of the carpet, there at the closed door to the bedroom--prone as if washed there, and her yellow hair streaming back like seaweed. Sobs came, but only the dry kind that beat in the throat and then come shrilly, like a sheet of silk swiftly torn. How frail are human ties, have said the _beaux esprits_ of every age in one epigrammatic fashion or another. But frailty can bleed; in fact, it's first to bleed. Lying there, with her face swollen and stamped with the carpet-nap, squirming in a grief that was actually abashing before it was heartbreaking, Ann 'Lisbeth Connors, whose only epiphany of life was love, and shut out from so much else that helps make life sweet, was now shut out from none of its pain. Once she scratched at the door, a faint, dog-like scratch for admission, and then sat back on her heels, staring at the uncompromising panel, holding back the audibility of her sobs with her hand. Heart-constricting silence, and only the breath of ether seeping out to her, sweet, insidious. She took to hugging herself violently against a sudden chill that rushed over her, rattling her frame. The bedroom door swung noiselessly back, fanning out the etheric fumes, and closed again upon an emerging figure. "Doctor--quick--God!--What?" He looked down upon her with the kind of glaze over his eyes that Bellini loved to paint, compassion for the pain of the world almost distilled to tears. "Doctor--he ain't--" "My poor little lady!" "O God--no--no--no! No, Doctor, no! You wouldn't! Please! Please! You wouldn't let him leave me here all alone, Doctor! O God! you wouldn't! I'm all alone, Doctor! You see, I'm all alone. Please don't take him from me. He's mine! You can't! Promise me, Doctor! My darlin' in there--why are you hurtin' him so? Why has he stopped hollerin'? Cut me to pieces to give him what he needs to make him live. Don't take him from me, Doctor. He's all I got! O God--God--please!" And fell back swooning, with an old man's tear splashing down as if to revivify her. * * * * * The heart has a resiliency. Strained to breaking, it can contract again. Even the waiting women, Iseult and Penelope, learned, as they sat sorrowing and watching, to sing to the swing of the sea. When, out of the slough of dark weeks, Mrs. Connors took up life again, she was only beaten, not broken--a reed lashed down by storm and then resilient, daring to lift its head again. A wan little head, but the eyes unwashed of their blue and the irises grown large. The same hard sunshine lay in its path between the brocade curtains of a room strangely denuded. It was as if spring had died there, when it was only the _chaise-longue_, barren of its lacy pillows, a glass vase and silver-framed picture gone from the mantel, a Mexican afghan removed from a divan and showing its bulges. It was any hotel suite now--uncompromising; leave me or take me. In taking leave of it, Mrs. Connors looked about her even coldly, as if this barren room were too denuded of its memories. "You--you been mighty good to me, Joe. It's good to know--everything's--paid up." Mr. Joe Kirby sat well forward on a straight chair, knees well apart in the rather puffy attitude of the uncomfortably corpulent. "Now, cut that! Whatever I done for you, Annie, I done because I wanted to. If you'd 'a' listened to me, you wouldn't 'a' gone and sold out your last dud to raise money. Whatcha got friends for?" "The way you dug down for--for the funeral, Joe. He--he couldn't have had the silver handles or the gray velvet if--if not for you, Joe. He--he always loved everything the best. I can't never forget that of you, Joe--just never." She was pinning on her little crêpe-edged veil over her decently black hat, and paused now to dab up under it at a tear. "I'd 'a' expected poor old Blutch to do as much for me." "He would! He would! Many's the pal he buried." "I hate, Annie, like anything to see you actin' up like this. You ain't fit to walk out of this hotel on your own hook. Where'd you get that hand-me-down?" She looked down at herself, quickly reddening. "It's a warm suit, Joe." "Why, you 'ain't got a chance! A little thing like you ain't cut out for but one or two things. Coddlin'--that's your line. The minute you're nobody's doll you're goin' to get stepped on and get busted." "Whatta you know about--" "What kind of a job you think you're gonna get? Adviser to a corporation lawyer? You're too soft, girl. What chance you think you got buckin' up against a town that wants value received from a woman. Aw, you know what I mean, Annie. You can't pull that baby stuff all the time." "You," she cried, beating her small hands together, "oh, you--you--" and then sat down, crying weakly. "Them days back there! Why, I--I was such a kid it's just like they hadn't been! With her and my grandmother dead and gone these twelve years, if it wasn't for you it's--it's like they'd never been." "Nobody was gladder 'n me, girl, to see how you made a bed for yourself. I'm commendin' you, I am. That's just what I'm tryin' to tell you now, girl. You was cut out to be somebody's kitten, and--" "O God!" she sobbed into her handkerchief, "why didn't you take me when you took him?" "Now, now, Annie, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. A good-lookin' woman like you 'ain't got nothing to worry about. Lemme order you up a drink. You're gettin' weak again." "No, no; I'm taking 'em too often. But they warm me. They warm me, and I'm cold, Joe--cold." "Then lemme--" "No! No!" He put out a short, broad hand toward her. "Poor little--" "I gotta go now, Joe. These rooms ain't mine no more." He barred her path. "Go where?" '"Ain't I told you? I'm going out. Anybody that's willin' to work can get it in this town. I ain't the softy you think I am." He took her small black purse up from the table. "What's your capital?" "You--quit!" "Ten--'leven--fourteen dollars and seventy-four cents." "You gimme!" "You can't cut no capers on that, girl." "I--can work." He dropped something in against the coins. It clinked. She sprang at him. "No, no; not a cent from you--for myself. I--I didn't know you in them days for nothing. I was only a kid, but I--I know you! I know. You gimme! Gimme!" He withheld it from her. "Hold your horses, beauty! What I was then I am now, and I ain't ashamed of it. Human, that's all. The best of us is only human before a pretty woman." "You gimme!" She had snatched up her small hand-satchel from the divan and stood flashing now beside him, her small, blazing face only level with his cravat. "What you spittin' fire for? That wa'n't nothin' I slipped in but my address, girl. When you need me call on me. 'The Liberty, 96.' Go right up in the elevator, no questions asked. Get me?" he said, poking the small purse into the V of her jacket. "Get me?" "Oh, you--Woh--woh--woh!" With her face flung back and twisted, and dodging his outflung arm, she was down four flights of narrow, unused stairs and out. Once in the streets, she walked with her face still thrust up and a frenzy of haste in her stride. Red had popped out in her cheeks. There was voice in each breath--moans that her throat would not hold. That night she slept in the kind of fifty-cent room the city offers its decent poor. A slit of a room with a black-iron bed and a damp mattress. A wash-stand gaunt with its gaunt mission. A slop-jar on a zinc mat. A caneless-bottom chair. The chair she propped against the door, the top slat of it beneath the knob. Through a night of musty blackness she lay in a rigid line along the bed-edge. You who love the city for its million pulses, the beat of its great heart, and the terrific symphony of its soul, have you ever picked out from its orchestra the plaintive rune of the deserving poor? It is like the note of a wind instrument--an oboe adding its slow note to the boom of the kettle-drum, the clang of gold-colored cymbals, and the singing ecstasy of violins. One such small voice Ann 'Lisbeth Connors added to the great threnody of industry. Department stores that turned from her services almost before they were offered. Offices gleaned from penny papers, miles of them, and hours of waiting on hard-bottom chairs in draughty waiting-rooms. Faces, pasty as her own, lined up alongside, greedy of the morsel about to fall. When the pinch of poverty threatens men and wolves, they grow long-faced. In these first lean days, a week of them, Ann 'Lisbeth's face lengthened a bit, too, and with the fuzz of yellow bangs tucked well up under her not so decent black hat, crinkles came out about her eyes. Nights she supped in a family-entrance café beneath her room--veal stew and a glass of beer. She would sit over it, not unpleasantly muzzy. She slept of nights now, and not so rigidly. Then followed a week of lesser department stores as she worked her way down-town, of offices tucked dingily behind lithograph and small-ware shops, and even an ostrich-feather loft, with a "Curlers Wanted" sign hung out. In what school does the great army of industry earn its first experience? Who first employs the untaught hand? Upon Ann 'Lisbeth, untrained in any craft, it was as if the workaday world turned its back, nettled at a philistine. Once she sat resting on a stoop beneath the sign of a woman's-aid bureau. She read it, but, somehow, her mind would not register. The calves of her legs and the line where her shoe cut into her heel were hurting. She supped in the family-entrance café again--the bowl of veal stew and two glasses of beer. Some days following, her very first venture out into the morning, she found employment--a small printing-shop off Sixth Avenue just below Twenty-third Street. A mere pocket in the wall, a machine champing in its plate-glass front. VISITING-CARDS WHILE YOU WAIT THIRTY-FIVE CENTS A HUNDRED She entered. "The sign says--'girl wanted.'" A face peered down at her from a high chair behind the champing machine. "'Goil wanted,' is what it says. Goil!" "I--I ain't old," she faltered. "Cut cards?" "I--Try me." "Five a week." "Why--yes." "Hang your coat and hat behind the sink." Before noon, a waste of miscut cards about her, she cut her hand slightly, fumbling at the machine, and cried out. "For the love of Mike--you want somebody to kiss it and make it well? Here's a quarter for your time. With them butter-fingers, you better get a job greasin' popcorn." Out in the sun-washed streets the wind had hauled a bit. It cut as she bent into it. With her additional quarter, she still had two dollars and twenty cents, and that afternoon, in lower Sixth Avenue, at the instance of another small card fluttering out in the wind, she applied as dishwasher in a lunch-room and again obtained--this time at six dollars a week and suppers. The Jefferson Market Lunch Room, thick with kicked-up sawdust and the fumes of hissing grease, was sunk slightly below the level of the sidewalk, a fitting retreat for the mole-like humanity that dined furtively at its counter. Men with too short coat-sleeves and collars turned up; women with beery eyes and uneven skirt-hems dank with the bilge-water of life's lower decks. Lower Sixth Avenue is the abode of these shadows. Where are they from, and whither going--these women without beauty, who walk the streets without handkerchiefs, but blubbering with too much or too little drink? What is the terrible riddle? Why, even as they blubber, are there women whose bodies have the quality of cream, slipping in between scented sheets? Ann 'Lisbeth, hers not to argue, but accept, dallied with no such question. Behind the lunch-room, a sink of unwashed dishes rose to a mound. She plunged her hands into tepid water that clung to her like fuzz. "Ugh!" "Go to it!" said the proprietor, who wore a black flap over one eye. "Dey won't bite. If de grease won't cut, souse 'em wit' lye. Don't try to muzzle no breakage on me, neither, like the slut before you. I kin hear a cup crack." "I won't," said Ann 'Lisbeth, a wave of the furry water slopping out and down her dress-front. Followed four days spent in the grease-laden heat of the kitchen, the smell of strong foods, raw meat, and fish stews thick above the sink. She had moved farther down-town, against car fare; but because she talked now constantly in her sleep and often cried out, there were knockings from the opposite side of the partitions and oaths. For two evenings she sat until midnight in a small rear café, again pleasantly muzzy over three glasses of beer and the thick warmth of the room. Another night she carried home a small bottle, tucking it beneath her coat as she emerged to the street. She was grease-stained now, in spite of precautions, and her hat, with her hair uncurled to sustain it, had settled down over her ears, grotesquely large. The week raced with her funds. On the sixth day she paid out her last fifty cents for room-rent, and, without breakfast, filched her lunch from a half-eaten order of codfish balls returned to the kitchen. Yes, reader; but who are you to turn away sickened and know no more of this? You who love to bask in life's smile, but shudder at its drool! A Carpenter did not sicken at a leper. He held out a hand. That night, upon leaving, she asked for a small advance on her week's wage, retreating before the furiously stained apron-front and the one eye of the proprietor cast down upon her. "Lay off! Lay off! Who done your bankin' last year? To-morrow's your day, less four bits for breakage. Speakin' o' breakage, if you drop your jacket, it'll bust. Watch out! That pint won't last you overnight. Layoff!" She reddened immediately, clapping her hand over the small protruding bottle in her pocket. She dared not return to her room, but sat out the night in a dark foyer behind a half-closed storm-door. No one found her out, and the wind could not reach her. Toward morning she even slept sitting. But the day following, weak and too soft for the lift, straining to remove the great dish-pan high with crockery from sink to table, she let slip, grasping for a new hold. There was a crash and a splintered debris--plates that rolled like hoops to the four corners of the room, shivering as they landed; a great ringing explosion of heavy stoneware, and herself drenched with the webby water. "O God!" she cried in immediate hysteria. "O God! O God!" and fell to her knees in a frenzy of clearing-up. A raw-boned Minerva, a waitress with whom she had had no previous word, sprang to her succor, a big, red hand of mercy jerking her up from the debris. "Clear out! He's across the bar. Beat it while the going's good. Your week's gone in breakage, anyways, and he'll split up the place when he comes. Clear out, girl, and here--for car fare." Out in the street, her jacket not quite on and her hat clapped askew, Ann 'Lisbeth found herself quite suddenly scuttling down a side-street. In her hand a dime burnt up into the palm. For the first time in these weeks, except when her pint or the evening beer had vivified her, a warmth seemed to flow through Ann 'Lisbeth. Chilled, and her wet clothing clinging in at the knees, a fever nevertheless quickened her. She was crying as she walked, but not blubbering--spontaneous hot tears born of acute consciousness of pain. A great shame at her smelling, grease-caked dress-front smote her, too, and she stood back in a doorway, scraping at it with a futile forefinger. February had turned soft and soggy, the city streets running mud, and the damp insidious enough to creep through the warmth of human flesh. A day threatened with fog from East River had slipped, without the interim of dusk, into a heavy evening. Her clothing dried, but sitting in a small triangle of park in Grove Street, chill seized her again, and, faint for food, but with nausea for it, she tucked her now empty pint bottle beneath the bench. She was crying incessantly, but her mind still seeming to revive. Her small black purse she drew out from her pocket. It had a collapsed look. Yet within were a sample of baby-blue cotton crêpe, a receipt from a dyeing-and-cleaning establishment, and a bit of pink chamois; in another compartment a small assortment of keys. She fumbled among them, blind with tears. Once she drew out, peering forward toward a street-lamp to inspect it. It clinked as she touched it, a small metal tag ringing. HOTEL LIBERTY 96 An hour Ann 'Lisbeth sat there, with the key in her lax hand. Finally she rubbed the pink chamois across her features and adjusted her hat, pausing to scrape again with forefinger at the front of her, and moved on through the gloom, the wind blowing her skirt forward. She boarded a Seventh Avenue street-car, extracting the ten-cent piece from her purse with a great show of well-being, sat back against the carpet-covered, lengthwise seat, her red hands, with the cut forefinger bound in rag, folded over her waist. At Fiftieth Street she alighted, the white lights of the whitest street in the world forcing down through the murk, and a theater crowd swarming to be turned from reality. The incandescent sign of the Hotel Liberty jutted out ahead. She did not pause. She was in and into an elevator even before a lackey turned to stare. She found "Ninety-six" easily enough, inserting the key and opening the door upon darkness--a warm darkness that came flowing out scented. She found the switch, pressed it. A lamp with a red shade sprang up and a center chandelier. A warm-toned, well-tufted room, hotel chromos well in evidence, but a turkey-red air of solid comfort. Beyond, a white-tiled bathroom shining through the open door, and another room hinted at beyond that. She dropped, even in her hat and jacket, against the divan piled with fat-looking satin cushions. Tears coursed out from her closed eyes, and she relaxed as if she would swoon to the luxury of the pillows, burrowing and letting them bulge up softly about her. A half-hour she lay so in the warm bath of light, her little body so quickly fallen into vagrancy not without litheness beneath the moldy skirt. * * * * * Some time after eight she rose, letting the warm water in the bathroom lave over her hands, limbering them, and from a bottle of eau de Cologne in a small medicine-chest sprinkled herself freely and touched up the corners of her eyes with it. A thick robe of Turkish toweling hung from the bathroom door. She unhooked it, looping it over one arm. A key scraped in the lock. From where she stood a rigidity raced over Ann 'Lisbeth, locking her every limb in paralysis. Her mouth moved to open and would not. The handle turned, and, with a sudden release of faculties, darting this way and that, as if at bay, she tore the white-enameled medicine-chest from its moorings, and, with a yell sprung somewhere from the primordial depths of her, stood with it swung to hurl. The door opened and she lunged, then let it fall weakly and with a small crash. The chambermaid, white with shock at that cry, dropped her burden of towels in the open doorway and fled. Ann 'Lisbeth fled, too, down the two flights of stairs her frenzy found out for her, and across the flare of Broadway. The fog from East River was blowing in grandly as she ran into its tulle. It closed around and around her. V GOLDEN FLEECE How saving a dispensation it is that men do not carry in their hearts perpetual ache at the pain of the world, that the body-thuds of the drink-crazed, beating out frantic strength against cell doors, cannot penetrate the beatitude of a mother bending, at that moment, above a crib. Men can sit in club windows while, even as they sit, are battle-fields strewn with youth dying, their faces in mud. While men are dining where there are mahogany and silver and the gloss of women's shoulders, are men with kick-marks on their shins, ice gluing shut their eyes, and lashed with gale to some ship-or-other's crow's-nest. Women at the opera, so fragrant that the senses swim, sit with consciousness partitioned against a sweating, shuddering woman in some forbidding, forbidden room, hacking open a wall to conceal something red-stained. One-half of the world does not know or care how the other half lives or dies. When, one summer, July came in like desert wind, West Cabanne Terrace and that part of residential St. Louis that is set back in carefully conserved, grove-like lawns did not sip its iced limeades with any the less refreshment because, down-town at the intersection of Broadway and West Street, a woman trundling a bundle of washing in an old perambulator suddenly keeled of heat, saliva running from her mouth-corners. At three o'clock, that hour when so often a summer's day reaches its stilly climax and the heat-dance becomes a thing visible, West Cabanne Terrace and its kind slip into sheerest and crêpiest de Chine, click electric fans to third speed, draw green shades, and retire for siesta. At that same hour, in the Popular Store, where Broadway and West Street intersect, one hundred and fifty salesgirls--jaded sentinels for a public that dares not venture down, loll at their counters and after the occasional shopper, relax deeper to limpidity. At the jewelry counter, a crystal rectangle facing broadside the main entrance and the bleached and sun-grilled street without, Miss Lola Hassiebrock, salient among many and with Olympian certainty of self, lifted two Junoesque arms like unto the handles of a vase, held them there in the kind of rigidity that accompanies a yawn, and then let them flop. "Oh-h-h-h, God bless my soul!" she said. Miss Josie Beemis, narrowly constricted between shoulders that barely sloped off from her neck, with arms folded flat to her flat bosom and her back a hypothenuse against the counter, looked up. "Watch out, Loo! I read in the paper where a man up in Alton got caught in the middle of one of those gaps and couldn't ungap." Miss Hassiebrock batted at her lips and shuddered. "It's my nerves, dearie. All the doctors say that nine gaps out of ten are nerves." Miss Beemis hugged herself a bit flatter, looking out straight ahead into a parasol sale across the aisle. "Enough sleep ain't such a bad cure for gaps," she said. "I'll catch up in time, dearie; my foot's been asleep all day." "Huh!"--sniffling so that her thin nose quirked sidewise. "I will now indulge in hollow laughter--" "You can't, dearie," said Miss Hassiebrock, driven to vaudevillian extremities, "you're cracked." "Well, I may be cracked, but my good name ain't." A stiffening of Miss Hassiebrock took place, as if mere verbiage had suddenly flung a fang. From beneath the sternly and too starched white shirtwaist and the unwilted linen cravat wound high about her throat and sustained there with a rhinestone horseshoe, it was as if a wave of color had started deep down, rushing up under milky flesh into her hair. "Is that meant to be an in-sinuating remark, Josie?" "'Tain't how it's meant; it's how it's took." "There's some poor simps in this world, maybe right here in this store, ought to be excused from what they say because they don't know any better." "I know this much: To catch the North End street-car from here, I don't have to walk every night down past the Stag Hotel to do it." At that Miss Hassiebrock's ears, with the large pearl blobs in them, tingled where they peeped out from the scallops of yellow hair, and she swallowed with a forward movement as if her throat had constricted. "I--take the street-car where I darn please, and it's nobody's darn business." "Sure it ain't! Only, if a poor working-girl don't want to make it everybody's darn business, she can't run around with the fast rich boys of this town and then get invited to help hem the altar-cloth." "Anything I do in this town I'm not ashamed to do in broad daylight." "Maybe; but just the samey, I notice the joy rides out to Claxton don't take place in broad daylight. I notice that 'tall, striking blonde' and Charley Cox's speed-party in the morning paper wasn't exactly what you'd call a 'daylight' affair." "No, it wasn't; it was--my affair." "Say, if you think a girl like you can run with the black sheep of every rich family in town and make a noise like a million dollars with the horsy way she dresses, it ain't my grave you're digging." "Maybe if some of the girls in this store didn't have time to nose so much, they'd know why I can make them all look like they was caught out in the rain and not pressed the next morning. While they're snooping in what don't concern them I'm snipping. Snipping over my last year's black-and-white-checked jacket into this year's cutaway. If you girls had as much talent in your needle as you've got in your conversation, you might find yourselves somewheres." "Maybe what you call 'somewheres' is what lots of us would call 'nowheres.'" Miss Hassiebrock drew herself up and, from the suzerainty of sheer height, looked down upon Miss Beemis there, so brown and narrow beside the friendship-bracelet rack. "I'll have you know, Josie Beemis, that if every girl in this store watched her step like me, there'd be a darn sight less trouble in the world." "I know you don't go beyond the life-line, Loo, but, gee! you--you do swim out some!" "Little Loo knows her own depth, all righty." "Not the way you're cuttin' up with Charley Cox." Miss Hassiebrock lowered her flaming face to scrutinize a tray of rhinestone bar pins. "I'd like to see any girl in this store turn down a bid with Charley Cox. I notice there are plenty of you go out to the Highland dances hoping to meet even his imitation." "The rich boys that hang around the Stag and out to the Highlands don't get girls like us anywheres." "I don't need them to get me anywhere. It's enough when a fellow takes me out that he can tuck me up in a six-cylinder and make me forget my stone-bruise. Give me a fellow that smells of gasolene instead of bay rum every time. Trolley-car Johnnies don't mean nothing in my life." "You let John Simeon out of this conversation!" "You let Charley Cox out!" "Maybe he don't smell like a cleaned white glove, but John means something by me that's good." "Well, since you're so darn smart, Josie Beemis, and since you got so much of the English language to spare, I'm going to tell you something. Three nights in succession, and I can prove it by the crowd, Charley Cox has asked me to marry him. Begged me last night out at Claxton Inn, with Jess Turner and all that bunch along, to let them roust out old man Gerber there in Claxton and get married in poetry. Put that in your pipe and smoke it awhile, Josie; it may soothe your nerve." "Y-aw," said Miss Beemis. The day dwindled. Died. At West Street, where Broadway intersects, the red sun at its far end settled redly and cleanly to sink like a huge coin into the horizon. The Popular Store emptied itself into this hot pink glow, scurried for the open street-car and, oftener than not, the overstuffed rear platform, nose to nose, breath to breath. Fortunately the Popular Store took its semi-annual inventory of yards and not of souls. Such a stock-taking, that of the human hearts which beat from half after eight to six behind six floors of counters, would have revealed empty crannies, worn thin in places with the grind of routine. The eight-thirty-to-six business of muslin underwear, crash toweling, and skirt-binding. The great middle class of shoppers who come querulous with bunions and babies. The strap-hanging homeward ride. Supper, but usually within range of the range that boils it. The same smells of the same foods. The, cinematograph or front-stoop hour before bed. Or, if Love comes, and he will not be gainsaid, a bit of wooing at the fountain--the soda-fountain. But even he, oftener than not, comes moist-handed, and in a ready-tied tie. As if that matters, and yet somehow, it does. Leander wore none, or had he, would have worn it flowing. Then bed, and the routine of its unfolding and coaxing the pillow from beneath the iron clamp. An alarm-clock crashing through the stuff of dreams. Coffee within reach of the range. Another eight-thirty-to-six reality of muslin underwearing, crash toweling, and skirt-binding. But, not given to self-inventory, the Popular Store emptied itself with that blessed elasticity of spirit which, unappalled, stretches to to-morrows as they come. At Ninth Street Miss Lola Hassiebrock loosed her arm where Miss Beemis had linked into it. Wide-shouldered and flat-hipped, her checked suit so pressed that the lapels lay entirely flat to the swell of her bosom, her red sailor-hat well down over her brow, and the high, swathing cravat rising to inclose her face like a wimple, she was Fashion's apotheosis in tailor-made mood. When Miss Hassiebrock walked, her skirt, concealing yet revealing an inch glimmer of gray-silk stocking above gray-suede spats, allowed her ten inches of stride. She turned now, sidestepping within those ten inches. "See you to-morrow, Josie." "Ain't you taking the car?" "No, dearie," said Miss Hassiebrock, stepping down to cross the street; "you take it, but not for keeps." And so, walking southward on Ninth Street in a sartorial glory that was of her own making-over from last season, even St. Louis, which at the stroke of six rushes so for the breeze of its side yards, leaving darkness to creep into down-town streets that are as deserted as cañons, turned its feminine head to bear in mind the box-plaited cutaway, the male eye appraising its approval with bold, even quirking eye. Through this, and like Diana, who, so aloof from desire, walked in the path of her own splendor, strode Miss Hassiebrock, straight and forward of eye. Past the Stag Hotel, in an aisle formed by lounging young bloods and a curb lined with low, long-snouted motor-cars, the gaze beneath the red sailor and above the high, horsy stock a bit too rigidly conserved. Slightly by, the spoken word and the whistled innuendo followed her like a trail of bubbles in the wake of a flying-fish. A youth still wearing a fraternity pin pretended to lick his downy chops. The son of the president of the Mound City Oil Company emitted a long, amorous whistle. Willie Waxter--youngest scion, scalawag, and scorcher of one of the oldest families--jammed down his motorgoggles from the visor of his cap, making the feint of pursuing. Mr. Charley Cox, of half a hundred first-page exploits, did pursue, catching up slightly breathless. "What's your hurry, honey?" She spun about, too startled. "Charley Cox! Well, of all the nerve! Why didn't you scare me to death and be done with it?" "Did I scare you, sweetness? Cross my heart, I didn't mean to." "Well, I should say you did!" He linked his arm into hers. "Come on; I'll buy you a drink." She unlinked. "Honest, can't a girl go home from work in this town without one of you fellows getting fresh with her?" "All right, then; I'll buy you a supper. The car is back there, and we'll shoot out to the inn. What do you say? I feel like a house afire this evening, kiddo. What does your speedometer register?" "Charley, aren't you tired painting this old town yet? Ain't there just nothing will bring you to your senses? Honest, this morning's papers are a disgrace. You--you won't catch me along again." He slid his arm, all for ingratiating, back into hers. "Come now, honey; you know you like me for my speed." She would not smile. "Honest, Charley, you're the limit." "But you like me just the same. Now don't you, Loo?" She looked at him sidewise. "You've been drinking, Charley." He felt of his face. "Not a drop, Loo. I need a shave, that's all." "Look at your stud--loose." He jammed a diamond whip curling back upon itself into his maroon scarf. He was slightly heavy, so that his hands dimpled at the knuckle, and above the soft collar, joined beneath the scarf with a goldbar pin, his chin threatened but did not repeat itself. "I got to go now, Charley; there's a North End car coming." "Aw, now, sweetness, what's the idea? Didn't you walk down here to pick me up?" An immediate flush stung her face. "Well, of all the darn conceit! Can't a girl walk down to the loop to catch her car and stretch her legs after she's been cooped up all day, without a few of you boys throwing a bouquet or two at yourselves?" "I got to hand it you, Loo; when you walk down this street, you make every girl in town look warmed over." "Do you like it, Charley? It's that checked jacket I bought at Hamlin's sale last year made over." "Say, it's classy! You look like all the money in the world, honey." "Huh, two yards of coat-lining, forty-four cents, and Ida Bell's last year's office-hat reblocked, sixty-five." "You're the show-piece of the town, all right. Come on; let's pick up a crowd and muss-up Claxton Road a little." "I meant what I said, Charley. After the cuttings-up of last night and the night before I'm quits. Maybe Charley Cox can afford to get himself talked about because he's Charley Cox, but a girl like me with a job to hold down, and the way ma and Ida Bell were sitting up in their nightgowns, green around the gills, when I got home last night--nix! I'm getting myself talked about, if you want to know it, running with--your gang, Charley." "I'd like to see anybody let out so much as a grunt about you in front of me. A fellow can't do any more, honey, to show a girl where she stands with him than ask her to marry him--now can he? If I'd have had my way last night, I'd--" "You was drunk when you asked me, Charley." "You mean you got cold feet?" "Thank God, I did!" "I don't blame you, girl. You might do worse--but not much." "That's what you'd need for your finishing-touch, a girl like me dragging you down." "You mean pulling me up." "Yes, maybe, if you didn't have a cent." "I'd have enough sense then to know better than to ask you, honey. You 'ain't got that fourteen-carat look in your eye for nothing. You're the kind that's going to bring in a big fish, and I wish it to you." "Lots you know." "Come on; let me ride you around the block, then." "If--if you like my company so much, can't you just take a walk with me or come out and sit on our steps awhile?" "Lord, girl, Flamm Avenue is hot enough to fry my soul to-night!" "We can't all have fathers that live in thirty-room houses out in Kingsmoreland Place." "Thank God for that! I sneaked home this morning to change my clothes, and thought maybe I'd got into somebody's mausoleum by mistake." "Was--was your papa around, Charley?" "In the library, shut up with old man Brookes." "Did he--did he see the morning papers? You know what he said last time, Charley, when the motor-cycle cop chased you down an embankment." "Honey, if my old man was to carry out every threat he utters, I'd be disinherited, murdered, hong-konged, shanghaied, and cremated every day in the year." "I got to go now, Charley." "Not let a fellow even spin you home?" "You know I want to, Charley, but--but it don't do you any good, boy, being seen with me in that joy-wagon of yours. It--it don't do you any good, Charley, ever--ever being seen with me." "There's nothing or nobody in this town can hurt my reputation, honey, and certainly not my ace-spot girl. Turn your mind over, and telephone down for me to come out and pick you up about eight." "Don't hit it up to-night, Charley. Can't you go home one evening?" He juggled her arm. "You're a nice little girl, all righty." "There's my car." He elevated her by the elbow to the step, swinging up half-way after her to drop a coin into the box. "Take care of this little lady there, conductor, and don't let your car skid." "Oh, Charley--silly!" She forced her way into the jammed rear platform, the sharp brim of the red sailor creating an area for her. "S'long, Charley!" "S'long, girl!" Wedged there in the moist-faced crowd, she looked after him, at his broad back receding. An inclination to cry pressed at her eyeballs. Flamm Avenue, which is treeless and built up for its entire length with two-story, flat-roofed buildings, stares, window for window, stoop for stoop, at its opposite side, and, in summer, the strip of asphalt street, unshaded and lying naked to the sun, gives off such an effluvium of heat and hot tar that the windows are closed to it and night descends like a gas-mask to the face. Opening the door upon the Hassiebrock front room, convertible from bed- to sitting-room by the mere erect-position-stand of the folding-bed, a wave of this tarry heat came flowing out, gaseous, sickening. Miss Hassiebrock entered with her face wry, made a diagonal cut of the room, side-stepping a patent rocker and a table laid out with knickknacks on a lace mat, slammed closed two windows, and, turning inward, lifted off her hat, which left a brand across her forehead and had plastered down her hair in damp scallops. "Whew!" "Lo-o, that you?" "Yes, ma." "Come out to your supper. I'll warm up the kohlrabi." Miss Hassiebrock strode through a pair of chromatic portières, with them swinging after her, and into an unlit kitchen, gray with dusk. A table drawn out center and within range of the gas-range was a blotch in the gloom, three figures surrounding it with arms that moved vaguely among a litter of dishes. "I wish to Heaven somebody in this joint would remember to keep those front windows shut!" Miss Ida Bell Hassiebrock, at the right of the table, turned her head so that, against the window, her profile, somewhat thin, cut into the gloom. "There's a lot of things I wish around here," she said, without a ripple to her lips. "Hello, ma!" "I'll warm up the kohlrabi, Loo." Mrs. Hassiebrock, in the green black of a cotton umbrella and as sparse of frame, moved around to the gas-range, scraping a match and dragging a pot over the blue flame. "Never mind, ma; I ain't hungry." At the left of the table Genevieve Hassiebrock, with thirteen's crab-like silhouette of elbow, rigid plaits, and nose still hitched to the star of her nativity, wound an exceedingly long arm about Miss Hassiebrock's trim waist-line. "I got B in de-portment to-day, Loo. You owe me the wear of your spats Sunday." Miss Hassiebrock squeezed the hand at her waist. "All right, honey. Cut Loo a piece of bread." "Gussie Flint's mother scalded her leg with the wash-boiler." "Did she? Aw!" Mrs. Hassiebrock came then, limping around, tilting the contents of the steaming pot to a plate. "Sit down, ma; don't bother." Miss Hassiebrock drew up, pinning a fringed napkin that stuck slightly in the unfolding across her shining expanse of shirtwaist. Broke a piece of bread. Dipped. Silence. "Paula Krausnick only got C in de-portment. When the monitor passed the basin, she dipped her sponge soppin'-wet." "Anything new, ma?" Mrs. Hassiebrock, now at the sink, swabbed a dish with gray water. "My feet's killin' me," she said. Miss Ida Bell, who wore her hair in a coronet wound twice round her small head, crossed her knife and fork on her plate, folded her napkin, and tied it with a bit of blue ribbon. "I think it's a shame, ma, the way you keep thumping around in your stocking feet like this was backwoods." "I can't get my feet in shoes--the joints--" "You thump around as much as you darn please, ma. If Ida Bell don't like the looks of you, let her go home with some of her swell stenog friends. You let your feet hurt you any old way you want 'em to. I'm going to buy you some arnica. Pass the kohlrabi." "Well, my swell 'stenog friends,' as you call them, keep themselves self-respecting girls without getting themselves talked about, and that's more than I can say of my sister. If ma had the right kind of gumption with you, she'd put a stop to it, all right." Mrs. Hassiebrock leaned her tired head sidewise into the moist palm of her hand. "She's beyond me and the days when a slipper could make her mind. I wisht to God there was a father to rule youse!" "I tell you, ma--mark my word for it--if old man Brookes ever finds out I'm sister to any of the crowd that runs with Charley Cox and Willie Waxter and those boys whose fathers he's lawyer for, it'll queer me for life in that office--that's what it will. A girl that's been made confidential stenographer after only one year in an office to have to be afraid, like I am, to pick up the morning's paper." "Paula Krausnick's lunch was wrapped in the paper where Charley Cox got pinched for speedin'--speedin'--speedin'--" "Shut up, Genevieve! Just don't you let my business interfere with yours, Ida Bell. Brookes don't know you're on earth outside of your dictation-book. Take it from me, I bet he wouldn't know you if he met you on the street." "That's about all you know about it! If you found yourself confidential stenographer to the biggest lawyer in town, he'd know you, all right--by your loud dressing. A blind man could see you coming." "Ma, are you going to stand there and let her talk to me thataway? I notice she's willing to borrow my loud shirtwaists and my loud gloves and my loud collars." "If ma had more gumption with you, maybe things would be different." Mrs. Hassiebrock limped to the door, dangling a pail. "I 'ain't got no more strength against her. My ears won't hold no more. I'm taking this hot oil down to Mrs. Flint's scalds. She's, beyond my control, and the days when a slipper could make her mind. I wisht to God there was a father! I wisht to God!" Her voice trailed off and down a rear flight of stairs. "Yes _sir_," resumed Miss Hassiebrock, her voice twanging in her effort at suppression, "I notice you're pretty willing to borrow some of my loud dressing when you get a bid once in a blue moon to take a boat-ride up to Alton with that sad-faced Roy Brownell. If Charley didn't have a cent to his name and a harelip, he'd make Roy Brownell look like thirty cents." "If Roy Brownell was Charley Cox, I'd hate to leave him laying around loose where you could get your hands on him." "Genevieve, you run out and play." "If--if you keep running around till all hours of the night, with me and ma waiting up for you, kicking up rows and getting your name insinuated in the newspapers as 'the tall, handsome blonde,' I--I'm going to throw up my job, I am, and you can pay double your share for the running of this flat. Next thing we know, with that crowd that don't mean any good to you, this family is going to find itself with a girl in trouble on its hands." "You--" "And if you want to know it, and if I wasn't somebody's confidential stenographer, I could tell you that you're on the wrong scent. Boys like Charley Cox don't mean good by your kind of a girl. If you're not speedy, you look it, and that's almost the same as inviting those kind of boys to--" Miss Lola Hassiebrock sprang up then, her hand coming down in a small crash to the table. "You cut out that talk in front of that child!" Thus drawn into the picture, Genevieve, at thirteen, crinkled her face for not uncalculating tears. "In this house it's fuss and fuss and fuss. Other children can go to the 'movies' after supper, only me-e-e--" "Here, honey; Loo's got a dime for you." "Sending that child out along your own loose ways, instead of seeing to it she stays home to help ma do the dishes!" "I'll do the dishes for ma." "It's bad enough for one to have the name of being gay without starting that child running around nights with--" "Ida Bell!" "You dry up, Ida Bell! I'll do what I pl--ease with my di--uhm--di--uhm." "If you say another word about such stuff in front of that child, I'll--" "Well, if you don't want her to hear what she sees with her eyes all around her, come into the bedroom, then, and I can tell you something that'll bring you to your senses." "What you can tell me I don't want to hear." "You're afraid." "I am, am I?" "Yes." With a wrench of her entire body, Miss Lola Hassiebrock was across the room at three capacity strides, swung open a door there, and stood, head flung up and pressing back tears, her lips turned inward. "All right, then--tell--" After them, the immediately locked door resisting, Genevieve fell to batting the panels. "Let me in! Let me in! You're fussin' about your beaux. Ray Brownell has a long face, and Charley Cox has a red face--red face--red face! Let me in! In!" After a while the ten-cent piece rolled from her clenched and knocking fist, scuttling and settling beneath the sink. She rescued it and went out, lickety-clapping down the flight of rear stairs. Silence descended over that kitchen, and a sooty dusk that almost obliterated the table, drawn out and cluttered after the manner of those who dine frowsily; the cold stove, its pots cloying, and a sink piled high with a task whose only ending is from meal to meal. Finally that door swung open again; the wide-shouldered, slim-hipped silhouette of Miss Hassiebrock moved swiftly and surely through the kind of early darkness, finding out for itself a wall telephone hung in a small patch of hallway separating kitchen and front room. Her voice came tight, as if it were a tense coil in her throat that she held back from bursting into hysteria. "Give me Olive, two-one-o." The toe of her boot beat a quick tattoo. "Stag?... Say, get me Charley Cox. He's out in front or down in the grill or somewhere around. Page him quick! Important!" She grasped the nozzle of the instrument as she waited, breathing into it with her head thrown back. "Hello--Charley? That you? It's me. Loo ... _Loo_! Are you deaf, honey? What you doing?... Oh, I got the blues, boy; honest I have. Blue as a cat.... I don't know--just the indigoes. Nothing much. Ain't lit up, are you, honey?... Sure I will. Don't bring a crowd. Just you and me. I'll walk down to Gessler's drug-store and you can pick me up there.... Quit your kidding.... Ten minutes. Yeh. Good-by." * * * * * Claxton Inn, slightly outside the city limits and certain of its decorums, stands back in a grove off a macadamized highway that is so pliant to tire that of summer nights, with tops thrown back and stars sown like lavish grain over a close sky and to a rushing breeze that presses the ears like an eager whisper, motor-cars, wild to catch up with the horizon, tear out that road--a lightning-streak of them--fearing neither penal law nor Dead Man's Curve. Slacking only to be slacked, cars dart off the road and up a gravel driveway that encircles Claxton Inn like a lariat swung, then park themselves among the trees, lights dimmed. Placid as a manse without, what was once a private and now a public house maintains through lowered lids its discreet white-frame exterior, shades drawn, and only slightly revealing the parting of lace curtains. It is rearward where what was formerly a dining-room that a huge, screened-in veranda, very whitely lighted, juts suddenly out, and a showy hallway, bordered in potted palms, leads off that. Here Discretion dares lift her lids to rove the gravel drive for who comes there. In a car shaped like a motor-boat and as low to the ground Mr. Charley Cox turned in and with a great throttling and choking of engine drew up among the dim-eyed monsters of the grove and directly alongside an eight-cylinder roadster with a snout like a greyhound. "Aw, Charley, I thought you promised you wasn't going to stop!" "Honey, sweetness, I just never was so dry." Miss Hassiebrock laid out a hand along his arm, sitting there in the quiet car, the trees closing over them. "There's Yiddles Farm a little farther out, Charley; let's stop there for some spring water." He was peeling out of his gauntlets, and cramming them into spacious side pockets. "Water, honey, can wash me, but it can't quench me." "No high jinks to-night, though, Charley?" "Sure--no." They high-stepped through the gloom, and finally, with firmer step, up the gravel walk and into the white-lighted, screened-in porch. Three waiters ran toward their entrance. A woman with a bare V of back facing them, and three plumes that dipped to her shoulders, turned square in her chair. "Hi, Charley. Hi, Loo!" "H'lo, Jess!" They walked, thus guided by two waiters, through a light _confetti_ of tossed greetings, sat finally at a table half concealed by an artificial palm. "You don't feel like sitting with Jess and the crowd, Loo?" "Charley, hasn't that gang got you into enough mix-ups?" "All right, honey; anything your little heart desires." She leaned on her elbows across the table from him, smiling and twirling a great ring of black onyx round her small finger. "Love me?" "Br-r-r--to death!" "Sure?" "Sure. What'll you have, hon?" "I don't care." "Got any my special Gold Top on ice for me, George? Good. Shoot me a bottle and a special layout of _hors-d'oeuvre_. How's that, sweetness?" "Yep." "Poor little girl," he said, patting the black onyx, "with the bad old blues! I know what they are, honey; sometimes I get crazy with 'em myself." Her lips trembled. "It's you makes me blue, Charley." "Now, now; just don't worry that big, nifty head of yours about me." "The--the morning papers and all. I--I just hate to see you going so to--to the dogs, Charley--a--fellow like you--with brains." "I'm a bad egg, girl, and what you going to do about it? I was raised like one, and I'll die like one." "You ain't a bad egg. You just never had a chance. You been killed with coin." "Killed with coin! Why, Loo, do you know, I haven't had to ask my old man for a cent since my poor old granny died five years ago and left me a world of money? While he's been piling it up like the Rocky Mountains I've been getting down to rock-bottom. What would you say, sweetness, if I told you I was down to my last few thousands? Time to touch my old man, eh?" He drank off his first glass with a quaff, laughing and waving it empty before her face to give off its perfume. "My old man is going to wake up in a minute and find me on his checking-account again. Charley boy better be making connections with headquarters or he won't find himself such a hit with the niftiest doll in town, eh?" "Charley, you--you haven't run through those thousands and thousands and thousands the papers said you got from your granny that time?" "It was slippery, hon; somebody buttered it." "Charley, Charley, ain't there just no limit to your wildness?" "You're right, girl; I've been killed with coin. My old man's been too busy all these years sitting out there in that marble tomb in Kingsmoreland biting the rims off pennies to hold me back from the devil. Honey, that old man, even if he is my father, didn't know no more how to raise a boy like me than that there salt-cellar. Every time I got in a scrape he bought me out of it, filled up the house with rough talk, and let it go at that. It's only this last year, since he's short on health, that he's kicking up the way he should have before it got too late. My old man never used to talk it out with me, honey. He used to lash it out. I got a twelve-year-old welt on my back now, high as your finger. Maybe it'll surprise you, girl, but now, since he can't welt me up any more, me and him don't exchange ten words a month." "Did--did he hear about last night, Charley? You know what came out in the paper about making a new will if--if you ever got pulled in again for rough-housing?" "Don't you worry that nifty head of yours about my old man ever making a new will. He's been pulling that ever since they fired me from the academy for lighting a cigarette with a twenty-dollar bill." "Charley!" "Next to taking it with him, he'll leave it to me before he'll see a penny go out of the family. I've seen his will, hon." "Charley, you--you got so much good in you. The way you sent that wooden leg out to poor old lady Guthrie. The way you made Jimmy Ball go home, and the blind-school boys and all. Why can't you get yourself on the right track where you belong, Charley? Why don't you clear--out--West where it's clean?" "I used to have that idea, Loo. West, where a fellow's got to stand on his own. Why, if I'd have met a girl like you ten years ago, I'd have made you the baby doll of the Pacific Coast. I like you, Loo. I like your style and the way you look like a million dollars. When a fellow walks into a café with you he feels like he's wearing the Hope diamond. Maybe the society in this town has given me the cold shoulder, but I'd like to see any of the safety-first boys walk in with one that's got you beat. That's what I think of you, girl." "Aw, now, you're lighting up. Charley. That's four glasses you've taken." "Thought I was kidding you last night--didn't you--about wedding-bells?" "You were lit up." "I know. You're going to watch your step, little girl, and I don't know as I blame you. You can get plenty of boys my carat, and a lot of other things thrown in I haven't got to offer you." "As if I wouldn't like you, Charley, if you were dead broke!" "Of course you would! There, there, girl, I don't blame any of you for feathering your nest." He was flushed now and above the soft collar, his face had relaxed into a not easily controllable smile. "Feather your nest, girl; you got the looks to do it. It's a far cry from Flamm Avenue to where a classy girl like you can land herself if she steers right. And I wish it to you, girl; the best isn't good enough." "I--I dare you to ask me again, Charley!" "Ask what?" "You know. Throw your head up the way you do when you mean what you say and--ask." He was wagging his head now insistently, but pinioning his gaze with the slightly glassy stare of those who think none too clearly. "Honest, I don't know, beauty. What's the idea?" "Didn't you say yourself--Gerber, out here in Claxton that--magistrate that marries you in verse--" "By gad, I did!" "Well--I--I--dare you to ask me again, Charley." He leaned forward. "You game, girl?" "Sure." "No kidding?" "Try me." "I'm serious, girl." "So'm I." "There's Jess over there can get us a special license from his brother-in-law. Married in verse in Claxton sounds good to me, honey." "But not--the crowd, Charley; just you--and--" "How're we going to get the license, honey, this time of night without Jess? Let's make it a million-dollar wedding. We're not ashamed of nobody or nothing." "Of course not, Charley." "Now, you're sure, honey? You're drawing a fellow that went to the dogs before he cut his canines." "You're not all to the canines yet, Charley." "I may be a black sheep, honey, but, thank God, I got my golden fleece to offer you!" "You're not--black." "You should worry, girl! I'm going to make you the million-dollar baby doll of this town, I am. If they turn their backs, we'll dazzle 'em from behind. I'm going to buy you every gewgaw this side of the Mississippi. I'm going to show them a baby doll that can make the high-society bunch in this town look like Subway sports. Are you game, girl? Now! Think well! Here goes. Jess!" "Charley--I--You--" "Jess--over here! Quick!" "Charley--honey--" * * * * * At eleven o'clock a small, watery moon cut through a sky that was fleecily clouded--a swift moon that rode fast as a ship. It rode over but did not light Squire Gerber's one-and-a-half-storied, weathered-gray, and set-slightly-in-a-hollow house on Claxton countryside. Three motor-cars, their engines chugging out into wide areas of stillness, stood processional at the curb. A red hall light showed against the door-pane and two lower-story windows were widely illuminated. Within that room of chromos and the cold horsehair smell of unaired years, silence, except for the singing of three gas-jets, had momentarily fallen, a dozen or so flushed faces, grotesquely sobered, staring through the gaseous fog, the fluttering lids of a magistrate whose lips habitually fluttered, just lifting from his book. A hysterical catch of breath from Miss Vera de Long broke the ear-splitting silence. She reached out, the three plumes dipping down the bare V of her back, for the limp hand of the bride. "Gawd bless you, dearie; it's a big night's work!" * * * * * In the tallest part of St. Louis, its busiest thoroughfares inclosing it in a rectangle, the Hotel Sherman, where traveling salesmen with real alligator bags and third-finger diamonds habitually shake their first Pullman dust, rears eighteen stories up through and above an aeriality of soft-coal smoke, which fits over the rim of the city like a skull-cap. In the Louis Quinze, gilt-bedded, gilt-framed, gilt-edged bridal-suite _de luxe_ on the seventeenth floor, Mrs. Charley Cox sat rigid enough and in shirt-waisted incongruity on the lower curl of a gilt divan that squirmed to represent the letter S. "Charley--are you--sorry?" He wriggled out of his dust-coat, tossing it on the gilt-canopied bed and crossed to her, lifting off her red sailor. "Now that's a fine question for a ten-hours' wifey to ask her hubby, ain't it? Am I sorry, she asks me before the wedding crowd has turned the corner. Lord, honey, I never expected anything like you to happen to me!" She stroked his coat-sleeve, mouthing back tears. "Now everybody'll say--you're a goner--for sure--marrying a--Popular Store girl." "If anybody got the worst of this bargain, it's my girl." "My own boy," she said, still battling with tears. "You drew a black sheep, honey, but I say again and again, 'Thank God, you drew one with golden fleece!'" "That--that's the trouble, Charley--there's just no way to make a boy with money know you married him for any other reason." "I'm not blaming you, honey. Lord! what have I got besides money to talk for me?" "Lots. Why--like Jess says, Charley, when you get to squaring your lips and jerking up your head, there's nothing in the world you can't do that you set out to do." "Well, I'm going to set out to make the stiff-necks of this town turn to look at my girl, all right. I'm going to buy you a chain of diamonds that'll dazzle their eyes out; I'm--" "Charley, Charley, that's not what I want, boy. Now that I've got you, there ain't a chain of diamonds on earth I'd turn my wrist for." "Yes, there is, girl; there's a string of pear-shaped ones in--" "I want you to buck up, honey; that's the finest present you can give me. I want you to buck up like you didn't have a cent to your name. I want you to throw up your head the way you do when you mean business, and show that Charley Cox, without a cent to his name, would be--" "Would be what, honey?" "A winner. You got brains, Charley--if only you'd have gone through school and shown them. If you'd only have taken education, Charley, and not got fired out of all the academies, my boy would beat 'em all. Lord! boy, there's not a day passes over my head I don't wish for education. That's why I'm so crazy my little sister Genevieve should get it. I'd have took to education like a fish to water if I'd have had the chance, and there you were, Charley, with every private school in town and passed 'em up." "I know, girl, just looks like every steer I gave myself was the wrong steer till it was too late to get in right again. Bad egg, I tell you, honey." "Too late! Why, Charley--and you not even thirty-one yet? With your brains and all--too late! You make me laugh. If only you will--why, I'm game to go out West, Charley, on a ranch, where you can find your feet and learn to stand on them. You got stuff in you, you have. Jess Turner says you was always first in school, and when you set your jaw there wasn't nothing you couldn't get on top of. If you'd have had a mother and--and a father that wasn't the meanest old man in town, dear, and had known how to raise a hot-headed boy like you, you'd be famous now instead of notorious--that's what you'd be." He patted her yellow hair, tilting her head back against his arm, pinching her cheeks together and kissing her puckered mouth. "Dream on, honey. I like you crazy, too." "But, honey, I--" "You married this millionaire kid, and, bless your heart, he's going to make good by showing you the color of his coin!" "Charley!" She sprang back from the curve of his embrace, unshed tears immediately distilled. "Why, honey--I didn't mean it that way! I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. What I meant was--'sh-h-h-h, Loo--all I meant was, it's coming to you. Where'd the fun be if I couldn't make this town point up its ears at my girl? Nobody knows any better than your hubby what his Loo was cut out for. She was cut out for queening it, and I'm going to see that she gets what's her due. Wouldn't be surprised if the papers have us already. Let's see what we'll give them with their coffee this morning." He unfolded his fresh sheet, shaking it open with one hand and still holding her in the cove of his arm. "Guess we missed the first edition, but they'll get us sure." She peered at the sheet over his shoulder, her cheek against his and still sobbing a bit in her throat. The jerking of her breath stopped then; in fact, it was as if both their breathing had let down with the oneness of a clock stopped. It was she who moved first, falling back from him, her mouth dropping open slightly. He let the paper fall between his wide-spread knees, the blood flowing down from his face and seeming to leave him leaner. "Charley--Charley--darling!" "My--poor old man!" he said in a voice that might have been his echo in a cave. "He--his heart must have give out on him, Charley, while he slept in the night." "My--poor--old--man!" She stretched out her hand timidly to his shoulder. "Charley--boy--my poor boy!" He reached up to cover her timid touch, still staring ahead, as if a mental apathy had clutched him. "He died like--he--lived. Gad--it's--tough!" "It--it wasn't your fault, darling. God forgive me for speaking against the dead, but--everybody knows he was a hard man, Charley--the way he used to beat you up instead of showing you the right way. Poor old man, I guess he didn't know--" "My old man--dead!" She crept closer, encircling his neck, and her wet cheek close to his dry one. "He's at peace now, darling--and all your sins are forgiven--like you forgive--his." His lips were twisting. "There was no love lost there, girl. God knows there wasn't. There was once nine months we didn't speak. Never could have been less between a father and son. You see he--he hated me from the start, because my mother died hating him--but--_dead_--that's another matter. Ain't it, girl--ain't it?" She held her cheek to his so that her tears veered out of their course, zigzagging down to his waistcoat, stroked his hair, placing her rich, moist lips to his eyelids. "My darling! My darling boy! My own poor darling!" Sobs rumbled up through him, the terrific sobs that men weep. "You--married a rotter, Loo--that couldn't even live decent with his--old man. He--died like a dog--alone." "'Sh-h-h, Charley! Just because he's dead don't mean he was any better while he lived." "I'll make it up to you, girl, for the rotter I am. I'm a rich man now, Loo." "'Sh-h-h!" "I'll show you, girl. I can make somebody's life worth living. I'm going to do something for somebody to prove I'm worth the room I occupy, and that somebody's going to be you, Loo. I'm going to build you a house that'll go down in the history of this town. I'm going to wind you around with pearls to match that skin of yours. I'm going to put the kind of clothes on you that you read of queens wearing. I've seen enough of the kind of meanness money can breed. I'm going to make those Romans back there look like pikers. I'm--" She reached out, placing her hand pat across his mouth, and, in the languid air of the room, shuddering so that her lips trembled. "Charley--for God's sake--it--it's a sin to talk that way!" "O God, I know it, girl! I'm all muddled--muddled." He let his forehead drop against her arm, and in the long silence that ensued she sat there, her hand on his hair. The roar of traffic, seventeen stories below, came up through the open windows like the sound of high seas, and from where she sat, staring out between the pink-brocade curtains, it was as if the close July sky dipped down to meet that sea, and space swam around them. "O God!" he said, finally. "What does it all mean--this living and dying--" "Right living, Charley, makes dying take care of itself." "God! how he must have died, then! Like a dog--alone." "'Sh-h-h, Charley; don't get to thinking." Without raising his head, he reached up to stroke her arm. "Honey, you're shivering." "No-o." "Everything's all right, girl. What's the use me trying to sham it's not. I--I'm bowled over for the minute, that's all. If it had to come, after all, it--it came right for my girl. With that poor old man out there, honey, living alone like a dog all these years, it's just like putting him from one marble mausoleum out there on Kingsmoreland Place into one where maybe he'll rest easier. He's better off, Loo, and--we--are too. Hand me the paper, honey; I--want to see--just how my--poor old man--breathed out." Then Mrs. Cox rose, her face distorted with holding back tears, her small high heels digging into and breaking the newspaper at his feet. "Charley--Charley--" "Why, girl, what?" "You don't know it, but my sister, Charley--Ida Bell!" "Why, Loo, I sent off the message to your mama. They know it by now." "Charley--Charley--" "Why, honey, you're full of nerves! You mustn't go to pieces like this. Your sister's all right. I sent them a--" "You--you don't know, Charley. My sister--I swore her an oath on my mother's prayer-book. I wouldn't tell, but, now that he's dead, that--lets me out. The will--Charley, he made it yesterday, like he always swore he would the next time you got your name on the front page." "Made what, honey? Who?" "Charley, can't you understand? My sister Ida Bell and Brookes--your father's lawyer. She's his private stenographer--Brookes's, honey. You know that. But she told me last night, honey, when I went home. You're cut off, Charley! Your old man sent for Brookes yesterday at noon. I swear to God, Charley! My sister Ida Bell she broke her confidence to tell me. He's give a million alone to the new college hospital. Half a million apiece to four or five old people's homes. He's give his house to the city with the art-gallery. He's even looked up relations to give to. He kept his word, honey, that all those years he kept threatening. He--he kept it the day before he died. He must have had a hunch--your poor old man. Charley darling, don't look like that! If your wife ain't the one to break it to you you're broke, who is? You're not 'Million Dollar Charley' no more, honey. You're just my own Charley, with his chance come to him--you hear, _my_ Charley, with the best thing that ever happened to him in his life happening right now." He regarded her as if trying to peer through something opaque, his hands spread rather stupidly on his wide knees. "Huh?" "Charley, Charley, can't you understand? A dollar, that puts him within the law, is all he left you." "He never did. He never did. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He never did. I saw--his will. I'm the only survivor. I saw his will." "Charley, I swear to God! I swear as I'm standing here you're cut off. My sister copied the new will on her typewriter three times and seen the sealed and stamped one. He kept his word. He wrote it with his faculties and witnesses. We're broke, Charley--thank God, we're flat broke!" "He did it? He did it? My old man did it?" "As sure as I'm standing here, Charley." He fell to blinking rapidly, his face puckering to comprehend. "I never thought it could happen. But I--I guess it could happen. I think you got me doped, honey." "Charley, Charley!" she cried, falling down on her knees beside him, holding his face in the tight vise of her hands and reading with such closeness into his eyes that they seemed to merge into one. "Haven't you got your Loo? Haven't you got her?" He sprang up at that, jerking her backward, and all the purple-red gushed up into his face again. "Yes, by God, I've got you! I'll break the will. I'll--" "Charley, no--no! He'd rise out of his grave at you. It's never been known where a will was broke where they didn't rise out of the grave to haunt." He took her squarely by the shoulders, the tears running in furrows down his face. "I'll get you out of this, Loo. No girl in God's world will have to find herself tied up to me without I can show her a million dollars every time she remembers that she's married to a rotter. I'll get you out of this, girl, so you won't even show a scratch. I'll--" "Charley," she said, lifting herself by his coat lapels, and her eyes again so closely level with his, "you're crazy with the heat--stark, raving crazy! You got your chance, boy, to show what you're made of--can't you see that? We're going West, where men get swept out with clean air and clean living. We'll break ground in this here life for the kind of pay-dirt that'll make a man of you. You hear? A man of you!" He lifted her arms, and because they were pressing insistently down, squirmed out from beneath them. "You're a good sport, girl; nobody can take that from you. But just the same, I'm going to let you off without a scratch." "'Good sport'! I'd like to know, anyways, where I come in with all your solid-gold talk. Me that's stood behind somebody-or-other's counter ever since I had my working-papers." "I'll get you out of--" "Have I ever lived anywheres except in a dirty little North St. Louis flat with us three girls in a bed? Haven't I got my name all over town for speed, just because I've always had to rustle out and try to learn how to flatten out a dime to the size of a dollar? Where do I come in on the solid-gold talk, I'd like to know. I'm the penny-splitter of the world, the girl that made the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store millinery department famous. I can look tailor-made on a five-dollar bill and a tissue-paper pattern. Why, honey, with me scheming for you, starting out on your own is going to make a man of you. You got stuff in you. I knew it, Charley, the first night you spied me at the Highlands dance. Somewhere out West Charley Cox is now going to begin to show 'em the stuff in Charley Cox--that's what Charley Cox & Co. are going to do!" He shook his head, turning away his eyes to hide their tears. "You been stung, Loo. Nothing on earth can change that." She turned his face back to her, smiling through her own tears. "You're not adding up good this morning, Mr. Cox. When do you think I called you up last night? When could it have been if not after my sister broke her confidence to tell me? Why do you think all of a sudden last night I seen your bluff through about Gerber? It was because I knew I had you where you needed me, Charley--I never would have dragged you down the other way in a million years, but when I knew I had you where you needed me--why, from that minute, honey, you didn't have a chance to dodge me!" She wound her arms round him, trembling between the suppressed hysteria of tears and laughter. "Not a chance, Charley!" He jerked her so that her face fell back from him, foreshortened. "Loo--oh, girl! Oh, girl!" Her throat was tight and would not give her voice for coherence. "Charley--we--we'll show 'em--you--me!" Looking out above her head at the vapory sky showing through the parting of the pink-brocade curtains, rigidity raced over Mr. Cox, stiffening his hold of her. The lean look had come out in his face; the flanges of his nose quivered; his head went up. VI NIGHTSHADE Over the silent places of the world flies the vulture of madness, pausing to wheel above isolated farm-houses, where a wife, already dizzy with the pressure of rarefied silence, looks up, magnetized. Then across the flat stretches, his shadow under him moving across moor and the sand of desert, slowing at the perpetually eastern edge of a mirage, brushing his actual wings against the brick of city walls; the garret of a dreamer, brain-sick with reality. Flopping, until she comes to gaze, outside the window of one so alone in a crowd that her four hall-bedroom walls are closing in upon her. Lowering over a childless house on the edge of a village. Were times when Mrs. Hanna Burkhardt, who lived on the edge of a village in one such childless house, could in her fancy hear the flutter of wings, too. There had once been a visit to a doctor in High Street because of those head-noises and the sudden terror of not being able to swallow. He had stethoscoped and prescribed her change of scene. Had followed two weeks with cousins fifty miles away near Lida, Ohio, and a day's stop-over in Cincinnati allowed by her railroad ticket. But six months after, in the circle of glow from a tablelamp that left the corners of the room in a chiaroscuro kind of gloom, there were again noises of wings rustling and of water lapping and the old stricture of the throat. Across the table, a Paisley cover between them, Mr. John Burkhardt, his short spade of beard already down over his shirt-front, arm hanging lax over his chair-side and newspaper fallen, sat forward in a hunched attitude of sleep, whistling noises coming occasionally through his breathing. A china clock, the centerpiece of the mantel, ticked spang into the silence, enhancing it. Hands in lap, head back against the mat of her chair, Mrs. Burkhardt looked straight ahead of her into this silence--at a closed door hung with a newspaper rack, at a black-walnut horsehair divan, a great sea-shell on the carpet beside it. A nickelplated warrior gleamed from the top of a baseburner that showed pink through its mica doors. He stood out against the chocolate-ocher wallpaper and a framed Declaration of Independence, hanging left. A coal fell. Mr. Burkhardt sat up, shook himself of sleep. "Little chilly," he said, and in carpet slippers and unbuttoned waistcoat moved over to the base-burner, his feet, to avoid sloughing, not leaving the floor. He was slightly stooped, the sateen back to his waistcoat hiking to the curve of him. But he swung up the scuttle with a swoop, rattling coal freely down into the red-jowled orifice. "Ugh, don't!" she said. "I'm burnin' up." He jerked back the scuttle, returning to his chair, and, picking up the fallen newspaper, drew down his spectacles from off his brow and fell immediately back into close, puckered scrutiny of the printed page. "What time is it, Burkhardt? That old thing on the mantel's crazy." He drew out a great silver watch. "Seven-forty." "O God!" she said. "I thought it was about ten." The clock ticked in roundly again except when he rustled his paper in the turning. The fire was crackling now, too, in sharp explosions. Beyond the arc of lamp the room was deeper than ever in shadow. Finally John Burkhardt's head relaxed again to his shirt-front, the paper falling gently away to the floor. She regarded his lips puffing out as he breathed. Hands clasped, arms full length on the table, it was as if the flood of words pressing against the walls of her, to be shrieked rather than spoken, was flowing over to him. He jerked erect again, regarding her through blinks. "Must 'a' dozed off," he said, reaching down for his newspaper. She was winding her fingers now in and out among themselves. "Burkhardt?" "Eh?" "What--does a person do that's smotherin'?" "Eh?" "I know. That's what I'm doing. Smotherin'!" "A touch of the old trouble, Hanna?" She sat erect, with her rather large white hands at the heavy base to her long throat. They rose and fell to her breathing. Like Heine, who said so potently, "I am a tragedy," so she, too, in the sulky light of her eyes and the pulled lips and the ripple of shivers over her, proclaimed it of herself. "Seven-forty! God! what'll I do, Burkhardt? What'll I do?" "Go lay down on the sofa a bit, Hanna. I'll cover you with a plaid. It's the head-noises again bothering you." "Seven-forty! What'll I do? Seven-forty and nothing left but bed." "I must 'a' dozed off, Hanna." "Yes; you must 'a' dozed off," she laughed, her voice eaten into with the acid of her own scorn. "Yes; you must 'a' dozed off. The same way as you dozed off last night and last month and last year and the last eight years. The best years of my life--that's what you've dozed off, John Burkhardt. He 'must 'a' dozed off,'" she repeated, her lips quivering and lifting to reveal the white line of her large teeth. "Yes; I think you must 'a' dozed off!" He was reading again in stolid profile. She fell to tapping the broad toe of her shoe, her light, dilated eyes staring above his head. She was spare, and yet withal a roundness left to the cheek and forearm. Long-waisted and with a certain swing where it flowed down into straight hips, there was a bony, Olympian kind of bigness about her. Beneath the washed-out blue shirtwaist dress her chest was high, as if vocal. She was not without youth. Her head went up like a stag's to the passing of a band in the street, or a glance thrown after her, or the contemplation of her own freshly washed yellow hair in the sunlight. She wore a seven glove, but her nails had great depth and pinkness, and each a clear half-moon. They were dug down now into her palms. "For God's sake, talk! Say something, or I'll go mad!" He laid his paper across his knee, pushing up his glasses. "Sing a little something, Hanna. You're right restless this evening." "'Restless'!" she said, her face wry. "If I got to sit and listen to that white-faced clock ticking for many more evenings of this winter, you'll find yourself with a raving maniac on your hands. That's how restless I am!" He rustled his paper again. "Don't read!" she cried. "Don't you dare read!" He sat staring ahead, in a heavy kind of silence, breathing outward and passing his hand across his brow. Her breathing, too, was distinctly audible. "Lay down a bit, Hanna. I'll cover you--" "If they land me in the bug-house, they can write on your tombstone when you die, 'Hanna Long Burkhardt went stark raving mad crazy with hucking at home because I let her life get to be a machine from six-o'clock breakfast to eight-o'clock bed, and she went crazy from it.' If that's any satisfaction to you, they can write that on your tombstone." He mopped his brow this time, clearing his throat. "You knew when we married, Hanna, they called me 'Silent' Burkhardt. I never was a great one for talking unless there was something I wanted to say." "I knew nothin' when I married you. Nothin' except that along a certain time every girl that can gets married. I knew nothin' except--except--" "Except what?" "Nothin'." "I've never stood in your light, Hanna, of having a good time. Go ahead. I'm always glad when you go up-town with the neighbor women of a Saturday evening. I'd be glad if you'd have 'em in here now and then for a little sociability. Have 'em. Play the graphophone for 'em. Sing. You 'ain't done nothin' with your singin' since you give up choir." "Neighbor women! Old maids' choir! That's fine excitement for a girl not yet twenty-seven!" "Come; let's go to a moving picture, Hanna. Go wrap yourself up warm." "Movie! Oh no; no movie for me with you snorin' through the picture till I'm ashamed for the whole place. If I was the kind of girl had it in me to run around with other fellows, that's what I'd be drove to do, the deal you've given me. Movie! That's a fine enjoyment to try to foist off on a woman to make up for eight years of being so fed up on stillness that she's half-batty!" "Maybe there's something showin' in the op'ry-house to-night." "Oh, you got a record to be proud of, John Burkhardt: Not a foot in that opera-house since we're married. I wouldn't want to have your feelin's!" His quietude was like a great, impregnable, invisible wall inclosing him. "I'm not the man can change his ways, Hanna. I married at forty, too late for that." "I notice you liked my pep, all righty, when I was workin' in the feed-yard office. I hadn't been in it ten days before you were hangin' on my laughs from morning till night." "I do yet, Hanna--only you don't laugh no more. There's nothin' so fine in a woman as sunshine." "Provided you don't have to furnish any of it." "Because a man 'ain't got it in him to be light in his ways don't mean he don't enjoy it in others. Why, there just ain't nothin' to equal a happy woman in the house! Them first months, Hanna, showed me what I'd been missin'. It was just the way I figured it--somebody around like you, singin' and putterin'. It was that laugh in the office made me bring it here, where I could have it always by me." "It's been knocked out of me, every bit of laugh I ever had in me; lemme tell you that." "I can remember the first time I ever heard you, Hanna. You was standin" at the office window lookin' out in the yards at Jerry Sims unloadin' a shipment of oats; and little Old Cocker was standin' on top of one of the sacks barkin' his head off. I--" "Yeh; I met Clara Sims on the street yesterday, back here for a visit, and she says to me, she says: 'Hanna Burkhardt, you mean to tell me you never done nothing with your voice! You oughta be ashamed. If I was your husband, I'd spend my last cent trainin' that contralto of yours. You oughtn't to let yourself go like this. Women don't do it no more.' That, from the tackiest girl that ever walked this town. I wished High Street had opened up and swallowed me." "Now, Hanna, you mustn't--" "In all these years never so much as a dance or a car-ride as far as Middletown. Church! Church! Church! Till I could scream at the sight of it. Not a year of my married life that 'ain't been a lodestone on my neck! Eight of' 'em! Eight!" "I'm not sayin' I'm not to blame, Hanna. A woman like you naturally likes life. I never wanted to hold you back. If I'm tired nights and dead on my feet from twelve hours on 'em, I never wanted you to change your ways." "Yes; with a husband at home in bed, I'd be a fine one chasin' around this town alone, wouldn't I? That's the thanks a woman gets for bein' self-respectin'." "I always kept hopin', Hanna, I could get you to take more to the home." "The home--you mean the tomb!" "Why, with the right attention, we got as fine an old place here as there is in this part of town, Hanna. If only you felt like giving it a few more touches that kinda would make a woman-place out of it! It 'ain't changed a whit from the way me and my old father run it together. A little touch here and there, Hanna, would help to keep you occupied and happier if--" "I know. I know what's comin'." "The pergola I had built. I used to think maybe you'd get to putter out there in the side-yard with it, trailin' vines; the china-paintin' outfit I had sent down from Cincinnati when I seen it advertised in the _Up-State Gazette_; a spaniel or two from Old Cocker's new litter, barkin' around; all them things, I used to think, would give our little place here a feelin' that would change both of us for the better. With a more home-like feelin' things might have been different between us, Hanna." "Keepin" a menagerie of mangy spaniels ain't my idea of livin'." "Aw, now, Hanna, what's the use puttin' it that way? Take, for instance, it's been a plan of mine to paint the house, with the shutters green and a band of green shingles runnin' up under the eaves. A little encouragement from you and we could perk the place up right smart. All these years it's kinda gone down--even more than when I was a bachelor in it. Sunk in, kinda, like them iron jardinières I had put in the front yard for you to keep evergreen in. It's them little things, Hanna. Then that--that old idea of mine to take a little one from the orphanage--a young 'un around the--" "O Lord!" "I ain't goin' to mention it if it aggravates you, but--but makin' a home out of this gray old place would help us both, Hanna. There's no denyin' that. It's what I hoped for when I brought you home a bride here. Just had it kinda planned. You putterin' around the place in some kind of a pink apron like you women can rig yourselves up in and--" "There ain't a girl in Adalia has dropped out of things the way I have, I had a singin' voice that everybody in this town said--" "There's the piano, Hanna, bought special for it." "I got a contralto that--" "There never was anything give me more pleasure than them first years you used it. I ain't much to express myself, but it was mighty fine, Hanna, to hear you." "Yes, I know; you snored into my singin' with enjoyment, all right." "It's the twelve hours on my feet that just seem to make me dead to the world, come evening." "A girl that had the whole town wavin' flags at her when she sung 'The Holy City' at the nineteen hundred street-carnival! Kittie Scogin Bevins, one of the biggest singers in New York to-day, nothing but my chorus! Where's it got me these eight years? Nowheres! She had enough sense to cut loose from Ed Bevins, who was a lodestone, too, and beat it. She's singing now in New York for forty a week with a voice that wasn't strong enough to be more than chorus to mine." "Kittie Scogin, Hanna, is a poor comparison for any woman to make with herself." "It is, is it? Well, I don't see it thataway. When she stepped off the train last week, comin' back to visit her old mother, I wished the whole depot would open up and swallow me--that's what I wished. Me and her that used to be took for sisters. I'm eight months younger, and I look eight years older. When she stepped off that train in them white furs and a purple face-veil, I just wished to God the whole depot would open and swallow me. That girl had sense. O God! didn't she have sense!" "They say her sense is what killed Ed Bevins of shame and heartbreak." "Say, don't tell me! It was town talk the way he made her toady to his folks, even after he'd been cut off without a cent. Kittie told me herself the very sight of the old Bevins place over on Orchard Street gives her the creeps down her back. If not for old lady Scogin, 'way up in the seventies, she'd never put her foot back in this dump. That girl had sense." "There's not a time she comes back here it don't have an upsettin' influence on you, Hanna." "I know what's upsettin' me, all right. I know!" He sighed heavily. "I'm just the way I am, Hanna, and there's no teachin' an old dog new tricks. It's a fact I ain't much good after eight o'clock evenin's. It's a fact--a fact!" They sat then in a further silence that engulfed them like fog. A shift of wind blew a gust of dry snow against the window-pane with a little sleety noise. And as another evidence of rising wind, a jerk of it came down the flue, rattling the fender of a disused grate. "We'd better keep the water in the kitchen runnin' to-night. The pipes'll freeze." Tick-tock. Tick. Tock. She had not moved, still sitting staring above the top of his head. He slid out his watch, yawning. "Well, if you think it's too raw for the movin' pictures, Hanna, I guess I'll be movin' up to bed. I got to be down to meet a five-o'clock shipment of fifty bales to-morrow. I'll be movin' along unless there's anything you want?" "No--nothing." "If--if you ain't sleepy awhile yet, Hanna, why not run over to Widow Dinninger's to pass the time of evenin'? I'll keep the door on the latch." She sprang up, snatching a heavy black shawl, throwing it over her and clutching it closed at the throat. "Where you goin', Hanna?" "Walkin'," she said, slamming the door after her. In Adalia, chiefly remarkable for the Indestructo Safe Works and a river which annually overflows its banks, with casualties, the houses sit well back from tree-bordered streets, most of them frame, shingle-roofed veterans that have lived through the cycle-like years of the bearing, the marrying, the burying of two, even three, generations of the same surname. A three-year-old, fifteen-mile traction connects the court-house with the Indestructo Safe Works. High Street, its entire length, is paved. During a previous mayoralty the town offered to the Lida Tool Works a handsome bonus to construct branch foundries along its river-banks, and, except for the annual flood conditions, would have succeeded. In spring Adalia is like a dear old lady's garden of marigold and bleeding-heart. Flushes of sweetpeas ripple along its picket fences and off toward the backyards are long grape-arbors, in autumn their great fruit-clusters ripening to purple frost. Come winter there is almost an instant shriveling to naked stalk, and the trellis-work behind vines comes through. Even the houses seem immediately to darken of last spring's paint, and, with windows closed, the shades are drawn. Oftener than not Adalia spends its evening snugly behind these drawn shades in great scoured kitchens or dining-rooms, the house-fronts dark. When Mrs. Burkhardt stepped out into an evening left thus to its stilly depth, shades drawn against it, a light dust of snow, just fallen, was scurrying up-street before the wind, like something phantom with its skirts blowing forward. Little drifts of it, dry as powder, had blown up against the porch. She sidestepped them, hurrying down a wind-swept brick walk and out a picket gate that did not swing entirely after. Behind her, the house with its wimple of shingle roof and unlighted front windows seemed to recede somewhere darkly. She stood an undecided moment, her face into the wind. Half down the block an arc-light swayed and gave out a moving circle of light. Finally she turned her back and went off down a side-street, past a lighted corner grocer, crossed a street to avoid the black mouth of an alley, then off at another right angle. The houses here were smaller, shoulder to shoulder and directly on the sidewalk. Before one of these, for no particular reason distinguishable from the others, Mrs. Burkhardt stepped up two shallow steps and turned a key in the center of the door, which set up a buzz on its reverse side. Her hand, where it clutched the shawl at her throat, was reddening and roughening, the knuckles pushing up high and white. Waiting, she turned her back to the wind, her body hunched up against it. There was a moving about within, the scrape of a match, and finally the door opening slightly, a figure peering out. "It's me, Mrs. Scogin--Hanna Burkhardt!" The door swung back then, revealing a just-lighted parlor, opening, without introduction of hall, from the sidewalk. "Well, if it ain't Hanna Burkhardt! What you doin' out this kind of a night? Come in. Kittie's dryin' her hair in the kitchen. Used to be she could sit on it, and it's ruint from the scorchin' curlin'-iron. I'll call her. Sit down, Hanna. How's Burkhardt? I'll call her. Oh, Kittie! Kit-tie, Hanna Burkhardt's here to see you." In the wide flare of the swinging lamp, revealing Mrs. Scogin's parlor of chromo, china plaque, and crayon enlargement, sofa, whatnot, and wax bouquet embalmed under glass, Mrs. Burkhardt stood for a moment, blowing into her cupped hands, unwinding herself of shawl, something Niobian in her gesture. "Yoo-hoo--it's only me, Kit! Shall I come out?" "Naw--just a minute; I'll be in." Mrs. Scogin seated herself on the edge of the sofa, well forward, after the manner of those who relax but ill to the give of upholstery. She was like a study of what might have been the grandmother of one of Rembrandt's studies of a grandmother. There were lines crawling over her face too manifold for even the etcher's stroke, and over her little shriveling hands that were too bird-like for warmth. There is actually something avian comes with the years. In the frontal bone pushing itself forward, the cheeks receding, and the eyes still bright. There was yet that trenchant quality in Mrs. Scogin, in the voice and gaze of her. "Sit down, Hanna." "Don't care if I do." "You can lean back against that chair-bow." "Hate to muss it." "How's Burkhardt?" "All right." "He's been made deacon--not?" "Yeh." "If mine had lived, he'd the makin' of a pillar. Once label a man with hard drinkin', and it's hard to get justice for him. There never was a man had more the makin' of a pillar than mine, dead now these sixteen years and molderin' in his grave for justice." "Yes, Mrs. Scogin." "You can lean back against that bow." "Thanks." "So Burkhardt's been made deacon." "Three years already--you was at the church." "A deacon. Mine went to his grave too soon." "They said down at market to-day, Mrs. Scogin, that Addie Fitton knocked herself against the woodbin and has water on the knee." "Let the town once label a man with drinkin', and it's hard to get justice for him." "It took Martha and Eda and Gessler's hired girl to hold her in bed with the pain." "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Scogin, sucking in her words and her eyes seeming to strain through the present; "once label a man with drinkin'." Kittie Scogin Bevins entered then through a rain of bead portières. Insistently blond, her loosed-out hair newly dry and flowing down over a very spotted and very baby-blue kimono, there was something soft-fleshed about her, a not unappealing saddle of freckles across her nose, the eyes too light but set in with a certain feline arch to them. "Hello, Han!" "Hello, Kittie!" "Snowing?" "No." "Been washing my hair to show it a good time. One month in this dump and they'd have to hire a hearse to roll me back to Forty-second Street in." "This ain't nothing. Wait till we begin to get snowed in!" "I know. Say, you c'n tell me nothing about this tank I dunno already. I was buried twenty-two years in it. Move over, ma." She fitted herself into the lower curl of the couch, crossing her hands at the back of her head, drawing up her feet so that, for lack of space, her knees rose to a hump. "What's new in Deadtown, Han?" "'New'! This dump don't know we got a new war. They think it's the old Civil one left over." "Burkhardt's been made a deacon, Kittie." "O Lord! ma, forget it!" Mrs. Scogin Bevins threw out her hands to Mrs. Burkhardt in a wide gesture, indicating her mother with a forefinger, then with it tapping her own brow. "Crazy as a loon! Bats!" "If your father had--" "Ma, for Gossakes--" "You talk to Kittie, Hanna. My girls won't none of 'em listen to me no more. I tell 'em they're fightin' over my body before it's dead for this house and the one on Ludlow Street. It's precious little for 'em to be fightin' for before I'm dead, but if not for it, I'd never be gettin' these visits from a one of 'em." "Ma!" "I keep tellin' her, Kittie, to stay home. New York ain't no place for a divorced woman to set herself right with the Lord." "Ma, if you don't quit raving and clear on up to bed, I'll pack myself out to-night yet, and then you'll have a few things to set right with the Lord. Go on up, now." "I--" "Go on--you hear?" Mrs. Scogin went then, tiredly and quite bent forward, toward a flight of stairs that rose directly from the parlor, opened a door leading up into them, the frozen breath of unheated regions coming down. "Quick--close that door, ma!" "Come to see a body, Hanna, when she ain't here. She won't stay at home, like a God-fearin' woman ought to." "Light the gas-heater up there, if you expect me to come to bed. I'm used to steam-heated flats, not barns." "She's a sassy girl, Hanna. Your John a deacon and hers lies molderin' in his grave, a sui--" Mrs. Scogin Bevins flung herself up, then, a wave of red riding up her face. "If you don't go up--if you--don't! Go--now! Honest, you're gettin' so luny you need a keeper. Go--you hear?" The door shut slowly, inclosing the old figure. She relaxed to the couch, trying to laugh. "Luny!" she said. "Bats! Nobody home!" "I like your hair like that, Kittie. It looks swell." "It's easy. I'll fix it for you some time. It's the vampire swirl. All the girls are wearing it." "Remember the night, Kit, we was singin' duets for the Second Street Presbyterian out at Grody's Grove and we got to hair-pullin' over whose curls was the longest?" "Yeh. I had on a blue dress with white polka-dots." "That was fifteen years ago. Remember Joe Claiborne promised us a real stage-job, and we opened a lemonade-stand on our front gate to pay his commission in advance?" They laughed back into the years. "O Lord! them was days! Seems to me like fifty years ago." "Not to me, Kittie. You've done things with your life since then. I 'ain't." "You know what I've always told you about yourself, Hanna. If ever there was a fool girl, that was Hanna Long. Lord! if I'm where I am on my voice, where would you be?" "I was a fool." "I could have told you that the night you came running over to tell me." "There was no future in this town for me, Kit. Stenoggin' around from one office to another. He was the only real provider ever came my way." "I always say if John Burkhardt had shown you the color of real money! But what's a man to-day on just a fair living? Not worth burying yourself in a dump like this for. No, sirree. When I married Ed, anyways I thought I smelled big money. I couldn't see ahead that his father'd carry out his bluff and cut him off. But what did you have to smell--a feed-yard in a hole of a town! What's the difference whether you live in ten rooms like yours or in four like this as long as you're buried alive? A girl can always do that well for herself after she's took big chances. You could be Lord knows where now if you'd 'a' took my advice four years ago and lit out when I did." "I know it, Kit. God knows I've eat out my heart with knowin' it! Only--only it was so hard--a man givin' me no more grounds than he does. What court would listen to his stillness for grounds? I 'ain't got grounds." "Say, you could 'a' left that to me. My little lawyer's got a factory where he manufactures them. He could 'a' found a case of incompatibility between the original turtle-doves." "God! His stillness, Kittie--like--" "John Burkhardt would give me the razzle-dazzle jimjams overnight, he would. That face reminds me of my favorite funeral." "I told him to-night, Kittie, he's killin' me with his deadness. I ran out of the house from it. It's killin' me." "Why, you poor simp, standing for it!" "That's what I come over for, Kit. I can't stand no more. If I don't talk to some one, I'll bust. There's no one in this town I can open up to. Him so sober--and deacon. They don't know what it is to sit night after night dyin' from his stillness. Whole meals, Kit, when he don't open his mouth except, 'Hand me this; hand me that'--and his beard movin' up and down so when he chews. Because a man don't hit you and gives you spending-money enough for the little things don't mean he can't abuse you with--with just gettin' on your nerves so terrible. I'm feelin' myself slip--crazy--ever since I got back from Cincinnati and seen what's goin' on in the big towns and me buried here; I been feelin' myself slip--slip, Kittie." "Cincinnati! Good Lord! if you call that life! Any Monday morning on Forty-second Street makes Cincinnati look like New-Year's Eve. If you call Cincinnati life!" "He's small, Kittie. He's a small potato of a man in his way of livin'. He can live and die without doin' anything except the same things over and over again, year out and year in." "I know. I know. Ed was off the same pattern. It's the Adalia brand. Lord! Hanna Long, if you could see some of the fellows I got this minute paying attentions to me in New York, you'd lose your mind. Spenders! Them New York guys make big and spend big, and they're willing to part with the spondoolaks. That's the life!" "I--You look it, Kit. I never seen a girl get back her looks and keep 'em like you. I says to him to-night, I says, 'When I look at myself in the glass, I wanna die.'" "You're all there yet, Hanna. Your voice over here the other night was something immense. Big enough to cut into any restaurant crowd, and that's what counts in cabaret. I don't tell anybody how to run his life, but if I had your looks and your contralto, I'd turn 'em into money, I would. There's forty dollars a week in you this minute." Mrs. Burkhardt's head went up. Her mouth had fallen open, her eyes brightening as they widened. "Kit--when you goin' back?" "To-morrow a week, honey--if I live through it." "Could--you help me--your little lawyer--your--" "Remember, I ain't advising--" "Could you, Kit, and to--to get a start?" "They say it of me there ain't a string in the Bijou Cafe that I can't pull my way." "Could you, Kit? Would you?" "I don't tell nobody how to run his life, Hanna. It's mighty hard to advise the other fellow about his own business. I don't want it said in this town, that's down on me, anyways, that Kit Scogin put ideas in Hanna Long's head." "You didn't, Kit. They been there. Once I answered an ad. to join a county fair. I even sent money to a vaudeville agent in Cincinnati. I--" "Nothing doing in vaudeville for our kind of talent. It's cabaret where the money and easy hours is these days. Just a plain little solo act--contralto is what you can put over. A couple of 'Where Is My Wandering Boy To-night' sob-solos is all you need. I'll let you meet Billy Howe of the Bijou. Billy's a great one for running in a chaser act or two." "I--How much would it cost, Kittie, to--to--" "Hundred and fifty done it for me, wardrobe and all." "Kittie, I--Would you--" "Sure I would! Only, remember, I ain't responsible. I don't tell anybody how to run his life. That's something everybody's got to decide for herself." "I--have--decided, Kittie." At something after that stilly one-o'clock hour when all the sleeping noises of lath and wainscoting creak out, John Burkhardt lifted his head to the moving light of a lamp held like a torch over him, even the ridge of his body completely submerged beneath the great feather billow of an oceanic walnut bedstead. "Yes, Hanna?" "Wake up!" "I been awake--" She set the lamp down on the brown-marble top of a wash-stand, pushed back her hair with both hands, and sat down on the bed-edge, heavily breathing from a run through deserted night's streets. "I gotta talk to you, Burkhardt--now--to-night." "Now's no time, Hanna. Come to bed." "Things can't go on like this, John." He lay back slowly. "Maybe you're right, Hanna. I been layin' up here and thinkin' the same myself. What's to be done?" "I've got to the end of my rope." "With so much that God has given us, Hanna--health and prosperity--it's a sin before Him that unhappiness should take root in this home." "If you're smart, you won't try to feed me up on gospel to-night!" "I'm willin' to meet you, Hanna, on any proposition you say. How'd it be to move down to Schaefer's boardin'-house for the winter, where it'll be a little recreation for you evenings, or say we take a trip down to Cincinnati for a week. I--" "Oh no," she said, looking away from him and her throat throbbing. "Oh no, you don't! Them things might have meant something to me once, but you've come too late with 'em. For eight years I been eatin' out my heart with 'em. Now you couldn't pay me to live at Schaefer's. I had to beg too long for it. Cincinnati! Why, its New-Year's Eve is about as lively as a real town's Monday morning. Oh no, you don't! Oh no!" "Come on to bed, Hanna. You'll catch cold. Your breath's freezin'." "I'm goin'--away, for good--that's where--I'm goin'!" Her words threatened to come out on a sob, but she stayed it, the back of her hand to her mouth. Her gaze was riveted, and would not move, from a little curtain above the wash-stand, a guard against splashing crudely embroidered in a little hand-in-hand boy and girl. "You--you're sayin' a good many hasty things to-night, Hanna." "Maybe." He plucked at a gray-wool knot in the coverlet. "Mighty hasty things." She turned, then, plunging her hands into the great suds of feather bed, the whole thrust of her body toward him. "'Hasty'! Is eight years hasty? Is eight years of buried-alive hasty? I'm goin', John Burkhardt; this time I'm goin' sure--sure as my name is Hanna Long." "Goin' where, Hanna?" "Goin' where each day ain't like a clod of mud on my coffin. Goin' where there's a chance for a woman like me to get a look-in on life before she's as skinny a hex at twenty-seven as old lady Scog--as--like this town's full of. I'm goin' to make my own livin' in my own way, and I'd like to see anybody try to stop me." "I ain't tryin', Hanna." She drew back in a flash of something like surprise. "You're willin', then?" "No, Hanna, not willin'." "You can't keep me from it. Incompatibility is grounds!" The fires of her rebellion, doused for the moment, broke out again, flaming in her cheeks. He raised himself to his elbow, regarding her there in her flush, the white line of her throat whiter because of it. She was strangely, not inconsiderably taller. "Why, Hanna, what you been doin' to yourself?" Her hand flew to a new and elaborately piled coiffure, a half-fringe of curling-iron, little fluffed out tendrils escaping down her neck. "In--incompatibility is grounds." "It's mighty becomin', Hanna. Mighty becomin'." "It's grounds, all right!" "'Grounds'? Grounds for what, Hanna?" She looked away, her throat distending as she swallowed. "Divorce." There was a pause, then so long that she had a sense of falling through its space. "Look at me, Hanna!" She swung her gaze reluctantly to his. He was sitting erect now, a kind of pallor setting in behind the black beard. "Leggo!" she said, loosening his tightening hand from her wrists. "Leggo; you hurt!" "I--take it when a woman uses that word in her own home, she means it." "This one does." "You're a deacon's wife. Things--like this are--are pretty serious with people in our walk of life. We--'ain't learned in our communities yet not to take the marriage law as of God's own makin'. I'm a respected citizen here." "So was Ed Bevins. It never hurt his hide." "But it left her with a black name in the town." "Who cares? She don't." "It's no good to oppose a woman, Hanna, when she's made up her mind; but I'm willin' to meet you half-way on this thing. Suppose we try it again. I got some plans for perkin' things up a bit between us. Say we join the Buckeye Bowling Club, and--" "No! No! No! That gang of church-pillars! I can't stand it, I tell you; you mustn't try to keep me! You mustn't! I'm a rat in a trap here. Gimme a few dollars. Hundred and fifty is all I ask. Not even alimony. Lemme apply. Gimme grounds. It's done every day. Lemme go. What's done can't be undone. I'm not blamin' you. You're what you are and I'm what I am. I'm not blamin' anybody. You're what you are, and God Almighty can't change you. Lemme go, John; for God's sake, lemme go!" "Yes," he said, finally, not taking his eyes from her and the chin hardening so that it shot out and up. "Yes, Hanna; you're right. You got to go." * * * * * The skeleton of the Elevated Railway structure straddling almost its entire length, Sixth Avenue, sullen as a clayey stream, flows in gloom and crash. Here, in this underworld created by man's superstructure, Mrs. Einstein, Slightly Used Gowns, nudges Mike's Eating-Place from the left, and on the right Stover's Vaudeville Agency for Lilliputians divides office-space and rent with the Vibro Health Belt Company. It is a kind of murky drain, which, flowing between, catches the refuse from Fifth Avenue and the leavings from Broadway. To Sixth Avenue drift men who, for the first time in a Miss-spending life, are feeling the prick of a fraying collar. Even Fifth Avenue is constantly feeding it. A _couturier's_ model gone hippy; a specialty-shop gone bankrupt; a cashier's books gone over. Its shops are second-hand, and not a few of its denizens are down on police records as sleight-of-hand. At night women too weary to be furtive turn in at its family entrances. It is the cauldron of the city's eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog. It is the home of the most daring all-night eating-places, the smallest store, the largest store, the greatest revolving stage, the dreariest night court, and the drabest night birds in the world. War has laid its talons and scratched slightly beneath the surface of Sixth Avenue. Hufnagel's Delicatessen, the briny hoar of twenty years upon it, went suddenly into decline and the hands of a receiver. Recruiting stations have flung out imperious banners. Keeley's Chop-House--Open All Night--reluctantly swings its too hospitable doors to the one-o'clock-closing mandate. To the New-Yorker whose nights must be filled with music, preferably jazz, to pass Keeley's and find it dark is much as if Bacchus, emulating the newest historical rogue, had donned cassock and hood. Even that half of the evening east of the cork-popping land of the midnight son has waned at Keeley's. No longer a road-house on the incandescent road to dawn, there is something hangdog about its very waiters, moving through the easy maze of half-filled tables; an orchestra, sheepish of its accomplishment, can lift even a muted melody above the light babel of light diners. There is a cabaret, too, bravely bidding for the something that is gone. At twelve o'clock, five of near-Broadway's best breed, in woolly anklets and wristlets and a great shaking of curls, execute the poodle-prance to half the encores of other days. May Deland, whose ripple of hip and droop of eyelid are too subtle for censorship, walks through her hula-hula dance, much of her abandon abandoned. A pair of _apaches_ whirl for one hundred and twenty consecutive seconds to a great bang of cymbals and seventy-five dollars a week. At shortly before one Miss Hanna de Long, who renders ballads at one-hour intervals, rose from her table and companion in the obscure rear of the room, to finish the evening and her cycle with "Darling, Keep the Grate-Fire Burning," sung in a contralto calculated to file into no matter what din of midnight dining. In something pink, silk, and conservatively V, she was a careful management's last bland ingredient to an evening that might leave too Cayenne a sting to the tongue. At still something before one she had finished, and, without encore, returned to her table. "Gawd!" she said, and leaned her head on her hand. "I better get me a job hollerin' down a well!" Her companion drained his stemless glass with a sharp jerking back of the head. His was the short, stocky kind of assurance which seemed to say, "Greater securities hath no man than mine, which are gilt-edged." Obviously, Mr. Lew Kaminer clipped his coupons. "Not so bad," he said. "The song ain't dead; the crowd is." "Say, they can't hurt my feelin's. I been a chaser-act ever since I hit the town." "Well, if I can sit and listen to a song in long skirts twelve runnin' weeks, three or four nights every one of 'em, take it from me, there's a whistle in it somewhere." "Just the same," she said, pushing away her glass, "my future in this business is behind me." He regarded her, slumped slightly in his chair, celluloid toothpick dangling. There was something square about his face, abetted by a parted-in-the-middle toupee of great craftsmanship, which revealed itself only in the jointure over the ears of its slightly lighter hair with the brown of his own. There was a monogram of silk on his shirt-sleeve, of gold on his bill-folder, and of diamonds on the black band across the slight rotundity of his waistcoat. "Never you mind, I'm for you, girl," he said. There was an undeniable taking-off of years in Miss de Long. Even the very texture of her seemed younger and the skin massaged to a new creaminess, the high coiffure blonder, the eyes quicker to dart. "Lay off, candy kid," she said. "You're going to sugar." "Have another fizz," he said, clicking his fingers for a waiter. "Anything to please the bold, bad man," she said. "You're a great un," he said. "Fellow never knows how to take you from one minute to the next." "You mean a girl never knows how to take you." "Say," he said, "any time anybody puts anything over on you!" "And you?" "There you are!" he cried, eying her fizz. "Drink it down; it's good for what ails you." "Gawd!" she said. "I wish I knew what it was is ailin' me!" "Drink 'er down!" "You think because you had me goin' on these things last night that to-night little sister ain't goin' to watch her step. Well, watch her watch her step," Nevertheless, she drank rather thirstily half the contents of the glass. "I knew what I was doin' every minute of the time last night, all righty. I was just showin' us a good time." "Sure!" "It's all right for us girls to take what we want, but the management don't want nothing rough around--not in war-time." "Right idea!" "There's nothing rough about me, Lew. None of you fellows can't say that about me. I believe in a girl havin' a good time, but I believe in her always keepin' her self-respect. I always say it never hurt no girl to keep her self-respect." "Right!" "When a girl friend of mine loses that, I'm done with her. That don't get a girl nowheres. That's why I keep to myself as much as I can and don't mix in with the girls on the bill with me, if--" "What's become of the big blond-looker used to run around with you when you was over at the Bijou?" "Me and Kit ain't friends no more." "She was some looker." "The minute I find out a girl ain't what a self-respectin' girl ought to be then that lets me out. There's nothin' would keep me friends with her. If ever I was surprised in a human, Lew, it was in Kittie Scogin. She got me my first job here in New York. I give her credit for it, but she done it because she didn't have the right kind of a pull with Billy Howe. She done a lot of favors for me in her way, but the minute I find out a girl ain't self-respectin' I'm done with that girl every time." "That baby had some pair of shoulders!" "I ain't the girl to run a friend down, anyway, when she comes from my home town; but I could tell tales--Gawd! I could tell tales!" There was new loquacity and a flush to Miss de Long. She sipped again, this time almost to the depth of the glass. "The way to find out about a person, Lew, is to room with 'em in the same boardin'-house. Beware of the baby stare is all I can tell you. Beware of that." "That's what _you_ got," he said, leaning across to top her hand with his, "two big baby stares." "Well, Lew Kaminer," she said, "you'd kid your own shadow. Callin' me a baby-stare. Of all things! Lew Kaminer!" She looked away to smile. "Drink it all down, baby-stare," he said, lifting the glass to her lips. They were well concealed and back away from the thinning patter of the crowd, so that, as he neared her, he let his face almost graze--indeed touch, hers. She made a great pretense of choking. "O-oh! burns!" "Drink it down-like a major." She bubbled into the glass, her eyes laughing at him above its rim. "Aw gone!" He clicked again with his fingers. "Once more, Charlie!" he said, shoving their pair of glasses to the table-edge. "You ain't the only money-bag around the place!" she cried, flopping down on the table-cloth a bulky wad tied in one corner of her handkerchief. "Well, whatta you know about that? Pay-day?" "Yeh-while it lasts. I hear there ain't goin' to be no more cabarets or Camembert cheese till after the war." "What you going to do with it--buy us a round of fizz?" She bit open the knot, a folded bill dropping to the table, uncurling. "Lord!" she said, contemplating and flipping it with her finger-tip. "Where I come from that twenty-dollar bill every week would keep me like a queen. Here it ain't even chicken feed." "You know where there's more chicken feed waitin' when you get hard up, sister. You're slower to gobble than most. You know what I told you last night, kiddo--you need lessons." "What makes me sore, Lew, is there ain't an act on this bill shows under seventy-five. It goes to show the higher skirts the higher the salary in this business." "You oughta be singin' in grand op'ra." "Yeh--sure! The diamond horseshoe is waitin' for the chance to land me one swift kick. It only took me twelve weeks and one meal a day to land this after Kittie seen to it that they let me out over at the Bijou. Say, I know where I get off in this town, Lew. If there's one thing I know, it's where I get off. I ain't a squab with a pair of high-priced ankles. I'm down on the agencies' books as a chaser-act, and I'm down with myself for that. If there's one thing I ain't got left, it's illusions. Get me? Illusions." She hitched sidewise in her chair, dipped her forefinger into her fresh glass, snapped it at him so that he blinked under the tiny spray. "That for you!" she said, giggling. She was now repeatedly catching herself up from a too constant impulse to repeat that giggle. "You little devil!" he said, reaching back for his handkerchief. She dipped again, this time deeper, and aimed straighter. "Quit!" he said, catching her wrist and bending over it. "Quit it, or I'll bite!" "Ow! Ouch!" Her mouth still resolute not to loosen, she jerked back from him. There was only the high flush which she could not control, and the gaze, heavy lidded, was not so sure as it might have been. She was quietly, rather pleasantly, dizzy. "I wish--" she said. "I--wi-ish--" "What do you wi-ish?" "Oh, I--I dunno what I wish!" "If you ain't a card!" He had lighted a cigar, and, leaning toward her, blew out a fragrant puff to her. "M-m-m!" she said; "it's a Cleopatra." "Nop." "A El Dorado." "Guess again." "A what, then?" "It's a Habana Queen. Habana because it reminds me of Hanna." "Aw--you!" At this crowning puerility Mr. Kaminer paused suddenly, as if he had detected in his laughter a bray. "Is Habana in the war, Lew?" "Darned if I know exactly." "Ain't this war just terrible, Lew?" "Don't let it worry you, girl. If it puts you out of business, remember, it's boosted my stocks fifty per cent. You know what I told you about chicken feed." She buried her nose in her handkerchief, turning her head. Her eyes had begun to crinkle. "It--it's just awful! All them sweet boys!" "Now, cryin' ain't goin' to help. You 'ain't got no one marchin' off." "That's just it. I 'ain't got no one. Everything is something awful, ain't it?" Her sympathies and her risibilities would bubble to the surface to confuse her. "Awful!" He scraped one forefinger against the other. "Cry-baby! Cry-baby, stick your little finger in your little eye!" She regarded him wryly, her eyes crinkled now quite to slits. "You can laugh!" "Look at the cry-baby!" "I get so darn blue." "Now--now--" "Honest to Gawd, Lew, I get so darn blue I could die." "You're a nice girl, and I'd like to see anybody try to get fresh with you!" "Do you--honest, Lew--like me?" "There's something about you, girl, gets me every time. Cat-eyes! Kitty-eyes!" "Sometimes I get so blue--get to thinkin' of home and the way it all happened. You know the way a person will. Home and the--divorce and the way it all happened with--him--and how I come here and--where it's got me, and--and I just say to myself, 'What's the use?' You know, Lew, the way a person will. Back there, anyways, I had a home. There's something in just havin' a home, lemme tell you. Bein' a somebody in your own home." "You're a somebody any place they put you." "You never seen the like the way it all happened, Lew. So quick! The day I took the train was like I was walkin' for good out of a dream. Not so much as a post-card from there since--" "Uh--uh--now--cry-baby!" "I--ain't exactly sorry, Lew; only God knows, more'n once in those twelve weeks out of work I was for goin' back and patchin' it up with him. I ain't exactly sorry, Lew, but--but there's only one thing on God's earth that keeps me from being sorry." "What?" "You." He flecked his cigar, hitching his arm up along the chair-back, laughed, reddened slightly. "That's the way to talk! These last two nights you been lightin' up with a man so he can get within ten feet of you. Now you're shoutin'!" She drained her glass, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes. She was sitting loosely forward now, her hand out on his. "You're the only thing on God's earth that's kept me from--sneakin" back there--honest. Lew, I'd have gone back long ago and eat dirt to make it up with him--if not for you. I--ain't built like Kittie Scogin and those girls. I got to be self-respectin' with the fellows or nothing. They think more of you in the end--that's my theory." "Sure!" "A girl's fly or--she just naturally ain't that way. That's where all my misunderstanding began with Kittie--when she wanted me to move over in them rooms on Forty-ninth Street with her--a girl's that way or she just ain't that way!" "Sure!" "Lew--will you--are you--you ain't kiddin' me all these weeks? Taxicabbin' me all night in the Park and--drinkin' around this way all the time together. You 'ain't been kiddin' me, Lew?" He shot up his cigar to an oblique. "Now you're shoutin'!" he repeated. "It took three months to get you down off your high horse, but now we're talkin' the same language." "Lew!" "It ain't every girl I take up with; just let that sink in. I like 'em frisky, but I like 'em cautious. That's where you made a hit with me. Little of both. Them that nibble too easy ain't worth the catch." She reached out the other hand, covering his with her both. "You're--talkin' weddin'-bells, Lew?" He regarded her, the ash of his cigar falling and scattering down his waistcoat. "What bells?" "Weddin', Lew." Her voice was as thin as a reed. "O Lord!" he said, pushing back slightly from the table. "Have another fizz, girl, and by that time we'll be ready for a trip in my underground balloon. Waiter!" She drew down his arm, quickly restraining it. She was not so sure now of controlling the muscles of her mouth. "Lew!" "Now--now--" "Please, Lew! It's what kept me alive. Thinkin' you meant that. Please, Lew! You ain't goin' to turn out like all the rest in this town? You--the first fellow I ever went as far as--last night with. I'll stand by you, Lew, through thick and thin. You stand by me. You make it right with me, Lew, and--" He cast a quick glance about, grasped at the sides of the table, and leaned toward her, _sotto_. "For God's sake, hush! Are you crazy?" "No," she said, letting the tears roll down over the too frank gyrations of her face--"no, I ain't crazy. I only want you to do the right thing by me, Lew. I'm--blue. I'm crazy afraid of the bigness of this town. There ain't a week I don't expect my notice here. It's got me. If you been stringin' me along like the rest of 'em, and I can't see nothing ahead of me but the struggle for a new job--and the tryin' to buck up against what a decent girl has got to--" "Why, you're crazy with the heat, girl! I thought you and me was talking the same language. I want to do the right thing by you. Sure I do! Anything in reason is yours for the askin'. That's what I been comin' to." "Then, Lew, I want you to do by me like you'd want your sister done by." "I tell you you're crazy. You been hitting up too many fizzes lately." "I--" "You ain't fool enough to think I'm what you'd call a free man? I don't bring my family matters down here to air 'em over with you girls. You're darn lucky that I like you well enough to--well, that I like you as much as I do. Come, now; tell you what I'm goin' to do for you: You name your idea of what you want in the way of--" "O God! Why don't I die? I ain't fit for nothing else!" He cast a glance around their deserted edge of the room. A waiter, painstakingly oblivious, stood two tables back. "Wouldn't I be better off out of it? Why don't I die?" He was trembling down with a suppression of rage and concern for the rising gale in her voice. "You can't make a scene in public with me and get away with it. If that's your game, it won't land you anywhere. Stop it! Stop it now and talk sense, or I'll get up. By God! if you get noisy, I'll get up and leave you here with the whole place givin' you the laugh. You can't throw a scare in me." But Miss de Long's voice and tears had burst the dam of control. There was an outburst that rose and broke on a wave of hysteria. "Lemme die--that's all I ask! What's there in it for me? What has there ever been? Don't do it, Lew! Don't--don't!" It was then Mr. Kaminer pushed back his chair, flopped down his napkin, and rose, breathing heavily enough, but his face set in an exaggerated kind of quietude as he moved through the maze of tables, exchanged a check for his hat, and walked out. For a stunned five minutes her tears, as it were, seared, she sat after him. The waiter had withdrawn to the extreme left of the deserted edge of the room, talking behind his hand to two colleagues in servility, their faces listening and breaking into smiles. Finally Miss de Long rose, moving through the zigzag paths of empty tables toward a deserted dressing-room. In there she slid into black-velvet slippers and a dark-blue walking-skirt, pulled on over the pink silk, tucking it up around the waist so that it did not sag from beneath the hem, squirmed into a black-velvet jacket with a false dicky made to emulate a blouse-front, and a blue-velvet hat hung with a curtain-like purple face-veil. As she went out the side, Keeley's was closing its front doors. Outside, not even to be gainsaid by Sixth Avenue, the night was like a moist flower held to the face. A spring shower, hardly fallen, was already drying on the sidewalks, and from the patch of Bryant Park across the maze of car-tracks there stole the immemorial scent of rain-water and black earth, a just-set-out crescent of hyacinths giving off their light steam of fragrance. How insidious is an old scent! It can creep into the heart like an ache. Who has not loved beside thyme or at the sweetness of dusk? Dear, silenced laughs can come back on a whiff from a florist's shop. Oh, there is a nostalgia lurks in old scents! Even to Hanna de Long, hurrying eastward on Forty-second Street, huggingly against the shadow of darkened shop-windows, there was a new sting of tears at the smell of earth, daring, in the lull of a city night, to steal out. There are always these dark figures that scuttle thus through the first hours of the morning. Whither? Twice remarks were flung after her from passing figures in slouch-hats--furtive remarks through closed lips. At five minutes past one she was at the ticket-office grating of a train-terminal that was more ornate than a rajah's dream. "Adalia--please. Huh? Ohio. Next train." "Seven-seven. Track nine. Round trip?" "N-no." "Eighteen-fifty." She again bit open the corner knot of her handkerchief. * * * * * When Hanna de Long, freshly train-washed of train dust, walked down Third Street away from the station, old man Rentzenauer, for forty-odd springs coaxing over the same garden, was spraying a hose over a side-yard of petunias, shirt-sleeved, his waistcoat hanging open, and in the purpling light his old head merging back against a story-and-a-half house the color of gray weather and half a century of service. At sight of him who had shambled so taken-for-granted through all of her girlhood, such a trembling seized hold of Hanna de Long that she turned off down Amboy Street, making another wide detour to avoid a group on the Koerner porch, finally approaching Second Street from the somewhat straggly end of it farthest from the station. She was trembling so that occasionally she stopped against a vertigo that went with it, wiped up under the curtain of purple veil at the beads of perspiration which would spring out along her upper lip. She was quite washed of rouge, except just a swift finger-stroke of it over the cheek-bones. She had taken out the dicky, too, and for some reason filled in there with a flounce of pink net ripped off from the little ruffles that had flowed out from her sleeves. She was without baggage. At Ludlow Street she could suddenly see the house, the trees meeting before it in a lace of green, the two iron jardinières empty. They had been painted, and were drying now of a clay-brown coat. When she finally went up the brick walk, she thought once that she could not reach the bell with the strength left to pull it. She did, though, pressing with her two hands to her left side as she waited. The house was in the process of painting, too, still wet under a first wash of gray. The pergola, also. The door swung back, and then a figure emerged full from a background of familiarly dim hallway and curve of banister. She was stout enough to be panting slightly, and above the pink-and-white-checked apron her face was ruddy, forty, and ever so inclined to smile. "Yes?" "Is--is--" Out from the hallway shot a cocker spaniel, loose-eared, yapping. "Queenie, Queenie--come back. She won't bite--Queenie--bad girl!--come back from that nasturtium-bed--bad girl!--all washed and combed so pretty for a romp with her favver when him come home so tired. Queenie!" She caught her by a rear leg as she leaped back, wild to rollick, tucking her under one arm, administering three diminutive punishments on the shaggy ears. "Bad! Bad!" "Is Mr.--Burkhardt--home?" "Aw, now, he ain't! I sent him down by Gredel's nurseries on his way home to-night, for some tulip-bulbs for my iron jardinières. He ought to be back any minute if he 'ain't stopped to brag with old man Gredel that our arbutus beats his." Then, smiling and rubbing with the back of her free hand at a flour-streak across her cheek: "If--if it's the lady from the orphan asylum come to see about the--the little kid we want--is there anything I can do for you? I'm his wife. Won't you come in?" "Oh no!" said Miss de Long, now already down two of the steps. "I--I--Oh no, no!--thank you! Oh no--no!--thank you!" She walked swiftly, the purple veil blown back and her face seeming to look out of it whitely, so whitely that she became terrible. Night was at hand, and Adalia was drawing down its front shades. VII GET READY THE WREATHS Where St. Louis begins to peter out into brick- and limestone-kilns and great scars of unworked and overworked quarries, the first and more unpretentious of its suburbs take up--Benson, Maplehurst, and Ridgeway Heights intervening with one-story brick cottages and two-story packing-cases--between the smoke of the city and the carefully parked Queen Anne quietude of Glenwood and Croton Grove. Over Benson hangs a white haze of limestone, gritty with train and foundry smoke. At night the lime-kilns, spotted with white deposits, burn redly, showing through their open doors like great, inflamed diphtheretic throats, tongues of flame bursting and licking out. Winchester Road, which runs out from the heart of the city to string these towns together, is paved with brick, and its traffic, for the most part, is the great, tin-tired dump-carts of the quarries and steel interurban electric cars which hum so heavily that even the windows of outlying cottages titillate. For blocks, from Benson to Maplehurst and from Maplehurst to Ridgeway Heights, Winchester Road repeats itself in terms of the butcher, the baker, the corner saloon. A feed-store. A monument- and stone-cutter. A confectioner. A general-merchandise store, with a glass case of men's collars outside the entrance. The butcher, the baker, the corner saloon. At Benson, where this highway cuts through, the city, wreathed in smoke, and a great oceanic stretch of roofs are in easy view, and at closer range, an outlying section of public asylums for the city's discard of its debility and its senility. Jutting a story above the one-storied march of Winchester Road, The Convenience Merchandise Corner, Benson, overlooks, from the southeast up-stairs window, a remote view of the City Hospital, the Ferris-wheel of an amusement park, and on clear days the oceanic waves of roof. Below, within the store, that view is entirely obliterated by a brace of shelves built across the corresponding window and brilliantly stacked with ribbons of a score of colors and as many widths. A considerable flow of daylight thus diverted, The Convenience Merchandise Corner, even of early afternoon, fades out into half-discernible corners; a rear-wall display of overalls and striped denim coats crowded back into indefinitude, the haberdashery counter, with a giant gilt shirt-stud suspended above, hardly more outstanding. Even the notions and dry-goods, flanking the right wall in stacks and bolts, merge into blur, the outline of a white-sateen and corseted woman's torso surmounting the topmost of the shelves with bold curvature. With spring sunshine even hot against the steel rails of Winchester Road, and awnings drawn against its inroads into the window display, Mrs. Shila Coblenz, routing gloom, reached up tiptoe across the haberdashery counter for the suspended chain of a cluster of bulbs, the red of exertion rising up the taut line of throat and lifted chin. "A little light on the subject, Milt." "Let me, Mrs. C." Facing her from the outer side of the counter, Mr. Milton Bauer stretched also, his well-pressed, pin-checked coat crawling up. All things swam out into the glow. The great suspended stud; the background of shelves and boxes; the scissors-like overalls against the wall; a clothesline of children's factory-made print frocks; a center-bin of women's untrimmed hats; a headless dummy beside the door, enveloped in a long-sleeved gingham apron. Beneath the dome of the wooden stud, Mrs. Shila Coblenz, of not too fulsome but the hour-glass proportions of two decades ago, smiled, her black eyes, ever so quick to dart, receding slightly as the cheeks lifted. "Two twenty-five, Milt, for those ribbed assorted sizes and reinforced heels. Leave or take. Bergdorff & Sloan will quote me the whole mill at that price." With his chest across the counter and legs out violently behind, Mr. Bauer flung up a glance from his order-pad. "Have a heart, Mrs. C. I'm getting two-forty for that stocking from every house in town. The factory can't turn out the orders fast enough at that price. An up-to-date woman like you mustn't make a noise like before the war." "Leave or take." "You could shave an egg," he said. "And rush up those printed lawns. There was two in this morning, sniffing around for spring dimities." "Any more cotton goods? Next month, this time, you'll be paying an advance of four cents on percales." "Stocked." "Can't tempt you with them wash silks, Mrs. C.? Neatest little article on the market to-day." "No demand. They finger it up, and then buy the cotton stuffs. Every time I forget my trade hacks rock instead of clips bonds for its spending-money I get stung." "This here wash silk, Mrs. C., would--" "Send me up a dress-pattern off this coral-pink sample for Selene." "This here dark mulberry, Mrs. C., would suit you something immense." "That'll be about all." He flopped shut his book, snapping a rubber band about it and inserting it in an inner coat pocket. "You ought to stick to them dark, winy shades, Mrs. C. With your coloring and black hair and eyes, they bring you out like a gipsy. Never seen you look better than at the Y.M.H.A. entertainment." Quick color flowed down her open throat and into her shirtwaist. It was as if the platitude merged with the very corpuscles of a blush that sank down into thirsty soil. "You boys," she said, "come out here and throw in a jolly with every bill of goods. I'll take a good fat discount instead." "Fact. Never seen you look better. When you got out on the floor in that stamp-your-foot kind of dance with old man Shulof, your hand on your hip and your head jerking it up, there wasn't a girl on the floor, your own daughter included, could touch you, and I'm giving it to you straight." "That old thing! It's a Russian folk-dance my mother taught me the first year we were in this country. I was three years old then, and, when she got just crazy with homesickness, we used to dance it to each other evenings on the kitchen floor." "Say, have you heard the news?" "No." "Guess." "Can't." "Hammerstein is bringing over the crowned heads of Europe for vaudeville." Mrs. Coblenz moved back a step, her mouth falling open. "Why, Milton Bauer, in the old country a man could be strung up for saying less than that!" "That didn't get across. Try another. A Frenchman and his wife were traveling in Russia, and--" "If--if you had an old mother like mine up-stairs, Milton, eating out her heart and her days and her weeks and her months over a husband's grave somewhere in Siberia and a son's grave somewhere in Kishinef, you wouldn't see the joke neither." Mr. Bauer executed a self-administered pat sharply against the back of his hand. "Keeper," he said, "put me in the brain ward. I--I'm sorry, Mrs. C., so help me! Didn't mean to. How is your mother, Mrs. C.? Seems to me, at the dance the other night, Selene said she was fine and dandy." "Selene ain't the best judge of her poor old grandmother. It's hard for a young girl to have patience for old age sitting and chewing all day over the past. It's right pitiful the way her grandmother knows it, too, and makes herself talk English all the time to please the child and tries to perk up for her. Selene, thank God, 'ain't suffered, and can't sympathize!" "What's ailing her, Mrs. C.? I kinda miss seeing the old lady sitting down here in the store." "It's the last year or so, Milt. Just like all of a sudden a woman as active as mama always was, her health and--her mind kind of went off with a pop." "Thu! Thu!" "Doctor says with care she can live for years, but--but it seems terrible the way her--poor mind keeps skipping back. Past all these thirty years in America to--even weeks before I was born. The night they--took my father off to Siberia, with his bare feet in the snow--for distributing papers they found on him--papers that used the word 'svoboda'--'freedom.' And the time, ten years later--they shot down my brother right in front of her for--the same reason. She keeps living it over--living it over till I--could die." "Say, ain't that just a shame, though!" "Living it, and living it, and living it! The night with me, a heavy three-year-old, in her arms that she got us to the border, dragging a pack of linens with her! The night my father's feet were bleeding in the snow, when they took him! How with me a kid in the crib, my--my brother's face was crushed in--with a heel and a spur. All night, sometimes, she cries in her sleep--begging to go back to find the graves. All day she sits making raffia wreaths to take back--making wreaths--making wreaths!" "Say, ain't that tough!" "It's a godsend she's got the eyes to do it. It's wonderful the way she reads--in English, too. There ain't a daily she misses. Without them and the wreaths--I dunno--I just dunno. Is--is it any wonder, Milt, I--I can't see the joke?" "My God, no!" "I'll get her back, though." "Why, you--she can't get back there, Mrs. C." "There's a way. Nobody can tell me there's not. Before the war--before she got like this, seven hundred dollars would have done it for both of us--and it will again, after the war. She's got the bank-book, and every week that I can squeeze out above expenses, she sees the entry for herself. I'll get her back. There's a way lying around somewhere. God knows why she should eat out her heart to go back--but she wants it. God, how she wants it!" "Poor old dame!" "You boys guy me with my close-fisted buying these last two years. It's up to me, Milt, to squeeze this old shebang dry. There's not much more than a living in it at best, and now, with Selene grown up and naturally wanting to have it like other girls, it ain't always easy to see my way clear. But I'll do it, if I got to trust the store for a year to a child like Selene. I'll get her back." "You can call on me, Mrs. C., to keep my eye on things while you're gone." "You boys are one crowd of true blues, all right. There ain't a city salesman comes out here I wouldn't trust to the limit." "You just try me out." "Why, just to show you how a woman don't know how many real friends she has got, why--even Mark Haas, of the Mound City Silk Company, a firm I don't do a hundred dollars' worth of business with a year, I wish you could have heard him the other night at the Y.M.H.A., a man you know for yourself just goes there to be sociable with the trade." "Fine fellow, Mark Haas!" "'When the time comes, Mrs. Coblenz,' he says, 'that you want to make that trip, just you let me know. Before the war there wasn't a year I didn't cross the water twice, maybe three times, for the firm. I don't know there's much I can do; it ain't so easy to arrange for Russia, but, just the same, you let me know when you're ready to make that trip.' Just like that he said it. That from Mark Haas!" "And a man like Haas don't talk that way if he don't mean it." "Mind you, not a hundred dollars a year business with him. I haven't got the demands for silks." "That wash silk I'm telling you about, though, Mrs. C., does up like a--" "There's ma thumping with the poker on the up-stairs floor. When it's closing-time she begins to get restless. I--I wish Selene would come in. She went out with Lester Goldmark in his little flivver, and I get nervous about automobiles." Mr. Bauer slid an open-face watch from his waistcoat. "Good Lord! five-forty, and I've just got time to sell the Maplehurst Emporium a bill of goods!" "Good-night, Milt; and mind you put up that order of assorted neckwear yourself. Greens in ready-tieds are good sellers for this time of the year, and put in some reds and purples for the teamsters." "No sooner said than done." "And come out for supper some Sunday night, Milt. It does mama good to have young people around." "I'm yours." "Good-night, Milt." He reached across the counter, placing his hand over hers. "Good-night, Mrs. C.," he said, a note lower in his throat; "and remember that call-on-me stuff wasn't all conversation." "Good-night, Milt," said Mrs. Coblenz, a coating of husk over her own voice and sliding her hand out from beneath, to top his. "You--you're all right!" * * * * * Up-stairs, in a too tufted and too crowded room directly over the frontal half of the store, the window overlooking the remote sea of city was turning taupe, the dusk of early spring, which is faintly tinged with violet, invading. Beside the stove, a base-burner with faint fire showing through its mica, the identity of her figure merged with the fat upholstery of the chair, except where the faint pink through the mica lighted up old flesh, Mrs. Miriam Horowitz, full of years and senile with them, wove with grasses, the écru of her own skin, wreaths that had mounted to a great stack in a bedroom cupboard. A clock, with a little wheeze and burring attached to each chime, rang six, and upon it Mrs. Coblenz, breathing from a climb, opened the door. "Ma, why didn't you rap for Katie to come up and light the gas? You'll ruin your eyes, dearie." She found out a match, immediately lighting two jets of a center-chandelier, turning them down from singing, drawing the shades of the two front and the southeast windows, stooping over the upholstered chair to imprint a light kiss. "A fine day, mama. There'll be an entry this week. Thirty dollars and thirteen cents and another call for garden implements. I think I'll lay in a hardware line after we--we get back. I can use the lower shelf of the china-table, eh, ma?" Mrs. Horowitz, whose face, the color of old linen in the yellowing, emerged rather startling from the still black hair strained back from it, lay back in her chair, turning her profile against the upholstered back, half a wreath and a trail of raffia sliding to the floor. Age had sapped from beneath the skin, so that every curve had collapsed to bagginess, the cheeks and the underchin sagging with too much skin. Even the hands were crinkled like too large gloves, a wide, curiously etched marriage band hanging loosely from the third finger. Mrs. Goblenz stooped, recovering the wreath. "Say, mama, this one is a beauty! That's a new weave, ain't it? Here, work some more, dearie--till Selene comes with your evening papers." With her profile still to the chair-back, a tear oozed down the corrugated face of Mrs. Horowitz's cheek. Another. "Now, mama! Now, mama!" "I got a heaviness--here--inside. I got a heaviness--" Mrs. Coblenz slid down to her knees beside the chair. "Now, mama; shame on my little mama! Is that the way to act when Shila comes up after a good day? 'Ain't we got just lots to be thankful for--the business growing and the bank-book growing, and our Selene on top? Shame on mama!" "I got a heaviness--here--inside--here." Mrs. Coblenz reached up for the old hand, patting it. "It's nothing, mama--a little nervousness." "I'm an old woman. I--" "And just think, Shila's mama, Mark Haas is going to get us letters and passports and--" "My son--my boy--his father before him--" "Mama--mama, please don't let a spell come on! It's all right. Shila's going to fix it. Any day now, maybe--" "You'm a good girl. You'm a good girl, Shila." Tears were coursing down to a mouth that was constantly wry with the taste of them. "And you're a good mother, mama. Nobody knows better than me how good." "You'm a good girl, Shila." "I was thinking last night, mama, waiting up for Selene--just thinking how all the good you've done ought to keep your mind off the spells, dearie." "My son--" "Why, a woman with as much good to remember as you've got oughtn't to have time for spells. I got to thinking about Coblenz, mama, how--you never did want him, and when I--I went and did it, anyway, and made my mistake, you stood by me to--to the day he died. Never throwing anything up to me! Never nothing but my good little mother, working her hands to the bone after he got us out here to help meet the debts he left us. Ain't that a satisfaction for you to be able to sit and think, mama, how you helped--" "His feet--blood from my heart in the snow--blood from my heart!" "The past is gone, darling. What's the use tearing yourself to pieces with it? Them years in New York when it was a fight even for bread, and them years here trying to raise Selene and get the business on a footing, you didn't have time to brood then, mama. That's why, dearie, if only you'll keep yourself busy with something--the wreaths--the--" "His feet--blood from my--" "But I'm going to take you back, mama. To papa's grave. To Aylorff's. But don't eat your heart out until it comes, darling. I'm going to take you back, mama, with every wreath in the stack; only, you mustn't eat out your heart in spells. You mustn't, mama; you mustn't." Sobs rumbled up through Mrs. Horowitz, which her hand to her mouth tried to constrict. "For his people he died. The papers--I begged he should burn them--he couldn't--I begged he should keep in his hate--he couldn't--in the square he talked it--the soldiers--he died for his people--they got him--the soldiers--his feet in the snow when they took him--the blood in the snow--O my God!--my--God!" "Mama darling, please don't go over it all again. What's the use making yourself sick? Please!" She was well forward in her chair now, winding her dry hands one over the other with a small rotary motion. "I was rocking--Shila-baby in my lap--stirring on the fire black lentils for my boy--black lentils--he--" "Mama!" "My boy. Like his father before him. My--" "Mama, please! Selene is coming any minute now. You know how she hates it. Don't let yourself think back, mama. A little will-power, the doctor says, is all you need. Think of to-morrow, mama; maybe, if you want, you can come down and sit in the store awhile and--" "I was rocking. O my God! I was rocking, and--" "Don't get to it--mama, please! Don't rock yourself that way! You'll get yourself dizzy! Don't, ma; don't!" "Outside--my boy--the holler--O God! in my ears all my life! My boy--the papers--the swords--Aylorff--Aylorff--" "'Shh-h-h--mama--" "It came through his heart out the back--a blade with two sides--out the back when I opened the door; the spur in his face when he fell, Shila--the spur in his face--the beautiful face of my boy--my Aylorff--my husband before him--that died to make free!" And fell back, bathed in the sweat of the terrific hiccoughing of sobs. "Mama, mama! My God! What shall we do? These spells! You'll kill yourself, darling. I'm going to take you back, dearie--ain't that enough? I promise. I promise. You mustn't, mama! These spells--they ain't good for a young girl like Selene to hear. Mama, 'ain't you got your own Shila--your own Selene? Ain't that something? Ain't it? Ain't it?" Large drops of sweat had come out and a state of exhaustion that swept completely over, prostrating the huddled form in the chair. "Bed--my bed!" With her arms twined about the immediately supporting form of her daughter, her entire weight relaxed, and footsteps that dragged without lift, one after the other, Mrs. Horowitz groped out, one hand feeling in advance, into the gloom of a room adjoining. "Rest! O my God! rest!" "Yes, yes, mama; lean on me." "My--bed." "Yes, yes, darling." "Bed." Her voice had died now to a whimper that lay on the room after she had passed out of it. When Selene Coblenz, with a gust that swept the room, sucking the lace curtains back against the panes, flung open the door upon that chromatic scene, the two jets of gas were singing softly into its silence, and within the nickel-trimmed baseburner the pink mica had cooled to gray. Sweeping open that door, she closed it softly, standing for the moment against it, her hand crossed in back and on the knob. It was as if--standing there with her head cocked and beneath a shadowy blue sailor-hat, a smile coming out--something within her was playing, sweetly insistent to be heard. Philomela, at the first sound of her nightingale self, must have stood thus, trembling with melody. Opposite her, above the crowded mantelpiece and surmounted by a raffia wreath, the enlarged-crayon gaze of her deceased maternal grandfather, abetted by a horrible device of photography, followed her, his eyes focusing the entire room at a glance. Impervious to that scrutiny, Miss Coblenz moved a tiptoe step or two farther into the room, lifting off her hat, staring and smiling through a three-shelved cabinet of knickknacks at what she saw far and beyond. Beneath the two jets, high lights in her hair came out, bronze showing through the brown waves and the patches of curls brought out over her cheeks. In her dark-blue dress, with the row of silver buttons down what was hip before the hipless age, the chest sufficiently concave and the silhouette a mere stroke of a hard pencil, Miss Selene Coblenz measured up and down to America's Venus de Milo, whose chief curvature is of the spine. Slim-etched, and that slimness enhanced by a conscious kind of collapse beneath the blue-silk girdle that reached up half-way to her throat, hers were those proportions which strong women, eschewing the sweet-meat, would earn by the sweat of the Turkish bath. When Miss Coblenz caught her eye in the square of mirror above the mantelpiece, her hands flew to her cheeks to feel of their redness. They were soft cheeks, smooth with the pollen of youth, and hands still casing them, she moved another step toward the portièred door. "Mama!" Mrs. Coblenz emerged immediately, finger up for silence, kissing her daughter on the little spray of cheek-curls. "'Shh-h-h! Gramaw just had a terrible spell." She dropped down into the upholstered chair beside the base-burner, the pink and moisture of exertion out in her face, took to fanning herself with the end of a face-towel flung across her arm. "Poor gramaw!" she said. "Poor gramaw!" Miss Coblenz sat down on the edge of a slim, home-gilded chair, and took to gathering the blue-silk dress into little plaits at her knee. "Of course, if you don't want to know where I've been--or anything--" Mrs. Coblenz jerked herself to the moment. "Did mama's girl have a good time? Look at your dress, all dusty! You oughtn't to wear your best in that little flivver." Suddenly Miss Coblenz raised her glance, her red mouth bunched, her eyes all iris. "Of course--if you don't want to know--anything." At that large, brilliant gaze, Mrs. Coblenz leaned forward, quickened. "Why, Selene!" "Well, why--why don't you ask me something?" "Why, I--I dunno, honey. Did--did you and Lester have a nice ride?" There hung a slight pause, and then a swift moving and crumpling-up of Miss Coblenz on the floor beside her mother's knee. "You know--only, you won't ask." With her hand light upon her daughter's hair, Mrs. Coblenz leaned forward, her bosom rising to faster breathing. "Why--Selene--I--Why--" "We--we were speeding along, and--all of a sudden, out of a clear sky, he--he popped. He wants it in June, so we can make it our honeymoon to his new territory out in Oklahoma. He knew he was going to pop, he said, ever since that first night he saw me at the Y.M.H.A. He says to his uncle Mark, the very next day in the store, he says to him, 'Uncle Mark,' he says, 'I've met _the_ little girl.' He says he thinks more of my little finger than all of his regular crowd of girls in town put together. He wants to live in one of the built-in-bed flats on Wasserman Avenue, like all the swell young marrieds. He's making twenty-six hundred now, mama, and if he makes good in the new Oklahoma territory, his Uncle Mark is--is going to take care of him better. Ain't it like a dream, mama--your little Selene all of a sudden in with--the somebodies?" Immediate tears were already finding staggering procession down Mrs. Coblenz's face, her hovering arms completely encircling the slight figure at her feet. "My little girl! My little Selene! My all!" "I'll be marrying into one of the best families in town, ma. A girl who marries a nephew of Mark Haas can hold up her head with the best of them. There's not a boy in town with a better future than Lester. Like Lester says, everything his Uncle Mark touches turns to gold, and he's already touched Lester. One of the best known men on Washington Avenue for his blood-uncle, and on his poor dead father's side related to the Katz & Harberger Harbergers. Was I right, mama, when I said if you'd only let me stop school I'd show you? Was I right, momsie?" "My baby! It's like I can't realize it. So young!" "He took the measure of my finger, mama, with a piece of string. A diamond, he says, not too flashy, but neat." "We have 'em, and we suffer for 'em, and we lose 'em." "He's going to trade in the flivver for a chummy roadster, and--" "Oh, darling, it's like I can't bear it!" At that Miss Coblenz sat back on her tall wooden heels, mauve spats crinkling. "Well, you're a merry little future mother-in-law, momsie!" "It ain't that, baby. I'm happy that my girl has got herself up in the world with a fine upright boy like Lester; only--you can't understand, babe, till you've got something of your own flesh and blood that belongs to you, that I--I couldn't feel anything except that a piece of my heart was going if--if it was a king you was marrying." "Now, momsie, it's not like I was moving a thousand miles away. You can be glad I don't have to go far, to New York or to Cleveland, like Alma Yawitz." "I am! I am!" "Uncle--Uncle Mark, I guess, will furnish us up like he did Leon and Irma--only, I don't want mahogany; I want Circassian walnut. He gave them their flat-silver, too, Puritan design, for an engagement present. Think of it, mama, me having that stuck-up Irma Sinsheimer for a relation! It always made her sore when I got chums with Amy at school and got my nose in it with the Acme crowd, and--and she'll change her tune now, I guess, me marrying her husband's second cousin." "Didn't Lester want to--to come in for a while, Selene, to--to see--me?" Sitting there on her heels, Miss Coblenz looked away, answering with her face in profile. "Yes; only--I--well, if you want to know it, mama, it's no fun for a girl to bring a boy like Lester up here in--in this crazy room, all hung up with gramaw's wreaths and half the time her sitting out there in the dark, looking in at us through the door and talking to herself." "Gramaw's an old--" "Is it any wonder I'm down at Amy's half the time? How do you think a girl feels to have gramaw keep hanging onto that old black wig of hers and not letting me take the crayons or wreaths down off the wall? In Lester's crowd they don't know nothing about revolutionary stuff and persecutions. Amy's grandmother don't even talk with an accent, and Lester says his grandmother came from Alsace-Lorraine. That's French. They think only tailors and old-clothes men and--." "Selene!" "Well, they do. You--you're all right, mama, as up to date as any of them, but how do you think a girl feels, with gramaw always harping right in front of everybody the way granpa was a revolutionist and was hustled off barefooted to Siberia like a tramp? And the way she was cooking black beans when my uncle died. Other girls' grandmothers don't tell everything they know. Alma Yawitz's grandmother wears lorgnettes, and you told me yourself they came from nearly the same part of the Pale as gramaw. But you don't hear them remembering it. Alma Yawitz says she's Alsace-Lorraine on both sides. People don't tell everything they know. Anyway where a girl's got herself as far as I have!" Through sobs that rocked her, Mrs. Coblenz looked down upon her daughter. "Your poor old grandmother don't deserve that from you! In her day she worked her hands to the bone for you. With the kind of father you had we might have died in the gutter but for how she helped to keep us out, you ungrateful girl--your poor old grandmother, that's suffered so terrible!" "I know it, mama, but so have other people suffered." "She's old, Selene--old." "I tell you it's the way you indulge her, mama. I've seen her sitting here as perk as you please, and the minute you come in the room down goes her head like--like she was dying." "It's her mind, Selene--that's going. That's why I feel if I could only get her back. She ain't old, gramaw ain't. If I could only get her back where she--could see for herself--the graves--is all she needs. All old people think of--the grave. It's eating her--eating her mind. Mark Haas is going to fix it for me after the war--maybe before--if he can. That's the only way poor gramaw can live--or die--happy, Selene. Now--now that my--my little girl ain't any longer my responsibility, I--I'm going to take her back--my little--girl"--her hand reached out, caressing the smooth head, her face projected forward and the eyes yearning down--"my all." "It's you will be my responsibility now, ma." "No! No!" "The first thing Lester says was a flat on Wasserman and a spare room for Mother Coblenz when she wants to come down. Wasn't it sweet for him to put it that way right off, ma? 'Mother Coblenz,' he says." "He's a good boy, Selene. It'll be a proud day for me and gramaw. Gramaw mustn't miss none of it. He's a good boy and a fine family." "That's why, mama, we--got to--to do it up right." "Lester knows, child, he's not marrying a rich girl." "A girl don't have to--be rich to get married right." "You'll have as good as mama can afford to give it to her girl." "It--it would be different if Lester's uncle and all wasn't in the Acme Club crowd, and if I hadn't got in with all that bunch. It's the last expense I'll ever be to you, mama." "Oh, baby, don't say that!" "I--me and Lester--Lester and me were talking, mama--when the engagement's announced next week--a reception--" "We can clear out this room, move the bed out of gramaw's room into ours, and serve the ice-cream and cake in--" "Oh, mama, I don't mean--that!" "What?" "Who ever heard of having a reception _here_! People won't come from town 'way out to this old--cabbage-patch. Even Gertie Wolf, with their big house on West Pine Boulevard, had her reception at the Walsingham Hotel. You--We--can't expect Mark Haas and all the relations--the Sinsheimers-- and--all to come out here. I'd rather not have any." "But, Selene, everybody knows we ain't millionaires, and that you got in with that crowd through being friends at school with Amy Rosen. All the city salesmen and the boys on Washington Avenue, even Mark Haas himself, that time he was in the store with Lester, knows the way we live. You don't need to be ashamed of your little home, Selene, even if it ain't on West Pine Boulevard." "It'll be--your last expense, mama. The Walsingham, that's where the girl that Lester Goldmark marries is expected to have her reception." "But, Selene, mama can't afford nothing like that." Pink swam up into Miss Coblenz's face, and above the sheer-white collar there was a little beating movement at the throat, as if something were fluttering within. "I--I'd just as soon not get married as--as not to have it like other girls." "But, Selene--" "If I--can't have a trousseau like other girls and the things that go with marrying into a--a family like Lester's--I--then--there's no use. I--I can't! I--wouldn't!" She was fumbling, now, for a handkerchief, against tears that were imminent. "Why, baby, a girl couldn't have a finer trousseau than the old linens back yet from Russia that me and gramaw got saved up for our girl--linen that can't be bought these days. Bed-sheets that gramaw herself carried to the border, and--" "Oh, I know! I knew you'd try to dump that stuff on me. That old, worm-eaten stuff in gramaw's chest." "It's hand-woven, Selene, with--" "I wouldn't have that yellow old stuff--that old-fashioned junk--if I didn't have any trousseau. If I can't afford monogrammed up-to-date linens, like even Alma Yawitz, and a--a pussy-willow-taffeta reception dress, I wouldn't have any. I wouldn't." Her voice, crowded with passion and tears, rose to the crest of a sob. "I--I'd die first!" "Selene, Selene, mama 'ain't got the money. If she had it, wouldn't she be willing to take the very last penny to give her girl the kind of a wedding she wants? A trousseau like Alma's cost a thousand dollars, if it cost a cent. Her table-napkins alone, they say, cost thirty-six dollars a dozen, un-monogrammed. A reception at the Walsingham costs two hundred dollars, if it costs a cent. Selene, mama will make for you every sacrifice she can afford, but she 'ain't got the money!" "You--have got the money!" "So help me God, Selene! You know, with the quarries shut down, what business has been. You know how--sometimes even to make ends meet it is a pinch. You're an ungrateful girl, Selene, to ask what I ain't able to do for you. A child like you, that's been indulged, that I 'ain't even asked ever in her life to help a day down in the store. If I had the money, God knows you should be married in real lace, with the finest trousseau a girl ever had. But I 'ain't got the money--I 'ain't got the money." "You have got the money! The book in gramaw's drawer is seven hundred and forty. I guess I ain't blind. I know a thing or two." "Why, Selene! That's gramaw's--to go back--" "You mean the bank-book's hers?" "That's gramaw's, to go back--home on. That's the money for me to take gramaw and her wreaths back home on." "There you go--talking luny." "Selene!" "Well, I'd like to know what else you'd call it, kidding yourself along like that." "You--" "All right. If you think gramaw, with her life all lived, comes first before me, with all my life to live--all right!" "Your poor old--" "It's always been gramaw first in this house, anyway. I couldn't even have company since I'm grown up because the way she's always allowed around. Nobody can say I ain't good to gramaw; Lester says it's beautiful the way I am with her, remembering always to bring the newspapers and all, but just the same, I know when right's right and wrong's wrong. If my life ain't more important than gramaw's, with hers all lived, all right. Go ahead!" "Selene, Selene, ain't it coming to gramaw, after all her years' hard work helping us that--she should be entitled to go back with her wreaths for the graves? Ain't she entitled to die with that off her poor old mind? You bad, ungrateful girl, you, it's coming to a poor old woman that's suffered as terrible as gramaw that I should find a way to take her back." "Take her back. Where--to jail? To prison in Siberia herself--" "There's a way--" "You know gramaw's too old to take a trip like that. You know in your own heart she won't ever see that day. Even before the war, much less now, there wasn't a chance for her to get passports back there. I don't say it ain't all right to kid her along, but when it comes to--to keeping me out of the--the biggest thing that can happen to a girl--when gramaw wouldn't know the difference if you keep showing her the bank-book--it ain't right. That's what it ain't. It ain't right!" In the smallest possible compass, Miss Coblenz crouched now upon the floor, head down somewhere in her knees, and her curving back racked with rising sobs. "Selene--but some day--" "Some day nothing! A woman like gramaw can't do much more than go down-town once a year, and then you talk about taking her to Russia! You can't get in there, I--tell you--no way you try to fix it after--the way gramaw--had--to leave. Even before the war Ray Letsky's father couldn't get back on business. There's nothing for her there, even after she gets there. In thirty years, do you think you can find those graves? Do you know the size of Siberia? No! But I got to pay--I got to pay for gramaw's nonsense. But I won't. I won't go to Lester if I can't go right. I--." "Baby, don't cry so--for God's sake, don't cry so!" "I wish I was dead!" "'Sh-h-h! You'll wake gramaw." "I do!" "O God, help me to do the right thing!" "If gramaw could understand, she'd be the first one to tell you the right thing. Anybody would." "No! No! That little bank-book and its entries are her life--her life." "She don't need to know, mama. I'm not asking that. That's the way they always do with old people to keep them satisfied. Just humor 'em. Ain't I the one with life before me--ain't I, mama?" "O God, show me the way!" "If there was a chance, you think I'd be spoiling things for gramaw? But there ain't, mama--not one." "I keep hoping if not before, then after the war. With the help of Mark Haas--" "With the book in her drawer, like always, and the entries changed once in a while, she'll never know the difference. I swear to God she'll never know the difference, mama!" "Poor gramaw!" "Mama, promise me--your little Selene. Promise me?" "Selene, Selene, can we keep it from her?" "I swear we can, mama." "Poor, poor gramaw!" "Mama? Mama darling?" "O God, show me the way!" "Ain't it me that's got life before me? My whole life?" "Yes--Selene." "Then, mama, please--you will--you will--darling?" "Yes, Selene." In a large, all-frescoed, seventy-five-dollar-an-evening-with-lights and cloak-room-service ballroom of the Hotel Walsingham, a family hostelry in that family circle of St. Louis known as its West End, the city holds not a few of its charity-whists and benefit musicales; on a dais which can be carried in for the purpose, morning readings of "Little Moments from Little Plays," and with the introduction of a throne-chair, the monthly lodge-meetings of the Lady Mahadharatas of America. For weddings and receptions, a lane of red carpet leads up to the slight dais; and lined about the brocade and paneled walls, gilt-and-brocade chairs, with the crest of Walsingham in padded embroidery on the backs. Crystal chandeliers, icicles of dripping light, glow down upon a scene of parquet floor, draped velours, and mirrors wreathed in gilt. At Miss Selene Coblenz's engagement reception, an event properly festooned with smilax and properly jostled with the elbowing figures of waiters tilting their plates of dark-meat chicken salad, two olives, and a finger-roll in among the crowd, a stringed three-piece orchestra, faintly seen and still more faintly heard, played into the babel. Light, glitteringly filtered through the glass prisms, flowed down upon the dais; upon Miss Selene Coblenz, in a taffeta that wrapped her flat waist and chest like a calyx and suddenly bloomed into the full-inverted petals of a skirt; upon Mr. Lester Goldmark, his long body barely knitted yet to man's estate, and his complexion almost clear, standing omnivorous, omnipotent, omnipresent, his hair so well brushed that it lay like black japanning, a white carnation at his silk lapel, and his smile slightly projected by a rush of very white teeth to the very front. Next in line, Mrs. Coblenz, the red of a fervent moment high in her face, beneath the maroon-net bodice the swell of her bosom, fast, and her white-gloved hand constantly at the opening and shutting of a lace-and-spangled fan. Back, and well out of the picture, a potted hydrangea beside the Louis Quinze armchair, her hands in silk mitts laid out along the gold-chair sides, her head quavering in a kind of mild palsy, Mrs. Miriam Horowitz, smiling and quivering her state of bewilderment. With an unfailing propensity to lay hold of to whomsoever he spake, Mr. Lester Goldmark placed his white-gloved hand upon the white-gloved arm of Mrs. Coblenz. "Say, Mother Coblenz, ain't it about time this little girl of mine was resting her pink-satin double A's? She's been on duty up here from four to seven. No wonder Uncle Mark bucked." Mrs. Coblenz threw her glance out over the crowded room, surging with a wave of plumes and clipped heads like a swaying bucket of water which crowds but does not lap over its sides. "I guess the crowd is finished coming in by now. You tired, Selene?" Miss Coblenz turned her glowing glance. "Tired! This is the swellest engagement-party I ever had." Mrs. Coblenz shifted her weight from one slipper to the other, her maroon-net skirts lying in a swirl around them. "Just look at gramaw, too! She holds up her head with the best of them. I wouldn't have had her miss this, not for the world." "Sure one fine old lady! Ought to have seen her shake my hand, Mother Coblenz. I nearly had to holler, 'Ouch!'" "Mama, here comes Sara Suss and her mother. Take my arm, Lester honey. People mama used to know." Miss Coblenz leaned forward beyond the dais with the frail curve of a reed. "Howdado, Mrs. Suss.... Thank you. Thanks. Howdado, Sara? Meet my _fiancé_, Lester Haas Goldmark; Mrs. Suss and Sara Suss, my _fiancé_.... That's right, better late than never. There's plenty left.... We think he is, Mrs. Suss. Aw, Lester honey, quit! Mama, here's Mrs. Suss and Sadie." "Mrs. Suss! Say--if you hadn't come, I was going to lay it up against you. If my new ones can come on a day like this, it's a pity my old friends can't come, too. Well, Sadie, it's your turn next, eh?... I know better than that. With them pink cheeks and black eyes, I wish I had a dime for every chance." (_Sotto_.) "Do you like it, Mrs. Suss? Pussy-willow taffeta.... Say, it ought to be. An estimate dress from Madame Murphy--sixty-five with findings. I'm so mad, Sara, you and your mama couldn't come to the house that night to see her things. If I say so myself, Mrs. Suss, everybody who seen it says Jacob Sinsheimer's daughter herself didn't have a finer. Maybe not so much, but every stitch, Mrs. Suss, made by the same sisters in the same convent that made hers.... Towels! I tell her it's a shame to expose them to the light, much less wipe on them. Ain't it?... The goodness looks out from his face. And such a love-pair! Lunatics, I call them. He can't keep his hands off. It ain't nice, I tell him.... Me? Come close. I dyed the net myself. Ten cents' worth of maroon color. Don't it warm your heart, Mrs. Suss? This morning, after we got her in Lester's Uncle Mark's big automobile, I says to her, I says, 'Mama, you sure it ain't too much?' Like her old self for a minute, Mrs. Suss, she hit me on the arm. 'Go 'way,' she said; 'on my grandchild's engagement day anything should be too much?' Here, waiter, get these two ladies some salad. Good measure, too. Over there by the window, Mrs. Suss. Help yourselves." "Mama, 'sh-h-h! the waiters know what to do." Mrs. Coblenz turned back, the flush warm to her face. "Say, for an old friend I can be my own self." "Can we break the receiving-line now, Lester honey, and go down with everybody? The Sinsheimers and their crowd over there by themselves, we ought to show we appreciate their coming." Mr. Goldmark twisted high in his collar, cupping her small bare elbow in his hand. "That's what I say, lovey; let's break. Come, Mother Coblenz, let's step down on high society's corns." "Lester!" "You and Selene go down with the crowd, Lester. I want to take gramaw to rest for a while before we go home. The manager says we can have room fifty-six by the elevator for her to rest in." "Get her some newspapers, ma, and I brought her a wreath down to keep her quiet. It's wrapped in her shawl." Her skirts delicately lifted, Miss Coblenz stepped down off the dais. With her cloud of gauze-scarf enveloping her, she was like a tulle-clouded "Springtime," done in the key of Botticelli. "Oop-si-lah, lovey-dovey!" said Mr. Goldmark, tilting her elbow for the downward step. "Oop-si-lay, dovey-lovey!" said Miss Coblenz, relaxing to the support. Gathering up her plentiful skirts, Mrs. Coblenz stepped off, too, but back toward the secluded chair beside the potted hydrangea. A fine line of pain, like a cord tightening, was binding her head, and she put up two fingers to each temple, pressing down the throb. "Mrs. Coblenz, see what I got for you!" She turned, smiling. "You don't look like you need salad and green ice-cream. You look like you needed what I wanted--a cup of coffee." "Aw, Mr. Haas--now where in the world--Aw, Mr. Haas!" With a steaming cup outheld and carefully out of collision with the crowd, Mr. Haas unflapped a napkin with his free hand, inserting his foot in the rung of a chair and dragging it toward her. "Now," he cried, "sit and watch me take care of you!" There comes a tide in the affairs of men when the years lap softly, leaving no particular inundations on the celebrated sands of time. Between forty and fifty, that span of years which begin the first slight gradations from the apex of life, the gray hair, upstanding like a thick-bristled brush off Mr. Haas's brow, had not so much as whitened, or the slight paunchiness enhanced even the moving-over of a button. When Mr. Haas smiled, his mustache, which ended in a slight but not waxed flourish, lifted to reveal a white-and-gold smile of the artistry of careful dentistry, and when, upon occasion, he threw back his head to laugh, the roof of his mouth was his own. He smiled now, peering through gold-rimmed spectacles attached by a chain to a wire-encircled left ear. "Sit," he cried, "and let me serve you!" Standing there with a diffidence which she could not crowd down, Mrs. Coblenz smiled through closed lips that would pull at the corners. "The idea, Mr. Haas--going to all that trouble!" "'Trouble'! she says. After two hours' handshaking in a swallow-tail, a man knows what real trouble is!" She stirred around and around the cup, supping up spoonfuls gratefully. "I'm sure much obliged. It touches the right spot." He pressed her down to the chair, seating himself on the low edge of the dais. "Now you sit right there and rest your bones." "But my mother, Mr. Haas. Before it's time for the ride home she must rest in a quiet place." "My car'll be here and waiting five minutes after I telephone." "You--sure have been grand, Mr. Haas!" "I shouldn't be grand yet to my--Let's see--what relation is it I am to you?" "Honest, you're a case, Mr. Haas--always making fun!" "My poor dead sister's son marries your daughter. That makes you my--nothing-in-law." "Honest, Mr. Haas, if I was around you, I'd get fat laughing." "I wish you was." "Selene would have fits. 'Never get fat, mama,' she says, 'if you don't want--'" "I don't mean that." "What?" "I mean I wish you was around me." She struck him then with her fan, but the color rose up into the mound of her carefully piled hair. "I always say I can see where Lester gets his comical ways. Like his uncle, that boy keeps us all laughing." "Gad! look at her blush! I know women your age would give fifty dollars a blush to do it that way." She was looking away again, shoulders heaving to silent laughter, the blush still stinging. "It's been so--so long, Mr. Haas, since I had compliments made to me. You make me feel so--silly." "I know it, you nice, fine woman, you; and it's a darn shame!" "Mr.--Haas!" "I mean it. I hate to see a fine woman not get her dues. Anyways, when she's the finest woman of them all!" "I--the woman that lives to see a day like this--her daughter the happiest girl in the world, with the finest boy in the world--is getting her dues, all right, Mr. Haas." "She's a fine girl, but she ain't worth her mother's little finger-nail." "Mr.--Haas!" "No, sir-ree!" "I must be going now, Mr. Haas. My mother--" "That's right. The minute a man tries to break the ice with this little lady, it's a freeze-out. Now what did I say so bad? In business, too. Never seen the like. It's like trying to swat a fly to come down on you at the right minute. But now, with you for a nothing-in-law, I got rights." "If--you ain't the limit, Mr. Haas!" "Don't mind saying it, Mrs. C., and, for a bachelor, they tell me I'm not the worst judge in the world, but there's not a woman on the floor stacks up like you do." "Well--of all things!" "Mean it." "My mother, Mr. Haas, she--" "And if anybody should ask you if I've got you on my mind or not, well, I've already got the letters out on that little matter of the passports you spoke to me about. If there's a way to fix that up for you, and leave it to me to find it, I--" She sprang now, trembling, to her feet, all the red of the moment receding. "Mr. Haas, I--I must go now. My--mother--" He took her arm, winding her in and out among crowded-out chairs behind the dais. "I wish it to every mother to have a daughter like you, Mrs. C." "No! No!" she said, stumbling rather wildly through the chairs. "No! No! No!" He forged ahead, clearing her path of them. Beside the potted hydrangea, well back and yet within an easy view, Mrs. Horowitz, her gilt armchair well cushioned for the occasion, and her black grenadine spread decently about her, looked out upon the scene, her slightly palsied head well forward. "Mama, you got enough? You wouldn't have missed it, eh? A crowd of people we can be proud to entertain. Not? Come; sit quiet in another room for a while, and then Mr. Haas, with his nice big car, will drive us all home again. You know Mr. Haas, dearie--Lester's uncle that had us drove so careful in his fine car. You remember, dearie--Lester's uncle?" Mrs. Horowitz looked up, her old face crackling to smile. "My grandchild! My grandchild! She'm a fine one. Not? My grandchild! My grandchild!" "You--mustn't mind, Mr. Haas. That's--the way she's done since--since she's--sick. Keeps repeating--" "My grandchild! From a good mother and a bad father comes a good grandchild. My grandchild! She'm a good one. My--" "Mama dearie, Mr. Haas is in a hurry. He's come to help me walk you into a little room to rest before we go home in Mr. Haas's big, fine auto. Where you can go and rest, mama, and read the newspapers. Come." "My back--_ach_--my back!" "Yes, yes, mama; we'll fix it. Up! So--la!" They raised her by the crook of each arm, gently. "So! Please, Mr. Haas, the pillows. Shawl. There!" Around a rear hallway, they were almost immediately into a blank, staring hotel bedroom, fresh towels on the furniture-tops only enhancing its staleness. "Here we are. Sit her here, Mr. Haas, in this rocker." They lowered her, almost inch by inch, sliding down pillows, against the chair-back. "Now, Shila's little mama want to sleep?" "I got--no rest--no rest." "You're too excited, honey; that's all." "No rest." "Here--here's a brand-new hotel Bible on the table, dearie. Shall Shila read it to you?" "Aylorff--" "Now, now, mama. Now, now; you mustn't! Didn't you promise Shila? Look! See, here's a wreath wrapped in your shawl for Shila's little mama to work on. Plenty of wreaths for us to take back. Work awhile, dearie, and then we'll get Selene and Lester, and, after all the nice company goes away, we'll go home in the auto." "I begged he should keep in his hate--his feet in the--" "I know! The papers! That's what little mama wants. Mr. Haas, that's what she likes better than anything--the evening papers." "I'll go down and send 'em right up with a boy, and telephone for the car. The crowd's beginning to pour out now. Just hold your horses there, Mrs. C., and I'll have those papers up here in a jiffy." He was already closing the door after him, letting in and shutting out a flare of music. "See, mama, nice Mr. Haas is getting us the papers. Nice evening papers for Shila's mama." She leaned down into the recesses of the black grenadine, withdrawing from one of the pockets a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles, adjusting them with some difficulty to the nodding head. "Shila's--little mama! Shila's mama!" "Aylorff, the littlest wreath for--Aylorff--_Meine Kräntze_--" "Yes, yes." "_Mem Mann. Mein Sühn_." "'Shh-h-h, dearie!" "Aylorff--_der klenste Kranz far ihm_!" "'Shh-h-h, dearie! Talk English, like Selene wants. Wait till we get on the ship--the beautiful ship to take us back. Mama, see out the window! Look! That's the beautiful Forest Park, and this is the fine Hotel Walsingham just across. See out! Selene is going to have a flat on--" "_Sey hoben gestorben far Freiheit. Sey hoben_--" "There! That's the papers!" To a succession of quick knocks, she flew to the door, returning with the folded evening editions under her arm. "Now," she cried, unfolding and inserting the first of them into the quivering hands--"now, a shawl over my little mama's knees and we're fixed!" With a series of rapid movements she flung open one of the black-cashmere shawls across the bed, folding it back into a triangle. Beside the table, bare except for the formal, unthumbed Bible, Mrs. Horowitz rattled out a paper, her near-sighted eyes traveling back and forth across the page. Music from the ferned-in orchestra came in drifts, faint, not so faint. From somewhere, then immediately from everywhere--beyond, below, without, the fast shouts of newsboys mingling. Suddenly and of her own volition, and with a cry that shot up through the room, rending it like a gash, Mrs. Horowitz, who moved by inches, sprang to her supreme height, her arms, the crooks forced out, flung up. "My darlings--what died--for it! My darlings what died for it! My darlings--Aylorff, my husband!" There was a wail rose up off her words, like the smoke of incense curling, circling around her. "My darlings what died to make free!" "Mama! Darling! Mama! Mr. Haas! Help! Mama! My God!" "Aylorff--my husband--I paid with my blood to make free--my blood--. My son--my--own--" Immovable there, her arms flung up and tears so heavy that they rolled whole from her face down to the black grenadine, she was as sonorous as the tragic meter of an Alexandrine line; she was like Ruth, ancestress of heroes and progenitor of kings. "My boy--my own! They died for it! _Mein Mann! Mein Sühn_!" On her knees, frantic to press her down once more into the chair, terrified at the rigid immobility of the upright figure, Mrs. Coblenz paused then, too, her clasp falling away, and leaned forward to the open sheet of the newspaper, its black head-lines facing her: RUSSIA FREE BANS DOWN 100,000 SIBERIAN PRISONERS LIBERATED In her ears a ringing silence, as if a great steel disk had clattered down into the depths of her consciousness. There on her knees, trembling seized her, and she hugged herself against it, leaning forward to corroborate her gaze. MOST RIGID AUTOCRACY IN THE WORLD OVERTHROWN RUSSIA REJOICES "Mama! Mama! My God! Mama!" "Home, Shila; home! My husband who died for it--Aylorff! Home now, quick! My wreaths! My wreaths!" "O my God! Mama!" "Home!" "Yes, darling--yes--" "My wreaths!" "Yes, yes, darling; your wreaths. Let--let me think. Freedom! O my God! help me to find a way! O my God!" "My wreaths!" "Here, darling, here!" From the floor beside her, the raffia wreath half in the making, Mrs. Coblenz reached up, pressing it flat to the heaving old bosom. "There, darling, there!" "I paid with my blood--" "Yes, yes, mama; you--paid with your blood. Mama--sit, please. Sit and--let's try to think. Take it slow, darling; it's like we can't take it in all at once. I--We--Sit down, darling. You'll make yourself terrible sick. Sit down, darling; you--you're slipping." "My wreaths--" Heavily, the arm at the waist gently sustaining, Mrs. Horowitz sank rather softly down, her eyelids fluttering for the moment. A smile had come out on her face, and, as her head sank back against the rest, the eyes resting at the downward flutter, she gave out a long breath, not taking it in again. "Mama! You're fainting!" She leaned to her, shaking the relaxed figure by the elbows, her face almost touching the tallow-like one with the smile lying so deeply into it. "Mama! My God! darling, wake up! I'll take you back. I'll find a way to take you. I'm a bad girl, darling, but I'll find a way to take you. I'll take you if--if I kill for it! I promise before God I'll take you. To-morrow--now--nobody can keep me from taking you. The wreaths, mama! Get ready the wreaths! Mama darling, wake up! Get ready the wreaths! The wreaths!" Shaking at that quiet form, sobs that were full of voice tearing raw from her throat, she fell to kissing the sunken face, enclosing it, stroking it, holding her streaming gaze closely and burningly against the closed lids. "Mama, I swear to God I'll take you! Answer me, mama! The bank-book--you've got it! Why don't you wake up, mama? Help!" Upon that scene, the quiet of the room so raucously lacerated, burst Mr. Haas, too breathless for voice. "Mr. Haas--my mother! Help--my mother! It's a faint, ain't it? A faint?" He was beside her at two bounds, feeling of the limp wrists, laying his ear to the grenadine bosom, lifting the reluctant lids, touching the flesh that yielded so to touch. "It's a faint, ain't it, Mr. Haas? Tell her I'll take her back. Wake her up, Mr. Haas! Tell her I'm a bad girl, but I--I'm going to take her back. Now! Tell her! Tell her, Mr. Haas, I've got the bank-book. Please! Please! O my God!" He turned to her, his face working to keep down compassion. "We must get a doctor, little lady." She threw out an arm. "No! No! I see! My old mother--my old mother--all her life a nobody--She helped--she gave it to them--my mother--a poor little widow nobody--She bought with her blood that freedom--she--" "God! I just heard it down-stairs--it's the tenth wonder of the world. It's too big to take in. I was afraid--" "Mama darling, I tell you, wake up! I'm a bad girl, but I'll take you back. Tell her, Mr. Haas, I'll take her back. Wake up, darling! I swear to God I'll take you!" "Mrs. Coblenz, my--poor little lady, your mother don't need you to take her back. She's gone back where--where she wants to be. Look at her face, little lady. Can't you see she's gone back?" "No! No! Let me go. Let me touch her. No! No! Mama darling!" "Why, there wasn't a way, little lady, you could have fixed it for that poor--old body. She's beyond any of the poor fixings we could do for her. You never saw her face like that before. Look!" "The wreaths--the wreaths!" He picked up the raffia circle, placing it back again against the quiet bosom. "Poor little lady!" he said. "Shila--that's left for us to do. You and me, Shila--we'll take the wreaths back for her." "My darling--my darling mother! I'll take them back for you! I'll take them back for you!" "_We'll_ take them back for her--Shila." "I'll--" "_We'll_ take them back for her--Shila." "_We'll_ take them back for you, mama. We'll take them back for you, darling!" THE END 
50470	----	By Elsie Singmaster MARTIN LUTHER. THE STORY OF HIS LIFE. With frontispiece. THE LONG JOURNEY. Frontispiece in color. EMMELINE. Illustrated. KATY GAUMER. Illustrated. GETTYSBURG. Illustrated. WHEN SARAH WENT TO SCHOOL. Illustrated. WHEN SARAH SAVED THE DAY. Illustrated. HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON AND NEW YORK [Illustration: CONRAD RUBBED HIS EYES--HE LOOKED AGAIN (p. 52)] THE LONG JOURNEY BY ELSIE SINGMASTER [Illustration] BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge 1917 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY ELSIE SINGMASTER LEWARS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published February 1917_ TO WILLIAM BLACK LEWARS A DESCENDANT OF JOHN CONRAD WEISER AND HIS SON CONRAD CONTENTS I. THE GROSS ANSPACH COW 1 II. DOWN THE RIVER 21 III. BLACKHEATH 40 IV. A ROYAL AUDIENCE 60 V. ACROSS THE SEA 79 VI. THE PIRATE SHIP 96 VII. THE HOME ASSIGNED 111 VIII. THE FLIGHT BEGINS 131 IX. THE DARK FOREST 149 X. JOURNEY'S END 169 THE LONG JOURNEY I THE GROSS ANSPACH COW On the evening of the twenty-third of June, Conrad Weiser brought home, as was his custom, the Gross Anspach cow. The fact was, in itself, not remarkable, since it was Conrad's chief duty to take the cow to pasture, to guard her all day long, to lead her from one little patch of green grass to another, to see that she drank from one of the springs on the hillside, and to feed her now and then a little of the precious salt which he carried in his pocket. What made this twenty-third of June remarkable was the fact that this was Conrad's final journey from the pastures of Gross Anspach to Gross Anspach village. Liesel, the property of Conrad's father, John Conrad, was Gross Anspach's only cow. War and the occupation of a brutal soldiery had stripped the village of its property, its household goods, its animals, and, alas! of most of its young men. Gross Anspach had hidden itself in woods and in holes in the ground, had lived like animals in dens. Upon the mountainside wolves had devoured children. What war had left undone, famine and pestilence and fearful cold had completed. The fruit trees had died, the vines were now merely stiffened and rattling stalks, and, though it was June, the earth was bare in many places. There were no young vines to plant, there was no seed to sow, there were no horses to break the soil with the plough. Sometimes Conrad had company to the hillside pasture. He was thirteen years old, a short, sturdy, blue-eyed boy, much older than his years, as were most of the children in Gross Anspach. Above him in the family were Catrina, who was married and had two little children of her own, then Margareta, Magdalena, and Sabina, and below him were George Frederick, Christopher, Barbara, and John Frederick. They all had blue eyes and sturdy frames and they were all, except John Frederick, thin. John Frederick was their darling and the only partaker in the family of the bounty of Liesel. The fact that John Frederick had no mother seemed more terrible than the lack of a mother for any of the other eight children. When Margareta and Magdalena and Sabina and George Frederick and Christopher and Barbara and John Frederick accompanied Conrad to the hillside, they all started soberly, the older girls knitting as they walked, Christopher and Barbara trotting hand in hand, and John Frederick riding upon Conrad's back. They had little to say--there was little to be said. When the prospect broadened, when they were able to look out over the walls of their own valley across the wide landscape, then spirits were lightened and tongues were loosed. Then they could see other valleys and other hills and the desolation of their own no longer filled their tired eyes. The little children ran about, the older ones, still working busily, sat and talked. Their speech was German, the soft and beautiful German of the south. Sometimes they spoke in whispers and with fearful glances of the past and its terrors, and of the cruel French. Sometimes the older girls whispered together of romantic dreams which could never come true, of true lovers and a happy home for each. But most of all they talked--amazing to relate--these little Germans of two hundred years ago--of Indians! About Indians it was Conrad who had the most to say. Conrad was the oldest boy; though so much younger than Margareta and Magdalena, he could read easily while they could not read at all. While Conrad talked, their thoughts traveled out of their poor valley, down the great river, through strange cities to a mighty ship upon which they should sail and sail until they reached a Paradise. Sometimes Conrad walked up and down before them, his hands clasped behind his back, sometimes he lay on the ground with his hands under his head. He talked and talked and let himself be questioned in the lordly manner which lads assume with their sisters. He carried with him always, buttoned inside his thin clothes, a little book which he knew by heart. "Is it cold there?" asked Sabina wistfully. Sabina was the last to recover from the fearful winter. Conrad leafed his little book. "I will read. 'The climate is everywhere subtle and penetrating. During the winter'--here, Sabina,--'during the winter the sun has great strength.'" "I do not know what 'subtle and penetrating' mean. Those great words are beyond me." "They mean that the climate is good," explained Conrad, who did not know exactly either. "Will we be hungry?" asked Sabina, still more wistfully. Conrad could hardly turn the leaves fast enough. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks glowed. "Now listen, you foolish, frightened Sabina, listen! 'The country produces all kinds of cereals, together with Indian corn of various kinds. Peas, kitchen vegetables, pumpkins, melons, roots, hemp, flax, hops, everything. Peaches and cherries'--Sabina, you have never eaten peaches or cherries, but I have eaten one of each--'peaches and cherries grow like weeds.' Here we have nothing, nothing! Our grandfather was a magistrate, but we are almost beggars. My father talks to me as he does not talk to you, Margareta and Magdalena and Sabina and--" Margareta lifted her blue eyes from her knitting and tossed back her yellow braids. "It is not very long since I spanked you well, Conrad," said she. At this all the children, even Conrad, smiled. Margareta made a little motion as though she meant to rise and pursue her brother about the high tableland, Conrad a little motion as though he dared her to a chase. But the impulse passed, as all playful impulses passed in this time of distress. "My father talks to me because I am almost a man," went on Conrad. "He says that if we have another winter like the one which is past we will all die as our mother--" Conrad could not complete his sentence. The children did not cry, their hearts only ceased for a moment to beat as Conrad's speech faltered. "He says there will not be enough animals and birds left after that time to establish a new stock. He says that even if the winter is mild, Gross Anspach cannot all live--even we few that are left." "But I am afraid," said little Sabina. "Afraid of what?" "Of the river and the great sea." "Thousands have sailed down the river and many have crossed the sea, Sabina." "I am most afraid of these strange red people." "I am not afraid of them," announced little Christopher. "Not more than I am afraid of Liesel." Once more Conrad leafed his little book. It was no wonder that it scarcely held together. "They are not bad people. They fish and hunt and plant crops. They go farther and farther back into the woods as the white people come. I am no more afraid of them than I am of Christopher." "But how are we to get there, brother?" asked Magdalena, who spoke least among a family who spoke little. Conrad shut his book and tied it in its place under his coat. "That I do not know," said he impatiently. "But we will all see yet the river and the great sea and the deep forests and the red people." "Old Redebach says--" No sooner had John Frederick began to speak than his lips were covered by the hand of his brother. "Old Redebach cannot tell the truth. It is not in him. And he is afraid of everything. Ten times he has told me that Liesel would be carried off, that he has had a dream and has seen men watching her. Forty times he has told me that Liesel would die of the cattle plague. There stands Liesel fat and hearty. It is the schoolmaster who is to be believed in this matter. He would start to-morrow if he could. I tell you"--Conrad pointed toward the declining sun--"we are going, we are going, we are going." Now, on the twenty-third of June, as Conrad, alone, guided the obstinate way of Liesel through the dusk, the words of old Redebach came back to him. Liesel had all the trying defects of a spoiled and important character; believing herself to be the Queen of Gross Anspach, she expected her subjects to follow where she led. She proceeded deliberately into all sorts of black and shadowy places from which Conrad did not dare to chase her roughly for fear of affecting the precious store of milk, upon which John Frederick and other Gross Anspach babies depended. Conrad recalled now, besides the warnings of old Redebach about present dangers, certain fearful things which were printed in his little book. The savages had learned from the whites to be deceitful, they were frequently drunk, they would not be governed, they used their knives and hatchets for hideous purposes. They were enormous creatures, who increased their height by bunches of towering feathers fastened to their topknots. They stole upon their victims with the quietness of cats, they--was that a stealthy footstep which Conrad heard now to the right of his path?--they celebrated their triumph with fearful cries--what was that strange sound which he heard to his left? In spite of himself, Conrad hastened the steps of the unruly Liesel through the twilight. The Weiser family lived in one of the few houses left in Gross Anspach. It was not large, but to the villagers who had taken refuge after the burning of their dwellings in stables and sheds, it seemed like a palace. From its doorway shone now a faint light, at sight of which Conrad felt ashamed of his fear. He heard the rattle of Margareta's milk pail, and felt against his leg the warm, comfortable body of old Wolf, the Weiser dog. "You are late," called Margareta, in an excited tone. "I have been watching and watching and the children have been more than once to the bottom of the hill." "What is the matter?" asked Conrad. "You will hear in good time," answered Margareta in a patronizing way. "Where is father?" "In the house." "If anything had happened he would tell me first," said Conrad. "I do not believe he has told you anything." Behind the broad table in the kitchen sat John Conrad. He was the younger Conrad grown old and gray with anxiety and grief. His clothes were whole, but mended with amazing invention. His body was still powerful and the fire of energy flashed from his eyes. As Conrad entered, he raised a clenched fist and brought it down heavily upon the table, which, solid as it was, shook under the impact. A stranger might have thought that he was reproving the little row of children who sat opposite him on a bench and who watched him with a fixed stare. But John Conrad was a kind father; his excitement did not find its source in anger with his children. Nor were the children frightened. Their stare was one of admiration and awe rather than of fright. Seeing his father thus, Conrad asked no questions, though a dozen trembled on his lips. He sat quietly down beside the other children and lifted John Frederick to his lap. When Margareta came in from milking, the family had their supper of black bread and a little weak broth. It was enough to keep life in their bodies, but not very vigorous life. The children scarcely tasted what they ate, so excited were they by their father's appearance, and by the long and solemn prayer with which he prefaced the meal. Presently Elisabeth Albern came for milk for her Eva, Michael Fuhrmann for milk for his Balthasar, and George Reimer, the schoolmaster, for milk for his little sister Salome. For this milk John Conrad took no pay. He was poor, but his neighbors were far poorer; he regarded Liesel neither as the annoying creature which Conrad considered her, nor as the proud princess that she believed herself to be, but as a sacred trust. If it were not for Liesel half of the poor little Gross Anspach babies would not survive the summer. Even John Frederick was beginning to eat the black bread and broth so that younger and more needy babies might have his share of Liesel's milk. George Reimer spoke to John Conrad in a way which heightened the children's excitement. "I will be here," said he. The children nudged one another. Their father was the leader in what poor little affairs Gross Anspach might still be said to have, and he sometimes assembled his neighbors so that they might encourage and console one another. Such a meeting was now at hand. The older girls washed the bowls and wooden plates and the cooking-pot and put them on the shelf, and carried a sleepy John Frederick and a protesting Barbara from the kitchen and laid them firmly and tenderly in their corner of the family bedroom. When Conrad nodded to little Christopher that he should follow, the older Weiser bade Christopher stay. "It is important that all my children who can should remember this night." Before long the village men and a few of the women began to assemble. They came quietly, with only the simplest of greetings, but eye meeting eye said wonderful things. "John Conrad Weiser, you are our leader and friend." "Neighbors, you have been my stay in deep affliction." A woman with a baby in her arms bade John Conrad look and see how his namesake was growing. "If it were not for you he would be gone like his father." Presently the children, giving up their places on the bench for places on little stools or on the earthen floor, began to whisper to one another and to point. From under the thin and ragged coat of George Reimer, the schoolmaster, projected a flute. George's own flute had been taken from him by the French soldiers, but in a few days a much finer one had been found by the roadside, dropped, probably, because the army could not carry all its own possessions in addition to those which it had stolen. It might be said that Gross Anspach retained two valuable articles, John Conrad Weiser's cow and George Reimer's flute. Behind his father's back, Conrad pretended to play a tune upon the air. At once the solemn assembly grew a little brighter. Last of all came Catrina and her husband. At once John Conrad rose to pray. They still had God, these souls who had little else, and upon Him John Conrad called, that He might bless them in _a great endeavor_. At this, in spite of his better knowledge, Conrad opened his eyes and fixed them upon Margareta until she opened hers. Conrad clasped his hands tightly, scarcely able to breathe. "Friends,"--John Conrad had closed his prayer,--"I have asked you to come here so that I might tell you of an important matter. It is not necessary that in beginning what I have to say I should remind you of our miseries and our griefs. You know them as well as I. You know that this life cannot go on; that, presently, unless we do something for ourselves, there will be none of us remaining. Our country is desolate. The soldiers have harried us, the great cold has tortured us, famine has almost made an end of us. We should not too bitterly sigh and complain on account of what has come upon us. It may be that thus God seeks to lead us to another and a better land. "I need not tell you, either, what land I have in mind. We have spoken of it, we have seen it in our dreams, we have longed for it with all our souls. There is fertile soil, there is temperate climate, there is, above all, thank God! freedom and peace. There is no war there. There--" John Conrad halted, tried again to speak and failed. "But we cannot get to that country!" cried the young woman with the baby in her arms. There was a long pause. Deep breaths were drawn and a great sigh filled the little room. "The way has been opened," announced John Conrad at last. "I and my family will go to-morrow. Let those who will come with us lift their hands." But no hands were lifted. The thought of deliverance was paralyzing. "Word has come that the gracious Queen of England will send us and our long-suffering brethren to her colonies in the New World. I have had a letter from our old neighbor the magistrate of Oberdorf. He is in London, awaiting the sailing of the ships. He is well cared for; charitable persons exert themselves for the afflicted people. Probably by this time he is already far on his way." "But _to-morrow_, father!" cried Catrina. "Why start to-morrow?" "As well to-morrow as another day," answered John Conrad. "We have few possessions and they are easily gathered together. To those of our friends who will not come with us we could not express our affection and our farewells in a hundred days. We will go on foot to the river and make our way to the lowlands and thence to England. It is a long and perilous journey, but it is not so perilous as to stay. I cannot advise any one what to do. But for all those who come I will care as though they were my own." "But Liesel!" cried the young woman with the baby in her arms. "We will die without Liesel!" John Conrad smiled. "Liesel will stay in Gross Anspach. She will be the perpetual property of the Gross Anspach babies." George Reimer spoke next. He sat with his arms folded across his breast, within them his precious flute. Tears were in his eyes and in his voice as he said:-- "_I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinketh upon me._" The company broke up without music. There were those who must go home to tell wives or mothers; there were those who wished to talk to John Conrad in private. There was Catrina, with her husband, weeping and distressed, who did not dare to trust her babies to the sea. She must plan with her sisters the bundles which should be packed for each to carry, the food which must be gathered to last as long as possible. To her and her husband John Conrad forgave a large debt, and his kindness and their inability to pay made the parting more heartbreaking. John Conrad still had a little store of German gulden, long hoarded against the coming day. When all was done and the children were asleep, John Conrad took his oldest son by the hand and led him up the winding street between the ruined houses to the little Lutheran church which had been saved in the great destruction. The moon shone quietly upon it and the little walled-in space behind it. Thither John Conrad led his son, and beside a new-made grave they paused. "It is not good to dwell on grief when one lives in the world and has still the work of half a lifetime," said he solemnly. "But there are moments when it is right that we should yield ourselves to our sorrow. The others will come here in the morning, but you and I will then have no time for shedding tears. Your mother looked into the future. She begged me to go when the time came, even though I must leave her here." "My lad,"--John Conrad laid his arm across the boy's shoulders,--"there are many things I would say to you. You were, as you know, her darling. But she knew your faults, that you are strong-headed and strong-willed. As you are of all my children the quickest to learn, so are you the least obedient and steady, the most impatient and impetuous. Your mother prayed for you daily. Will you remember her counsels, lad?" To the yearning voice Conrad could make no answer. Arm in arm father and son stood for a long time. Then, when the moon had sunk behind the little church, Conrad felt himself led away. "Now, my son," admonished John Conrad, "weep no more, but set your face forward." II DOWN THE RIVER The night of the twenty-third of June is a short night at best. When one robs its beginning of four or five hours, there is little darkness left. Bidding his son go to bed, John Conrad spent the night in vigil. In spite of his reminder that this was not a time for grief, he went again to the little church. From thence he climbed through the ruined vineyards to the pastures on the hill where his father and his grandfather had pastured their sheep and cattle. There he stood long and looked about him, his mind traveling back to the happiness of their peaceful lives, spent in sturdy labor and sweetened by the honor which they had had among their fellows. Here were the roots of his own life, deep in the soil--would God that he could stay where he had been born! He was no longer young, responsibility and adversity had made him old. Those rosy stories of the new land--might they not be as other travelers' tales, concealing a reality worse than this fearful present of hunger and fear? Five hundred miles of river, three thousand miles of sea, and then an unsettled country! The same shapes of fear which had fascinated and disturbed young Conrad seemed now to await his father behind every tree and bush. Suddenly John Conrad heard a soft sound on the summer wind. George Reimer, as restless as himself, was somewhere about with his dear flute. John Conrad bent his ear to the direction from which the sound came. It was a German hymn, "A Mighty Stronghold is Our God." John Conrad lifted his head and with it his heart. George Reimer would be with them and George Reimer's flute. Returning to his house, John Conrad lay down for a little sleep before dawn. But George Reimer did not go to the new country. Upon the indescribable confusion of the Weiser house the next morning, he came smiling. Into sheets and coverlets the Weisers had tied all their movable possessions, the various articles making curious knobs and projections on the great bundles. The family spinning-wheel must go--surely no article was more necessary! This Conrad was to carry on his back. The few cooking-pots which remained--these must be taken, though all else were left behind. Wardrobes were small, sheets were few, pillows did not exist. The feather beds could not be carried--these were given to the neighbors. About hovered all Gross Anspach. Each person had brought a little gift, a tiny trinket saved from the pillaging of the hamlet, a little bouquet of the few garden flowers which had survived the cruel winter, a loaf of bread or a package of dried beans for soup. Catrina, a baby on each arm, wept loudly. Each baby had to be embraced many times by its departing relatives and each departing relative had to be embraced by all the village. Under foot, six tiny kittens risked their lives. Old Redebach, tottering feebly about, quoted warning passages of Scripture:-- "_As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place._" On the doorstep sat Wolf, his solemn eyes watching the scene in amazement. Everywhere was confusion, everywhere was noise. For a few moments George Reimer watched quietly. "Neighbors!" cried he. "If you cannot help these friends, stand back! Here, Conrad, I will tie that bundle. Here, John Frederick, I am to be your horse as far as the river; see that you behave, or I will run away. Sabina, I will keep your kittens if I have to catch the mice for them myself." With one accord the Weisers turned upon him. "You are going with us, surely!" "Only to the river." His eyes sought those of John Conrad. "I cannot go farther. My little sisters are too young, my father too feeble, my mother is sick--I can neither take them nor leave them alone." "God will reward you," said John Conrad. "But it is a sore loss to us." In the end no one went beyond the river. From weeping Gross Anspach the Weisers and a dozen accompanying friends separated themselves at seven o'clock, the Weisers carrying nothing, the burdens on the shoulders of their neighbors. At the heels of the procession walked Wolf. At the summit of the first hill all looked back, save Conrad. The little village lay smiling in the sun; to the pilgrims it seemed like Heaven. "I cannot go," cried Magdalena. "Oh, father, let us stay," begged Margareta. Before John Conrad could answer, a cheerful sound restored the courage of the pilgrims and George Reimer's gay "Susy, dear Susy" set their feet moving. At the village of Oberdorf there was a halt, while greetings were exchanged, explanations made, and messages written down for friends already in America. Among those to whom greetings were sent was the magistrate who must be by this time safely across the sea. Here the Gross Anspachers, except the schoolmaster, turned back and the Weisers shouldered their own bundles. It became clear now that there were more bundles than persons and the fact occasioned much laughter and readjustment. At night the Weisers slept by the wayside. The fare on the boat would draw a large sum from John Conrad's store and not a penny could be spent for lodging. Lulled by Reimer's flute, they slept comfortably, and, roused by the same music, were off soon after daylight. At the river came the most difficult of partings. Here George Reimer played a last lullaby and a final reveillé. A river boat, the Elspeth, had anchored near by for the night and upon it the family took passage. The goods were carried aboard and piled in the center of the deck and John Conrad and his eight children followed. At once came a protest from the captain. Old Wolf could not go, and Conrad was commanded to lead him from the boat. Conrad forgot that he was thirteen years old, forgot that he was the man of the family next to his father, forgot his boasted superiority to Margareta and Magdalena and the rest, and threw his arms round the old dog's neck. "I cannot leave you! I cannot leave you!" Then he felt himself lifted up and put aboard the gangplank. "There, Conrad, there! I will take care of him. I have given your father something for you. Show yourself brave, dear lad!" Stumbling, Conrad boarded the boat. He saw the schoolmaster wave his hand, he saw the green shores slip away, he heard his father's voice. "Your teacher gave me this for you, Conrad." "Oh, father!" cried Conrad. In his hand lay the schoolmaster's flute. "He said you were to practice diligently and to remember him." The message made Conrad weep the more. He threw himself down on the pile of household goods and hid his face. When he looked up his father sat beside him. In his hand were two books. He looked at his son anxiously. "Conrad, we are going among strange people. The first are the Hollanders, with whom we can make ourselves understood. But of English we know nothing. Now we will learn as well as we can, I and you. The schoolmaster gave me an English Bible, in it we will study daily, comparing it with our own." "What will we do about the language of the savages?" asked Conrad, drying his tears. "How will we make ourselves understood by them?" "There will be time enough for that. It is probable that they compel them to learn English. The savages are a long way off." For a few days John Conrad and his son studied diligently. There was little else to do in the long hours which glided as quietly by as the stream. The country about them was unbroken and flat; here there went on a simple life like their own. Everywhere were to be seen in the brown fields and the dead vineyards the ravages of the fearful winter. In return for a little help about the boat, the helmsman, who had served on English ships, did his best to interpret the hardest words for the students. To the surly captain they dared not speak. Once the price for the journey was paid into his hand, he seemed to resent even the sight of his passengers. Frequently he was not sober, and then the helmsman helped the Weisers to keep out of his way. Unlike the rest of his race, he could not endure the sound of music and Conrad and his flute were objects of special dislike. More than once he threatened to throw both into the river. When the boat stopped at the city of Speyer for a day and night, studying and flute-practicing stopped entirely and, urged by the friendly helmsman, the Weisers went on shore. Now for the first time the children saw a large town; with eager expectation they stepped on the wharf. But here, too, was ruin and desolation. The great buildings, burned by the enemy who had devastated their own village, had not been restored; the cathedral which towered above the ruins was itself but a hollow shell. When they reached the next large town of Mannheim, they did not leave the boat. With increasing longing they looked forward across the ocean to the Paradise where the enemy had not been. Daily they were joined by other pilgrims who like themselves looked forward with aching eyes to the distant country. The newcomers had each his own story of persecution and famine, of cold and misery. With them John Conrad talked, gathering from them all the information which they had about the new country, comforting them as best he could, and reading to them from Conrad's little book. To the directions they listened earnestly, hearing over and over again that they must be patient, quick to hear and slow to speak, that they must be diligent and thrifty. About the dangers of the sea they talked a great deal and were relieved to hear that a journey on an inland river was valuable as preparation for a journey on the ocean. The little book advised also that those who were about to take a journey by sea should practice on a swing. Each day the captain was less and less able to navigate the ship. Finally the helmsman took command, and while the captain lay in a stupor, Conrad continued the forbidden flute-playing. Growing careless, he was caught, and the captain, who could reach neither Conrad nor the flute, kicked the family spinning-wheel into the river. The loss was serious and it taught a bitter lesson. It was the twenty-fourth of June when the travelers left Gross Anspach; a month later they were still far from the mouth of the river. Each day passengers clamored on the banks, each day the number of ships in the river increased, slow packet boats which did not go above Cologne or Mainz, and faster boats which passed the heavily laden Elspeth like birds. The river left the broad meadows for a narrow gorge with precipitous banks upon which stood imposing castles. At sight of the castles the children were overcome with awe. "There is Bingen, and its mouse tower, children," said John Conrad. "Not where the bishop was eaten!" cried Sabina. "Yes; and about here the treasure of the Niebelungen is buried." "If we could only find it!" sighed Conrad. "And there"--the helmsman pointed to ruined walls upon the cliff side--"there a brave trumpeter defended his master's life. While his master and others escaped, he blew bravely upon the walls to frighten the enemy, and when they entered, there was no one left to kill but him." The watching of Barbara and John Frederick in their trotting about the crowded ship grew to be more and more of a task. The first person who was pushed overboard was made much of, and the man who rescued him was considered a hero. When many had fallen overboard and had been rescued the passengers scarcely turned their heads. As day after day passed and August drew near its close, John Conrad became more and more anxious. "It is time we were sailing from England," said he uneasily to Conrad. "The journey has taken long, food has been higher than I thought, and we have had to pay tariff a dozen times." Again and again he took from his pocket the letter of the magistrate of Oberdorf. Of the chief of his fears he said nothing to Conrad. The good Queen of England had offered transportation to the distressed Germans; but had she realized, had any one anticipated that so vast a throng would take her at her word? The river captains told of weeks and weeks of such crowding of the lower river. Would there be ships enough to carry them all to the New World? Would the Queen provide for them until they could sail? Presently rumors of trouble increased John Conrad's fears. A passing boat declared that the Germans were forbidden to enter Rotterdam, the lowland city at which they would have to take ship for England. The congestion had become serious. The citizens of Rotterdam announced that their patience and their resources were exhausted; the Germans could no longer wait there for English boats; they must return whence they had come. At this announcement there was a loud outcry. Like the Weisers, the other pilgrims had sold or had given away everything except the property they carried with them; if they returned now, it would be to greater misery than that which they had left. Go on they must. John Conrad reminded them of the Lord in whom they trusted. The Queen had promised and England was rich in resources. The Queen's charity was not entirely disinterested; she expected the Germans to people her new colonies. Nor did John Conrad believe that the Hollanders would see them starve on the way to England. But even as he argued with himself, his heart misgave him. He had seen persons starve, he had seen men and women and children struck down by the swords of brutal soldiers. There was nothing in the world, he believed, too terrible for heartless men to do. As they drew nearer to Rotterdam, the anxiety of the helmsman was plain to be seen. "I pay no attention to what passers-by say," he told John Conrad. "But if you see any long, narrow boats, with the flag of Holland flying, then it will be time to be frightened. They will have the power to make us turn back." Each hour the rate of travel became slower and slower. There was now no current whatever, and for many days the wind did not blow. Finally, when, at nightfall, the Elspeth came into the harbor, John Conrad breathed a deep sigh of relief. In the morning the travelers saw next them at the wharf one of the long boats which the helmsman had described, and heard that it was to start in an hour to warn all the pilgrims to return to their homes. The passengers of the Elspeth were not allowed to enter the city, but were bidden to wait on the wharf for English ships. Here their quarters were almost as restricted as they had been on shipboard. In prompt contradiction of the statement that their patience and their supplies were exhausted, the kind Hollanders brought food to the guests who had thrust themselves upon them. Now the helmsman came to bid his friends good-bye. John Conrad gave him many blessings and the children cried bitterly and embraced him. "If he were only going with us, what fine times we should have on the sea!" said Conrad. "He seems like our last friend," mourned Margareta. "Everything before us is strange." "We thought George Reimer was our last friend," said John Conrad. "Perhaps we shall find other friends as good." For four days, the Germans watched for a ship. When at last two English vessels came into the harbor and they were taken aboard, the Weisers had little food and less money. When John Conrad heard that no passage was to be charged, he breathed another sigh of relief. "The good Queen will keep her promises," said he to his children. "The worst of our troubles are over." But within an hour it seemed that the worst of their troubles had only begun. The channel crossing was rough. From their fellow travelers there was rising already a cry, which was to grow louder and louder as the weeks and months went by--"Would that we had suffered those miseries which we knew rather than tempt those which we did not know!" When the ship entered the smooth waters of the Thames River, the Germans began to smile once more. About them were green fields. They saw pleasant villages and broad stretches of cultivated land and deer browsing under mighty trees. "If we might only stay here!" they sighed. John Conrad shook his head. "Here we should not find rest." Once more the Germans disembarked, wondering whether their stay on shore would be long enough for a closer view of the fine churches and palaces of London. Of so large a city as this even John Conrad had never dreamed. "Shall we see the Queen?" asked Sabina in a whisper of her father. John Conrad smiled. "We might see her riding in her chariot." Then John Conrad grew sober. As they stood crowded together upon the quay some young lads shouted at them roughly. The ears which expected only kindness were shocked. "They say we are taking the bread from their mouths," repeated Conrad. "They call us 'rascally' Germans." "There are rude folk everywhere," said John Conrad. He directed the children to take their bundles and follow a man who seemed to have authority to conduct them to some place in which they were to spend the night. The way thither proved to be long. Again and again it was necessary to stop to rest or to give time for the short legs of the little children to catch up. Again and again the heavy burdens were shifted about. They traveled into the open country--a strange stopping place for those who were so soon to continue their journey! They passed many men and women who looked at them curiously. Presently they heard their own German speech. "We will have to wait awhile, probably, for ships," said John Conrad to his son. "Of course we could not expect to go on at once. We--" John Conrad stopped short and let his bundle slip to the ground. They had come out upon a great space, which a few months before had been an open heath. Now, as far as the eye could reach, stretched long lines of tents. It was no temporary lodging, for here and there small frame store buildings had been erected and there were long-used, dusty paths between the tents. Men and women and children were going about, meals were being prepared, there was everywhere the sound of voices. John Conrad stood still in amazement. "What is this?" he asked. A single sharp voice answered from the doorway of a sutler's shop. "We are Germans, lured hither by promise of passage to America. Here we wait. Here we have waited for months. Have you come, oh, fool, to wait also?" It was not the rudeness of the answer which startled John Conrad, nor the discouraging news which it announced, but the voice of the speaker. For the speaker was none other than his friend the magistrate of Oberdorf, supposed to be by now upon the high seas or in the new country. III BLACKHEATH For a long moment Heinrich Albrecht, the magistrate of Oberdorf, and John Conrad Weiser, his friend, looked at each other. John Conrad was the first to speak, in a voice trembling with amazement and alarm. "Have you returned, Heinrich?" The magistrate burst into a loud laugh. He was a tall, thin man, of a type to whom inaction is misery. "I have not been away. Here"--he waved his hand with a wide motion over Blackheath--"here we lie, idle pensioners. Here we have been since May, ever encouraged, ever deluded. Here idleness and evil customs are corrupting our youth. Here we are dying." Now the full meaning of the crowded Rhine and the warning of the Hollanders burst upon John Conrad. He looked at his children, at the young girls, at the little boys, and finally at plump, smiling John Frederick. He thrust his hand into his almost empty pocket, thinking of the long journey back to Gross Anspach for which he had no money. He thought of his high hopes of liberty and peace and independence. He covered his face with his hands so that his children might not see his tears. "I am here, father!" cried Conrad. "I am strong! I can work!" "They feed us," conceded the magistrate of Oberdorf. "And they have given us some clothing and these tents. But cold weather will come and we shall die." "Cold weather! We should be in the new country by cold weather! You yourself wrote that you were about to sail, that you would sail on the next day. There!" John Conrad drew from his bosom the tattered letter. "I have stayed my soul upon it! I have set out on this journey upon faith in it!" "I thought we should start. I was certain we should start. They say there are no ships. They have begun to send some of us to Ireland." John Conrad shook his head. "This whole land is sick. Across the ocean only there is peace." "I can get a tent for you beside mine," offered Albrecht. "I have a little influence with those in authority." Once more the Weisers shouldered their bundles. They crossed the wide camp, greeted pleasantly here and there, but for the most part stared at silently and contemptuously. Finally the magistrate acknowledged grudgingly that the English people had been liberal and kind. "But they are growing tired. The common people say we are taking the bread from their mouths." The farther the Weisers proceeded through the city of tents, the more astonished they became. "The poor Germans have washed like the waves of the sea upon these shores," said Albrecht. John Conrad shook his head in answer, having no more words with which to express his astonishment. The Weisers made themselves as comfortable as possible in the tent assigned them. They unpacked the bundles which they had expected to unpack only in the new country, they received a portion of the generous supply of food which was given out each morning and evening, and then, like the thousands of their fellow countrymen, they waited, now hopefully, now almost in despair, for some change in their condition. But no sign of change appeared. Day after day John Conrad and the magistrate and the friends whom they made among the more intelligent and thoughtful of the pilgrims met and talked and looked toward the Blackheath Road for some messenger from the Queen. The young people made acquaintance; the children played games and ran races up and down the streets of the city of tents. Sometimes Conrad listened to his elders and sometimes he played his flute for the children. Suddenly the weather changed. The outdoor life which had been pleasant became more and more difficult to bear. The nights grew cold; the Germans shivered in their poor clothes. Now, also, another and a more serious danger threatened them. The cooking was done over open fires, and the Weisers went daily into a forest a few miles away to gather sticks for their contribution to the one nearest to them. One day a young Englishman, with an evil face, spoke roughly to Margareta, who cowered back. He went nearer to her and she screamed in terror. For an instant Conrad watched stupidly, then, suddenly, his heart seemed to expand. He was, as his father had said, strong-headed and strong-willed. "Let her be!" he shouted. The stranger laughed, and approached nearer still. They could not understand what he said, nor did he have opportunity to continue what he had begun to say. Before his hand touched the arm of Margareta, he found himself upon the ground. Conrad was not tall, but he had strong muscles; now from his safe position on the chest of the enemy he was able to dictate terms of peace. "You get up and run as fast as you can down the road," he shouted. "George Frederick, give me that big stick." Fortunately the Englishman had no friends at hand. He looked about wildly, first at the Weisers, then toward the camp, and promptly did as he was bid. As he went, he shouted a threat. "Your whole camp is to be wiped out," he yelled from a safe distance. "Wait and you will see!" The hearts of the Germans, growing daily more alarmed, were no more disturbed, meanwhile, than were the hearts of Queen Anne and her ministers. While the unexpected thousands lay upon Blackheath, minister consulted with minister, boards of trade met to discuss plans and to give them up, and to discuss other plans and to adjourn and to meet again. It was true that Queen Anne desired to settle her colony of New York, true that the news of her desire had been spread abroad. But she had not anticipated this great migration, like the locusts of Egypt for numbers! Ships were lacking to transport them; suitable asylums were lacking and the Germans themselves, fleeing like helpless children, were not able to take care of themselves. Scores of wise and foolish suggestions were offered. The Germans were to be sent to distant parishes, together with a bounty for each one. But the parishes did not welcome them; those who were sent returned, poorer, weaker, more helpless than before. There were hundreds of good workmen among them, but even the English workman could scarcely earn his bread. Let them go to Ireland, let them go to Wales, let them return to Germany. And still, while the English talked, the Germans came. Finally, Her Majesty's Council, meeting almost daily, reached a conclusion and orders were given for the assembling of ships. Action was hastened by an extraordinary incident in which Conrad and his father had a part. The heavy frosts had begun and there was not an hour when the Germans did not ache with the cold. The quantity of food had become smaller, the quality poorer than at first. But worse than cold or hunger was the danger from the rising resentment of the Londoners, who demanded that this great mass of foreigners be removed. Conrad, left to himself, with little to do, roamed about the city, staring at its marvels, at strange London Bridge, crowded with shops and houses which hung over the water, at mighty Saint Paul's Cathedral, lifting its round dome, still beautifully white and clean, far above the gabled city roofs, at the other new churches built since the great fire, and at the soaring monument which commemorated the fire. He even looked with awe and horror at the sad and terrible spot where had been buried, in a deep pit, the victims of the great plague. Conrad's journeys were not always comfortable. English lads taunted him, gayly dressed young men ordered him out of their path, the bearers of sedan chairs thrust him rudely against the house walls. But still he walked about, watching and listening. Presently he heard terrifying threats. The Londoners determined to wait no longer to wreak their vengeance upon Blackheath. Conrad hurried down the long road to make report to his father. "They mean to attack us with knives, father. They declare they will have no mercy upon us!" "They would not dare," answered John Conrad. "We are under the protection of the Queen." Nevertheless, John Conrad called together his friends, and together they drew up a humble petition, praying that the English people continue to look kindly upon them and to bestow bounty upon them. But the petition availed nothing. That very night, Conrad, lying in his corner of the tent near the edge of the camp, heard the sound of rough voices and heavy steps. Springing up, he looked out the door. On the heath a large company had gathered, carrying knives and sickles which gleamed in the moonlight. With a shout Conrad roused his family, whose cries in turn roused the sleepers in the neighboring tents. The attacking party was defeated, not so much by the resistance of the Germans, few of whom had arms, as by a warning that the soldiers were coming from London. The Germans were not seriously hurt, but the event was ominous. Still the days grew shorter, and the dark nights longer, and the air colder. Hundreds gathered round the fires, and among them John Conrad counseled further patience and continued courage. Frequently he read to them from Conrad's little book, at whose directions for life on the ocean and in the new land there were now bitter smiles and long sighs. They had ceased to think of the new country with its rich soil, its mild climate, and its strange, interesting aborigines, except to envy the Indian his indifference to the comforts of civilization. Upon the day of the first snow, Conrad went early into the city. He had earned a penny a few days before by carrying some bales from a ship to a warehouse, and he hoped to earn more. Until noon he walked about the streets. Again and again he was cursed and threatened. The Londoners had not finished with the Germans in spite of their temporary defeat. At noon he ate the piece of black bread which he had put into his pocket, and then went into a cold church to rest. Presently he fell asleep, and when he woke late in the afternoon the church was almost dark. He was miles away from Blackheath and he must set out promptly or the dangers of the way would be doubled. The week before he had been caught in a fog and had spent the night inside a garden gate on the ground. Leaving the church, he hurried on as fast as he could. It seemed to him that another fog was rapidly gathering over the city. His long walks and the insufficient food had made him weak, but it was better to start on the homeward journey than to linger. He might fall into evil hands and never see his father or brothers or sisters again. The words of old Redebach in far-away Gross Anspach came back to him as he stepped out from the church door into an open square,--"_As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place._" Perhaps old Redebach was right! In the square, sedan chairs moved about, link boys waved their torches and shouted, rough men jostled him. Presently his tears gathered and began to fall. He lowered his head and plodded on down the street, little dreaming that before him waited one of the strangest encounters, not only in his life, but in the strange history of the world. Too tired and despairing to remember that traveling with bent head is unsafe, struggling to keep back his tears, he ceased suddenly to feel anything. He came full force against one of the new lamp-posts recently set up, and was thrown backwards. When he came to himself, he heard but one sound, that of cruel laughter. The amusement of the onlookers was the last drop in poor Conrad's cup of grief. As he staggered to his feet, he said to himself that he wished that the lamp-post had brought him to that death which was approaching for him and his fellow countrymen. When the dizziness following his fall had passed and he was ready to start on once more, he observed that the steps of the passers-by were unusually hurried and that all led in the same direction. He looked back to see the object toward which they were hastening. At the sight which met his eyes he gave a startled cry. He was dreaming or he had gone mad. This was England and London, this was the heart of the largest city in the world. America, the longed-for, with its great forests and its mighty hunters, lay far across the sea three thousand miles away. But through the London fog, surrounded by a great crowd above whom they towered, there came toward Conrad four giant creatures, with bronze-colored skins, with deer-hide shoes, with headdresses of waving feathers, and with scarlet blankets. Conrad rubbed his eyes; he looked again. They came nearer and nearer, they seemed more and more majestic and terrible. Then, suddenly, they vanished, as though the earth had swallowed them. They could not have entered a house since there were no dwelling-houses here, and the shops were closed. Risking a rebuff as cruel as that from the lamp-post, Conrad grasped the arm of the man nearest him and poured out a dozen excited questions. "These are Indians from the wilds of America," answered the stranger. "Why are they here? What does it mean? Could I speak to them? Where did they go?" The stranger's patience was soon exhausted. After he had explained that the savages had gone into the theater, he left Conrad to address his questions to the empty air. For a moment Conrad stared at the spot from which the Indians had vanished. If he only had money to pay his way into the theater also! But he was penniless. The next best thing was to tell his father, as soon as possible, of this incredible experience. Running heavily, he crossed London Bridge and started out upon the Blackheath Road, saying over and over to himself, "The Indians are here! The Indians are here!" So tired was he and so much confused by the strange sight which he had seen that it was many hours before he reached his father's tent. He imagined that the long journey had been made and that he was already in the forests of the new country. At last an acquaintance, meeting him at the edge of the camp, led him to John Conrad. "Here is your boy. He was about to walk straight into a fire." Fed and warmed, Conrad could only repeat over and over the magic words, "The Indians are here!" His father thought he was delirious; the children cried. For a long time after he had fallen into the heavy sleep of exhaustion, his sisters watched him. At dawn, when he woke, he found himself stiff and sore and inexpressibly tired. But his head was clear, and slowly the events of the day before came back to him. The Indians were real; to-day he would find them. If they had come from America there would be a way to return. He would beg them on his knees to take him and his family with them. Perhaps they had come in their own ships. Slipping from between his sleeping brothers, he lifted the flap of the tent and stepped out into the cold morning air. He could not wait for the family to rise; he would take his share of black bread and be gone. Then, again, Conrad cried out. Last night he had beheld the strangers through the medium of a thickening mist and with eyes confused by his fall. Now he saw them clearly in the bright morning light, here upon Blackheath before his father's tent! The eagle feathers waved above their heads; their scarlet mantles wrapped them round; they stole quietly about on moccasined feet. For a long moment the Indians looked at Conrad and Conrad looked back at them. It was as though they measured one another through an eternity, the tall savages from across three thousand miles of sea and the little lad from Gross Anspach. The lad's heart throbbed with awe and wonder. What the savages thought it was difficult to say. They made to one another strange guttural sounds which evidently served for speech. It seemed to Conrad that they were about to turn away. It was as though a heavenly visitor had descended only to depart. Conrad ran forward and grasped the hand of one of the mighty creatures. "Oh, take us with you, father and Margareta and Magdalena and the others and me! Take us with you! We will work and we will learn to hunt. There is no home for us here. We suffer and die. We--" There was a commotion at the tent door and Conrad looked round. In the doorway stood John Conrad, blinking, incredulous. "I saw them last night, father. I have asked them to take us with them." Conrad began to make gestures. "Us, with you, far away to the west!" It was a request easy to make clear. Again the savages uttered their strange guttural speech. They, in turn, made motions to John Conrad and his son, that they should come with them. Not for an instant did John Conrad hesitate. Upon this miraculous encounter important things might depend. "Conrad," he began, "while I am gone--" "Oh, father, take me with you! I beg, take me with you!" "Run and find Albrecht then, my son, and ask him to look after the children." Conrad was gone like the wind. Now the Weiser children and the neighbors were staring with terrified eyes at the red men. They gave a little scream when John Frederick toddled forward and fell over the foot of one of the Indians and then held their breaths while he was lifted high in the strong arms. John Conrad offered some of his small supply of black bread and his strange guests grunted their pleased acceptance. Then John Conrad and his son set out with the Indians to make the rounds of the camp. What the savages thought of the assemblage of misery it was hard to say. They walked briskly so that the two Weisers could scarcely keep up with them; they pointed now to a sick child, now to some adult who showed more clearly than the others the effects of cold and anxiety and hunger. Often they motioned toward the west, a gesture which it seemed to Conrad had a heavenly significance. When the circuit of the camp was complete, they made it plain to the Weisers that they expected them to follow to the city, and father and son, looking their vague hopes into one another's eyes, obeyed eagerly. Along the Blackheath Road they went, through Southwark and across London Bridge--how many times had Conrad traveled the road in despair! Presently, when, after they had crossed the Thames and were in the city, a man would have jostled Conrad from his place beside the leader, the Indian cried out fiercely, and the stranger dropped quickly back into the long queue of men and boys who had gathered. Now the Indians motioned to Conrad that he should walk behind the leader and his father behind him. Thus strangely escorted, the two Germans went through the streets. Conrad saw in the eyes of the boys whom they passed a look of envy. The course of fate had changed! A few times John Conrad spoke to his son. "Are you afraid?" "Not I." "Pray God that this strange way may lead to the new land." "I will, father." With heads erect the chiefs went on as though they trod the leafy paths of their own forests. Presently they came out upon the river-bank once more, traveled upon it for a short distance, then turned aside. The crowd about them had changed its character. Here were fine gentlemen and ladies on foot and in richly decked sedan chairs. A gentleman came forward with a sharp exclamation and pointed questioningly at the Weisers. One of the Indians answered by gestures and a few incomprehensible words, and the gentleman looked as though he were considering some strange thing. When the Indians walked on without waiting for his answer, Conrad began to be frightened. "Where will they take us, father?" John Conrad's voice trembled. "They are taking us into the Queen's palace," said he. IV A ROYAL AUDIENCE At the door of St. James's Palace all but a few of the throng which followed the Indian chiefs and the Weisers were denied entrance. The finely dressed gentleman who had spoken to the Indians, and who evidently knew their own language, was allowed to pass under the stone archway and into the court and thence into the palace itself. The Indians still led the way, traveling quietly along through intricate passages and tapestry-hung halls. Courtiers passed them with curious stares. Still they kept the two Weisers behind the leader. Presently they halted in a room where there was a fire blazing on the hearth and where fine ladies laughed and talked. On the opposite side from the entrance a thick curtain hung over a doorway. The leading chief walked directly toward it and there paused, the procession behind him coming to a stop. A little lady sitting by the fire accepted a challenge from her companions to salute the strangers, and came across the floor, her high heels tapping as she walked. "O great King of Rivers," said she to the foremost Indian, "who are these your companions?" The Indian's answer was interpreted by the gayly dressed gentleman who understood his tongue. "The King of Rivers says that these are his friends." "Thank you, Colonel Schuyler. Tell the King of Rivers that his friends need a red blanket like his own and--" What else they needed Conrad and his father were not to hear. The curtain before them was lifted, and from the other side a high, clear voice announced,-- "The chiefs of the Mohawk Nation!" Moving as in a dream, their eyes dazzled and their hearts confused, the two Weisers went on. They found themselves now in a still more magnificent room. At its far end there was a group of gentlemen surrounding a lady who sat in a throne-like chair. She was grave of aspect and there was upon her face the indelible impression of grief. On her white hands and her neck were sparkling jewels. The gentlemen about her were wigged and powdered, and wore in their long sleeves white lace ruffles which almost hid their hands. So astonished and confused was Conrad that his father had to command him twice to make obeisance. "To your knees, boy! To your knees, Conrad! It is the Queen!" The Indians did not bend, but stood with arms folded under their scarlet blankets, in their dark, shining eyes a look of friendly regard for the little lady who was a ruler like themselves. The Queen looked at the two Germans with curious but kindly astonishment. Neither John Conrad nor his son was in court array, though the needles of Margareta and Magdalena kept them fairly neat and whole. "Good Peter," said Queen Anne, "who are these?" The stranger who had interpreted for the Indians rose from his knees. "They are Germans from the camp on Blackheath, dear madam. Your friends of the Mohawk Nation went early this morning to visit that great settlement and have brought with them from there these folk, father and son, to their appointment with the Queen. From this intention they could not be stayed, but insist that they have a communication of importance to make concerning these strangers." The Queen looked smilingly at her Indian friends and then at the two Germans. "The condition of those helpless people is on our minds. Let our friends of the Mohawk Nation speak." Surely the audience room had never heard a stranger sound than that which now filled it! The tallest of the chiefs responded, speaking at length, with many sweeping gestures. Conrad strained his ears--oh, how longingly!--but could understand nothing. The chief seemed to be speaking of some spot far away and also of the two Germans. One word Conrad heard, he was certain, again and again, but he could not retain its strange sound. When the Indian had finished, Colonel Schuyler began to translate his words, imitating also his motions toward the west and his pointing to the Weisers. "Your friend the King of Rivers has this to say, O Queen. He and his companions of the Mohawk Nation have walked about to see the city where so many hundreds of people live in so small a space. Far to the south they have visited also the settlement of misery known as the German camp. The distress of these people is terrible to them. It is a dreadful thing to them that men should be so crowded together when there is so much space in the world, so much land for planting corn and so many wide forests for hunting. The King of Rivers recalls to you the object of his long and perilous journey across the ocean in an unsteady ship. He reminds you that he seeks for himself and his allied nations protection against the growing power of his enemies, both Indian and French. "Now he would offer for these poor Germans his country of Schoharie"--there was the word which Conrad had heard again and again!--"where there are fine streams for fishing and much land for planting and hunting. There, when there is no war, men and women are happiest of all the places on the earth. His people are faithful people, keeping their word, and aiding and protecting unto death those in whom they can trust. If you will send these afflicted people to Schoharie, then together the Indians and the Germans can keep the peace with the western Indians, and the French will not dare to attack them." The Indians nodded their heads solemnly as Colonel Schuyler finished. They had entire confidence in him and trusted him to repeat their words exactly. The Queen looked at the two humble figures before her. Their blue eyes met hers with a great longing. "Speak!" said she. John Conrad took a step forward. His English was broken, but none the less eloquent. "Oh, Madam, all they say of our misery is true. We are indeed desolate and afflicted. We have been harried by the sword; we have perished by cold and starvation. Your enemies the French are our enemies. At the hands of our own princes we have perished for conscience' sake. We are of your faith, O Queen!--those of us that are left. The good God in heaven does not send his creatures into the world to be thus destroyed. We seek not idleness and repose for our bodies, but labor for our bodies and repose for our souls. We long as the hart pants after water brooks for this new country. You have brought us thus far out of our wilderness; send us now into this new land where there is peace! We have nothing, nothing. We cannot pay except by our labor in a new country. We ask bounty as we ask the bounty of Heaven, because we are helpless. You have already marvelously befriended us. But for you we should not be living at this day." The Queen turned to the gentleman who sat nearest to her. "He speaks well, my lord." "He speaks from the soul, Madam." Now the Queen conversed rapidly and in a low tone with Peter Schuyler--too rapidly for the Weisers to understand. She mentioned one Hunter of whom they knew nothing, and they waited uneasily, afraid that their audience was at an end and that nothing had been accomplished. When the doorkeeper came forward and led them away, leaving their Indian friends behind, their hearts sank. They made obeisance to the Queen and went slowly toward the door, not daring to speak. Then they saw that Colonel Schuyler followed them. "This day one week at this hour the Queen will see you again. Can you find your way thither?" "Oh, yes, my lord!" answered John Conrad. Outside the two met again curious glances, heard again amused comment. But they regarded neither, scarcely indeed saw the smiles or heard the laughter. Hope had once more taken up an abode in their weary hearts. Daily in the week which followed, Conrad made his way from Blackheath to St. James's Palace, where he gazed at the stone archway and then wandered farther hoping to see again the Indians. To the other Germans the Weisers said nothing of their hopes. The Indians had led them into the city and had there held conversation with them through an interpreter,--beyond that fact they did not go. Their fellow countrymen had been too often cruelly disappointed; until the blessed possibilities of which the Weisers dreamed had become certainties, they would say nothing. Yet hope in their own hearts rose higher and higher. Once more Conrad read his little book, finding in his new acquaintances proof of all that was said in praise of the Indian and contradiction of all that was said in his disparagement. The word "Schoharie" he wrote down and said over and over in his waking hours and in his dreams at night. He had formed a friendship with a lad of his own age, Peter Zenger by name, who, with his ailing father, had suffered as the Weisers had suffered and who had a similar longing for the new land. From Peter during this week he held aloof, determined to tell his secret to no one. Conrad thought a great deal of his father and of the attentive way in which the Queen and her court had listened to him. His father was poor and he had miserable clothes, yet he had not trembled. Of all the Germans no one, not even the magistrate of Oberdorf, who was so certain of his own powers, could have done so well. On the morning of the appointment John Conrad and his son waited for an hour outside the palace gateway. The unkindly feeling of the populace toward the Germans had increased rather than diminished, and as they walked up and down many persons spoke roughly to them. But again, wrapped in their own anxious thoughts, they heard with indifference. Again the Queen sat in the throne-like chair with her gentlemen about her, the same gentlemen so far as Conrad could see, except one who now sat nearest to the Queen and to whom she was speaking when they entered. They looked in vain for their friends of the Mohawk Nation. The Queen bade the Weisers sit side by side on a cushioned bench before her while she continued her conversation with the newcomer whom she called Hunter. Then she bade John Conrad tell again the story of his misfortunes and she listened attentively, her eyes fastened upon him. John Conrad spoke eloquently, though brokenly, once more, and omitted nothing. When in the midst of his account of persecution and misery, one of the fine gentlemen would have stopped him, the Queen bade the story go on. "It is good for us to hear these things. And your wife,--you say nothing of her." Nor did John Conrad say anything. He tried, stammered, halted, tried again, and failed once more. In a second one of the fine gentlemen, Lord Marlborough, began to speak in his easy way. The Queen's face was white, her lips twitched, and she smoothed nervously the black stuff of which her dress was made. Lord Marlborough talked on and on until the Queen herself interrupted him. "We have heard this sad tale before, but never so well told. It is our intention to do all for these poor Germans that we can. In our colony of New York we have already settled the first of those who have come to us. There they dwell in happiness along the banks of Hudson's River and have made for themselves comfortable villages. It is our intention to establish others there in a similar way. "In return we ask certain labors. Our enemies are many. It is necessary that we maintain for ourselves a large fleet upon the sea. Tar and pitch we must buy in great quantities from Sweden and Russia--an enormous and unnecessary expense. In our colony of New York, so says its Governor Hunter, are thousands of acres of pine trees from which we could distill, if we had the workmen, our own supplies. Do you think the Germans could make tar?" "What others can do, we can do," answered John Conrad. "We are not below the rest of the world in intelligence, though we are in possessions. We have among us men of many crafts--husbandmen and vine-dressers, masons and bakers and carpenters, herdsmen and blacksmiths and tanners and millers and weavers. Oh, dear lady, if we were but there!" "The grapes of the new land are said to be finer than the grapes of France," said Lord Marlborough. "It would not be amiss if we could draw from our own stores." Governor Hunter leaned forward eagerly. "It will be time to think of wine when Her Majesty's ships are well caulked," said he impatiently. "The trees must be properly barked two years before they are cut and burned. There will be no time for vine-dressing. The project is as sure of success as the rising of the sun. It cannot fail. Meanwhile, there will be work in other crafts also as in all new settlements. It is understood that the Germans have here an opportunity to repay some of the great expense to which we have been put on their account." "We would not have it otherwise," cried John Conrad. "We are not beggars, except as we beg for a chance to earn our bread. Would that we might begin to-day to pay our great debt!" The Queen smiled. "We must have ships, and they are not easy to find in a sufficient number at present to transport this host. But tell your friends to hold themselves in readiness." Now Conrad breathed a long sigh. "The lad looks at me with a question in his eyes," said the Queen. "What is it, boy?" "Will our new home be near these kind Indians?" asked Conrad, trembling. "Governor Hunter, what of this?" "There are Indians everywhere in plenty," said he. Colonel Schuyler rose, and John Conrad, feeling himself dismissed, rose also. The Queen stopped them with a lifted hand. "About these same Indians, good Weiser. Our possessions lie along the east coast of this great and unexplored country. To the north and to the west, along the course of a vast river and the shores of large inland bodies of water, the French have by guile got possession of the land. Between live tribes of savages, upon whose friendship depends enormous issues. Give thought to this, you and your friends. These Indians who are here represent a great nation or confederation of nations, skilled in the warfare of the forest. It is important that they continue to be our friends. I am told that they do not regard lightly deceit of any sort, and that their revenge upon the treacherous is hideous beyond all describing. Now, fare you well." Again John Conrad tried to speak his gratitude, but could say no word. He dropped to his knees once more, then rose and followed Colonel Schuyler to the door. There Colonel Schuyler put a gold piece into his hand. "For you and Magdalena and Margareta and John Frederick and the others," said he. "The Queen's bounty." By noon of the next day, the German settlement was ready to take ship. John Conrad, as he carried his remarkable announcement from tent to tent and from fire to fire, gave warning that sailing might still be delayed, that the ships were not yet in the harbor, that only a few hundreds could be carried on each vessel, and that these hundreds would be selected according to a method of which they knew nothing. But the Germans would not hear. They packed their belongings once more into bundles, and depression gave place to good cheer, solemnity to hilarity. Some let the fires before their tents go out and all spent their small remaining sums of money for provisions to take on shipboard. Alas, bundles were unpacked, fires were relighted, and the food purchased for the sea eaten on land long before the ships were in harbor and the Germans on board. Some of the bundles were then packed once more by other hands. Before the hour for sailing hundreds of pilgrims, among them the disappointed magistrate of Oberdorf, had come to the end of their journey. The Blackheath camp had become a camp of death. In the weeks which now followed, John Conrad was summoned twice to the palace, not to see the Queen or to meet his Indian benefactors, but to have explained to him, as the chief representative of the Germans, their duties in the new world. Once more the need of the English navy for tar was made clear and the method for extracting it from the pine trees carefully explained. Governor Hunter, who talked to John Conrad at length, was quick of speech and temper, a man who brooked no opposition and listened to few questions. To John Conrad was presented a contract for his signature and that of other Germans, by which they were to promise to perform that which the Queen required. With happy hearts they promised; with overflowing gratitude they heard that they were to receive, after their debt to the Government was paid, twenty-five dollars and forty acres of land. Finally, as Christmas Day drew near, good news came to Blackheath. Ships would be provided for all, the first sailing on Christmas Day. Assigned to the first ship were the Weisers and Conrad's friend Peter Zenger and his father. The rabble of London gathered at the camp to see the Germans start, but now their taunts fell on deaf ears. The new country was just across the sea; peace and plenty were at hand. They thought with sad regret of those who had started with them, but who were no longer here to continue the journey. Though it was winter, the Germans thought little of the storms which they would meet at sea. They were landsmen who knew nothing of the fierce power of the ocean. If they remembered the roughness of the Channel crossing, it was with the consoling reflection that the ocean was there confined to narrow bounds, like the Rhine where its rapids were so swift. It was true that Conrad's little book advised various precautions against illness and misery. But they refused to think of illness or misery. With their long journey so nearly ended, they could endure both. Conrad brought out from its hiding-place George Reimer's flute and discovered to his delight that Peter Zenger had a drum. Perhaps there would be other instruments upon the ship and a band could be formed. To the eyes of Conrad and Peter the ship Lyon looked enormous as it lay in the harbor, its mighty sails furled. From its sides there projected four cannon, regarded by the two boys with terror and delight. A sailor standing on the quay explained that they were to deal with the French and with pirates. "Pirates!" repeated Conrad. "What are they?" "They are freebooters," explained Peter. "I have heard of them. They attack any one whom they please and kill and rob." "Are we _sure_ to meet them?" asked Conrad. "They come out from the shore like wolves," answered the sailor. "But with these cross dogs we can scare them off." But whether there were pirates or not, whether there were storms to meet, or whether they were to sail in a continued calm, the Germans must now get aboard. On Christmas morning the first four hundred embarked upon the ship Lyon for another stage of the long journey. V ACROSS THE SEA So welcome had been the sight of the ship, so blessed the prospect of being able to set out once more, that the Weisers and their friends had no fault to find with the meager provision which had been made for them. They trooped joyfully aboard, disposing themselves and their goods as well as they could. It was true that what seemed to be a large space shrank amazingly as the passengers found places for the bundles and boxes which remained in their possession in spite of all their misfortunes, but of lack of space they made light. Thus crowded together they would not suffer so dreadfully from the cold as they had in the open tents of Blackheath. Besides, the journey would soon be over. Those who had misgivings as the shores of England dropped out of sight, smiled to see Conrad and Peter gazing longingly from the boat's prow toward the west. In comparison with the journey down the Rhine the journey across the Atlantic is dull to most travelers. There are no interesting waitings at landings, there are no towering castles, there are no flowery meadows. But to the children on the ship Lyon there was no moment without its entertainment. There was, to begin with, the never-ending motion of the sea; there was, for the first few days, the almost hourly sight of a distant sail. Presently they began to watch for the spouting of whales and for the dipping and soaring of creatures which were half bird, half fish. The voyage began in a long and unusual calm, so that the older folk could sit comfortably on the deck in the sunshine and the children could scamper about at their games. The captain and the crew were kind and patient, as they needed to be to answer the numberless questions about the ship and her rudder and her white sails and the wide sea upon which she traveled. The mate had crossed the Atlantic Ocean four times and had been many times to Marseilles: to the shivering girls and the delighted boys he told a hundred tales of storms, of waves covering the ship, of rigging locked in ice, of flights from pirates and of battles with the French. "Shall we meet storms like that?" they asked, terrified, yet eager. "I've crossed when the sea was like a raging lion," answered the mate, to please the boys; "and when she was like a smooth pond," he added, to please the girls. Presently the mate rigged up a fishing-line with which the boys took turns. Peter Zenger added an edible dolphin to the ship's food--that was the first catch. Then, Conrad, feeling a powerful tug at his line, was convinced that he had caught a whale, and screamed for help. "It will pull me over," he called. "Come quickly!" The sailor who came to his aid laughed. "You could have let go!" When they hauled in the catch it proved to be a shark, at whose enormous mouth and hideous teeth the girls screamed. Thereafter they scarcely looked over the side of the ship. Among themselves the older folk reviewed again and again their persecutions, their griefs, and their hopes. To the younger men and women John Conrad talked long and earnestly. "If all that we hear is true, children, this new land will be the finest land in the world. There are fertile fields; there are great forests and rivers, such as we know nothing of; there are rich ores. Above all, there are young, eager hearts. I believe that there will also be new governments, which will, please God, be different from the old. In this new country every man should have a fair chance. I am growing old, I shall not have much to do with the affairs of the new country, but my children may. Let them remember their own history and be always on the side of the oppressed. You may be divided from one another. Our new friends may forsake us. You will have griefs and sorrows like the rest of mankind. You must learn to find companionship in yourselves and help from above. You must learn to be independent of others, even of those who love you and whom you love." Daily Conrad and Peter practiced on their flute and drum. There were, as they had hoped, other instruments on the ship and a band was organized which played many lively tunes. Sometimes the boys were allowed to help with the furling of a sail or the giving out of the supply of food and water. They were shown by the friendly mate the ship's store of arms and ammunition, a store which seemed to their inexperienced eyes sufficient to meet a whole fleet of pirates. "If they would but come!" sighed Conrad and Peter to themselves. Presently John Conrad's watchful eyes saw a new expression in the eyes of his oldest daughter. She sat often by herself, and when she joined the general company one of the young men, Baer by name, was certain to put himself as soon as possible by her side. John Conrad sighed, scolded his son Conrad and Peter Zenger for their constant punning on the young man's name, and then took his own medicine. "They must leave me one by one," said he to himself. "Magdalena will doubtless soon be showing the same signs. Thank God, they can start together in a land of peace and plenty!" Through January all went well with the pilgrims. Then Peter Zenger's father succumbed to the disease with which he had been afflicted. The end was sudden to no one but Peter, who would not be comforted. To him John Conrad talked when the solemn burial was completed. "You believe in God and Heaven, dear child. Your father was worn and weary and he is at rest until the last day. You are young with life before you. You have your new country; to it you must devote yourself, heart and soul. The good God closes all gates sometimes so that we may see the more plainly the one through which He means we should go." With the death of Zenger the character of the journey changed. As the calm of the early part of January had been extraordinary, so now were the storms. There appeared one morning along the western horizon a low bank of clouds which the children took at first, in wild enthusiasm, for land. As the clouds rose higher and higher, the color of the sea changed to a strange oily gray, and suddenly the ship began to rock as though the waves were rising like the clouds. Now a great wind whistled in the rigging with a sound different from any which the passengers had heard. "What is it, father?" cried Sabina. "I am afraid." The Germans looked at one another ominously. For many days there was no sitting about the deck. No passenger was allowed, indeed, to leave the hold of the ship. The vessel, which had come to seem as solid as the earth, was tossed about like a cork. Again and again waves covered it, again and again with sails closely furled it fought for its life. The coverings of the hatchways were burst open and the sea rushed in. Giving themselves up many times for lost, the passengers tried to be as brave as they could. Those who could keep on their feet did all that lay in their power for their companions, and through the intolerable hours they prayed. When, once or twice during the storm, the captain visited them, they took courage from him. "Conrad shall still catch a whale," said he in a voice which was cheerful through all its weary hoarseness. "And Peter shall play his drum, and the young maidens shall smile upon the young men." Finally the long storm died away. The passengers were startled to realize that the Lyon shook and quivered no longer, that silence had succeeded the dreadful creaking in the timbers and the fearful whistling in the rigging, and that as the storm abated they had each one fallen asleep. Now followed many days of cold, bright weather. Again the travelers sought the deck and the sunshine. Peter Zenger was able to remind Conrad one day, with a weak little smile, of the advice given by the book of directions. "It would have taken a pretty lively swing to prepare us for such a shaking," said he. In a day or two Peter lifted his drum and the band returned to its practicing. At first they played solemn tunes; then, with returning color to their cheeks, came fresh cheerfulness and courage. Even the older folk joined cheerfully in "Susy, dear Susy." The sailors mended the sails, the girls took out their knitting, and the children played about on the deck. But the whole-hearted gayety of the early journey did not return. The great storm had taken fearful toll, and there were already twenty passengers less than there had been at the beginning. The crowding of the ship had become a serious menace to health. There were a few sick persons at whom the captain looked more anxiously than he had looked at the angry clouds or the tempestuous sea. Not the least of the dangers of the long journey were various diseases, contagious and deadly, which, once started, could scarcely be checked. Now another terrible peril threatened the ship Lyon. The supply of food brought by the passengers was entirely exhausted, and that furnished by the ship was small in quantity and hardly edible. The drinking-water had become foul, and through a leak in one of the wooden casks a large quantity had been lost. Passengers and crew watched the sky for a cloud. When at last the cloud appeared, it was accompanied again by the terrible wind and the heaving sea of the great storm. Again the passengers spent a week in the hold while the ship battled with a tempest which broke the rudder. Their respect for the captain and the stanch vessel which carried them grew to admiration and then to awe. "It is no wonder they call the ship 'she,'" said Conrad feebly. "One would think it was alive. It is well named 'Lyon,' for it fights for us like a lion." Again the passengers returned to the deck, more weak and miserable than before. The supply of water gathered in the storm sank lower and lower in the cask, the rations of salt pork and sea biscuit became daily smaller. Finally a day dawned when the supply of water was gone and the supply of food so low that starvation and death were imminent. John Conrad went about from group to group telling of the glories of the heavenly country to which their passage seemed now but the matter of a short time. Then came help. A faint speck appeared upon the horizon. The children, when they saw it, flew to the captain, who, they discovered, had been watching it for an hour. It grew larger and larger, not into the shape of a rain cloud, but into the shape of a vessel. Young Conrad guessed the nature of the hope in the captain's eager eyes. "Might they have food and water for us?" The captain shook his head. "We cannot tell. They may be as badly off as we are." The ship came closer and closer, flying, they saw joyfully, the pennant of England. The passengers grew silent and eyes burned and hearts almost ceased to beat. Presently they were able to hear a shout across the smooth sea. It was surely a friendly hail, and still the ship came nearer and nearer. Then the travelers heard, almost unbelieving, the blessed words:-- "We have potatoes and ground beans and dried venison from Her Majesty's colony. Do you wish to buy?" "Yes," shouted the captain: "all you have." "We have water, also. Do you need any?" To this replied a hurrah from every throat on the ship Lyon. "Thank God! Thank God!" cried the poor Germans. In a short time the water casks were aboard and with them bags of vegetables and meat. For several hours the ship stood near and the sailors coming aboard the Lyon showed the Germans how to roast the potatoes in an open fire on the deck. Never had food tasted so good and water so delicious. It was a happy promise from the new country. But the ship which brought this welcome freight brought also bad news. The freebooters along the coast were unusually active. The captain of the Lyon must look well to his guns. Everywhere in the ports of the new country one heard of ships boarded, of treasure taken, and of crew and passengers murdered The more closely the vessel approached the shores of America, the greater was the danger. The Germans looked at one another with despair. "We have suffered as much as we can bear!" cried some one. "We have no treasures," said John Conrad to the captain. "Why should any one molest people so poor as we are?" "My ship would be a treasure for them," answered the captain. "For that they would murder every soul on board." Daily the passengers were assembled and drilled. The crew was only sufficient to sail the ship; for its defense the passengers would have to be depended upon. They were instructed in the firing of the cannon and informed about the methods of pirates in attacking a vessel. "I have stood them off before," said the captain, uneasily, to John Conrad. "But I have always had more powder than I have now and a few trained gunners. If they are once aboard, we shall have to fight like tigers for our lives. They give no quarter." Now sabers and pistols were laid ready so that there might be no confusion when the pirate ship was sighted. The women and children eyed the weapons fearfully; the men tried to laugh at their alarm. No one but the very youngest of the children slept the night through. But no pirate ship appeared. The air grew softer and warmer; all began to breathe more freely and to look ahead, not for the ship of the dread enemy, but for the land. Eyes of passengers and crew were weary of the sea. "They are afraid of our cross dogs," said Conrad, half wishing, as the danger faded, for a battle. "Perhaps some brave captain has swept them from the sea," said Peter. "That would be a work I should like. I should board their ships as they have boarded others and then I should give no quarter." At last, after the captain had declared the danger past, and had jokingly bidden the boys keep constant eyes upon the west for the promised land, the sailor on watch gave a loud cry:-- "Ship, ahoy!" At once the passengers crowded to the prow of the boat. The approaching ship was a tiny speck, visible only to the sharpest eyes. For a long time it seemed to remain stationary; then they realized that it was steadily approaching. Children began to cry and mothers to hold them closer and closer. "It is coming very fast, is it not?" said Conrad to the captain. "Pretty fast." "It is not necessarily a pirate ship," said John Conrad. "It may be a friendly ship." "I believe it brings us good water and more food," said Sabina. "I am sure that I can see the English flag," said George Frederick. But the passengers were not allowed to linger long at the prow speculating about the strange vessel. Suddenly hopes were dashed and all speculations and prophecies interrupted by a sharp order from the captain. Women and children were to go below and each man was to take his place at once at the post assigned him. The ammunition--a perilously small store--was divided. Conrad and Peter Zenger were the youngest passengers who were allowed to stay on deck. They had been included in the drills, but for them there was now neither gun nor powder. They were given orders to keep out of the way of the crew and the older men. If any of the defenders fell, they might take their places. The two boys crouched down close to the mast, not venturing to go below to put away the drum and flute upon which they had been playing when the alarm was given. Nearer and nearer came the strange ship. It was not so large as the Lyon, and it responded far more quickly to its helm. In the quickening breeze from the west it advanced with great speed. It floated no pennant--the wish of the Germans had been father to the thought. Now a sailor in the masthead of the Lyon sent out a friendly hail. There was no answer. Again the sailor shouted. Still there was no reply. The crew of the Lyon could see now plainly armed men upon the deck of the stranger. The captain spoke in a whisper to the mate. "We have powder for two rounds. Not enough to keep them off for five minutes. We--" The stranger seemed actually to leap ahead, and the captain's eyes flashed. He raised his hands before his mouth like a trumpet. "Fire!" The two cannon which pointed toward the strange ship spit out a long streak of flame, and the Lyon trembled with a terrific detonation. When the smoke cleared away, it was plainly to be seen that the pirates were not frightened by the warning shots. The balls had fallen short, and the pirate ship sailed on, as though to take quick advantage of the time required to reload the cannon. It was now so near that the evil faces could be clearly discerned upon its deck. VI THE PIRATE SHIP It was small wonder that the passengers on the Lyon were almost paralyzed with terror. They were not soldiers, nor accustomed to taking the part of soldiers, and they were not fighting upon a battlefield, distant from their loved ones, but close to them where the danger threatened alike themselves and all they held dear. The fact made them at once more courageous and more terrified. It was known by all that powder was short and that the accuracy of the next shot would probably decide their fate. Their hands grew more and more awkward, their cheeks whiter. Conrad and Peter sprang to their feet, seeing plainly the panic on the faces of the gunners who were trying to reload the cannon, and upon the faces of the others who stood, saber or pistol in hand, waiting for what seemed to be certain destruction. One frightened soul fired his pistol prematurely, another waved his saber wildly in the air. If the freebooters saw, they must have anticipated an easy victory. "If we only had pistols!" cried Peter shrilly. The captain shouted fierce orders, and still the gunners fumbled at their task. Now Conrad ran to the captain's side. A wild plan had suddenly occurred to him. "We could play," cried he breathlessly, "Peter and I. There was a trumpeter on a castle wall who played and played till--" "Play, then!" With trembling lips and hands the two boys began. The flute gave forth a sharp piping, the drum tried to roar as fiercely as the cannon. There was at first no tune, there was at first, indeed, only a mad discord. And still the pirate ship came on. "Louder! Louder! Louder!" The boys did not know whether they had heard or had imagined the command. They were playing "Susy, dear Susy," and playing it like a jig. As though its sprightliness steadied them, arms grew stronger, breath more even. The gunners heard, the infantry heard, the women and children shivering in the hold heard, and best of all the evil men on the pirate ship heard. The hands of the gunners trembled a little less, the hands which held the pistols and sabers grasped them more firmly, the women and children looked with a tiny bit of hope into one another's eyes, and the pirates looked at one another with astonishment. It may have been that the captain of the pirate ship did not care to try conclusions with a force which could spare men to play the drum and flute; it may have been that he could observe that the firing of the second shot was the matter of only a second or two; or it may have been that merely the lively defiance of "Susy, dear Susy," discouraged him. At any rate, he altered the course of his vessel. When the second shot sailed after him, he had darted out of range. At first the passengers of the Lyon stared as though a spell had been put upon them. A moment ago they had been in danger of their lives; now they were safe while the enemy sailed away. Some laughed aloud, others wiped their eyes, and a sailor flung open the hatchway and shouted the good news to the anxious hearts below. Though the distance between the Lyon and her enemy grew wider and wider until presently the stranger had vanished over the horizon's edge, the sailors kept watch until nightfall. But the passengers gave no thought now to an enemy. They saw, late in the afternoon, a sailor lowering the sounding-line over the ship's side. They had watched this process many times. But the earnestness of the sailor and the eager watching of his companions gave it a new significance. Into the group at the ship's edge young Conrad forced his way. "How much?" said he. The sailors paid no attention and Conrad concluded to wait. Presently the line was drawn in and the sailor announced to the captain in a loud voice,-- "Thirty-five fathoms, sir." "That is shallow," said Conrad. "Is there any danger?" The sailors laughed. "There is danger of seeing land to-morrow," said one. To this no one made any reply for a long moment. Then another shout arose like the one which had greeted the arrival of water and food. In one moment the news had spread: in another, though the captain laughed, the women were descending to pack boxes and to tie up the bundles in the hold. But no one stayed long below the deck. Margareta and Magdalena with one bundle packed climbed back to look toward the west. John Conrad's expectation was being realized; there was now a young man by the side of Magdalena also. The captain laughed at them for watching for land as he laughed at them for packing. "To-morrow, my children, not to-day. You may look your eyes out to-day and you will see nothing, and there will be plenty of time after we see land for you to pack your clothes." Nevertheless, the Germans looked and looked, though, as the captain prophesied, they saw nothing. But they would not leave their place in the bow. Sitting together, they reviewed the journey and the more distant past. They spoke of the Fatherland, of those left behind who might some day follow them, like George Reimer, of those, like the magistrate of Oberdorf, whom they should never see again, and of those already on the way in other ships. They spoke also in quiet voices of those who slept, like the mother of the Weisers, in quiet graveyards. They spoke of bondage and liberty and of war and peace and of a strange new freedom, of which there was in the hearts of a few a dim conception, like the tiny seed of a mighty tree. They spoke with gratitude of the good Queen and offered a prayer for her, and for other friends, like the good helmsman on the river boat. They spoke of the strange red people, and Conrad must find his little book and read once more of their skill as hunters, of their devotion in friendship and of their ferocity in war and in revenge. Longest of all they talked of the King of Rivers and his companions. "It is my object to find them first of all," said Conrad. "I am sure they are looking for us to come to the country which they gave us." Once again must Conrad and Peter and the rest of the band play their old tunes, grave and gay, mournful and lively; once again must all join in song. Twilight came and then the starry, summer night, and still the pilgrims sat gazing toward the west. All night a few kept vigil. At daylight every one was on deck. The morning dawned in splendor, but no one turned to watch the rising sun. At last, when the bright rays illuminated the whole of earth and heaven, they saw through tears the low shores of the promised land. But now that land was in sight, the Lyon was not able to get into the harbor. Already as the passengers watched the shore a storm was rising. It was not so severe as those which had gone before nor so long continued, but it was far more alarming since the ship was now in danger of being cast upon the reefs. It seemed for many days that the passengers had endured all for naught. It was like being sent back into mid-ocean to suffer once more all the fearful trials through which they had lived. Again the captain grew wan and hollow-eyed, again the travelers lived for days in the hold of the ship, again there was sickness and death. Some of those who had seen the promised land saw it no more, nor any earthly land. There was no concealing the fact that those who were ill had ship fever, which was almost certain, in the conditions in which the patients had to live, to be fatal. Little John Frederick, the youngest of the Weisers, about whose health they had long felt anxiety, grew worse, so that his brothers and sisters could not look at him without tears. Still the pilgrims were patient and kind, still they tried not to murmur at this new dispensation of Providence. "Courage!" said John Conrad a dozen times a day, to himself, as well as to his companions. "Many a good enterprise has failed because those who undertook it could not endure quite to the end." The pilgrims were to have, alas, need for all the courage and patience which they could summon. When a long swell succeeded the fierce beating of the waves and the skies cleared, they sought the deck once more, and hurried to the prow. There they stared at one another in amazement and terror. The promised land at which they had looked with such longing eyes had vanished. "What has become of it?" asked a bewildered company. "It is still exactly where it was," answered the captain. "It is we who have changed our place." "When shall we see it again?" The captain reassured them with a cheerfulness which he did not feel. The ship had been driven far out of its course; it would take many days to win again a view of the low-lying shores. It was now June. Unless conditions in the new world were very different from those in the old, the season for planting was almost passed: and John Conrad's eagerness to be settled grew to anxiety. Whatever young Conrad's book might say about the strength of the sun in America, it was certain that the pilgrims must have a house and some stores of food and fuel with which to meet the winter. Again they gazed toward the west until, between the blinding glare of the sun on the smooth sea and their own tears, they could see no more. But like all evils in the world the long journey came to an end. The travelers had given up rising before dawn to watch the first beams of the sun strike on the western shores, when one bright morning a shout awoke them. "Land! Land! Land!" Though it needed but one call to rouse the sleepers, the sailor called a dozen times, as though the joyful news could not be too often proclaimed. The travelers crowded on deck; they saw the shore much nearer at hand than it had been before, and green instead of a dull, indeterminate color; they were surrounded by fluttering birds; they sniffed upon the air a different odor, an odor of land and growing things. Then with one accord their eyes sought the sky to see if once more a cloud threatened them. But there was no cloud even so large as a man's hand, and the dangerous reefs were passed safely. "But we are not moving!" cried young Conrad. "What is the matter?" The captain pointed ahead, and Conrad saw a long rowboat cutting the water. "We can't go into the harbor without a pilot," said the captain. "Here he comes." Indifferent to the fact that their belongings were, after all their planning, not ready to be carried to the shore, the passengers hung over the side of the ship. There was a loud hail from the little boat, and an answering shout from the captain of the Lyon. Suddenly Conrad cried out and seized his father by the arm. "Look! Look!" "What is it, lad?" Then John Conrad saw for himself. The rowers were dark-skinned, black-haired creatures whose great bare bodies gleamed in the sun. The King of Rivers and his friends had been blanketed, but there was no mistaking these for any but men of their race. "They are Indians," said Conrad, in awe. Now a rope ladder was flung over the side of the ship and the pilot came aboard. He shook hands with the captain and the mate, and then lifted from the hands of an Indian who had followed him a roughly woven basket. "I always bring something for the birds," said he in a loud voice as he uncovered it. For a moment both children and adults could only stare at him dumbly. He was real, he came from America, and America had begun to seem like the figment of a dream: his was a new face, and they had seen no new faces for months. But when the children looked into his basket, they ran forward. Here were cherries for mouths which had forgotten the taste of fruit; here were strawberries for lips which had never touched strawberries. An old woman began to weep. "Cherries like those in the gardens of Württemberg, God be thanked!" John Conrad looked at the pilot a little uneasily. "We cannot pay," said he. The pilot popped a strawberry into the mouth of John Frederick. "Tut, tut," said he, "you are in a land of plenty. To-morrow when I come to take you in I will bring more." "To-morrow!" echoed a dozen voices. "Oh, sir, can we not go in to-day?" The pilot shook his head. "Not till to-morrow." "But the storm came before and drove us far away." "No storm will drive you away now." With sinking hearts the pilgrims saw the pilot descend again over the side of the ship and enter his boat and row away. "I do not believe he will return," said one despairing soul. But in a few minutes the speaker and every one else on board had begun to pack. Pots and dishes, pans and kettles, clothes, a few spinning-wheels, the few treasured books--all were boxed or wrapped or corded together. The Weisers, remembering gayly that they had once made nine bundles for eight persons, made careful division of their belongings. "The spinning-wheel is not here and dear Wolf is not here, but we have everything else," said Margareta. "Including a tame bear," ventured Conrad, knowing that there would be no boxing of ears to-day. To the laughing astonishment of the travelers, the pilot was on the deck in the morning when they came up to greet the sun. He rallied them upon their laziness and passed out another gift of fruit, and then took command of the ship. To the keen disappointment of the boys the Indians did not come on board, but were towed in their rowboat. Past the low shores of Long Island, nearer and nearer to the village of New York moved the Lyon, more and more excited grew the pilgrims. "I can see houses!" "And smoke rising from chimneys!" "And men walking about!" "There is a wharf with people on it!" "We are here at last, at last!" Some one started a hymn and a single stanza was sung. Then voices failed. John Conrad stood silently, his older children close to him and little John Frederick in his arms. With them was Peter Zenger, his arm round Conrad's neck. John Conrad saw the house and the people and the strange shore, and the certainty of impending change swept over him. These--his boys and girls--what would befall them? They were his now, but the new land must divide them from him. Each must do his work. Already the sound of voices drifted to him from this alien shore. He longed to put into one sentence all his love and hope. With brimming eyes he looked at his little flock for whom he had made the long journey, for whom he had forgotten sadness and heartache. "Children," he said. "Margareta and Magdalena and Sabina and Conrad--" John Conrad's voice faltered. In a moment he began once more with a new message. "Children,--George and Christopher and Barbara and little John and dear Peter,--here is now your Fatherland." VII THE HOME ASSIGNED Close together the Weisers stepped from the gangplank of the Lyon. Their question as to what they were to do was soon solved by their prompt shepherding from the wharf into small boats by the officers of the port. "Where do we go?" asked John Conrad in astonishment. "There has been ship fever on the Lyon," answered some one. "You go to Nuttall's Island." Like millions to follow them, the Germans soon gazed from Nuttall's Island across the bay. They were given little houses to live in, and as the magistrate of Oberdorf had greeted them on Blackheath, they greeted presently their friends from the other ships. There were happy reunions, there were stories of death and danger by sea, there was the common hope of better things. When the cool winds of September began to blow and they were still waiting to be released from what seemed like captivity, the Germans became impatient and then frightened. They wished to set to work so that they might the sooner finish their task of tar-making and begin to labor on their own account. During the long journey boys and girls had grown up; like Conrad, other boys longed for adventure, and like Margareta, other young women wished to begin the establishment of a home. Among the Germans there was suddenly a new spirit of independence. Here was not the goal for which they had striven. "The Governor has not completed his arrangements," said John Conrad to his impatient countrymen. "Then let us go to that Schoharie which the Indians gave us." Conrad spoke for all the younger Germans. "We are bound to make tar," reminded John Conrad, who looked at his son in amazement. Presently came Governor Hunter, who had crossed the ocean in one of the last ships of the fleet. His visit, so eagerly expected, had a sorrowful outcome. From one end of the settlement to the other he walked and at the cabin of John Conrad he paused. "You are to go soon to Livingston Manor to begin your work. You are the man who was in the Queen's audience room. I depend upon you to be a good influence among your fellows." His bright gaze traveled from child to child. "You have a large family." Before John Conrad could answer, young Conrad stepped from the doorway, disregarding his father's frown. "Oh, sir, I wish we might go to Schoharie!" Governor Hunter looked at him coldly. "You will go where I send you." When the Governor had gone, his agent announced a startling command which he had left. Among the Germans were too many children. In New York and on Long Island were farmers and merchants who needed help. To them the orphans and some other young lads must be apprenticed. "Not our children!" cried Magdalena. John Conrad shook his head ominously. He had counted his children over before he left the ship,--was separation to come so soon? That evening he admonished gentle Christopher and grave George Frederick tenderly and solemnly. "We must submit to the Governor's will," said he. "My little lads know what is right. To do right is all that is required of them." The next day boats anchored at Nuttall's Island and from them stepped English and Dutch farmers and their wives. Upon the heads of Christopher and George Frederick were laid a pair of plump hands. "These I would like," said a kind voice. The eager eyes of the Weiser family gazed through tears. "Both together?" asked John Conrad thickly. "Both together," answered the farmer's wife. "We have a good farm and no children." When she saw that little Christopher cried, she put her hand into the deep pocket in the skirt of her husband's coat and drew out a bar of maple sugar, the only candy of the colonies. "I put something in my pocket for my new children." Then she sat down on the rough bench before the little door. "The boats will not go back for a long time to come. In the mean time we will talk." Now more tears were shed, but they were not bitter tears. The English of the Weisers was broken, but it sufficed to relate the sad history of Gross Anspach, the kindness of George Reimer, the cruel cold on Blackheath, and the dangers of the sea. When the time for parting came, the Weisers trooped to the boats. Peter Zenger was to go also, with a brisk printer, Bradford by name. Hands were waved until they could wave no longer; then the Weisers turned back to their little hut. "Two are gone," said John Conrad, bewildered. "My dear children! My dear children!" Then poor John Conrad burst once more into tears. When in November twelve hundred of the four thousand Germans who had left Blackheath ascended the Hudson River, there was another grievous parting. Margareta's young man had found work in New York, but until he earned a little he and Margareta could not marry. One of the Weisers, at least, looked back instead of forward as the heavily laden boats made their slow way up the stream. Conrad wished to stay also and find work, but neither the Governor's agent nor his father would give him permission. The agent, Cast by name, was sharp of tongue, and with him the young men had begun to dispute. Others like Conrad were strong of will and hot of temper. In the long period of waiting, gratitude to the English had somewhat faded. The arrival at the new home was dreary. Upon the stretch of forest in which the settlement was to be made there was only the agent's comfortable log house. It was late afternoon when the pilgrims were put ashore. At sight of the unimproved and repellent spot they looked at one another in dismay. "Is it for this that we have come so far?" John Conrad began again his old work of encouragement. "At last we have work to do. By night we must have some sort of shelter." The next day substantial houses of logs began to rise among the tall pine trees. John Conrad's suspicions about his second daughter proved to be true. Quiet Magdalena and the young man upon whom she had smiled announced that they, too, would build a house. Then, when houses were built and logs were burning in the great chimneys, the Germans waited idly. Tar-making was not to begin, it seemed, until spring. Again John Conrad counseled patience. "We are here, we cannot get away and, moreover, we have given our word. We are fed and clothed. In the spring things will be better. We cannot expect everything at once." Young Conrad answered sharply. "The men say that this land will never be good farming land, father. After the pine trees are cut, we shall have nothing. I would find that Schoharie which the Indians gave us. There is our home." John Conrad shook his head. "We must have patience," said he. Slowly the winter passed. In the cold of January little John Frederick, so loved and cherished, died, and was the first of the colony to be buried in the new land. "Now," said John Conrad, "it is our land, indeed." In April Magdalena was married by a clergyman who came from the older German settlement across the river. The wedding was merry: even Margareta, who had heard but once from her lover, put anxiety away and smiled and danced the old-fashioned dances of Gross Anspach weddings. When Magdalena had gone to the little log house with her husband, John Conrad sat before his door. "She has done well. Now of nine, only four are left me." Once during the winter Conrad saw an Indian. The tall figure crossed the end of a little glade and as fast as he could Conrad pursued it. But the Indian had vanished; there was neither sound nor motion in the still forest. Gradually, their lands taken from them, themselves often ill-treated, the Indians were withdrawing from the neighborhood of the settlements. In great excitement Conrad hurried to his father. "Father, I have seen an Indian. Let us ask him to guide us to Schoharie!" "We are not permitted to go." "Let us go without permission. I can fight, father." Again John Conrad regarded his son with astonishment. "We have come for peace, not for war. God knows we have suffered enough from war! Let me hear no more of such madness, Conrad, and sit no more with the young men, but with your sisters." In the early spring tools were given out for the cutting of the pine trees and slashes were made in the tough bark so that the sap might gather. In two years the trees would be felled and burned in kilns. In the early summer came a new command. Over the great continent evil forces were astir. Like the bent bow, the line of the French and their allied Indians stretched from Montreal to New Orleans, its curve including the Mississippi; like the string within stretched the English line. There was conflict at Montreal where the Five Nations were true to their English alliance, and thither the Germans were to go in three companies. At once they forgot their wrongs and willingly they started, John Conrad in command of a company. The Germans gave the Queen little help, not because they were not willing and able, but because the short campaign was almost over. They marched back as they had come, congratulating themselves upon the pay they would receive for military service. At last they could buy a few spinning-wheels and perhaps a horse and cow. But the Governor's agent laughed. "Does a man pay extra to his servants?" "You did not give us our due food while they were away!" cried young Conrad. The agent shook his fist. "Return your arms and get back to your work!" When the arms were returned, a dozen guns were lacking. The older Germans were clearly puzzled, but the guns could not be found. In a week the Governor came again to visit his colony. His shoulders were bent and his countenance had changed. The good Queen was dead and the support promised for his cherished enterprise of tar-making came slowly from her successor. To the Governor appealed now the leading men of the settlement. Perhaps it was the cruel contrast between his magnificence and their rags which made him at first willing to listen and to conciliate. As John Conrad had talked bravely and simply to the Queen, so he spoke to the Governor. The oldest of the settlers shared by this time the discontent of the young men. "It is almost a year since we came and we have done nothing for ourselves. Even if we can make tar, we are not advanced because this land is not farming land. We beg to be allowed to go to that country which the Indians gave us, where we can have permanent homes. Is there no pine there?" The Governor made no answer. "And we would have pay for our service as soldiers. We are very poor, as you can see, and soldiering was not in our bargain." The Governor smiled as his agent had smiled. "You will serve yourself and your friends best by counseling obedience," said he. "You cannot go away." When the Governor had gone, his agent walked down the street of the settlement. In his path stood young Conrad, who forgot once more his father's admonitions. "The Germans have guns, sir," said Conrad. Cast returned at once to his house. In a moment his servant was riding rapidly along the river-bank to intercept the Governor at the next settlement, twenty miles away. "I am charged with a message to Your Honor," he cried breathlessly at sight of the Governor. "The German people are armed. Our lives are not safe." The Governor sailed up the river once more. When he reached Livingston Manor, it was dark and the Germans knew nothing of his coming nor of the prompt departure of the agent's servant through the forest to the north. The next afternoon they were called together. To their amazement the Governor appeared. In a stern voice he read a contract to them. "But that is not our contract," protested a mystified John Conrad. "We--" The Governor waved them from his presence. "It is your contract. Think over your situation and return to-morrow." That evening the older Germans talked earnestly in the Weiser house. They agreed to ask again that they be permitted to leave and that they be paid. But to resist they were helpless. Resistance, moreover, was wrong. For a while Conrad listened; then he joined a score of young men who waited for him outside in the shadow. "It is all for peace," said he. "I believe that Governor Hunter means to entrap them." Quietly the young men slipped into the darker woods. Into a little cave high above the river, Conrad crept on hands and knees. One by one he passed out a dozen guns. Though the leader of the enterprise was the youngest of all, his friends looked at him with admiration. In their admiration Conrad forgot his own somewhat troublesome conscience. In the morning, John Conrad and his friends visited the Governor. They had, they said, considered their situation, and they were not satisfied. The Governor looked over their heads in the direction of Albany. "We do not wish to be undutiful," explained John Conrad. "What we ask is only justice. We did not promise to stay forever in a barren land." John Conrad's voice trembled as it had trembled in Gross Anspach when he spoke of the country which they had seen in their dreams. "We wish to go to Schoharie." "Whether or not you 'wish to go to Schoharie,'" the Governor mocked them like a child, "you are to stay here." Now the Governor stamped his foot. "Here is your land, here you are to live and die!" The agent could not resist a temptation to add a word. "You should be shot for your impertinence!" Then the agent gave a wild scream. The punishment which he proposed so angrily seemed likely to be carried into effect upon himself. Upon the little house he saw an armed host approaching. Waiting for sound of strife, the young men had come to the defense of their elders. "They will murder us!" screamed the agent. Young Conrad stepped inside the door. "We ask only--" Then Conrad paused. Neither the Governor nor the agent was listening to what he was saying. Even the eyes of his father, which had looked upon him with horrified amazement, were turned away. From the young men behind him came a loud warning to run, and he turned his head. Among the trees was a gleam of red and a glitter of steel. The agent's servant had made a swift trip to the British garrison at Albany. "Captain, collect these guns," commanded the Governor. Then he turned to young Conrad. "Another stirring-up of rebellion and you will pay the penalty of a rebel." Now the Germans gave up their arms and went back to their work. Some of the trees were said to be fit for felling and a few kilns were constructed. In these the pine knots were first to be burned. To the task of gathering them the little children were appointed and Conrad was made their superintendent. The work was humiliating and he obeyed unwillingly. His father had said nothing to him of his rebellion, but he knew that it was constantly in John Conrad's mind. The presence of the red-coated soldiers, who treated the whole settlement like dangerous criminals, was, John Conrad may have thought, reproach enough. Now another winter came and passed, a winter of idleness and discontent for Conrad, of sadness for Margareta, and of great physical suffering for all. The miserable substitutes for woolen clothes, the poor food, the bitter cold weakened their bodies and depressed their minds. No longer could Conrad enliven the camp with music, since his dear flute had to be exchanged for food. The Governor's agent now played upon it, but he played no German tunes. Barbara and Sabina grew as pale and thin as their older sister, whose hopes of seeing her lover had almost died. Once more as on shipboard John Conrad thought and spoke of the beauties of the heavenly country. Presently John Conrad was served with an astonishing notice. The Germans might go! Hearts leaped; there were cries of joy. Then the hand which held the order began to tremble. "We may go south or east, but not north or west. To Schoharie we dare not go. It is my opinion that this business of tar-making has failed. It cannot be that they will turn us adrift and yet forbid us that which is ours. God in heaven help us!" To the confused and terrified settlement came another fearful threat. No longer, said the Governor, would he feed women or children who had no men to repay him in labor. A few single men married at once their young countrywomen who were without support. Among them was John Conrad. The summer passed in uncertainty. In September another notice came. The business of tar-making was for the present ended. The Germans would receive no more food, but must shift for themselves. With cruel thoroughness they were now abandoned. "And we dare not go to Schoharie!" they cried. "Last week Kniskern tried to get away and the soldiers brought him back. We--" Then upon the frightened assembly rushed young Conrad. "The soldiers are gone!" With one accord the council adjourned, running to the upper end of the settlement. The camp-ground was deserted. Now it was proposed that the settlement should start as a body with the dawn. At this poor Margareta burst into tears. In the wilderness her young man could never find her. It had been some small comfort to feel that at least he knew where she was. But Margareta was to have a little longer to watch and wait. Once more the dissuading voice of John Conrad warned his companions. "My friends! We do not know where this land is. A few chosen men must make their way thither in the two rude boats owned by the settlers, and consult with the Indians and return. At Albany we might find a guide. It is the only way." For hours the council sat in the Weiser house. It was agreed that seven men should start in the morning. Conrad sat listening, his eyes looking through the log walls, across the blue river, his heart longing to see once more those great warriors, his friends. When the council had adjourned, he caught his father by the arm. "Oh, father, let me go, too!" "We dare not take more than are necessary, lad." "I will be wise and patient, father." "You have yet to prove yourself to be so, Conrad." John Conrad looked gravely into the beseeching eyes. "Your time of responsibility will come, lad; see that you are ready for it." VIII THE FLIGHT BEGINS Though Conrad was not allowed to go to Schoharie with his father and the other deputies, he was allowed to see them on their way. The evening following the council at which their plans were made, the moon rose late, a fact which suited their purposes. "We can slip away in the darkness, and still have the moon to light our journey," said John Conrad. "It may be that they are watching us. There will be two boats, and these must be brought back, since we may find a shorter path through the forest when we return." Conrad's blue eyes lifted to his father's in appeal. "Let me go with you and bring the boats back. I can row well and I will be very careful." John Conrad consulted with his friends. When they said "yes," Conrad rushed to get ready. The journey to Albany consumed three days. Here and there, where the banks of the river were low, the travelers saw fine farms which they longed to possess. They did not dare to stop, however, to inspect the land, since it seemed to them that they could hear on every breeze the sound of pursuers, bidding them return to the slavery which was worse than death. There were no villages and they passed but few boats. If they were hailed, Conrad answered in the best English he could muster. Albany was only a small settlement, but here was stationed the garrison of soldiers from which the company had been sent to subdue the Germans, and therefore recognition and arrest were easily possible. The two boats were beached late in the afternoon below the town, and here the deputies hid until nightfall. When darkness came Conrad, rowing one boat and towing the other, dropped quietly downstream with the current. In a thick wood to which his father had pointed him on the upward journey, he stayed alone during the warm September night. He was tired, but it was a long time before he could go to sleep. He heard a gentle wind moving the treetops; he heard a twig snap near by, as though some wild creature were coming closer and closer with sinister intent. Several times he sprang to his feet. When the dim landscape appeared unchanged and without living inhabitants, he lay down once more. Still he could not sleep. His thoughts traveled to Livingston Manor with its cruel disappointments, to the long ocean journey, to Blackheath, even to Gross Anspach. What vague, splendid dreams he had had of the future and of the new land! He had dreamed of becoming rich and powerful and important, and all he had succeeded in doing was gathering a few pine knots! Remembering that childish service, he laughed bitterly. If his father had given him his way he might have done better, but his father would not believe that he was a man. Then, before more dreary thoughts came to depress him, he fell asleep, his head pillowed on his arm, his weary body finding the hard ground a downy bed. Early in the morning he continued his journey down the river, his eyes watching carefully for enemies. But no emissaries of an angry Governor came to meet him. The Germans were, it was plainly evident, wholly abandoned to their misery. Past the tall cliffs, past the open farmlands, where some day would be pleasant villages and towns, he floated. He was hungry, but he had been hungry many times; he was tired, but he did not mind weariness. At the settlement he found all as it had been. The soldiers had not returned and the agent had vanished. A hundred plans were being made for the journey into the wilderness. A few families announced that they would not go. The Governor would not forsake them utterly; if he did, they would rather seek for help among their fellow countrymen across the river than trust themselves to the forest. In Albany, the deputies sought out quietly the German families whom they knew and from their houses were able to make inquiries. That there was an Indian settlement of Schoharie was certain. There were at that time in Albany several Mohawk Indians from the neighborhood of Schenectady, another Indian village, who could answer questions. With one, whom the English called John Meyndert, the deputies talked before the day was over. With grunts and nods he promised to be their guide and interpreter, and in his canoe and the canoe of another Indian they traveled to Schenectady, where, after a night's rest, they started across a line of rough hills toward the southwest. Of the beauties of the September woods the seven deputies saw nothing. With eyes fixed upon the man in front, each man walked doggedly and stubbornly on, determined not to yield to the fatigue which the rapid pace produced. Soft of tread and sure of foot John Meyndert stalked ahead as silent as the tree trunks among which he moved. An occasional "Ugh" when the slipping foot of one of the travelers threatened an ugly fall, or a shake of the head when some one pointed to a fruit or berry which looked as though it were edible, formed his share of the conversation. At last, at noon of a pleasant day, Meyndert halted his long stride and pointed downward. They had reached and crossed a rough elevation whose loose stones made it almost impossible to climb. Now, wearily, the deputies lifted their eyes toward Meyndert and followed his pointing finger. It was John Conrad who cried out first. "Oh, see!" In a second the last of the party had come out on the little shelf of rock to which Meyndert had led them. Peter Kniskern pointed with a shaking hand. "Schoharie?" The Indian answered with a grin. Then, for a long time, no one spoke a word, and no one moved except to wipe from his eyes the tears of which middle age had learned not to be ashamed. The smiling valley lay before them, threaded through its broad plain with the river now in flood. Here where they stood the banks rose precipitously; yonder there was a more gradual ascent; but on every side the broad valley was sheltered. The travelers looked their fill, then one by one gave judgment in slow sentences. "Those are rich and fertile meadows." "See this fine spring below us!" "How quickly would fruit trees grow and vineyards cover the hillsides!" "It is like"--the voice sank to a whisper--"it is like the valleys of Germany!" As they descended the steep hill, Meyndert pointed out the Indian village at the far end of the valley. It was a time of year when food was abundant and the villages were comfortable. As the visitors approached, children dashed for cover in the neat wigwams set on each side of a narrow street, and women, busy with baking or weaving, looked up in amazement. Toward the tallest of the wigwams, Meyndert led his company. In its doorway sat two Indians smoking, at sight of whom he called a loud "Ho!" For a while the three talked together while the Germans waited, aware from Meyndert's gestures that he was telling their errand. Presently, in response to a shout, several Indian women brought bearskins and deerskins from the wigwam and spread them down under a great tree. Thither the Germans were led, and there they and the three Indians sat down. At once Meyndert pointed to one of his hosts, enormous of body and painted with snakes and arrows. He called him, as nearly as the Germans could understand, "Quagnant." Quagnant came, so Meyndert indicated by broken sentences and gestures, from a valley beyond. He was a chief over the Indians in this valley as well as his own. He delivered now a long speech, whose meaning Meyndert made fairly clear. He spoke very formally and solemnly after the manner of the Indian people. He and his friends would be glad to have the strangers come among them. He had heard of the wonderful journey of the King of Rivers and other great chiefs who were overlords in the Five Nations, but he did not know what had befallen them or whether they had returned, since they lived far, far to the west. He was sorry that these new brethren had been so afflicted. Here they might have, if they wished, a peaceful haven. His people would help them with food and skins and show them how to build their houses. Having finished his speech to the happy Germans, Quagnant commanded that a feast be made. Together all ate solemnly of Indian bread and smoked meat, and took great whiffs from a long pipe lighted and passed by Quagnant. Then, supplied with food for the journey and with light hearts, the Germans started for Schenectady. From Schenectady to Albany the Indians took the travelers in their canoes, then the Germans set out on foot, keeping as near the river as possible. They had traveled for a day when they heard a shout, and looking down saw two rowboats, one containing a passenger, the other towed. With an answering shout they descended the rocky bank to the shore. "I have been watching and watching," cried Conrad. "Have you been to Schoharie? What did you find? Did you see our friends?" When a score of questions had tumbled out one after the other, the deputies began to answer. Schoharie was beautiful and fertile beyond all their dreams. The Indians were not only willing to let them have the land, but offered to help them. They had seen nothing of the King of Rivers, but had heard of him. "They have houses of bark in which they seem to be comfortable, but better houses can easily be made." "They are satisfied with what they have; therefore Fate has no power over them. If their property is destroyed, they have a great storehouse to draw from for more." "They made a feast for us and gave us food." Conrad's blue eyes sought his father's. "When will we start?" For an instant John Conrad rowed in silence. His plans would not suit Conrad, the lad who was so young and who thought himself so old, who felt that so little time was still his, and who had a lifetime before him. "Some will start at once, Conrad. But we will stay in Schenectady until the winter is over. There I have made arrangements with John Meyndert to keep us, and there we will try to earn a little." Conrad made no answer. He had already seen himself the first of the pilgrims to burst into the quiet valley. "We shall find peace at last," went on John Conrad. "This Quagnant said no one should molest us, that the land is ours." In a few days twenty families started for Schoharie. It was late October and already there had been sharp frost. The journey must be made slowly, since there were little children and ailing women in the party. A few had boats for the first part of the way and the others walked along the river-bank, the rustling leaves beneath their feet giving warning of the winter which was rapidly approaching. Hope minimized the dangers and smoothed the rough path. A little later the Weisers started for Schenectady. Magdalena, like Catrina in Gross Anspach, feared the journey for her baby, and with her husband crossed the river to the older German settlement on the other side. Like Catrina, she wept bitterly. When bundles had been packed by a silent, pale Margareta, when John Conrad had already lifted his pack to his shoulder, Fate, which had played the Weisers many cruel tricks, became suddenly friendly. A rowboat grounded on the little beach and a young man sprang out and hailed John Conrad, who stared at him without answering. But the young man did not wait for John Conrad's slow mental processes; he hurried toward the pale girl who gazed as though she saw a ghost. A single joyful "Margareta!" made clear to the settlement that Margareta's prayers had been answered. Now the starting must be delayed another day. Across the river rowed Conrad to bring Magdalena and her husband and the preacher back with him; about the reunited lovers sat all the Germans. Young Baer had a good place and he had built a little house. He had written many times, though no letter had come from Margareta. "It was the wicked agent who kept the letters," said Margareta. "God be thanked we are free from him!" Best of all, young Baer had seen Christopher and George Frederick who lived not far away. "They are well cared for and happy, and they look for their sister. Peter Zenger, who lives near by, watches for her also." At this all the tender-hearted Germans wept once more. The parting from Margareta was lightened by the expectation that they would meet again. Once more the star of hope shone brightly. In the lodge of John Meyndert the Weisers settled themselves in November. It was not clean, but they could endure discomfort a little longer. The chief difficulty was the drunkenness of Meyndert, who had learned the white man's evil habit. From Meyndert John Conrad and his son tried, in the long, idle hours, to learn the Indian language. They hunted eagerly for work in the settlement, but there was no work to be had. With thankfulness John Conrad accepted the offer of an Englishwoman to take Sabina into service. The Indian lodge was not a suitable home for either her or little Barbara. At restless, unhappy Conrad his father looked uneasily. Even the village of Schenectady offered mischief to idle hands. "You could teach the little children, lad," said he. "I want a man's work," answered Conrad sullenly. Then, as in the London fog, Conrad had a strange experience. There was fog, also, here by the Mohawk River, by which he walked early one November morning. Again he went with head bent, kicking the leaves and pebbles before him. Again he felt that stubborn head strike an obstacle and himself fly backward. When, in amazement, he picked himself up, he was confounded. There was no obstacle before him. There was neither tree nor rock. Puzzled and alarmed, he turned toward the settlement. Presently he looked back. By this time the mist had lifted, and behind him he saw a gigantic Indian. Conrad stopped as though his feet were weighted and the great body, wrapped in a bright new blanket, bore down upon him. The Indian grunted his queer "Ho, Ho," and motioned Conrad to lead the way. That he had no unkindly intention was made clear by the smile which his little trick brought to his face. At the first flat rock to which they came he bade Conrad sit down. He drew from the bundle which he carried on his shoulders a loaf of Indian bread and broke off a large piece. "Eat," said he in the Mohawk language. "Who are you?" "I am John Conrad Weiser's son Conrad," answered Conrad, thankful for each moment spent in learning the rudiments of John Meyndert's language. "To Weiser we gave a gift. Why does he not come to take it?" This was the meaning of the next sentence as nearly as Conrad could guess. "He will come in the springtime." "And you?" The Indian looked earnestly into Conrad's blue eyes, as though astonished at their vivid color. "Oh, _yes_!" cried Conrad. The Indian said no more, but rose and walked toward the settlement, motioning Conrad to follow. His long stride soon left Conrad far behind and Conrad started to run, to find a grinning Indian waiting for him behind a tree, or calling to him from the rear. Presently, when the Indian's ruse brought them face to face, Conrad pointed to himself. "I am Conrad," said he. "Who are you?" "Quagnant," was the answer. He it was who had given the Germans their hearty welcome! When they entered the settlement, Conrad would have liked to follow the chief as he went from Indian house to Indian house, but he did not dare. To Meyndert's lodge Quagnant came late in the afternoon, and there sat himself down on a pile of deerskins near the fire. He had come, he said, to hold a conversation with the white chief. At a sign from her husband, John Meyndert's squaw rose and went away, beckoning John Conrad's family to follow. For an instant Conrad thought that he was to remain. Then Quagnant, hitherto so kind, pointed to him, and Meyndert bade him go also. Offended, Conrad did not return till hunger drove him back after dark. Then the family, except John Conrad, were asleep; as Conrad lifted the curtain of skins which hung across the door, his father rose from beside the dying fire and led him outside. In the starlight he walked up and down with his hand on his boy's shoulder. "Conrad, I have an offer to set before you. I have kept you with me, both because I could not find any opening for you and because I could not bear to let you go. This Indian Quagnant has asked me to let you go with him to his village, there 'to learn to be a man,' as he puts it. He means that they will teach you how to hunt and trap and how to make a home in the wilderness. Would you like to enter on this strange apprenticeship?" Conrad's full heart breathed a great sigh. "Yes, father." "You cannot come back until spring. The training in Indian ways may be very irksome." "Not as irksome as idleness." For an hour father and son talked, entering once more upon the future with a tender recalling of the past. Then they went to bed. In the misty morning Conrad started away, a little bundle on his back. He kissed the sleeping Barbara, he put both arms about his father's neck, then he followed the tall Indian who walked before him, silent, mysterious, his tall figure dim in the fog. They crossed the wet meadow and walked for an hour by the stream-side, then Quagnant turned into the forest. They ascended a rocky hill, they followed a narrow valley, they climbed another hill. When the sun was high in the sky, they ate a lunch of corn bread and dried fish from Quagnant's pack. Then, already footsore and stiff, Conrad followed doggedly the long stride which led farther and farther into the wilderness. IX THE DARK FOREST At nightfall the travelers camped in the shelter of a huge boulder. Quagnant made a fire by rubbing two sticks together; then he spread the embers about and started other fires close to the face of the rock. When they had burned themselves out, he bade Conrad lie down on the warmed ground. Faintly aware that Quagnant went on with some other device for making him comfortable, Conrad slept. In the morning he found that he lay in a tent formed by the boughs of evergreens and that he was still comfortably warm. Quagnant had shot a bird which he was roasting over the fire. When it was eaten and the fire was tramped out, Quagnant shouldered his pack. He looked up at the sky, shook his head, and started briskly away. Until noon Quagnant led the way across rough hills and through narrow valleys. While they ate their lunch, the snow began to fall and Quagnant grunted his annoyance. Soon the rocks were slippery and the trail hard to find. There were other hills and other valleys and another exhausted sleep at night. On the third day, Conrad was certain that he could not rise. Quagnant helped him up and many times in the morning slackened his pace or stopped entirely. In the afternoon he stopped short and bade Conrad look ahead. They had come round the shoulder of a hill and were looking into a broad valley. Here there had been no snow and the meadows were green. Through the center of the valley ran a stream, broad and full and smoothly flowing. "I see people!" cried Conrad. "They are building houses!" Suddenly Conrad's heart throbbed against his side. "Schoharie!" he cried. "Is this Schoharie?" Quagnant grinned. "Schoharie," he repeated. Conrad tried to wave his hand, but could make only a feeble motion. He began to talk in a queer, uncertain way, and Quagnant, looking at him uneasily, took him by the arm, and presently lifted him to his back. On he went until at dusk he stepped into a path worn into a deep rut. Ahead were lights and the sound of voices. When Conrad was allowed to slip from the broad back to a soft pile of deerskins, he felt that all the comforts he had ever known were combined in one delicious sensation. That Schoharie lay far behind him he did not know: that the faces about him were dark, the voices strange,--all were matters of indifference. He felt the rim of a warm cup against his lips, then he fell asleep. The sun had been long in the sky when he woke. He was in an oblong house of bark. Through a hole in the roof the sun streamed upon the ashes of a fire. On the walls hung guns and bows and arrows and strange long spears and about were piles of furs, on one of which lay a little case of bark from which there issued the scream of a hungry baby. At once a young woman lifted the curtain at the door. Before taking her baby, she looked at Conrad, and finding him awake, nodded and smiled. In a moment she brought a wooden bowl filled with broth. Conrad drained the bowl and lay back once more. When, late in the afternoon, he lifted the curtain, he found himself in a village of bark houses. At the far end of the single street children were playing, and from the ashes of a fire a woman was taking a loaf of Indian bread. She gave a little call and at once other women appeared and the children came closer. "Where is Quagnant?" asked Conrad. The women imitated the sighting of a gun and pointed to their mouths. The children, dressed in little coats and leggings of leather, pointed with amazement to Conrad's fair skin and then at their own dark cheeks. Finally one came close to him. "Eyes-like-the-Sky," said he, and his companions repeated the strange name. It was repeated again when the hunters returned with deer meat, and there seemed to be general satisfaction with the discernment of the little boy whose own name was Young Deer. At once the women prepared the feast. Portions of the meat were set aside to be smoked; the rest was divided into slices and broiled. There was no seasoning and the Indian bread was coarse, but the meal was better than many which the guest had eaten. For a few days Conrad watched the play of the children, who showed him haunts of beaver and woodchuck, and taught him to make and spin a heart-shaped top of wood. With them he played Blind Man's Buff, in which the bandage across his eyes was his own dullness of vision which could not see the little figure lying among the leaves. He watched also the women braiding their baskets and grinding earth into the paint for the faces and bodies of their husbands. In the evening he sat with the Indians in Quagnant's house. At first their speech was a strange jargon, but gradually the sounds stayed in his mind and were associated with the objects to which they belonged. The comfortable nights in the chief's wigwam and the good food put color into his cheeks and flesh on his thin body. But idleness and luxury did not long endure. He had come to look upon the deerskins which served him for a bed as his own. One night, when he wished to lie down, they were gone. He asked for them and was laughed at. "You have no deerskin," said Quagnant. In the morning Quagnant gave him a gun and led the way into the forest. Three days later when they returned, Quagnant had two deerskins and Conrad none. Again he slept on the ground and again he went with Quagnant into the forest. On the third journey he shot a buck. For one night after the skin was dressed, he slept upon it in the chief's house. At the next nightfall he found himself and his bed thrust outside. The Indians laughed at his astonishment and every laugh said, "Make a house for yourself!" With the advice and aid of the children, Conrad built himself a wigwam. At once Quagnant demolished it. "Wind come--house gone. Eyes-like-the-Sky can do better." When his house was finished to Quagnant's satisfaction, Conrad had a few days of peace. Then for a day he was allowed no food; then for two days; then for three. He was taken to a distant point in the forest and required to find his way home. One bitter day he was dropped into a deep, icy pond in a near-by stream. As he understood more of the language, he listened earnestly to the talk of the older Indians. Through all ran the consciousness of danger,--distant, perhaps, but real. Sometimes messengers from other tribes appeared suddenly in the village. Painted, armed, terrible, they talked always of the bow and the string, the long line of the French whom they called Onotio, and the shorter line of English whom they called Onas. "Upon Onas Onotio will make war. When we walk in the forest we hear it shouted by the trees. We will all ally ourselves with Onas." When there came to the village those who would exterminate all pale-faces, Quagnant hurried Conrad out of the way. In January five great chiefs came to visit Quagnant. Conrad gazed at them earnestly, hoping to see the King of Rivers. They looked back at him scowling and muttering, and Conrad retreated to his wigwam. The chiefs went to Quagnant's house, and before them the women placed broiled venison and wild turkey. Afterwards long pipes were solemnly smoked. Then Quagnant gave a command to Little Squaw into whose eyes came a frightened look. Quagnant saw her hesitate. "Go!" he shouted. Hidden away in the cache of Quagnant, where there was now little else, there were a few black bottles, paid to him in return for many beautiful skins carried to Schenectady. Little Squaw fetched them as she was bidden. In the middle of the night Conrad heard the sound of carousing and looked out. The fire-water had done its evil work, and the Indians sought some victim upon whom to spend their madness. There was a flash of steel and past Conrad's head flew a sharp axe. Other weapons flashed in the moonlight. Terrified, without blanket or other extra covering, Conrad fled into the forest. Two days later in a blinding snowstorm he ventured to return. Whether Quagnant remembered his behavior it was difficult to tell. His visitors had gone, and he sat, sullen and miserable, beside the fire in the wigwam, making no answer to the complaints of Little Squaw. "The cache is almost empty," said she. "All the summer I labored and now you have given large presents to the Oneidas. I saw them go heavily laden. Now we will have a great storm when no hunting can be done." The first day of the snowstorm Conrad spent in repairing the damage to his wigwam. He thought of his father and his brothers and sisters, and wondered once more, in deep depression, to what goal his wanderings would bring him. At nightfall he ate the last of his food. It was still dark when he woke in the morning; at least no light came through the chinks of the wigwam or through the opening at the top. Stiff and sore, he turned and slept. When he woke again, he sprang up and went to lift the curtain at the door. To his amazement he looked into darkness. When he thrust out his hand he discovered that it was not night which surrounded him, but a wall of snow, higher than the wigwam. He was not at first alarmed. He had heard more than one story of imprisonment for days while the great snows fell. The snow was porous, and the wigwams, thus blanketed, were warm. He had, it was true, no food, but he could go without food for a day or two. He was still not thoroughly rested and he would sleep. He was wakened by what sounded like the report of a gun. His heart failed. Perhaps Quagnant's friends had come back and were prepared to finish the work which they had threatened! Again there came the sharp explosion. Now Conrad remembered the cold nights of the great frost in Gross Anspach when the trees had cracked like pistols. The snow must have ceased to fall and rescue would soon come. In the morning his mind was not clear. He heard a whistling sound in the top of the wigwam and saw a pale light filtering in. Deep drifts must be forming. "It will be best to stay here," said he heavily. As the hours passed he fell into a stupor. The wind died, the light of sunset showed for a few minutes in a yellow haze at the top of the wigwam, and once more through the long night the trees cracked like pistols. Quagnant and his squaw and their large brood got comfortably through the three days of imprisonment. Quagnant grew mild and peaceable; he told stories to the children and obeyed his wife. But when she ordered him to go and dig Conrad out, he sent several young Indians in his place. The recollection of the flying hatchet disturbed him. "I will drink no more fire-water," he promised himself solemnly. Run-as-the-Wind and Turkey Feather and Young Deer all worked diligently with the hoes which they borrowed from their mothers. As they approached the door of the wigwam they cried,-- "Eyes-like-the-Sky! Wake up! Wake up!" When there was no answer they worked faster. "Perhaps Eyes-like-the-Sky had no food!" "A bear might have devoured him as he slept!" "He is brave; he would kill the bear." When they had reached the door of the wigwam and still Conrad did not answer, the rescuing party grew very quiet. Little Squaw was the first to thrust her head through the hole which the boys made. "He lies here like the snow itself! Quick! some hot broth from Quagnant's kettle!" With a wooden spoon she forced a few drops through Conrad's lips, then a little more. Then she sent Turkey Feather to Quagnant. "Tell Quagnant a good bed is to be made by the fire. Tell him Little Squaw sends him this and this." And Little Squaw picked up the hatchets of Quagnant and his friends. That night the Mohawk village feasted again. Relieved by the ending of the storm and the restoration of Conrad, the squaws forgot the alarming emptiness of each family cache. The snow thawed little by little. When a crust formed, it was not thick enough to bear the weight of the hunters. Food grew more scarce and the usual two meals a day dwindled to one. Another heavy snow made hunting impossible. More sullen grew the warriors, more angry the squaws, more miserable the little children. After the second great snow a crust formed and Quagnant started at once into the forest, taking Conrad with him. The two crossed the hill which lay toward the west and followed the next valley to the north. It was bitterly cold; insufficiently clad and weak from lack of food, Conrad trudged along, his heart heavy, his mind dull. To him now the new country was a trap in which all the Germans would be finally lost. Quagnant did not speak except to give sullen orders. At nightfall the two camped supperless and without shelter. There was now no warming of a bed, since the wood lay deep under the snow. When the two took up their weary journey, it seemed to Conrad that Quagnant tried deliberately to court death. He climbed another western hill, and his voice became more gruff. Was it possible that he meant to lead Conrad far away and desert him? Then there would be one less mouth in the Indian village. The sun was high when they came to the top of the hill. Another valley lay before them with a swift, dark stream flowing through its center. Another hill rose opposite. Conrad wondered drearily whether his numb feet must climb that also. "I wish that the end would come soon," said he bitterly. "I wish--" Walking heedlessly as he had walked on the Schenectady meadow, Conrad came with a thump into the same obstacle. Before him Quagnant had stopped rigid. Terrified, Conrad looked up. Quagnant was staring down into the valley, where along the stream beside a deep pool a small herd of deer nibbled the green laurel leaves. They were almost motionless and they were within easy shot. Quagnant pulled the trigger and a deer dropped. His comrades lifted their heads, but before they could dash away in terror another fell. The flight of the remainder soon ended. Before them the stream plunged over a precipice; on both sides the icy walls rose steeply. A third and a fourth fell before Quagnant's accurate shots. There was a glow on his dark cheeks, a fire in his black eyes. He took a step to one side and pulled the trigger again. Then, in spite of the silence to which he had been trained, Quagnant gave a fierce yell. He had gone a little too near the edge of the steep slope. His feet slipped as the gun recoiled and he slid, making frantic efforts to regain his footing. But his efforts were vain. With increasing speed he coasted down the hillside, his course leading straight toward the rocky wall which dropped abruptly for at least fifty feet. It was as though an insect should slip down the side of a cup with sure drowning in the bottom. Then, near the brink of the pool, a bush caught the pack on his shoulders and held him suspended. Now Quagnant was silent. The deer thongs which bound the pack were strong, but his body was heavy. He could see below him the black pool. In its icy water he might keep himself afloat for a few seconds, but to climb out would be impossible. Across the stream he could see the bodies of the slain deer, food for all his people, and he could hear the snow crust breaking as the others made their escape. Conrad, far above him in safety, he could not see. Quagnant shut his eyes and listened to the gurgle of the water and looked into his poor Indian soul. The logic of the case was simple. He could not move without help, and Conrad would not help him. He had abused the pale-face and the pale-face would certainly desert him. Even if there were mercy in his heart, Conrad could not come down the hill without risking his life nor return to the village for help before Quagnant would die of cold. Then Quagnant heard above the gurgle of the water a strange sound as though some one were following his wild flight. There was the sound of sliding feet, then silence, then again the sound of sliding feet. Presently began a sharp chip, chip, as though the ice were being struck with a hatchet. Quagnant, with eyes still closed, began to address the Great Spirit. "I pray that I may not be cut off from my present life, Great and Good Spirit." Nearer and nearer came the sound of chipping; higher and higher rose the hopes of Quagnant. It would be fearful, indeed, to slip over the precipice with rescue at hand! But was it rescue? Quagnant remembered again with sickening pain the sharp hatchet hurled at Conrad. It was that very hatchet which Conrad held in his hand! Now Quagnant could feel each stroke on the ice. They were near his head--he gave himself up. They had passed his head and were even with his waist--he dared to breathe again. When the chipping had sounded for a long time beside his foot, he felt a hand touch his foot and move it to a hole in the ice in which it could find support. Thus aided, he was able to lift his arms and draw himself up beside the little bush. Near by, supporting himself by a tree, sat Conrad. With immobile countenance and without even his customary grunt, Quagnant climbed the mountain in the tracks which Conrad had made. After he had rested for a few minutes and had ceased to tremble, he walked along the ridge until he found an easy descent to the stream and to the carcases of the deer. He did not speak until he had dressed a portion of the meat with his long knife and cooked it over a little fire of driftwood which had been carried high on the bank where it had been protected by thick laurel and hemlock shrubbery. This he would not touch until Conrad had eaten. Then at last he spoke. "A cloud had come between us, Conrad, and the skies were dark. It is past now forever and the skies are clear." Hiding in the stream, away from the sharp claws of panther or wildcat, the meat which they could not carry, the two set out for home. The next day the hunters brought in, not only Quagnant's kill, but three more deer. That evening Conrad was invited to the feast of the grown men and was given a long pipe. He did not like the strong tobacco, but he did his best to smoke, aware that he had been paid a great honor. At him Quagnant looked solemnly, both during the feast and afterwards when they sat together by the fire. In Quagnant's mind was taking shape a strange plan, at once brilliant and cunning. If Conrad could have looked into the chief's mind and could have seen there, slowly forming, the last episode in his strange apprenticeship, he might well have been terrified. The meeting in the London fog was about to bear its fruit. At last the sullen winter was past and the trees began to bud and the meadows to grow green. The women prepared their little patches of ground for maize and potatoes, old canoes were mended and new canoes were built, the young men began to court and the maidens to grow more shy. When Conrad spoke of joining his father, who must be by this time in Schoharie, Quagnant shook his head. "You have been with us through the cruel winter: you cannot leave when the Great Spirit is making all things beautiful." Now dark forms glided through the forest once more, as though there were perpetual patrol in its dim aisles. Messengers came to the village, messengers were sent away. The Mohawks spoke of their country as the Long House whose back was at the Hudson River and whose door was Niagara. In the spring weather all the inhabitants were astir. One morning, at dawn, Conrad felt a touch on his shoulder and sprang up as he had been trained. Quagnant stood before him, enormous in the pale light. In his hand he held a new suit of doeskin and a bowl of the red paint with which his tribe painted stars and turtles on their cheeks. With a few strokes he decorated Conrad's tanned face. Together they ate and upon the shoulder of each Little Squaw fastened a pack of food and a blanket. "Where are we going?" asked Conrad. Quagnant made no answer except to motion Conrad to follow him through the village. There, with his long stride, Quagnant took up the trail toward the southwest. X JOURNEY'S END It would be difficult to tell which fared the worse during the long winter, the Germans who had forced their way to the Schoharie Valley in November, or those who remained, like John Conrad, in the settlements. All were poor, all were ill-clad, all were insufficiently fed. The cruel winter continued the weeding-out of the weak. At Schoharie the Indians helped the newcomers according to their promise, and what food and furs they could spare they gave cheerfully. In March, John Conrad and all those who had remained started to Schoharie. There were indications of an early spring, and it was important that crops should be sown. From Conrad nothing had been heard and his father grew daily more anxious. Sabina, like Margareta and Magdalena, had found a mate, and Barbara had taken her place with the kind Englishwoman. No sooner had the journey begun than the last of the winter's storms was upon the little party. Little children died and grown persons suffered cruelly. Joined with their friends at Schoharie in the valley of their dreams, the pilgrims waited, with what patience they could summon, for spring. When, finally, the snow had melted for the last time and the meadows were growing green and the willows were yellow along the river, the hearts of the Germans rested at last. The lovely valley was lovelier than their dreams. Log houses were built, farms were laid out, and with their poor tools they prepared to create a German valley which should bloom like the rose. Still no word of Conrad was to be had. He was in the village of Quagnant to the west--that the Indians knew, but they could tell no more. His father grew more and more anxious and unhappy. As he worked the soil, he lifted his head to watch; when his day's work was done, he walked into the forest toward the west. Meanwhile, as Conrad followed the long stride of Quagnant through the budding forest, he remembered the weary journey in November from Schenectady to the Indian village. Then he had nearly perished with exhaustion; now he walked without weariness. Quagnant remembered also and commented approvingly. "Eyes-like-the-Sky does not stumble or faint. He is a true Indian." "This is a smooth trail." In Indian fashion Quagnant made a comparison. "That was a smooth trail, but to Eyes-like-the-Sky it was unfamiliar. The heart of the Indian seemed also strange to you, but now it is plain." As the two sat by a little camp-fire in the cool evenings, Quagnant looked solemnly at Conrad. They had now many companions; tall chiefs wrapped in blankets and stalking solemnly, young men heavily armed and thickly painted. The strangers stared at Conrad in amazement, their keen eyes piercing the thick layer of paint with which his cheeks were covered. When Conrad glanced back at them, they looked at his eyes and shook their heads. They talked with Quagnant of the Long House, of distant enemies whom they called the Lenape, and of other matters which Conrad did not understand. It was clearly evident that Conrad's presence startled and shocked them. Presently Quagnant grew communicative. One evening when he and Conrad camped alone, he told him something of the affairs of the Indians. "The Five Nations are at peace, but they will not always be at peace. Many important things are coming to pass, Conrad." It was in the middle of a bright May morning that Quagnant and his companion reached the end of their journey. The trail led over the last stream, through the last wood and thence to a great hill, upon whose side lay a large Indian village. Here it was that the hundreds of small human streams had converged; here the savages were gathered, it seemed to Conrad, in an innumerable host. At sight of them, his heart throbbed and his skin pricked with fright. Quagnant's face was hideous, and here Quagnant was repeated hundreds of times. Quagnant's great body, crowned with its bristling eagle feathers, was a bit terrifying even to Conrad, and here was Quagnant's fierce strength multiplied by a great army. There were Indians wrapped in blankets, Indians without covering, Indians with hideous nose-rings, and here and there shamans or medicine men with masks of animals, as though the very beasts of the forest had come to join the council. When strength returned to Conrad's frightened heart, he breathed a frantic prayer to be allowed to escape. For such a scene as this no experience of his life had prepared him. But he dared not show a sign of fear; he must walk on behind Quagnant, up the street of the village between the gigantic creatures and before the black, beady, piercing eyes. As Quagnant approached, he was hailed with many a loud "Ho, Ho." The sound which followed him was different,--a low, disapproving murmur. Straight up the great hill led the feet of Quagnant; close to him followed Conrad. At the summit of the hill the forest trees had been cut in a wide circle and the ground had been beaten like a hard floor. About the rim of the circle were placed tree-stumps and logs; in the middle burned a fire, round which crouched shamans, more hideous than the warriors. Beside them lay their drums of tightly stretched skin and their rattles of turtle shell or gourd. They sat motionless, their eyes upon the fire. Quagnant bade Conrad sit down at the edge of the woods, and himself sat beside him. One by one Indians came to speak to him, to Conrad a consoling sign of his importance. Longest of all he spoke with an Oneida chief named Shikellamy. What they said Conrad could not hear, but he could see that Shikellamy looked upon him kindly. "He has a great heart and a wise mind," said Quagnant as the chief went away. "In council he makes our way clear." At noon the shamans beat their drums and shook their rattles, and at once, breaking off conversation with one another or with the squaws of the village, the Indians approached the council fire. Certain ones, Quagnant and Shikellamy among them, took seats together on the tree-stumps; the others sat on logs or on the ground. Outside the circle stood scores of young men. Presently the shamans ceased to beat their drums and shake their rattles and crouched again about the fire. Now followed a period of complete silence. The chiefs did not move; the young warriors seemed scarcely to breathe; even from the village came no sound of speech and no cry of child. Shikellamy was the first to rise. He spoke in a deep voice and was listened to with breathless attention. "Brothers of the Long House, it is now many years since the great tree was planted under whose young roots we buried our hatchets. Many moons have risen and waned since we wove our wampum into one belt. Many feasts have been eaten since the undying flame of our council fire was lighted, and since Mohawk, Seneca, Onondaga, Oneida, and Cayuga became brothers. The great tree will continue to grow, the sun and moon to rise and the council fire to send out into the forest its clear light. Our hatchets, buried in the ground, will rust before they are dug up. "We are now at peace with all men, and strangers seek our favor. Our enemies fear us and we fear no one. "But, brothers of the Long House, there are matters to be considered. Claims have been laid against us. Our young men, in the heat of anger and inflamed by drink, have done here and there a little injury. The tears of those whom they injured must be wiped away with presents. Each wrong must be considered and we must make recompense without grudging. "These matters are, however, small. Our brother Onotio has something to say to us. Our brother Onas has also something to say to us. Between Onotio on the one side and Onas on the other, there is undying hatred, whose cause is shut off from our eyes. We cannot remain friends both to Onotio and to Onas, who draw nearer and nearer to one another through the forests. Soon the two black clouds will meet, and the grass on the warpath will be trodden down. "It is for the consideration of these matters that the council is assembled." When Shikellamy had finished a loud uproar was made by the medicine men. They rose and faced the east, then prostrated themselves again and again. The Great Spirit was being invoked. Now with astonishing order the various businesses of which Shikellamy had spoken were presented to the council and settled. The young Indians who had quarreled with their neighbors were admonished and fined. Young Eagle was to send five deerskins to dry the tears of the warrior whose son he had injured; Short Arm was to send three blankets to the widow of the man whom he had killed. Against these decisions there was no protest. The code which the young men had disobeyed was clearly understood and its penalties accepted without argument. When the relations of the allied nations to the French and English came to be spoken of, there was a change in the spirit of the meeting. Now all whispering ceased; every one sat motionless, listening with knitted brows and bright, eager eyes. The council was informed minutely of the affairs of the English colonies to the east and the French settlements to the west. Conrad listened as eagerly as the rest, his terror lost in amazement. "I am a swift runner," said Short Arm. "I went in three days to Harris's Ferry. The children of Brother Onas are creeping, creeping to the west and to the north. They are coming into the Long House. They are grazing their cattle where our deer have grazed. They are our enemies." "The pale-faces are in Schoharie," said a dark-faced, hideously painted old chief. As he spoke he pointed at Conrad. "Not only are they given lands, but they are taken into our wigwams. They are our enemies." From some one came a sneering laugh. Now Conrad was sure of what would be his fate. Then, on the opposite side of the council fire, a tall figure rose. Conrad's lips parted; he was about to cry out; then he held his lips closely shut with his hand. "It is the King of Rivers! It is the King of Rivers!" "This talk about the children of Onas is nonsense. The children of Onotio are more hateful. They come into the Long House from the north. They think nothing of their promises. They have allied themselves with our enemies; they are our enemies. There are no two words about them." Now Quagnant rose, and standing with folded arms looked about until he had met every piercing eye. Last of all he sought the wide blue ones at the edge of the forest. Like the other Indians, Quagnant spoke eloquently. "Brothers, we are of the extended lodge. The Long House is no mere hut like the dwelling of the Catawbas. We have made our enemies to flutter like frightened young birds. At the Catawbas and the Lenape we laugh. "Now strangers seek to live with us in the Long House,--a great people, pale of face, with new customs and long guns. Some are our friends, some are our enemies. They have brought us good things and bad things. With the guns they have brought we have become powerful, but with the fire-water they have brought we have become mad. "We cannot tell which among these pale-faces are our friends. Their words are not ours and their faces are not ours. They give little in exchange for much. Our furs are to them no more valuable than a few beads, our hunting-grounds no more than a few hatchets." "It is a good day's journey from the Susquehanna to the Black Mountain," cried a voice. "This they have taken for a piece of bright cloth and a glass in which to see one's face!" "Their traders lie to us!" cried another. The hideously painted old chief rose. "Year by year their ships come. They overrun our land, given by the Great Spirit. They enter at the front of the Long House to shove us out at the back; at the back, to push us out at the front. I counsel death to all!" A great trembling seized upon Conrad. Then he saw that Quagnant still stood, motionless, waiting to continue his speech. Quagnant would not forget the icy bank and the deep pool! "Brothers," said Quagnant, "let us be orderly in council, not like chattering birds. The words of Quagnant were not finished." At once silence was restored. "The various brothers have spoken," went on Quagnant. "Many have spoken without thought. They desire war, without reflecting that the pale-face has long guns also, without reflecting that ships will bring new pale-faces. There is a pale-face to whom I have put many questions; he tells me that they are across the sea like the leaves of the forest. To talk of making war upon all is child's talk. "What we should do, brothers of the Long House, is to enter into understanding with the pale-face, so that we may say, 'To this river the land is yours, beyond is ours.' Then our mind will be clear to them, then messengers can go to and fro and--" "They will not listen!" cried the old warrior. "They have laughed our messengers in the face." Quagnant waited again until the old warrior had been frowned at by half the assemblage. Quagnant approached now the carefully planned climax of his address. "The pale-faces will not listen to us, it is true. They do not understand us. But they will listen to another pale-face. I have had in my wigwam a young pale-face. I have watched his behavior. He has done things which will move the hearts of the brothers of the Long House when I tell them. I will tell them at length. We have made of him an Indian. He speaks our words. He--" Now the fierce old warrior would not be stayed. He sprang to his feet, hatchet in hand. "He may well speak our words when he sits at our councils! Such a thing has never been heard of in the Long House. Let him go away and go quickly." Shikellamy crossed the open space toward Quagnant. "Let the young braves take him away," said he. At once Conrad found himself surrounded. Down the hillside he was led and to the far end of a long meadow through which flowed a stream. There, when the curiosity of the young Indians about what was going on in the council could be no longer resisted, he was left alone. He could hear on the rising wind the sound of many voices and now a single voice raised in impassioned speech. About him the shades of the spring night were falling and a cold breath from the water chilled him through. Hungry and tired, he sat with his hands clasped round his knees and his cheek bent upon them. The forest seemed to press upon him. A more terrible oppression came from the thought of the savage creatures on the hillside, gathered from the wilderness, debating now whether to deal with the whites in peace or to exterminate them with knife and flame. He thought of his father's dreams of a great country where there should be liberty and peace. With honesty and at the same time with firmness must these children of the wilderness be met or dreams and their dreamers would perish in a night. Presently a dark form stole toward him across the meadow. He heard a strange singing unlike the voice of man or animal. He saw strange forms approach; with faces masked and bodies wrapped in skins of deer and panther and bear. He moved to the nearest tree and stood with his back against it. He thought now no more of his father's dreams, or of God's purpose of which his father talked, but prayed in his pious German way that he might meet his death bravely. He found himself taken by the hand and led up the hill, the strange forms following after. Through the Indian village where the women stared from firelit doorways, and where over great fires meat was cooking, to the center of the council he was taken, and there he was placed alone beside the council fire. About sat the chiefs, behind them in the shadowy circle the young men. Conrad stood still, his eyes seeking Quagnant. If death should come, he hoped its messenger would be a swift knife. The medicine men were behind him; it would be by their hands that the blow would be struck. Shikellamy was the first to speak. Upon his magnificent body the firelight danced. His immobile face told nothing of his heart, but it seemed to Conrad that his voice was kind. "We have listened to the story of our brother Quagnant," said he. "We believe that you are honest and true. We believe that you speak our words. In order that we may bind ourselves to you and you to us"--now Conrad's heart stood still--"in order that we may bind ourselves to you and you to us, we make you a member of the Five Nations. We give you our heart and you give us your heart. He who is our friend is your friend. He who is our enemy is your enemy. We invite you to the extended lodge, we bid you come to our feasts. We will give you in token deerskins to make you clothes and shoes." Now there was a long pause. The rising wind moaned in the pine trees, the fire leaped. Shikellamy crossed to the council fire and held out his great hand. "We give you also in token a new name. 'Eyes-like-the-Sky' you are to the children, but among men you are, 'He-holds-our-fate.'" Now the King of Rivers came forward. A true Indian, he gave no sign that he recollected the camp of Blackheath and the strange encounter which reached now its stranger consummation. "We are to see dark sights," said he. "I see wars, with Indians creeping upon pale-faces and pale-faces upon Indians. I hear cries to the Great Spirit. See that you, who are now our Tongue, are true to us. Then the English will conquer the French and the land will have peace. Between the Indian and the English is a bond. You are that bond." Now Shikellamy spoke again. "You will have a great name while you live, and after you die your Indian brothers will visit the place where you lie. Your children will say with pride, 'I am of the great He-holds-our-fate, his blood is mine, I have his brave heart.' Will you be true to your brothers?" "I will be true to my brothers." Then, at the side of a beckoning Quagnant, Conrad sat down. "You have done well," said Quagnant. "Now the feast begins." Conrad made no answer. He saw the Long House, enormous, mysterious; he saw the little fringe of white faces between it and the sea. He saw the hopes and fears of the dwellers in the Long House and the hopes and fears of the strangers. Both were in his own heart. * * * * * In June, John Conrad's eager, anxious eyes were satisfied. He still walked each evening into the forest. There on a fallen tree he sat and looked toward the west. One clear evening, he saw coming toward him an erect, alert young Indian and sprang up to make the same eager inquiry with which he greeted all Indians. Then he stood still. The Indian was clad in doeskin, his hair was long, his feet were moccasined--but his eyes were blue! "My son!" cried John Conrad. Hand in hand the two sat down on the fallen tree. "How are my brothers and sisters?" asked Conrad. "I have heard no ill news of them. Sabina is married, and Barbara has taken her place with a kind mistress in Schenectady. Of all my dear children you are left me, Conrad. What has befallen you?" Conrad talked steadily and quietly. He was different; his eyes were steady, his figure erect, his voice deep. He told of the strange life, of the harsh training, of the bitter suffering from hunger and cold. When he described the council, John Conrad shivered. "A thousand times I wished I had not let you go!" Then in the gathering dusk his eyes sought his son's face. "What are you going to do now, Conrad?" Conrad turned and smiled into the anxious eyes. "I am going to help you and I am going to teach the children their letters. Father,"--Conrad looked back into the darkening woods,--"the life among the Indians seems already like a dream; but there they are waiting, a fearful menace to us all. Suppose that I should some day be the one to keep the peace! Perhaps God has saved me for that through much danger and perversity." John Conrad breathed a long sigh. He did not look into the future, but into the past. "Your mother and I could not give our children riches and honor," said he slowly. "We tried to give them faith in God and willingness to do their simple duty. If you have learned those lessons from us or in the forest among the Indians, you are at last a man. Your mother--" But John Conrad could not finish, needed not to finish. The hand within his tightened and an arm was thrown across his bent shoulders. Together the two sat silently, as they had stood long ago in Gross Anspach in the moonlight by the little church. Their thoughts traveled together from sister to sister and brother to brother, and finally back once more across the sea. Then, at last, John Conrad spoke. "It has been a long journey and a weary one," said he, "but my children will have a better chance than I in the world. There may be other journeys before me, but tonight my heart is at rest." THE END The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS U . S . A JUST DAVID By Eleanor H. Porter "Just David" is one of those books that bear a message of courage and inspiration straight to the heart of every reader. If you want to make a lovable, life-long friend, get and read this story of the boy who brought happiness to a whole village, and who will bring happiness to you. "'Just David' will be read with gladness and gratitude by men and women who need inspiration."--_Continent._ "'Just David' is delightful in every way; the best story in many respects that Mrs. Porter has written."--_Zion's Herald._ Illustrated in tint. $1.25 _net_. HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY THE SONG OF THE LARK By Willa Sibert Cather _Author of "O Pioneers!" and "Alexander's Bridge."_ The story of a prima donna's life from childhood on a Western ranch to international fame. "An uncommonly interesting novel. 'The Song of the Lark' is a book to read and not to 'skip.' Its gripping power lies in the reaction of Thea Kronborg's temperament upon the wise and courageous mother and also upon the generous men who made her development possible.... Miss Cather has created a flesh and blood woman."--_Boston Transcript._ "A story of something better than suggestiveness and charm--a thing finished, sound and noble."--_The Nation._ "Many books have been written of which the chief character has been a singer; there is something about a career behind the footlights that is strangely alluring. None, however, has been more skillfully and sympathetically written than 'The Song of the Lark.'"--_Louisville Courier Journal._ "It has the artistic and literary merit of her earlier book, 'O Pioneers!' but it is an immeasurably bigger and richer story."--_New York Globe._ $1.40 _net_. HOUGHTON BOSTON MIFFLIN [Illustration: Logo] AND COMPANY NEW YORK "K" By Mary Roberts Rinehart _Author of "The Street of Seven Stars," etc._ "A brilliant story of hospital wards and work, of nurses, of surgeons, of discouragements, of successes, of poverty, of wealth, of love--in short, of humanity."--_Cleveland Town Topics._ "This absorbing tale of mystery, love, and ambition is the climax of Mrs. Rinehart's art."--_Kansas City Star._ "No fiction reader can afford to omit the pleasure of knowing 'K.'"--_Cleveland Plain Dealer._ "Intensely readable from the first page to the last."--_New York Tribune._ "Mrs. Rinehart has never written a more engrossing story."--_Literary Digest._ Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers. $1.35 _net_. HOUGHTON BOSTON MIFFLIN [Illustration: Logo] AND COMPANY NEW YORK THE VALLEY ROAD By Mary Hallock Foote "A fine portrayal of the progress of a family with good old traditions through more than two decades.... This work deserves praise for its fine workmanship."--_Review of Reviews._ "One of the choice novels of the year.... A symmetrical, beautiful story, with passages that fire imagination, that smite with pity, that quicken with the stress of life's great moments. Surrounding it all, and one with it, is the colorful Californian atmosphere."--_Milwaukee Free Press._ "In 'The Valley Road' readers who have learned to watch for Mrs. Foote's books will find all her best characteristics revealed.... All her people are delightfully real."--_Louisville Courier Journal._ "The vivid character drawing, the insight into people's hearts that is shown and the pictures of their lives combine to make a fine and interesting portrayal of American life.... The story is refreshing."--_Indianapolis Star._ "A healthy, whole-souled book, fresh and free, like her own dear California."--_St. Louis Globe Democrat._ $1.35 _net_. HOUGHTON BOSTON MIFFLIN [Illustration: Logo] AND COMPANY NEW YORK DAVID PENSTEPHEN By Richard Pryce _Author of "Christopher," etc., etc._ "A novel of extraordinary insight into the soul of a woman and the heart of a child.... Novelists like Mr. Pryce, with his sympathetic comprehension of the mental processes in both women and children, as well as in men, are all too rare. 'David Penstephen' is an unusual story told in an unusual manner."--_Boston Transcript._ "'David Penstephen' is as searching a study of the influence of environment upon character as one can find--a story that grows ever more intensely interesting as it proceeds. One of the notable novels of the year."--_New York Tribune._ "Far ahead of anything Mr. Pryce has yet done--even 'Christopher.'"--_New York Times._ $1.35 _net_. HOUGHTON BOSTON MIFFLIN [Illustration: Logo] AND COMPANY NEW YORK PENELOPE'S POSTSCRIPTS By Kate Douglas Wiggin _Author of "Rebecca," "The Birds' Christmas Carol," etc._ The experiences of the ever-fascinating Penelope in Vienna, Switzerland, Wales, Devon, and at home. "In their delightfully humorous way, with their capital touches of character-drawing, Penelope's travel books will enchant readers to-day as much as they delighted those who read them more than a decade ago."--_New York Tribune._ "In its lightness of touch, its gayety and humor, it reveals the qualities that have endeared Mrs. Wiggin's work to such a host of readers."--_New York World._ "Age cannot destroy, nor familiarity lessen, Penelope's power to charm. In these, her 'postscripts,' that power is as potent as ever."--_Philadelphia Press._ "All the charm of the author's previous books is present in this one."--_New Orleans Times-Picayune._ With frontispiece. $1.00 _net_. HOUGHTON BOSTON MIFFLIN [Illustration: Logo] AND COMPANY NEW YORK * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, all other spelling, punctuation and accents are as in he original. Italics are represented thus _italic_. 
60099	----	[Frontispiece: "MILK, AN' SUGAR IF YOU HAVE IT"] CECILIA OF THE PINK ROSES BY KATHARINE HAVILAND TAYLOR ILLUSTRATED BY MAY WILSON PRESTON NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO MY DEAR MOTHER SOURCE OF MY INNER PINK ROSES CONTENTS CHAPTER I Where Is Gawd? II The Vision of a Promised Land III The First Step into Canaan IV Learning V Disgrace VI A Hint of Pink VII Santa Claus VIII A Little Touch of the Man with the Hour Glass IX Home X My Best Friend XI Acceptance XII Pain XIII A Request XIV Pink XV Firelight XVI The Mystery XVII A Relapse XVIII Forgiveness XIX Spring XX Pulling Off the Thorns XXI Pink Roses CECILIA OF THE PINK ROSES CHAPTER I WHERE IS GAWD? The Madden flat was hot and the smell of frying potatoes filled it. Two or three flies buzzed tirelessly here and there, now and again landing with sticky clingingness on a small boy of four who screamed with their advent. When this happened a girl of seven stepped from the stove and shooed them away, saying: "Aw now, Johnny!" and Johnny would quiet. The perspiration stood out on her upper lip and there were shadows, deeper than even Irish ones should be, beneath her eyes. The sun beat in cruelly at one window which was minus a shade. At another the shade was torn and run up crookedly. In the hall there was the sound of a scuffle, then a smart slap, and a child's whimpering wail. "What's--that?" came in a feeble voice from the bedroom off the kitchen. "It's the new gent in the flat across whackin' his kid," answered the small girl. "Oh," was the weak answer, and again there was quiet, broken by the sizzle of hot fat, the tireless buzz of the flies, and now and then the little boy's cry. "Here, Johnny," commanded the small maiden, "come have your face washed off." Johnny objected. She picked him up with decision, and set him on the table with resounding emphasis, where he screamed loudly during the rite. The door opened. A man in overalls came in. "Hello, Paw," said Cecilia Evangeline Agnes Madden. He answered her with a grunt and kicked off his heavy shoes. "Gawd, it's hot!" he said with his first contribution to the conversation. "Two Dagos got sunstruck. One of 'em he just went like a goldfish outa water, keeled over, then flop,--flop. The Boss he up an'--" "Supper, Paw," said Cecilia. She pushed a chair up to the oil-clothed table, and the man settled, beginning to eat loudly. He stopped and pointed with his knife to the bedroom door. "How's she?" he asked in a grating whisper. "She ain't so good," answered the small girl. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away her face. "Maw--Maw--Maw!" cried Johnny. "Aw now!" said his sister while she picked up his hot little person to comfort him. "Maw--Maw!" he echoed. Cecilia looked up. Her eyes were like those of a small dog that has been whipped. "I ain't the same," she said across his brick-dust curls. "He wants _her_, I ain't the same. I do my best, but I ain't her." The man laid aside his knife. He set his teeth on his lower lip, and then he asked a question as if afraid to. "Has the doctor been here?" "Yes," answered Cecilia. "Whatud he say?" "He sez she wasn't so good. He sez she wouldn't be no better 'til the weather was cooler an'--" "Celie!" came in the voice from the bedroom. Cecilia put down Johnny. "Yes, Maw," she answered gently. "Celie!" came again in almost a scream. Celie vanished. She reappeared in a few moments. She was whiter than before. "She throwed up fierce," she said to her father; "something fierce, an' all black. Don't you want no coffee?" The man shook his head. He reached for his shoes. "Where yuh goin'?" asked Cecilia. "Doctor's," she was answered. He went into the bedroom. "Well, old woman," he said loudly, "how yuh feelin', better?" The thin creature on the bed nodded, and tried to smile. The smile was rather dreadful, for it pulled long lines instead of bringing dimples. Her blue lips stretched and the lower cracked. A drop of blood stood out on it. "Gawd, it was hot to-day," said the man. He settled by her bed in a broken-backed chair. She stretched out a thin hand toward him. "Mary--!" he said, then choked. "Aw, Jerry!" said the woman. In her voice was little Cecilia's tone of patience, with the lilt removed by a too hard life. "Do yuh feel _some_ better?" he entreated. "Sure--I do. Gimme that glass of water--" She drank a mouthful and again vomited rackingly. "Oh, Gawd!" said Jeremiah Madden. He laid a rough hand on her forehead and she pulled it down against her cheek. "Jerry," she said between long gasps, "I been happy. I want you should always remember that I been happy. Awful happy, Jerry." "Oh, Gawd, Mary!" said the man. "If I'd a knew how hard you'd a had to work, I wouldn't have brung yuh!" "Don't!" she begged. "Don't say that!" She looked at him, time faded, and with it a hot and smelling flat. She stood on a wind-swept moor. Jerry, only eighteen, stood by her. His arm was around her with that reverent touch that comes in Irish love. "I'll send fer yuh," he'd said, "after I make me fortune in America." She had cried and clung to him. With her touch, reason and a rolling moor had faded for him. "I can't leave you," he had said, "I can't! Mary, you come with me." And Mary had come. Those days had been beautiful.... But fortunes in America did not come as advertised. Sometimes Mary thought of green turf, and the gentle drip-drip of fog, like rain. That rain that came so often.... Now she thought of it more than ever. She hoped that the Virgin would allow her a little corner of Heaven that would look like an Irish moor.... The gold the priest talked of was "grand," but heresy or not, she wanted a bit of green, with the gentle drip of rain on it. Jeremiah bent and kissed her. Then he rubbed the spot of blood of her lip from his. "It wasn't no mistake," he said. Her eyes grew moist. "Jerry," she said, "Celie is a good kid. She kin do fer yuh. Ain't she, right along? She won't give yuh no trouble neither. But the kid--he ain't so easy. It's the kids growin' up in America better'n their folks, that go to the devil. Watch him, Jerry, watch him good. Won't yuh now?" The man nodded; she closed her eyes. After a few moments that throbbed with the heat of the flat, she spoke again. "Jerry," she said. "Darlin'?" "It's this way, Jerry. I always wanted to be a lady--" "Yuh are!" he interrupted hotly. [Illustration: "NOW LAUGH! PAW'S COMING HOME AND HE NEEDS ALL OUR LAUGHS"] "No," she stated quietly, "I ain't, an' I always thought I could be. The Irish learns fast. It's this way, Jerry; if ever the time comes when you get money, you send Celie to one of them schools that learns 'em French and drawin' and such, Jerry, will yuh?" "Before Gawd, I will, Mary. If I ever kin." She closed her eyes and slept quietly, clinging to his hand. The next day was Sunday so Jeremiah went to Mass and heard it with especial intention. If his thoughts were more on the gentle Saint slowly dying in a hot flat than on the Gentle Mother, who can blame him. Jeremiah went from the baroqued church vastly comforted, and painfully aware of his Sunday collar, which had rough edges. Cecilia had rubbed soap on it, but it still scratched. Outside Jeremiah went, not in the direction of his home, but in the other. He passed a beggar's entreating wail, and then retraced his steps to bestow a penny,--and even pennies were not easily spared. Jerry was still a little child at heart. He was courting divine favour. He needed God and all the Saints on his side. After a brisk walk of many blocks he turned into a house with a doctor's sign on it. The office was crowded; he sat, outwardly submissive, to wait his turn. "Blessed Mother," he prayed, "make him mak'er well. Mother of the Saviour--" his thoughts were a chaos. "A gold heart!" he promised rashly, even while he remembered the unpaid grocer's bill. A woman with a pallid skin and hacking cough crept from the office. Across from him a boy exhibited a burn to an interested neighbour. "Blessed Mother,--" entreated Jeremiah, even while his eyes saw the burn and he wondered how it had happened. A crisp young person in white, who gave an impression of great coolness, said, "Your turn next." Jerry jumped and got up. Two little girls, at the Sheraton period in legs, giggled loudly at his jump, but Jerry didn't notice. He stopped on the threshold of the inner office. He twirled his hat in his hands. "Mister," he said, "it's my wife I come about." The doctor had been up all night. Added to his fact was the fact that he was fitted, emotionally, to run a morgue. "Name?" growled the doctor. Jeremiah Madden sank to a chair and told his name, of his wife, and how sick she was. He also interspersed a few facts about Irish moors, love and business in America. And he ended with: "An my doc he sez' no one can save her but Doctor Van Dorn. He's the cancer man of New York. The only one who can possibly save her! He sez that," repeated Jeremiah. "Oh fer Gawd's sake, Doc! I can't pay yuh now but--" The doctor swung about in his swivel chair. "My time is entirely mortgaged," he stated curtly. "I can't keep up to my work. Your wife will probably die anyway; accept the inevitable. You couldn't pay me, and I haven't the time. All New York bothers me. Good morning." He turned back to his desk. Jeremiah went toward the door. His step was a blind shuffle. Hand on the knob, he paused. "Doc," he said, "I love her so, an' the little kids, they need her. I feel like she'd live if you'd help her. I promise I'd pay. All my life I'd pay an' thank Gawd I could--" he stopped. The doctor moved his shoulders impatiently. "The Virgin will reward yuh--" said Jeremiah. "Oh, Doc! Fer Gawd's sake!" "Good morning," answered the doctor with another impatient move of his shoulders. Jeremiah left. A young person in crisp white said, "Your turn next, Madam." Madam went in. "Oh, Doctor, my heart--" she began. The doctor got up to move her chair so that the light would not trouble her. Jeremiah spent the morning in going from office to office. First he told the unfavourable report of his doctor. He met sympathy in some quarters, curt refusals in others, and worst of all he sometimes met: "Cancer of the stomach? Not much chance--" At half after one, sick from the sunlight of the cruelly hot streets, he turned into an office for his last try. He felt numb.... His tongue was thick. He looked with resentment on a well-dressed woman who waited opposite him. "Flowers on her bunnit," he thought, "while my Mary--" He thought of his hard labour and, with bitterness, of the "Boss." He had never felt this way before. If he'd had money, he reflected, how quickly that first doctor would have helped him.... The other refusals had come from truer reasons. His own doctor's report, although Jeremiah didn't realise this, had stopped all efforts. If the doctor had said no one but Van Dorn could help her, Lord, what chance had they? This was their line of reason. Jeremiah sat in the outer waiting room. At last his turn came. The doctor looked tired; he was gruff in his questions. "I'll come with you and look at her," he said at last. Jeremiah felt a sob rise in his throat. The doctor rang a bell. "Tell Miss Evelyn," he said to the maid who answered him, "that we'll have to give up our drive this afternoon. She's my little girl," he explained to Jeremiah. "Her mother's dead,--I don't see as much of her as I should. A doctor has no business with a family. I'm ready. Come on." They went out by a back door, leaving an office full of patients. The sun was hot. Jeremiah prayed fervently even while he answered the doctor's questions and responded to his pleasantries. At last they came to the building which held Jeremiah's home. They mounted the long stairs. Two or three children, playing on them, stopped their squabbling and looked after the doctor with awe. "He's got a baby in that case," said one, a fat little girl with aggressive pig-tails. "There is too many now," said a boy. "They don't all get fed, and they're all beat up fierce. Our teacher in that there corner mission sez as how Gawd is love. Why don't he come down here an' love?" There was an awed silence after this. Outright heresy as it was, the immediate descent of a thunderbolt was expected. Upstairs Jeremiah opened the door of the flat. The kitchen was full of women. Several of them sobbed loudly.... Johnny Madden sat on the table, eating a piece of bread thickly spread with molasses. On seeing Jeremiah the women were suddenly silent. Jeremiah swayed and leaned against the door. The small Cecilia heard him and came from the bedroom. "Paw," she said, "I'll do all I kin fer yuh. I always will.... She was happy. She sez as how she seen green fields an' rain." Jeremiah took her in his arms. He hid his face against her thin little shoulder. His shook. Cecilia was very quiet. She had not cried. She looked over her father's head at the roomful of gaping women. Something flashed across her face. Her teeth set. "She always wanted a bunnit with pink roses on it," said Cecilia. "I don't see why Gawd didn't give her jest _one_." The man sobbed convulsively and Cecilia remembered him. "She was happy," Cecilia said in a less assured tone. "She sez as how she seen green fields with rain on 'em like Ireland." CHAPTER II THE VISION OF A PROMISED LAND As Mrs. Madden had said, "The kids that grow up better than their folks go to the devil." Cecilia felt this at eleven, for she was all of Johnny's mother, and the role was a difficult one. She had learned to spat him and kiss him judiciously, and at the proper times. She had learned to understand his marble games and to coax him into attendance at Catechism. Cecilia had begun to understand a great many things at eleven that some of us never understand. One thing made learning easy for her,--she loved so greatly that she was often submerged into the loved, and so saw their viewpoint. "Paw," said Cecilia. She had turned about on the piano stool, and Jeremiah looked up from his paper. "Well?" he questioned. "I been thinking," she said, "that it would be genteel to ask the priest to supper. It ain't as though we hadn't a hired girl to do fer us, an' it would be polite." "That's so, that's so," said Jeremiah. He laid aside his paper. "You're like your maw," he added. Cecilia knew he was pleased. She smiled happily. "An' have ice-cream?" suggested the interested Jeremiah. "Yes," said Cecilia, "an' chicken, an' fried potatoes, an' waffles, an' of course pie, an' biscuits, an' suchlike. I'd like to entertain Father McGowan, he's been good to us." "Yes," answered Jeremiah. They were both silent. The vision of an overcrowded and smelling flat had come to sober them. Also the memory that always went with it.... "Play me 'The Shepherd Boy,'" said Jeremiah. He closed his eyes while Cecilia banged it out in very uneven tempo, owing to difficulties in the bass. Johnny came in. He sat down on a lounge covered with a green and red striped cloth. He looked at Jeremiah with a supercilious expression. "The other fellahs' fathers wears their shoes in the house," he stated coldly. "The Shepherd Boy" stopped suddenly. Cecilia went toward the "parlor." "Johnny!" she called on reaching it. Johnny followed meekly. The parlor was the torture chamber. When he went in Cecilia put her hands on his shoulders. "Johnny," she said in her gentle little way. "Um?" he answered, wriggling beneath her hands. "Johnny," she repeated, "it ain't polite to call down your paw." "But Celie," objected John, "he ain't like the other fellahs' fathers. They wears collars an' shoes, _all_ the time." "I know, dear," said Cecilia. "I know, but it ain't polite to call down your paw, an' nothing can make it so." "Aw right," answered John sullenly. Cecilia leaned over and kissed him. John didn't mind, "none of the fellahs being around." He went back to the living room. Jeremiah had put on his shoes. He looked at Johnny, awaiting his approval. "An' Norah," said Cecilia, excited to the point of hysteria, "you see that I get the plate with the crack in it, an' the glass with the piece outa it." "Sure, I will," answered Norah. "Now go 'long." Cecilia went to the dining room. They were going to eat there, because they were going to have company. Norah was not going to sit down with them either. It was to be most formal and "elegant." And now for the decorations. Cecilia put on two candlesticks, each at a corner of the table. They did not match, but why be particular? Then she took a bunch of peonies, and, removing all foliage, jammed them tightly in a vase that had the shape of a petrified fibroid growth, and had accumulated gilt, and a seascape for decoration. "It looks bare," said Cecilia. She went to her room and brought out a new hair-ribbon, worn only twice. She unearthed this from below a hat trimmed with pink roses. The hat was gorgeous and beautiful, but she could not wear it.... Looking on "bunnits with pink roses on 'em" always made her a little sick. The hair-ribbon was tied around the vase in a huge bow. Cecilia stood off to admire. "Norah!" she called. Norah appeared. "Ain't that grand?" she commented. "Now ain't it?" "Well," answered Cecilia, "I don't care if I do say it, I think it's pretty swell! Norah, you use the blue glass butter dish, won't you?" "Sure," answered Norah, and then with mutters of waffle batter, she disappeared. Cecilia stood a moment longer looking at the table in all its beauty. The plates were upside down. Napkins (that all matched) stood upright in tumblers. The knives and forks were crossed in what was to Cecilia the most artistic angle. "It's grand!" she said with a little catch in her breath. "Just _swell_!" Then with a backward glance, she vanished. "I hope paw'll like it," she muttered as she went upstairs. Father McGowan was a charming guest. He looked at the decorations and then on the small Cecilia with softened eyes: "Now I'll bet you fixed this beautiful table!" he said. Cecilia nodded, speechless. She drew a long, shaky breath. Life was so beautiful.... Father McGowan put his hand on her curls. (She sat next to him at the table.) His touch was very gentle. "Good little woman?" inquired the priest of Jeremiah. "She's maw and all to all of us," answered Jeremiah. There was a silence while they ate. "This chicken," said Father McGowan, "is fine!" "It's too brown, I'm afraid," answered Cecilia with the deprecatory attitude proper while speaking of one's own food. Her father looked at her with pride. The priest's eyes twinkled. "Paw," said Cecilia, leaning across the table and putting her hand on her father's, "tell Father McGowan how yuh hit the boss on the ear with the brick." Jeremiah sat back in his chair, first laying his knife and fork with the eating ends on the plate and the others on the cloth. He drew a long breath and told a long tale, at which the priest laughed heartily. He ended it thus: "An' I sez, 'I ain't _dee_pendent on no man. Yuh can do yer own brick layin' an' here's one to start with!'" With that Jerry had hit him on the ear. It was a dramatic tale, and one which made Cecilia swell with pride over a wonderful paw! The priest leaned across the table. "Have you a patent protection on those bricks?" he asked. "Why, no," answered Jeremiah. The priest talked long and fast. Cecilia could not understand all of what he said, but he mentioned unusual qualities of Jeremiah's product. His own knowledge of such things came through a brother in the same business. The necessity of a little risk and a big push. He talked loudly, and excitedly. He mentioned Cecilia and John as the incentive to gain.... He spoke of what he knew to be true of Jeremiah's product. Jeremiah sat very silent. If what the priest said were true! They went to the living room, where, over a pitcher of beer, there was more talk, incomprehensible to Cecilia. Then the priest smiled, and said: "All right, Jerry. In five years you'll be a millionaire. Now, Cecilia, I want to hear a piece." Cecilia sat down to play "The Shepherd Boy." Her fingers trembled so that it wasn't as good as usual, but the priest was pleased. Then she left, and wiped the rest of the dishes for Norah. Norah said that the priest was a "swell talker" and that she hadn't minded the extra work. Cecilia went up to bed very happy. She slipped out of her pink silk dress and hung it in the closet. As she reached up, a hat, all over bobbing roses, slid from the closet shelf to the floor. Cecilia's smile faded. She put it back, and shut the door. CHAPTER III THE FIRST STEP INTO CANAAN Cecilia stood in her bedroom in the new house. The paper in her bedroom was pink and hung in panels. At the top of each panel was a hip-diseased, and goitered cupid, who threw roses around,--roses that looked like frozen cabbages, and stuck in the air as if they'd been glued there. Father Madden had picked out the paper as a surprise for Celie. When she had seen it she had gasped and then kissed him very hard. He had said, "There, Celie, I knew you'd like it." After he had gone Cecilia had looked around and said, "Oh, dear--Oh, dear!" Roses always had made her sick, and even to Cecilia, the paper was "pretty bad." And Cecilia had kissed him hard and said she loved it. Some one tapped on the door. "Come," said Cecilia. "Father McGowan's down," said Norah with a point of her finger over her left shoulder. "An' the man's down with doughnuts, too." Cecilia laughed. Norah's mode of announcement always made people sound diseased. Cecilia had a mental picture of a man in the throes of doughnuts--with them breaking out all over his person. "You can take a dozen and a half," said Cecilia, referring to the doughnut-man, "because Johnny likes them so." Norah didn't move, but stood in the doorway surveying the tumbled room. A trunk stood in the centre, lid thrown back. From it exuded frills and tails. The bed was piled high with more frilly garb. Norah sniffed loudly. Suddenly, there were sobs and then she dissolved into many tears. "I dunno how we can do without yuh!" she explained in gulps. "Me, and Johnny and your paw. Aw, _Celie_!" Cecilia put her arms around the troubled Norah. She looked very near tears herself. "I would rather stay with you, but maw wanted me learned to be a lady," she said. Her chin set. "I gotta do it," she added. "Paw promised her." Norah sniffed and took the apron from her face. "I know yuh gotta, dearie," she answered. Celie put her arms around the damp Norah. "Norah," she said, "you will be very good to Johnny and paw? When Johnny wants paw to wear collars all the time, you take him out and give him doughnuts to divert him, will yuh?" Norah nodded. She was sniffing again. "And, Norah," went on Celie, "don't let the new cook use the blue glass butter dish everyday." "N-no, dearie," answered Norah. She still stood irresolute by the door. "Celie," she said, "when they learn yuh to be a lady, don't let 'em learn yuh not to love us." "I'll _always_ love you all," answered Cecilia. Her eyes filled with tears, and she kissed Norah. Downstairs Father McGowan sat looking at a gilt cabinet decorated with forget-me-nots, and a variety of chrysanthemums never seen on sea or land. On the top shelf of the cabinet was a brick, lying on a red velvet bed. Father McGowan smiled and then sobered. He remembered a night three years past when he had pointed out possibilities to Jeremiah Madden, possibilities in the manufacture of the humble brick. The possibilities had amounted to more than even he had anticipated. Sometimes he questioned what he had done.... His hope lay in Cecilia. The boy, he was afraid, would not be helped by money. Perhaps he'd turn out well. Father McGowan hoped so. He'd bet on Cecilia anyway. She'd use money in the right way in a few more years. There was a rustle at the door. Cecilia, in a new gown bought to wear at the "swell school," came in. "Father McGowan, dear!" she said. "Cecilia Madden, dear!" he answered. They both laughed, and then settled. "Have you come to tell me to be a good girl at the swell school?" she questioned. The father was silent. He was looking at Cecilia's dress. The dress was of purple silk with a green velvet vest. There were ribbons looped carelessly on its gorgeousness too. "Little Celie," said Father McGowan, "I want to tell you things and I can't. Now if you had a mother! Sometimes women do come in handy." Cecilia nodded. "I want to tell you," said Father McGowan, looking hard at the brick, "not to be hurt if at first the girls are stand-offish like. That's their way." "Oh, no," said Cecilia. "I won't be, but I think they'll be nice. Mrs. De Pui says they're all of the best families with wonderful home advantages." "Hum--" grunted Father McGowan. He did not seem much impressed. He still gave the brick his undivided attention. "And," he went on, "if you should get lonely, remember that there's one Lady you can always tell your troubles to. She won't laugh, and she always listens." "Oh, _yes_!" said Cecilia, and she crossed herself. Father McGowan drew a long breath. "Now," he said, "remember that if your clothes are different from theirs that your father has plenty of money to buy new ones for you. Remember that. A penance is all right, but not at fourteen." "Why, my clothes are beautiful!" said Cecilia. She looked bewildered. "They're all silk and lace and velvet, and I haven't a low heeled pair of shoes. _French_ heels, Father McGowan, dear!" "Cecilia Madden, dear," said Father McGowan. His look was inscrutable. He laid a hand on her hair. His touch was very gentle. "Most of all," he said, "remember never to be ashamed of your people, and always to love them. Love those who love you. Reason the truth out in your heart, and don't accept the standards of little Miss Millionairess, because she is that. Understand?" "Yes," replied Cecilia, "I understand, but Father McGowan, I would always love paw. Wearing shoes and collars in the house is just the trimmings," she stated bravely. "His heart is genteel." "Saint Cecilia!" said Father McGowan in a low voice, and then he muttered a few words in Latin. Cecilia did not understand them, but she bowed her head and crossed herself, and felt strong. After Father McGowan left she stood in front of a mirror admiring a purple silk dress with green velvet trimmings. "Holy Mary," she said with quickly closed eyes, "help me not to be too stuck on my clothes!" When she opened her eyes she looked into the mirror. "Oh, it's grand!" she whispered. "I am almost pretty in it!" She drew a long, shaking breath. The room in which Cecilia waited, while not at all like her home, impressed her. Most of the furniture looked old, and some of it showed a cracking veneer. The clock especially needed repair. It was a grandfather one, and had inlaid figures of white wood on the dark. Cecilia wondered vaguely if it couldn't be repaired and shone up? Dilapidated as she thought the furnishing, yet it left an impress. Two girls entered the room, they looked at Cecilia and tried not to smile. Cecilia wondered uncomfortably if her hat were on crooked, or whether her red silk petticoat hung out. They selected books from a low case with leisure, then left. Outside the door Cecilia heard them giggle. One of them said, "Some one's cook." "Every one has trouble with cooks," thought Cecilia. Then she looked down and forgot cooks. Her shoes were so beautiful! Pointed toes and high of heels. And her suit now, all over braid and buttons, with a touch of red here and there! Even those giggling girls must have been impressed. Their clothes had been so plain. Cecilia pitied them. She decided to give them a "tasty" hair-ribbon now and then.... The waiting was so long. She wished Mrs. De Pui would come. She thought of paw and Johnny and her eyes filled with hot tears. "Oh," she thought miserably, "if Johnny just won't reform paw! People are so happy when they aren't reforming or being reformed!" Again she saw the station at which she'd started for Boston, her father and Johnny both sniffing. She was so glad she hadn't cried. She had so wanted to! Her breath caught in her throat. "Please, Gawd," she made mental appeal, "make them learn me to be a lady quick!" Weren't they _ever_ coming? The shabby clock tick-tick-ticked. The sun lowered and made more slanting rays on the floor. A maid, very smart in uniform, came in. She gave Cecilia a guilty look, then said: "This way. Mrs. De Pui will see you upstairs." "Yes, ma'am," answered Cecilia. She followed humbly. The maid decided that her forgetfulness hadn't made much difference. She didn't think that _that_ would report her.... Cecilia went upstairs after the slender black figure. Her heart beat sickeningly. There were voices from the door at which the maid paused. Cecilia saw some girls sitting around a table at which a white-haired woman was pouring tea. "Oh," said Cecilia impulsively, "I'm interrupting yuh at yer supper." "No," answered Mrs. De Pui, faintly smiling; "come in. You are Cecilia?" Cecilia nodded. Somehow the sobs that had been kept in all day, were, at the first kind voice, very near the surface. The girls smiled at each other. Cecilia wondered about her hat, or perhaps her petticoat hung out below her skirt? Mrs. De Pui motioned her to a chair. "Annette," she said, "give our new friend some tea." "How do you take your tea?" questioned Annette crisply. "Milk," answered Cecilia, "an' sugar if yuh have it." She reddened. Of course they would have it. She wished she hadn't said that! She stared in acute embarrassment at her feet. Some one gave her a cup of tea, some one else a sandwich. She dipped it in the tea, then she remembered that that was not proper and reddened again. At that move the young person called Annette had suddenly choked and held her handkerchief over her mouth. The other girls looked into their cups, with the corners of their lips twitching. A fat and dumpy-looking girl seated a little out of the group looked at Cecilia with sympathy. Mrs. De Pui spoke of a recent exhibition of water colours, with her well-bred tones trickling over the inanities she uttered, and making them sound like a reflection of thought.... Even the sun looked cold to Cecilia. "I wish I was back in the flat," she thought, and then: "I wonder if I can bear it!" CHAPTER IV LEARNING A month had passed. Cecilia quite understood what Father McGowan had meant about clothes. Cecilia wore no more French heels. She had taken down her hair and discarded her beautiful rhinestone hair-pins. Father McGowan too, it seemed, had been responsible for her admittance to the school. Cecilia had found out from Mrs. De Pui that he had written a book! This astounding fact had been divulged after Mrs. De Pui, more than usually tried by Cecilia, had said: "Your entrance here has been rather difficult for me. You see, of course, that the other girls' advantages have not been yours?" "Oh, yes, Mrs. De Pui," answered Cecilia, and swallowed hard. "Realising that, my dear," continued Mrs. De Pui, "I hope that you will do your utmost to develop a womanly sympathy, and broaden your character." Cecilia said somewhat breathlessly that she would try to, very, very hard! "And," went on Mrs. De Pui, then coughed, "desist from the use of such words as 'elegant,'--'refined' (which, when used at all, is re_fine_d, not 'r_ee_fined'), and 'grand.' Such words, my dear Cecilia, are not used in----" (Mrs. De Pui nearly said polite society, but swallowed it with a horrified gulp) "are not used by persons of cultivation," she finished weakly. Cecilia vanished. She went to her lonely room. (There were no room-mates.) She settled on the bed. By the bed, on a chair, was a pink silk dress. It had been her star play, and after a month of boarding school she was going to give it to the maid. The maid was _so_ friendly! There were two letters on the small dressing table. Cecilia got them and read: "Celie girl, we miss you. It ain't like it was in the house. I hope they are learning you good and the board is good. I hope they treat you good. Father McGowan was here last night. He sez he will go to see you soon. Johnny is well. Norah sez your cat is lonely too. Your father with love, "J. MADDEN." The other was a line from John. A petulant line, full of querulous complaint of a collarless father, redeemed to Cecilia by a word or two at the end. "You were so good to me, Celie. I know it now." She threw herself down on the bed. Her shoulders shook miserably. Tears wet a once loved pink silk dress, "all over beads and lace." Upstairs in another room, a group of girls were laughing uncontrollably. "You know she actually invited Annie to _sit_ down!" said one. (Annie was the slender maid.) "That is not r_ee_fined," answered Annette. There was more wild laughter. "_Do_ ask her up to-night," suggested a tawny haired maiden with cat-green eyes. "_Do!_ It would be simply _screamingly_ funny!" Annette, although one of the most unkind, objected. "It doesn't seem quite nice," she said. However, as the idea promised fun, the majority ruled. Cecilia answered the tap on her door. "Come up to your room to-night?" she echoed after the invitation. "Oh, Miss Annette, I'd be that glad to come!" she smiled, and her smile was like sunshine after rain. "I _do_ thank you!" she said. "I do!" Annette turned away. Cecilia closed the door, then she covered her eyes. "Gawd, thank you ever so much!" she whispered, "thank you! I _have_ been so lonely! Make them love me. Please make them love me, Gawd." Then she lifted her head. Her face shone. "I wonder what I shall wear?" she said. To meet the ideal of one's dreams while carrying a sick cat is humiliating. And that is what happened to Cecilia Evangeline Agnes Madden. Her shadowy dream-knight had materialised into human shape through a photograph. And she met him while chaperoning a sick cat. Two weeks before she had gone to a party in Annette Twombly's room. She'd not enjoyed the party very much, in fact she'd been rather unhappy until she saw the photograph. After that she didn't care what happened. All the romance of the Celt had leaped.... Her shadowy dreams took form. The ideal lover developed a body. "Oh, your _heavenly_ cousin, Annette!" said the green-eyed. "I _adore_ his hair!" She stood before a large photograph, framed elaborately. "He _is_ a sweet boy," Annette had responded, "but so particular! I never knew any one quite so fastidious. It is _fearfully_ hard to please him!" "Does he get crushes?" asked the green-eyed. "My dear," said Annette, "it would be impossible. He's terribly intellectual and all that, and girls so easily offend him. He doesn't say so, but he simply stops paying them any attention." The group gathered about the picture to admire. It showed a rather nice looking boy, with an outdoor flavour, and eyes that questioned.... The face was too young to have character. "He's had on long trousers for six years!" said Annette. There was a hushed silence. "Isn't he _divine_!" gurgled one young person at length. Cecilia had only looked. The shadowy dream man vanished. The picture boy took his place. This day Cecilia walked alone as usual. Mrs. De Pui was an advocate of trust as a developer of "womanly instinct," so on a stipulated number of streets, the girls were allowed to walk unchaperoned. They went in little groups, all except Cecilia. She was her own small group. To-day she walked alone, at least it seemed so, but by her Cecilia felt K. Stuyvesant Twombly. "I admire art," he was saying. His voice, curiously enough, was Mrs. De Pui's. "So do I," agreed Cecilia. "Beauty develops us, the best of us, and brings a shining light into the soul." Cecilia stopped. Then because she was very truthful she went on: "That is not original. The man who lectures us on Art said it. He has whiskers and false teeth, I believe, for they click when he says, 'Renaissance.'" ... "Oh, Heavens!" thought Cecilia, "I will never be a lady. That would not be the way to talk to the ideal man. About teeth!--false ones!" Then the cat had appeared. Rather Cecilia had nearly walked on it. It was a limp little grey and white heap, its fur half wet from the gutter, and eyes half closed. "Poor pussy," said Cecilia. "You look like I feel when I'm with them what have social advantages. Poor pussy!" She was very tender toward it. She leaned above it, then picked it up. "I will bribe Annie, with dresses, to feed it," she thought. The cat began to be violently ill. Cecilia put it down. "I say!" came in a rather husky voice, "Pussy needs some Mothersill's, doesn't she?" Cecilia didn't understand the allusion, but she looked up smiling. The voice had been attractively hearty. After she looked up, she gasped. "What are you going to do with it?" went on the young man. "I thought I'd take it to my school and get the hired girl,--I mean maid,--to feed it." "No," objected K. Stuyvesant; "it's poisoned. We'll take it to a drug store and get them to kill it." "Oh, _no_!" said Cecilia. "See here," said the boy, "the cat will die. I've had dogs of mine poisoned. It's the most merciful thing to have it killed. It'll only suffer and drag its life out if you take it home." "I see," said Cecilia. "I suppose you know. It's just as you say." "Good kid," he commented. His comment called forth an agony and elation. Cecilia wished for the longer dresses with which she'd come to school. The boy picked up the cat gently and wrapped his handkerchief about it. "Come on," he said. "Drug store around the corner." Cecilia followed. She could not keep up to him. Half the time she ran. The whole affair was humiliating. "Thank the Lord no one saw me!" said the boy when they got inside the drug store. He looked at Cecilia. They both laughed. "Sit down," he said. "I'm going to buy you a soda." Cecilia sat down. "Choclut," she ordered. He sat down opposite her, and put his arms on the sticky little table. He thought he looked on the prettiest child he'd ever seen.... She seemed entirely and only a child. "What's your name?" he asked. "Cecilia Evangeline Agnes Madden," she answered. "Well, Cecilia Evangeline," he said, "don't try to eat the bottom of the glass; I'm wealthy to-day. I'm going to buy you another soda!" "Oh," answered Cecilia, "I really oughtn't." At a motion the clerk bent above her. "C-could I have a sundae?" asked Cecilia. The boy laughed and nodded. "Peach," said Cecilia, "with a good deal of whipped cream on top, if you please!" She smiled frankly on K. Stuyvesant. "I'm having a _fine_ time!" she said. Her sentimental dreams of him had vanished. He didn't talk a bit like the phantom, but he was _nicer_! "What's your name, please?" she asked. She knew, but little Cecilia at fourteen was a woman. "Keefer Stuyvesant Twombly," he answered. "Rotten name. Imagine being hailed as 'Keefer'! It sounds like some one's butler. It isn't a nice name, is it, Evangeline Cecilia?" "No," said Cecilia. "But then, you are nice. Names and things are just trimmings. _You_ are nice," she repeated. "So are you," returned the boy, "and I'll _bet_ you're Irish!" "_How_ did you know?" asked Cecilia, wide-eyed. "How did you know?" "And there she sat," said the green-eyed, "laughing with him in the most brazen way, and he bought her two sodas!" "How vulgar," said Annette. "Was he good looking?" "Ravishing, my dear. Alice thought that he looked like your cousin." "That, of course, is impossible," said Annette coldly. "He _does_ happen to be here. He and his mother are at the Touraine. But as for his looking at any one like that Madden girl--! How she got in here, I can't imagine. I think that it is an imposition to be asked to meet her." Annette surveyed her hair, and picked up a mirror. "Did you tell Mrs. De Pui?" she asked. "Yes," answered the green-eyed; "I thought that it was my _duty_. It hurt me to do it, but I thought I _ought_ to. We watched them for the longest time. We pretended to be looking at a window full of hot water bottles." Alice came in. She picked up the photograph of K. Stuyvesant Twombly. She nodded at the green-eyed after she looked long.... Annette saw this in the glass and glared. CHAPTER V DISGRACE The day had been terrible for Cecilia. She had learned from Mrs. De Pui that she had hopelessly offended.... What she had done, Mrs. De Pui said, was an act suitable for one of the maids. Mrs. De Pui was pained. She could not believe that one of her pupils, with the womanly inspiration of the school set before her, could have so offended. It was unthinkable! Cecilia wriggled, and swallowed with difficulty. "Cultivate repose," ordered Mrs. De Pui coldly. Cecilia stood so rigidly that she looked like a wooden Indian. One of the girls entered. She said, "Excuse me," and backed away, plainly much interested. "What was the boy's name, Cecilia?" asked Mrs. De Pui. Cecilia swallowed so hard that she shook. "I don't know," she answered loudly. Then what Mrs. De Pui said was very terrible. Cecilia crawled off at last, white and shaking. She groped for her door knob. Things before her were not very clear. What Mrs. De Pui had said was very terrible, but,--but the other, her first lie, uttered with that brazen assurance.... She went in and threw herself across the bed.... She didn't cry. The hurt was too big. So her dear father and the fact that she was born in poverty made her an outcast? If so, she would stay so. "Learn her to be a lady," the breeze that came in through an inch opened window whispered. Cecilia felt it, and set her chin. And Mrs. De Pui hadn't believed her story. Hadn't believed her.... "One more try, Cecilia, although you are a great trial both to me and my pupils," echoed through her brain in Mrs. De Pui's cold tones. Cecilia sat upright on the bed. "My heart's right," she said aloud. "I believe it's better than Annette's. Don't that count for nothing? Ain't being kind being a lady?" She stared sullenly across the room. The white furniture glittered coldly. From between the flutter of scrim curtains she saw a painfully well arranged park. Even the trees were smugly superior. "Gawd _was_ in that flat," she said, and again aloud. A sentence came to her mind. A sentence that is shopworn and has been on the top shelf for many years. "I guess Gawd is what I feel fer paw,--" she said, half musingly,--"Love. An' fer Johnny, even when he's bad, an' Father McGowan, dear, an' Norah. Just that." ... She looked out of the window and saw the painfully well regulated trees again. "Them trees ain't so bad," she stated; "at least they ain't when I remember that they love me at home." Her face changed, for she remembered some of Mrs. De Pui's well-aimed truths. Her father,--his difference. It should always be hers, too, she decided. Her first touch of hate came. "Gawd, make me a lady quick!" she implored. Some one tapped on the door. Cecilia opened it. Annie was there, beaming. She held a long box with stems sticking out of one end of it. "Fer you, dearie," said Annie. Cecilia opened the box with trembling hands. The box held pink roses, very, very pink roses.... On the top lay a card. On it was written in a loose, boy-hand: "For little 'A-good-deal-of-whipped-cream-on-top.'" Cecilia stared at the card, breathless. "Annie," she-said at last, "ain't they lovely?" "Aren't, dearie," corrected Annie, and then added, "You bet they are! You bet!" Cecilia lifted them reverently. There were three dozens of them. Her years were such that numbers and prices still counted. "Who shall I tell _her_ they're from?" asked Annie. "Yuh got her goat, yuh know." "Father McGowan," answered Cecilia. Suddenly the guilt of the other lie, her shame over the act unthinkable, and her new realisation of the standing of those she loved, slid from her soul. She was wildly happy. She hugged Annie. The white furniture didn't glitter coldly. It smiled. A crowded flat was far away. The trees in a smug park were beautiful. "One new frock," read Father McGowan, "twenty-five dollars. Hat, fifteen. 'Madam Girard's skin food, and wrinkle remover,' two dollars and fifty cents. Flat-heeled shoes, seven dollars. Taxi, one dollar and fifty-two cents. Church offering, ten cents." Father McGowan threw back his head, and laughed loudly. Jeremiah Madden looked on him, bewildered. "It's her cash account, yuh know. Twenty-five dollars fer one dress," he mused, with a pleased smile. "_Ain't_ she learnin' quick? But the letter," he added, with a perplexed frown appearing, "it sounds _too_ happy. The happiness is a little _too_ thick. Smells like she put it on with a paint brush jest fer show." "Hum----" grunted Father McGowan. He opened a pink letter sheet. At the top of it a daisy was engraved. "I give her that paper," said Jeremiah proudly. "She _was_ tickled. She sez as how none of the girls in school had nothing like it." "I believe it," replied Father McGowan. There were heavy lines in his face. Cecilia's heart-ache lay on his shoulders, he felt, for he had made the "Brick King." "Darling Papa:" read Father McGowan, "I was so happy to hear from you. I read your letters over and over. I love you very much. I am learning that that is the biggest thing in the world, loving people, and having them love you. I miss you, but of course I am happy. "The School is elegant very nice, and I get enough to eat. The view from the front windows is swell beautiful. It looks right out on the Park, all over fancy foliage and rich people walking around. I sometimes walk there, and one little girl, awfully cute, with bare legs and a nurse, likes me. Yesterday she threw a kiss to me. She looked like Johnny when he was little, and we lived in the flat. It made me want to cry. "I am very happy. You do so much for me. I will be very happy when I can come home to you and Johnny, and we can have Father McGowan to supper dinner every Saturday night. I am sending some things that look like fruit knives, but which are butter spreaders, and are used to apply butter to bread, etc. (i.e., not to eat off of). "I am very happy. I went to one party in an exclusive girl's room. It was kind of her to ask me. I love you so much, Papa. Please kiss Johnny for me, and Norah. Tell her to use the butter spreaders daily. (_All_ the time.) "She need not cherish the blue glass butter dish any more. "I do love you, dear Papa. Your, "CECILIA." "P.S.: I send my respectful regards to Father McGowan, and thanks for getting me into this exclusive School, which caters only to sophisticated people with money. "C." "Well?" asked Jeremiah, after Father McGowan had laid down a pink sheet of paper with an engraved daisy at the top. "Well?" "Hum," grunted Father McGowan, "Hum!" He stared long at a brick which lay on the top shelf of a gilt cabinet. "I'm going up to Boston," he said at length. "I'll look in on our little Cecilia." "Will yuh, now?" asked Jeremiah. "It's kept me awake nights, thinkin' that mebbe in spite of all the expense, she wasn't happy. I wanted to go up, but Johnny sez I wasn't suitable fer a girls' school, being as I remove my collar absent-minded like (having always did it)." "You're suitable, all right," said Father McGowan, "but since I am going up, I might as well attend to it. Hard for you to leave business, too." "Yes," admitted Jeremiah happily. He swelled and cast a loving eye toward the brick. Then he wilted. The proud pleasure was gone. "_She_ always wanted a bunnit with pink roses on," he said in a low voice, "an' I couldn't never buy her none, an' now----!" Father McGowan laid a hand on Jeremiah's. "There, there, Jerry!" he said. "Think how happy you're making the children!" A sallow boy came in. He cast a sneering look at a limp figure in a gilt chair. Then, without a word, he picked up a book and went out. Jeremiah's eyes were like a child's--the eyes of a frightened child. "Sometimes," he said in a whisper, "I'm afraid he's _ashamed_ of me!" "No!" exploded Father McGowan, "No!" There is nothing like the scorn of the undetected guilty for those who are exposed. Cecilia was treated to fine scorn, supercilious looks, and, worst of all, a chill overlooking; for she had allowed a boy whom she'd never met to buy her a soda water and a pink sundae! And,--what made the offence doubly revolting?--was the fact that the boy was considered by the girls a man, and that those who had seen him termed him "_Ravishing_, my dear!" He,--but let us quote: "Simply _Rav_ishing, my dear, with dark eyes and hair. _Hon_estly, he looked as if he had a secret sorrow, or was on the stage, or was _fear_fully fast. Something wonderfully interesting about him, you know. Why he would _ever_ look at _her_, I can't see,----" etc. Cecilia sat in the corner of the shabby-impressive room. She was reading "Sordello" because it was required by the English teacher. Cecilia wasn't a bit interested, and twice the book had slipped shut, and she hadn't known at all where she'd left off, which was annoying; she was afraid she might read one page twice, and she couldn't bear the idea of that. She wondered if this Browning person could have made a success at manufacturing bricks? She judged not. He didn't seem practical, but inwardly she was sure that he could have done anything better than write poetry. She really wondered quite a little bit about him, but after the laughter of the class on her question: "Is Mr. Browning an American or does he come from the Old Country?" she had ceased to voice her speculations. She turned the pages fretfully. There were a great many more. She hoped that Mr. Browning was dead, so that he wouldn't write any more stuff that they would be required to read. Then she berated herself soundly for this unholy wish. Annette Twombly and a girl with tawny hair and green eyes came in. When they saw Cecilia they raised their eyebrows. "There seems to be _no_ privacy in this place!" said Annette. Cecilia turned a page. "And what is worse, my dear," answered the green-eyed, "one is constantly called upon to meet persons socially inferior--the kind suitable to the kitchen and associating with the policeman." Cecilia had turned another page, but she had not read it. The print was jumping dangerously from the quick pump of her heart. "I will not move," she thought. "I will not move, nor show them that I hear." "Imagine allowing an unknown man to buy you sodas!" said Annette, who was looking out of the window. "Isn't it utterly _hope_less?" There was a pained silence. The hopelessness of it had evidently eaten deeply into the systems of Annette and the green-eyed. "Milk, an' sugar, if yuh have it," mimicked the green-eyed. She scored her point. Cecilia's book closed. She got up quickly and went toward the door. There she paused with her hand on the jamb. "I hope it pleases you to make me so unhappy," she said quietly, "for otherwise I don't know what you are accomplishing." Then she went upstairs to an always lonely room. She closed the door gently and lay across the bed, staring at the ceiling. She never cried any more. She reached beneath the pillow. Her cold and moist little hand closed about the letter of a brick king. "I love you!" she whispered fiercely. "I shall make you proud of me, but Maw, I'm glad you died before the roses came! I'm glad! I'm glad! ... They have so _many_ thorns!" The young ladies downstairs didn't giggle as usual. They avoided each other's eyes. At last Annette said, "Upstart! How dared she speak to me that way!" It was said in an effort to reinstate her superior right to exercise the rack. The green-eyed didn't answer. She looked out of the window. At last she said carelessly, "Going to dress." And Annette was not invited to her room. The green-eyed stood still just inside her door. She thought of a fat father, and of his code of morals. The mother whom her eyes came from was very distant. "It has been utterly devilish!" she said loudly. "Utterly. And I did it while I read 'The Mob,' and ranted over it." Then she threw a book across the room, which spelled emotional crisis for her temperament and, this time, reform. Her green eyes were full of healthily ashamed tears. CHAPTER VI A HINT OF PINK Cecilia sat well forward in the parquet seats of an opera house in Boston. Her small hand was curled up in the fat palm of a fat priest. The people who saw this smiled indulgently, then looked again; for the little girl was so pretty, and so happy, and the man's face was unusual. The curtain had not gone up. They were a good fifteen minutes early. "You see, Father McGowan-dear," said Cecilia, "it was not just their fault, for I am so different. I am still, but less so.... Then one day they said more than usual while I was reading that Sordello poem. (It isn't interesting, is it?)" Father McGowan smiled and shook his head. "And I thought I just couldn't stand it. I was so miserable that I even thought of taking the veil!" Father McGowan laughed suddenly. Cecilia looked at him with questioning eyes. "Go on, dear," he said gently, "and excuse a bad-mannered old priest." She squeezed his thumb and continued: "Well, it was that day I decided to go home. I decided I could not be a lady, I mean I could not acquire a _savoir faire_ (that means a natural swellness)," explained Cecilia. Father McGowan nodded. His eyes twinkled. "So," said Cecilia, "I took all my money, and put on my hat and sneaked out. Then I walked down the block and across the Park. I saw a baby in the Park, a little girl, and she makes me think of Johnny when he was little and I took care of him. Then I thought of maw, and how she wanted me learned, I mean taught, and I went back. I am not very brave, and I wanted to cry dreadfully. I got in the hall, and there was Mrs. De Pui. She looked awfully cold, and she said, 'May I ask where you have been, Cecilia?' and then, that green-eyed girl I hated broke right in and said, 'I had a slight headache, and I asked her to post a letter for me, Mrs. De Pui. I _hope_ you don't mind.' The green-eyed girl is very rich, and so Mrs. De Pui said so sweetly that she hadn't minded at all. "She always says 'post' instead of 'mail,' Father McGowan-dear. She spent two weeks in London last summer, and she said that the English accent became unconscious, or at least that she used it unconsciously. And she does except when she gets excited or talks fast. "Well, she followed me upstairs, the green-eyed one, her name is Marjory, and I said, 'I do thank you.' Then I felt mean about the way I'd felt toward her, and I added, 'I am very sorry that I have hated you so.' Then she kissed me, Father McGowan-dear. Really, she did, and she said she was _glad_ I'd hated her. That it helped. She went down the hall, and paused at the turn to say, 'It is a great deal to ask, but some day I hope you'll like me!' Oh,--the curtain's going up! Look at that yellow dress. Aren't her legs _beautiful_? Mine are _so_ skinny!" There was a burst of music, and the chorus waved their arms with the regularity of the twist of aspen leaves, when rain is coming. Cecilia gasped. Then she sat breathless, watching every motion on the stage. A fat priest sat looking down at her. Once he took off his glasses and polished them. Something was making them misty. The curtain went down. Cecilia gasped again, then she told of the awful, humiliating sick-cat episode, and of her disgrace in accepting a "choclut soda," and a pink sundae with whipped cream on top. Father McGowan was very understanding. He did not think it was a sin. In fact he was quite violently sure it was not. He grew very red in the face. "What is the matter with that woman?" he asked in an entirely new, and really horribly stern tone. Cecilia didn't answer. Her startled eyes recalled him. "By George!" he said. "I forgot the candy!" and he produced from a coat pocket the most beautiful box. "_Oh_," said Cecilia, "oh!" She smiled up into Father McGowan's face, and then added, "I can put that ribbon in a chemise. Oh, dear Father McGowan!" "What is a priest to do," asked Father McGowan, "when all his inclinations are to kiss a young lady's hand?" "I am so happy!" said Cecilia. Father McGowan put his other hand on the small one that lay in his. Cecilia tightened her little fingers about his thumb. Father McGowan pushed away his plate. The chops were underdone, the potatoes soggy. "Here's yer coffee," said Mrs. Fry. She was a perfect person for the housekeeper of a priest, being so visited with warts and a lemon expression that questioning her morals was impossible. Father McGowan stirred the coffee, then took a sip. He sighed. "Well,", he thought, "at least it makes fasting easier!" In the hall of the rectory were twelve people. They were all shabby, and a boy of eleven sniffed with a wonderful regularity. They were all waiting to see a fat priest. A girl with sullen eyes and once pretty face looked around with defiant assurance. Opposite her on the wall hung a carved wood crucifix. When her eyes met that, she shrank, and then she'd look away, and again be sullenly brazen. A well-dressed man rang the bell. The warted housekeeper answered it. "I should like to see Father McGowan," he said. "I will only need a few moments of his time," he added on seeing the people waiting. "Set down," ordered Mrs. Fry. "You'll have to wait yer turn." The man smiled. He was faintly amused. "I hardly think so," he said; "I am Doctor Van Dorn. My time is rather valuable. I can hardly waste it in that way." "It's his rule," said Mrs. Fry, nodding her head toward the rear of the hall. "All who waits is the same. Yuh waits yer turn, or yuh goes. _He_ don't care." She had fixed her eyes above the man's head with all her words. He looked on her, frowning deeply, then said with an unconcealed irritation showing in his voice: "Will you at least take him my card?" Mrs. Fry nodded. She held out a palm that looked damp, then went down the hall, reading the card as she walked. "He needn't be so smart," she made mental comment. "_Here_ he ain't no better than none of the rest." She went toward the table at which Father McGowan sat and shoved the card toward him. "He wants to see yuh right off, _now_," she said. Father McGowan picked up the card, read it, and then laid it aside. "Tell him the rules," he said shortly. He turned back to a page of pink letter paper, with a daisy engraved on its top. He glanced from it to the clock. He still had twenty minutes before work began. "Dearest Father McGowan, dear:" was written on the pink sheet. It was crossed out and below it was written, "Respected Father:--(I meant the first, but I suppose this is properer.) I can't tell you how happy you made me by the play and everything. I have put the pink ribbon in a chemise where it looks decorative, and cheers me up, as I like pink ribbons in underwear, although white are better taste. I am much happier. I am not _always_ happy, but do not tell Papa, nor any one that I am not. I _am_ much happier than I was. "I apologise for clinging to you and kissing your hand good-bye when you left, but I am not sorry. It was very hard to let you go. Pink roses seemed _all_ thorns just then." Father McGowan stopped reading. He looked across the room with far eyes. They were surrounded by fat wrinkles, and made small by thick lenses, but they were rather beautiful. "I wanted to do as you suggested and try another school," he read, "but I somehow feel that I must finish what I've started, and I would like to show these girls that my soul is not purple silk trimmed with green velvet, if you can understand that; they seem to judge everything by rhinestone hair-pins, which is not a real clue to character. "When you go to dinner with Papa, see that Norah uses the butter spreaders, which are small knives shaped like fruit knives. I will be deeply grateful. They are used for buttering bread, and so on (not to eat from). "We are studying art. Andrea Dalsartoe, who painted the Madona of the Chair, just now. Marjory is so kind to me. She is an Episcopal but nice in every other way. They say a prayer to themselves when they go into church, too. She says, 'Peanuts, popcorn, and chewing gum, amen,' which I do not think is _very_ devout. She says it is just the right length when said _slowly_. "You did make me so happy by that play and the candy. I have never had a better time but once, after which I was disgraced and sorry. (I had not met him socially, you know, which made it improper to eat sundaes with him, even while on an errand of mercy to a sick and dying cat.) "We hear an orchestra every Saturday, chaperoned by our English teacher, who has asthma horribly and splutters a great deal. The music is classical and improving. I do not enjoy it very much, but there is a man in the orchestra who has an Adam's apple that wiggles and he helps me. One can always find enjoyment when looking for it, can't one? He plays a horn, and blows the spit from it often. He seems to have a great deal of spit. "I have not thanked you the way I wanted to for the play, and everything, not forgetting the taxi ride and the sundae afterward. I do love you, Father McGowan, dear. I believe if there were more priests who believed in God, _and_ pink boxes of candy, there would be more Christians. "Most respectfully, and lovingly, "CECILIA." The clock struck one. Father McGowan folded up a pink sheet, and put it, in its envelope, in his pocket. He was smiling gently. He opened the door into the hall, and the people struggled tiredly to their feet. "Pax Tibi!" he said with a hand above his head. A girl with sullen eyes sobbed aloud. A Doctor sneered. Much later the Doctor was admitted to a rather bare room, made tolerable by the colours of the books which lined its walls. The priest sat behind a table. They exchanged the usual formalities, then Father McGowan said: "Well?" Doctor Van Dorn shifted uneasily. "It is difficult to explain," he said. "I don't know just how to put it, but I thought you, if any one, could help me." "I shall do all in my power to help you, if I think you need help," answered Father McGowan. The Doctor picked up a paper knife. He toyed with it, then blurted out: "I feel sure that there must be some reason for it, and that he's merely doing it from some evil wish." "Who? Doing what?" asked Father McGowan. The Doctor looked silly and laughed uneasily. "I'm not very coherent," he said. "Oh, well," said Father McGowan, "we're both doctors in a way. We both meet that enough to understand it. Now take your time and tell me your story in your own way." He pushed a box of cigars across the table. "Want to smoke?" he asked with the move. The Doctor nodded and lit a cigar. "It concerns a man named Madden," he said, "who, I have found, is one of your people. I have no proof, at least of the tangible sort, but I believe he is doing all he can to ruin me.... He is succeeding fairly well, too." "Well, well," said Father McGowan. "Now what's he doing?" "It began," said the Doctor, "with my hospital, which you know is a private affair, and in which some of my fellow doctors, with me, do some experimental work. The most of my clientele consists of the rather more well-known people of this city, as you know." Father McGowan nodded. The Doctor's voice was as usual, and he began to swell a bit, with the tale of his hospital and its clientele. "I rarely take charity work," said the Doctor. "All New York is after me...." Suddenly his face changed. "Was after me," he corrected. He studied the end of his cigar. "I did take one small chap," he went on slowly, "a charity case. He interested me. The complications were most unusual; however, you would not understand about them, and they do not influence the tale. I took him in and gave him the best of care, even to giving him a hundred-dollar room and an especial nurse. (His case was most interesting.) Well, as you know, the action of the muscles and organs is changed by anesthesia. I--ah,--I did but the slightest experimental work, keeping him well-fed, you know, and in this hundred-dollar-a-week room. The best of care, as I explained. He,--ah,--himself submitted to this slight pain when I told him that after it he would run and play as other boys. He had a natural, childish desire to run and play. Quite natural, I suppose." "I suppose so," said Father McGowan. His tone was dry. His expression was very different from that which he had worn while reading the pink letter sheet. "Then one day when a slight,--very slight, I assure you,--operation was absolutely necessary to his getting well, he said he would not, could not endure it. He had been quite weakened by his being in bed, and so on, but he screamed wildly. What he said was most improper and very ungrateful. He turned against us suddenly, as is the way of some when diseased." The Doctor stopped. He had grown rather white. He was again in a hundred-dollar room, which had a slat door, and no way to keep the voice of a frenzied charity patient from the rest of his aristocratic hospital. He heard the voice again: "Gawd, no, youse devils! ... Youse are killing me! Lemme die! Oh, Mister, don't strap me down! I can't stand it no more.... Don't--don't! Christ ... Christ ... Kill me, but don't----" The Doctor moistened his lips, and came back to the bare room in St. Mary's Rectory. "He was most ungrateful," he said to Father McGowan, "and he bit my hand when I tried to silence him." Father McGowan was looking out of the window. The Doctor went on less surely. "A woman who scrubbed the floors heard this, and, as is the way with her class, got emotionally aroused. It seems she lived in a tenement, and had lived there when Jeremiah Madden had lived across the hall, before he made his money. She went to see him. He removed the lad from my care, and with his malicious help, lied viciously about me and my work, scattering statements broadcast, and giving their statements to the papers. My own profession do not largely back me up, being, I suppose, jealous, and of little spirit. I think they recognise my skill too well to love me. You read those articles?" he asked, turning to Father McGowan. "That has nothing to do with your narrative," answered Father McGowan. "Please go on." "Well," said the Doctor, his well-bred voice holding a hint of frost, "it,--that is, this malicious attack,--had prejudiced many. For the good of this Madden man's soul you should help him to be truthful, not to so belittle his nature by----" "You're worried about his soul?" said Father McGowan. "Is _that_ why you came to me?" Father McGowan smiled. The Doctor shifted in his chair. There was the staccato tap of crutches on the bare floor of the hall. The knob of the door turned. "Father," came in a small boy's voice from the doorway, "I brung yuh a toad. I want youse to bless it. It's dead. It was a cripple, too. I found it all mashed. You'll bless it? Me an' the fellers is going to bury it. _Ain't_ it cute?" The Doctor had not turned. "Come in, little Saint Sebastian," said Father McGowan. The little boy gave him a look that was pathetically adoring. His crutches tapped across the bare floor. Opposite the Doctor, he looked at him. Suddenly he screamed. "Gawd! My Gawd! Oh, Father McGowan,--_don't_--let him have me!" He clung to Father McGowan's cassock as he sobbed out his broken prayer. "Don't, Mister, don't!" he ended weakly. Father McGowan picked him up. He looked at the Doctor. "Go," he said. Father McGowan again settled back of a bare table. A little boy sobbed in his arms. "Will you forgive me, little Saint Sebastian?" asked Father McGowan. The child's arms tightened around his neck. Father McGowan coughed. "We're going to have some pink ice cream," he said after an interval. "Now here's my hanky. Gentlemen don't wipe their noses on their sleeves!" "Will--will yuh bless the toad?" asked the child, after a damp smearing of Father McGowan's handkerchief. "He was a cripple. _Ain't_ he cute, now?" he added in a tender, little voice. Then he brightened and said loudly, "But I'm glad he's dead, for they ain't no Father McGowan toads to be good to little toad-cripples!" Father McGowan coughed, and tightened his arms about Sebastiano Santo of the slums. "Oh, dearest Paw--I mean Papa!" said Cecilia. She clung to him. The lights of the New York station blurred through her tears. Then she veered away from him, and gathered Johnny close. "Aw," he said, "cut it! There's one of the fellows over there." But "one of the fellows" faced the other direction, Johnny saw, and he allowed himself to hug Celie quickly. He was glad to see her, but he felt a vague resentment toward her because her coming made his throat so stuffy. He remembered the time when he used to sit on her lap and eat bread spread thickly with molasses. He didn't know quite why he was thinking of it in the Pennsylvania Station.... He remembered that he used to pull her curls and that she'd pretend to cry and then kiss him, and then they'd both laugh, and laugh. It was always a great joke. And then she'd look at the clock and fry potatoes and meat over a smelly stove, and say, "Now laugh! Paw's coming home. He needs all our laughs!" "John dear!" said Cecilia. Johnny forgot the past, and swelled. Cecilia's use of his name made him feel a man. "Mister, will yuh please attend to this here baggage?" he heard his father say. "Don't call him 'Mister,'" he corrected Jeremiah in an undertone. Cecilia stepped from them to a group nearby. "Good-bye, Marjory," John heard her say. "Yes, I _will_ come to see you. You'll come to my house, too?" She turned to a rather more cool looking young person, and added less surely, "I would love to have you, too, Miss Annette, if you'd care to come." "I'm rather busy----" John heard the Annette person reply. Then he saw her turn away from Cecilia. His heart grew hot. "If I don't see you again," said Cecilia, "I wish you the happiest kind of a Christmas!" Annette did not reply. The Marjory girl kissed Cecilia twice. "Good-bye, little Saint," she called after Cecilia. "I'm coming to see you to-morrow!" In the motor there was a pause for inspection. "Yuh look so different," said Jeremiah rather wistfully. "My heart is just the same," said Cecilia. "It will always be the same." She kissed Jeremiah Madden after her words and then leaned forward and kissed Johnny. He didn't mind, none of the fellows being present. Then they were silent, for when hearts are very full they are liable to wiggle up into throats and choke people when they try to talk. At last they were out of the crowded streets and on broad ones, where other cars, taking people pleasure-bent, rolled past them. Then the house. The house from which Cecilia had gone last September, wearing a suit all over buttons, with a touch of "tasty" red here and there. "Norah, darling Norah!" said Cecilia. Norah's red arms drew her close, then, quite in Norah's way, she eclipsed behind a blue-checked apron, and sobbed loudly. Cecilia looked about the hall. There was some new furniture. A hat-rack that was evidently the work of a lunatic with the unrestrained use of a jig-saw. "Look up, Celie!" ordered Jeremiah. Cecilia looked up. Strung across the hall was an elaborate electric sign. The words were made of blue, yellow and red globes. She read: "Welcome to our Darling!!!" Cecilia gasped. Then she turned to her father. "It is beautiful," she said, "and just what I wanted." She stopped and swallowed with difficulty. Then added, "Papa dear, I love you so!" Johnny smiled. He raised his eyebrows and his shoulders. Then he sniffed. He thought he smelled the scent of roses. CHAPTER VII SANTA CLAUS Father McGowan, holding a cassock high about his black-clad legs, stood in the back yard of the rectory grounds. The back yard looked like those photographs entitled, "Rude shelters for the soldiers," or "Huts built by the South Australian Light Horse Brigade." All over the brown lawn were small shacks. Some of them made of brick, some of old and weather-beaten boards, and some of these two with a smattering of very ex and sticky roofing mixed in. Father McGowan smiled. Mrs. Fry looked out of the window. Her lips tightened. A small boy emerged from one of these affairs. Emerged on his stomach, wiggling out. "Father McGowan," he yelled, "we got a secret passage!" "No!" said Father McGowan enthusiastically, "No!" Another door opened. Another boy came wiggling forth. "_We_ got a secret place to hide things in, in ours!" he said in a sing-song, mine-is-better-than-yours tone. "Aw----!" said the first disparagingly. Father McGowan laughed. A boy came swaggering across the lawn. He whistled, "In My Harem." He touched his hat to the priest. "I'm going to get a case of pop," he said loudly, "an' drink it here. Mom, she gimme a candle, and Pop sez I can stay out 'til nine." After this he was instantly the centre of an awed and admiring group. Mrs. Fry opened the door. "The 'phone wants yuh," she said shortly to Father McGowan. Father McGowan went in with evident reluctance. He wanted to hear more of the case of pop, which he knew would narrow down to two bottles. After he'd passed through the kitchen, Mrs. Fry spoke again to her sister who sat steaming by the stove. "_He's_ like that," she said, a great love, yet vast contempt, showing in her tone. "He lets all the kids around build shacks in the backyard, and even gets 'em stuff to build with!" "What fer?" asked the steaming one. Her bewilderment was complete. "Oh," said Mrs. Fry, "he sez something about its bein' necessary to a boy's soul to build something and tear it down. An' pretend things that ain't. One day they calls that mess of rubbish the wilds of Sieberia, an' the next an Indian camp. An' _he_, he gets right out an' chases around with 'em. He's busted his glasses twice this month." Mrs. Fry sighed. "I kicks," she went on, "and then he sez, 'Mrs. Fry, I'm sorry, but the fact is, an aunt brought me up, awfully good woman, too, but too neat. I never pounded, and a boy needs to pound.' Then he sez, 'Now if there is anything you need for the kitchen that I can get you, Mrs. Fry, I'd be glad to.' An' what can I do? I lead an awful life because of them young rapscallions, but _he_ can't see it!" "Well, I'll be beat!" Mrs. Fry poured out a cup of coffee and pushed it toward her guest. "Ain't sugar high?" she said as she dumped in two lumps. "You bet," answered her guest. "Does _he_ set and study much?" she questioned. _He_ was very interesting. Mrs. Fry drew a long breath. "He don't get no time to set," she answered. "He hardly has a chance to eat half the time besides being pestered by them kids. I never know when he'll be on time for meals. Did I tell yuh about the bath-tub?" she questioned. The steaming shook her head. "_It has two ally-gaters in it!_" said Mrs. Fry with emphasis. "My Gawd!" "Yes, one of these here kids got 'em sent him from Florida, or some furrin port, an' his mother, being a sensible woman, wouldn't have 'em near. Well, the kid comes bawlin' to Father McGowan (they always do), an' he sez, 'Now, Jimmy, don't cry. You can put 'em in my bath-tub; I only bathe once a day, and I can use a tin one. Mrs. Fry has her own bath-tub on the third floor, so she won't care.' I did, but what kin yuh do? I sez, 'I won't enter that room with them rep_tiles_ in it fer to clean it.' He sez, troubled like, 'Well, Mrs. Fry, I'll do it, or get one of the boys to. I don't mind.' Them kids messing around there. Can yuh see the way _they'd_ clean it!" "Ain't that fierce?" "Yes, an' he don't care so much fer it, either. He sez he _could_ hope they'd die or summer'd come. (We're going to have a pond in the backyard--to run into the cellar!) Yuh oughta see that room after he's bathed in that there tin tub. All that's missin' is Noah and Shem--we got the animiles." There was the click of crutches in the dining room. The door opened. A small boy appeared. "Come in, dearie," said Mrs. Fry. Her tone was softened. "What's his name?" asked the visitor. "He don't know," answered Mrs. Fry. "He was in the hospital one time, real sick, and lately he don't remember so good. 'Father McGowan calls him 'Sebastiano.' Want a cooky, dearie?" The boy nodded, and smiled. Cecilia had had her friend Marjory to lunch. It had gone rather well. She recalled it as she stood looking out of a heavily glassed window into a frosted street. She, herself, had set the table. The napkins had not been set up in tumblers. The fibroid tumor vase was quite absent. There had been valley lilies in a flat bowl for the centrepiece.... She had disposed of the blue glass butter dish by dropping it. Cecilia felt strangely sad as she did it. The blue glass butter dish had once seemed so very lovely.... "Are they giving me anything to take your place?" she questioned, as it shattered on the floor. Then she called Norah, and listened to her laments as she gathered up the pieces. She had the feeling of untruth added to her little sadness. As yet nothing had taken the place of blue glass butter dishes for small Cecilia. She still preferred rhinestone hair-pins, and French-heeled shoes to their plainer sisters. Beauty had been taken away and none substituted, at least none that she enjoyed. The only thing she really cared for was the dragging of her newly acquired French in her talk. She did this often with the proud feeling that it was what her mother had wished. Jeremiah had said, on meeting Marjory, "Pleased to meet yuh, mam," and Cecilia had broken in with, "I love papa so much, Marjory, you must too." She had hardly known why she had made this defiant and sudden declaration. Johnny had been much impressed with Cecilia's guest. So much so that his misery was acute when Jeremiah related the incident of the brick throwing. "I sez to him, 'Yuh can lay yer own bricks an' here's one to begin with!'" Jeremiah had said with his customary chuckle, that chuckle that always came with his proud remembrance. "I think that was exceedingly clever of you, Mr. Madden," Marjory had replied. Cecilia had smiled on Marjory with the smile of an angel, she had also laid her hand on her father's. Johnny had squirmed. Cecilia gazed out of the window. The air looked cold. She wondered whether she would ever get the chance to thank that Mr. Keefer Stuyvesant Twombly for those lovely flowers? They had come just at the right time. He was wonderful, as the girls said, and "ravishing," but better, he was nice. There was a scuffle at the door, Norah's voice was heard: "Now mind the _eee_-lectric sign!" she said sharply. Cecilia knew that the tree was coming in. Late that evening Jeremiah opened the door of the pink and gold "parlour." "Santa Claus has been here and went," he said mysteriously to Cecilia and Johnny, who sat on the stairs, "an' he's did good by yuh!" "Now remember!" said Cecilia to Johnny, with a stern look. Johnny had been told that his disbelief in Santa Claus was not to be expressed. They scrambled up. Cecilia stopped in the door. The tree was a mass of silver and glittering lights. It was really very lovely. Mr. Madden's tastes were well suited to trimming a Christmas tree. "Showy like, an' nothing cheap or old lookin'!" he said, as he surveyed it with proud eyes. Cecilia went toward a table on which her gifts were spread out. First, she saw a phonograph with a morning glory horn.... By it was a pink velvet box, strapped in silver. "Jewels," was written in a neat, spencerian engraving on one spot of the silver banding. There was a mother of pearl brush and comb and glass, bound in wiggly gold. "They are lovely, Papa!" said Cecilia. "And _just_ what I wanted!" "Looka here!" whispered Jeremiah. He pulled her toward the light the tree threw and took from his pocket a small box. He opened it slowly. Cecilia saw a chain and pendant that would have made a very good showing on the Christmas tree itself. It was plainly built for one of the rhinoceros family. It had seemed to dislike showing any partiality in gems. There was a fair smattering of all jewels present. "Three hunderd dollars!" breathed Jeremiah Madden. His eyes shone, and he breathed quickly. "Celie," he said, "it ain't too good fer yuh! There ain't nothing I wouldn't do fer yuh!" "I know, dear," answered the small Cecilia, "but you shouldn't. It is too much. You have made me very happy." She turned away. There was a sudden smarting beneath her eyelids.... She hated the school that had taught her a quiet manner, and to see blue glass butter dishes as a visitation rather than a glory. "That ain't _all_!" said Jeremiah. He took hold of her arm, and led her to the other side of the room. "Throw on the lights, Johnny!" he called loudly. Cecilia felt him tremble. The lights snapped on with a too white glare. Jeremiah and Cecilia stood before a picture over which was thrown a cloth. Jeremiah drew it aside. "It was did from a tintype," said Jeremiah softly. He looked on the face of his Irish wife. Her lips were painted a brazen carmine. Her cheeks glowed like the stage ladies' of the billboards. Around her neck were three ropes of huge pearls. "He threw in the pearls," explained Jeremiah in a voice that shook a little, "an' fancied her up some, but them eyes,--it's your maw, Celie. Your maw that died in a two-room flat." With the last words Jeremiah had turned away. His shoulders had a limp droop. The happiness of the evening had faded. "What's in this box?" asked Cecilia, unsteadily. It was a hat box and stood beneath the new portrait. "Her present," answered Jeremiah. "The present I give her. Look at it, Celie. Ain't it pretty? I picked it." Cecilia opened the box. She drew out a large, flopping hat. It was trimmed with pink roses. The next day when Father McGowan was all ready to start for the Madden house, there was commotion in the wilds of _Sie_beria. It had been reported the day before that one of the "guys" had smoked a Piedmont, and Father McGowan, finding this so, had had to dust him mildly with a hickory cane, hung on the back porch for that purpose. He disliked doing this, and smoked for a good hour afterward to soothe his nerves. Mrs. Fry had watched the chastising with pleased eyes, but then, on going to the bathroom, all happiness had vanished, for one of them rep_tiles_ had crawled out of the tub. She had dropped her scrubbing cloths, and disappeared screaming. Father McGowan had been all ready to start. He had found his hat (which had the most mysterious way of disappearing), and with an ashamed expression, he'd put a small box in his pocket. Then the wilds of _Sie_beria had demanded attention. "Them young devils," Mrs. Fry had said, with a bob of her head backward. "They are raising Cain! Something's wrong." She went off muttering. She still cherished and resented the encounter with the rep_tile_. Father McGowan went toward _Sie_beria. It was one of the few times in his life that he hadn't wanted to. "_Now_ what?" he called from the back porch. A scream was the only answer. It came from one of the brick dwellings. The chastised of yesterday, Father McGowan saw going quickly over the fence. "Oh, drat!" said Father McGowan. There were wilder howls from the brick mansion. Father McGowan went toward it. He looked for the door, then he chuckled softly, for the door was entirely gone. He took off his gloves and began to pull out the bricks. "Walled in," he muttered. "Lemme out! Lemme out!" came from within, in muffled tones. Then with the opening Father McGowan had made, and with the advent of light, the screams dissolved into pathetic sobs. "When I git him!" came in moist tones. A small boy wiggled out. He had a paper covered book in his hands. "He done it," explained the boy, between sniffs, "while I was a-readin' in the secret chamber. _He_ done it. When I git him! I'll smash him! I mighta starved!" he ended pathetically. "Well," said Father McGowan, "that is a shame! Won't you come have a piece of pie now? You must be hungry." The boy nodded. He followed Father McGowan toward the house. "He done it," he went on, "because I told on him fer smoking. I thought I _oughta_." The sufferer's tone was pious. "My nerves is shook up," he said when they reached the porch. "I was afraid I'd starve. There's pictures in our physiologies of starving Cubans--they ain't so nice. "Mrs. Fry," said Father McGowan, "we do need a piece of pie. Could you find us some?" Mrs. Fry muttered and went to the refrigerator. Out on the back fence the chastised called, "Yi! Yi!" A note expressing scorn. He added, "Cry baby! Cry baby!" The cry baby turned and exhibited a piece of pie. The chastised relaxed into a pained silence. "Come here!" called Father McGowan. The boy slid from the fence and came slinking toward him. "Mrs. Fry saw you smoking," said Father McGowan. "I never listen to what you tell of each other. Here's a piece of pie for you." He looked at his watch and added in a perfunctory way, "You shouldn't have walled him in." "I ought to have given you a Rosary," said Father McGowan. He still looked guilty, but happily so. Cecilia stood before a mirror, looking at a dainty little chain and pendant, which she'd clasped about her throat. "I know you ought, Father McGowan, dear," she answered, "but I'm _so_ glad you didn't! It's _so_ beautiful!" She gasped happily. Father McGowan smiled. "Papa gave me one," she said. "It--it is, that is, I love it, but I'll wear this more." She looked into Father McGowan's understanding eyes. "I am learning," she said, "but I learned things before I went to school that I shall never forget, and that I never want to forget." Jeremiah came in. "You give her that?" he asked in a pleased voice. "Well! But have you saw the one I give her? _Three_ hunderd dollars! Get it, Celie, and then play us 'The Shepherd Boy.'" Celie vanished. White-clad nurses flitted about the halls of Jeremiah Madden's house. There was a dead silence, and upstairs that druggy-sick smell. Cecilia had been very ill. She was better, but still sick enough to keep Jeremiah anxious. He hovered about the house almost forgetting bricks, and wearing a collar all the time, as he did on Sundays. It had begun with a cold, then a cough, which (through Celia's standing on the curb, better to view a gentleman down the street who was interestingly drunk) had turned to pneumonia on both sides. She had gone to bed protesting that she felt very well, but that her breath was not acting quite right. Then she had grown so very, very sick that she had forgotten time, life and even Jeremiah of the bricks. Those days had been rather dreadful for Jeremiah.... He had taken to sitting just outside her door on a very upright chair. He turned the pages of "Ridpath's History of the World." He was trying to "educate himself up to Celie." ... However, he missed a great many of the pictures and only got as far as Volume One. Each time a trim nurse would step from Cecilia's door, he would cough to get his voice in shape, and then whisper gratingly: "Excuse me, Missis, but how is she?" "She is doing well," the white one would answer, in a tone of thin sincerity. Then Jeremiah would go back to Ridpath, miserable, and unconvinced. Once in a while he would hear Cecilia's high, little voice--"Keefer, the butler!" she repeated again and again one day. She said it in gasps, but somehow got out the words. The effort in her voice had cut Jeremiah's heart, but the words had brought a proud smile. "Associatin' with butlers!" he whispered. "_Ain't_ she gettin' fine?" Then Cecilia moaned of butter dishes, blue ones. Jeremiah had left his post and Ridpath's History long enough to go shopping. He bought her three butter dishes. Two of them had covers. The third boasted of a curling handle, on which perched a dove and a cupid, on a spray of something that looked like spinach in the crude state. Cecilia had been very pleased with them. She had looked on them, said, "T-thank you, _dearest_!" and then cried gently, the tears slipping down her face with pathetic regularity. She cried all that afternoon. "I'm not good enough for you!" she gasped, "but I love you, and butter dishes!" CHAPTER VIII A LITTLE TOUCH OF THE MAN WITH THE HOUR GLASS Time had been careful with Father McGowan. Perhaps he thought Father McGowan rather nice as he was, and unneedful of the lines that usually come with heart and soul expansion. Be this as it may, the fact was that he was little changed. The lenses in his glasses were a bit thicker. He had accumulated a little more tummy in the last seven years, but he still played Indian and exile in _Sie_beria with the same joy, and he was still the true father to every child who knew him. He sat behind a bare table in a room unbeautiful except for the books which lined its walls. He was looking over his mail. He laid one letter with a foreign postmark aside. There was a tap on the door. A small boy of nine, or thereabout, came in, sobbing wildly. "My mom, she sez you're a _Catholic_!" he gasped between sobs. "Yuh ain't, are yuh?" "I'm afraid so," answered Father McGowan. He looked very guilty. "Oh, dear!" replied the small boy, and sobbed more loudly. "Now, now!" said Father McGowan. "We can't _all_ be Methodists, you know. The church wouldn't hold 'em.". The child still sobbed. "I'll tell you," went on Father McGowan; "you pray that we'll all belong to one church in Heaven. You do that. Wouldn't that be nice?" "Uh huh," agreed the boy with tempered enthusiasm. He smeared his tears across his face with his coat sleeve. They left white streaks. "I couldn't _believe_ you was a Catholic!" he said sadly. "You're so nice, and because of the pie and all." His face was long and his eyes melancholy. "I'm sorry," said Father McGowan, "so sorry. How's Siberia to-day?" The child reported and then vanished to do his utmost in making a convert by prayer. Father McGowan opened the rest of his mail, and then reached toward the letter of foreign stamp. He always kept the best 'til last. "Dearest Father McGowan-dear:--" it began in a hand characteristic of many boarding schools, and yet showing a bit of individuality--"I have wanted to write you.... So many things to do that half the time all I get accomplished is my loving of you dear people, every day a little more, though more seems impossible. I love you, and Papa and John so much. So much that when I'm away from you, and think of you, I feel quite choked. It is rather beautiful, and terrible, this caring so deeply. I do not know how I could ever say good-bye." There was a page of Cecilia's large scrawl. It contained no news, but Father McGowan read it closely. His eyes were the same as when, years before, he had looked on a table Cecilia had decorated in honour of a big, fat, Roman priest. Suddenly he laughed. "We have a small donkey," he had read, "whom we have named Clara, after the vicar's sister. Our donkey has long ears and a religious expression, too. The vicar's sister is really very nice, but our grey donkey looks so like her that we always expect her to stop in the middle of the road and talk of missionary barrels and Sunday School treats. The latter is a form of entertainment which contains much jam, tea, many pop-eyed little girls and boys, not to omit a large stickiness. (I went to one, and poured tea down Lord Somebody's neck. It was a great condescension for him to 'stop in,' and only the fact that I am of 'mad America' saved me from a public hanging.) "Marjory and I have splendid times. I am so glad I am with her. It is nice for me, and I think for her. Mamma Aliston is one of those poor ladies who enjoys suffering. If she had lived where I did in my younger days, she would have said: 'I ain't feelin' so well. The doctor's give me three kinds of medicine. It's me _nerves_.' As this is not in order, she mutters of draughts, and places a pudgy and diamond-ringed hand above her heart many times a day, sighing expressively. Marjory has no sympathy with her. She only says, 'Don't eat that, Mamma; it is bad for you,' about anything Mamma enjoys. I am a beautiful buffer. (Please pardon the 'beautiful'; it refers to spirit.) "The way those two people clash is utterly dreadful. I remember always, when I hear them, Saturday nights, years ago, when the gentlemen of our building used to tumble upstairs, very drunk, and I would then hear squawks and abuses. We are all the same, but people never realise it.... I laugh inside when they talk of 'lower classes.' I laugh but sometimes it hurts a little. I am ashamed, Father McGowan, that it should.... Coming home very soon. I want to give a man named Jeremiah Madden as many years of happiness as I can. I am coming home to play 'The Shepherd Boy' every evening after a lemon pie-ed dinner. "Father McGowan-dear, I have been worried about John.... Here I see so many heavy-eyed boys slinking into manhood. Those boys who travel with their blindly indulgent mammas and leave a man at home, alone, across the seas. "I think if my little brother should grow up to be viciously weak, I could not bear it. I cannot see how he could, for the blood in us is too plain for fancy wickedness. Rather ours would run to fierce encounter, and, if we must be truthful, flying dish-pans. But,--well, I've dreamed of him too often lately, and I remember that he may be stepping into manhood. I wish I were better fitted to be wise with him.... I have not liked his letters, Father McGowan. His estimate of people is made in the shadow of a dollar mark...." Father McGowan read another page. On the last was written: "So, I will see you very soon, dear (excuse the liberty, but you _are_ dear!), and I am ready to take up my burdens. Those that come with money. I hope to do much and learn to do it well. You will help me? "I shall leave Marjory and her mother in this sleepy little village, shadowed by its Cathedral. The cross that has stood for peace through many years shines from its spire and seems to bring it here. It is so lovely, Father McGowan! "Very much love from your always grateful and loving "CECILIA." "But, my dear!" said Mamma Aliston, "I could not _permit_ you to return alone! Could not permit it!" "I'm sorry," answered Cecilia, "but I must go. I have my maid. I should not be really alone." "I don't like the look of it," said Mrs. Aliston fretfully. Then, "_Is_ Clara going to sleep! Why you girls _insist_ on having her when you could motor smoothly with a footstool and cushions and all the windows closed,--Oh! My heart!" Cecilia turned a sympathetic eye toward Mrs. Aliston. "It is nothing, my dear," said Mrs. Aliston in answer to her look, "nothing to one who is _used_ to suffering. Oh, dear, what a sorry thing this world is, when we are poorly equipped to meet it. Who was that who passed us? Not Lady Grenville-Bowers?" Cecilia nodded and stopped Clara so that Mrs. Aliston could feast her eyes on the holy dust titles were kicking up. It was not Lady Grenville-Bowers, but Mrs. Aliston was happily unconscious of it, and Cecilia had learned the proper use of lies. After Mrs. Aliston again settled she went back to the original subject. "Let me see," she said, speculatively; "perhaps there will be some one crossing to whom it will be suitable to confide you. I dislike so intensely this running about alone,--my dear! _please_ watch that beast! Yes, more than likely there will be some one. I know so many people, many of whom some would feel privileged to know! I'll look about. I dislike so intensely this idea of your crossing alone. It is rather, pardon me, dear, common,--middleclass. Yes, I'll look about. No doubt some one may be found." Cecilia nodded absently. She had learned to "yes" and "no" at the proper times with Mrs. Aliston, quite without a listening attention. Strangely, she was thinking of some one else beside her father, John or Father McGowan. This some one who had been the leading man of her dreams for a great many years. In fact, ever since she had rescued a sick and dying tabby. She had carried his true voice with her wherever she went.... Often when things called men had asked for her hand because it held money, a genuine voice had echoed through the years. "Pussy needs some Mothersills,----" she would hear, and then with an absurdly little-girl feel for being so influenced, she would gently discourage. There had been some who really loved; some loving with an air of condescension showing through their manner,--others truly, and with humbleness. Some poor, weak, with only love as recommendation. Some just ordinary men,--one or two made big by what they felt for small Cecilia. And with them all, something was wrong. She heard the echo of a nice boy's voice, as he bought a small girl a "choclut soda," and a sundae all-over-whipped-cream, and she heard it while she said: "No; I'm sorry. I really can't. I'm _never_ going to marry. I hope you'll find some one you'll like _much_ more than me!" And they had all said they never would, which is the way with young men.... Cecilia had believed the first one, then life had taught her the quick healing of some hearts, and she had smiled a little when the rest said it. That smile was always the undoing. They usually kissed the hem of her dress, and swore to shoot themselves, and Cecilia would whisper: "Oh, _please!_ Some one will see you!" or, "Oh, _please!_ Some one might hear you!" whichever the case might be. Then they always kissed her hand and went away, and Cecilia would sigh and say, "Well, I suppose that means an awfully nice wedding present soon, to show that I'm not put out!" Sometimes she wondered if K. Stuyvesant Twombly were living, and if so, where? Then she often decided _not_ to think of him, because it was too childish.... And then she would discover that every life must have its fairy tale, and that he was hers.... "Home!" said Mrs. Aliston, with a sigh of relief. "Oh, my poor body! 'My little body is a-weary of this world.' Who said that, Cecilia? Bernard Shaw? or Arnold Bennett?" "No," answered Cecilia, "I think it's in the Bible, but I can't just remember." A groom stepped forward to lead Clara away to her boudoir and dinner. Cecilia went into the cool house to write her father on a small typewriter she carried for that purpose, Jeremiah being "partial to print." Outside the grey of the English twilight crept slowly near.... Everything was peaceful,--quiet. America were far away. The person suitable for Cecilia's chaperon was found. She was very correct, had several chins, and was well connected. She came from Boston and mentioned this fact in a hushed tone. On talking with her, Cecilia felt as she had in the first few months of boarding school--chilled, and alone. This morning was the one before they sailed. Miss Hutchinson had wished to go to Westminster for a last look. "You will come with me?" she had asked of Cecilia. The question had really been a statement. Cecilia replied that she would be charmed to go. She went to get a broad hat that entirely eclipsed one eye. The sun was faintly present. "It is fine," said Miss Hutchinson, who spoke English whenever she remembered it, to show that she had lived much abroad. "So it is," said Cecilia. "How absent-minded of the sun!" Miss Hutchinson didn't answer. She was busy showing a taxi driver the error of his ways. "Robbers!" said Miss Hutchinson, as they settled on the stuffy cushions. Cecilia looked after a passing bus, and wistfully. She dearly loved to ride on top. They bumped along, Miss Hutchinson expatiating on some one's relatives. It seemed that one of them had been "in trade." "Papa makes bricks," said Cecilia calmly, wondering, as she said it, whether the British soaked their shoes overnight in the "bath" to get that delightful muffiny effect and the curl up at the toes. "My dear," said Miss Hutchinson quickly, "that is quite different. His business is on a large scale, and his fortune excuses anything. This man had been in trade in a small way?--a sweet-stuff shop, I believe, or a chemist. Something fearfully ordinary." "Horrible!" said Cecilia. Miss Hutchinson looked at her. Cecilia's smile was strange. She hoped she was not saddled with a young person of too modern ideas for seven days.... In Westminster Miss Hutchinson went toward the Poet's Corner. Cecilia wandered outside. She paused by a small stone set in the wall. "Jane Lister, Dear Child," she read. The gentle little ghost smiled on her from those simple words. She looked long at them. She always saw the "Dear Child," quaintly frocked, smiling. Some one paused behind her. She turned. "Isn't that almost too beautiful?" she whispered. "Yes," answered K. Stuyvesant Twombly. He looked on this impulsive, American girl, and smiled. Then she turned back to Jane Lister, and he raised his hat and went on. Her eyes made his memory itch, but he could not know why. Perhaps some one whom he'd met suggested her. He met a great many people.... Uncommonly pretty, if he cared for beauty,--or girls. Then his mind turned to business interests. He was supremely American. The girl in the cloister still gazed at a weather worn slab. "Dear child," she said, "he is alive. Oh, dear child, isn't that beautiful too?" John was faintly smiling. A superior smile that was his own and took in no one else. He used it often on the "Gov'ner," who from it, was reduced to a pulp, and realised himself fit for nothing but supplying funds.... Father McGowan was not reduced to a pulp, but he was genuinely angry. He thought with a longing of a hickory cane which hung on the back porch of the rectory. "How old are you, John?" asked Father McGowan. "Eighteen," replied the overgrown boy. "Gettin' on, yes, gettin' on." He lounged back in his chair. Father McGowan leaned across the table. "Old enough to take tender care of your sister when she gets back," he said. "Certainly," answered John. He studied his finger nails. They were gorgeous examples of the manicure's art. John wished the old man would get on. He had a date.... He wondered what he was driving at anyway? He covered a yawn and muttered a pardon.... "Late hours," he added, in explanation. Father McGowan again thought of a cane which hung on the back porch. "How's your father?" he asked. "Oh,--the Gov'ner?" replied John in a tone of entire surprise. "Really, I don't know. I haven't seen him for a week." He again looked at his finger nails then he thought of a girl he did not meet socially. His thoughts and attentions ran to that kind. "What a rotten life a priest's would be! Staying in a dull room like this--" he thought, then became conscious of a long silence. He looked up. Father McGowan's eyes were full on him.... Space faded. John was a baby in a crowded flat. He cried, and a little, tired-eyed girl picked him up. "Aw, Johnny!" she said. Flies buzzed about. The dull hum of traffic came from the street below. Some one called, "Celie, aw Celie! Quick!" from a room off of the kitchen. The little girl vanished. He heard unpleasant sounds, then moans. John started up. The chair in which he'd sat overturned. "You devil!" he said to a fat priest. The dream had faded. John breathed in gasps. "I will excuse you," said Father McGowan, "if you will remember what a sister did for you, and in return give her the greatest gift: a pride in the boy she loves. Good-night, John." After the boy had gone, Father McGowan scratched his head, as was his manner when perplexed. "What was the matter with him?" he asked aloud. Then he sighed. The talk, he was afraid, had done little good. At first he had gotten only a supercilious smile, and then that outburst. Well, life was only a succession of tries, and a climbing at the wall unscalable.... Father McGowan dismissed the problem, thought of the comfort of a hot bath, and then the perusing of a new book he'd just bought. "Oh, drat!" he muttered. There was a baby water snake in the tub, and the tin one did not invite a lingering. It scratched in several inconvenient spots. Outside, John still breathed in gasps. "Home," he thought as he settled in a low, grey roadster. "I don't like her hair anyway," he offered in weak excuse for abandoning his original plan. Yes, he would be good to Cecilia. Awfully good to her.... Had her life, his,--ever been as dreadful as that flash? Cecilia should never know him otherwise than she believed him. It would be a noble deceit, lived for love of her. That was the game one played with women that one truly loved. The _Arcania's_ decks were alive with people scurrying hither and thither, seemingly with no impulse behind their unrest, nor aim in direction. A few souls stood very calmly by the rail, watching the steerage embarking. Their whole attitudes said, and loudly: "This is all old to me. I will have you know it is even a bore!" They were looked on with respect by the few to whom crossing was a novelty. Cecilia was pleasantly excited. Sailing was not new to her, but she was so healthily alive that she tingled with any enthusiasm near. "Our deck chairs are in the most absurd spot!" said Miss Hutchinson. "I told the steward what I thought of him, and them. He said he would change them. Aren't you going to look at your flowers? Your state room is full of them. I stepped in. Your maid was putting some of them in your wash bowl. I told her that would never do. You will have to use it, you know, to brush your teeth, wash, and so on, and if you're sick--it is most inconvenient to have the stand cluttered with flowers. I--ah, happened to notice Lord Ashby's card on some flowers. Where did you meet him, _dear_?" "Sunday school treat," replied Cecilia. "I poured tea down his neck." Her reply was made in an absent way. She was scrutinising the passengers. There was a fat woman near who looked lovely! She stood within earshot of Cecilia and Cecilia heard her address her husband as "Poppa," and then a very healthy and pleasantly loud-looking maiden as "Lotty." It made Cecilia feel as if she were in the warmth of a summer sun, just to hear them. So happily natural, they were. "_Horrid_ people!" said Miss Hutchinson loudly. She elevated a lorgnette, and looked "poppa" up and down critically. "Beer, Cincinnati," she decided in far-reaching tone. Cecilia squirmed. "That dear baby in the steerage!" said Cecilia, to divert the offended Miss Hutchinson. "Dirty!" commented the diverted. "So absolutely degrading the way the lower classes have children! One after the other!" ended Miss Hutchinson. Cecilia did not voice it, but she wondered what other mode of entrance into the world was possible, one at a time, rarely two, having been the style for a good many years. The baby began to whimper. Its mother slapped it vigorously. Cecilia looked away. She hated to see a child slapped. Johnny had often been most trying. She had rarely slapped him.... Then she turned and quite forgot the hot, whimpering baby of the steerage.... K. Stuyvesant Twombly stood behind her. He recognised the impulsive girl who had spoken to him at the small tomb of "Jane Lister, dear child," and he raised his hat and smiled. Cecilia gasped. Then, she went below, and very quickly, to see her flowers. "Oh, but you are nice," said Cecilia, "if your name is not!" Then she looked away from K. Stuyvesant Twombly. She had not meant to say anything like that! It had simply come out! The wind blew strongly and ruffled her hair. K. Stuyvesant Twombly watched her with a good deal of interest. She was _quite_ different from any girl he'd ever met.... She watched first the rough sea which looked like a small boy's chewing gum, laid in a safe place waiting for the next chew ... grey, indented with the marks of small teeth. Then all the sea would slip below the rail, and all of the world would be sky. "I was named," explained K. Stuyvesant, "Keefer, after a rich uncle. He died and left all his money for the support of Lutheran missions in China. After that my mother used to faint every time she'd think of my first name." Cecilia laughed. "I'm _so_ sorry!" she said. "Does she still faint over it?" "She died last February," answered K. Stuyvesant quietly. "I'm so sorry!" said Cecilia again. K. Stuyvesant didn't answer. They were quiet for a few moments, both watching the tilt, and eclipse of the sky-line. At last the man spoke. "It is tragic," he said, "to have the ones you love die, but it is more tragic to have those you have loved from instinct, and never known, die. You wonder, all the time, whether they too, are fretting because of the lost opportunity. You wonder what there was below that you didn't see.... All I remember of my mother was her hurry to get in a great number of engagements, and a chill aloofness, cultivated, I have thought since, to keep in check over-tired nerves.... If we could have once gone below the surface! Even with incivilities, if in that way, we could have known each other.... Never saw one another, fleeting glimpses...." "You poor man!" said Cecilia. "I'm ashamed to have said that," he said. His voice was gruff. "But,--it's been in my heart these long months,--that endless regret." He drew a shaky breath. Cecilia laid her hand on his arm. Without a shade of consciousness his hand closed around hers. "I've never told any one that before," he said. "You're awfully--different. I feel as if we'd known each other always." He turned his head and looked down at her. Their eyes met, and it was hard to look away. "You're so dear!" he blurted out. Cecilia, used to many men of many compliments, coloured. She squeezed his hand, and then shyly drew hers away. Mrs. Higgenmeyer came waddling down the deck. She saw Cecilia and smiled widely. "Well, dearie!" she said in her usual carrying tone, "Lotty was looking fer yuh. She and poppa are playing rum now. She wants you should see a wireless she had from her gentleman friend." "I'd love to!" answered Cecilia. Momma passed by. K. Stuyvesant and Cecilia laughed gently. "I like to love and laugh," said Cecilia; "but if you leave the love out, the laughter is too liable to turn sour." K. Stuyvesant nodded, but he hadn't heard what she said. He was undergoing new and terrifyingly beautiful sensations. "The Higgenmeyers are dear, aren't they?" said Cecilia. "Um hum," answered K. Stuyvesant. He turned quite boldly and stared at her, while she looked out upon the sea and sky. He wondered, while he swallowed hard, whether he had any chance. He wished he weren't such a duffer! He even wished faintly that she weren't so wonderful. Cecilia looked up at him again, and again the warm colour came into her cheeks. Then she began to talk quickly of a recent play. Her voice was not quite steady. She wouldn't meet his eyes. Miss Hutchinson was speaking of a paper she'd read before the Boston literati on "The Message of Ibsen." Cecilia didn't know much about Ibsen, but she thought he would have been rather surprised if he'd heard what he "really meant." K. Stuyvesant was, as usual, with them. Cecilia and he looked at each other often. The new, disconcerting light in his eyes had given way, and was displaced for the moment by a mischievous twinkle. Cecilia was able to look at him frankly again. Miss Hutchinson arose, untangling from her steamer blanket like a huge butterfly from a cocoon. "My point was," she said loudly, "that Ibsen is the Seer of those who SEE, but," she sighed, "there are so few of us!" She vanished. Cecilia giggled. "Are you one of _us_?" she asked of K. Stuyesant. "Lord, no!" he answered laughing, and then added seriously, "I'm an awful duffer. Stupid and all that. I never used to care, but now I do. You--you don't read that kind of stuff, do you?" His appeal held a great fear. "Oh, no!" answered Cecilia. "I stopped reading improving things after I left school, I can't bear them, and it depresses me so to use my head! I'm not a bit clever." She sighed with her last words. They were both making many confessions about their failings. Somehow it seemed necessary. Also, they both wished a great deal of the time that they were much nicer! "You know what Stephen Leacock said about intellectual honesty?" asked Cecilia. K. Stuyvesant shook his head. "I can't quote," said Cecilia, "but he said as you grew old you would find books had brought you more pleasure than anything except tobacco. But then, he said, you must be honest about them, reading only what you liked. That if 'Pippa Passes' didn't appeal, you should let 'Pippa' pass, that she was not for you. There was some more, but I shan't ruin it by misquoting it. It was so clever!" K. Stuyvesant didn't answer. Because Cecilia was afraid of his silences, she began to tell him of a small brother whom she greatly loved. "But you'll know him," she ended, "if you come to see us. You will, won't you?" "Well, rather!" answered K. Stuyvesant. "Why, you _know_ I'm coming!" There was almost a resentment in his voice. "Cecilia," he said, with his first use of her first name, "I haven't any right, but you're so _dear_, I have to. Have I _any_ chance?" He leaned very close above her steamer chair. He had gotten quite white. "Cecilia?" he whispered in question. He reached for her hand, then drew back sharply. "I know you meet lots of fellows much finer than I am," he went on, "and when I'm away from you I don't see how I have the nerve to hope, but I can't help it. Cecilia--dear?" The "dear" was rather muffled. K. Stuyvesant had never used it before and it stuck, even though he wanted so much to say it! She turned her face toward him, and he could say no more. She thought of a brick on the top shelf of a gilt cabinet. "Nothing could matter to him," she thought; "he is so dear, but I must see..." "When we get home," she whispered, "after two months you may ask me again, if you're sure." "Sure?" he echoed. "Sure? Oh, _heavens!_" Then he looked down at her for quite a few rather breathless moments. After that they talked. "After two months," repeated Cecilia stubbornly. It made no impression. At last she equivocated a bit and gained her point. "I hardly know you," she said, looking away from him; "I--I prefer----" "I don't know anything about girls," said K. Stuyvesant, "but I know I've been a dub. I'll try to be agreeable, I'll _try_ to keep this to myself. But,--you _will_ give me a chance?" Cecilia said she would. "Gosh,--I love----" began K. Stuyvesant; then he shook his head. Cecilia didn't mean to, but she slipped her hand in his, under the kind shelter of a blue and green checked blanket. K. Stuyvesant didn't say anything more. He only looked. Mrs. Higgenmeyer came paddling by. "Poppa ain't so well," she called. "He's sick to his stummick!" "I'm--I'm sorry," answered Cecilia. She tried to pull her hand from K. Stuyvesant's. He refused to let it go. After Mrs. Higgenmeyer had passed, he spoke. "You're mine!" he said in the manner of all lovers. "You are!" His voice was gruff. Cecilia was to learn that that meant that she mattered much. At his words Cecilia's heart turned over, but she remembered her eccentric, dear, and much-loved father, and a certain brick. "You promised," she reminded him. "I said after two months, when I knew you. You promised." "I'll be good," he answered dismally, "but I know you, and it's hard to think of waiting. There isn't any question of time. You're just----, well, I'm thirty-two. I'd never dreamed that I could feel this. I want to kneel when I think of you. I----" he stopped. Cecilia drew a deep breath. They looked at each other, and the world ceased for them. They were only a chord stretched to breaking,--a chord for Heaven's tunes. CHAPTER IX HOME "I tell Celie, it ain't like we couldn't buy 'em perfect. (I could pay for 'em whole.) But she sez that ain't it." Jeremiah Madden surveyed a Greek Venus as he spoke, whose arms were quite lacking. "As fer me," he went on, "I like 'em with all their limbs with 'em,--tasty and neat. This here kind of thing makes me think of the War. There's one in the Eyetalian garden I'm going to buy a cork leg for." The young men who surrounded Jeremiah Madden laughed loudly. The loudness of their laughter made Jeremiah a bit suspicious at first, but he reasoned they would hardly accept his hospitality and laugh at him,--it must be with him. So, vastly pleased and beaming widely, he went on with pleased pride: "This here garden cost me near a million, fixings and all. That fountain to the right (the one with the dinky bird settin' on the female's arm) cost me----" but he didn't finish, for Johnny came around the corner of a path and emerged from its boxwood protection with a cough, and then a loud inanity. He frowned on Jeremiah and the laughter of the young men stopped. "I didn't know _you_ were here," he said coolly to the quaking Jeremiah. Jeremiah realised that he had displeased, and began unsurely, "I'll be gettin' back to work. I just left fer a few minutes, I----" "Come on," broke in Johnny, and the group of tired-looking youths followed him, leaving Jeremiah confiding to the stone "female" of his work and of how he must get back to it. Realising himself alone, he swallowed his words, and watched the group disappear toward the tennis courts with a puzzled hurt in his face.... A half a mile away, and well below, the waters of the Sound shone brazen blue in the sunlight. Sometimes a gull swooped low, and its wings were silver. In one spot a marble wall with a Greek relief stood out in blazing white against the distant water.... Jeremiah saw all the loveliness, but he could not feel it. "That wall cost me----" he muttered, and then stopped, hearing footsteps. Cecilia stepped from the same path from which Johnny had made his entrance. Her hat was a broad one, hiding her face provokingly, her dress one of those "simple" affairs, so dangerous to hearts and purses. "Dearest!" she called rather breathlessly, "I did so want to see you! I've been hunting for you everywhere!" Jeremiah put his arms around her and forgot his worry about a certain son, and even forgot the cost of things. "Well?" he questioned gently. "Well," she repeated after him, "I just wanted to see you." She fidgetted as she had at seven, when the request for a new skillet or pan had been necessary. Jeremiah understood, and looked down at the simple affair, talking of it, to give her time. "That dress now," he said, "ain't it kind of plain? Don't you like 'em fancied up with ruffles and lace and stuff?" Cecilia said that perhaps it was plain, but that she rather liked it. However, she would get one all-over ruffles for Jeremiah's dear gaze. After that they were silent, Cecilia staring absently out over the deep, blue Sound. "Papa, dear," she said at last, with a gulp. "There's a man coming out to see me,--I mean us,--for Sunday. I hope you'll like him. He--he's really nice. I hope you'll like him." She stopped for a moment and then again said: "I _do_ hope you'll like him." "Do you want me to like him?" asked Jeremiah. "Oh, yes," said Cecilia, "I do!" She was again looking toward the Sound. Her small, white teeth were set on her lower lip. "He's very dear," she said at last; then she plaited a pink-edged handkerchief. Jeremiah frowned. "There ain't a man fit fer yuh!" he said crossly, "not a one!" "Yes, there is," answered Cecilia. "There ain't!" contradicted Jeremiah. "Does he play tennis?" he questioned, "and set around in white pants?" Jeremiah's voice had grown absolutely fierce. Cecilia laughed. "I suppose he does," she admitted, "but he works, really hard. He told me that life had only meant work for him, until----" "Hum!" grunted Jeremiah. "Hum! Let me catch him trying to keep company with you! White tennis, and pants, and gulfing around with them funny sticks! _Lemme_ catch him!" "Don't get so excited!" said Cecilia between little giggles. "He may not even want me. He really hasn't asked me yet." "He ain't?" exploded Jeremiah. "He ain't? _Why_ not? Is the durn fool blind? I'd like to know why not." Cecilia sank to a white marble seat. She was laughing helplessly. Suddenly she sobered and wiped her eyes. "Dear," she said, "do you think I'd love you less, for--for loving some one else? Didn't you love the whole world more because of mamma? It only makes me want to be much nicer, and want to hug the earth!" She covered her face as she finished, with slender, little hands. Jeremiah sat down by her. "I want my bonnet with pink roses on it!" she whispered, "I _do_ want it!" He put his arms around her because he couldn't answer. A gull with silver wings swooped low. Cecilia uncovered her face, and kissed the brick king. "Which is my very prettiest dress?" she asked. "I want to wear it Saturday afternoon." She tried to think her depression came from the night before, but half of it came from the letter which she held in her hand. She had had the strangest sinking sensation on reading it, and she _did_ love Marjory. Why it had made her feel that way was a mystery. [Illustration: THE DINNER HAD BEEN WHAT SHE WANTED] She opened the letter again. Its pages crackled, and sprung into their first folds as she laid them on the table. The third sheet she picked up and read: "Mamma is really quite wild about travelling with the Johnstons and I am absurdly relieved. Being with that dear lady tells on my disposition (usually perfect, you know, dear!), and I am happy to say a dutifully depressed good-bye to the water bottles and ailments which are all I know of my progenitor. I told her I would come to you for the summer months, and then perhaps go to Cousin Alice. I may go home, but I'm not sure, and such a course involves the proper dowager, who is always too proper, or too improper, and ever a bore! I shall write you again about all this, and when I shall arrive. "Dear, I shall so enjoy being with you. You are the only good person I know who does not offend me. Perhaps because you are so unconscious of that quality. Your influence is wonderful with me.... How do you like being an 'Influence'? I have turned flippant, but you know I was serious----" And that letter, in some strange way, had depressed Cecilia. She had wanted the summer to be a quiet one,--one in which she could learn to know a small brother, have ample time to amuse her father,--and---- Well, she was utterly ashamed, but she'd wanted it alone. It was so little of her to wish it so. Marjory had been so good to her. But,--Cecilia had dreamed of quiet evenings with the moon making a glittering path of silver on the Sound.... She'd dreamed of a big, gruff man coming toward her across soft grass.... That, and the scent of roses, pink roses.... Instead the summer would be full of Marjory's friends. Marjory had so many and such gay ones! Dancing, playing cards, motoring,--hunting pleasure with a strained intensity, running foolishly so that boredom should not overtake them.... And she had needed the summer with John. Marjory, her good friend, was not the one to show him things as Cecilia would have him see them. Cecilia sighed. Then a little spasm of pain flickered across her face. The night before was in her mind, when John, with the friends who were visiting him, had grown too joyous. She had heard them come in in the deep night. The sounds had rung clear in the still air. The cars they drove had come crashing through rose bushes, knocking down slender trellises.... With silly laughter, she had heard the men come toward the house. There had been unpleasant words said loudly, as if such utterances were humorous. There had been more silly laughter after them. Cecilia had felt quite sick. She had covered her eyes and made requests of some one's else mother.... Then she had slipped into a negligee and cautiously opened her door. The hall was empty and she went to John's room. She shook as she travelled the long hall, and she hated John's friends with a marvellous hate for one so sweet-natured. She was heart-sick and afraid. John's room was empty. She stood there a moment, steadying herself. There were pictures scattered about the room, which made her understand things more fully. One, on a table near her, showed a pert miss, with tightly curled hair, and a dress of cheap fanciness. "Your own little girl," was written across its corner, and then the little girl's name, "Fanchette LeMain." Cecilia turned away. She went out into the hall. She felt as she had years ago when John was her baby. At the top of the broad and long stairs she looked down. John was on the first step, sprawled unbeautifully, his head hanging limp on his chest, his hands closed around a cerise scarf on which glittered little silver spots. She looked about to see that no one else was there and then ran quickly down the stairs. "I'm too heavy," said John, halfway up the stairs. He had been considerably sobered by black coffee, and more so by the sight of Cecilia. He leaned on her arm. "I have carried you before," answered Cecilia. "When we lived in the flat, that was. I used to think that when you grew up I could lean on you. It was funny how I planned." John didn't answer. They had reached his room and he sank to his bed and sat, blinking stupidly, on the edge of it. Cecilia slipped to her knees, and began to take off his shoes. "Don't!" he ordered sharply. "Ring for Higgens." "I'd rather not," answered Cecilia. "It was the heat----" he began. Cecilia sat back on her little heels. She looked like a small girl saying her "Now I lay me----" "It was not the heat," answered Cecilia. "When you were small I washed your mouth out with brown soap for doing that. Now do you want a drink? I'll wet this towel; you'd better put it on your head. There's the dawn," she said, looking toward the window. Then she turned and picked up a cerise scarf with silver spots on it. She folded it and laid it on the table by the photograph of Fanchette LeMain. John looked unhappy. Cecilia put her hand on her brother's shoulder. "Good-night, dear," she said. A quiver ran across his face. "I didn't want you to know," he whispered "You're so dear, but old-fashioned. You don't understand how a man----" he stopped, and she slipped down on the bed by him. "Everything's so beastly here. I'm so ashamed to have the fellows see dad," he went on incoherently. "Always talkin' of how things cost--always makin' breaks in grammar,--afraid of his own butler----" John's eyelids were drooping. He fell back, asleep. Cecilia got up and tried to pull him into a more comfortable position. Then she went to her own room. On the way she passed Jeremiah's. She paused by his door. She wanted to kiss him,--as she had Johnny, when, very small, he had bumped himself. "Excuse him, Dearest," she whispered. "He's very young. Some day he'll understand, I hope." Then she went on. The dawn had come. The Sound was covered by a grey fog. Cecilia lay down to stare up at her ceiling. She did not sleep again. At last came noises. The gardeners talked as they worked on the terrace below her windows. "Cut up rough," said one. Cecilia could hear the break of wood. The white trellis with its pink rambler had evidently suffered. "The old man----!" said another voice expressively. They laughed a little. "Well, the kid's a gent, anyway," said the other, loudly. "Drunk every night, and enough lady friends for a Hippodrome chorus----" they laughed again. Cecilia turned and hid her face in the pillow. Her palms were wet. Father McGowan was surrounded by brigands. Their burnt cork moustaches gave them a fierce expression terrible to view. "So you saw a man climbing up the grape arbor?" questioned Father McGowan. The spokesman wriggled a little, and then said, "Well, we didn't just see him but we heard him." "I seen him," said the youngest brigand, whose lower lip was quivering. "I seen him. He had eyes like fire. I want--my maw! I'm scared!" The youngest brigand dissolved into tears. They ran down his cheeks and through his Kaiser Wilhelm of burnt cork, leaving a grey trail on his small chin. "I want my maw!" he repeated. "An' las' night I seen a man down the alley. He sez 'Hello Bub.' That fierce I ran home, _I_ tell yuh!" said another of the group. "Bet it was Jack, the Hugger," came in an ominous tone from the background. The brigands quaked. Their eyes had grown large with excitement, and fear was plain above the moustaches. One small boy who wore a horse-hair imperial, muttered of "gettin' home to study his gogerfy." He, and all the rest, cast longing eyes toward the door. The youngest mopped the tears and smeared his moustache across his face with his coat sleeve. The fat priest got up and laid aside his pipe with reluctance. "Come on," he said; "we'll go find the villain. Come on!" Two small boys clung to his cassock,--the rest pretended a bravado. They swaggered largely through the kitchen, where Mrs. Fry, washing the rectory dishes, glared at their intrusion. Outside the soft dark covered the fears of the brigands. Father McGowan went toward the arbour. He looked well on the frail structure, and then shook it. A black cat hissed, and jumped down. "_I_ wasn't scared none!" said the brigand who had wanted his maw, "_I_ was just pretending!" The rest of the brigands giggled foolishly and muttered of "Foolin'." Father McGowan tactfully spoke of the weather, and then he suggested going down to the corner drug store, where pink sodas could be bought for five cents. There was a flattering acceptance of his offer. They started off, all talking loudly to him of their large achievements. He listened and answered just at the right time, and said just the right thing. So they faded into the night, the long, black shadow with the smaller ones about it, clinging to it. "He's takin' 'em to the drug store, I bet," said a lanky boy who was smoking in the shadows. His voice was sad. "He must say lots of Masses," said his companion. "Every time them kids bawl around his place they get something to eat." "Um hum," agreed the first speaker, "but he ain't no soft guy. Sometimes he licks 'em fit to kill." Down the street the drug store screen door slapped shut smartly. "Them five-cent sodas ain't no good anyway!" said the lanky boy. "_I_ wouldn't want none!" the other sighed. "No," said Mrs. Fry, "he ain't here. He's went to the drug store with a mess of kids. Yuh can set, or yuh can go. _He_ don't care. That's the kind of a man _he_ is." The man who stood on the Rectory porch said he would wait. As he stepped across the threshold Mrs. Fry recognised him as a doctor who had been uppish and sent in his card, "like he was a King." She looked critically at his boots. "Trackin' in dust all the time----" she muttered. Then she went heavily down the hall, slamming the dining-room door after her. "_He_ never gets no rest!" she stated aloud to a picture of a dead duck, hanging by its feet. "Never no peace nor no time to smoke!" She glared at the fowl which had been given Father McGowan by Agnes O'Raddle, as she soliloquised. The erstwhile Mr. Fry, who had always been forced to smoke in the backyard, was far away. "Well?" questioned Father McGowan. The doctor who sat across the table from him leaned forward and began to speak quickly, his breath coming between his quick words in gasps: "My wife's people had the controlling interest in this plant, and I put all my money in it. It had always paid well. A ventilator, it is, which slips beneath a raised window,--simple affair, yet good. Then this Madden man got ahold of an improved article, patented it, and started a manufactory in the same town, started it on a large scale,--advertised extensively.... Well, we're ruined. We can't compete. He sells below cost. He can't want money; he's losing now. Why does he do it? We've done everything. I've offered him----" The bell of the telephone which stood on the desk rang sharply. "Pardon," said Father McGowan, and then, "Why, Cecilia!" There was an interval then the doctor heard him say: "Your prettiest dress? Why they're all pretty! Why?" There was a longer interval, then a sharp "What?" from Father McGowan. A silence, and then, "Dear child! I'll be out to-morrow!" Father McGowan hung up the receiver. His manner and voice were changed and softened. "The little boy is dead," he said to the doctor. "He was happy before he died. He grew very young, and forgot a great deal, the little boy who was in your care, I mean. Now go on, tell me more of this. Will you smoke?" The fat priest pushed a box of cigars toward the shaking doctor. "I--I wouldn't do that now----" began the doctor. "Something's broken me. God, I've suffered! What's that?" he ended sharply. There was the tap-tap-tap that sounded like small crutches on a polished floor. Father McGowan looked perplexed. "It must be the vines against the window," he said, "but I didn't know it was windy. Have you a match?" The doctor nodded, and lit his cigar. His hands shook cruelly. "God, I've suffered!" he said hoarsely, "and I believe this Madden man has caused it all. My practice and money gone, I----" he stopped. "_Can't_ you help me?" he finished. "_Can't_ you?" "Norah," said Cecilia, "which is my prettiest dress?" "I dunno, dearie," replied Norah. "Yuh ain't exactly homely in none! But don't go thinkin' too much of yer looks. My maw used to say, 'Beauty's only skin deep.' She was a great one fer them sayin's." "Norah," said Cecilia, "am I--am I what you'd call pretty?" "That depends," said Norah, "on whether yuh like dark or light hair." She surveyed Cecilia critically, her lips sternly tight, but a proud light showing in her eyes. Since Cecilia had grown up, the Virgin had undergone a complete physical transformation for Norah. If Norah's Virgin had been on earth, she might easily have been confused with Cecilia Evangeline Agnes Madden. "How you kin set in them corsets!" said Norah, anxious to change the subject. Cecilia laughed, then turned before a long glass which stood between windows. "I wish I hadn't been educated," said Cecilia. "I _love_ pink ones, trimmed all over with roses and lace!" "My maw used to say, 'Handsome is as handsome does!'" said Norah sternly. Cecilia's new concern for her looks and clothes was disquieting to her. She thought with a horror of Marjory's salves, and eyebrow pencils.... Suppose Cecilia!--Norah shook her head. A maid came in the room with a froth of lacy frills falling over her arm. She disposed of the froth, then bent above the seated Cecilia, and began taking the pins from her yellow hair. It fell loosely, with the soft, slow motion of waves, about her shoulders and well below her hips.... "_Tres joli!_" said the true worshipper of beauty, as she always did. "Nonsense!" replied Cecilia, absently, as she always did. This was the rite, frowned on by the jealous Norah. "I mended yer skirt," said Norah crossly. "It was tore fierce." "Thank you, dear," said Cecilia, and then: "Josephine, which is my most pretty dress?" Norah left, shutting the door with decision. She muttered of people who talked Eyetalian, and other Heathen languages. Then she decided it was her duty to tell Cecilia of Josephine's outrageous flirting with Mr. 'Iggens. After this lofty resolve her face cleared, and her expression, became pleasant. She passed a heavy-eyed boy in the hall. In the early days he had often shed his tears against her shoulder.... He had found love, and understanding, exhibited by doughnuts, and bread spread thickly with brown sugar. "Mr. John----" said Norah timidly as they were opposite. "Huh?" he responded, with a cool look. Norah swallowed with a gulp, and went on. Her heart was heavy. Her spirit ached. "We give him too many doughnuts," she said. Then again her face cleared. "I'll tell Celie how they go on!" she reflected. "Then I guess she won't be so smart! Winkin' and carryin' on!" The dwelling on the iniquities of Josephine was vastly cheering. Norah almost forgot a heavy-eyed and overgrown boy, who, when little, had sobbed his troubles out against her thin shoulder, and had turned to her for soothing sugar cookies. At the pretty little station, K. Stuyvesant was met by Cecilia. "How'd do?" he said gruffly. "How do you do?" said Cecilia. She had on her prettiest dress, but K. Stuyvesant Twombly didn't notice it. They disposed of the baggage question and then he settled, stiff and conscious, by her side in a small grey car. "Pretty day," said K. Stuyvesant at last. Then he looked at Cecilia. "Gosh! I love----" He stopped suddenly and shook his head. "Wh-what have you been doing since I saw you?" asked Cecilia. "Thinking of you," answered K. Stuyvesant gruffly. Cecilia didn't answer. He was afraid she hadn't liked his telling her the truth, so he described a futurist exhibition, while horribly conscious that the quick beating of his heart made his voice shake. "I'm glad you came," said Cecilia after the futurist exhibition had been described. "I wanted to see you." "Dear!" said K. Stuyvesant loudly, and without the least effort. He sat looking down on her with a very honest and revealing look, a look that would have made any one with the least feeling bet their last cent on him. "Two months," reminded Cecilia.... It was really too wonderful. It had to be proved. If he really cared he would wait two months. "There's the house," she said aloud, "and on the terrace my dear brother." The car twisted between tall gate posts, and the house and terrace were lost to sight from the shading trees. A collie dog bounded out from the shrubbery and barked fiercely. "Evangeline!" called Cecilia. "He is Norah's," she explained to K. Stuyvesant. "She named him after me." "Who is Norah?" asked K. Stuyvesant. "She was our 'hired girl,'" answered Cecilia, "before we ever heard of maids." K. Stuyvesant didn't reply. In a second the car was by a side entrance. "John!" called Cecilia to the languid figure on the terrace. John sauntered slowly toward them. "Glad to know you, I'm sure," he said in his most grown-up and _blasé_ manner. "Nice of you to run out to see us. We get jolly bored, you know." After this John turned toward the house. There was an old man on the broad porch, looking wistfully and undecidedly toward the group. "Oh, the Gov'ner!" said John in a tone indescribable. "Daddy," called Cecilia loudly, "please come here _right_ away!" The brick king came toward them eagerly. "Pleased to meet yuh," he said as he acknowledged the introduction. K. Stuyvesant spoke kindly of the beauty of the place. "It ought to be beautiful!" answered Jeremiah. "It cost enough! Them there fixings fer the garden," he went on, "them alone cost----" "Let me take you to your room," broke in John. "Don't you want to get in cooler things?" K. Stuyvesant assented and followed John to the house. When he reached the porch he looked back. Cecilia stood with her arm through her father's. She was looking up at his face. Her smile was tender. "Gosh!" said K. Stuyvesant, and shook his head. Then he drew a long breath and turned to follow John. The dinner had been what she wanted, thought Cecilia. He had seen _everything_.... Jeremiah had asked the butler to "spare" him a piece of bread. He had also tucked his napkin in his collar, and then, with a quick movement, removed it, looking around as he did so to see if he'd been noticed. John had wiggled and sighed loudly when bricks had been talked of. In an effort to gloss over the crudities he had contributed a "smart line of talk," far more impossible than any amount of money mention. K. Stuyvesant had responded politely to everything and had avoided looking at Cecilia with a studied effort. Cecilia had been silent. She felt it better that she should not appear in this act. "He come to me, being as I was a man with money, and I sez----" came to her again in Jeremiah's cracked voice. "I beg pardon?" K. Stuyvesant had said, having lost it through John's interruption. "Granted," said Jeremiah. "I sez, he come to me an'----" K. Stuyvesant had been _so_ dear! Cecilia stood leaning on the wall with the Greek relief, as she thought her thoughts.... She looked on the Sound, which was black in the night, except for a path of white moonlight. A path that quivered silver. She looked and saw K. Stuyvesant listening to Jeremiah's talk. He _had_ been so dear! She wondered whether they'd never finish their smoke and talk, and whether he'd _ever_ come to her. Her eyes filled with tears. "Mamma!" she whispered to the soft dark. A fitful little breeze sprang up, seeming to answer. He came across the soft grass slowly. His heart knelt to the little Irish girl who sat upon the white marble wall. "Hello, Mr. K. Stuyvesant!" she called gaily. "Hello," he answered heavily. He stood, arms on the wall, a few feet from her, looking at her boldly in the soft light. The world was full of the rhythmic surge of his pulses.... The night air seemed to beat upon him with the heat of fire, but there was no thought of touching her. He was utterly humble before his shrine. He wanted, this American man of 1915, to kneel before this little maiden.... He craved the touch of her hands on his head. He was shaken, purified, thrilled.... He repeated "two months--two months!" to still his overmastering desires. The silence had been long and had grown heavy. K. Stuyvesant was afraid of it. He gulped convulsively and almost yelled: "Great night, isn't it?" Cecilia nodded. "Don't you want to smoke?" she asked. "I guess I'd better," he said unsteadily, then, "Oh, Cecilia!" He reached toward her, then drew back, for John came toward them. "Cablegram," he said languidly, "for you, Celie." Cecilia opened it. "From Marjory," she said, after reading it by the light of John's flash. "She comes next week. You must like her," she added to Stuyvesant. "She is my best friend." CHAPTER X "MY BEST FRIEND" Father McGowan frowned. "I love him," said Cecilia. "I don't care who knows it. Where's your handkerchief? I--I guess I've lost mine." Father McGowan supplied the handkerchief. Cecilia dabbed her eyes. "You see she's so attractive," she went on, "and I'm--I'm not so very. And then John, and everything. I'm ashamed of crying like this." She gulped again. Father McGowan covered her small hand with his. "Dear child!" he said gently. "Dear child!" The fire leaped, spluttered and hissed with capricious change. Outside the weather was grey, with a drab touch in the air. The sky was a shivery colour. Cecilia and Father McGowan sat on a wide davenport in the library. "Where is he now?" asked Father McGowan. "Playing tennis with Marjory," said Cecilia. She again dabbed Father McGowan's handkerchief on her eyes. "Oh, drat!" said Father McGowan fiercely. He put his other hand over the small one which lay in his. Cecilia tightened her fingers about his thumb. "I've been so miserable," she said, "that I've even thought of being a nun. I would if it weren't for papa, and John,--and my hair. (I couldn't bear to have it cut.) And he shows so plainly that he likes her, and then she tells me what he says,--oh, dear!" "Darn fool!" said Father McGowan. "Is he _crazy_?" He glared at Cecilia with his question, and she laughed unsteadily. "I'm ashamed to bother you," she said, "but it helps, and I can't tell papa. I think papa'd kill him. He's done nothing wrong, you know. You can't help what your heart does." She avoided the fat priest's eyes and looked down at her ringless left hand. "There have been lots of men," she said, "but none I could even dream of marrying. This is different, and--and I do! His eyes are so dear and so is he, but I would love him anyway. I think he's the rest of me." "Drat!" said Father McGowan forcibly. "Drat him!" "I wish I'd been left in the flat. Then I'd have grown up to marry some teamster. It's only when you reach for things too high above you that your arms begin to ache,--then papa and John, all the time misunderstanding each other. Both of them being hurt by this money,--and I--I _love_ him so!" "Cecilia," said Father McGowan, "this world is full of hurts. You have to take them as you do the weather, without a question. Some one put them here to polish our little souls.... After you are fifty you will accept them with thankfulness and cease questioning. The faith of childhood will return in a bigger way, with a belief in the absolutely unknown. Some one put them here to polish our little souls. They are here, let them polish, not scratch." "Yes," answered Cecilia meekly. "Oh, drat!" said Father McGowan with an entire change of tone. "I don't _want_ you polished. _Dear_ child! Drat him, is he _crazy_?" Jeremiah wandered in. He was sullen. He had been talked to by a fat priest, who told him that he should leave the discipline of a certain doctor to God and the world, explaining that it was rarely necessary for humans to add to any one's unhappiness by a mistaken sense of dealing out justice. Jeremiah had listened with his eyes on the top shelf of a gilt cabinet which held a brick. After Father McGowan had finished, Jeremiah had spoken of the weather, and Jeremiah was a good Catholic. Father McGowan realised it was a bad case. He had abandoned it for that time. "And will yuh stay fer dinner?" asked the sullen Jeremiah. "I _will_," answered the priest decidedly. Cecilia handed him a handkerchief, which he folded carefully and put in his pocket. Then she got up and played "The Shepherd Boy" for the King of Bricks. Outside in the grey light a sullen-eyed man played tennis with Marjory. He played with much energy and replied with scant courtesy to Marjory's remarks. "Cecilia said that she was tired of entertaining,--that I'd have to do it for her," sang out the green-eyed. K. Stuyvesant's chin squared. "In," he called. "I'm a fool to stick around," was his mental comment on himself. He was not surprised by the dead weight his heart felt, although the sensation was new. They finished their game and went toward the house. "You're doing lots for John," said Marjory. "He adores you! Imitates your every move! You'll try to get him through this smartness?" In truth she did not consider it smartness, for to her it was the natural attitude of young men. However she was clever enough to see the way this big, silent man felt about it, and to agree outwardly. "I'd do anything to help one girl," he said loudly. He wanted Marjory to know how he felt about Cecilia. Perhaps she'd help him. They reached the broad steps. "After dinner I want to see you," whispered Marjory. "In the garden,--alone. Something about Cecilia. By the white wall?" "Not there," he answered quickly, "but by the Italian dial, if you like." In the hall he met a fat priest. The man was heartily uncordial, but he didn't much care. After a few words he went up to his room. There he stood by his window and looked on the grey Sound. A fog was creeping over it. Everything was dismal and dull. "I'm not much good," he muttered, "but no one could love her more. I would be--so good to her. So good. Little Saint--I----" He covered his eyes with his hands. His hands shook. There was a tap on the door. John came in. "Hello, old chap!" he said energetically, the languid indifference all gone from his tone. "Can I stay and talk?" He settled, while K. Stuyyesant took a grip on himself, and tried to bring himself to an agreeable acceptance of his task. In another wing of the house Cecilia was dressing. Marjory, gorgeous in a flame-coloured negligee, lounged in a comfortable chair and talked during the operation. "You may go, Josephine," said Cecilia, "and thank you." "If I treated my maid as you do yours," said Marjory, "she'd have no respect for me." "If I weren't decently kind," answered Cecilia, "I'd have no respect for myself, and Josephine likes me." "Oh, my _dear_," said Marjory, "she _adores_ you." Marjory scrutinised her nails. "I told Stuyvesant to-day," she said, "how much he'd done for John. You don't mind?" "No," answered Cecilia. "He has. I'm grateful." "He said he was glad I wanted him to, that he'd do anything for a certain girl. He has the dearest eyes, when he looks at you--oh, you know how----" "Yes," answered Cecilia, "I know." There was a pause while the only sound heard was the brush on Cecilia's hair--the soft snap and swish. "Cecilia," said Marjory, "_were_ you engaged to Tommy Dixon?" "Yes," answered Cecilia, "but, Marjory, I can't bear to remember it. It--it was while I was much younger and hurt because of something Annette Twombly had said. I thought I'd have to marry some one like that to help papa. You know how foolish duty may be at nineteen? He was of a splendid family. I thought papa would like it, when now I know that all he wants is my happiness. After all, decayed flowers from a good plant are not worth anything." "When did you break it off?" asked Marjory. "When he kissed me," answered Cecilia. "It taught me how intolerable love is unless it is very true. I will always remember those kisses. I can't forget them. What are you going to wear to-night?" Cecilia changed the subject with suddenness, for it made her sick. "Black," answered Marjory. Cecilia's heart sank. Marjory was so very pretty in black! Marjory got up. "Bye, childy," she called, "I must go." And she waved her hand airily as she went out. On the way down the hall she repeated Cecilia's words: "I will always remember those kisses. I can't forget them." That would do very nicely for the little talk by the Italian dial.... She would play sympathy, understanding. She would not lie, but if he cared to misunderstand how could she, Marjory, help that? A sudden spark of her honest father flew across her soul. "I don't care!" she said in answer to it, "I love him, I really do!" Then the love and trust of the small Cecilia twanged on a heart chord. Marjory shut her eyes. In her mind came those of K. Stuyvesant Twombly, as he looked when he gazed on the daughter of a "Brick King." Marjory hardened. "She doesn't love him as I do," she whispered; "she can't!" She was only the echo of a single purpose: cruel in its selfishness, animal in its origin, and savage in intensity. CHAPTER XI ACCEPTANCE "Celie, be yuh happy?" asked Jeremiah anxiously. "Oh, yes!" answered Cecilia. She caught her breath rather spasmodically and went on: "Of course I'm happy! Here I am, all through being improved and ready to stay at home with you and John. Isn't that enough to make any one happy?" "Don't you want some new frills, or something?" asked Jeremiah wistfully. "You know I can buy yuh anything, and I like to, good." "I have so much," answered Cecilia. She went over to him and perched on the arm of his chair. "You and John are everything to me," she said. "When I have you I have everything!" She leaned toward him and kissed him. Her arms tightened fiercely about his neck. "You are _everything_!" she repeated loudly. 'Iggins came sliding in with that effect of being on casters, proper to butlers. "Was yuh lookin' fer me, sir?" asked Jeremiah. Higgins assented and delivered a small box. Then he elevated his head and left. Outside the door he muttered of leaving. He recalled with bitterness his last post, where the man of the house had been a "perfect gentleman" and had thrown boots and curses at him without partiality. "'Sir!'" he echoed with a fine scorn. "'Ow is a man to keep 'is self-respect?" Josephine tripped down the hall. She carried Marjory's small dog, who had a scarlet coat buttoned about his small tummy. "Dee-ar Eegeens!" she purred, then fluttered her eyelashes. "The post 'as its hadvantages," said Dee-ar Eegeens, and followed in Josephine's direction. Inside the library Cecilia stood by a window with Jeremiah. He was untying the string of a small box and his fingers shook. "I got it fer you, Celie," he said, "because I thought you was peaked like." He opened the box reverently. "Oh!" said Cecilia. "_Twenty_-five thousand," said Jeremiah. "_Look_ at her!" Jeremiah lifted his present from the box. The pendant of his present looked like a lamp shade from Tiffany's. "_Oh!_" said Cecilia again. "_Look_ at that there diamond and emerald and ruby all mashed together like!" said Jeremiah proudly. "_Look_ at her! _Don't_ she sparkle?" "It does," said Cecilia; "it certainly does!" "I told 'em to take out the pearls and put more sparkly stuff in. I sez, 'Put in all yuh can! Don't spare no expense.' I sez, 'Make her showy. She's fer the best girl on earth.' They done it too." "Oh, yes!" said Cecilia. Her eyes were a little moist. Tears came easily lately. She put her arms around Jeremiah's neck. "Dear," she said, "I love it. I can't say thank you the way I want to." Jeremiah didn't answer and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. Together they looked out of the window on the green and then the water's grey. "Celie," said Jeremiah uncertainly. "Yes?" answered Cecilia. "Celie," he said, "you wasn't sweet on that young Twombly? You _wasn't_?" Cecilia shook her head. "I was afraid you was frettin' over him," said Jeremiah; "you wasn't?" Again he felt her head move against his shoulder. She clung to him for a moment, and then straightened and said, "I must go dress." At the door she paused and turned back. "I love the pendant," she said. "It is beautiful. I _love_ it!" Jeremiah beamed widely. "I knew yuh would," he said boastfully. "I sez, 'Spare no expense. It's fer my little girl that nursed her maw, cooked her paw's meals, and then learned him to wear a _dress_-suit. None smarter!'" "It is beautiful, dearest," murmured Cecilia. Then she left the room. Alone, Jeremiah went to stand below a portrait. "Mary," he whispered, "what makes her look like she wants to cry?" CHAPTER XII PAIN "If it is any satisfaction," said Father McGowan dryly, "I will assure you that he loves you. Anybody could see that. I suppose it is your father, Cecilia." She nodded. "Marjory----" she started, then stopped. "Well?" said Father McGowan. "Marjory told me he said it was--papa," said Cecilia. All the tragedy possible to feel at twenty-one was in her young eyes. "She did it kindly," added Cecilia. Then she went on unsteadily: "I don't know why I am not brave. I am so ashamed. He--he isn't worth it." "No," answered Father McGowan, "he isn't." Cecilia slipped her hand in his. The warm contact had brought her peace at many times. It did now, in a way. "Cecilia," said Father McGowan, "sometimes love means pain. You know Father Tabb's poem about it?" "No," said Cecilia. "Once only did he pass my way 'When wilt Thou come again? All, leave some token of Thy stay!' He wrote (and vanished) 'Pain.'" Cecilia tightened her fingers about Father McGowan's thumb. "You have always been so good to me," she whispered. "You have always understood and helped me!" "Well, well!" said Father McGowan. "What else am I here for?" "Marjory said if I kept papa,--kept papa----" Cecilia stopped. "Kept him in the backyard or in the cellar, it would be better?" ended Father McGowan. "Oh, _don't_!" said Cecilia. "Please don't; for two or three times I've felt like John,--I'm _so_ ashamed." "Dear child!" Father McGowan said. "Dear child!" "I love papa," said Cecilia. "It's only this new feeling that unsettles me. Sometimes I think I'd pay any price. Sometimes, like John, I'm ashamed, and then how I _hate_ myself!" A gilded moon had slid from behind a line of poplars. It had shown Father McGowan eyes that reflected an aching soul, tragic young eyes, almost bitter in their hurt. Suddenly Cecilia held his fat hand against her cheek. Then she smiled at him bravely. "I'm going to be good!" she said with a little catch in her voice. "I'm going to be good!" "Cecilia Evangeline," said Father McGowan, "dear child!" Marjory entered the room with a slam and a swish. "I telephoned Stuyvesant and asked him to come out to dinner," she said. "You don't mind?" "No," answered Cecilia, "certainly not." "He seemed anxious to come," said Marjory consciously. Cecilia didn't reply. "What's in that box?" asked Marjory. "A present," answered Cecilia. She took it from the box and held it up for inspection. "Oh, Lord!" said Marjory. "Your father?" Cecilia again did not reply. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled. "If I were you," advised Marjory, "I wouldn't wear it to-night. You know how conservative the Twomblys are----" "What he thinks is not vital to me," said Cecilia. "I shall wear it. I _love_ it. I think it's beautiful!" "You dear child!" said Marjory. She looked on the small liar with respect. Suddenly she was shocked into speechlessness. The small liar was sobbing wildly. "Oh, Marjory! Oh, Marjory!" she gasped. Much later Cecilia stood at the foot of the broad stair. "Where's your necklace?" asked Jeremiah. "Oh," said Cecilia, "I forgot it, but I want to wear it. I do! I'm going to get it now." She turned from him and ran up the steps. "Here he is!" she heard John call from the porch. Then came Marjory's loud laugh. Cecilia's breath came fast, and her fingers trembled as they clasped the new necklace about her throat. She stood before the mirror a minute before she started down. "It _is_ beautiful," she said, "and I am proud to wear it!" That night Cecilia lay long wakeful. She had not slept much or well lately. She heard the different clocks follow each other with minutes' difference in their chimes. Hour after hour.... Cruel hours.... Control left her and she turned from side to side, restlessly moving into what seemed, each time, a more restless position. She hoped K. Stuyvesant had believed her when she said she thought her new necklace beautiful. She remembered John's sneer and his question: "Been shopping at the 'Five and Ten'?" Best, she remembered Jeremiah's proud pleasure in his gift. The remembrance hurt, and made her feel little. There was a tap on her door which made her strained nerves leap. She sat up in bed and turned on the lights, blinking in their glare. "What is it?" she called. "It is I," answered Marjory. "I've been wakeful. I want to talk with you for a moment." "Come in," said Cecilia. Marjory opened the door and came across the room to sit on the edge of Cecilia's bed. "I'm sorry you haven't slept," said Cecilia. "That doesn't matter," answered Marjory. Cecilia saw that she was very tired, so tired that she looked old. She was the Marjory of gay evening, with a grey veil shrouding her. "I'm going away," said Marjory abruptly. Her fingers played with the coverlet and her eyes avoided Cecilia's. "I'm going back to mamma," she continued. "I think she needs me, and--and I _hate_ the States!" "Marjory, _dear_!" said Cecilia, "I'm sorry--so sorry." "No one wants me," said the new Marjory. "I only make trouble wherever I go. No one wants me----" "I always want you," said Cecilia. "I do, Marjory,--I really do." "I believe you really mean that," said Marjory slowly. "I'm almost too little to understand you, but I know you never lie." "I lied about the necklace," said Cecilia; "I don't think it beautiful, except for the love it shows." "Cecilia," said Marjory, "I can't be truthful. I can't, Cecilia----" "Don't!" answered Cecilia. "You are! I know you better than any one. You have been my best friend always, and I say you are!" Marjory's fingers plucked at the coverlet restlessly. She breathed in quick gasps. Cecilia laid her hand on Marjory's. "Perhaps to-morrow you'll feel differently?" she suggested. "You know dark makes things so much darker. I'll do anything to make you happier. I'll ask Mr. Twombly to come out and play with you often, Marjory dear." "Don't, oh, don't!" whimpered Marjory. Her shoulders shook. Cecilia closed her eyes a moment, and then spoke quite loudly and steadily. "Dear," she said, "I'm sure he loves you. I'm sure he does." "Don't!" implored Marjory. "Don't!" She threw back her head and spoke in a different tone. "I hate America!" she said viciously. "I hate everything! Life, my place in it. I hate you for being so good! I hate,--oh, God! Oh, God!" Her tirade ended in a paroxysm of dry sobs. Small Cecilia reached out her arms and drew Marjory's head against her soft bosom. "Oh, dear Marjory!" she whispered, "you have been so good to me! I would do anything to make you happier! _Anything!_ Marjory, dear Marjory!" Marjory sobbed on. "I wasn't worthy of my dreams," Cecilia heard her say between gasps. "I--they were too big for me. I knew it, but----" she stopped. Cecilia, all uncomprehending, baffled, said only, "Dear!" and again, "Dear!" Some strange trouble this was to bring tears to the dry-eyed Marjory, but Marjory needed comfort, not questions. "Dear!" she said once again. Marjory drew away. "Oh, heavens!" she said, laughing, "what an emotional actress I could have been. Forget this and sleep; I shall." She stood up, stretching. Suddenly she was again the new Marjory. She looked on Cecilia. "I _did_ try," she said, "and some people can't be decent even when they try. They can only get halfway." "What?" began Cecilia. "Nothing," said Marjory. "Good-night." She started for the door, and then turned back. She leaned above the bed and kissed Cecilia rather fiercely, quite as if she thought of some one else whom she loved in another way while she did it. After she'd gone Cecilia hid her eyes. Without reason the kisses of Tommy Dixon were recalled. Those of the life-half, without a touch of soul. Then Cecilia forgot them in her wonder about Marjory. "I would do anything for her happiness," thought Cecilia, "even that." And then she closed her eyes and asked to be strong. When she opened them she saw a golden streak across the floor. The sun was up. CHAPTER XIII A REQUEST "Miss Cecilia----" said Stuyvesant Twombly into the telephone which stood on his desk. His heart hammered so that his ears ached, and the furniture in the room swayed and bent. "I want to ask you a favour," he heard. "It matters a great deal to me, and, well, to----" she stopped. "Yes?" he said, aware that his voice was crisp. He had not meant to have it so, but his voice, when Cecilia was near, did as it pleased. "It's about John," he heard her say very quickly. "He--you know he cares a great deal about you, and that you influence him greatly. You did more than any one else ever has for him." "I'm sure," interrupted K. Stuyvesant, "I'm glad. I don't mean that," he blurted out; "I mean----" "I understand," said Cecilia; "I telephoned you to ask you if you wouldn't come to the house sometimes because of him? I--I'm not home very much. The--the little incident of the boat is quite forgotten----" K. Stuyvesant coughed. "I understand you," said Cecilia. "I hope you do me?" "Yes," answered K. Stuyvesant miserably. "You will help him?" she questioned further. "I will," he answered. "I told Miss Marjory I'd do---- "Yes," broke in Cecilia, unable to bear more; "she told me what you said. I'll be more grateful than you can ever know, too." K. Stuyvesant swallowed convulsively. "Good-bye," she said in a small voice. "Good-bye," he answered gruffly. He hung up the receiver and stared across the room. His teeth were set with cruel tightness on his lower lip.... He remembered how her little hand had crept into his beneath a blue and green checked steamer blanket. He almost wished he could forget it.... And that distance at which she'd kept him had not been what he'd thought, her proving of his sudden love, but only her inclination. Lord, how he'd dreamed, and still dreamed! ... He'd do what he could for John. He believed much was possible. And how even the sound of her voice left him! Shaking, and aching with his want. First hot, then cold.... He stared, unseeingly, across his office. He recalled his first evening at the country house when he'd stood by the white wall with a Greek relief, worshipping a little Irish maid. Then Marjory had come. He wished she hadn't. He almost hated her, and found no reason why he should, except for her telling him something which haunted his long nights.... "Cecilia, Cecilia!" ran through his head,--and heart.... For her, he'd do what he could for John. He reached for the telephone and called a number he knew too well. After an interval, and a request, John answered. At first his tone was languid, then it leaped into colour from pleasure, and K. Stuyvesant hid his eyes.... John, genuine, echoed the dearest Cecilia. His voice, even in its grating boy-quality, held a hint of hers. "Then we'll go riding?" K. Stuyvesant asked. "I'd be jolly glad to!" answered John. "I've wanted to see you, but I thought I'd better not bother you." "We'll take in the aeroplane show," said K. Stuyvesant, "if you like." John liked very much. He hung up the receiver, looking like a boy. His thickened eyelids were lifted, his eyes wide open. Looking toward the photograph of Fanchette, he recalled an engagement. "You may go to hell!" he said loudly, not stopping to think that his staying away would not send her there; but that she was more liable to its admittance on earth, if he, and other idle young men of his stamp, were with her. The aeroplane show! That would be great! Of all the chaps he'd ever known he most admired K. Stuyvesant, and to chum with him! Well, wouldn't the fellows look! Well, rather! In the hall he passed Jeremiah. "Going out with Stuyvesant," he called pleasantly. Confiding his intentions or aim in direction was unusual. Both he and Jeremiah wondered at it. Jeremiah was so pleased that he was past smiling. A little quirk came in his heart, and he whispered, "Just then he looked like Mary used to when I brung her the wages. He did! I wished she could have saw him!" Then Jeremiah went on down the hall, stooping a little more than usual, as he always did with the thought that made him old. "A bunnit with pink roses on!" he muttered next. That always came with his memory of Mary, that "bunnit" that she never had. "Hello, Madden," said K. Stuyvesant. John threw out his chest. K. Stuyvesant had acknowledged him a man. "How're yuh?" he added. John said that he was well. As they spoke they sped away from the stern-faced houses of New York's moneyed folk and into its hum. "Glad to be in town again," said John; "awful glad to see you too. Got beastly quiet out there after Marjory left. Can't be sleepy while _she's_ around!" K. Stuyvesant assented. "You mashed on her too?" inquired John. K. Stuyvesant took his eyes, for the faintest second, from the street ahead. Then he looked back. He had answered. John felt limp, and adored with more fervor. "Didn't mean to offend," he muttered. They had spent a pleasant afternoon. At least John thought so, the pleasantest, he thought, for ages, but just now he was suffering from a profound shock. K. Stuyvesant had said something that had left John mentally holding on to his solar plexus. "You say it's an evidence of _youth_ to get drunk?" said John. "Uh huh," answered K. Stuyvesant in an indifferent tone. "Surest sign in the world that a fellow's about nineteen. You know how it is, a chap wants to get old, be thought old, so he imitates what he thinks is manhood. Like a kid, picking out gilt instead of gold, he picks out a drunk, and thinks it's a man. Look at that motor! _Some_ peach!" "Yes," agreed John absently. However he hadn't seen the motor. He was hoping with violence that K. Stuyvesant had not heard of his lurid past. For the first time he thought of his "past" without pleasure. Heretofore his "past" had been like a treasured museum. Each piece of fresh wickedness added to it with great pleasure, and the knowledge that its value was greater. "Everybody goes through that stage," said K. Stuyvesant, quite as if he'd read John's mind. "It's the measles of the pin-feather age. Look here, John, whatcha think of that shaft? Looks kinda heavy to me." "Hollow, aluminum," said John in a little voice. He was suffering from a complete emotional turn over. It was difficult to contemplate shafts. K. Stuyvesant fingered a frame with interest. "Like to own one," he said, "darned if I wouldn't!" "Keep yer hands off them machines!" said a loud voice, the owner of which glared on K. Stuyvesant. K. Stuyvesant removed his hands. He also smiled. John was nettled. His great dignity was hurt. "Why didn't you tell him who you were?" he asked of Stuyvesant with heat. "Oh, Lord!" said Stuyvesant. "Why should I? The fact that I draw a little more on pay day than the next fellow doesn't give me the divine right to paw all over the works." John was silent. He was again mentally steadying his solar plexus. The afternoon had been full of earthquakes to his small ideas, and reconstruction. "Look here," said John seriously, "did you go through that period?" K. Stuyvesant looked sheepish, then he laughed. "Sure," he said; "I was a real devil at twenty. I couldn't stand girls because I thought they laughed at me, so I decided to drink myself to death. My proud ideal was to be the heaviest drinker in New York, and to be so pointed out. Sometimes I stayed out as late as two." John laughed with him, although his inclinations were far from laughter. Coarse hands were despoiling his altar, and, worse, laughing at it, as an echo of childhood. K. Stuyvesant had seated himself on a folding chair that smelled of a hearse. John settled by him. "These chairs always make me think of Uncle Keefer's funeral," said Stuyvesant. "Mother went, draped in eighteen yards of crape. She mourned him deeply until she heard the will, then she tore off the weeds and had 'em burned." John was far away, so the subject of Uncle Keefer's funeral was abandoned. "Did--did you collect girls' photographs?" asked John. "Girls never liked me," said Stuyvesant, "and guns weren't allowed. I did use to have a gallery of second-rate actresses decorating my boudoir. I bought the pictures at a photographer's. The less they wore the better. Lord, what a calf period! Hiccoughing, little asses! Makes me sick to think of it!" Real disgust was written on K. Stuyvesant's face. John pushed his hair away from his forehead. He felt very hot. If some one else had spoken, he would not have noticed. But K. Stuyvesant--chased by most of New York! Honestly liked by the fellows, as a good sport. Owner of several cups for several achievements. Rated as "damned indifferent, but a bully chap!" John felt weak and little,--worse,--he felt terribly young. He looked away from K. Stuyvesant. Perhaps K. Stuyvesant sensed something of his misery, for he laid a big hand on John's shoulder. The hand was cheering. "Where you going to college?" he asked. John explained that he had not thought of going, that he hated work, and that a certain amount of study seemed necessary for school. K. Stuyvesant talked persuasively. "If you studied this winter you could enter next fall," he said; "you have all of the year to do it in. I'll look up some decent tutors, and help all I can, but I'm darned stupid, myself. Wish I weren't. All I could do would be to root. I'd do that!" "Would you kind of help me keep interested?" said John, looking at his feet. "I haven't done anything that I haven't wanted to, for so long, that I've lost the knack. If you'd help me keep interested,--will you?" "You bet I _will_!" answered K. Stuyvesant. "Thank you," said John quietly. K. Stuyvesant's hand tightened on John's shoulder convulsively. Then he took it away. Cecilia's voice had seemed to say the little "thank you." He was shaken, and vastly relieved when John began to talk of monoplanes. He wondered with dull misery if all his years would be full of this "where is the rest of me?" feel. "Why isn't she here? _How_ can we be apart when I feel like this?" He looked at John. The monoplane essay had ceased. "How is your sister?" asked K. Stuyvesant gruffly. "Cecilia," said John, "I wish you'd come in." He was by the door of his bedroom as he spoke. Cecilia answered that she'd be happy to come in, and stepped past him. "I'm going to college," said John dramatically after he'd closed the door. "Stuyvesant wants me to. He thinks he can get me in his Frat. He's going to buy an aeroplane, but he says I can't go up unless you say so. Can I? Are you glad I'm going to college?" Cecilia was entirely bewildered, but said she was glad he had decided to go to college. She sat in a low chair by a table, and her bewilderment increased when John took several photographs from his bureau and threw them carelessly into the waste basket. Next she saw Fanchette thrown in a table drawer, which was then slammed. "John dear," said Cecilia, "_are_ you sick?" "No," answered John, then she saw a twinkle in his eyes, often there in the little boy days. "I'm Irish," he continued, "and I can see a joke, even on myself. I've tried to be very old, Celie." She put her arms around his neck. He hid his face against her throat, and she felt him shake. The joke was forgotten. "It's so hard," she heard in muffled tones; "I'm ashamed of dad, and then I try to gloss it over, I----" "If it hadn't been for dad," said Cecilia slowly, "we would have both been getting slabs of peat out of an Irish bog, surely barefooted, probably hungry." "It would have been better," said John bitterly. "Perhaps," answered Cecilia, "but that is not the question. We're here." "Quite so," said John, and laughed a little. He had drawn away, ashamed of his emotion. "Have I seemed like a kid to you?" he asked. Cecilia looked at him squarely. "Yes," she answered. "Why didn't you help me?" he blurted out. "Let me be the laughing stock of every one. The son of a multi-millionaire, the laughing stock of----" "If you recollect," interrupted Cecilia, "I did try. More than once. You told me I was only a girl, that I didn't understand. You even told me to mind my business on several occasions." "Oh, Celie!" said John. "Dear!" answered Cecilia, in another tone. She sat on the arm of the chair in which he'd thrown himself. He put an arm around her. "Now that you are awake," said Cecilia, "what do you think of those near-men you've been introducing me to all summer?" She was smiling. John's inclination to anger vanished. He smiled foolishly instead. "The mixture is the trouble," he said, "with no one whom you can respect to guide you,--no power above. I feel better, naturally, than the Gov'ner." Cecilia let that pass. "Orchids and hollyhocks in one bed," she said, "but in time I believe you'll come to love the homely honesty of hollyhocks,--those that thrive in all weathers. I believe you will, John. I do." He got up and stretched. The new man had gone. She saw this, and rose with him. "Good-bye, dear," she said in a very everyday tone; "I'm glad you had a good time this afternoon." In a flash he changed again. His arms closed about her soft body, and he kissed her. "Celie," he said huskily, "you're the _best_ fellow!" "Johnny," she answered, "you _darling_!" He gave her another squeeze, and released her. Then he was again the conscious boy. "This darn tie," he muttered, looking in a mirror; "it wads up rottenly!" Cecilia left indifferently, but outside his door she turned and kissed a panel opposite her small head. She wore the want-to-cry expression which so worried Jeremiah, but her eyes were happy. They looked like those of a little girl who holds the best beloved, just mended, doll, all fixed up, ready to love and spank some more, to scold, forgive, and kiss. CHAPTER XIV PINK "You are an advocate of gum-chewing?" asked Miss Annette Twombly, with a faint, not too pleasant smile. "No," answered Cecilia, "but I do think we ought to give them a good time, not reform them. Why, they get discipline all day at their work. I wanted to make them forget that, and all their imperfections." She turned with the words to glance about the group of young women who sat in the office of the Girls' Club. There was a vague murmur. "But--gum--!" Cecilia heard in a voice which held horror. "My idea," said Annette, in her cool, slow voice, "was to give them higher ideals, and to teach them not to wear those horrid, pink silk blouses, you know. Teach them that it isn't nice to chew gum, and,--ah,--well, give them a _larger_ life." "How are you going to give it?" asked Cecilia. "I see what you are going to destroy, but what are you going to put in their places? I think a certain amount of pink is necessary. It has to be _very_ bright, for there is so little of it. It has to reach a long way." Annette didn't think this worth answering. She simply raised her shoulders and eyebrows in a gesture denoting suffering tolerance and pity. Then she turned to a neighbour and spoke in an undertone. They laughed, and Cecilia flushed. "Are you an upholder of the green velvet 'throw' on the parlour organ, Miss Madden?" asked a young woman, noted for her bizarre dress. "I am when the green velvet is the only possible beauty for them,--the only reachable one. I think it's so narrow," she went on heatedly, "to make them enjoy themselves just in our way,--to inflict our likes and dislikes because it's possible to do so. I want to give these girls what _they_ consider a good time, and what they want. Patterns for good times differ. I want dances instead of classes in art. They need them." "But, my dear,--gum, and those fearful frocks! Annette meant to tell them not to wear cheap laces, but to dress plainly, and suitably to their station," explained a drab young lady whose own dress looked as if it had been designed for a futurist ball. Cecilia sighed. She saw a band of heavy-eyed and tired-out girls denied their little cravings for beauty. She saw them laying aside pink blouses which brought a faint pink into their small, starved souls. She saw them trying to be ladies, and losing the little solace of "spear-mint gum," and roses of cabbage size and architecture on their cheap hats. "I think they need the pink," said Cecilia. "If their dress is criticised I think the Club is failing in its mission. Every one will criticise them, few will love them. Let's leave their manners and their dresses to their own management. Let us just try to make them forget the factories, and the flat crowded full of children. I wanted to give them a place where they could bring their beaux." "We agreed about the dances," said Miss Twombly; "I shall _adore_ coming to them! Won't they be _killing_?" A hum of voices followed this, in which was heard: "But their horrible frocks!"--"In the end they would thank us!"--"Give them a vision of a larger, more helpful life!" "I shall not subscribe to a reformatory," said Cecilia loudly. She hated to say it, but an echo of some one who had wanted a "bunnit with pink roses on" flew before her. She meant to do all she could to help other people get, and keep, their particular brands of pink roses. Cecilia's contribution for the club's maintenance was large. It was agreed that for the present at least no helpful hints as to the bad taste of its members' clothes should be given. Cecilia looked at a small watch, and got up. She said good-bye pleasantly. When the door closed after her there was a surge of noise. "Well," said Annette in a carrying tone, "of course she _would_ sympathise. I suppose her own tastes are really theirs. _Have_ you ever seen her father?" "She plays 'The Shepherd Boy,' and 'The Storm in the Alps' for him every evening," said the bizarre. "My _dear_," said another, "_have_ you seen the boy? He is _really_ quite possible and they say that the horrible old man is fabulously wealthy too." "Criminal!" breathed Annette. Her eyes were angry and full of resentment. "Annette," said a girl from across the room, "how are you getting on? I think it's too original of you!" "You aren't still doing that?" asked another. Annette nodded. "What?" asked a bewildered onlooker. "Working, really work," she was informed. "My _dear_, how sweet!" said the informed. "Isn't it ennobling, and broadening, and all that kind of thing?" Annette nodded, and then spoke flippantly of it as a "lark." Her bravado was a bit too thick. Several young people who knew something of Mrs. Twombly's investments looked at each other across Annette's head. After she left there was another free discussion. "Social secretary," said the drab one, "to a horrid person from Ohio, or the state of Washington, or somewhere terribly west. Trying to break in, lots of money, but oh,--like the Maddens." "Hasn't Stuyvesant a huge fortune?" asked the bizarre. "Why doesn't he help then? Though his not doing so is quite what I'd expect. I tried to be so pleasant to him on one occasion, and he was absolutely _rude_! Really rude! He said----" Cecilia had stopped at Mrs. Smithers' on her way home. She sat by the stove holding the latest Smithers on her lap. "We got it with tradin' stamps," said Mrs. Smithers. She held up a purple vase which had evidently been created by some one suffering with a toothache. Mrs. Smithers was trying not to smile. She felt that she should be easily careless with her new grandeur, but it was hard to be so. "Look at that there seascape," she said, turning the seascape side toward Cecilia, "an' that there sailor with his girl. Ain't she purty? My old man, he sez if he seen one like her, he wouldn't come home no more!" Cecilia joined Mrs. Smithers' loud laughter over the "old man's" subtle humour. "Two books," Mrs. Smithers explained after the laughter had ceased, "an' next time we're going to get a plush photograph album. It has a mirror-like on top, with daisies and I dunno what all painted around. _Hand_ painted on that there velvet, mind yuh. It's _swell_!" "I imagine it is," agreed Cecilia. "You like to have pretty things, don't you?" she questioned. Mrs. Smithers' wide and fat face clouded. "Dearie," she said, "yuh gotta have gilt an' fancy vases to make yuh ferget how homely most life is. I wish you could have saw me yesterday. My Gawd, I get tired a-doin' the wash, an' Jim so tony, him usin' _two_ shirts a week! Well, I didn't mind the sweatin' all day, the way I do over the wash, f er all I seen was that there vase a-settin' there. Now ain't it purty?" Cecilia agreed that it was. Mrs. Smithers smiled again. "Why," she exclaimed, "I nearly forgot Lena's dress--the one she's going to wear to the club dance. She set up 'til one last night a-fixing it. She was tickled to fits about it. Looka here." Mrs. Smithers reached below the dining table and took out the third box from the bottom. She opened it reverently. It disclosed a dress of cheap and flimsy lawn, made in the most extreme of styles. There was black velvet on it, several bales of lace, and some roses. Its colour was pink. "How lovely!" said Cecilia, and she meant it; for Cecilia saw what the colour meant,--what it brought,--and the dress to her was truly lovely. "Yessir," said Mrs. Smithers; "Lena, she sez, 'Maw, I feel like a queen in this here!' (she's partial to pink) an' yuh oughta see her in it. Mebbe she ain't purty. Her gentleman friend, who works at Helfrich's delicatessen store, cold meat counter, yuh know,--he sez, 'My Irish rose,' when he seen it. That's a song, 'My Irish Rose.' The Kellys got it on the graphaphone. It's swell. Ever hear it?" Cecilia had not. "I wish she had a pink hat," said Mrs. Smithers, "an' then she could wear this to church. First Luthern, we go to,--that one with the fancy brick, corner of Seventh, and----" "I have a hat," said Cecilia, "that I'm going to send to Lena. It's pink, and it has lots of roses on it!" Tears came to the little eyes of Mrs. Smithers. She beamed widely. "I didn't mean fer to hint," she said; "honest to Gawd, I didn't." "I know," answered Cecilia, "and you know I love to send Lena things. Is she still coughing, and is she drinking the milk I send?" "Yes," answered Mrs. Smithers, "but she don't just like it. She likes evaporated better, bein' used to it." Mrs. Smithers looked doleful. The mention of Lena's cough always made her so. Her expression was like that of a meditative pig, for her small eyes and fat face together provided everything but the grunt. However, to Cecilia she was beautiful, for Cecilia saw the love in Mrs. Smithers' soul, which she spread around her seven children and the "old man." "I won't forget the hat," called Cecilia from the doorway, "and it shall be _very_ pink!" "Miss Madden, meet my gentleman friend." The gentleman friend shuffled his feet and emitted a raucous "Pleased tuh meet yuh." It was the night of the first dance at the Girls' Club. Little knots of its members stood around the edges of the floor, laughing often, and loudly. The gentlemen friends seemed to spend their time deciding which foot to stand on, and then shifting to the other. The committee of "uplift workers" rushed around wildly, doing nothing. It was notable that Cecilia was the one to whom the "gentleman friends" were introduced. Lena Smithers came up to Cecilia. "That hat," she said, "I dunno how to thank yuh! Paw, he's talkin' alla time about them roses. They're grand!" "I'm glad you liked it, dear," said Cecilia. "Yes," went on Lena more shyly, "an' my gentleman friend, him who clerks at the delicatessen, he likes it too. Honest, that boy's grand to me! They ain't hardly an evening that he don't bring me a string of sausage or a hunk of ham!" Cecilia looked impressed and murmured, "Really?" "Um hum! Gawd's truth!" said Lena. "Mr. Ensminger," said a fat girl, towing a flaxen-haired boy with no chin. "Soda fountain clerk to the Crystal. Better kid him on, Miss Madden, mebbe he'll give yuh a soda!" There was loud laughter at this persiflage. Suddenly Cecilia forgot it, her surroundings, the gentlemen friends, in fact everything but the cruelly fast pumping of her small heart, for across the room she saw John coming in, and by him Stuyvesant Twombly. "How did Mr. Twombly happen to come?" Cecilia asked of John much later, when they were dancing. "Why," answered John, "I told him of it, and he said, 'Let's go down. Would your sister mind?' Of course I said, 'No.'" "Of course," answered Cecilia. "Who's the girl who dances like a duck with the rheumatism?" asked John. "She walked halfway up my shins, got discouraged, gave it up, and then later started it all over again." "Sweet persistency," murmured Cecilia. Her eyes were on the partner of the duck with the rheumatism, K. Stuyvesant. He looked warm. The music stopped. Cecilia and John found themselves with the duck and her partner. K. Stuyvesant stepped toward Cecilia with determination. "Will you _please_ give me the next?" he said. His request was made in a desperate tone, a tone absolutely unsuitable for the asking of a dance. "Why," said Cecilia, "there are so many girls here who sit about. I have to see that they have partners, and----" "Oh, go on!" broke in John. "You dance; I'll do the proper for you." K. Stuyvesant put a hand on John's arm; the touch was full of gratitude. Then the music started in a slow, sentimental, sweet waltz song, popular that season. K. Stuyvesant invented several new steps. It was good that Cecilia was an unusual and adaptable dancer, for his tempo and intentions were mixed. "What is this?" he asked at last. "A waltz," answered Cecilia, and at that he stopped his mixture of one-step and maxixe. "Excuse me," he said gruffly. Beads of wet stood out on his forehead. He was out of breath. "Would you like to stop?" asked Cecilia. "It's warm and you seem tired." "Oh, no!" he said passionately. She looked up at him, and when their eyes met his arm tightened with a spasmodic quickness about her; then he turned a deep mahogany colour and stared unseeingly across her head. He had not meant to do that. He wondered what she'd think of him. As for Cecilia, she shut her eyes and tried to be indignant. It was an insult, an insult when he felt as Marjory said he did, an insult! But oh, how sweet, how sweet! The music stopped. "Thank you," said K. Stuyvesant huskily. Then he left Cecilia with many maidens and singled out John. "If you don't mind, I'm going home now," he said. "I'm tired. Thank you for bringing me along." He looked back toward Cecilia. He saw the top of her golden head, surrounded by others of more elaborate coiffure. They made a worshipping circle around her. "Gosh!" said K. Stuyvesant. He recalled the little second when he'd drawn her nearer. "I'm not sorry!" he thought, then turned to hurry away from the lights and the music, for he wanted to be alone. CHAPTER XV FIRELIGHT "It's a serious," said a boy with a voice like a nutmeg grater. "Yuh boob!" exploded his companion. "He means a serial," he explained to Father McGowan. "And," said Father McGowan, "you have come to me because you are temporarily embarrassed for funds?" "Yep," said the nutmeg grater. "We're broke." "An' it's that exciting! Every time they busts up an automobile an' wrecks a train--we'd pay yuh back,--an' him an' her in it, they----" broke in the other. "You'd like a loan," said Father McGowan. "Well, well, here it is. What's the name of it?" "'The Iron Claw,'" said the younger impressively. "It's grand. Them there shows learn yuh a lot too." His voice showed his great thirst for knowledge. Father McGowan smiled. He was urged to go along, with the assurance that they would also pay for that in the future, but he refused on the plea of work. He went to the rectory door with them and let them out into the dismal snowfall, the first of the season. Half-hearted, damp, then he went back to his study, with a tender look in his eyes. He was thinking of a small boy who had known no such pleasures--a small boy brought up by an always-old aunt, whose heart and soul were cut square, and without any dimples. He had been a very quiet small boy with a great hankering for nails and something to pound with. He had gone through the pound period without pounding, and when he reached the dream time he knew that dreams to his unyielding old aunt would be as troublesome as nails, so he had kept silent. Father McGowan's eyes still held the wistful look that had come into them at seventeen. He recalled all his naillessness as he saw two joyful theatregoers start off to see "The Iron Claw," but in thinking of it there was no regret--only a gratitude that from his denials had come a backyard full of junk and a paradise for many little boys who otherwise would have gone without their small-boy heaven. "She was a good woman!" said Father McGowan; "a good woman!" He was thinking of the still old aunt who'd brought him up. "Are you well, Father McGowan-dear?" asked Cecilia later in the afternoon when Father McGowan had settled before a fire in the Madden library. "Oh, yes," answered Father McGowan. "Have a little cold, but I feel splendidly." Cecilia did not look impressed, and certainly Father McGowan's aspect was not convincing. His head was thrown back against the chair, and his breath came raspingly. "A hot lemonade," said Cecilia rather to herself. "Never!" said Father McGowan. "Never! Cecilia, you are a dear child. Don't irritate me. I hate lemonades. They make me think of money for the parish house, and they are bad enough cold." "Hot toddy?" suggested Cecilia; her eyes twinkled. "Ah--!" replied Father McGowan softly. Cecilia rang, spoke to a haughty person in buttons, and soon Father McGowan was sipping something warm which did not smell of lemons. "How's the pain?" asked Father McGowan in a commonplace tone; he studied the glass he held. "Oh," answered Cecilia, "it is the same, but I am braver. I _will_ be good, Father McGowan. I can't help lov--caring for him. I fixed my hair eight times the other day when I knew I'd see him, and used an eyebrow pencil Marjory left, but it wasn't becoming, and I washed it off. I can't help caring for him, although I know he's unworthy. I seem to have lost my handkerchief,--thank you." Father McGowan supplied a large square. "You didn't use to cry much, did you, dear child?" he asked gently. "No," answered Cecilia, "and I don't now except with you. You see, when I voice it it becomes so tragically real. It is fixed because I speak it to a human, while when I think of it it seems like a bad dream. It--it doesn't seem possible that I can care so much, while he doesn't." The fat priest reached for Cecilia's hand. He lifted it and kissed it. Cecilia looked surprised. "A token of immense respect and humble love, dear child," said Father McGowan. "Kisses," he continued, "Cecilia, tie to the man who humbly kisses your hand. There are two kinds, the kind who wants only your lips and the kind who humbly touches your hand and who longs to be absolved by whimpering out his shames against your throat. Lord, what an old fool I am! _What_ a subject for a priest to lecture on!" Cecilia was silent, for she was thinking of Stuyvesant's kisses, which still burned her palm. They had held humbleness,--and hunger. She remembered how he had muttered that he "darn well wanted to get down on his knees, gosh! How he _did_ love----" And then Mrs. Higgenmeyer had come along and called loudly of the night: "Purty night, ain't it?" and, worse, the chaperone of Boston had then appeared and said in her crisp, quick-cut way: "'Beautiful night of stars,' as our inimitable Mr. Browning said." Then the man with the Vandyke beard from Philadelphia had passed. He had crossed forty times, had a valet, and complained of the coffee and service, therefore commanding every one's respect. "Stevenson," he had corrected in passing. "Horrid person!" said Miss Hutchinson, but to Cecilia there were no horrid persons, for the world was full of a tall, gruff man, and her heart was swollen from his hot kisses on her small palm. Her eyes must have told him something of this, for he muttered, "Dear!" with the impetuosity of a loosened champagne cork. "What say?" Miss Hutchinson had asked. "Father McGowan," said Cecilia, "shall I ever be allowed to forget my inferiority to the most? It is always there, even when they ask me for money for their charities. They say, 'Mrs. Dash has subscribed. _You_ will probably _want_ to.' By right of bricks, I purchase my admission. Shall I always feel this way?" "Oh, no," answered Father McGowan. "When you get past thirty you forget how you feel--that is, if you're any good. After that you think of others, and the _ego_ is rubbed down by the world into its proper size." "I _am_ a pig!" said Cecilia. "You're not!" disagreed Father McGowan. "No one could call you that----" He paused. "For a long time," he went on, "I've wanted to say something to you, because you are too near it to get a perspective. I want you to look around at the snobs who do not mix with those in trade, and then I want you to ask what grandpapa did. Probably he made pretzels or ran a laundry. Do not ask the immediate members of the family of this, for they may not like it, but ask some _kind_ friend. You and John, you people of stronger, fresher blood, are America. You are what comes in and puts bright eyes into depleted stock and takes out the hiccoughs. Don't apologise for your strength and the fact that papa's reservations for his first trip were made in the steerage." "I don't," answered Cecilia. "I'm rather blatantly proud of it, although since boarding school I haven't bragged of it." "In time you may even elevate your lorgnette and ask coldly, 'Who _is_ she?'" suggested Father McGowan. "Oh, no!" said Cecilia, "I'll _never_ do that!" "Your children probably will!" said Father McGowan, and then he said "Drat!" to his own stupid self. "My children," said Cecilia, "are gentle, white ghosts, and they play and do only what I dream. They would never do that, I would send them from my arms first, and I do--love them. My arms would be empty. Am I going to be a sentimental old maid, Father McGowan-dear?" Father McGowan said he thought not. Then he turned and again quite brazenly kissed Cecilia's small palm. "Cecilia," he said, "to-day seems like the end of the world to me.... My soul is on wings. Dear child, I wish you could know what you have always been to me. But you do, don't you?" "Yes, Father McGowan-dear," answered Cecilia. "I have known. I have always brought my worst hurts to you, and one does that only to one who loves." "Well, well," said Father McGowan, unused to personal sentiment and awkward from it, "now we understand. How's John?" "Wonderful," answered Cecilia. She smiled mischievously. "Almost a boy again," she added in explanation. "Twombly responsible?" asked Father McGowan. "Yes," she answered, "entirely. His ideals when transplanted are unusually good. However, they do not seem to take root in him." "Well, well," said Father McGowan. He stretched in a tired way and said he must go. No, he couldn't stay for dinner, for he was to take the night turn at nursing a burned iron moulder. "Won't he be thirsty when he sniffs my lemonade?" said Father McGowan. Cecilia rang; the lofty person appeared. "Just a minute," said Father McGowan. "I want one more word with you." The person faded. "Cecilia," said Father McGowan, "there's a doctor to whom your father is playing God. I don't want to bother you about it, but to-day, coming here, I somehow felt as if I ought to." Father McGowan settled on the edge of a chair, and he told Cecilia the dry facts of the ruin of Doctor Van Dorn. "Try to make your father see that it's better not to tamper with the works," he ended; "to leave that to whoever or whatever is pushing the old ball around.... Well, good-bye, dear child. Oh, I can get out without the help of his Royal Buttons, thank you." After he left Cecilia again settled in front of the fire to think of her new problem. Her brain eluded it with a maddening persistency. She thought of a new frock, the Girls' Club, a dance. Then again of the really horrible revelation, and the unexpected obstinacy of her father. She looked up at a softly coloured painting above the mantel, which she'd had painted in Paris. It had been marvellously done, and especially since the only model had been a small tintype. "Dearest," said Cecilia, "you would not want him punished, would you? And,--is there any punishment more cruel than life?" The painting smiled down gently. "Pink roses," it seemed to say. "There are always pink roses, but youth must hold them to see their beauty.... Seeing no loveliness in dreams denied, no heights in greatest depths...." "Come in!" said John. "Please!" K. Stuyvesant hesitated. He wanted to, for just a glimpse of Cecilia was everything to him; but, she--she had not wanted to see him. "I am out a great deal," she said in that memorable 'phone message,--also, "I have quite forgotten the little episode of the boat." Those two sentences had made things cruelly plain. "Come on," begged John, "you must be cold!" K. Stuyvesant got out of his machine, and went with John into the long-waisted house. "Fire in the library," said John; "wood, you know. Bully, aren't they?" John, ahead, stopped with his hand on the drapery which softened the broad doorway into the library. He put the other, silencingly, on K. Stuyvesant's arm. Cecilia sat in front of the fire. She held a framed picture in her hands, standing upright on her knees. Looking,--looking,--looking, she was. They stood there for what seemed to Stuyvesant many minutes. He felt himself grow hot, cold, then he longed to shake John,--again, hug him. "Celie!" called John. With a crash the photograph slipped from her hands to the floor. "Oh!" she cried breathlessly, "_how_ you frightened me!" "Come in, Stuyv," said John, loudly. "Look what she's looking at! _Your_ picture!" Stuyvesant didn't answer. He had set his teeth, and his chin was very square. "How long were you there?" asked Cecilia. "We just came in," said Stuyvesant, before John could answer. "I just picked up your picture," said Cecilia. "John hadn't shown it to me. I'm sorry I was stupid and broke the glass." She moved, and Stuyvesant's eyes followed her, a heartache too large for concealment showing in them. "Whatcha go for?" asked John. "Stay and talk!" "I really can't, dear," she answered. "I'm sorry." Then, nodding, she disappeared. In a moment they heard the sound of the piano. Some one who could feel, as well as play, was tinkling out "The Shepherd Boy." "She does it for dad," said John, "because he likes it, but you ought to hear her play good music. She's a wonder; why, in school----" John broke off, another thought interrupting: "Why didn't you let me jolly her about your picture?" he asked. "It was a great chance." "She wouldn't like it," answered K. Stuyvesant miserably. "Please don't tell her we were watching her, will you, John?" "Aw,--why not!" "_Please_, John!" Stuyvesant's voice was earnest. "Well, I won't," agreed John in a disappointed way. "But I do like to tease her! She's awfully cunning when she gets excited, and you can get a rise out of her every time." After that they settled to play rum for a small stake. Stuyvesant was absent. Time and again John and the cards faded while he saw Cecilia sitting before an open fire,--soft in the firelight, gentle,--almost ready to smile on him. His picture? ... Probably scorning him,--but,--at least she'd thought of him for that little space. He looked toward the chair, and he saw her gently smile in his direction. "Rum!" yelled John, much delighted. "That puts me out. Gee, you're in the clouds! You owe me forty-nine cents." CHAPTER XVI THE MYSTERY The rectory hall was quiet, although it was well filled with people--shabby, the most of them, and sitting uneasily upright in their chairs. Damp snow clung to the coat of one woman who had just entered, and the smell of dirty and wet clothing was in the air. Now and again the steam pounded in a low radiator below a window. There was a great deal of sniffing, and a hacking cough from a woman who bragged of a "weak chest." At last an old man who had been fingering the brim of his hat spoke in a hoarse whisper. "How _is_ he?" he croaked. His thumb pointed over his shoulder toward the stairs. "Ain't no better," responded the woman who coughed. "_She_ come down a half hour ago an' sez 'He's the same.'" The woman coughed again, and afterward wiped her eyes. "He gimme a pipe," said the old man, turning the hat in his hands. "It hez a real amber mouthpiece on. He sez, 'Here, Jake, you know a good pipe, now I don't. This here was gave to me, I want you should hev it,' he sez,--like that he sez----" "I bet!" said a frightened looking little man, hitherto silent, "I bet he did! What he done fer me----!" The little man stopped, looked around, and cowered back in is chair, swallowed several times, then spoke in a high voice, evidently unnatural and the fruit of great effort. "I was in the penitentiary," he said, "an' when I come out no one would gimme a job. I was despert. I got my wife, an' her aunt, what's had a stroke, an' can't use her limbs no way. My wife took to coughin' an' couldn't work no more. Gawd, it was fierce! I was despert. I come to him. What he done fer me----! I sez 'What kin I do? I gotta feed them women. Hev I gotta steal again?' He sez no, an' he set me down an' gimme a meal. Talkin' to me while I et ... Gawd, I never kin fergit it.... That there meal was none of them cold potato hand-outs served up with a sneer. Human beings is awful rough with each other sometimes. When I got through I got up. I sez, 'I don't want no more. I guess I kin hunt my own job now, fer you've made me a man agin....' He sez, 'Well, well,' an' then he set me down, an' believe it or not, he gimme a c_ee_gar! A fie' center too! Then he come with me to my old woman, and Aunt Ellen, an' he seen that they was did for, an' the next week he got me a job at the cement plant." After he finished he cowered again. The world had shown him little forgiveness. His world was scorn, or a hidden shame. The little man had, in telling of Father McGowan's goodness, voiced his crucifixion. The pain of telling it made him feel as if he were at last thanking the big priest adequately.... He blinked, and avoided his companions' eyes now. He knew what to expect. "I'm glad he helped yuh," said the old man, "but he would. There ain't nothing he wouldn't do fer nobody." Common sorrow, like common joy, had drawn these people together. The love of the man upstairs had filled their souls, and left no room for littleness. The little man of the penitentiary was one of them, not an outcast. He sat up straight again, still blinking. "Yer right," he said; "he's helped a lot of us to believe there is a Gawd ... an' something beside hell, livin' or dead." "Yep," answered the woman with the cough. She drew a shawl close about her and moved near the clanking radiator. "Ain't it cold?" she said. "I'm used to settin' near the stove. I wisht she'd come. That there woman in white, I mean, the one what nurses him." "I wish too," said a fat soul who surveyed every one with suspicion. "I gotta get home an' pack my man's dinner pail. Night work he does. It ain't so nice. _I_ don't get no company. All day long he snores, an' at night I set home, or go alone. We used to go to pictures every Monday regular as clockwork." "He helped me buy a parlour organ," said a thin woman a little apart from the group. "I come to him, and I sez, 'I'd go hungry to get a organ, what I could pick out tunes on, an' mebbe learn to play "Home, Sweet Home" on.' He sez, 'Well, well!' (yuh know his way) an' then I told him how I'd wanted one, an' saved up, and then had to use that there money to bury pop (his insurance havin' ran out) an' he helped me. I got it. I kin play three measures a 'Home, Sweet Home,' real good, except fer being slow in the bass.... There ain't nothing like music fer company. I don't get lonely no more of evenings. I use to get that down, an' tired a settin' alone after work, that I'd hate to hear the six a'clock whistles. It ain't no joke, settin' in one room with the wall paper all off. I wonder how he is?" she ended in another voice. No one answered. The woman near the radiator coughed, then wiped her eyes. The old man twirled his hat. A girl with a sullen look slunk in, and settled near the door. There was quiet. Once in a while a chair was moved, and grated on the floor. The radiator clanked. There was the staccato tap of heels in the upper hall, then on the stairs. "_You_ ask her," said one woman to another. The old man spoke. "Mrs.," he said, "how _is_ he?" "There ain't no change," said Mrs. Fry, "and there ain't no sense to your settin' here." "We'll be quiet," said the old man wistfully, "and we'd kinda like to. We all love him." Mrs. Fry covered her face with her handkerchief. "Set if yuh want to," she said in what was, for her, a softened tone, "but there ain't a bit a sense to it." Then she turned and went down the hall, blowing her nose loudly. "There's three doctors," said a girl just out of childhood, and yet from her place in life old looking. "I know that," replied the thin woman. "It looks bad fer him, but he _can't_ die! There ain't another!" "He won't die!" said the old man. "Fer them that knowed him, he'll always live." In the kitchen Mrs. Fry was sobbing in the roller towel. She heard Father McGowan's voice come, as it had, in gasps. "Now,--now! Mrs. Fry----" echoed in her heart, "don't feel badly--I'm tired,--and--I'm ready to go--to sleep----" And then he had smiled. "Mrs. Fry," came in a voice from the doorway, "yer wanted!" She looked up to see an old man with the tears running down his face and following the wrinkles in criss-cross paths of salty moisture. The nurse stood in the hall. She alone was calm. "You'd better go now," she said quietly to the little group. Several of them sobbed loudly. The door opened suddenly. "Where's Father McGowan?" called a little boy. "I got a new kitty what I want to show him. _Ain't_ he in?" Cecilia was on her knees in the dark, by her bed. "Father McGowan," she whispered, "oh, Father McGowan-_dear_, where are you?" He had not gone where childhood had had an Irish mother go. Growing had made the mystery--the vast uncertainty--the haunting question of the still, dark hours! Cecilia lifted her face. Her eyes were dry. "Oh, God," she said aloud, "if you are, give us another life. There is no possible good-bye for little human hearts that love. Oh, God, let me see Father McGowan-dear again. Oh, let me! I will be good all my life, if I may meet him once again----" She stopped, choked. The mystery echoed.... "Father McGowan-dear," she whispered, "where _are_ you? Dearest, _where_ have you gone, and why?" CHAPTER XVII A RELAPSE "He died," said Johnny, "of pneumonia. One of those quick cases, you know. Cecilia's frightfully broken up--you can see it--although she doesn't say anything." "I'm sorry," said Stuyvesant. "I never saw much in him," said John musingly, "but he had an awful hold on a lot of people." "Your sister cared for him, didn't she?" asked Stuyvesant, then added bravely, "I think that assures his being unusual." "Oh, I don't know," said John in a lazy way; "girls are queer,--sometimes sentimental. He was good to her when she was tiny. She always remembers things like that. I think she's kinda sentimental." Stuyvesant looked peculiar and grunted. "Saw Tommy Dixon down town to-day," said John. A sudden flush spread across Stuyvesant's face. His eyes were unpleasantly bitter. "Good sport," continued John. "I disagree," said Stuyvesant loudly. "Don't like him, nor his rotten code." John looked on Stuyvesant speculatively. He reflected that, after all, Stuyv didn't know it all, and that if he wore a cassock he might have been taken for Father McGowan. His ideals were very similar. "Can't train with a Sunday school class," said John. "Live while you're here, yuh know. Damned if I haven't been good lately!" Stuyvesant was worried. Thus far his work had been easy, because of John's adoring following. But,--were John to follow Tommy Dixon with the same adoration,--then,--it _would_ be work! He thought, with an inward sneer, of the smallness of the boy's measures for life. He thought of his always following the new, and of his weak swaying, and then he thought of who had asked his help. "Come to dinner with me, John," he said, while he made mental arrangement for the cancelling of another engagement. "Don't mind," answered the old John, in his old tired-of-life manner. "Got a date before dinner. Where'll I meet you?" Stuyvesant named a club, and they parted. Stuyvesant went to his office. There were several matters awaiting his attention, but he pushed them aside. Across the room he saw Tommy Dixon's insolent face. On it was the ever-present smile, that which shaded into a leer too easily.... "She says she can't forget his kisses," came with a touch of flame across his tortured brain. "God!" said K. Stuyvesant. "God!" He hid his eyes with his hands. His breath came fast. It was half after eight, and John was to have met him at eight. Stuyvesant looked at his watch, and frowned. The day had been hard, and had left small capacity for patience.... The mention of Tommy Dixon had brought back a misery he'd hoped somewhat dulled (one remembered by a stern control of thought, usually not more than once a day). Now John, after Stuyvesant's breaking an engagement,--was late. His casual acceptance of Stuyvesant's hospitality brought a smile to that gentleman's lips. He wondered if John thought he courted the opportunity of hearing his rather young, and too often callow, opinions stated with absolute assurance as truths? At nine Stuyvesant shut his watch with a snap, and went out alone to dinner. He was entirely out of humour. He allowed himself to meditate largely on Tommy Dixon. It was torture--exactly fitted his mood, and helped. "Celie," said Jeremiah. Celie stopped playing the chimes of a new "piece" of Jeremiah's pattern. "Celie," he went on, "I done that you asked." "Doctor Van Dorn?" she asked in a whisper. "Yes," answered Jeremiah. He blew his nose loudly. "_He_ asked me, an' he asked me," Jeremiah explained, "an' I was that uppish! Jeremiah,' he'd say, 'don't try to cast yourself for God. It won't work,' an' I'd say, 'Is it going to rain, Father McGowan?' Just the last time he come I seen him in the hall, an' he was pleadin' with me; he sez, 'You can control his work. See that he does no harm, but don't do more,' an' I sez, 'It's snowin' now, ain't it?' Oh, dear Lordy! Ain't life one mess of regrets! One after the other, spoilin' your digestion, an' makin' yuh kick around of nights! ... I loved him too." "Dear," said Cecilia, "he knew that!" "Yuh think so, Celie?" asked Jeremiah wistfully. "Oh, yes!" she answered. Her answer held an applied genuineness. It convinced Jeremiah. "I give him back his rotten little factory (I was losin' money on it, anyway), and I wrote him a letter. I sez, 'Dear Sir----' An' I went on telling him Father McGowan an' Gawd done it, not me. I sez I was his well-wisher now, wishin' him all success, an' I sez not to get funny in the hospital business on sick kids no more or I'd have him jailed. The letter was friendly and Christian, all owing to Father McGowan, who doesn't know it--God rest his soul!" Cecilia was smiling tremulously. "You absolute darling!" she said. She perched on the arm of his chair, and they sat in silence. "After all," she said, "hurting this little man wouldn't bring mamma her pink roses, would it, dear?" Jeremiah's eyes snapped. In them was the look that certain competitors, who scorned him socially, dreaded. "It brung me mine," he stated; "it brung me mine!" Cecilia laughed. A sudden lightness of spirit, like the flash of day into dawn, was hers. "Dear," she said, "I believe Father McGowan knows! I believe he does!" Jeremiah kissed her and smoothed her golden hair with his hand which would never become smooth. "You're like your maw," he said. It was his greatest tribute. Cecilia clung to him with a pathetic hunger. "Miss Cecilia, the telephone," said the pompous person from the doorway. "Yes, sir; yes, sir," answered Jeremiah, "she's a-coming." Cecilia went to an adjoining room. After her "yes" things swayed a bit. She did not need his voice, which said, "This is Stuyvesant Twombly." She knew. "Yes," she repeated. "I _have_ to bother you," he said. "I've just had a message from John. He's been a little hurt--just a little, Miss Cecilia, and he wants you to come with me to where he is. He's a little hurt. You won't worry? I'll stop for you in a moment, that is, if you'll come?" "Oh, of course!" she answered; "but you're sure he's not really hurt?" "Yes," he answered. "Do up well. It's cold." She hung up the receiver, and stood a minute, hand over her thudding heart. She was not thinking of John. As for Stuyvesant, he hung up the receiver and swore loudly. He was thinking of the 'phone message which had come from John, and of John's small sister. "Stuyv," he had heard John say, "I'm up here at the Eagles' View House. I had a bust-up. Get Celie and come. I'm dying----" There had been a lull. "He's fainted," had come across the wires in another tone. Stuyvesant's first amusement over the last 'phone message faded suddenly. Perhaps John had made the supreme effort and had managed to speak those few words? Then he abandoned speculation and telephoned Cecilia. He had assured her that John was not much hurt.... The gentle care of her was instinctive. If John were right the other would come later. With a doctor in the car they drew up before the Madden House. The chauffeur was not off his seat before Stuyvesant was out and on the steps. "Are you warmly enough dressed?" he asked of her. "Yes, thank you. John?" she questioned. "He telephoned me that he had a smash-up and that he wanted you. I have a doctor; he may have some sprains or bruises," said Stuyvesant. "It's so good of you," she responded. All of Marjory's hints had gone. She felt his hand on her arm and felt from it a sweet sickness. "Miss Cecilia, may I introduce Doctor Holt? Miss Madden----" After that she settled, and felt rugs being wrapped around her. Stuyvesant's hands lingered. They held a thrilling tenderness. "Are they well around you?" he asked. Cecilia said they were, and Stuyvesant drew a long breath. The doctor looked from one to the other speculatively. He judged them lovers and himself in the way. The girl was certainly entirely lovely--the soft type who asked for gentleness in return for unbounded love. The way she looked at young Twombly as he stared straight ahead was rather beautiful, thought the doctor. She jumped as he spoke. "These gay young men and their speeding," he had said. "Oh, yes," said Cecilia, "aren't they fearful? I think they should be reared without silly sisters to worry over them!" The doctor agreed. He imagined young Madden to be a hard-muscled fellow who liked sport. In speaking of speed, his only thought had been mileage. The car had left the city and was running with difficulty over a road which was bad from a light snow. "Miss Madden is skidding quite a bit (pardon me, Miss Madden) alone on that back seat. You'd better get back there, Mr. Twombly," said the doctor. He smiled. He thought he had done something very kind, and done it neatly. Mr. Twombly stuttered something that sounded like, "I'm glad; I'd be glad--pleased----" Cecilia stared agonizedly ahead. The car made a turn, and, alone on the broad seat, she swayed, slid half across the seat, bumped. Stuyvesant turned his chair. "May I, Miss Cecilia, or the doctor? We're going so fast. You'll be so jolted." In answer she turned back the rug, and Stuyvesant settled by her. After that there was quiet. Cecilia looked ahead, through steamed glass, at the ears of Stuyvesant's chauffeur. Stuyvesant sneakingly looked at her. "Only ten," said the doctor; "we're making good time." "Pardon?" said Stuyvesant, and at the same time from Cecilia, "Excuse me. I didn't hear." Under cover of the dark the doctor smiled. Cecilia flushed, and Stuyvesant bit his lip. He clasped his hands together very tightly, for he was afraid that if she looked toward him he would put his arms around her and draw her close. The doctor began to criticise the administration, as people always do when they know little of the facts. Stuyvesant clutched the straw, and argued hotly first on one side, and then the other. The doctor was pleased, for K. Stuyvesant was illustrating a pet theory of his, universal insanity. "Now if Van Dorn could hear this!" he reflected. "Why, the man could be locked up! He's much worse than millions in asylums!" The car jolted, and turned. Cecilia swayed, and bumped against Stuyvesant's arm. It slipped back of her protectingly, and closed around her. "That was a jolt--" he said shortly, "these roads,--did it jar you?" "No," answered Cecilia, "thank you." His arm had been pulled away with a jerk. Cecilia stared ahead at the chauffeur's ears. They were large and floppy, and the whole world seemed like them, a misfit. She felt chilled, alone, afraid. She wished the car would jolt again. She wished so brazenly. She didn't care,--she did! At the Eagles' View Cecilia was ushered up creaking stairs to a cheap, little room. It was shabby, and hung with soiled cretonnes. There were pictures on the walls, entitled "The Bathers,"--"Playful Kittens,"--"A Surprise!" Some more lurid with titles impossible. Stuyvesant had followed Cecilia and from the doorway, over her head, he caught the impression. He had expected it, but it hurt cruelly. His spirit was a mixture of longing to press her face against his shoulder, and a great hankering to kick John. "I'm dying!" gasped John. "My dearest!" said Cecilia, and caught her breath sharply, then she slipped to her knees by the bed. She put her arm beneath his head, which was too low, and turned to Stuyvesant. "Where is the doctor?" she asked. At that moment he appeared in the doorway. "Well, young man," he, said, "speeding?" "I'm going to die," answered John in gasps. Cecilia had grown very white. "Nonsense!" said the doctor. "Now if you people will just leave us for a few moments----" He began to open his case as he spoke. "Want me?" asked Stuyvesant. "No," he was answered; "you take care of Miss Madden." The door opened and a girl appeared. Her hair was streaked from bleach, and dark at the roots; her expression insolently daring. "How yuh feel, honey boy?" she asked of John. John turned away his face. He looked sicker. "One of your friends?" questioned Cecilia. John did not answer. "Yes," replied the girl. "I'm Miss LeMain. Me and John have been pals for this long while." "I'm John's sister," said Cecilia, and held out her hand. Miss LeMain took it with a limp and high gesture cultivated as "elegant." "Pleased to meet yuh," she murmured, and then, "I'm glad you've came. My nerves is that shook up! Mebbe the gent'man would get us something to drink. My nerves is all shook. I feel fierce." They descended the rickety stairs, the girls followed by Stuyvesant. If John had been well something would have happened to him. As it was Stuyvesant was fiercely protective of the small sister in a curt, silent way. His anger was almost overpowering.... He thought of Cecilia on her knees in that evil room. He thought of her gentle treatment of Miss LeMain.... He was humbled by her sweetness, and furious from its cause. "Is he your gent'man friend?" asked Miss LeMain while Stuyvesant ordered the drink. Cecilia shook her head. "Thought he was. Seems like a cute fellah. Gawd, my nerves is shook! Jacky speeds so! I sez, 'Jack, you'll do this trick once too often!' an' he sez, 'I'm running this boat, girlie,' an' I sez some more, an' then he kissed me; yuh know what a kidder he is! An' the car a-running like that! Then the next thing she was over, an' I was in a field. Jack was somewhere in the road. This ain't the _first_ accident I been in. I believe in a short life an' a merry one. All my gent'men friends has cars. No Fords neither. I hope Jacky ain't suffering. He's a sweet boy, an' some sport!" Cecilia's hands were locked tightly together in her lap. Her eyes were tragic. "My nerves is shook up fierce!" echoed Miss LeMain. "I'm sorry," said Cecilia. Stuyvesant had appeared in time to hear the last of the recital. "You'd better go lie down," he said decidedly. "It will do you good, and Miss Madden needs quiet." "An' 'two's company, three's a crowd!' ain't that it?" questioned Miss LeMain with a giggle. Her sally was not greeted with enthusiasm. She left, terming Stuyvesant a grouch, and Cecilia sweet, but lacking pep. Alone, Stuyvesant stood looking down at Cecilia. His arm was on the mantel. The shadows and lights from an open fireplace played on them. The rest of the room in half dark brought them close. Constraint was impossible because of the situation and Cecilia's dependence on Stuyvesant. "The money came too quickly," she said meeting his eyes. "John has to spend it in the way that makes the most noise. I--I am so tired of it! So bruised by it! I wish we were back in that little flat, with John laying bricks as my father did. Perhaps then he would be a good man. That is everything to me." "He is going to be a good man, Cecilia," said Stuyvesant. Neither noticed the use of her first name. "He will be a good man. This is a relapse,--a recurrence of growing pains. There are good things in him. When he's awake he has a sense of humour. That is a darn good thing to have, you know. I think, next to God, it's the best thing a man can own." Cecilia pressed her handkerchief against her lips. "You will help him again?" she whispered. "I will," said Stuyvesant. He put out his hand in pledge and hers was swallowed in his huge grasp. At the touch of her hand he gasped, "Cecilia!" but she did not answer, for the doctor's step was heard on the rickety stairs. "Two broken ribs," he said; "scratch on his arm. Now we'll take him home. He'll probably yell over the bumps, but I judge the yells will do him good. Where's his companion? Send another car for her, or take her along?" "Send for her," said Stuyvesant. "No," disagreed Cecilia, "if you don't mind, we'll take her. I think it would be better." Stuyvesant looked annoyed, but sent the oily proprietor to call the lady of the shook-up-nerves. She descended immediately, wrapped in a large fur coat, and with a cerise motor scarf about her head. "I couldn't get no rest," she called; "I'm all fussy. How's Jacky darling?" "_She_ isn't going with us?" said John at the top of the stairs. He stopped and leaned heavily on Stuyvesant. "My God!" he exploded. "Stuyv, she _can't_! Celie can't meet her! She can't! Tell her we'll send a car. I don't want Celie to see her." "They've been talking for half an hour," said Stuyvesant. "Your sister insists on taking her in." "Oh, Lord!" said John. "Oh, Lord!" "Come along!" said Stuyvesant roughly. "I really thought I was dying," said John in a shamed way. "Shut up!" ordered Stuyvesant. "You make me sick!" They went down with no more conversation. "How are you, dear?" asked Cecilia. "Oh, Celie!" said John. He reached for her hand and clung to it. "Oh, Celie!" he echoed. Until dawn Stuyvesant relived the night. The ride home had made the deepest impression. A girl with a painted soul and face had chattered loudly, and with a cheap sentiment reeking in her talk. She had spoken often of "Jacky darling." While Jacky darling, from shame and pain, had groaned in deep, shaky groans, his head had lain on his sister's shoulder. On the other side Stuyvesant had sat. The doctor had disposed of the case as typical, and was thinking of an article which he'd just read in the _Medical Journal_. "Dearie," Fanchette LeMain had said, "your fur's open." She had reached toward Cecilia's throat, but Stuyvesant reached first. He fastened the clasp with shaking hands, and the back of one hand touched her chin. Then he had sunk back to dream his impossible dreams, and wonder why she should have cared. He knew he was a duffer! But he was almost sure that she once had cared,--for him. CHAPTER XVIII FORGIVENESS "Celie," said John, "honestly he was devilish to me, and I deserved it!" John was lying on a lounge, covered and looking wan. The library fire burned cheerfully, and the portrait of an Irish mother smiled down on Cecilia and John. Stuyvesant Twombly had just left. He had uttered some scathing truths. "He said I was a 'callow pup,'" said John. "He said I shouldn't have called you to that place if I'd been half dead. Cecilia dear, he was right. Celie, forgive me!" "Dearest!" said Cecilia. She sank to her knees by the lounge, and pressed John's face to hers. He felt her tears. "I never will again!" he said huskily. "God help me!" She didn't reply. She couldn't, but only pressed him closer. "I can't bear to see you take the tawdry and cheap," she whispered at length, "for, John dear, it does crowd out the real. I know it does." He nodded. "Kiss me," he ordered. She turned her face, and then the door opened. "I beg pardon," said Stuyvesant uncomfortably, "I thought you were alone." Cecilia had gotten to her feet, and stood, shy and flushing adorably. "Cecilia's been weeping over the prodigal pup," explained John. "I told her I was sorry. I am. If you and she will give me another chance----" He held out his hand with his words, and Stuyvesant took it. "I came back to say I was sorry I was so darn brutal," he said, squeezing John's hand, "but I'm afraid I meant it all." Cecilia left them with a word or two. At the door she turned. Stuyvesant was looking after her, oblivious to John's presence. "Celie's tears," said John, using a handkerchief on his cheeks. He recalled the new leaf, and added, "Three or four of mine too, I guess." His expression was sheepish, but that vanished, for in Stuyvesant's face was approval. "John," said Stuyvesant, "you're _all_ right!" John coughed. The genuine gruffness of Stuyvesant unsettled him. "I'm awfully glad you came back," said John. "You'll stay? Let's play rum." CHAPTER XIX SPRING "What are _you_ doing here?" Stuyvesant asked of Annette. Considerable surprise was in his face and voice. "Oh," answered Annette, "I have been telling Cecilia Madden that I was a pig. I asked her to forgive me. I feel much better!" They had met on the long drive that ran on the inland side of the Sound house, toward the main road. "I'm stopping at a house up the road for Sunday," explained Annette. "Cecilia wanted to motor me back, but I needed air. Indigestion and conscience are so much alike. You want to breathe deeply after the easing of both." "Yes," agreed K. Stuyvesant absently. "How could you ever dislike her, Annette?" "She came into school," said Annette, "the rawest little person you ever saw. I felt the injustice of her having money, while I, who knew so well how to use it, had to scrimp and save. I saw her with everything in the world that would have put me into heaven and she was miserably unhappy. It was my first taste of injustice. I hated it. I never was a resigned person, you know, Stuyv." "How did the girls treat her?" asked Stuyvesant. He was becoming gruff. "We put her through a refined form of hell," answered Annette, "the cruelties of which were only possible for the feminine mind to evolve. Stuyv, _do_ look what you're doing! The gardener will be grateful to you!" Stuyvesant had been switching a cane viciously. He had taken off many heads of a particularly dressed-up variety of tulip. "I'll be darned!" he said, looking at them with surprise. "Couldn't you see how dear and all that kind of thing she was?" he queried farther. "I don't see how even a set of simpering, half-witted, idiotic, jealous girls could _help_ seeing----" "So you're in love with her?" interrupted Annette. Stuyvesant looked on his cousin with surprise. Then he answered. "Of course," he said, "but how'd you know?" Annette laughed. After her laughter she slipped a hand through his arm. "Stuyvesant," she said, "your soul and mine are cut from a different pattern. It was always hard for me to understand you, but something has happened lately which has made me larger, much decenter. Stuyvesant, I want a long talk--a heart-to-heart effect. Will you walk back with me?" "Of course," he answered. "You'll be glad to know," she went on, "that after Cecilia had pneumonia she was quite the idol of the school. There was one of those complete shifts so characteristic of our American youth, and every one liked her but me. She used to try to make me like her with the most transparent little appeals. Heavens, I was a devil! She sent me violets at one time when I had a cold, and I gave them to the maid, and then spoke loudly before her of unwelcome attentions and social climbers." Stuyvesant was walking in jerks. His arm beneath Annette's was rigid. "She's forgiven me," said Annette, smiling. He relaxed. "I am a darn fool!" he said, "but honestly----!" He stopped and shook his head. "Doesn't she care for you?" asked Annette; "turned you down?" "I haven't asked her. She's shown very plainly what she thinks of me." "Rubbish!" said Annette shortly. "No man in love is a judge of anything! He only knows that she has blue eyes, or he can't just remember, maybe they're brown, but anyway they're beautiful!" Annette's cousin grinned sheepishly. "What colour are they?" asked Annette. "I don't know, but I guess they're brown. I know they're unusual, now aren't they, Annette?" Annette giggled. "Very ordinary," she answered, "and they happen to be blue." "They're not ordinary. You know they aren't! It doesn't make any difference to me, of course. I'm not in love with her looks, but they're _not_ ordinary!" "It is not like you," said the girl, "to give up anything you want in that half-hearted way. I don't quite understand, Stuyvesant." "I----" he began, then stopped. "Well?" questioned Annette. "I didn't give it up without being sure. Her friend Marjory, well, she made me see a few things." He was staring moodily ahead. A car whizzed by, leaving a trail of dust. "Damn!" said Stuyvesant. Annette laughed. "You see now if I asked her," he continued, "I'd lose my chance of seeing her. I don't suppose you or any one else could know what that means to me!" "You might not lose it. I don't trust the green-eyed lady. I never have." "But she's Cecilia's best friend," objected Stuyvesant, "and why would she do anything to hurt her?" "I used to think you posed," she answered despairingly. "Now I imagine it is only feeble-mindedness. Take my advice, Stuyvesant: _Ask_ her! The other course is so spineless." "You don't know what I'd lose!" "You wouldn't lose it!" "I wouldn't?" he repeated. "Excuse me, Annette, but really you don't know what you're talking about. I do. I know too well." His voice had become bitter. She looked at him and saw that in the year past he had changed greatly. "And now about you?" he said in a changed way. "Are you still set on this working business? I hope you aren't. I honestly want to help. It worries me like thunder!" "You're a dear!" responded Annette, "and that is quite a tale. Can't we sit on this wall? Whose is it? ... The Maddens own all this? Heavens!" She perched on the wall and he lit a cigarette. "No, not now," she answered as he held out the case. "The small Saint Cecilia doesn't, does she? Well, she couldn't. She might revert to the cob pipe." It was a flash of the old Annette. Stuyvesant looked unpleasant. "My tale--" said Annette. "You know mamma is a worshipper of the long-haired. Any one who can create _anything_--futurist painters, pianists, the inventor of a new cocktail. You know her, Stuyv." "Yes," admitted Stuyvesant. "Well, what with their bleeding and papa's insane investments, he never provided properly for us, Stuyv. Mamma used to go to him and really cry! It was pathetic! And all he would say was that he had no money." "He hadn't," answered Annette's cousin. "I'd expect you to sympathise," she said. "You men always do, but that isn't my story. When he died his affairs were in such fearful shape that mamma and I were terribly pinched. She never liked you, Stuyv, or she might have asked your advice. As it was, she invested in lovely nut groves in southern California. The promoters quite misrepresented them; they didn't pay at all or declare dividends or whatever they do. In fact they assessed the owners of the common stock for irrigation or something like that. I don't just understand business. About that time I met Dicky Fanshawe, who doesn't do anything original--only works--fearfully poor. I fell in love with him, but mamma saw me as the mistress of some gilt and pink salon, with a long-haired genius as a husband, and was simply devilish about Dicky. You know her, Stuyv." "Yes," answered Stuyvesant. "I do." "Then you know the Altshine failure took us in too." "Yes," he answered. "I know. Why were you so stiff-necked about my help, Annette? I have enough to help you all you need, and I want to. You know it." "Mamma has never liked you," said Annette, "but when the crash came, well, she was willing to live on you. For the same reason I was not. I know you disapprove of me. My ideals are not many, but under the circumstances----!" "You make me feel an awful dub!" said Stuyvesant. "I haven't any right to disapprove of you or be lofty." "But you do. Well, mamma saw me retrieving the family fortune in some romantic and bohemian manner. I was to create something, a book, or be a decorator for the smart, a reader of East Indian poems. She had splendid ideas, but the fact is, I've found, you have to have a hint of something inside to do anything successfully outside. I hadn't it. "I descended to a social secretary and chaperoning that horrid woman's nasty little white pups, and from that mamma has consented to my marrying Dicky. He only has ten thousand a year, and I'm going to marry him on that! I love him terribly! Isn't it splendidly romantic?" "Um," grunted Stuyvesant. "Annette," he said, "I want you to let me provide for your mother. You will? ... No, don't thank me. It irritates me. Oh, please!" After his last plea she stopped her effusive thanks and pressed his arm. Suddenly she laughed. "What are you laughing at?" asked Stuyvesant. "Cecilia advocated pink for the poor," Annette explained, "and I never understood how they felt until my terrible employer asked me not to wear frills. She said they weren't suitable for my position! It's all so relative, isn't it? Cecilia saw the panorama. I saw only my corner." Annette slipped from the wall. "Must go," she said. "Dicky's coming out at eight. You want me to be happy?" "Of course," said Stuyvesant. Annette's face changed. "Stuyv," she said, "it's everything when you find the one who fits your heart and mind.... _Ask_ her. Please, Stuyv. I can't believe she doesn't care." "You're awfully good," he answered huskily. "Lord, Annette! If you were right----!" Annette stepped near him. For the first time since the nursery days she kissed him. "Stay here," she ordered, "and think it out. Bye!" With a wave she left. At the first turn in the road she looked back. Her cousin was still sitting on the wall, and he was staring intently at the cigarette between his fingers. Annette had seen that it had gone out before she started. "Poor boy!" she said. "Poor boy!" and then she thought of Dicky, who had turned her hard little heart softer to all the world. She forgot the "poor boy" who sat alone on the wall. She forgot money and things, the two which had mattered most to her, and once had been her life. With a new look on her face, she dreamed of a future--a future at which she once would have laughed. Hers was the spirit that puts glory into the face of the tired mother in the overcrowded flat; beauty into the face of the tawdry little girl who sits on a park bench with her "gentleman friend"; youth into age, waiting for soft and endless night; a little touch of God, a hint of something larger, veiled for eyes too young; the proof intangible, sublime. CHAPTER XX PULLING OFF THE THORNS The heat of June in the city drew forth a hot, damp steam. It made white faces and brought to mind sunstrokes, not June's country thought--roses. "Gee, it's hot!" said John. He sat opposite Stuyvesant Twombly in a restaurant famed for its coolness. "Come out with me to-night!" he added. "Dad and Celie will be glad to have you, too. Come on! Awful nice and cool out there." Stuyvesant answered absently, and smiled a little as he did. The idea of "Celie's" being glad to see him amused, even while it hurt, him desperately. He thought with a cankered humour of his trying to find out whether there was a spark of hope for him, after the talk with Annette had made his dreams too daring, and had made him need, all over again, proof of how little he mattered. He had gotten the proof. His first talk had been full of Marjory,--Marjory,--Marjory. He had not wanted to talk of Marjory. Again he had hated her for coming between them. Cecilia had told of what Marjory's letters had held,--how dear Marjory was (Cecilia had been a bit breathless at this point)--how she, Cecilia, loved her,--where Marjory was,--where she was going. It had been a very surface talk, not once touching anything personal, at least no more than the small Cecilia's great love for her friend. Then John had appeared and Cecilia had excused herself with much relief and gone quickly away. It was as always, her avoidance, and what in a less sweet nature would have shown as marked distaste. Stuyvesant had understood, and held on to his small privilege doggedly. "Then I'll leave," Stuyvesant heard John say; he didn't know what had come before, "but I'll get home from school often and see you." "I'm going away myself for a while," said Stuyvesant,--"I don't know just where. I'm tired of business,--everything. I guess I need a change." He thought miserably of the "change" he needed, and then shut his heart on her sweet image. He made up his mind to stop thinking of "that kind of thing," and his heart laughed at his decision. [Illustration: CECILIA STOPPED AND GASPED. IT WAS HARDER THAN SHE HAD DREAMED] "Stuyv!" said John aghast, "what am I going to do without you? Why, Stuyv! You can't go, at least for long. You don't mean a long trip?" "'Fraid so," he was answered. "I guess I'd better, John. I--the fact is I've wanted something I can't have. I don't want to baby about it, only I'm,--well, I can't forget it here. I'm going to try a change. Damn it! What did I say that for? I hate to whine." "Stuyv!" said John. He reached across the table, and squeezed the hand that was drawing designs on the tablecloth with a strawberry fork. Stuyvesant felt the sympathy, and looked up. The boy on the other side of the table gasped. "Is it as bad as that?" he asked. Stuyvesant shook his head, and then he uttered his own word and convincingly. "Gosh, John," he said, "it's the limit. I'd never have believed it possible." "Would it help to tell?" asked John. Stuyvesant smiled a little. "Not exactly," he replied. "I did tell one person," he continued after a pause, "and after that it was worse. This person meant well too. Rot it, if I couldn't run a world better than it's run! I'd have people that love each----" he stopped, and looked wildly around. Then he mopped his forehead. "It's awful hot," he finished inanely. "Yes," agreed John. "Lord, I'll miss you!" John was utterly despondent. "There's no one like you, Stuyv," he said in an embarrassed way. "You know how hard it is to say some things, but you can bet I know what you've done for me! I do--so does Cecilia. I had the wrong idea." "I've been glad to be your friend," answered Stuyvesant. "You'll write me and tell me how,--how you all are?" "Certainly," responded John. "Why, of course I will, but I don't know how I can say good-bye! Stuyv, I depend on you awfully. You know,--you know with dad, that is, I can't take his advice because I don't respect him." "Why not?" broke in John's companion. "I'd like to know why not?" John's mouth flew open. "His grammar----" he began. "Trimmings," said K. Stuyvesant. "Crudeness," said John. "Companion of strength," said K. Stuyvesant. "Mentioning money all the time," said John, "how much things cost." "Better than spending it without mention on dubious objects." John looked away as Stuyvesant replied. "Look here," continued Stuyvesant, "you and I both know the honest goodness in your father--his rugged ideas of a decent life--his respect of them. The other things are tinsel balls on the Christmas tree. Desirable trimmings, but not essential for the tree's strength. A few more years will convince you,--absolutely convince you. Some day you won't even wince when your father forgets and uses his knife to eat from." "Never," stated John. "You prefer a man who is slippery both inside and out?" questioned Stuyvesant. "They get along better with the world," said John. "Oh, no," said Stuyvesant. "They get along better with the empties. A few people, those that count, look for something on the inside." John suddenly leaned well across the table. "Look here, Stuyv," he said, "is this a bluff? Damned if I understand you! I was lying in the hammock on the porch last summer when Marjory and Cecilia came from the courts. They didn't see me, and I thought I'd hear about some beau and have a joke. I heard Marjory say that you said the old man should be kept in the garage. Not just those words, but smooth--Marjory's way. I never saw Celie so mad! She turned white as----" "Did she say that?" shouted Stuyvesant. "Lord, Stuyv!" said John, "everybody's lookin' at you. Yes, of course she said that. What's the matter with you?" "What else did she say?" asked Stuyvesant. He was somewhat breathless, but for the sake of John more restrained. "Well, Marjory told Cecilia what a hell of a case you had on her, talking about her eyes, and all that kind of stuff. Trust girls--they blab everything. Gimme the salt, will you?" Stuyvesant shoved his glass of water toward John. "The salt, man!" said John, and then as he surveyed Stuyvesant with sad eyes, he added, "I hope it isn't catching." "You go telephone her that we're coming out," said Stuyvesant. "Who?" "Your sister, of course. Tell her not to have any one else there. I've got to see her, John,--got to! Honestly, John, I've _got_ to. I've got to see her a little while alone. I really must." "I think you've made it plain," replied John. "You say you must see Cecilia. You did mention that, didn't you?" There was no room for anything but heaven in Stuyvesant. He nodded seriously. "Yes," lie answered, "I must! Really, I've got to, John!" John howled. "The heat!" he explained, then he sobered. "Look here, Stuyv," he said, "_did_ you say that?" "What?" asked Stuyvesant, then he remembered, and for the first and last time made a certain utterance. "She lied," he said quietly, and then, "Oh, my _gosh_, I'm happy! I believe I'm going crazy." "Oh, no!" replied John, "impossible." "Yes, John?" said Cecilia. "Stuyv's coming out with me," she heard him say. "Yes, dear," she answered. "Any one coming to dinner?" "No, dear. Shall I ask one of the Welsh twins? They're always so sweet about coming." "No," said John; "Stuyv and I were talking about dad, rather Marjory, and he's got a hunch that he's got to see you alone. Got to,--got to,--got to!" Cecilia did not understand, and was rather bewildered at John's laughter. "Certainly he shall, John," she replied. Her heart beat in her voice. "Good-bye, dear," she ended, and heard the click of his receiver. "Talking of Marjory" ... Cecilia turned away from the telephone and went to stand by the sea window of her room. She would help them both all she could. All she could.... She closed her eyes, for she felt sick and faint. "How can I help him?" she questioned, for Marjory's letters had not held a mention of him, although Cecilia's had tactfully recorded his every move. She looked out on the world--it was grey like the frothing Sound. "I will help them to be happy," she whispered unsteadily. "Father McGowan-dear,--I am learning. Some day I will learn to think of it, and smile----" Then she turned to dress. Norah came in, and looked on happily. Cecilia was not vain after all. No, she didn't care which frock she put on, and she told Josephine not to fuss so over her hair, that it bored her. "What is the difference?" she had asked a little bitterly, and then to Norah she had said, "I didn't mean that! I didn't! What made me say it? I am not bitter, am I, Norah?" "And why should you be," Norah had answered, "with everything in the world that money can buy?" CHAPTER XXI PINK ROSES At five K. Stuyvesant and John started for the Sound house. The sun beat down cruelly with the same murky, hot-damp feel. The car wove between the traffic of the crowded streets like a huge shuttle. Both men in it were silent--Stuyvesant breathless and afraid to trust his hope, yet hoping; John despondent over Stuyv's going away. All that that gentleman had done came to John with a new force,--came when the possibility of losing Stuyv even for a few months was thrust before him. Stuyvesant spoke: "Takes so long to get out to-day," he said; "we seem to crawl. Look at that fellow ahead. Won't let us get past; have to crawl! Lord! Say, John, let me drive." "I will not!" replied John with decision. "I have a distinct fondness for life. What's wrong with you?" "Nothing," answered Stuyvesant loudly, "nothing at all!" Then he began to speak of certain affairs downtown, talking quickly, as if afraid of silence. John looked at him with wonder. It was very unlike Stuyvesant to be hectic. He recalled the mentioned disappointment. That, also, brought wonder. Stuyvesant didn't seem to care for girls. In business he seemed to get what he wanted. What could it be? Suddenly an idea, which seemed to John almost insane, flew across his mind. He couldn't recognise it in the face of Cecilia's and Stuyvesant's open avoidance of each other, but in spite of that, the idea clung. "Got to see her, got to----" echoed in John's ears. He swallowed convulsively. If it were true! And it was not Marjory after all,--well, wouldn't he be the happiest fellow on earth? Well, rather! The last months had brought John to a state of adoration of Cecilia and Stuyvesant. More than love it was. To be as sure of Stuyv's always closeness,--to have Cecilia so cared for.... "Can't you let her out a little?" he heard Stuyvesant say impatiently. John answered with a gentleness absolutely new, but it was not noticed. He ran the car faster and well, and his best efforts were greeted with: "This thing seems to crawl to-night. Darned if I don't want to get out and push!" "You're in a hurry!" said John bravely. "Oh, no, no!" answered Stuyvesant, looking on John suspiciously. Then he mopped his forehead, leaving it streaked with the dust that came off. "Hot," he said. They rounded the last hill before the Madden gateway, and through a gap in some stately poplars they caught a glimpse of a white speck on an upper terrace. "Cecilia!" blurted out Stuyvesant. "Oh, gosh! John, is my tie, that is, do I look----" "Sure, you do," said John, comfortingly. Stuyvesant mopped some more. His face looked like a futurist painting of "The Dancers" or some one's aunt. They rounded up the hill slowly. Evangeline bounded from the shrubbery and barked welcome. "Evangeline," said Stuyvesant, as one in a trance. "Yes," answered John; "Norah named him for Cecilia. Norah is an old family servant." Had Stuyvesant heard, he might have smiled, but Stuyvesant was past hearing. "You poor boys!" said Cecilia. "How hot and tired you must be!" Then she looked at Stuyvesant and laughed. "I judge it was dusty?" she said. "No, that is, I mean quite so," stuttered Stuyvesant. He stood before her silent, openly staring. When John saw Cecilia flush he put his hand on Stuyvesant's arm. "Come on," he said. "We'll go brush up." John's manner was as gentle as Cecilia's. Stuyvesant followed him. On the broad porch he paused and looked back. Evangeline was telling Cecilia that he loved her, in dog fashion--wag code. Cecilia patted him. "Gosh!" said Stuyvesant, and then he mopped his forehead, making another picture in the dust. Dusk came before dinner time. It crept down stealthily, like the thief it is of day. Shadows darkened and lengthened. Greens grew black. Cecilia in the half light on a wide porch watched a certain big and unusually gruff man. Something, she could see, was making him like a wistful boy--a boy so heart-set on his want that he fears the risk of refusal. Cecilia thought of Marjory across the seas. There was a chance to play traitor--a chance to rekindle the little spark she had once fired in Stuyvesant. The idea danced about her soul and burnt its edges. "Father McGowan-dear," she appealed inside, "please help me! I am trying, but I _am_ so little!" A breeze from the Sound came with a swish and moaned gently in and out among the loving arms of trees. The lights in the dining room were soft. They shone gently down on a large bowl of pink roses which were in the centre of the table. Their hearts were a deeper colour and they nodded and seemed to talk when the steps of two pompous persons who passed things shook them. Stuyvesant looked at Cecilia and then quickly away. He did not know what kind of a frock she wore except that it was white. He knew that she looked good, gentle and pure; that her eyes held the depths that hurts bring and the deep loyalty of love. There was a little droop to her lips that made him ache to see. He wondered at it, dared to hope that it had come because of him, and then he put the thought away. Unbelievably sweet it seemed. And Cecilia? "Marjory across the seas," she thought, "to subdue Jeremiah just a little----" She closed her eyes. "Oh dear!" she thought, "what _is_ the matter with me? These awful thoughts!" She opened them again and saw Jeremiah leaning on the table. His fists were closed about his knife and fork, and he held them upright, the handle ends resting on the cloth. John, curiously enough, did not seem bothered by this. He was watching Stuyvesant, who sat opposite. "After that I started makin' bricks instead of layin' 'em. (Celie, ask that young feller to loan me a piece of bread. I want bread with my supper. I don't care what the style is.) So I begin to make bricks, an' when I look around and think that bricks done it all----" Jeremiah's voice faded. He left the rest to the imaginations of his listeners, while he laid a piece of bread flat on the table, and spread it _en masse_. "I wisht my wife could have saw it," said Jeremiah as he loosened the piece of bread from the cloth. "She deserved everything. I never gave her nothing." "You gave her a great deal," disagreed Cecilia. "You know you did! We were happy in that little flat. I remember that. We loved each other and we had enough to eat." Cecilia was aware of Stuyvesant's eyes. They were so dear! She wondered if it was very wicked to love them, for she knew she always would.... And he had intimated that if Jeremiah were less prominent--Cecilia swallowed hard. The gods are visited with temptations, and too often they come to little humans. Cecilia was meeting hers. For the minute she felt anything possible, justifiable for the end she craved, and in the middle of her minute the white spark in her little heart flared. "Papa," she said, "please tell Mr. Twombly about the time you hit the boss on the ear with a brick." The request of that tale was her crucifixion on the cross of loyalty ... her proof beyond all doubt that her heart was in Jeremiah's rough old hands. Jeremiah looked pleased. His face lit rather pathetically. Cecilia answered his happy smile, and then she looked down at her plate. Her throat felt full and stiff. She found it hard to swallow. Through a numbed consciousness she heard a long and much loved tale. "I love him, I love him!" she chanted inside. "He and John are _everything_!" She looked up and found Stuyvesant looking at her. The way he looked made her gasp a little, and below the table she closed her small hands so tightly that her nails hurt her palms. "An' then I sez, 'Yuh can lay yer own bricks,'" came in the voice of Jeremiah. "'An' here's one to begin with.' (It took him on the ear.)" He ended in parenthesis. "Your stand for liberty--was--well--timed. It was--certainly the best thing you could have done," commented Stuyvesant in jerks. He was trying very hard not to look at Cecilia, and it was work not to. "Celie," said Jeremiah, "what _has_ this fellow did to the potatoes? He does be-devil 'em so. He puts on so many airs that yuh hardly recognise 'em fer potatoes!" "I don't know, dear," answered Cecilia, "but I'll see about it to-morrow." "Mebbe Celie couldn't fry potatoes!" said Jeremiah. He smacked his lips loudly in remembrance. "These here furriners," he went on, "that we hire to cook,--poor things, _they_ don't know no better!" And thus Jeremiah disposed of French chefs. The lips of one of the pompous persons curled a little. The roses nodded and bobbed. To Stuyvesant, who stared resolutely on them, they all whispered, "Cecilia!" To Cecilia they shouted "Keefer, the butler." To John they were lovelier that night from a new hope, and, of his father, a new understanding. But to Jeremiah Madden they brought back only the heat of an overcrowded flat--the woman who held his heart dying by inches, when money might have made her live.... Money! ... A little tired-eyed girl struggling under a woman's load. A little boy who always cried for things he couldn't have. "The bunnit with pink roses." Life's question mark,--Fate's smile,--or God's hand? Jeremiah looked away from the roses, and absently stuck the corner of his napkin in his collar. Then he looked about to see if any one had noticed, and hastily took it out. Cecilia saw and her heart leaped with love. It seemed to her that the Saints had made Jeremiah do that then. Do it to show the little earth maiden her work in life. The taking from her father the shame which a son would have him feel, and giving him a substitute for the love that left him too soon,--too hungering. They got up at last. Cecilia took a bobbing rose from the centrepiece. She began to break the thorns from it, but Stuyvesant's hands took it from her. He removed them methodically, and surely,--as he would. When he gave it back to her, there was nothing left to hurt. "Thank you," she said. "I wish I could take them out of the world for you," he answered gruffly. She shook as she crossed the room to where her father and John waited at the door. Her temptation was past. Her heart was strong, but she prayed that he would not say such things so much as if he meant them. It made it too hard. "I am so weak," she thought, "so weak!" Stuyvesant walked laggingly across the soft grass. John had said that he would find her by a white wall with a Greek relief, that that was her favourite spot. Stuyvesant knew that he dreamed of that spot because of her, but his connection with it influencing her, he never thought of. His spirit, always humble with her, knelt. He thought of John's understanding, and whispering, "Good luck, Stuyv, dear!" and of his gasping, "John,--you'd be willing?" John had whacked him on the back and had answered convincingly. Then he'd gone unsteadily down the steps, and had lagged across the close-clipped grass. He wanted as he had never wanted anything to see her, but he was shaken and unsure ... sick from longing and fear. Ahead of him in the half light he saw the stretch of wall standing out among the shadows. He stopped, heart pounding, at the corner of the hedge-sheltered path. The little Irish maiden who was his key to heaven sat on the wall. Behind her the Sound was black. The soft stillness enveloped everything. The half night throbbed. Cecilia looked up, and saw the tall shadow in the shadows. "John, dear?" she queried. Stuyvesant didn't answer for his voice was gone, but he stepped toward her. He put out a hand and laid it on a white wall. The world was reeling for him. "Oh," she said, "I thought it was John, but--but you wanted to see me?" He nodded. "Marjory----" she began, then scolded herself for a too abrupt start. She drew a quick breath, and tried to control reason and tact. "She is so lovely, Mr. Stuyvesant," she went on, "but sometimes she doesn't let people know when she likes them. She's like that." Cecilia stopped and gasped. It was harder than she had dreamed. "Has she been a good friend to you?" asked Stuyvesant in a queer, tight voice. "Oh, yes!" answered Cecilia, "so good! I do love her so much! I would do anything to make her happy!" "You _darling_!" said K. Stuyvesant. He spoke loudly, but his words shook, for his heart was pounding with a sickening speed. With his words Cecilia caught her breath so deeply that it seemed a sob. Doubts vanished,--seemed incredible,--but she spoke what would always be her truth, though her heart famished from it. She looked Stuyvesant squarely in the eyes: "I love my father," she said, "and I am proud of him. I am proud to be his daughter." "Of course you are," he answered. "You should be. Cecilia, I am very little, but I am large enough to see what you love in him. Have you misunderstood what I thought?" She nodded. White, she was, and her eyes were on his face, imploring in their new hope. "I loved you," said Stuyvesant, "on the boat. I saw how wonderful you were, but, Cecilia,--when I saw you here! When I see you turn and kiss your father when his eyes grow hurt because of John's unkindness.... Oh, my dear! Every instant of this year I've loved you, and more and more. I love you so ... No one could be worthy of you, but, little Saint,--no one could love you more! No one." He stopped, choked. "I dream on my knees," he went on: "I'll dream of you until I die. But,--what's the use of saying all this? I love you! I love you so! That's everything." He put a hand out toward her, then drew back. "Cecilia," he whispered, "you are so sweet!" He looked down and drew his breath sharply. He wondered if she would ever speak. He heard her slip from the wall.... Perhaps she would leave him without a word. Dully, he wondered how he could go on living if she did that. And then the world turned over and then it ceased to be, for Cecilia's hands lay on his shoulders. He felt them move and creep up and around his neck. It was true.... He felt a wonderful, shaken strength. "Cecilia! Cecilia!" she heard him gasp. After a time she pushed him away and laughed tremulously. "Dearest Keefer Stuyvesant," she whispered shakily, "whose tears are these? Yours or mine?" There was no room for laughter in Keefer Stuyvesant's soul. He drew her close again and answered gruffly: "There is no yours nor mine any more, little saint. They're ours, dearest,--ours. Oh, Cecilia, _gosh_, how I _love_ you!" THE END * * * * * * * * CHARMING BOOKS FOR GIRLS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list WHEN PATTY WENT TO COLLEGE, By Jean Webster. Illustrated by C. D. Williams. One of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been written. It is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable and thoroughly human. JUST PATTY, By Jean Webster. Illustrated by C. M. Relyea. Patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows. THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL, By Eleanor Gates. With four full page illustrations. This story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. A charming play as dramatized by the author. REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM, By Kate Douglas Wiggin. One of the most beautiful studies of childhood--Rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand on midst a circle of austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record. NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA, By Kate Douglas Wiggin. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. Additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that carry Rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. REBECCA MARY, By Annie Hamilton Donnell. Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green. This author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing. Her Book and Heart, By George Madden Martin, Illustrated by Charles Louis Hinton. Emmy Lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. She is just a bewitchingly innocent, hugable little maid. The book is wonderfully human. STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER MICHAEL O'HALLORAN, Illustrated by Frances Rogers. Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and onward. LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. "The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. FRECKLES. Illustrated. Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The Angel" are full of real sentiment. A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated. The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors. The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated. A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and humor. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
27423	----	ELKAN LUBLINER, AMERICAN ELKAN LUBLINER, AMERICAN BY MONTAGUE GLASS AUTHOR OF "Potash & Perlmutter," "Abe & Mawruss," "Object: Matrimony," etc. [Illustration: Frucus Quam Folia] GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1912 _Copyright, 1911, 1912, by_ THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY _Copyright, 1912, by_ DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_ CONTENTS PAGE Noblesse Oblige 3 Appenweier's Account 33 A Match for Elkan Lubliner 81 Highgrade Lines 147 One of Esau's Fables 196 A Tale of Two Jacobean Chairs 250 Sweet and Sour 288 ELKAN LUBLINER, AMERICAN ELKAN LUBLINER CHAPTER ONE NOBLESSE OBLIGE POLATKIN & SCHEIKOWITZ CONSERVE THE HONOUR OF THEIR FAMILIES "Nu, Philip," cried Marcus Polatkin to his partner, Philip Scheikowitz, as they sat in the showroom of their place of business one June morning, "even if the letter does got bad news in it you shouldn't take on so hard. When a feller is making good over here and the _Leute im Russland_ hears about it, understand me, they are all the time sending him bad news. I got in Minsk a cousin by the name Pincus Lubliner, understand me, which every time he writes me, y'understand, a relation dies on him and he wants me I should help pay funeral expenses. You might think I was a Free Burial Society, the way that feller acts." "Sure, I know," Philip replied as he folded the letter away; "but this here is something else again. Mind you, with his own landlord he is sitting playing cards, Marcus, and comes a pistol through the window and the landlord drops dead." "What have you got to do with the landlord?" Polatkin retorted. "If it was your brother-in-law was killed that's a difference matter entirely; but when a feller is a landlord _im Russland_, understand me, the least he could expect is that he gets killed once in a while." "I ain't saying nothing about the landlord," Philip protested, "but my brother-in-law writes they are afraid for their lives there and I should send 'em quick the passage money for him and his boy Yosel to come to America." Polatkin rose to his feet and glared angrily at his partner. "Do you mean to told me you are going to send that loafer money he should come over here and bum round our shop yet?" "What do you mean bum round our shop?" Philip demanded. "In the first place, Polatkin, I ain't said I am going to send him money, y'understand; and, in the second place, if I want to send the feller money to come over here, understand me, that's my business. Furthermore, when you are coming to call my brother-in-law a loafer and a bum, Polatkin, you don't know what you are talking about. His _Grossvater_, _olav hasholem_, was the great Harkavy Rav, Jochannon Borrochson." "I heard that same tale before," Polatkin interrupted. "A feller is a _Schlemiel_ and a lowlife which he couldn't support his wife and children, understand me, and it always turns out his grandfather was a big rabbi in the old country. The way it is with me, Scheikowitz, just so soon as I am hearing a feller's grandfather was a big rabbi in the old country, Scheikowitz, I wouldn't got nothing more to do with him. If he works for you in your place, understand me, then he fools away your time telling the operators what a big rabbi his grandfather was; and if he's a customer, Scheikowitz, and you write him ten days after the account is overdue he should pay you what he owes you, instead he sends you a check, understand me, he comes down to the store and tells you what a big rabbi he's got it for a grandfather. _Gott sei Dank_ I ain't got no _Rabonim_ in my family." "Sure, I know," Philip cried, "your father would be glad supposing he could sign his name even." Polatkin shrugged his shoulders. "It would _oser_ worry me if my whole family couldn't read or write. So long as I can sign my name and the money is in the bank to make the check good from five to ten thousand dollars, y'understand, what do I care if my grandfather would be deef, dumb and blind, Scheikowitz? Furthermore, Scheikowitz, believe me I would sooner got one good live business man for a partner, Scheikowitz, than a million dead rabbis for a grandfather, and don't you forget it. So if you are going to spend the whole morning making a _Geschreierei_ over that letter, Scheikowitz, we may as well close up the store _und fertig_." With this ultimatum Marcus Polatkin walked rapidly away toward the cutting room, while Philip Scheikowitz sought the foreman of their manufacturing department and borrowed a copy of a morning paper. It was printed in the vernacular of the lower East Side, and Philip bore it to his desk, where for more than half an hour he alternately consulted the column of steamboat advertising and made figures on the back of an envelope. These represented the cost of a journey for two persons from Minsk to New York, based on Philip's hazy recollection of his own emigration, fifteen years before, combined with his experience as travelling salesman in the Southern States for a popular-price line of pants. At length he concluded his calculations and with a heavy sigh he put on his hat just as his partner returned from the cutting room. "Nu!" Polatkin cried. "Where are you going now?" "I am going for a half an hour somewheres," Philip replied. "What for?" Polatkin demanded. "What for is my business," Philip answered. "Your business?" Polatkin exclaimed. "At nine o'clock in the morning one partner puts on his hat and starts to go out, _verstehst du_, and when the other partner asks him where he is going it's his business, _sagt er_! What do you come down here at all for, Scheikowitz?" "I am coming down here because I got such a partner, Polatkin, which if I was to miss one day even I wouldn't know where I stand at all," Scheikowitz retorted. "Furthermore, you shouldn't worry yourself, Polatkin; for my own sake I would come back just so soon as I could." Despite the offensive repartee that accompanied Philip's departure, however, he returned to find Polatkin entirely restored to good humour by a thousand-dollar order that had arrived in the ten-o'clock mail; and as Philip himself felt the glow of conscious virtue attendant upon a good deed economically performed, he immediately fell into friendly conversation with his partner. "Well, Marcus," he said, "I sent 'em the passage tickets, and if you ain't agreeable that Borrochson comes to work here I could easy find him a job somewheres else." "If we got an opening here, Philip, what is it skin off my face if the feller comes to work here," Polatkin answered, "so long as he gets the same pay like somebody else?" "What could I do, Marcus?" Philip rejoined, as he took off his hat and coat preparatory to plunging into the assortment of a pile of samples. "My own flesh and blood I must got to look out for, ain't it? And if my sister Leah, _olav hasholem_, would be alive to-day I would of got 'em all over here long since ago already. Ain't I am right?" Polatkin shrugged. "In family matters one partner couldn't advise the other at all," he said. "Sure, I know," Philip concluded, "but when a feller has got such a partner which he is a smart, up-to-date feller and means good by his partner, understand me, then I got a right to take an advice from him about family matters, ain't it?" And with these honeyed words the subject of the Borrochson family's assisted emigration was dismissed until the arrival of another letter from Minsk some four weeks later. "Well, Marcus," Philip cried after he had read it, "he'll be here Saturday." "Who'll be here Saturday?" Polatkin asked. "Borrochson," Philip replied; "and the boy comes with him." Polatkin raised his eyebrows. "I'll tell you the honest truth, Philip," he said--"I'm surprised to hear it." "What d'ye mean you're surprised to hear it?" Philip asked. "Ain't I am sending him the passage tickets?" "Sure, I know you are sending him the tickets," Polatkin continued, "but everybody says the same, Philip, and that's why I am telling you, Philip, I'm surprised to hear he is coming; because from what everybody is telling me it's a miracle the feller ain't sold the tickets and gambled away the money." "What are you talking nonsense, selling the tickets!" Philip cried indignantly. "The feller is a decent, respectable feller even if he would be a poor man." "He ain't so poor," Polatkin retorted. "A thief need never got to be poor, Scheikowitz." "A thief!" Philip exclaimed. "That's what I said," Polatkin went on, "and a smart thief too, Scheikowitz. Gifkin says he could steal the buttons from a policeman's pants and pass 'em off for real money, understand me, and they couldn't catch him anyhow." "Gifkin?" Philip replied. "Meyer Gifkin which he is working for us now two years, Scheikowitz, and a decent, respectable feller," Polatkin said relentlessly. "If Gifkin tells you something you could rely on it, Scheikowitz, and he is telling me he lives in Minsk one house by the other with this feller Borrochson, and such a lowlife gambler bum as this here feller Borrochson is you wouldn't believe at all." "Meyer Gifkin says that?" Philip gasped. "So sure as he is working here as assistant cutter," Polatkin continued. "And if you think that this here feller Borrochson comes to work in our place, Scheikowitz, you've got another think coming, and that's all I got to say." But Philip had not waited to hear the conclusion of his partner's ultimatum, and by the time Polatkin had finished Philip was at the threshold of the cutting room. "Gifkin!" he bellowed. "I want to ask you something a question." The assistant cutter laid down his shears. "What could I do for you, Mr. Scheikowitz?" he said respectfully. "You could put on your hat and coat and get out of here before I kick you out," Philip replied without disclosing the nature of his abandoned question. "And, furthermore, if my brother-in-law Borrochson is such a lowlife bum which you say he is, when he is coming here Saturday he would pretty near kill you, because, Gifkin, a lowlife gambler and a thief could easily be a murderer too. _Aber_ if he ain't a such thief and gambler which you say he is, then I would make you arrested." "Me arrested?" Gifkin cried. "What for?" "Because for calling some one a thief which he ain't one you could sit in prison," Scheikowitz concluded. "So you should get right out of here before I am sending for a policeman." "But, Mr. Scheikowitz," Gifkin protested, "who did I told it your brother-in-law is a thief and a gambler?" "You know very well who you told it," Scheikowitz retorted. "You told it my partner, Gifkin. That's who you told it." "But I says to him he shouldn't tell nobody," Gifkin continued. "Is it my fault your partner is such a _Klatsch_? And, anyhow, Mr. Scheikowitz, supposing I did say your brother-in-law is a gambler and a thief, I know what I'm talking about; and, furthermore, if I got to work in a place where I couldn't open my mouth at all, Mr. Scheikowitz, I don't want to work there, and that's all there is to it." He assumed his hat and coat in so dignified a manner that for the moment Scheikowitz felt as though he were losing an old and valued employee, and this impression was subsequently heightened by Polatkin's behaviour when he heard of Gifkin's departure. Indeed a casual observer might have supposed that Polatkin's wife, mother, and ten children had all perished in a common disaster and that the messenger had been indiscreet in breaking the news, for during a period of almost half an hour Polatkin rocked and swayed in his chair and beat his forehead with his clenched fist. "You are shedding my blood," he moaned to Scheikowitz. "What the devil you are talking nonsense!" Scheikowitz declared. "The way you are acting you would think we are paying the feller five thousand dollars a year instead of fifteen dollars a week." "It ain't what a feller makes from you, Scheikowitz; it's what you make from him what counts," he wailed. "Gifkin was really worth to us a year five thousand dollars." "Five thousand buttons!" Scheikowitz cried. "You are making a big fuss about nothing at all." But when the next day Polatkin and Scheikowitz heard that Gifkin had found employment with their closest competitors Philip began to regret the haste with which he had discharged his assistant cutter, and he bore his partner's upbraidings in chastened silence. Thus by Friday afternoon Polatkin had exhausted his indignation. "Well, Philip," he said as closing-time approached, "it ain't no use crying over sour milk. What time does the boat arrive?" "To-night," Philip replied, "and the passengers comes off the island to-morrow. Why did you ask?" "Because," Marcus said with the suspicion of a blush, "Saturday ain't such a busy day and I was thinking I would go over with you. Might I could help you out." * * * * * Philip's trip with his partner to Ellis Island the following morning tried his temper to the point where he could barely refrain from inquiring if the expected immigrant were his relation or Polatkin's, for during the entire journey Marcus busied himself making plans for the Borrochsons' future. "The first thing you got to look out for with a greenhorn, Philip," he said, "is that you learn 'em good the English language. If a feller couldn't talk he couldn't do nothing, understand me, so with the young feller especially you shouldn't give him no encouragement to keep on talking _Manerloschen_." Philip nodded politely. "Look at me for instance," Marcus continued; "six months after I landed, Philip, I am speaking English already just so good as a doctor or a lawyer. And how did I done it? To night school I am going only that they should learn me to write, _verstehst du_, _aber_ right at the start old man Feinrubin takes me in hand and he talks to me only in English. And if I am understanding him, _schon gut_; and if I don't understand him then he gives me a _potch_ on the side of the head, Philip, which the next time he says it I could understand him good. And that's the way you should do with the young feller, Philip. I bet yer he would a damsight sooner learn English as get a _Schlag_ every ten minutes." Again Philip nodded, and by the time they had arrived at the enclosure for the relations of immigrants he had become so accustomed to the hum of Marcus' conversation that he refrained from uttering even a perfunctory "Uh-huh." They sat on a hard bench for more than half an hour, while the attendants bawled the common surnames of every country from Ireland to Asiatic Turkey, and at length the name Borrochson brought Philip to his feet. He rushed to the gateway, followed by Marcus, just as a stunted lad of fifteen emerged, staggering under the burden of a huge cloth-covered bundle. "Uncle Philip," the lad cried, dropping the bundle. Then clutching Marcus round the neck he showered kisses on his cheeks until Philip dragged him away. "I am your uncle," Philip said in _Jüdisch Deutsch_. "Where is your father?" Without answering the question Yosel Borrochson took a stranglehold of Philip and subjected him to a second and more violent osculation. It was some minutes before Philip could disengage himself from his nephew's embrace and then he led him none too gently to a seat. "Never mind the kissing," he said; "where's your father?" "He is not here," Yosel Borrochson replied with a vivid blush. "I see he is not here," Philip rejoined. "Where is he?" "He is in Minsk," said young Borrochson. "In Minsk?" Philip and Marcus cried with one voice, and then Marcus sat down on the bench and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy of mirth. "In Minsk!" he gasped hysterically, and slapped his thighs by way of giving expression to his emotions. "Did you ever hear the like?" "Polatkin, do me the favour," Philip begged, "and don't make a damn fool of yourself." "What did I told you?" Polatkin retorted, but Philip turned to his nephew. "What did your father do with the ticket and the money I sent him?" he asked. "He sold the ticket and he used all the money for the wedding," the boy replied. "The wedding?" Philip exclaimed. "What wedding?" "The wedding with the widow," said the boy. "The widow?" Philip and Marcus shouted in unison. "What widow?" "The landlord's widow," the boy answered shyly. And then as there seemed nothing else to do he buried his face in his hands and wept aloud. "Nu, Philip," Marcus said, sitting down beside young Borrochson, "could the boy help it if his father is a _Ganef_?" Philip made no reply, and presently Marcus stooped and picked up the bundle. "Come," he said gently, "let's go up to the store." The journey uptown was not without its unpleasant features, for the size of the bundle not only barred them from both subway and elevated, but provoked a Broadway car conductor to exhibit what Marcus considered to be so biased and illiberal an attitude toward unrestricted immigration that he barely avoided a cerebral hemorrhage in resenting it. They finally prevailed on the driver of a belt-line car to accept them as passengers, and nearly half an hour elapsed before they arrived at Desbrosses Street; but after a dozen conductors in turn had declined to honour their transfer tickets they made the rest of their journey on foot. Philip and young Borrochson carried the offending bundle, for Marcus flatly declined to assist them. Indeed with every block his enthusiasm waned, so that when they at length reached Wooster Street his feelings toward his partner's nephew had undergone a complete change. "Don't fetch that thing in here," he said as Philip and young Borrochson entered the showroom with the bundle; "leave it in the shop. You got no business to bring the young feller up here in the first place." "What do you mean bring him up here?" Philip cried. "If you wouldn't butt in at all I intended to take him to my sister's a cousin on Pitt Street." Marcus threw his hat on a sample table and sat down heavily. "That's all the gratitude I am getting!" he declared with bitter emphasis. "Right in the busy season I dropped everything to help you out, and you turn on me like this." He rose to his feet suddenly, and seizing the bundle with both hands he flung it violently through the doorway. "Take him to Pitt Street," he said. "Take him to the devil for all I care. I am through with him." But Philip conducted his nephew no farther than round the corner on Canal Street, and when an hour later Yosel Borrochson returned with his uncle his top-boots had been discarded forever, while his wrinkled, semi-military garb had been exchanged for a neat suit of Oxford gray. Moreover, both he and Philip had consumed a hearty meal of coffee and rolls and were accordingly prepared to take a more cheerful outlook upon life, especially Philip. "_Bleib du hier_," he said as he led young Borrochson to a chair in the cutting room. "_Ich Komm bald zurück._" Then mindful of his partner's advice he broke into English. "Shtay here," he repeated in loud, staccato accents. "I would be right back. _Verstehst du?_" "Yess-ss," Yosel replied, uttering his first word of English. With a delighted grin Philip walked to the showroom, where Polatkin sat wiping away the crumbs of a belated luncheon of two dozen zwieback and a can of coffee. "_Nu_," he said conciliatingly, "what is it now?" "Marcus," Philip began with a nod of his head in the direction of the cutting room, "I want to show you something a picture." "A picture!" Polatkin repeated as he rose to his feet. "What do you mean a picture?" "Come," Philip said; "I'll show you." He led the way to the cutting room, where Yosel sat awaiting his uncle's return. "What do you think of him now?" Philip demanded. "Ain't he a good-looking young feller?" Marcus shrugged in a non-committal manner. "Look what a bright eye he got it," Philip insisted. "You could tell by looking at him only that he comes from a good family." "He looks a boy like any other boy," said Marcus. "But even if no one would told you, Marcus, you could see from his forehead yet--and the big head he's got it--you could see that somewheres is _Rabonim_ in the family." "Yow!" Marcus exclaimed. "You could just so much see from his head that his grandfather is a rabbi as you could see from his hands that his father is a crook." He turned impatiently away. "So instead you should be talking a lot of nonsense, Philip, you should set the boy to work sweeping the floor," he continued. "Also for a beginning we would start him in at three dollars a week, and if the boy gets worth it pretty soon we could give him four." In teaching his nephew the English language Philip Scheikowitz adopted no particular system of pedagogy, but he combined the methods of Ollendorf, Chardenal, Ahn and Polatkin so successfully that in a few days Joseph possessed a fairly extensive vocabulary. To be sure, every other word was acquired at the cost of a clump over the side of the head, but beyond a slight ringing of the left ear that persisted for nearly six months the Polatkin method of instruction vindicated itself, and by the end of the year Joseph's speech differed in no way from that of his employers. "Ain't it something which you really could say is wonderful the way that boy gets along?" Philip declared to his partner, as the first anniversary of Joseph's landing approached. "Honestly, Marcus, that boy talks English like he would be born here already." "Sure, I know," Marcus agreed. "He's got altogether too much to say for himself. Only this morning he tells me he wants a raise to six dollars a week." "Could you blame him?" Philip asked mildly. "He's doing good work here, Marcus." "Yow! he's doing good work!" Marcus exclaimed. "He's fresh like anything, Scheikowitz. If you give him the least little encouragement, Scheikowitz, he would stand there and talk to you all day yet." "Not to me he don't," Philip retorted. "Lots of times I am asking him questions about the folks in the old country and always he tells me: 'With greenhorns like them I don't bother myself at all.' Calls his father a greenhorn yet!" Marcus flapped his right hand in a gesture of impatience. "He could call his father a whole lot worse," he said. "Why, that _Ganef_ ain't even wrote you at all since the boy comes over here. Not only he's a crook, Scheikowitz, but he's got a heart like a brick." Philip shrugged his shoulders. "What difference does it make if he is a crook?" he rejoined. "The boy's all right anyway. Yes, Marcus, the boy is something which you could really say is a jewel." "_Geh weg!_" Marcus cried disgustedly--"a jewel!" "That's what I said," Philip continued--"a jewel. Tell me, Marcus, how many boys would you find it which they are getting from three to five dollars a week and in one year saves up a hundred dollars, y'understand, and comes to me only this morning and says to me I should take the money for what it costs to keep him while he is learning the language, and for buying him his clothes when he first comes here. Supposing his father is a crook, Marcus, am I right or wrong?" "Talk is cheap, Scheikowitz," Marcus retorted. "He only says he would pay you the money, Scheikowitz, ain't it?" Philip dug down into his pocket and produced a roll of ragged one and two dollar bills, which he flung angrily on to a sample table. "Count 'em," he said. Marcus shrugged again. "What is it my business?" he said. "And anyhow, Scheikowitz, I must say I'm surprised at you. A poor boy saves up a hundred dollars out of the little we are paying him here, and actually you are taking the money from him. Couldn't you afford it to spend on the boy a hundred dollars?" "Sure I could," Philip replied as he pocketed the bills. "Sure I could and I'm going to too. I'm going to take this here money and put it in the bank for the boy, with a hundred dollars to boot, Polatkin, and when the boy gets to be twenty-one he would anyhow got in savings bank a couple hundred dollars." Polatkin nodded shamefacedly. "Furthermore, Polatkin," Philip continued, "if you got such a regard for the boy which you say you got it, understand me, I would like to make you a proposition. Ever since Gifkin leaves us, y'understand, we got in our cutting room one _Schlemiel_ after another. Ain't it? Only yesterday we got to fire that young feller we took on last week, understand me, and if we get somebody else in his place to-day, Polatkin, the chances is we would get rid of him to-morrow, and so it goes." Again Polatkin nodded. "So, therefore, what is the use talking, Polatkin?" Philip concluded. "Let us take Joe Borrochson and learn him he should be a cutter, and in six months' time, Polatkin, I bet yer he would be just so good a cutter as anybody." At this juncture Polatkin raised his hand with the palm outward. "Stop right there, Scheikowitz," he said. "You are making a fool of yourself, Scheikowitz, because, Scheikowitz, admitting for the sake of no arguments about it that the boy is a good boy, understand me, after all he's only a boy, ain't it, and if you are coming to make a sixteen-year-old boy an assistant cutter, y'understand, the least that we could expect is that our customers fires half our goods back at us." "But----" Scheikowitz began. "But, nothing, Scheikowitz," Polatkin interrupted. "This morning I seen it Meyer Gifkin on Canal Street and he ain't working for them suckers no more; and I says to him is he willing to come back here at the same wages, and he says yes, providing you would see that this here feller Borrochson wouldn't pretty near kill him." "What do you mean pretty near kill him?" Scheikowitz cried. "Do you mean to say he is afraid of a boy like Joe Borrochson?" "Not Joe Borrochson," Polatkin replied. "He is all the time thinking that your brother-in-law Borrochson comes over here with his boy and is working in our place yet, and when I told him that that crook didn't come over at all Meyer says that's the first he hears about it or he would have asked for his job back long since already. So he says he would come in here to see us this afternoon." "But----" Scheikowitz began again. "Furthermore," Polatkin continued hastily, "if I would got a nephew in my place, Scheikowitz, I would a damsight sooner he stays working on the stock till he knows enough to sell goods on the road as that he learns to be a cutter. Ain't it?" Scheikowitz sighed heavily by way of surrender. "All right, Polatkin," he said; "if you're so dead set on taking this here feller Gifkin back go ahead. But one thing I must got to tell you: If you are taking a feller back which you fired once, understand me, he acts so independent you couldn't do nothing with him at all." "Leave that to me," Polatkin said, as he started for the cutting room, and when Scheikowitz followed him he found that Gifkin had already arrived. "_Wie gehts_, Mister Scheikowitz?" Gifkin cried, and Philip received the salutation with a distant nod. "I hope you don't hold no hard feelings for me," Gifkin began. "Me hold hard feelings for you?" Scheikowitz exclaimed. "I guess you forget yourself, Gifkin. A boss don't hold no hard feelings for a feller which is working in the place, Gifkin; otherwise the feller gets fired and stays fired, Gifkin." At this juncture Polatkin in the rôle of peacemaker created a diversion. "Joe," he called to young Borrochson, who was passing the cutting-room door, "come in here a minute." He turned to Gifkin as Joe entered. "I guess you seen this young feller before?" he said. Gifkin looked hard at Joe for a minute. "I think I seen him before somewheres," he replied. "Sure you seen him before," Polatkin rejoined. "His name is Borrochson." "Borrochson!" Gifkin cried, and Joe, whose colour had heightened at the close scrutiny to which he had been subjected, began to grow pale. "Sure, Yosel Borrochson, the son of your old neighbour," Polatkin explained, but Gifkin shook his head slowly. "That ain't Yosel Borrochson," he declared, and then it was that Polatkin and Scheikowitz first noticed Joe's embarrassment. Indeed even as they gazed at him his features worked convulsively once or twice and he dropped unconscious to the floor. In the scene of excitement that ensued Gifkin's avowed discovery was temporarily forgotten, but when Joe was again restored to consciousness Polatkin drew Gifkin aside and requested an explanation. "What do you mean the boy ain't Yosel Borrochson?" he demanded. "I mean the boy ain't Yosel Borrochson," Gifkin replied deliberately. "I know this here boy, Mr. Polatkin, and, furthermore, Borrochson's boy is got one bum eye, which he gets hit with a stone in it when he was only four years old already. Don't I know it, Mr. Polatkin, when with my own eyes I seen this here boy throw the stone yet?" "Well, then, who is this boy?" Marcus Polatkin insisted. "He's a boy by the name Lubliner," Gifkin replied, "which his father was Pincus Lubliner, also a crook, Mr. Polatkin, which he would steal anything from a toothpick to an oitermobile, understand me." "Pincus Lubliner!" Polatkin repeated hoarsely. "That's who I said," Gifkin continued, rushing headlong to his destruction. "Pincus Lubliner, which honestly, Mr. Polatkin, there's nothing that feller wouldn't do--a regular _Rosher_ if ever there was one." For one brief moment Polatkin's eyes flashed angrily, and then with a resounding smack his open hand struck Gifkin's cheek. "Liar!" he shouted. "What do you mean by it?" Scheikowitz, who had been tenderly bathing Joe Borrochson's head with water, rushed forward at the sound of the blow. "Marcus," he cried, "for Heaven's sake, what are you doing? You shouldn't kill the feller just because he makes a mistake and thinks the boy ain't Joe Borrochson." "He makes too many mistakes," Polatkin roared. "Calls Pincus Lubliner a crook and a murderer yet, which his mother was my own father's a sister. Did you ever hear the like?" He made a threatening gesture toward Gifkin, who cowered in a chair. "Say, lookyhere, Marcus," Scheikowitz asked, "what has Pincus Lubliner got to do with this?" "He's got a whole lot to do with it," Marcus replied, and then his eyes rested on Joe Borrochson, who had again lapsed into unconsciousness. "Oo-ee!" Marcus cried. "The poor boy is dead." He swept Philip aside and ran to the water-cooler, whence he returned with the drip-bucket brimming over. This he emptied on Joe Borrochson's recumbent form, and after a quarter of an hour the recovery was permanent. In the meantime Philip had interviewed Meyer Gifkin to such good purpose that when he entered the firm's office with Meyer Gifkin at his heels he was fairly spluttering with rage. "Thief!" he yelled. "Out of here before I make you arrested." "Who the devil you think you are talking to?" Marcus demanded. "I am talking to Joseph Borrochson," Scheikowitz replied. "That's who I'm talking to." "Well, there ain't no such person here," Polatkin retorted. "There's here only a young fellow by the name Elkan Lubliner, which he is my own father's sister a grandson, and he ain't no more a thief as you are." "Ain't he?" Philip retorted. "Well, all I can say is he is a thief and his whole family is thieves, the one worser as the other." Marcus glowered at his partner. "You should be careful what you are speaking about," he said. "Maybe you ain't aware that this here boy's grandfather on his father's side was _Reb_ Mosha, the big _Lubliner Rav_, a _Chosid_ and a _Tzadek_ if ever there was one." "What difference does that make?" Philip demanded. "He is stealing my brother-in-law's passage ticket anyhow." "I didn't steal it," the former Joseph Borrochson cried. "My father paid him good money for it, because Borrochson says he wanted it to marry the widow with; and you also I am paying a hundred dollars." "Yow! Your father paid him good money for it!" Philip jeered. "A _Ganef_ like your father is stealing the money, too, I bet yer." "_Oser a Stück_," Polatkin declared. "I am sending him the money myself to help bury his aunt, Mrs. Lebowitz." "You sent him the money?" Philip cried. "And your own partner you didn't tell nothing about it at all!" "What is it your business supposing I am sending money to the old country?" Marcus retorted. "Do you ask me an advice when you are sending away money to the old country?" "But the feller didn't bury his aunt at all," Philip said. "Yes, he did too," the former Joseph Borrochson protested. "Instead of a hundred dollars the funeral only costs fifty. Anybody could make an overestimate. Ain't it?" Marcus nodded. "The boy is right, Philip," he said, "and anyhow what does this loafer come butting in here for?" As he spoke he indicated Meyer Gifkin with a jerk of the chin. "He ain't butting in here," Philip declared; "he comes in here because I told him to. I want you should make an end of this nonsense, Polatkin, and hire a decent assistant cutter. Gifkin is willing to come back for twenty dollars a week." "He is, is he?" Marcus cried. "Well, if he was willing to come back for twenty dollars a week why didn't he come back before? Now it's too late; I got other plans. Besides, twenty dollars is too much." "You know very well why I ain't come back before, Mr. Polatkin," Gifkin protested. "I was afraid for my life from that murderer Borrochson." Philip scowled suddenly. "My partner is right, Gifkin," he said. "Twenty dollars is too much." "No, it ain't," Gifkin declared. "If I would be still working for you, Mr. Scheikowitz, I would be getting more as twenty dollars by now. And was it my fault you are firing me? By rights I should have sued you in the courts yet." "What d'ye mean sue us in the courts?" Philip exclaimed. He was growing increasingly angry, but Gifkin heeded no warning. "Because you are firing me just for saying a crook is a crook," Gifkin replied, "and here lately you found out for yourself this here Borrochson is nothing but a _Schwindler_--a _Ganef_." "What are you talking about--a _Schwindler_?" Philip cried, now thoroughly aroused. "Ain't you heard the boy says Borrochson is marrying the landlord's widow? Could a man get married on wind, Gifkin?" "Yow! he married the landlord's widow!" Gifkin said. "I bet yer that crook gambles away the money; and, anyhow, could you believe anything this here boy tells you, Mr. Scheikowitz?" The question fell on deaf ears, however, for at the repetition of the word crook Philip flung open the office door. "Out of here," he roared, "before I kick you out." Simultaneously Marcus grabbed the luckless Gifkin by the collar, and just what occurred between the office and the stairs could be deduced from the manner in which Marcus limped back to the office. "_Gott sei Dank_ we are rid of the fellow," he said as he came in. * * * * * Although Philip Scheikowitz arrived at his place of business at half-past seven the following morning he found that Marcus and Elkan Lubliner had preceded him, for when he entered the showroom Marcus approached with a broad grin on his face and pointed to the cutting room, where stood Elkan Lubliner. In the boy's right hand was clutched a pair of cutter's shears, and guided by chalked lines he was laboriously slicing up a roll of sample paper. "Ain't he a picture?" Marcus exclaimed. "A picture!" Philip repeated. "What d'ye mean a picture?" "Why, the way he stands there with them shears, Philip," Marcus replied. "He's really what you could call a born cutter if ever there was one." "A cutter!" Philip cried. "Sure," Marcus went on. "It's never too soon for a young feller to learn all sides of his trade, Philip. He's been long enough on the stock. Now he should learn to be a cutter, and I bet yer in six months' time yet he would be just so good a cutter as anybody." Philip was too dazed to make any comment before Marcus obtained a fresh start. "A smart boy like him, Philip, learns awful quick," he said. "Ain't it funny how blood shows up? Now you take a boy like him which he comes from decent, respectable family, Philip, and he's got real gumption. I think I told you his grandfather on his father's side was a big rabbi, the _Lubliner Rav_." Philip nodded. "And even if I didn't told you," Marcus went on, "you could tell it from his face." Again Philip nodded. "And another thing I want to talk to you about," Marcus said, hastening after him: "the hundred dollars the boy gives you you should keep, Philip. And if you are spending more than that on the boy I would make it good." Philip dug down absently into his trousers pocket and brought forth the roll of dirty bills. "Take it," he said, throwing it toward his partner. "I don't want it." "What d'ye mean you don't want it?" Marcus cried. "I mean I ain't got no hard feelings against the boy," Philip replied. "I am thinking it over all night, and I come to the conclusion so long as I started in being the boy's uncle I would continue that way. So you should put the money in the savings bank like I says yesterday." "But----" Marcus protested. "But nothing," Philip interrupted. "Do what I am telling you." Marcus blinked hard and cleared his throat with a great, rasping noise. "After all," he said huskily, "it don't make no difference how many crooks _oder Ganevim_ is in a feller's family, Philip, so long as he's got a good, straight business man for a partner." CHAPTER TWO APPENWEIER'S ACCOUNT HOW ELKAN LUBLINER GRADUATED INTO SALESMANSHIP "When I hire a salesman, Mr. Klugfels," said Marcus Polatkin, senior partner of Polatkin & Scheikowitz, "I hire him because he's a salesman, not because he's a nephew." "But it don't do any harm for a salesman to have an uncle whose concern would buy in one season from you already ten thousand dollars goods, Mr. Polatkin," Klugfels insisted. "Furthermore, Harry is a bright, smart boy; and you can take it from me, Mr. Polatkin, not alone he would get my trade, but us buyers is got a whole lot of influence one with the other, understand me; so, if there's any other concern you haven't on your books at present, you could rely on me I should do my best for Harry and you." Thus spoke Mr. Felix Klugfels, buyer for Appenweier & Murray's Thirty-second Street store, on the first Monday of January; and in consequence on the second Monday of January Harry Flaxberg came to work as city salesman for Polatkin & Scheikowitz. He also maintained the rôle of party of the second part in a contract drawn by Henry D. Feldman, whose skill in such matters is too well known for comment here. Sufficient to say it fixed Harry Flaxberg's compensation at thirty dollars a week and moderate commissions. At Polatkin's request, however, the document was so worded that it excluded Flaxberg from selling any of the concerns already on Polatkin & Scheikowitz's books; for not only did he doubt Flaxberg's ability as a salesman, but he was quite conscious of the circumstance that, save for the acquisition of Appenweier & Murray's account, there was no need of their hiring a city salesman at all, since the scope of their business operations required only one salesman--to wit, as the lawyers say, Marcus Polatkin himself. On the other hand, Klugfels had insisted upon the safeguarding of his nephew's interests, so that the latter was reasonably certain of a year's steady employment. Hence, when, on the first Monday of February, Appenweier & Murray dispensed with the services of Mr. Klugfels before he had had the opportunity of bestowing even one order on his nephew as a mark of his favour, the business premises of Polatkin & Scheikowitz became forthwith a house of mourning. From the stricken principals down to and including the shipping clerk nothing else was spoken of or thought about for a period of more than two weeks. Neither was it a source of much consolation to Marcus Polatkin when he heard that Klugfels had been supplanted by Max Lapin, a third cousin of Leon Sammet of the firm of Sammet Brothers. "Ain't it terrible the way people is related nowadays?" he said to Scheikowitz, who had just read aloud the news of Max Lapin's hiring in the columns of the _Daily Cloak and Suit Record_. "Honestly, Scheikowitz, if a feller ain't got a lot of retailers _oder_ buyers for distance relations, understand me, he might just so well go out of business and be done with it!" Scheikowitz threw down the paper impatiently. "That's where you are making a big mistake, Polatkin," he said. "A feller which he expects to do business with relations is just so good as looking for trouble. You could never depend on relations that they are going to keep on buying goods from you, Polatkin. The least little thing happens between relations, understand me, and they are getting right away enemies for life; while, if it was just between friends, Polatkin, one friend makes for the other a blue eye, understand me, and in two weeks' time they are just so good friends as ever. So, even if Appenweier & Murray wouldn't fire him, y'understand, Klugfels would have dumped this young feller on us anyway." As he spoke he looked through the office door toward the showroom, where Harry Flaxberg sat with his feet cocked up on a sample table midway in the perusal of the sporting page. "Flaxberg," Scheikowitz cried, "what are we showing here anyway--garments _oder_ shoes? You are ruining our sample tables the way you are acting!" Flaxberg replaced his feet on the floor and put down his paper. "It's time some one ruined them tables on you, Mr. Scheikowitz," he said. "With the junk fixtures you got it here I'm ashamed to bring a customer into the place at all." "That's all right," Scheikowitz retorted; "for all the customers you are bringing in here, Flaxberg, we needn't got no fixtures at all. Come inside the office--my partner wants to speak to you a few words something." Flaxberg rose leisurely to his feet and, carefully shaking each leg in turn to restore the unwrinkled perfection of his trousers, walked toward the office. "Tell me, Flaxberg," Polatkin cried as he entered, "what are you going to do about this here account of Appenweier & Murray's?" "What am I going to do about it?" Flaxberg repeated. "Why, what could I do about it? Every salesman is liable to lose one account, Mr. Polatkin." "Sure, I know," Polatkin answered; "but most every other salesman is got some other accounts to fall back on. Whereas if a salesman is just got one account, Flaxberg, and he loses it, understand me, then he ain't a salesman no longer, Flaxberg. Right away he becomes only a loafer, Flaxberg, and the best thing he could do, understand me, is to go and find a job somewheres else." "Not when he's got a contract, Mr. Polatkin," Flaxberg retorted promptly. "And specially a contract which the boss fixes up himself--ain't it?" Scheikowitz nodded and scowled savagely at his partner. "Listen here to me, Flaxberg," Polatkin cried. "Do you mean to told me that, even if a salesman would got ever so much a crazy contract, understand me, it allows the salesman he should sit all the time doing nothing in the showroom without we got a right to fire him?" "Well," Flaxberg replied calmly, "it gives him the privilege to go out to lunch once in a while." He pulled down his waistcoat with exaggerated care and turned on his heel. "So I would be back in an hour," he concluded; "and if any customers come in and ask for me tell 'em to take a seat till I am coming back." The two partners watched him until he put on his hat and coat in the rear of the showroom and then Polatkin rose to his feet. "Flaxberg," he cried, "wait a minute!" Flaxberg returned to the office and nonchalantly lit a cigarette. "Listen here to me, Flaxberg," Polatkin began. "Take from us a hundred and fifty dollars and quit!" Flaxberg continued the operation of lighting his cigarette and blew a great cloud of smoke before replying. "What for a piker do you think I am anyhow?" he asked. "What d'ye mean--piker?" Polatkin said. "A hundred and fifty ain't to be sneezed at, Flaxberg." "Ain't it?" Flaxberg retorted. "Well, with me, I got a more delicate nose as most people, Mr. Polatkin. I sneeze at everything under five hundred dollars--and that's all there is to it." Once more he turned on his heel and walked out of the office; but this time his progress toward the stairs was more deliberate, for, despite his defiant attitude, Flaxberg's finances were at low ebb owing to a marked reversal of form exhibited the previous day in the third race at New Orleans. Moreover, he felt confident that a judicious investment of a hundred and fifty dollars would net him that very afternoon at least five hundred dollars, if any reliance were to be placed on the selection of Merlando, the eminent sporting writer of the _Morning Wireless_. Consequently he afforded every opportunity for Marcus to call him back, and he even paused at the factory door and applied a lighted match to his already burning cigarette. The expected summons failed, however, and instead he was nearly precipitated to the foot of the stairs by no less a person than Elkan Lubliner. "Excuse me, Mr. Flaxberg," Elkan said. "I ain't seen you at all." Flaxberg turned suddenly, but at the sight of Elkan his anger evaporated as he recalled a piece of gossip retailed by Sam Markulies, the shipping clerk, to the effect that, despite his eighteen years, Elkan had at least two savings-bank accounts and kept in his pocket a bundle of bills as large as a roll of piece goods. "That's all right," Flaxberg cried with a forced grin. "I ain't surprised you are pretty near blinded when you are coming into the daylight out of the cutting room. It's dark in there like a tomb." "I bet yer," Elkan said fervently. "You should get into the air more often," Flaxberg went on. "A feller could get all sorts of things the matter with him staying in a hole like that." "_Gott sei dank_ I got, anyhow, my health," Elkan commented. "Sure, I know," Flaxberg said as they reached the street; "but you must got to take care of it too. A feller which he don't get no exercise should ought to eat well, Lubliner. For instance, I bet yer you are taking every day your lunch in a bakery--ain't it?" Elkan nodded. "Well, there you are!" Flaxberg cried triumphantly. "A feller works all the time in a dark hole like that cutting room, and comes lunchtime he _fresses_ a bunch of _Kuchen_ and a cup of coffee, _verstehst du_--and is it any wonder you are looking sick?" "I feel all right," Elkan said. "I know you feel all right," Flaxberg continued, "but you look something terrible, Lubliner. Just for to-day, Lubliner, take my advice and try Wasserbauer's regular dinner." Elkan laughed aloud. "Wasserbauer's!" he exclaimed. "Why, what do you think I am, Mr. Flaxberg? If I would be a salesman like you, Mr. Flaxberg, I would say, 'Yes; eat once in a while at Wasserbauer's'; _aber_ for an assistant cutter, Mr. Flaxberg, Wasserbauer's is just so high like the Waldorfer." "That's all right," Flaxberg retorted airily. "No one asks you you should pay for it. Come and have a decent meal with me." For a brief interval Elkan hesitated, but at length he surrendered, and five minutes later he found himself seated opposite Harry Flaxberg in the rear of Wasserbauer's café. "Yes, Mr. Flaxberg," he said as he commenced the fourth of a series of dill pickles, "compared with a salesman, a cutter is a dawg's life--ain't it?" "Well," Flaxberg commented, "he is and he isn't. There's no reason why a cutter shouldn't enjoy life too, Lubliner. A cutter could make money on the side just so good as a salesman. I am acquainted already with a pants cutter by the name Schmul Kleidermann which, one afternoon last week, he pulls down two hundred and fifty dollars yet." "Pulls down two hundred and fifty dollars!" Elkan exclaimed. "From where he pulls it down, Mr. Flaxberg?" "Not from the pants business _oser_," Flaxberg replied. "The feller reads the papers, Lubliner, and that's how he makes his money." "You mean he is speculating in these here stocks from stock exchanges?" Elkan asked. "Not stocks," Flaxberg replied in shocked accents. "From _spieling_ the stock markets a feller could lose his shirt yet. Never play the stock markets, Lubliner. That's something which you could really say a feller ruins himself for life with." Elkan nodded. "Even _im Russland_ it's the same," he said. "Sure," Flaxberg went on. "_Aber_ this feller Kleidermann he makes a study of it. The name of the horse was Prince Faithful. On New Year's Day he runs fourth in a field of six. The next week he is in the money for a show with such old-timers as Aurora Borealis, Dixie Lad and Ramble Home--and last week he gets away with it six to one a winner, understand me; and this afternoon yet, over to Judge Crowley's, I could get a price five to two a place, understand me, which it is like picking up money in the street already." Elkan paused in the process of commencing the sixth pickle and gazed in wide-eyed astonishment at his host. "So you see, Lubliner," Flaxberg concluded, "if you would put up twenty dollars, understand me, you could make fifty dollars more, like turning your hand over." Elkan laid down his half-eaten pickle. "Do you mean to say you want me I should put up twenty dollars on a horse which it is running with other horses a race?" he exclaimed. "Well," Flaxberg replied, "of course, if you got objections to putting up money on a horse, Lubliner, why, don't do it. Lend it me instead the twenty dollars and I would play it; and if the horse should--_Gott soll hüten_--not be in the money, y'understand, then I would give you the twenty dollars back Saturday at the latest. _Aber_ if the horse makes a place, understand me, then I would give you your money back this afternoon yet and ten dollars to boot." For one wavering moment Elkan raised the pickle to his lips and then replaced it on the table. Then he licked off his fingers and explored the recess of his waistcoat pocket. "Here," he said, producing a dime--"here is for the dill pickles, Mr. Flaxberg." "What d'ye mean?" Flaxberg cried. "I mean this," Elkan said, putting on his hat--"I mean you should save your money with me and blow instead your friend Kleidermann to dinner, because the proposition ain't attractive." * * * * * "Yes, Mr. Redman," Elkan commented when he resumed his duties as assistant cutter after the five and a half dill pickles had been supplemented with a hasty meal of rolls and coffee, "for a _Schlemiel_ like him to call himself a salesman--honestly, it's a disgrace!" He addressed his remarks to Joseph Redman, head cutter for Polatkin & Scheikowitz, who plied his shears industriously at an adjoining table. Joseph, like every other employee of Polatkin & Scheikowitz, was thoroughly acquainted with the details of Flaxberg's hiring and its dénouement. Nevertheless, in his quality of head cutter, he professed a becoming ignorance. "Who is this which you are knocking now?" he asked. "I am knocking some one which he's got a right to be knocked," Elkan replied. "I am knocking this here feller Flaxberg, which he calls himself a salesman. That feller couldn't sell a drink of water in the Sahara Desert, Mr. Redman. All he cares about is gambling and going on theaytres. Why, if I would be in his shoes, Mr. Redman, I wouldn't eat or I wouldn't sleep till I got from Appenweier & Murray an order. Never mind if my uncle would be fired and Mr. Lapin, the new buyer, is a relation from Sammet Brothers, Mr. Redman, I would get that account, understand me, or I would _verplatz_." "_Yow_, you would do wonders!" Redman said. "The best thing you could do, Lubliner, is to close up your face and get to work. You shouldn't got so much to say for yourself. A big mouth is only for a salesman, Lubliner. For a cutter it's nix, understand me; so you should give me a rest with this here Appenweier & Murray's account and get busy on them 2060's. We are behind with 'em as it is." Thus admonished, Elkan lapsed into silence; and for more than half an hour he pursued his duties diligently. "_Nu!_" Redman said at length. "What's the matter you are acting so quiet this afternoon?" "What d'ye mean I am acting quiet, Mr. Redman?" Elkan asked. "I am thinking--that's all. Without a feller would think once in a while, Mr. Redman, he remains a cutter all his life." "There's worser things as cutters," Redman commented. "For instance--assistant cutters." "Sure, I know," Elkan agreed; "but salesmen is a whole lot better as cutters _oder_ assistant cutters. A salesman sees life, Mr. Redman. He meets oncet in a while people, Mr. Redman; while, with us, what is it? We are shut up here like we would be sitting in prison--ain't it?" "You ain't got no kick coming," Redman said. "A young feller only going on eighteen, understand me, is getting ten dollars a week and he kicks yet. Sitting in prison, _sagt er_! Maybe you would like the concern they should be putting in moving pictures here or a phonygraft!" Elkan sighed heavily by way of reply and for a quarter of an hour longer he worked in quietness, until Redman grew worried at his assistant's unusual taciturnity. "What's the trouble you ain't talking, Lubliner?" he said. "Don't you feel so good?" Elkan looked up. He was about to say that he felt all right when suddenly he received the germ of an inspiration, and in the few seconds that he hesitated it blossomed into a well-defined plan of action. He therefore emitted a faint groan and laid down his shears. "I got a _krank_ right here," he said, placing his hand on his left side. "Ever since last week I got it." "Well, why don't you say something about it before?" Redman cried anxiously; for be it remembered that Elkan Lubliner was not only the cousin of Marcus Polatkin but the adopted nephew of Philip Scheikowitz as well. "You shouldn't let such things go." "The fact is," Elkan replied, "I didn't want to say nothing about it to Mr. Polatkin on account he's got enough to worry him with this here Appenweier & Murray's account; and----" "You got that account on the brain," Redman interrupted. "If you don't feel so good you should go home. Leave me fix it for you." As he spoke he hastily buttoned on his collar and left the cutting room, while Elkan could not forego a delighted grin. After all, he reflected, he had worked steadily for over a year and a half with only such holidays as the orthodox ritual ordained; and he was so busy making plans for his first afternoon of freedom that he nearly forgot to groan again when Redman came back with Marcus Polatkin at his heels. "_Nu_, Elkan!" Marcus said. "What's the matter? Don't you feel good?" "I got a _krank_ right here," Elkan replied, placing his hand on his right side. "I got it now pretty near a week already." "Well, maybe you should sit down for the rest of the afternoon and file away the old cutting slips," Marcus said, whereat Elkan moaned and closed his eyes. "I filed 'em away last week already," he murmured. "I think maybe if I would lay in bed the rest of the afternoon I would be all right to-morrow." Marcus gazed earnestly at his cousin, whose sufferings seemed to be intensified thereby. "All right, Elkan," he said. "Go ahead. Go home and tell Mrs. Feinermann she should give you a little _Brusttee_; and if you don't feel better in the morning don't take it so particular to get here early." Elkan nodded weakly and five minutes later walked slowly out of the factory. He took the stairs only a little less slowly, but he gradually increased his speed as he proceeded along Wooster Street, until by the time he was out of sight of the firm's office windows he was fairly running. Thus he arrived at his boarding place on Pitt Street in less than half an hour--just in time to interrupt Mrs. Sarah Feinermann as she was about to start on a shopping excursion uptown. Mrs. Feinermann exclaimed aloud at the sight of him, and her complexion grew perceptibly less florid, for his advent in Pitt Street at that early hour could have but one meaning. "What's the matter--you are getting fired?" she asked. "What d'ye mean--getting fired?" Elkan replied. "I ain't fired. I got an afternoon off." Mrs. Feinermann heaved a sigh of relief. As the recipient of Elkan's five dollars a week board-money, payable strictly in advance, she naturally evinced a hearty interest in his financial affairs. Moreover, she was distantly related to Elkan's father; and owing to this kinship her husband, Marx Feinermann, foreman for Kupferberg Brothers, was of the impression that she charged Elkan only three dollars and fifty cents a week. The underestimate more than paid Mrs. Feinermann's millinery bill, and she was consequently under the necessity of buying Elkan's silence with small items of laundry work and an occasional egg for breakfast. This arrangement suited Elkan very well indeed; and though he had eaten his lunch only an hour previously he thought it the part of prudence to insist that she prepare a meal for him, by way of maintaining his privileges as Mrs. Feinermann's fellow conspirator. "But I am just now getting dressed to go uptown," she protested. "Where to?" he demanded. "I got a little shopping to do," she said; and Elkan snapped his fingers in the conception of a brilliant idea. "Good!" he exclaimed. "I would go with you. In three minutes I would wash myself and change my clothes--and I'll be right with you." "But I got to stop in and see Marx first," she insisted. "I want to tell him something." "I wanted to tell him something lots of times already," Elkan said significantly; and Mrs. Feinermann sat down in the nearest chair while Elkan disappeared into the adjoining room and performed a hasty toilet. "_Schon gut_," he said as he emerged from his room five minutes later; "we would go right up to Appenweier & Murray's." "But I ain't said I am going up to Appenweier & Murray's," Mrs. Feinermann cried. "Such a high-price place I couldn't afford to deal with at all." "I didn't say you could," Elkan replied; "but it don't do no harm to get yourself used to such places, on account might before long you could afford to deal there maybe." "What d'ye mean I could afford to deal there before long?" Mrs. Feinermann inquired. "I mean this," Elkan said, and they started down the stairs--"I mean, if things turn out like the way I want 'em to, instead of five dollars a week I would give you five dollars and fifty cents a week." Here he paused on the stair-landing to let the news sink in. "And furthermore, if you would act the way I tell you to when we get up there I would also pay your carfare," he concluded--"one way." * * * * * When Mrs. Feinermann entered Appenweier & Murray's store that afternoon she was immediately accosted by a floorwalker. "What do you wish, madam?" he said. "I want to buy something a dress for my wife," Elkan volunteered, stepping from behind the shadow of Mrs. Feinermann, who for her thirty-odd years was, to say the least, buxom. "Your wife?" the floorwalker repeated. "Sure; why not?" Elkan replied. "Maybe I am looking young, but in reality I am old; so you should please show us the dress department, from twenty-two-fifty to twenty-eight dollars the garment." The floorwalker ushered them into the elevator and they alighted at the second floor. "Miss Holzmeyer!" the floorwalker cried; and in response there approached a lady of uncertain age but of no uncertain methods of salesmanship. She was garbed in a silk gown that might have graced the person of an Austrian grand duchess, and she rustled and swished as she walked toward them in what she had always found to be a most impressive manner. "The lady wants to see some dresses," the floorwalker said; and Miss Holzmeyer smiled by a rather complicated process, in which her nose wrinkled until it drew up the corners of her mouth and made her eyes appear to rest like shoe-buttons on the tops of her powdered cheeks. "This way, madam," she said as she swung her skirts round noisily. "One moment," Elkan interrupted, for again he had been totally eclipsed by Mrs. Feinermann's bulky figure. "You ain't heard what my wife wants yet." "Your wife!" Miss Holzmeyer exclaimed. "Sure, my wife," Elkan replied calmly. "This is my wife if it's all the same to you and you ain't got no objections." He gazed steadily at Miss Holzmeyer, who began to find her definite methods of salesmanship growing less definite, until she blushed vividly. "Not at all," she said. "Step this way, please." "Yes, Miss Holzmeyer," Elkan went on without moving, "as I was telling you, you ain't found out yet what my wife wants, on account a dress could be from twenty dollars the garment up to a hundred and fifty." "We have dresses here as high as three hundred!" Miss Holzmeyer snapped. She had discerned that she was beginning to be embarrassed in the presence of this self-possessed benedick of youthful appearance, and she resented it accordingly. "I ain't doubting it for a minute," Elkan replied. "New York is full of suckers, Miss Holzmeyer; but me and my wife is looking for something from twenty-two-fifty to twenty-eight dollars, Miss Holzmeyer." Miss Holzmeyer's temper mounted with each repetition of her surname, and her final "Step this way, please!" was uttered in tones fairly tremulous with rage. Elkan obeyed so leisurely that by the time Mrs. Feinermann and he had reached the rear of the showroom Miss Holzmeyer had hung three dresses on the back of a chair. "H'allow me," Elkan said as he took the topmost gown by the shoulders and held it up in front of him. He shook out the folds and for more than five minutes examined it closely. "I didn't want to see nothing for seventeen-fifty," he announced at last--"especially from last year's style." "What do you mean?" Miss Holzmeyer cried angrily. "That dress is marked twenty-eight dollars and it just came in last week. It's a very smart model indeed." "The model I don't know nothing about," Elkan replied, "but the salesman must of been pretty smart to stuck you folks like that." He subjected another gown to a careful scrutiny while Miss Holzmeyer sought the showcases for more garments. "Now, this one here," he said, "is better value. How much you are asking for this one, please?" Miss Holzmeyer glanced at the price ticket. "Twenty-eight dollars," she replied, with an indignant glare. Elkan whistled incredulously. "You don't tell me," he said. "I always heard it that the expenses is high uptown, but even if the walls was hung _mit_ diamonds yet, Miss Holzmeyer, your bosses wouldn't starve neither. Do you got maybe a dress for twenty-eight dollars which it is worth, anyhow, twenty-five dollars?" This last jibe was too much for Miss Holzmeyer. "Mis-ter Lap-in!" she howled, and immediately a glazed mahogany door in an adjoining partition burst open and Max Lapin appeared on the floor of the showroom. "What's the matter?" he asked. Miss Holzmeyer sat down in the nearest chair and fanned herself with her pocket handkerchief. "This man insulted me!" she said; whereat Max Lapin turned savagely to Elkan. "What for you are insulting this lady?" he demanded as he made a rapid survey of Elkan's physical development. He was quite prepared to defend Miss Holzmeyer's honour in a fitting and manly fashion; but, during the few seconds that supervened his question, Max reflected that you can never tell about a small man. "What d'ye mean insult this lady?" Elkan asked stoutly. "I never says a word to her. Maybe I ain't so long in the country as you are, but I got just so much respect for the old folks as anybody. Furthermore, she is showing me here garments which, honest, Mister--er----" "Lapin," Max said. "Mister Lapin, a house with the reputation of Appenweier & Murray shouldn't ought to got in stock at all." "Say, lookyhere, young feller," Lapin cried, "what are you driving into anyway? I am buyer here, and if you got any kick coming tell it to me, and don't go insulting the salesladies." "I ain't insulted no saleslady, Mr. Lapin," Elkan declared. "I am coming here to buy for my wife a dress and certainly I want to get for my money some decent value; and when this lady shows me a garment like this"--he held up the topmost garment--"and says it is from this year a model, understand me, naturally I got my own idees on the subject." Lapin looked critically at the garment in question. "Did you get this style from that third case there, Miss Holzmeyer?" he asked, and Miss Holzmeyer nodded. "Well, that whole case is full of leftovers and I don't want it touched," Lapin said. "Now go ahead and show this gentleman's wife some more models; and if he gets fresh let me know--that's all." "One minute, Mr. Lapin," Elkan said. "Will you do me the favour and let me show you something?" He held up the garment last exhibited by Miss Holzmeyer and pointed to the yoke and its border. "This here garment Miss Holzmeyer shows me for twenty-eight dollars, Mr. Lapin," he said, "and with me and my wife here a dollar means to us like two dollars to most people, Mr. Lapin. So when I am seeing the precisely selfsame garment like this in Fine Brothers' for twenty-six dollars, but the border is from silk embroidery, a peacock's tail design, and the yoke is from gilt net yet, understand me, I got to say something--ain't it?" Lapin paused in his progress toward his office and even as he did so Elkan's eyes strayed to a glass-covered showcase. "Why, there is a garment just like Fine Brothers' model!" he exclaimed. "Say, lookyhere!" Lapin demanded as he strode up to the showcase and pulled out the costume indicated by Elkan. "What are you trying to tell me? This here model is thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents; so, if you can get it for twenty-six at Fine Brothers', go ahead and do it!" "But, Mr. Lapin," Elkan said, "that ain't no way for a buyer of a big concern like this to talk. I am telling you, so sure as you are standing there and I should never move from this spot, the identical selfsame style Fine Brothers got it for twenty-six dollars. I know it, Mr. Lapin, because we are making up that garment in our factory yet, and Fine Brothers takes from us six of that model at eighteen-fifty apiece." At this unguarded disclosure Lapin's face grew crimson with rage. "You are making it up in your factory!" he cried. "Why, you dirty faker you, what the devil you are coming round here bluffing that you want to buy a dress for your wife for?" Elkan broke into a cold perspiration and looked round for Mrs. Feinermann, the substantial evidence of his marital state; but at the very beginning of Max Lapin's indignant outburst she had discreetly taken the first stairway to the right. "Bring that woman back here!" Max roared. Miss Holzmeyer made a dash for the stairway, and before Elkan had time to formulate even a tentative plan of escape she had returned with her quarry. "What do you want from me?" Mrs. Feinermann gasped. Her hat was awry, and what had once been a modish pompadour was toppled to one side and shed hairpins with every palsied nod of her head. "I ain't done nothing!" she protested. "Sure, you ain't," Elkan said; "so you should keep your mouth shut--that's all." "I would keep my mouth shut _oder_ not as I please," Mrs. Feinermann retorted. "Furthermore, you ain't got no business to get me mixed up in this _Geschichte_ at all!" "Who are you two anyway?" Max demanded. "This here feller is a young feller by the name of Elkan Lubliner which he is working by Polatkin & Scheikowitz," Mrs. Feinermann announced; "and what he is bringing me up here for is more than I could tell you." "Ain't he your husband?" Max asked. "_Oser a Stück!_" Mrs. Feinermann declared fervently. "A kid like him should be my husband! An idee!" "That's all right," Elkan rejoined. "_Im Russland_ at my age many a young feller is got twins yet!" "What's that got to do with it?" Max Lapin demanded. "It ain't got nothing to do with it," Elkan said, "but it shows that a young feller like me which he is raised in the old country ain't such a kid as you think for, Mr. Lapin. And when I am telling you that the concern which sells you them goods to retail for twenty-eight dollars is sticking you good, understand me, you could take my word for it just the same like I would be fifty-five even." Again he seized one of the garments. "And what's more," he went on breathlessly, "the workmanship is rotten. Look at here!--the seams is falling to pieces already!" He thrust the garment under Lapin's nose with one hand, while with the other he dug down into his trousers pocket. "Here!" he shouted. "Here is money--fifty dollars!" He dropped the gown and held out a roll of bills toward Lapin. "Take it!" he said hysterically. "Take it all; and if I don't bring you to-morrow morning, first thing, this same identical style, only A-number-one workmanship, which you could retail for twenty dollars a garment, understand me, keep the money and _fertig_." At this juncture the well-nourished figure of Louis Appenweier, senior member of Appenweier & Murray, appeared in the door of the elevator and Max Lapin turned on his heel. "Come into my office," he hissed; and as he started for the glazed mahogany door he gathered up the remaining garments and took them with him. For more than half an hour Elkan and Max Lapin remained closeted together, and during that period Elkan conducted a clinic over each garment to such good purpose that Max sent out from time to time for more expensive styles. All of these were in turn examined by Elkan, who recognized in at least six models the designs of Joseph Redman, slightly altered in the stealing by Leon Sammet. "Yes, Mr. Lapin," Elkan said, "them models was all designed by our own designer and some one _ganvered_ 'em on us. Furthermore, I could bring you here to-morrow morning at eight o'clock from our sample racks these same identical models, with the prices on 'em marked plain like the figures on a ten-dollar bill, understand me; and if they ain't from twenty to thirty per cent. lower as you paid for these here garments I'd eat 'em!" For at least ten minutes Max Lapin sat with knitted brows and pondered Elkan's words. "Eight o'clock is too early," he announced at last. "Make it half-past nine." "Six, even, ain't too early for an up-to-date buyer to look at some genuine bargains," Elkan insisted; "and, besides, I must got to get back to the shop at nine." "But----" Lapin began. "But nothing, Mr. Lapin," Elkan said, rising to his feet. "Make it eight o'clock, and the next time I would come round at half-past nine." "What d'ye mean the next time?" Lapin exclaimed. "I mean this wouldn't be the last time we do business together, because the job as assistant cutter which I got it is just temporary, Mr. Lapin," he said as he started for the door--"just temporary--that's all." He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "See you at eight o'clock to-morrow morning," he said cheerfully; and five minutes later he was having hard work to keep from dancing his way down Thirty-third Street to the subway. * * * * * From half-past seven in the morning until six at night were the working hours of all Polatkin & Scheikowitz's employees, save only Sam Markulies, the shipping clerk, whose duty it was to unlock the shop at quarter-past seven sharp. This hour had been fixed by Philip Scheikowitz himself, who, on an average of once a month, would stroll into the shipping department at closing-time and announce his intention of going to a wedding that evening. Sometimes the proposed excursion was a pinocle party or a visit to the theatre, but the dénouement was always the same. The next morning Scheikowitz would arrive at the factory door precisely at quarter-past seven to find Markulies from five to ten minutes late; whereupon Markulies would receive his discharge, to take effect the following Saturday night--and for the ensuing month his punctuality was assured. During the quarter of an hour which preceded the arrival of the other employees, Markulies usually dusted the office and showroom; and on the morning following Elkan's holiday this solitary duty was cheered by the presence of Harry Flaxberg. Harry had sought the advice of counsel the previous day and had been warned against tardiness as an excuse for his discharge; so he was lounging on the sidewalk long before Markulies's arrival that morning. "_Nu_, Mr. Flaxberg," Markulies cried, "what brings you round so early?" "I couldn't sleep last night," Flaxberg said; "so I thought I might just so well be here as anywhere." "Ain't that the funniest thing!" Markulies cried. "Me I couldn't sleep neither. I got something on my mind." He unlocked the door as he spoke; and as he passed up the stairs he declared again that he had something on his mind. "_Yow!_" Flaxberg said. "I should got your worries, Markulies. The simple little things which a shipping clerk must got to do would _oser_ give anybody the nervous prostration." "Is that so?" Markulies retorted. "Well, I ain't just the shipping clerk here, Mr. Flaxberg. You must remember I am in charge with the keys also, Mr. Flaxberg; and I got responsibilities if some one _ganvers_ a couple sample garments once in a while, y'understand--right away they would accuse me that I done it." "Don't worry yourself, Markulies," Flaxberg said. "I ain't going to _ganver_ no garments on you--not this morning anyhow." "You I ain't worrying about at all," Markulies rejoined; "but that young bloodsucker, Lubliner, Mr. Flaxberg--that's something else again. Actually that young feller is to me something which you could really call a thorn in my pants, Mr. Flaxberg. Just because he is assistant cutter here and I am only the shipping clerk he treats me like I would be the dirt under his feet. Only last night, Mr. Flaxberg, I am locking up the place when that feller comes up the stairs and says to me I should give him the key, as he forgets a package which he left behind him. Mind you, it is already half-past six, Mr. Flaxberg; and ever since I am living up in the Bronix, Mr. Flaxberg, I am getting kicked out of six places where I am boarding on account no respectable family would stand it, Mr. Flaxberg, that a feller comes, night after night, nine o'clock to his dinner." "You was telling me about Lubliner," Flaxberg reminded him. "Sure, I know," Markulies continued. "So I says to him the place is closed and that's all there is to it. With that, Mr. Flaxberg, the feller takes back his hand--so--and he gives me a _schlag_ in the stummick, which, honest, if he wouldn't be from Mr. Polatkin a relation, Mr. Flaxberg, I would right then and there killed him." For two minutes he patted gently that portion of his anatomy where Elkan's blow had landed. "He's a dangerous feller, Mr. Flaxberg," he went on, "because, just so soon as he opens the door after I am giving him the key, Mr. Flaxberg, he shuts it in my face and springs the bolt on me, Mr. Flaxberg--and there I am standing _bis_ pretty near eight o'clock, understand me, till that feller comes out again. By the time I am at my room on Brook Avenue, Mr. Flaxberg, the way Mrs. Kaller speaks to me you would think I was a dawg yet. How should I know she is getting tickets for the theaytre that evening, Mr. Flaxberg? And anyhow, Mr. Flaxberg, if people could afford to spend their money going on theaytre, understand me, they don't need to keep boarders at all--especially when I am getting night after night boiled _Brustdeckel_ only. I says to her, 'Mrs. Kaller,' I says to her, 'why don't you give me once in a while a change?' I says----" "Did Lubliner have anything with him when he came out?" Flaxberg interrupted. "Well, sure; he'd got the package he forgets, and how a feller could forget a package that size, Mr. Flaxberg--honestly, you wouldn't believe at all! That's what it is to be a relation to the boss, Mr. Flaxberg. If I would got such a memory, understand me, I would of been fired long since already. Yes, Mr. Flaxberg, I says to Mrs. Kaller, 'For three and a half dollars a week a feller should get night after night _Brustdeckel_--it's a shame--honest!' I says; and--_stiegen_! There's Mr. Scheikowitz!" As he spoke he seized a feather duster and began to wield it vigorously, so that by the time Philip Scheikowitz reached the showroom door a dense cloud of dust testified to Markulies's industry. "That'll do, Sam!" Philip cried. "What do you want to do here--choke us all to death?" Gradually the dust subsided and disclosed to Philip's astonished gaze Harry Flaxberg seated on a sample table and apparently lost in the perusal of the _Daily Cloak and Suit Record_. "Good-morning, Mr. Scheikowitz," he said heartily, but Philip only grunted in reply. Moreover, he walked hurriedly past Flaxberg and closed the office door behind him with a resounding bang, for he, too, had sought the advice of counsel the previous evening; and on that advice he had left his bed before daylight, only to find himself forestalled by the wily Flaxberg. Nor was his chagrin at all decreased by Polatkin, who had promised to meet his partner at quarter-past seven. Instead he arrived an hour later and immediately proceeded to upbraid Scheikowitz for Flaxberg's punctuality. "What do you mean that feller gets here before you?" he cried. "Didn't you hear it the lawyer distinctively told you you should get here before Flaxberg, and when Flaxberg arrives you should tell him he is fired on account he is late? Honestly, Scheikowitz, I don't know what comes over you lately the way you are acting. Here we are paying the lawyer ten dollars he should give us an advice, understand me, and we might just so well throw our money in the streets!" "But Flaxberg wasn't late, Polatkin," Scheikowitz protested. "He was early." "Don't argue with me, Scheikowitz," Polatkin said. "Let's go outside and talk to him." Philip shrugged despairingly as they walked to the office door. "Flaxberg," he began as he discerned the city salesman again using a sample table for a footstool, "don't let us disturb you if you ain't through reading the paper yet." "Yes, Flaxberg," Polatkin added, "you could get down here so early like you would be sleeping in the place all night yet, and what is it? Take from the table the feet, Flaxberg, and be a man. We got something to say to you." "Go ahead, Mr. Polatkin," Flaxberg said as he leisurely brought his feet to the floor. "I'm listening." "In the first place, Flaxberg," Polatkin said, "did it ever occur to you that, even if your uncle would got fired up to Appenweier & Murray's, Redman designs for us a line of garments here which them people might be interested in anyhow?" "_Yow_, they would be interested in our line!" Flaxberg cried. "Lapin wouldn't buy only Sammet Brothers' line if we got Worth and Paquin both working for us as designers. You couldn't convince him otherwise, Mr. Polatkin." "That's all right," Polatkin went on; "but it wouldn't do no harm for you to anyhow see the feller and show him a couple garments which we got it here. Take for instance them 1080's, which we are selling Fine Brothers, _oder_ that 2060--that overskirt effect with the gilt net yoke and peacock-feather-design braid, Flaxberg. Them two styles made a big hit, Flaxberg. They are all hanging on that end rack there, Flaxberg, and you could look at 'em for yourself." Polatkin walked across the showroom to the rack in question. "Especially the 2060's," he said as he pulled aside the heavy denim curtain which protected the contents of the rack, "which you could really say is----" Here he paused abruptly--for, with the exception of a dozen wooden hangers, the rack was empty. "What's this, Scheikowitz?" he cried with a sweep of his hand in the direction of the rack. "Where is all them 1080's and 2060's?" Hastily the two partners examined every rack in the showroom; and not only did they fail to discover the missing samples, but they ascertained that, in addition, seven other choice styles had disappeared. "See maybe is Redman using 'em in the cutting room," Scheikowitz suggested; and forthwith they made a canvass of the cutting room and factory, in which they were joined by Markulies. "What is the matter, Mr. Scheikowitz?" he asked. "We are missing a dozen sample garments," Scheikowitz replied. "Missing!" Markulies loudly exclaimed. "What d'ye mean--missing, Mr. Scheikowitz? Last night, when I was covering up the racks, everything was in place." Suddenly a wave of recollection swept over him and he gave tongue like a foxhound. "Oo-oo-ee!" he wailed and sank into the nearest chair. "Markulies," Polatkin cried out, "for Heaven's sake, what is it?" "He must of _ganvered_ 'em!" Markulies wailed. "Right in front of my eyes he done it." "Who done it?" Scheikowitz cried. "Lubliner," Markulies moaned. "Lubliner!" Polatkin cried. "Do you mean Elkan Lubliner?" "That's what I said," Markulies went on. "Comes half-past six last night, and that _ganef_ makes me a _schlag_ in the stummick, Mr. Polatkin; and the first thing you know he goes to work and steals from me my keys, Mr. Polatkin, and cleans out the whole place yet." "Lubliner was here last night after we are going home?" Polatkin asked. "Sure, he was," Markulies replied--"at half-past six yet." "Then that only goes to show what a liar you are," Polatkin declared, "because myself I am letting Elkan go home at one o'clock on account the feller is so sick, understand me, he could hardly walk out of the place at all. Furthermore, he says he is going right straight to bed when he leaves here; so, if you want to explain how it is the garments disappear when you are in the place here alone, Markulies, go ahead with your lies. Might Mr. Scheikowitz stole 'em maybe--or I did! What?" Markulies began to rock and sway in an agony of woe. "I should never stir from this here chair, Mr. Polatkin," Markulies protested, "and my mother also, which I am sending her to Kalvaria--regular like clockwork--ten dollars a month, she should never walk so far from here _bis_ that door, if that _ganef_ didn't come in here last night and make away with the garments!" "_Koosh!_" Polatkin bellowed, and made a threatening gesture toward Markulies just as Scheikowitz stepped forward. "That'll do, Polatkin," he said. "If the feller lies we could easy prove it--ain't it? In the first place, where is Elkan?" "He must of been sick this morning on account he ain't here yet," Polatkin said. "_Schon gut_," Scheikowitz rejoined; "if he ain't here he ain't here, _verstehst du_, _aber_ he is boarding with Mrs. Feinermann, which her husband is Kupferberg Brothers' foreman--ain't it?" Polatkin nodded and Scheikowitz turned to Markulies. "Markulies," he said, "do me the favour and stop that! You are making me dizzy the way you are acting. Furthermore, Markulies, you should put on right away your hat and run over to Kupferberg Brothers' and say to Mr. B. Kupferberg you are coming from Polatkin & Scheikowitz, and ask him is he agreeable he should let Marx Feinermann come over and see us--and if he wants to know what for tell him we want to get from him a recommendation for a feller which is working for us." He turned to his partner as Markulies started for the stairway. "And a helluva recommendation we would get from him, too, I bet yer!" he added. "Wasserbauer tells me Elkan was in his place yesterday, and, though he don't watch every bit of food a customer puts into his mouth, understand me, he says that he eats dill pickles one right after the other; and then, Polatkin, the young feller gets right up and walks right out of the place without giving any order even. Wasserbauer says he knows it was Elkan because one day I am sending him over to look for you there. Wasserbauer asks him the simple question what he wants you for, and right away Elkan acts fresh to him like anything." "He done right to act fresh," Polatkin said as they walked back to the showroom. "What is it Wasserbauer's business what you want me for?" "But how comes a young feller like him to be eating at Wasserbauer's?" Scheikowitz continued. "Where does he get the money from he should eat there?" "The fact is"--said Flaxberg, who up to this point had remained a silent listener to the entire controversy--"the fact is, Mr. Scheikowitz, yesterday I am taking pity on the feller on account he is looking sick; and I took him into Wasserbauer's and invited him he should eat a little something." Here he paused and licked his lips maliciously. "And though I don't want to say nothing against the feller, understand me," he continued, "he begins right away to talk about horseracing." "Horseracing?" Polatkin cried. Flaxberg nodded and made a gesture implying more plainly than the words themselves: "Can you beat it?" "Horseracing!" Scheikowitz repeated. "Well, what do you think of that for a lowlife bum?" "And when I called him down for gambling, Mr. Polatkin, he walks right out, so independent he is. Furthermore, though it's none of my business, Mr. Polatkin," Flaxberg went on, "Markulies tells me this morning early the same story like he tells you--before he knew the goods was missing even." "Sure, I believe you," Polatkin retorted. "He was getting the whole thing fixed up beforehand. That's the kind of _Rosher_ he is." As he spoke Markulies entered, and there followed on his heels the short, stout figure of Marx Feinermann. "What did I told you?" Markulies cried. "The feller ain't home sick at all. He eats his supper last night, and this morning he is got two eggs for his breakfast even." "S'nough, Markulies!" Polatkin interrupted. "You got too much to say for yourself. Sit down, Feinermann, and tell us what is the reason Elkan ain't here this morning." "You tell me and I would tell you," Feinermann replied. "All I know is the feller leaves my house the usual time this morning; only before he goes he acts fresh to my wife like anything, Mr. Polatkin. He kicks the coffee ain't good, even when my wife is giving him two eggs to his breakfast anyhow. What some people expects for three-fifty a week you wouldn't believe at all!" "What do you mean--three-fifty a week?" Polatkin demanded. "He pays your wife five dollars a week _schon_ six months ago already. He told me so himself." "I ain't responsible for what that boy tells you," Feinermann said stolidly. "All I know is he pays me three-fifty a week; and you would think he is used to eating chicken every day from _zu Hause_ yet, the way he is all the time kicking about his food." Markulies snorted indignantly. "He should got the _Machshovos_ Mrs. Kaller hands it to me," he said--"_gekochte Brustdeckel_ day in, day out; and then I am accused that I steal samples yet! I am sick and tired of it!" "_Stiegen!_" Polatkin cried. "Listen here to me, Feinermann. Do you mean to told me the boy ain't paying you five dollars a week board?" As Feinermann opened his mouth to reply the showroom door opened and Elkan himself entered. "Loafer!" Scheikowitz roared. "Where was you?" Elkan made no reply, but walked to the centre of the showroom. "Mr. Polatkin," he said, "could I speak to you a few words something?" Polatkin jumped to his feet. "Before you speak to me a few words something," he said, "I want to ask you what the devil you are telling me lies that you pay Mrs. Feinermann five dollars a week board?" "What are you bothering about that for now?" Scheikowitz interrupted. "And, anyhow, you could see by the way the feller is red like blood that he lies to you." "Furthermore," Feinermann added, "my wife complains to me last night that young loafer takes her uptown yesterday on a wild fool's errand, understand me, and together they get pretty near kicked out of a drygoods store." "She told you that, did she?" Elkan cried. "That's what I said!" Feinermann retorted. "Then, if that's the case, Feinermann," Elkan replied, "all I can say is, I am paying your wife five dollars a week board _schon_ six months already, and if she is holding out on you a dollar and a half a week that's her business--not mine." "Don't make things worser as they are, Lubliner," Flaxberg advised. "You are in bad, anyhow, and lying don't help none. What did you done with the samples you took away from here?" "What is it your business what I done with 'em?" Elkan retorted. "Don't get fresh, Elkan!" Polatkin said. "What is all this about, anyhow? First, you are leaving here yesterday on account you are sick; next, you are going uptown with Mrs. Feinermann and get kicked out of a drygoods store; then you come back here and steal our samples." "Steal your samples!" Elkan cried. "You admitted it yourself just now," Flaxberg interrupted. "You are a thief as well as a liar!" Had Flaxberg's interest in sport extended to pugilism, he would have appreciated the manner in which Elkan's chest and arm muscles began to swell under his coat, even if the ominous gleam in Elkan's dark eyes had provided no other warning. As it was, however, Elkan put into practice the knowledge gained by a nightly attendance at the gymnasium on East Broadway. He stepped back two paces, and left followed right so rapidly to the point of Flaxberg's jaw that the impact sounded like one blow. Simultaneously Flaxberg fell back over the sample tables and landed with a crash against the office partition just as the telephone rang loudly. Perhaps it was as well for Flaxberg that he was unprepared for the onslaught, since, had he been in a rigid posture, he would have assuredly taken the count. Beyond a cut lip, however, and a lump on the back of his head, he was practically unhurt; and he jumped to his feet immediately. Nor was he impeded by a too eager audience, for Markulies and Feinermann had abruptly fled to the farthermost corner of the cutting room, while Marcus and Philip had ducked behind a sample rack; so that he had a clear field for the rush he made at Elkan. He yelled with rage as he dashed wildly across the floor, but the yell terminated with an inarticulate grunt when Elkan stopped the rush with a drive straight from the shoulder. It found a target on Flaxberg's nose, and he crumpled up on the showroom floor. For two minutes Elkan stood still and then he turned to the sample racks. "Mr. Polatkin," he said, "the telephone is ringing." Polatkin came from behind the rack and automatically proceeded to the office, while Scheikowitz peeped out of the denim curtains. "You got to excuse me, Mr. Scheikowitz," Elkan murmured. "I couldn't help myself at all." "You've killed him!" Scheikowitz gasped. "_Yow!_ I've killed him!" Elkan exclaimed. "It would take a whole lot more as that to kill a bum like him." He bent over Flaxberg and shook him by the shoulder. "Hey!" he shouted in his ear. "You are ruining your clothes!" Flaxberg raised his drooping head and, assisted by Elkan, regained his feet and staggered to the water-cooler, where Elkan bathed his streaming nostrils with the icy fluid. At length Scheikowitz stirred himself to action just as Polatkin relinquished the 'phone. "Markulies," Scheikowitz shouted, "go out and get a policeman!" "Don't do nothing of the kind, Markulies!" Polatkin declared. "I got something to say here too." He turned severely to Elkan. "Leave that loafer alone and listen to me," he said. "What right do you got to promise deliveries on them 2060's in a week?" "I thought----" Elkan began. "You ain't got no business to think," Polatkin interrupted. "The next time you are selling a concern like Appenweier & Murray don't promise nothing in the way of deliveries, because with people like them it's always the same. If you tell 'em a week they ring you up and insist on it they would got to got the goods in five days." He put his hand on Elkan's shoulder; and the set expression of his face melted until his short dark moustache disappeared between his nose and his under lip in a widespread grin. "Come inside the office," he said--"you too, Scheikowitz. Elkan's got a long story he wants to tell us." * * * * * Half an hour later, Sam Markulies knocked timidly at the office door. "Mr. Polatkin," he said, "Marx Feinermann says to me to ask you if he should wait any longer on account they're very busy over to Kupferberg Brothers'." "Tell him he should come in here," Polatkin said; and Markulies withdrew after gazing in open-mouthed wonder at the spectacle of Elkan Lubliner seated at Polatkin's desk, with one of Polatkin's mildest cigars in his mouth, while the two partners sat in adjacent chairs and smiled on Elkan admiringly. "You want to speak to me, Mr. Polatkin?" Feinermann asked, as he came in a moment afterward. "Sure," Polatkin replied as he handed the astonished Feinermann a cigar. "Sit down, Feinermann, and listen to me. In the first place, Feinermann, what for a neighborhood is Pitt Street to live in? Why don't you move uptown, Feinermann?" "A foreman is lucky if he could live in Pitt Street even," Feinermann said. "You must think I got money, Mr. Polatkin." "How much more a month would it cost you to live uptown?" Polatkin continued. "At the most ten dollars--ain't it?" Feinermann nodded sadly. "To a man which he is only a foreman, Mr. Polatkin, ten dollars is ten dollars," he commented. "Sure, I know," Polatkin said; "but instead of five dollars a week board, Elkan would pay you seven dollars a week, supposing you would move up to Lenox Avenue. Ain't that right, Elkan?" "Sure, that's right," Elkan said. "Only, if I am paying him seven dollars a week board, he must got to give Mrs. Feinermann a dollar and a half extra housekeeping money. Is that agreeable, Feinermann?" Again Feinermann nodded. "Then that's all we want from you, Feinermann," Polatkin added, "except I want to tell you this much: I am asking Elkan he should come uptown and live with me; and he says no--he would prefer to stick where he is." Feinermann shrugged complacently. "I ain't got no objections," he said as he withdrew. "And now, Elkan," Polatkin cried, "we got to fix it up with the other feller." Hardly had he spoken when there stood framed in the open doorway the disheveled figure of Flaxberg. "_Nu_, Flaxberg," Polatkin said. "What d'ye want from us now?" "I am coming to tell you this, Mr. Polatkin," Flaxberg said thickly through his cut and swollen lips: "I am coming to tell you that I'm sick and so you must give me permission to go home." "Nobody wants you to stay here, Flaxberg," Polatkin answered. "Sure, I know," Flaxberg rejoined; "but if I would go home without your consent you would claim I made a breach of my contract." "Don't let that worry you in the least, Flaxberg," Polatkin retorted, "because, so far as that goes, we fire you right here and now, on account you didn't make no attempt to sell Appenweier & Murray, when a boy like Elkan, which up to now he wasn't even a salesman at all, could sell 'em one thousand dollars goods." Flaxberg's puffed features contorted themselves in an expression of astonishment. "Lubliner sells Appenweier & Murray a bill of goods!" he exclaimed. By way of answer Polatkin held out the order slip for Flaxberg's inspection. "That's all right," Flaxberg declared. "I would make it hot for you anyhow! You put this young feller up to it that he pretty near kills me." "_Yow!_ We put him up to it!" Polatkin retorted. "You put him up to it yourself, Flaxberg. You are lucky he didn't break your neck for you; because, if you think you could sue anybody in the courts yet, we got for witness Feinermann, Markulies and ourselves that you called him a liar and a thief." "_Nu_, Polatkin," Scheikowitz said, "give him say a hundred dollars and call it square." "You wouldn't give me five hundred dollars," Flaxberg shouted as he started for the door, "because I would sue you in the courts for five thousand dollars yet." Flaxberg banged the door violently behind him, whereat Polatkin shrugged his shoulders. "Bluffs he is making it!" he declared; and forthwith he began to unfold plans for Elkan's new campaign as city salesman. He had not proceeded very far, however, when there came another knock at the door. It was Sam Markulies. "Mr. Flaxberg says to me I should ask you if he should wait for the hundred dollars a check, or might you would mail it to him maybe!" he said. Scheikowitz looked inquiringly at his partner. "Put on it, 'In full of all claims against Polatkin & Scheikowitz or Elkan Lubliner to date,'" he said. "And when you get through with that, Scheikowitz, write an 'ad' for an assistant cutter. We've got to get busy on that Appenweier & Murray order right away." CHAPTER THREE A MATCH FOR ELKAN LUBLINER MADE IN HEAVEN, WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF MAX KAPFER "I wouldn't care if Elkan Lubliner was only eighteen even," declared Morris Rashkind emphatically; "he ain't too young to marry B. Maslik's a _Tochter_. There's a feller which he has got in improved property alone, understand me, an equity of a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars; and if you would count second mortgages and Bronix lots, Mr. Polatkin, the feller is worth easy his quarter of a million dollars." "Sure I know," Polatkin retorted. "With such a feller, he gives his daughter when she gets married five thousand dollars a second mortgage, understand me; and the most the _Chosan_ could expect is that some day he forecloses the mortgage and gets a deficiency judgment against a dummy bondsman which all his life he never got money enough to pay his laundry bills even!" "_Oser a Stück!_" Rashkind protested. "He says to me, so sure as you are sitting there, 'Mr. Rashkind,' he says, 'my dear friend,' he says, 'Birdie is my only _Tochter_. I ain't got no other one,' he says, '_Gott sei Dank_,' he says; 'and the least I could do for her is five thousand dollars cash,' he says, 'in a certified check,' he says, 'before the feller goes under the _Chuppah_ at all.'" "With a feller like B. Maslik," Polatkin commented, "it ain't necessary for him to talk that way, Rashkind, because if he wants to get an up-to-date business man for his daughter, understand me, he couldn't expect the feller is going to take chances on an uncertified check _oder_ a promissory note." "That's all right, Mr. Polatkin," Rashkind said. "B. Maslik's promissory note is just so good as his certified check, Mr. Polatkin. With that feller I wouldn't want his promissory note even. His word in the presence of a couple of bright, level-headed witnesses, which a lawyer couldn't rattle 'em on the stand, _verstehst du_, would be good enough for me, Mr. Polatkin. B. Maslik, y'understand, is absolutely good like diamonds, Mr. Polatkin." "All right," Polatkin said. "I'll speak to Elkan about it. He'll be back from the road Saturday." "Speak nothing," Rashkind cried excitedly. "Saturday would be too late. Everybody is working on this here proposition, Mr. Polatkin. Because the way property is so dead nowadays all the real estaters tries to be a _Shadchen_, understand me; so if you wouldn't want Miss Maslik to slip through Elkan's fingers, write him this afternoon yet. I got a fountain pen right here." As he spoke he produced a fountain pen of formidable dimensions and handed it to Polatkin. "I'll take the letter along with me and mail it," Rashkind continued as Marcus made a preliminary flourish. "Tell him," Rashkind went on, "that the girl is something which you could really call beautiful." "I wouldn't tell him nothing of the sort," Polatkin said, "because, in the first place, what for a _Schreiber_ you think I am anyway? And, in the second place, Rashkind, Elkan is so full of business, understand me, if I would write him to come home on account this here Miss Maslik is such a good-looker he wouldn't come at all." Rashkind shrugged. "Go ahead," he said. "Do it your own way." For more than five minutes Polatkin indited his message to Elkan and at last he inclosed it in an envelope. "How would you spell Bridgetown?" he asked. "Which Bridgetown?" Rashkind inquired--"Bridgetown, Pennsylvania, _oder_ Bridgetown, Illinois?" "What difference does that make?" Polatkin demanded. "About the spelling it don't make no difference," Rashkind replied. "Bridgetown is spelt B-r-i-d-g-e-t-a-u-n, all the world over; _aber_ if it's Bridgetown, Pennsylvania, that's a very funny quincidence, on account I am just now talking to a feller which formerly keeps a store there by the name Flixman." "Do you mean Julius Flixman?" Marcus asked as he licked the envelope. "That's the feller," Rashkind said with a sigh as he pocketed the letter to Elkan. "It's a funny world, Mr. Polatkin. Him and me comes over together in one steamer yet, thirty years ago; and to-day if that feller's worth a cent he's worth fifty thousand dollars." "Sure, I know," Marcus agreed; "and _Gott soll hüten_ you and I should got what he's got it. He could drop down in the streets any moment, Rashkind." Rashkind nodded as he rose to his feet. "In a way, it's his own fault," he said, "because a feller which he could afford to ride round in taxicabs yet ain't got no business walking the streets in his condition. I told him this morning: 'Julius,' I says, 'if I was one of your heirs,' I says to him, 'I wouldn't want nothing better as to see you hanging round the real-estate exchange, looking the way you look!' And he says to me: 'Rashkind,' he says, 'there is a whole lot worser things I could wish myself as you should be my heir,' he says. 'On account,' he says, 'if a _Schlemiel_ like you would got a relation which is going to leave you money, Rashkind,' he says, 'it would be just your luck that the relation dies one day after you do, even if you would live to be a hundred.'" He walked toward the door and paused on the threshold. "Yes, Mr. Polatkin," he concluded, "you could take it from me, if that feller's got heart disease, Mr. Polatkin, it ain't from overworking it. So I would ring you up to-morrow afternoon three o'clock and see if Elkan's come yet." "I'm agreeable," Polatkin declared; "only one thing I got to ask you: you should keep your mouth shut to my partner, on account if he hears it that I am bringing back Elkan from the road just for this here Miss Maslik, understand me, he would never let me hear the end of it." Rashkind made a reassuring gesture with his right arm after the fashion of a swimmer who employs the overhand stroke. "What have I got to do with your partner?" he said as he started for the elevator. "If I meet him in the place, I am selling buttons and you don't want to buy none. Ain't it?" Polatkin nodded and turned to the examination of a pile of monthly statements by way of dismissing the marriage broker. Moreover, he felt impelled to devise some excuse for sending for Elkan, so that he might have it pat upon the return from lunch of his partner, Philip Scheikowitz, who at that precise moment was seated in the rear of Wasserbauer's café, by the side of Charles Fischko. "Yes, Mr. Scheikowitz," Fischko said, "if you would really got the feller's interest in heart, understand me, you wouldn't wait till Saturday at all. Write him to-day yet, because this proposition is something which you could really call remarkable, on account most girls which they got five thousand dollars dowries, Mr. Scheikowitz, ain't got five-thousand-dollar faces; _aber_ this here Miss Maslik is something which when you are paying seventy-five cents a seat on theaytre, understand me, you don't see such an elegant-looking _Gesicht_. She's a regular doll, Mr. Scheikowitz!" "Sure, I know," Scheikowitz agreed; "that's the way it is with them dolls, Fischko--takes a fortune already to dress 'em." Fischko flapped the air indignantly with both hands. "That's where you are making a big mistake," he declared. "The Masliks got living in the house with 'em a girl which for years already she makes all Miss Maslik's dresses and Mrs. Maslik's also. B. Maslik told me so himself, Mr. Scheikowitz. He says to me: 'Fischko,' he says, 'my Birdie is a girl which she ain't accustomed she should got a lot of money spent on her,' he says; 'the five thousand dollars is practically net,' he says, 'on account his expenses would be small.'" "Is she a good cook?" Scheikowitz asked. "A good cook!" Fischko cried. "Listen here to me, Mr. Scheikowitz. You know that a _Shadchen_ eats sometimes in pretty swell houses. Ain't it?" Scheikowitz nodded. "Well, I am telling you, Mr. Scheikowitz, so sure as I am sitting here, that I got in B. Maslik's last Tuesday a week ago already a piece of plain everyday _gefüllte Hechte_, Mr. Scheikowitz, which honestly, if you would go to Delmonico's _oder_ the Waldorfer, understand me, you could pay as high as fifty cents for it, Mr. Scheikowitz, and it wouldn't be--I am not saying better--but so good even as that there _gefüllte Hechte_ which I got it by B. Maslik." Scheikowitz nodded again. "All right, Fischko," he said, "I will write the boy so soon as I get back to the office yet; but one thing I must beg of you: don't say a word about this to my partner, y'understand, because if he would hear that I am bringing home Elkan from the road just on account of this _Shidduch_ you are proposing, understand me, he would make my life miserable." Fischko shrugged his shoulders until his head nearly disappeared into his chest. "What would I talk to your partner for, Mr. Scheikowitz?" he said. "I am looking to you in this here affair; so I would stop round the day after to-morrow afternoon, Mr. Scheikowitz, and if your partner asks me something a question, I would tell him I am selling thread _oder_ buttons." "Make it buttons," Scheikowitz commented, as he rose to his feet; "because we never buy buttons from nobody but the Prudential Button Company." On his way back to his office Scheikowitz pondered a variety of reasons for writing Elkan to return, and he had tentatively adopted the most extravagant one when, within a hundred feet of his business premises, he encountered no less a personage than Julius Flixman. "_Wie geht's_, Mr. Flixman?" he cried. "What brings you to New York?" Flixman saluted Philip with a limp handclasp. "I am living here now," he said. "I am giving up my store in Bridgetown _schon_ six months ago already, on account I enjoyed such poor health there. So I sold out to a young feller by the name Max Kapfer, which was for years working by Paschalson, of Sarahcuse; and I am living here, as I told you." "With relations maybe?" Philip asked. "_Yow_, relations!" Flixman replied. "I used to got one sister living in Bessarabia, Mr. Scheikowitz, and I ain't heard from her in more as thirty years, and I guess she is dead all right by this time. I am living at a hotel which I could assure you the prices they soak me is something terrible." "And what are you doing round this neighborhood, Mr. Flixman?" Philip continued by way of making conversation. "I was just over to see a lawyer over on Center Street," Flixman replied. "A lawyer on Center Street!" Philip exclaimed. "A rich man like you should got a lawyer on Wall Street, Mr. Flixman. Henry D. Feldman is our lawyer, and----" "Don't mention that sucker to me!" Flixman interrupted. "Actually the feller is got the nerve to ask me a hundred dollars for drawing a will, and this here feller on Center Street wants only fifty. I bet yer if I would go round there to-morrow or the next day he takes twenty-five even." "But a will is something which is really important, Mr. Flixman." "Not to me it ain't, Scheikowitz, because, while I couldn't take my money with me, Scheikowitz, I ain't got no one to leave it to; so, if I wouldn't make a will it goes to the state--ain't it?" "Maybe," Philip commented. "So I am leaving it to a Talmud Torah School, which it certainly don't do no harm that all them young loafers over on the East Side should learn a little _Loschen Hakodesch_. Ain't it?" "Sure not," Philip said. "Well," Flixman concluded as he took a firmer grasp on his cane preparatory to departing, "that's the way it goes. If I would got children to leave my money to I would say: 'Yes; give the lawyer a hundred dollars.' But for a Talmud Torah School I would see 'em all dead first before I would pay fifty even." He nodded savagely in farewell and shuffled off down the street, while Philip made his way toward the factory, with his half-formed excuse to his partner now entirely forgotten. He tried in vain to recall it when he entered his office a few minutes later, but the sight of his partner spurred him to action and immediately he devised a new and better plan. "Marcus," he said, "write Elkan at once he should come back to the store. I just seen Flixman on the street and he tells me he's got a young feller by the name Karpfer _oder_ Kapfer now running his store; and," he continued in an access of inspiration, "the stock is awful run down there; so, if Elkan goes right back to Bridgetown with a line of low-priced goods he could do a big business with Kapfer." Polatkin had long since concocted what he had conceived to be a perfectly good excuse for his letter, and he had intended to lend it color by prefacing it with an abusive dissertation on "Wasting the Whole Afternoon over Lunch"; but Scheikowitz' greeting completely disarmed him. His jaw dropped and he gazed stupidly at his partner. "What's the matter?" Scheikowitz cried. "Is it so strange we should bring Elkan back here for the chance of doing some more business? Three dollars carfare between here and Bridgetown wouldn't make or break us, Polatkin." "Sure! Sure!" Marcus said at last. "I would--now--write him as soon as I get back from lunch." "Write him right away!" Scheikowitz insisted; and, though Marcus had breakfasted before seven that morning and it was then half-past two, he turned to his desk without further parley. There, for the second time that day, he penned a letter to Elkan; and, after exhibiting it to his partner, he inclosed it in an addressed envelope. Two minutes later he paused in front of Wasserbauer's café and, taking the missive from his pocket, tore it into small pieces and cast it into the gutter. * * * * * "I suppose, Elkan, you are wondering why we wrote you to come home from Bridgetown when you would be back on Saturday anyway," Scheikowitz began as Elkan laid down his suitcase in the firm's office the following afternoon. "Naturally," Elkan replied. "I had an appointment for this morning to see a feller there, which we could open maybe a good account; a feller by the name Max Kapfer." "Max Kapfer?" Polatkin and Scheikowitz exclaimed with one voice. "That's what I said," Elkan repeated. "And in order I shouldn't lose the chance I got him to promise he would come down here this afternoon yet on a late train and we would pay his expenses." "Do you mean Max Kapfer, the feller which took over Flixman's store?" Polatkin asked. "There's only one Max Kapfer in Bridgetown," Elkan replied, and Polatkin immediately assumed a pose of righteous indignation. "That's from yours an idee, Scheikowitz," he said. "Not only you make the boy trouble to come back to the store, but we also got to give this feller Kapfer his expenses yet." "What are you kicking about?" Scheikowitz demanded. "You seemed agreeable to the proposition yesterday." "I got to seem agreeable," Polatkin retorted as he started for the door of the factory, "otherwise it would be nothing but fight, fight, fight _mit_ you, day in, day out." He paused at the entrance and winked solemnly at Elkan. "I am sick and tired of it," he concluded as he supplemented the wink with a significant frown, and when he passed into the factory Elkan followed him. "What's the matter now?" Elkan asked anxiously. "I want to speak to you a few words something," Polatkin began; but before he could continue Scheikowitz entered the factory. "Did you got your lunch on the train, Elkan?" Scheikowitz said; "because, if not, come on out and we'll have a cup coffee together." "Leave the boy alone, can't you?" Polatkin exclaimed. "I'll go right out with you, Mr. Scheikowitz," Elkan said as he edged away to the rear of the factory. "Go and put on your hat and I'll be with you in a minute." When Scheikowitz had reëntered the office Elkan turned to Marcus Polatkin. "You ain't scrapping again," he said, "are you?" "_Oser a Stück_," Polatkin answered. "We are friendly like lambs; but listen here to me, Elkan. I ain't got no time before he'll be back again, so I'll tell you. As a matter of fact, it was me that wrote you to come back, really. I got an elegant _Shidduch_ for you." "_Shidduch!_" Elkan exclaimed. "For me?" "Sure," Polatkin whispered. "A fine-looking girl by the name Birdie Maslik, _mit_ five thousand dollars. Don't say nothing to Scheikowitz about it." "But," Elkan said, "I ain't looking for no _Shidduch_." "S-ssh!" Polatkin hissed. "Her father is B. Maslik, the 'Pants King.' To-morrow night you are going up to see her _mit_ Rashkind, the _Shadchen_." "What the devil you are talking about?" Elkan asked. "Not a word," Polatkin whispered out of one corner of his mouth. "Here comes Scheikowitz--and remember, don't say nothing to him about it. Y'understand?" Elkan nodded reluctantly as Scheikowitz reappeared from the office. "_Nu_, Elkan," Scheikowitz demanded, "are you coming?" "Right away," Elkan said, and together they proceeded downstairs. "Well, Elkan," Scheikowitz began when they reached the sidewalk, "you must think we was crazy to send for you just on account of this here Kapfer. Ain't it?" Elkan shrugged in reply. "But, as a matter of fact," Scheikowitz continued, "Kapfer ain't got no more to do with it than Elia Hanové; and, even though Polatkin would be such a crank that I was afraid for my life to suggest a thing, it was my idee you should come home, Elkan, because in a case like this delays is dangerous." "Mr. Scheikowitz," Elkan pleaded, "do me the favour and don't go beating bushes round. What are you trying to drive into?" "I am trying to drive into this, Elkan," Scheikowitz replied: "I have got for you an elegant _Shidduch_." "_Shidduch!_" Elkan exclaimed. "For me? Why, Mr. Scheikowitz, I don't want no _Shidduch_ yet a while; and anyhow, Mr. Scheikowitz, if I would get married I would be my own _Shadchen_." "_Schmooes_, Elkan!" Scheikowitz exclaimed. "A feller which is his own _Shadchen_ remains single all his life long." "That suits me all right," Elkan commented as they reached Wasserbauer's. "I would remain single _und fertig_." "What d'ye mean, you would remain single?" Scheikowitz cried. "Is some one willing to pay you five thousand dollars you should remain single, Elkan? _Oser a Stück_, Elkan; and, furthermore, this here Miss Birdie Maslik is got such a face, Elkan, which, honest, if she wouldn't have a cent to her name, understand me, you would say she is beautiful anyhow." "Miss Birdie Maslik!" Elkan murmured. "B. Maslik's a _Tochter_," Scheikowitz added; "and remember, Elkan, don't breathe a word of this to Polatkin, otherwise he would never get through talking about it. Moreover, you will go up to Maslik's house to-morrow night with Charles Fischko, the _Shadchen_." "Now listen here to me, Mr. Scheikowitz," Elkan protested. "I ain't going nowheres with no _Shadchen_--and that's all there is to it." "_Aber_, Elkan," Scheikowitz said, "this here Fischko ain't a _Shadchen_ exactly. He's really a real-estater, _aber_ real estate is so dead nowadays the feller must got to make a living somehow; so it ain't like you would be going somewheres _mit_ a _Shadchen_, Elkan. Actually you are going somewheres _mit_ a real-estater. Ain't it?" "It don't make no difference," Elkan answered stubbornly. "If I would go and see a girl I would go alone, otherwise not at all. So, if you insist on it I should go and see this here Miss Maslik to-morrow night, Mr. Scheikowitz, I would do so, but not with Rashkind." "Fischko," Scheikowitz interrupted. "Fischko _oder_ Rashkind," Elkan said--"that's all there is to it. And if I would get right back to the store I got just time to go up to the Prince Clarence and meet Max Kapfer; so you would excuse me if I skip." "Think it over Elkan," Scheikowitz called after him as Elkan left the café, and three quarters of an hour later he entered Polatkin & Scheikowitz' showroom accompanied by a fashionably attired young man. "Mr. Polatkin," Elkan said, "shake hands with Mr. Kapfer." "How do you do, Mr. Kapfer?" Polatkin cried. "This here is my partner, Philip Scheikowitz." "How do you do, Mr. Scheikowitz?" Kapfer said. "You are very conveniently located here. Right in the heart of things, so to speak. I see across the street is Bleimauer & Gittelmann. Them people was in to see me last week already and offered me a big bargain in velvet suits, but I was all stocked up along that line so I didn't hand them no orders." "Velvet suits ain't our specialty at all," Polatkin replied; "but I bet yer if we never seen a velvet suit in all our lives, Mr. Kapfer, we could work you up a line of velvet suits which would make them velvet suits of Bleimauer & Gittelmann look like a bundle of rags." "I don't doubt it," Kapfer rejoined; "but, as I said before, velvet suits I am all stocked up in, as I couldn't afford to carry very many of 'em." "That's all right," Polatkin said as he led the way to the showroom. "We got a line of garments here, Mr. Kapfer, which includes all prices and styles." He handed Max a large mild cigar as he spoke. "So let's see if we couldn't suit you," he concluded. For more than two hours Max Kapfer examined Polatkin & Scheikowitz' sample line and made so judicious a selection of moderate-priced garments that Polatkin could not forbear expressing his admiration, albeit the total amount of the purchase was not large. "You certainly got the right buying idee, Mr. Kapfer," he said. "Them styles is really the best value we got." "I know it," Kapfer agreed. "I was ten years with Paschalson, of Sarahcuse, Mr. Polatkin, and what I don't know about a popular-price line of ladies' ready-to-wear garments, underwear and millinery, Paschalson couldn't learn me. But that ain't what I'm after, Mr. Polatkin. I'd like to do some high-price business too. If I had the capital I would improve my store building and put in new fixtures, understand me, and I could increase my business seventy-five per cent and carry a better class of goods too." "Sure, I know," Polatkin said as they returned to the office. "Everybody needs more capital, Mr. Kapfer. We ourselves could do with a few thousand dollars more." He looked significantly at Elkan, who colored slightly as he recognized the allusion. "I bet yer," Scheikowitz added fervently. "Five thousand dollars would be welcome to us also." He nodded almost imperceptibly at Elkan, who forthwith broke into a gentle perspiration. "Five thousand was just the figure I was thinking of myself," Kapfer said. "With five thousand dollars I could do wonders in Bridgetown, Mr. Scheikowitz." "I'm surprised Flixman don't help you out a bit," Elkan suggested by way of changing the subject, and Kapfer emitted a mirthless laugh. "That bloodsucker!" he said. "What, when I bought his store, Mr. Scheikowitz, he took from me in part payment notes at two, four, and six months; and, though I got the cash ready to pay him the last note, which it falls due this week already, I asked him he should give me two months an extension, on account I want to put in a few fixtures on the second floor. Do you think that feller would do it? He's got a heart like a rock, Mr. Polatkin; and any one which could get from him his money must got to blast it out of him with dynamite yet." Polatkin nodded solemnly. "You couldn't tell me nothing about Flixman," he said as he offered Kapfer a consolatory cigar. "It's wasting your lungs to talk about such a feller at all; so let's go ahead and finish up this order, Mr. Kapfer, and afterward Elkan would go uptown with you." He motioned Kapfer to a seat and then looked at his watch. "I didn't got no idee it was so late," he said. "Scheikowitz, do me the favor and go over Mr. Kapfer's order with him while I give a look outside and see what's doing in the shop." As he walked toward the door he jerked his head sideways at Elkan, who a moment later followed him into the factory. "Listen, Elkan," he began. "While you and Scheikowitz was out for your coffee, Rashkind rings me up and says you should meet him on the corner of One Hundred and Twentieth Street and Lenox Avenue to-night--not to-morrow night--at eight o'clock sure." "But Kapfer ain't going back to Bridgetown to-night," Elkan protested. "He told me so himself on account he is got still to buy underwear, millinery and shoes." "What is that our business?" Polatkin asked. "He's already bought from us all he's going to; so, if he stays here, let them underwear and millinery people entertain him. Blow him to dinner and that would be plenty." Once more Elkan shrugged despairingly. "You didn't say nothing to Scheikowitz about it, did you?" Polatkin inquired. "Sure I didn't say nothing to him about it," Elkan said; "because----" "Elkan," Scheikowitz called from the office, "Mr. Kapfer is waiting for you." Elkan had been about to disclose the conversation between himself and Scheikowitz at Wasserbauer's that afternoon, but Marcus, at the appearance of his partner, turned abruptly and walked into the cutting room; and thus, when Elkan accompanied Max Kapfer uptown that evening, his manner was so preoccupied by reason of his dilemma that Kapfer was constrained to comment on it. * * * * * "What's worrying you, Lubliner?" he asked as they seated themselves in the café of the Prince Clarence. "You look like you was figuring out the interest on the money you owe." "I'll tell you the truth, Mr. Kapfer," Elkan began, "I would like to ask you an advice about something." "Go as far as you like," Kapfer replied. "It don't make no difference if a feller would be broke _oder_ in jail, he could always give somebody advice." "Well, it's like this," Elkan said, and forthwith he unfolded the circumstances attending his return from Bridgetown. "_Nu!_" Kapfer commented when Elkan concluded his narrative. "What is that for something to worry about?" "But the idee of the thing is wrong," Elkan protested. "In the first place, I got lots of time to get married, on account I am only twenty-one, Mr. Kapfer; and though a feller couldn't start in too early in business, Mr. Kapfer, getting married is something else again. To my mind a feller should be anyhow twenty-five before he jumps right in and gets married." "With some people, yes, and others, no," Kapfer rejoined. "And in the second place," Elkan went on, "I don't like this here _Shadchen_ business. We are living in America, not _Russland_; and in America if a feller gets married he don't need no help from a _Shadchen_, Mr. Kapfer." "No," Kapfer said, "he don't need no help, Lubliner; but, just the same, if some one would come to me any time these five years and says to me, here is something a nice girl, understand me, with five thousand dollars, y'understand, I would have been married _schon_ long since already." He cleared his throat judicially and sat back in his chair until it rested against the wall. "The fact is, Lubliner," he said, "you are acting like a fool. What harm would it do supposing you would go up there to-night with this here Rashkind?" "What, and go there to-morrow night with Fischko!" Elkan exclaimed. "Besides, if I would go up there to-night with Rashkind and the deal is closed, understand me, might Fischko would sue Mr. Scheikowitz in the court yet." "Not at all," Kapfer declared. "Fischko couldn't sue nobody but B. Maslik; so never mind waiting here for dinner. Hustle uptown and keep your date with Rashkind." He shook Elkan by the hand. "Good luck to you, Lubliner," he concluded heartily; "and if you got the time stop in on your way down to-morrow morning and let me know how you come out." * * * * * When Elkan Lubliner arrived at the corner of One Hundred and Twentieth Street and Lenox Avenue that evening, it might well be supposed that he would have difficulty in recognizing Mr. Rashkind, since neither he nor Rashkind had any previous acquaintance. However, he accosted without hesitation a short, stout person arrayed in a wrinkled frock coat and wearing the white tie and gold spectacles that invariably garb the members of such quasi-clerical professions as a _Shadchen_, a sexton or the collector of subscriptions for a charitable institution. Indeed, as Rashkind combined all three of these callings with the occupation of a real-estate broker, he also sported a high silk hat of uncertain vintage and a watch-chain bearing a Masonic emblem approximating in weight and size a tailor's goose. "This is Mr. Rashkind, ain't it?" Elkan asked, and Rashkind bowed solemnly. "My name is Mr. Lubliner," Elkan continued, "and Mr. Polatkin says you would be here at eight." For answer Mr. Rashkind drew from his waistcoat pocket what appeared to be a six-ounce boxing glove, but which subsequently proved to be the chamois covering of his gold watch, the gift of Rambam Lodge, No. 142, I. O. M. A. This Mr. Rashkind consulted with knit brows. "That's right," he said, returning the watch and its covering to his pocket--"eight o'clock to the minute; so I guess we would just so well go round to B. Maslik's house if you ain't got no objections." "I'm agreeable," Elkan said; "but, before we start, you should please be so good and tell me what I must got to do." "What you must got to do?" Rashkind exclaimed. "A question! You mustn't got to do nothing. Act natural and leave the rest to me." "But," Elkan insisted as they proceeded down Lenox Avenue, "shouldn't I say something to the girl?" "Sure, you should say something to the girl," Rashkind replied; "but, if you couldn't find something to say to a girl like Miss Birdie Maslik, all I could tell you is you're a bigger _Schlemiel_ than you look." With this encouraging ultimatum, Mr. Rashkind entered the portals of a hallway that glittered with lacquered bronze and plaster porphyry, and before Elkan had time to ask any more questions he found himself seated with Mr. Rashkind in the front parlour of a large apartment on the seventh floor. "Mr. Maslik says you should be so good and step into the dining room," the maid said to Mr. Rashkind. Forthwith he rose to his feet and left Elkan alone in the room, save for the presence of the maid, who drew down the shades and smiled encouragingly on Elkan. "Ain't it a fine weather?" she asked. Elkan looked up, and he could not resist smiling in return. "Elegant," he replied. "It don't seem like summer was ever going to quit." "It couldn't last too long for me," the maid continued. "Might some people would enjoy cold weather maybe; but when it comes to going up on the roof, understand me, and hanging out a big wash, the summer is good enough for me." Elkan gazed for a moment at her oval face, with its kindly, intelligent brown eyes. "You mean to say you got to do washing here?" he asked in shocked accents. "Sure I do," she replied; "_aber_ this winter I am going to night school again and next summer might I would get a job as bookkeeper maybe." "But why don't you get a job in a store somewheres?" he asked. "I see myself working in a store all day, standing on my feet yet, and when I get through all my wages goes for board!" she replied. "Whereas, here I got anyhow a good room and board, and all what I earn I could put away in savings bank. I worked in a store long enough, Mr.----" "Lubliner," Elkan said. "----Mr. Lubliner; and I could assure you I would a whole lot sooner do housework," she went on. "Why should a girl think it's a disgrace she should do housework for a living is more as I could tell you. Sooner or later a girl gets married, and then she must got to do her own housework." "Not if her husband makes a good living," Elkan suggested. "Sure, I know," she rejoined; "but how many girls which they are working in stores gets not a rich man, understand me, but a man which is only making, say, for example, thirty dollars a week. The most that a poor girl expects is that she marries a poor man, y'understand, and then they work their way up together." Elkan nodded. Unconsciously he was indorsing not so much the matter as the manner of her conversation, for she spoke with the low voice that distinguishes the Rumanian from the Pole or Lithuanian. "You are coming from Rumania, ain't it?" Elkan asked. "Pretty near there," the maid replied. "Right on the border. I am coming here an orphan five years ago; and----" "_Nu_, Lubliner," cried a rasping voice from the doorway, "we got our appointment for nothing--Miss Maslik is sick." "That's too bad," Elkan said perfunctorily. "Only a little something she eats gives her a headache," Rashkind went on. "We could come round the day after to-morrow night." "That's too bad also," Elkan commented, "on account the day after to-morrow night I got a date with a customer." "Well, anyhow, B. Maslik would be in in a minute and----" Elkan rose to his feet so abruptly that he nearly sent his chair through a cabinet behind him. "If I want to be here Friday night," he said, "I must see my customer to-night yet; so, young lady, if you would be so kind to tell Mr. Maslik I couldn't wait, but would be here Friday night with this here--now--gentleman. Come on, Rashkind." He started for the hall door almost on a run, with Rashkind gesticulating excitedly behind him; but, before the _Shadchen_ could even grasp his coattails he had let himself hurriedly out and was taking the stairs three at a jump. "Hey!" Rashkind shouted as he plunged down the steps after Elkan. "What's the matter with you? Don't you want to meet Mr. Maslik?" Elkan only hurried the faster, however, for in the few minutes he had been alone in the room with the little brown-eyed maid he had made the discovery that marriage with the aid of a _Shadchen_ was impossible for him. Simultaneously he conceived the notion that marriage without the aid of a _Shadchen_ might after all be well worth trying; and, as this idea loomed in his mind, his pace slackened until the _Shadchen_ overtook him at the corner of One Hundred and Sixteenth Street. "Say, lookyhere, Lubliner!" Rashkind said. "What is the matter with you anyway?" Elkan professed to misunderstand the question. "I've lost my address book," he said. "I had it in my hand when you left me alone there and I must of forgotten it; so I guess I'll go back and get it." "All right," Rashkind replied. "I'll go with you." Elkan wheeled round and glared viciously at the _Shadchen_. "You'll do nothing of the kind!" he roared. "You get right down them subway steps or I wouldn't come up with you Friday night." "But what harm----" Rashkind began, when Elkan seized him by the shoulder and led him firmly downstairs to the ticket office. There Elkan bought a ticket and, dropping it in the chopper's box, he pushed Rashkind on to the platform. A few minutes later a downtown express bore the _Shadchen_ away and Elkan ascended the stairs in three tremendous bounds. Unwaveringly he started up the street for B. Maslik's apartment house, where, by the simple expedient of handing the elevator boy a quarter, he averted the formality of being announced. Thus, when he rang the doorbell of B. Maslik's flat, though it was opened by the little brown-eyed maid in person, she had discarded the white apron and cap that she had worn a few minutes before, and her hair was fluffed up in becoming disorder. "You was telling me you are coming originally from somewheres near Rumania," Elkan began without further preface, "and--why, what's the matter? You've been crying?" She put her fingers to her lips and closed the door softly behind her. "They says I didn't got no business talking to you at all," she replied, "and they called me down something terrible!" Elkan's eyes flashed angrily. "Who calls you down?" he demanded. "Mr. and Mrs. Maslik," she answered; "and they says I ain't got no shame at all!" She struggled bravely to retain her composure; but just one little half-strangled sob escaped her, and forthwith Elkan felt internally a peculiar sinking sensation. "What do they mean you ain't got no shame?" he protested. "I got a right to talk to you and you got a right to talk to me--ain't it?" She nodded and sobbed again, whereat Elkan winced and dug his nails into the palms of his hands. "Listen!" he pleaded. "Don't worry yourself at all. After this I wouldn't got no use for them people. I didn't come here on my own account in the first place, but----" Here he paused. "But what?" the little maid asked. "But I'm glad I came now," Elkan went on defiantly, "and I don't care who knows it. _Wir sind alles Jehudim_, anyhow, and one is just as good as the other." "Better even," she said. "What was B. Maslik in the old country? He could _oser_ sign his name when he came here, while I am anyhow from decent, respectable people, Mr. Lubliner." "I don't doubt it," Elkan replied. "My father was a learned man, Mr. Lubliner; but that don't save him. One day he goes to Kishinef on business, Mr. Lubliner, and----" Here her composure entirely forsook her and she covered her face with her hands and wept. Elkan struggled with himself no longer. He took the little maid in his arms; and, as it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do, she laid her head against his shoulder and had her whole cry out. Elkan spoke no word, but patted her shoulder gently with his right hand. "I guess I'm acting like a baby, Mr. Lubliner," she said, after a quarter of an hour had elapsed. To Elkan it seemed like an acquaintance of many months as he clasped her more closely. "My name is Elkan, _Liebchen_," he said, "and we would send all the heavy washing out." * * * * * "Well, Lubliner," Kapfer cried as Elkan came into the café of the Prince Clarence the following morning, "you didn't like her--what?" "Didn't like her!" Elkan exclaimed. "What d'ye mean I didn't like her?" "Why, the way you look, I take it you had a pretty rotten time last night," Kapfer rejoined. "What are you talking about--rotten time?" Elkan protested. "The only thing is I feel so happy I didn't sleep a wink, that's all." Kapfer jumped to his feet and slapped Elkan on the shoulder. "Do you mean you're engaged!" he asked. "Sure!" Elkan replied. "Then I congradulate you a thousand times," Kapfer said gleefully. "Once is plenty," Elkan replied. "No, it ain't," Kapfer rejoined. "You should got to be congradulated more as you think, because this morning I am talking to a feller in the clothing business here and he says B. Maslik is richer as most people believe. The feller says he is easy worth a quarter of a million dollars." "What's that got to do with it?" Elkan asked. "What's that got to do with it?" Kapfer repeated. "Why, it's got everything to do with it, considering you are engaged to his only daughter." "I am engaged to his only daughter? Who told you that, Mr. Kapfer?" "Why, you did!" Kapfer said. "I never said nothing of the kind," Elkan declared, "because I ain't engaged to Miss Maslik at all; in fact, I never even seen her." Kapfer gazed earnestly at Elkan and then sat down suddenly. "Say, lookyhere, Lubliner," he said. "Are you crazy or am I? Last night you says you are going up with a _Shadchen_ to see Birdie Maslik, and now you tell me you are engaged, but not to Miss Maslik." "That's right," Elkan replied. "Then who in thunder are you engaged to?" "That's just the point," Elkan said, as he passed his hand through his hair. "I ain't slept a wink all night on account of it; in fact, this morning I wondered should I go round there and ask--and then I thought to myself I would get from you an advice first." "Get from me an advice!" Kapfer exclaimed. "You mean you are engaged to a girl and you don't know her name, and so you come down here to ask me an advice as to how you should find out her name?" Elkan nodded sadly and leaned his elbow on the table. "It's like this," he said; and for more than half an hour he regaled Kapfer with a story that, stripped of descriptive and irrelevant material concerning Elkan's own feelings in the matter, ought to have taken only five minutes in the telling. "And that's the way it is, Mr. Kapfer," Elkan concluded. "I don't know her name; but a poor little girl like her, which she is so good--and so--and so----" Here he became all choked up and Kapfer handed him a cigar. "Don't go into that again, Lubliner," Kapfer said; "you told me how good she is six times already. The point is you are in a hole and you want me I should help you out--ain't it?" Elkan nodded wearily. "Well, then, my advice to you is: _Stiegen_," Kapfer continued. "Don't say a word about this to nobody until you would, anyhow, find out the girl's name." "I wasn't going to," Elkan replied; "but there's something else, Mr. Kapfer. To-night I am to meet this here other _Shadchen_ by the name Fischko, who is going to take me up to Maslik's house." "But I thought Miss Maslik was sick," Kapfer said. "She was sick," Elkan answered, "but she would be better by to-night. So that's the way it stands. If I would go downtown now and explain to Mr. Scheikowitz that I am not going up there to-night and that I was there last night--and----" Here Elkan paused and made an expressive gesture with both hands. "The fact is," he almost whimpered, "the whole thing is such a _Mischmasch_ I feel like I was going crazy!" Kapfer leaned across the table and patted him consolingly on the arm. "Don't make yourself sick over it," he advised. "Put it up to Polatkin. You don't got to keep Scheikowitz's idee a secret now, Lubliner, because sooner or later Polatkin must got to find it out. So you should let Polatkin know how you was up there last night, and that Rashkind wants you to go up there Friday night on account Miss Maslik was sick, and leave it to Polatkin to flag Scheikowitz and this here Fischko." "But----" Elkan began, when the strange expression of Kapfer's face made him pause. Indeed, before he could proceed further, Kapfer jumped up from his chair. "Cheese it!" he said. "Here comes Polatkin." As he spoke, Polatkin caught sight of them and almost ran across the room. "Elkan!" he exclaimed. "_Gott sei Dank_ I found you here." "What's the matter?" Elkan asked. Polatkin drew forward a chair and they all sat down. "I just had a terrible fuss with Scheikowitz," he said. "This morning, when I got downtown, I thought I would tell him what I brought you back for; so I says to him: 'Philip,' I says, 'I want to tell you something,' I says. 'I got an elegant _Shidduch_ for Elkan.'" He stopped and let his hand fall with a loud smack on his thigh. "Oo-ee!" he exclaimed. "What a row that feller made it! You would think, Elkan, I told him I got a pistol to shoot you with, the way he acts. I didn't even got the opportunity to tell him who the _Shidduch_ was. He tells me I should mind my own business and calls me such names which honestly I wouldn't call a shipping clerk even. And what else d'ye think he says?" Elkan and Kapfer shook their heads. "Why, he says that to-night, at eight o'clock, he himself is going to have a _Shadchen_ by the name Fischko take you up to see a girl in Harlem which the name he didn't tell me at all; but he says she's got five thousand dollars a dowry. Did he say to you anything about it, Elkan?" "The first I hear of it!" Elkan replied in husky tones as he averted his eyes from Polatkin. "Why, I wouldn't know the feller Fischko if he stood before me now, and he wouldn't know me neither." "Didn't he tell you her name?" Kapfer asked cautiously. "No," Polatkin replied, "because I says right away that the girl I had in mind would got a dowry of five thousand too; and then and there Scheikowitz gets so mad he smashes a chair on us--one of them new ones we just bought, Elkan. So I didn't say nothing more, but I rung up Rashkind right away and asks him how things turns out, and he says nothing is settled yet." Elkan nodded guiltily. "So I got an idee," Polatkin continued. "I thought, Elkan, we would do this: Don't come downtown to-day at all, and to-night I would go up and meet Fischko and tell him you are practically engaged and the whole thing is off. Also I would _schenk_ the feller a ten-dollar bill he shouldn't bother us again." Elkan grasped the edge of the table. He felt as if consciousness were slipping away from him, when suddenly Kapfer emitted a loud exclamation. "By jiminy!" he cried. "I got an idee! Why shouldn't I go up there and meet this here Fischko?" "You go up there?" Polatkin said. "Sure; why not? A nice girl like Miss--whatever her name is--ain't too good for me, Mr. Polatkin. I got a good business there in Bridgetown, and----" "But I don't know what for a girl she is at all," Polatkin protested. "She's got anyhow five thousand dollars," Kapfer retorted, "and when a girl's got five thousand dollars, Mr. Polatkin, beauty ain't even skin-deep." "Sure, I know," Polatkin agreed; "but so soon as you see Fischko and tell him you ain't Elkan Lubliner he would refuse to take you round to see the girl at all." "Leave that to me," Kapfer declared. "D'ye know what I'll tell him?" He looked hard at Elkan Lubliner before he continued. "I'll tell him," he said, "that Elkan is already engaged." "Already engaged!" Polatkin cried. "Sure!" Kapfer said--"secretly engaged unbeknownst to everybody." "But right away to-morrow morning Fischko would come down and tell Scheikowitz that you says Elkan is secretly engaged, and Scheikowitz would know the whole thing was a fake and that I am at the bottom of it." "No, he wouldn't," Kapfer rejoined, "because Elkan would then and there say that he is secretly engaged and that would let you out." "Sure it would," Polatkin agreed; "and then Scheikowitz would want to kill Elkan." Suddenly Elkan struck the table with his clenched fist. "I've got the idee!" he said. "I wouldn't come downtown till Saturday--because we will say, for example, I am sick. Then, when Fischko says I am secretly engaged, you can say you don't know nothing about it; and by the time I come down on Saturday morning I would be engaged all right, and nobody could do nothing any more." "That's true too," Kapfer said, "because your date with Rashkind is for to-morrow night and by Saturday the whole thing would be over." Polatkin nodded doubtfully, but after a quarter of an hour's earnest discussion he was convinced of the wisdom of Elkan's plan. "All right, Elkan," he said at last. "Be down early on Saturday." "Eight o'clock sure," Elkan replied as he shook Polatkin's hand; "and by that time I hope you'll congratulate me on my engagement." "I hope so," Polatkin said. "Me too," Kapfer added after Polatkin departed; "and I also hope, Elkan, this would be a warning to you that the next time you get engaged you should find out the girl's name in advance." * * * * * "Yes, siree, sir," said Charles Fischko emphatically, albeit a trifle thickly. "I guess you made a big hit there, Mr. Kapfer, and I don't think I am acting previously when I drink to the health of Mrs. Kapfer." He touched glasses with Max Kapfer, who sat opposite to him at a secluded table in the Harlem Winter Garden, flanked by two bottles of what had been a choice brand of California champagne. "Née Miss Maslik," he added as he put down his glass; "and I think you are getting a young lady which is not only good-looking but she is got also a heart like gold. Look at the way she treats the servant girl they got there! Honestly, when I was round there this morning them two girls was talking like sisters already!" "That's all right," Kapfer rejoined; "she's got a right to treat that girl like a sister. She's a nice little girl--that servant girl." "Don't I know it!" Fischko protested as he poured himself out another glass of wine. "It was me that got her the job there two years ago already; and before I would recommend to a family like B. Maslik's a servant girl, understand me, I would make sure she comes from decent, respectable people. Also the girl is a wonderful cook, Mr. Kapfer, simple, plain, everyday dish like _gefüllte Hechte_, Mr. Kapfer; she makes it like it would be roast goose already--so fine she cooks it. She learned it from her mother, Mr. Kapfer, also a wonderful cook. Why, would you believe it, Mr. Kapfer, that girl's own mother and me comes pretty near being engaged to be married oncet?" "You don't say!" Kapfer commented. "That was from some years ago in the old country already," Fischko continued; "and I guess I ought to be lucky I didn't do so, on account she marries a feller by the name Silbermacher, _olav hasholem_, which he is got the misfortune to get killed in Kishinef. Poor Mrs. Silbermacher, she didn't live long, and the daughter, Yetta, comes to America an orphan five years ago. Ever since then the girl looks out for herself; and so sure as you are sitting there she's got in savings bank already pretty near eight hundred dollars." "Is that so?" Kapfer interrupted. "Yes, sir," Fischko replied; "and when she is got a thousand, understand me, I would find for her a nice young man, Mr. Kapfer, which he is got anyhow twenty-five machines a contracting shop, y'understand, and she will get married _und fertig_. With such good friends which I got it like Polatkin & Scheikowitz, I could throw a little business their way, and the first thing you know she is settled for life." Here Fischko drained his glass and reached out his hand toward the bottle; but Kapfer anticipated the move and emptied the remainder of the wine into his own glass. "Before I order another bottle, Fischko," he said, "I would like to talk a little business with you." "Never mind another bottle," Fischko said. "I thought we was through with our business for the evening." "With our business, yes," Kapfer announced; "but this story which you are telling me about Miss Silbermacher interests me, Fischko, and I know a young feller which he is got more as twenty-five machines a contracting shop; in fact, Fischko, he is a salesman which he makes anyhow his fifty to seventy-five dollars a week, and he wants to get married bad." "He couldn't want to get married so bad as all that," Fischko commented, "because there's lots of girls which would be only too glad to marry a such a young feller--girls with money even." "I give you right, Mr. Fischko," Kapfer agreed; "but this young feller ain't the kind that marries for money. What he wants is a nice girl which she is good-looking like this here Miss Silbermacher and is a good housekeeper, understand me; and from what I've seen of Miss Silbermacher she would be just the person." "What's his name?" Fischko asked. "His name," said Kapfer, "is Ury Shemansky, a close friend from mine; and I got a date with him at twelve o'clock on the corner drug store at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street that I should tell him how I came out this evening." He seized his hat from an adjoining hook. "So, if you'd wait here a few minutes," he said, "I would go and fetch him right round here. Shall I order another bottle before I go?" Fischko shook his head. "I got enough," he said; "and don't be long on account I must be going home soon." Kapfer nodded, and five minutes later he entered the all-night drug store in question and approached a young man who was seated at the soda fountain. In front of him stood a large glass of "Phospho-Nervino," warranted to be "A Speedy and Reliable Remedy for Nervous Headache, Sleeplessness, Mental Fatigue and Depression following Over-Brainwork"; and as he was about to raise the glass to his lips Kapfer slapped him on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Elkan," he exclaimed. "Her name is Yetta Silbermacher and she's got in savings bank eight hundred dollars." "What d'ye mean she's got money in savings bank?" Elkan protested wearily, for the sleepless, brain-fatigued and depressed young man was none other than Elkan Lubliner. "Did you seen her?" "I did," Kapfer replied; "and Miss Maslik's a fine, lovely girl. The old man ain't so bad either. He treated me elegant and Fischko thinks I made quite a hit there." "I ain't asking you about Miss Maslik at all," Elkan said. "I mean Miss Silbermacher"--he hesitated and blushed--"Yetta," he continued, and buried his confusion in the foaming glass of "Phospho-Nervino." "That's just what I want to talk to you about," Kapfer went on. "Did I understand you are telling Polatkin that you never seen Fischko the _Shadchen_ and he never seen you neither?" "That's right," Elkan replied. "Then come right down with me to the Harlem Winter Garden," Kapfer said. "I want you to meet him. He ain't a bad sort, even if he would be a _Shadchen_." "But what should I want to meet him for?" Elkan cried. "Because," Kapfer explained, "I am going to marry this here Miss Maslik, Elkan; and I'm going to improve my store property, so that my trade will be worth to Polatkin & Scheikowitz anyhow three thousand dollars a year--ain't it?" "What's that got to do with it?" Elkan asked. "It's got this much to do with it," Kapfer continued: "To-morrow afternoon two o'clock I would have Polatkin and Scheikowitz at my room in the Prince Clarence. You also would be there--and d'ye know who else would be there?" Elkan shook his head. "Miss Yetta Silbermacher," Kapfer went on; "because I am going to get Fischko to bring her down there to meet an eligible party by the name Ury Shemansky." "What?" Elkan exclaimed. "Ssh-sh!" Kapfer cried reassuringly. "I am going to introduce you to Fischko right away as Ury Shemansky, provided he ain't so _shikker_ when I get back that he wouldn't recognize you at all." Elkan nodded and paid for his restorative, and on their way down to the Harlem Winter Garden they perfected the details of the appointment for the following afternoon. "The reason why I am getting Fischko to bring her down," Kapfer explained, "is because, in the first place, it looks pretty _schlecht_ that a feller should meet a girl only once and, without the help of a _Shadchen_, gets right away engaged to her; and so, with Fischko the _Shadchen_ there, it looks better for you both. Furthermore, in the second place, a girl which is doing housework, Elkan, must got to have an excuse, understand me; otherwise she couldn't get away from her work at all." "But," Elkan said, "how do you expect that Yetta would go with a _Shadchen_ to see this here Ury Shemansky when she is already engaged to me?" "_Schafskopf!_" Kapfer exclaimed. "Telephone her the first thing to-morrow morning that you are this here Ury Shemansky and she would come quick enough!" "That part's all right," Elkan agreed; "but I don't see yet how you are going to get Polatkin and Scheikowitz there." Kapfer nodded his head with spurious confidence; for of this, perhaps the most important part of his plan, he felt extremely doubtful. "Leave that to me," he said sagely, and the next moment they entered the Harlem Winter Garden to find Charles Fischko gazing sadly at a solution of bicarbonate of soda and ammonia, a tumblerful of which stood in front of him on the table. "Mr. Fischko," Kapfer said, "this is my friend Ury Shemansky, the gentleman I was speaking to you about." "No relation to Shemansky who used to was in the customer pedler business on Ridge Street?" Fischko asked. "Not as I've heard," Elkan said. "Because there's a feller, understand me, which he went to work and married a poor girl; and ever since he's got nothing but _Mazel_. The week afterward he found in the street a diamond ring worth two hundred dollars, and the next month a greenhorn comes over with ten thousand rubles and wants to go as partners together with him in business. In a year's time Shemansky dissolves the partnership and starts in the remnant business with five thousand dollars net capital. He ain't been established two weeks, understand me, when a liquor saloon next door burns out and he gets a thousand dollars smoke damage; and one thing follows another, y'understand, till to-day he's worth easy his fifty thousand dollars. That's what it is to marry a poor girl, Mr. Shemansky." He took a pull at the tumbler of bicarbonate and made an involuntary grimace. "Furthermore, I am knowing this here Miss Silbermacher ever since she is born, pretty nearly!" Fischko cried. "You did!" Elkan exclaimed. "Well, why didn't you tell me that, Kapfer?" "I couldn't think of everything," Kapfer protested. "Go ahead," Elkan said, turning to Fischko; "let me know all about her--everything! I think I got a right to know--ain't it?" "Sure you have," Fischko said as he cleared his throat oratorically; and therewith he began a laudatory biography of Yetta Silbermacher, while Elkan settled himself to listen. With parted lips and eyes shining his appreciation, he heard a narrative that justified beyond peradventure his choice of a wife, and when Fischko concluded he smote the table with his fist. "By jiminy!" he cried. "A feller should ought to be proud of a wife like that!" "Sure he should," Kapfer said; "and her and Fischko would be down at my room at the Prince Clarence to-morrow at two." He beckoned to the waiter. "So let's pay up and go home," he concluded; "and by to-morrow night Fischko would got two matches to his credit." "_K'mo she-néemar_," Fischko said as he rose a trifle laboriously to his feet, "it is commanded to promote marriages, visit the sick and bury the dead." "And," Kapfer added, "you'll notice that promoting marriages comes ahead of the others." * * * * * When Marcus Polatkin arrived at his place of business the following morning he looked round him anxiously for his partner, who had departed somewhat early the previous day with the avowed intention of seeing just how sick Elkan was. As a matter of fact, Scheikowitz had discovered Elkan lying on the sofa at his boarding place, vainly attempting to secure his first few minutes' sleep in over thirty-six hours; and he had gone home truly shocked at Elkan's pallid and careworn appearance, though Elkan had promised to keep the appointment with Fischko. Polatkin felt convinced, however, that his partner must have discovered the pretence of Elkan's indisposition, and his manner was a trifle artificial when he inquired after the absentee. "How was he feeling, Philip?" he asked. "Pretty bad, I guess," Scheikowitz replied, whereat a blank expression came over Polatkin's face. "The boy works too hard, I guess. He ain't slept a wink for two days." "Why, he seemed all right yesterday when I seen him," Polatkin declared. "Yesterday?" Scheikowitz exclaimed. "I mean the day before yesterday," Polatkin added hastily as the elevator door opened and a short, stout person alighted. He wore a wrinkled frock coat and a white tie which perched coquettishly under his left ear; and as he approached the office he seemed to be labouring under a great deal of excitement. "Oo-ee!" he wailed as he caught sight of Polatkin, and without further salutation he sank into the nearest chair. There he bowed his head in his hands and rocked to and fro disconsolately. "Who's this crazy feller?" Scheikowitz demanded of his partner. Polatkin shrugged. "He's a button salesman by the name Rashkind," Polatkin said. "Leave me deal with him." He walked over to the swaying _Shadchen_ and shook him violently by the shoulder. "Rashkind," he said, "stop that nonsense and tell me what's the matter." Rashkind ceased his moanings and looked up with bloodshot eyes. "She's engaged!" he said. "She's engaged!" Polatkin repeated. "And you call yourself a _Shadchen_!" he said bitterly. "A _Shadchen_!" Scheikowitz cried. "Why, I thought you said he was a button salesman." "Did I?" Polatkin retorted. "Well, maybe he is, Scheikowitz; but he ain't no _Shadchen_. Actually the feller goes to work and takes Elkan up to see the girl, and they put him off by saying the girl was sick; and now he comes down here and tells me the girl is engaged." "Well," Scheikowitz remarked, "you couldn't get no sympathy from me, Polatkin. A feller which acts underhand the way you done, trying to make up a _Shidduch_ for Elkan behind my back yet--you got what you deserved." "What d'ye mean I got what I deserved?" Polatkin said indignantly. "Do you think it would be such a bad thing for us--you and me both, Scheikowitz--if I could of made up a match between Elkan and B. Maslik's a daughter?" "B. Maslik's a daughter!" Scheikowitz cried. "Do you mean that this here feller was trying to make up a match between Elkan and Miss Birdie Maslik?" "That's just what I said," Polatkin announced. "Then I can explain the whole thing," Scheikowitz rejoined triumphantly. "Miss Maslik had a date to meet Elkan last night yet with a _Shadchen_ by the name Charles Fischko, and that's why B. Maslik told this here button salesman that his daughter was engaged." Rashkind again raised his head and regarded Scheikowitz with a malevolent grin. "_Schmooes!_" he jeered. "Miss Maslik is engaged and the _Shadchen_ was Charles Fischko, but the _Chosan_ ain't Elkan Lubliner by a damsight." It was now Polatkin's turn to gloat, and he shook his head slowly up and down. "So, Scheikowitz," he said, "you are trying to fix up a _Shidduch_ between Elkan and Miss Maslik without telling me a word about it, and you get the whole thing so mixed up that it is a case of trying to sit between two chairs! You come down _mit_ a big bump and I ain't got no sympathy for you neither." "What was the feller's name?" Scheikowitz demanded hoarsely of Rashkind, who was straightening out his tie and smoothing his rumpled hair. "It's a funny quincidence," Rashkind replied; "but you remember, Mr. Polatkin, I was talking to you the other day about Julius Flixman?" "Yes," Polatkin said, and his heart began to thump in anticipation of the answer. "Well, Julius Flixman, as I told you, sold out his store to a feller by the name Max Kapfer," Rashkind said and paused again. "_Nu!_" Scheikowitz roared. "What of it?" "Well, this here Max Kapfer is engaged to be married to Miss Birdie Maslik," Rashkind concluded; and when Scheikowitz looked from Rashkind toward his partner the latter had already proceeded more than halfway to the telephone. "And that's what your _Shadchen_ done for you, Mr. Scheikowitz!" Rashkind said as he put on his hat. He walked to the elevator and rang the bell. "Yes, Mr. Scheikowitz," Rashkind added, "as a _Shadchen_, maybe I am a button salesman; but I'd a whole lot sooner be a button salesman as a thief and don't you forget it!" After the elevator had borne Rashkind away Scheikowitz went back to the office in time to hear Marcus engaged in a noisy altercation with the telephone operator of the Prince Clarence Hotel. "What d'ye mean he ain't there?" he bellowed. "With you it's always the same--I could never get nobody at your hotel." He hung up the receiver with force almost sufficient to wreck the instrument. "That'll do, Polatkin!" Scheikowitz said. "We already got half our furniture smashed." "Did I done it?" Polatkin growled--the allusion being to the chair demolished by Scheikowitz on the previous day. "You was the cause of it," Scheikowitz retorted; "and, anyhow, who are you ringing up at the Prince Clarence?" "I'm ringing up that feller Kapfer," Polatkin replied. "I want to tell that sucker what I think of him." Then it was that Kapfer's theory as to the effect of his engagement on his relations with Polatkin & Scheikowitz became justified in fact. "You wouldn't do nothing of the kind," Scheikowitz declared. "It ain't bad enough that Elkan loses this here _Shidduch_, but you are trying to Jonah a good account also! Why, that feller Kapfer's business after he marries Miss Maslik would be easy worth to us three thousand dollars a year." "I don't care what his business is worth," Polatkin shouted. "I would say what I please to that highwayman!" "What do you want to do?" Scheikowitz pleaded--"bite off your nose to spoil your face?" Polatkin made no reply and he was about to go into the showroom when the telephone bell rang. "Leave me answer it," Scheikowitz said; and a moment later he picked up the desk telephone and placed the receiver to his ear. "Hello!" he said. "Yes, this is Polatkin & Scheikowitz. This is Mr. Scheikowitz talking." Suddenly the instrument dropped with a clatter to the floor; and while Scheikowitz was stooping to pick it up Polatkin rushed into the office. "Scheikowitz!" he cried. "What are you trying to do--break up our whole office yet? Ain't it enough you are putting all our chairs on the bum already?" Scheikowitz contented himself by glaring viciously at his partner and again placed the receiver to his ear. "Hello, Mr. Kapfer," he said. "Yes, I heard it this morning already. Them things travels fast, Mr. Kapfer. No, I don't blame you--I blame this here Fischko. He gives me a dirty deal--that's all." Here there was a long pause, while Polatkin stood in the middle of the office floor like a bird-dog pointing at a covey of partridges. "But why couldn't you come down here, Mr. Kapfer?" Scheikowitz asked. Again there was a long pause, at the end of which Scheikowitz said: "Wait a minute--I'll ask my partner." "Listen here, Polatkin," he said, placing his hand over the transmitter. "Kapfer says he wants to give us from two thousand five hundred dollars an order, and he wants you and me to go up to the Prince Clarence at two o'clock to see him. He wants us both there because he wants to arrange terms of credit." "I would see him hung first!" Polatkin roared, and Scheikowitz took his hand from the transmitter. "All right, Mr. Kapfer," he answered in dulcet tones; "me and Polatkin will both be there. Good-bye." He hung up the receiver with exaggerated care. "And you would just bet your life that we will be there!" he said. "And that's all there is to it!" * * * * * At half-past one that afternoon, while Max Kapfer was enjoying a good cigar in the lobby of the Prince Clarence, he received an unexpected visitor in the person of Julius Flixman. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Flixman?" he cried, dragging forth a chair. Flixman extended a thin, bony hand in greeting and sat down wearily. "I don't do so good, Kapfer," he said. "I guess New York don't agree with me." He distorted his face in what he intended to be an amiable smile. "But I guess it agrees with you all right," he continued. "I suppose I must got to congradulate you on account you are going to be engaged to Miss Birdie Maslik." "Why, who told you about it?" Kapfer asked. "I met this morning a real-estater by the name Rashkind, which he is acquainted with the Maslik family," Flixman replied, "and he says it happened yesterday. Also they told me up at the hotel you was calling there this morning to see me." "That's right," Kapfer said; "and you was out." "I was down to see a feller on Center Street," Flixman went on, "and so I thought, so long as you wanted to fix up about the note, I might just as well come down here." "I'm much obliged to you," Kapfer interrupted. "Not at all," Flixman continued. "When a feller wants to pay you money and comes to see you once to do it and you ain't in, understand me, then it's up to you to go to him; so here I am." "But the fact is," Kapfer said, "I didn't want to see you about paying the money exactly. I wanted to see you about not paying it." "About not paying it?" Flixman cried. "Sure!" Kapfer replied. "I wanted to see if you wouldn't give me a year's extension for that last thousand on account I am going to get married; and with what Miss Maslik would bring me, y'understand, and your thousand dollars which I got here, I would just have enough to fix up my second floor and build a twenty-five-foot extension on the rear. You see, I figure it this way." He searched his pocket for a piece of paper and produced a fountain pen. "I figure that the fixtures cost me twenty-two hundred," he began, "and----" At this juncture Flixman flipped his fingers derisively. "Pipe dreams you got it!" he said. "That store as it stands was good enough for me, and it should ought to be good enough for you. Furthermore, Kapfer, if you want to invest Maslik's money and your own money, _schon gut_; but me, I could always put a thousand dollars into a bond, Kapfer. So, if it's all the same to you, I'll take your check and call it square." Kapfer shrugged resignedly. "I had an idee you would," he said, "so I got it ready for you; because, Mr. Flixman, you must excuse me when I tell you that you got the reputation of being a good collector." "Am I?" Flixman snapped out. "Well, maybe I am, Kapfer, but I could give my money up, too, once in a while; and, believe me or not, Kapfer, this afternoon yet I am going to sign a will which I am leaving all my money to a Talmud Torah School." "You don't say so?" Kapfer said as he drew out his checkbook. "That's what I am telling you," Flixman continued, "because there's a lot of young loafers running round the streets which nobody got any control over 'em at all; and if they would go to a Talmud Torah School, understand me, not only they learn 'em there a little _Loschen Hakodesch_, y'understand, but they would also pretty near club the life out of 'em." "I'll write out a receipt on some of the hotel paper here," Kapfer said as he signed and blotted the check. "Write out two of 'em, so I would have a copy of what I am giving you," Flixman rejoined. "It's always just so good to be businesslike. That's what I told that lawyer to-day. He wants me I should remember a couple of orphan asylums he's interested in, and I told him that if all them suckers would train up their children they would learn a business and not holler round the streets and make life miserable for people, they wouldn't got to be orphans at all. Half the orphans is that way on account they worried their parents to death with their carryings-on, and when they go to orphan asylums they get treated kind yet. And people is foolish enough to pay a lawyer fifty dollars if he should draw up a will to leave the orphan asylum their good hard-earned money." He snorted indignantly as he examined Kapfer's receipt and compared it with the original. "Well," he concluded as he appended his signature to the receipt, "I got him down to twenty-five dollars and I'll have that will business settled up this afternoon yet." He placed the check and the receipt in his wallet and shook hands with Kapfer. "Good-bye," he said. "And one thing let me warn you against: A _Chosan_ should always get his money in cash _oder_ certified check before he goes under the _Chuppah_ at all; otherwise, after you are married and your father-in-law is a crook, understand me, you could kiss yourself good-bye with your wife's dowry--and don't you forget it!" Max walked with him down the lobby; and they had barely reached the entrance when Charles Fischko and Miss Yetta Silbermacher arrived. "Hello, Fischko!" Max cried, as Flixman tottered out into the street; but Fischko made no reply. Instead he suddenly let go Miss Silbermacher's arm and dashed hurriedly to the sidewalk. Max led Miss Silbermacher to a chair and engaged her immediately in conversation. She was naturally a little embarrassed by her unusual surroundings, though she was becomingly--not to say fashionably--attired in garments of her own making; and she gazed timidly about her for her absent lover. "Elkan ain't here yet," Max explained, "on account you are a little ahead of time." Miss Silbermacher's brown eyes sparkled merrily. "I ain't the only one," she said as she jumped to her feet; for, though the hands of the clock on the desk pointed to ten minutes to two, Elkan Lubliner approached from the direction of the café. He caught sight of them while he was still some distance away, and two overturned chairs marked the last of his progress toward them. At first he held out his hand in greeting; but the two little dimples that accompanied Yetta's smile overpowered his sense of propriety, and he embraced her affectionately. "Where's Fischko?" he asked. Both Kapfer and Miss Silbermacher looked toward the street entrance. "He was here a minute ago," Kapfer said. "Did you tell him that I wasn't Ury Shemansky at all?" Elkan inquired. "Sure I did," Miss Silbermacher replied, "and he goes on something terrible, on account he says Mr. Kapfer told him last night you was already engaged; so I told him I know you was engaged because I am the party you are engaged to." She squeezed Elkan's hand. "And he says then," she continued, "that if that's the case what do we want him down here for? So I told him we are going to meet Mr. Polatkin and Mr. Scheikowitz, and----" "And they'll be right here in a minute," Kapfer interrupted; "so you go upstairs to my room and I'll find Fischko and bring him up also." He conducted them to the elevator, and even as the door closed behind them Fischko came running up the hall. "Kapfer," he said, "who was that feller which he was just here talking to you?" "What d'ye want to know for?" Kapfer asked. "Never mind what I want to know for!" Fischko retorted. "Who is he?" "Well, if you must got to know," Kapfer said, "he's a feller by the name Julius Flixman." "What?" Fischko shouted. "Fischko," Kapfer protested, "you ain't in no Canal Street coffee house here. This is a first-class hotel." Fischko nodded distractedly. "Sure, I know," he said. "Is there a place we could sit down here? I want to ask you something a few questions." Kapfer led the way to the café and they sat down at a table near the door. "Go ahead, Fischko," he said. "Polatkin and Scheikowitz will be here any minute." "Well," Fischko began falteringly, "if this here feller is Julius Flixman, which he is coming from Bessarabia _schon_ thirty years ago already, I don't want to do nothing in a hurry, Mr. Kapfer, on account I want to investigate first how things stand." "What d'ye mean?" Kapfer demanded. "Why, I mean this," Fischko cried: "If this here Flixman is well fixed, Kapfer, I want to know it, on account Miss Yetta Silbermacher is from Flixman's sister a daughter, understand me!" Kapfer lit a cigar deliberately before replying. He was thinking hard. "Do you mean to tell me," he said at last, "that this here Miss Silbermacher is Julius Flixman's a niece?" "That's what I said," Fischko replied. "He comes here from Bessarabia thirty years ago already and from that day to this I never heard a word about him--Miss Silbermacher neither." "Ain't the rest of his family heard from him?" Kapfer asked guardedly. "There ain't no rest of his family," Fischko said. "Mrs. Silbermacher was his only sister, and she's dead over ten years since." Kapfer nodded and drew reflectively on his cigar. "Well, Fischko," he said finally, "I wouldn't let Flixman worry me none. He's practically a _Schnorrer_; he was in here just now on account he hears I am going to marry a rich girl and touches me for some money on the head of it. I guess you noticed that he looks pretty shabby--ain't it?" "And sick too," Fischko added, just as a bellboy came into the café. "Mr. Copper!" he bawled, and Max jumped to his feet. "Right here," he said, and the bellboy handed him a card. "Tell them I'll be with them in a minute," he continued; "and you stay here till I come back, Fischko. I won't be long." He followed the bellboy to the desk, where stood Polatkin and Scheikowitz. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said. "Well, Mr. Kapfer," Scheikowitz replied, "I guess I got to congradulate you." "Sure!" Kapfer murmured perfunctorily. "Let's go into the Moorish Room." "What's the matter with the café?" Polatkin asked; but Scheikowitz settled the matter by leading the way to the Moorish Room, where they all sat down at a secluded table. "The first thing I want to tell you, gentlemen," Kapfer said, "is that I know you feel that I turned a dirty trick on you about Elkan." Scheikowitz shrugged expressively. "The way we feel about it, Mr. Kapfer," he commented, "is that bygones must got to be bygones--and that's all there is to it." "But," Kapfer said, "I don't want the bygones to be all on my side; so I got a proposition to make you. How would it be if I could fix up a good _Shidduch_ for Elkan myself?" "What for a _Shidduch_?" Polatkin asked. "The girl is an orphan," Kapfer replied, "_aber_ she's got one uncle, a bachelor, which ain't got no relation in the world but her, and he's worth anyhow seventy-five thousand dollars." "How do you know he's worth that much?" Polatkin demanded. "Because I got some pretty close business dealings with him," Kapfer replied; "and not only do I know he's worth that much, but I guess you do too, Mr. Polatkin, on account his name is Julius Flixman." "Julius Flixman?" Scheikowitz cried. "Why, Julius Flixman ain't got a relation in the world--he told me so himself." "When did he told you that?" Kapfer asked. "A couple of days ago," Scheikowitz replied. "Then that accounts for it," Kapfer said. "A couple of days ago nobody knows he had a niece--not even Flixman himself didn't; but to-day yet he would know it and he would tell you so himself." "But----" Scheikowitz began, when once again a page entered the room, bawling a phonetic imitation of Kapfer's name. "Wanted at the 'phone," he called as he caught sight of Kapfer. "Excuse me," Kapfer said. "I'll be right back." He walked hurriedly out of the room, and Polatkin turned with a shrug to his partner. "Well, Scheikowitz," he began, "what did I told you? We are up here on a fool's errand--ain't it?" Scheikowitz made no reply. "I'll tell you, Polatkin," he said at length, "Flixman himself says to me he did got one sister living in Bessarabia, and he ain't heard from her in thirty years; and----" At this juncture Kapfer rushed into the room. "Scheikowitz," he gasped, "I just now got a telephone message from a lawyer on Center Street, by the name Goldenfein, I should come right down there. Flixman is taken sick suddenly and they find in his pocket my check and a duplicate receipt which he gives me, written on the hotel paper. Do me the favour and come with me." Fifteen minutes later they stepped out of a taxicab in front of an old-fashioned office building in Center Street and elbowed their way through a crowd of over a hundred people toward the narrow doorway. "Where do yous think you're going?" asked a policeman whose broad shoulders completely blocked the little entrance. "We was telephoned for, on account a friend of ours by the name Flixman is taken sick here," Kapfer explained. "Go ahead," the policeman said more gently; "but I guess you're too late." "Is he dead?" Scheikowitz cried, and the policeman nodded solemnly as he stood to one side. * * * * * More than two hours elapsed before Kapfer, Polatkin, and Scheikowitz returned to the Prince Clarence. With them was Kent J. Goldenfein. "Mr. Kapfer," the clerk said, "there's a man been waiting for you in the café for over two hours." "I'll bring him right in," Kapfer said, and two minutes afterward he brought the gesticulating Fischko out of the café. "Do you think I am a dawg?" Fischko cried. "I've been here two hours!" "Well, come into the Moorish Room a minute," Kapfer pleaded, "and I'll fix everything up with you afterward." He led the protesting _Shadchen_ through the lobby, and when they entered the Moorish Room an impressive scene awaited them. On a divan, beneath some elaborate plush draperies, sat Kent J. Goldenfein, flanked on each side by Polatkin and Scheikowitz respectively, while spread on the table in front of them were the drafts of Flixman's will and the engrossed, unsigned copy, together with such other formidable-looking documents as Goldenfein happened to find in his pockets. He rose majestically as Fischko entered and turned on him a beetling frown. "Is this the fellow?" he demanded sepulchrally, and Kapfer nodded. "Mr. Fischko," Goldenfein went on, "I am an officer of the Supreme Court and I have been retained to investigate the affairs of Mr. Julius Flixman." "Say, lookyhere, Kapfer," Fischko cried. "What is all this?" Kapfer drew forward a chair. "Sit down, Fischko," he said, "and answer the questions that he is asking you." "But----" Fischko began. "Come, come, Mr. Fischko," Goldenfein boomed, "you are wasting our time here. Raise your right hand!" Fischko glanced despairingly at Kapfer and then obeyed. "Do you solemnly swear," said Goldenfein, who, besides being an attorney-at-law was also a notary public, "that the affidavit you will hereafter sign will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" "But----" Fischko began again. "Do you?" Goldenfein roared, and Fischko nodded. Forthwith Goldenfein plied him with such ingeniously fashioned questions concerning the Flixman family that the answers presented a complete history of all its branches. Furthermore, the affidavit which Goldenfein immediately drew up lacked only such confirmatory evidence as could easily be supplied to establish the identity of Miss Yetta Silbermacher as Julius Flixman's only heir-at-law; and, after Fischko had meekly signed the jurat, Goldenfein rose ponderously to his feet. "I congratulate you, Mr. Polatkin," he said. "I think there is no doubt that your nephew's fiancée will inherit Flixman's estate, thanks to my professional integrity." "What d'ye mean your professional integrity?" Kapfer asked. "Why, if I hadn't refused to accept twenty-two dollars for drawing the will and insisted on the twenty-five we had agreed upon," Goldenfein explained, "he would never have suffered the heart attack which prevented his signing the will before he died." "Died!" Fischko exclaimed. "Is Julius Flixman dead?" "_Koosh_, Fischko!" Polatkin commanded. "You would think you was one of the family the way you are acting. Come down to our store to-morrow and we would arrange things with you." He turned to Kapfer. "Let's go upstairs and see Elkan--and Yetta," he said. Immediately they trooped to the elevator and ascended to the seventh floor. "All of you wait here in the corridor," Kapfer whispered, "and I'll go and break it to them." He tiptoed to his room and knocked gently at the door. "Come!" Elkan cried, and Kapfer turned the knob. On a sofa near the window sat Elkan, with his arm surrounding his fiancée's waist and her head resting on his shoulder. "Hello, Max!" he cried. "What's kept you? We must have been waiting here at least a quarter of an hour!" CHAPTER FOUR HIGHGRADE LINES "Sure, I know, Mr. Scheikowitz," cried Elkan Lubliner, junior partner of Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company, as he sat in the firm's office late one February afternoon; "but if you want to sell a highgrade concern like Joseph Kammerman you must got to got a highgrade line of goods." "Ain't I am telling you that all the time?" Scheikowitz replied. "_Aber_ we sell here a popular-price line, Elkan. So what is the use talking we ain't ekvipt for a highgrade line." "What d'ye mean we ain't equipped, Mr. Scheikowitz?" Elkan protested. "We got here machines and we got here fixtures, and all we need it now is a highgrade designer and a couple really good cutters like that new feller which is working for us." "That's all right, too, Elkan," Marcus Polatkin interrupted; "but it ain't the ekvipment which it is so important. The reputation which we got for selling a popular-price line we couldn't get rid of so easy, understand me, and that _Bétzimmer_ buyer of Kammerman's wouldn't got no confidence in us at all. The way he figures it we could just so much turn out a highgrade line of goods here as you could expect a feller which is acting in a moving pictures to all of a sudden sing like Charuso." "Besides," Scheikowitz added, "highgrade designers and really good cutters means more capital, Elkan." "The capital you shouldn't worry about at all," Elkan retorted. "Next week my Yetta gets falling due a second mortgage from old man Flixman for five thousand dollars, and----" Polatkin made a flapping gesture with his right hand. "Keep your money, Elkan," he said. "You could got lots of better ways to invest it for Yetta as fixing ourselves up to sell big _Machers_ like Joseph Kammerman." "But it don't do no harm I should drop in and see them people. Ain't it?" "Sure not," Scheikowitz continued as he swung round in his revolving chair and seized a pile of cutting clips. "They got an elegant store there on Fifth Avenue which it is a pleasure to go into even; and the worst that happens you, Elkan, is you are out a good cigar for that Mr. Dalzell up there." Elkan nodded gloomily, and as he left the office Polatkin's face relaxed in an indulgent smile. "The boy is getting awful ambitious lately, Scheikowitz," he said. "What d'ye mean, ambitious?" Philip Scheikowitz cried angrily. "If you would be only twenty-three years of age, Polatkin, and married to a rich girl, understand me--and also partner in a good concern, which the whole thing he done it himself, Polatkin--you would act a whole lot more ambitious as he does. Instead of knocking the boy, Polatkin, you should ought to give him credit for what he done." "Who is knocking the boy?" Polatkin demanded. "All I says is the boy is ambitious, Scheikowitz--which, if you don't think it's ambitious a feller tries to sell goods to Joseph Kammerman, Scheikowitz, what is it then?" "There's worser people to sell goods to as Joseph Kammerman, Polatkin, which he is a millionaire concern, understand me," Scheikowitz declared; "and you could take it from me, Polatkin, even if you would accuse him he is ambitious _oder_ not, that boy always got idees to do big things--and he works hard till he lands 'em. So if you want to call that ambitious, Polatkin, go ahead and do so. When a loafer knocks it's a boost every time." With this ultimatum Scheikowitz followed his junior partner to the rear of the loft, where Elkan regarded with a critical eye the labors of his cutting-room staff. "_Nu_, Elkan," Scheikowitz asked, "what's biting you now?" Elkan winked significantly--and a moment later he tapped an assistant cutter on the shoulder. "Max," he said, "do you got maybe a grudge against that piece of goods, the way you are slamming it round?" The assistant cutter smiled in an embarrassed fashion. "The fact is," he said apologetically, "I wasn't thinking about them goods at all. When you are laying out goods for cutting, Mr. Lubliner, you don't got to think much--especially pastel shades." "Pastel shades?" Elkan repeated. "That's what I said," the cutter replied. "_Mit_ colors like reds and greens, which they are hitting you right in the face, so to speak, you couldn't get your mind off of 'em at all; but pastel shades, that's something else again. They quiet you like smoking a cigarette." Elkan turned to his partner with a shrug. "When I was working by B. Gans," the cutter went on, "I am laying out a piece of old gold crêpe _mit_ a silver-thread border, and I assure you, Mr. Lubliner, it has an effect on me like some one would give me a glass of schnapps already." "_Stiegen_, Max," said Elkan, moving away, "you got too much to say for yourself." Max nodded resignedly and continued the spreading of the goods on the cutting table, while Elkan and Scheikowitz walked out of the room. "That's the new feller I was telling you about," Elkan said. "_Meshugganeh_ Max Merech they call him." "_Meshugga_ he may be," Scheikowitz replied, "but just the same he's got a couple of good idees also, Elkan. Only this morning he makes Redman the designer pretty near crazy when he says that the blue soutache on that new style 2060 kills the blue in the yoke, y'understand; and he was right too, Elkan. Polatkin and me made Redman change it over." Elkan shrugged again as he put on his hat and coat preparatory to going home. "A lot our class of trade worries about such things!" he exclaimed. "So far as they are concerned the soutache could be crimson and the yoke green, and if the price was right they'd buy it anyhow." "Don't you fool yourself, Elkan," Scheikowitz said while Elkan rang for the elevator. "The price is never right if the workmanship ain't good." * * * * * That Elkan Lubliner's progress in business had not kept pace with his social achievements was a source of much disappointment to both Mrs. Lubliner and himself; for though the firm of Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company was still rated seventy-five thousand dollars to one hundred thousand dollars--credit good--Elkan and Mrs. Lubliner moved in the social orbit of no less a personage than of Max Koblin, the Raincoat King, whose credit soared triumphantly among the A's and B's of old-established commission houses. Indeed it was a party at Max Koblin's house that evening which caused Elkan to leave his place of business at half-past five; and when Mrs. Lubliner and he sallied forth from the gilt and porphyry hallway of their apartment dwelling they were fittingly arrayed to meet Max's guests, none of whom catered to the popular-price trade of Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company. "Why didn't you told him we are getting next week paid off for five thousand dollars a second mortgage?" Yetta said, continuing a conversation begun at dinner that evening. "I did told him," Elkan insisted; "but what is the use talking to a couple of old-timers like them?" Yetta sniffed contemptuously with the impatience of youth at the foibles of senility, as exemplified by the doddering Philip Scheikowitz, aged forty-five, and the valetudinarian Marcus Polatkin, whose hair, albeit unfrosted, had been blighted and in part swept away by the vicissitudes of forty-two winters. "You can't learn an old dawg young tricks," Elkan declared, "and we might just as well make up our minds to it, Yetta, we would never compete with such highgrade concerns like B. Gans _oder_ Schwefel & Zucker." They walked over two blocks in silence and then Elkan broke out anew. "I tell you," he said, "I am sick and tired of it. B. Gans talks all the time about selling this big _Macher_ and that big _Macher_, and him and Mr. Schwefel gets telling about what a millionaire like Kammerman says to him the other day, or what he says to Mandelberger, of Chicago, y'understand--and I couldn't say nothing! If I would commence to tell 'em what I says to such customers of ours like One-Eye Feigenbaum _oder_ H. Margonin, of Bridgetown, understand me, they would laugh me in my face yet." Yetta pressed his arm consolingly as they ascended the stoop of Max Koblin's house on Mount Morris Park West, and two minutes later they entered the front parlour of that luxurious residence. "And do you know what he says to me?" a penetrating barytone voice announced as they came in. "He says to me, 'Benson,' he says, 'I've been putting on musical shows now for fifteen years, and an idee like that comes from a genius already. There's a fortune in it!'" At this juncture Mrs. Koblin noted the arrival of the last of her guests. "Why, hello, Yetta!" she cried, rising to her feet. "Ain't you fashionable getting here so late?" She kissed Yetta and held out a hand to Elkan as she spoke. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Elkan, keeping Yetta's dinner waiting because you claim you're so busy downtown?" she went on. "I guess you know everybody here except Mr. Benson." She nodded toward the promulgator of Heaven-born ideas, who bowed solemnly. "Pleased to meet you, Mister----" "Lubliner," Elkan said. "Mister Lubliner," Benson repeated, passing his begemmed fingers through a shock of black, curly hair. "And the long and short of it is," he continued, addressing the company, "to-morrow I'm getting a scenario along them lines I just indicated to you from one of the highest-grade fellers that's writing." Here ensued a pause, during which B. Gans searched his mind for an anecdote concerning some retailer of sufficiently good financial standing, while Joseph Schwefel, of Schwefel & Zucker, cleared his throat preparatory to launching a verbatim report of a conversation between himself and a buyer for one of the most exclusive costume houses on Fifth Avenue; but even as Schwefel rounded his lips to enunciate an introductory "Er," Benson obtained a fresh start. "Now you remember 'The Diners Out,' Ryan & Bernbaum's production last season?" he said, addressing Elkan. "In that show they had an idee like this: Eight ponies is let down from the flies--see?--and George DeFrees makes his entrance in a practical airyoplane--I think it was George DeFrees was working for Ryan & Bernbaum last year, or was it Sammy Potter?" At this point he screwed up his face and leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair he placed four fingers on his forehead in the attitude known theatrically as Business of Deep Consideration. "No," he said at last--"it was George DeFrees. George jumps out of the airyoplane and says: 'They followed me to earth, I see.'" Benson raised his eyebrows at the assembled guests. "Angels!" he announced. "Get the idee? 'They followed me to earth, I see.' Cue. And then he sings the song hit of the show: 'Come Take a Ride in My Airyoplane.'" B. Gans shuffled his feet uneasily and Joseph Schwefel pulled down his waistcoat. As manufacturers of highgrade garments they had accompanied more than one customer to the entertainment described by Benson; but to Elkan the term "ponies" admitted of only one meaning, and this conversational arabesque of flies, little horses, aeroplanes and George DeFrees made him fairly dizzy. "And," M. Sidney Benson said before B. Gans could head him off, "just that there entrance boomed the show. Ryan & Bernbaum up to date clears a hundred and twenty thousand dollars over and above all expenses." "Better as the garment business!" Max Koblin commented--and B. Gans nodded and yawned. "Ain't we going to have no pinocle?" he asked. Max rose and threw open the sliding doors leading to the dining room, where cards and chips were in readiness. "Will you join us, Mr. Benson?" he asked. "That'll make five with Mr. Lubliner," Benson replied; "so supposing you, Gans and Schwefel go ahead, and Mr. Lubliner and me will join you later. Otherwise you would got to deal two of us out--which it makes a pretty slow game that way." "Just as you like," Max said; and after Mrs. Koblin and Yetta had retired abovestairs to view the most recent accession to Mrs. Koblin's wardrobe, Benson pulled up the points of his high collar and adjusted his black stock necktie. Then he lit a fresh cigar and prepared to lay bare to Elkan the arcana of the theatrical business. "Yes, Mr. Lubliner," he said, "the show business is a business like any other business. It ain't like you got an idee it is--opening wine for a bunch of chickens, understand me, and running round the streets till all hours of the morning." "I never got no such idee," Elkan protested. "You ain't, Mr. Lubliner," Benson continued, "because it's very evidence to me that you don't know nothing about it; but there's a whole lot of people got that idee anyhow, y'understand; and what I am always trying to tell everybody is that the show business is like the garment business _oder_ the drygoods business--a business for a business man, not a loafer!" Elkan made an inarticulate noise which Benson took to be an expression of interest and encouragement. "At the same time art has got a whole lot to do with it," he went on--"art and idees; and when you take a feller like Ryan, which he could write a show, write the music, put it on and play the leading part all by himself, y'understand, and a feller like Bernbaum, which used to was Miller, Bernbaum & Company in the pants business--you got there an ideel combination!" Elkan nodded and looked helplessly round him at the Circassian walnut, of which half a forestful had gone to make up the furnishings of Koblin's front parlor. "But," Benson said emphatically, "you take me, for instance--and what was I?" He told off his former occupations with the index finger of his right hand on each digit of his left. "First I was a salesman; second I was for myself in the infants' wear business; third I was _noch einmal_ a salesman. Then I become an actor, because everybody knows my act, which I called it 'Your Old Friend Maslowsky.' For four years I played all the first-class vaudeville circuits here and on the other side in England. But though I made good money, Mr. Lubliner, the real big money is in the producing end." "Huh-huh!" Elkan ejaculated. "So that's the way it is with me, Mr. Lubliner," Benson continued. "I am just like Ryan & Bernbaum, only instead of two partners there is only just one; which I got the art, the idees and the business ability all in myself!" "That must make it very handy for you," Elkan commented. "Handy ain't no name for it," Benson replied. "It's something you don't see nowheres else in the show business; but I'll tell you the truth, Mr. Lubliner--the work is too much for me!" "Why don't you get a partner?" Elkan asked. Benson made a circular gesture with his right hand. "I could get lots of partners with big money, Mr. Lubliner," he said, "but why should I divide my profits? Am I right or wrong?" "Well, that depends how you are looking at it," Elkan said. "I am looking at it from the view of a business man, Mr. Lubliner," Benson rejoined. "Here I got a proposition which I am going to put on--a show of idees--a big production, understand me; which if Ryan & Bernbaum makes from their 'Diners Out' a hundred thousand dollars, _verstehst du_, I could easily make a hundred and fifty thousand! And yet, Mr. Lubliner, all I invest is five thousand dollars and five thousand more which I am making a loan at a bank." "Which bank?" Elkan asked--so quickly that Benson almost jumped in his seat. "I--I didn't decide which bank yet," he replied. "You see, Mr. Lubliner, I got accounts in three banks. First I belonged to the Fifteenth National Bank. Then they begged me I should go in the Minuit National Bank. All right. I went in the Minuit National Bank. H'afterward Sam Feder comes to me and says: 'Benson,' he says, 'you are an old friend from mine,' he says. 'Why do you bother yourself you should go into this bank and that bank?' he says. 'Why don't you come to my bank?' he says, 'and I would give you all the money you want.' So you see, Mr. Lubliner, it is immaterial to me which bank I get my money from." Again he passed his jewelled fingers through his hair. "No, Mr. Lubliner," he announced after a pause, "my own brother even I wouldn't give a look-in." Elkan made no reply. As a result of Benson's gesture he was busy estimating the value of eight and a quarter carats at eighty-seven dollars and fifty cents a carat. "Because," Benson continued, "the profits is something you could really call enormous! If you got the time I would like to show you a few figures." "I got all evening," Elkan answered, whereat Benson pulled from his waistcoat pocket a fountain pen ornamented with gold filigree. "First," he said, "is the costumes." And therewith he plunged into a maze of calculation that lasted for nearly an hour. Moreover, at the end of that period he entered into a new series of figures, tending to show that by the investment of an additional five thousand dollars the profits could be increased seventy-five per cent. "But I'm satisfied to invest my ten thousand," he said, "because five thousand is my own and the other five thousand I could get easy from the Kosciuscko Bank, whereas the additional five thousand I must try to interest somebody he should invest it with me. And so far as that goes I wouldn't bother myself at all." "You're dead right," Elkan said by way of making himself agreeable, whereat Benson grew crimson with chagrin. "Sure I'm dead right," he said; "and if you and Mrs. Lubliner would come down to my office in the Siddons Theatre Building to-morrow night, eight o'clock, I would send one of my associates round with you and he will get you tickets for the 'Diners Out,' understand me; and then you would see for yourself what a big house they got there. Even on Monday night they turn 'em away!" "I'm much obliged to you," Elkan replied. "I'm sure Mrs. Lubliner and me would enjoy it very much." "I'm sorry for you if you wouldn't," Benson retorted; "and that there 'Diners Out' ain't a marker to the show I'm putting on, Mr. Lubliner--which you can see for yourself, a business proposition, which pans out pretty near two hundred thousand dollars on a fifteen-thousand-dollar investment, is got to be right up to the mark. Ain't it?" "I thought you said ten thousand dollars was the investment," Elkan remarked. "I did," Benson replied with some heat; "but if some one comes along and wants to invest the additional five thousand dollars I wouldn't turn him down, Mr. Lubliner." He rose to his feet to join the pinocle players in the dining room. "So I hope you enjoy the show to-morrow night," he added as he strolled away. * * * * * From six to eight every evening Max Merech underwent a gradual transformation, for six o'clock was the closing hour at Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company's establishment, while eight marked the advent of the Sarasate Trio at the Café Román, on Delancey Street. Thus, at six, Max Merech was an assistant cutter; and, indeed, until after he ate his supper he still bore the outward appearance of an assistant cutter, though inwardly he felt a premonitory glow. After half-past seven, however, he buttoned on a low, turned-down collar with its concomitant broad Windsor tie, and therewith he assumed his real character--that of a dilettante. At the Café Román each evening he specialized on music; but with the spirit of the true dilettante he neglected no one of the rest of the arts, and was ever to be found at the table next to the piano, a warm advocate of the latest movement in painting and literature, as well as an appreciative listener to the ultramodern music discoursed by the Sarasate Trio. "If that ain't a winner I ain't no judge!" he said to Boris Volkovisk, the pianist, on the evening of the conversation with Elkan set forth above. He referred to a violin sonata of Boris' own composition which the latter and Jacob Rekower, the violinist, had just concluded. Boris smiled and wiped away the perspiration from his bulging forehead, for the third movement of the sonata, marked in the score _Allegro con fuoco_, had taxed even the technic of its composer. "A winner of what?" Boris asked--"money? Because supposing a miracle happens that somebody would publish it nobody buys it." Max nodded his head slowly in sympathetic acquiescence. "But anyhow you ain't so bad off like some composers," he said. "You've anyhow got a good musician to play your stuff for you." He smiled at Jacob Rekower, who plunged his hands into his trousers pockets and shrugged deprecatingly. "Sure, I know," Rekower said; "and if we play too much good stuff Marculescu raises the devil with us we should play more popular music." He spat out the words "popular music" with an emphasis that made a _Tarrok_ player at the next table jump in his seat. "_Nu_," said the latter as the deal passed, "what is the matter with popular music? If it wouldn't be for writing popular music, understand me, many a decent, respectable composer would got to starve!" He turned his chair round and abandoned the card game the better to air his views on popular music. "Furthermore," he said, "I know a young feller by the name Milton Jassy which last year he makes two thousand dollars already from syncopating _Had gadyo_ and calling it the "Wildcat Rag," and this year he is writing the music for a new show and I bet yer the least he makes out of it is five thousand dollars." "Yow! Five thousand dollars!" Merech exclaimed. "Such people you hear about, but you _oser_ see 'em." "Don't you?" said the _Tarrok_ player, drawing a cardcase from his breast pocket. "Well, you see one now." He laid face upward on the table a card which read: +============================================+ | | | "THE SONGS YOU ALL SING" | | | | | | MILTON JASSY | | SIDDONS THEATRE BUILDING | | ROOM 1400 | | | | "STUFF WITH A PUNCH" | | | | LAZY DAISY EDDIE | | WILDCAT RAG ALL ABOARD FOR SLEEPYTOWN | | | +============================================+ For a brief interval Volkovisk, Rekower, and Merech regarded Jassy's card in silence. "Well," Merech said at last, "what of it?" Jassy shrugged and waved his hand significantly. "Nothing of it," he said, "only your friend there is knocking popular music; and though I admit that I didn't got to go to the _Wiener_ conservatory so as I could write popular music exactly, y'understand, still I could write sonatas and trios and quartets and even concerti and symphonies till I am black in the face already and I couldn't pay my laundry bill even." For answer Volkovisk turned to the piano and seized from the pile of music a blue-covered volume. It was the violin sonata of Richard Strauss, and handing the violin part to Rekower he seated himself on the stool. Then with a premonitory nod to Rekower he struck the opening chords, and for more than ten minutes Jassy and Merech sat motionless until the first movement was finished. "When Strauss wrote that he could _oser_ pay his laundry bill either," Volkovisk said, rising from the stool. He sat down wearily at the table and lit a cigarette. "So you see," he began, "Richard Strauss----" "Richard Strauss nothing!" cried an angry voice at his elbow. "If you want to practise, practise at home. I pay you here to play for my customers, not for yourselves, Volkovisk; and once and for all I am telling you you should cut out this nonsense and _spiel_ a little music once in a while." It was the proprietor, Marculescu, who spoke, and Volkovisk immediately seated himself at the piano. This time he took from the pile of music three small sheets, one of which he placed on the reading desk and the other on Rekower's violin stand. After handing the other sheet to the 'cellist he plunged into a furious rendition of "Wildcat Rag." In the front part of the café a group of men and women, whose clothes and manners proclaimed them to be slummers from the upper West Side, broke into noisy applause as the vulgar composition came to an end, and in the midst of their shouting and stamping Jassy rose trembling from his seat. He slunk between tables to the door, while Volkovisk began a repetition of the number, and it was not until he had turned the corner of the street and the melody had ceased to sound in his ears that he slackened his pace. When he did so, however, a friendly hand fell on his shoulder and he turned to find Max Merech close behind him. "_Nu_, Mr. Jassy," Max said, "you shouldn't be so broke up because you couldn't write so good as Richard Strauss." Jassy stood still and looked Max squarely in the eye. "That's just the point," he said in hollow tones. "Might I could if I tried; but I am such an _Epikouros_ that I don't want to try. I would sooner make money out of rubbish than be an artist like Volkovisk." Max shrugged and elevated his eyebrows. "A man must got to live," he said as he seized Jassy's arm and began gently to propel him back to the Café Román. "Sure, I know," Jassy said; "but living ain't all having good clothes to wear and good food to eat. Living for an artist like Volkovisk is composing music worthy of an artist. _Aber_ what do I do, Mister----" "Merech," Max said. "What do I do, Mr. Merech?" Jassy continued. "I am all the time throwing away my art in the streets with this rotten stuff I am composing." * * * * * "Well, I tell you," Max said after they had reëntered the café and had seated themselves at a table remote from the piano, "composing music is like manufacturing garments, Mr. Jassy. Some one must got to cater to the popular-price trade and only a few manufacturers gets to the point where they make up a highgrade line for the exclusive retailers. Ain't it?" Jassy nodded as the waiter brought the cups of coffee. "Now you take me, for instance," Max continued. "Once I worked by B. Gans, which I assure you, Mr. Jassy, it was a pleasure to handle the goods in that place. What an elegant line of silks and embroidery they got it there! Believe me, Mr. Jassy, every day I went to work there like I would be going to a wedding already, such a beautiful goods they made it! _Aber_ now I am working by a popular-price concern, Mr. Jassy, which, you could take it from me, the colors them people puts together in one garment gives me the indigestion already!" Again Jassy nodded sympathetically. "And why did I make a change?" Max went on. "Because them people pays me seven dollars a week more as B. Gans, Mr. Jassy; and though art is art, understand me, seven dollars a week ain't to be coughed at neither." For a few minutes Jassy sipped his coffee in silence. "That's all right, too," he said; "but with garments you could make just so much money manufacturing a highgrade line as you could if you are making a popular-price line." Max nodded sapiently. "I give you right there," he agreed, "and that's because the manufacturer of the highgrade line does business in the same way as the popular-price concern. _Aber_ you take the composer of highgrade music and all he does is compose. He's too proud to poosh it, Mr. Jassy; whereas the feller what composes popular music he's just the same like the feller what manufacturers a popular-price line of garments--he not only manufacturers his line but he pooshes it till he gets a market for it." "There ain't no market for a highclass line of music," Jassy said hopelessly. "Why ain't there?" Max demanded. "Did you ever try to market a symphony? Did Volkovisk ever try to get anybody with money interested in his stuff? No, sirree, sir! All that feller does is to play it to a lot of _Schnorrers_ like me, which no matter how much we like his work we couldn't help him none. Now you take your own case, for instance. You told us a few minutes ago you are writing some music for a new show. Now, if you wouldn't mind my asking, who is putting in the capital for that show?" "Well," Jassy replied, "a feller called Benson is putting it in and part of the capital is from his own money and the rest he borrows." "Just like a new beginner would do in the garment business," Max commented. "_Aber_ who does he borrow it from? A bank maybe--what?" "Some he gets from a bank," Jassy replied, "and the rest is he trying to raise elsewheres. To-night he tells me he is getting an introduction to a business man which he hopes to lend from him five _oder_ ten thousand dollars." "Five _oder_ ten thousand dollars!" Max cried. "_Shema beni._ For five thousand dollars Volkovisk could publish all the music he ever wrote and give a whole lot of recitals in the bargain. One thousand dollars would be enough even." "That I wouldn't deny at all," Jassy rejoined. "_Aber_ who would you find stands willing he should invest in Volkovisk's music a thousand dollars? Would he ever get back his thousand dollars even, let alone any profits?" "It's a speculation, I admit," Max commented; "but you take Richard Strauss, for instance, and if some feller would staked Strauss to a thousand dollars capital when he needed it, understand me, not alone he would got his money back but if we would say, for example, the thousand dollars represents a ten-per-cent interest in Strauss' business, to-day yet the feller would be worth his fifty thousand dollars, because everybody knows what a big success Strauss made. Actually the feller must got orders at least six months ahead. Why for one song alone they pay him a couple thousand dollars!" "Well," Jassy asked, "if you feel there's such a future in it why don't you raise a thousand dollars and finance Volkovisk?" Max laughed aloud. "Me--I couldn't raise nothing," he said; "_aber_ you--you are feeling sore at yourself because you are writing popular stuff. Here's a chance for you to square yourself with your art. Why don't you help Volkovisk out? All you got to do is to find out who is loaning this here Benson the ten thousand dollars and get him to stake Volkovisk to a thousand." Jassy tapped the table with his fingers. "For that matter I could say the same thing to you," he declared. "You consider Volkovisk's talent so high as a business proposition, Merech, why don't you get some business man interested--one of your bosses, for instance?" He rose from his chair as he spoke and placed ten cents on the table as his share of the evening's expenses. "Think it over," he said; and long after he had closed the door behind him Max sat still with his hands in his trousers pocket and pondered the suggestion. "After all," he mused as Marculescu began to turn out the lights one by one, "why shouldn't I--the very first thing in the morning?" It was not, however, until Polatkin and Scheikowitz had gone out to lunch the following day, leaving Elkan alone in the office, that Max could bring his courage to the sticking point; and so fearful was he that he might regret his boldness before it was too late, he fairly ran from the cutting room to the office and delivered his preparatory remarks in the outdoor tones of a political spellbinder. "Mr. Lubliner," he cried, "could I speak to you a few words something?" Elkan rose and slammed the door. "Say, lookyhere, Merech," he said, "if you want a raise don't let the whole factory know about it, otherwise we would be pestered to death here. Remember, also," he continued as he sat down again, "you are only working for us a few weeks--and don't go so quick as all that." "What d'ye mean, a raise?" Max asked. "I ain't said nothing at all about a raise. I am coming to see you about something entirely different already." Elkan looked ostentatiously at his watch. "I ain't got too much time, Merech," he said. "Nobody's got too much time when it comes to fellers asking for raises, Mr. Lubliner," Max retorted; "_aber_ this here is something else again, as I told you." "Well, don't beat no bushes round, Merech!" Elkan cried impatiently. "What is it you want from me?" "I want from you this," Max began huskily: "Might you know Tschaikovsky maybe _oder_ Rimsky-Korsakoff." "Tschaikovsky I never heard of," Elkan replied, "nor the other concern neither. Must be new beginners in the garment business--ain't it?" "They never was in the garment business, so far as I know," Max continued; "_aber_ they made big successes even if they wasn't, because all the money ain't in the garment business, Mr. Lubliner, and Tschaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakoff, even in the old country, made so much money they lived in palaces yet. Once when I was a boy already, Tschaikovsky comes to Minsk and they got up a parade for him--such a big _Macher_ he was!" "I don't doubt your word for a minute, Merech; _aber_ what is all this got to do _mit_ me?" "It ain't got nothing to do with you, Mr. Lubliner," Max declared--"only I got a friend by the name Boris Volkovisk, and believe me or not, Mr. Lubliner, in some respects Tschaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakoff could learn from that feller, because, you could take it from me, Mr. Lubliner, there's some passages in the Fifth Symphony, understand me, which I hate to say it you could call rotten!" Elkan stirred uneasily in his chair. "I don't know what you are talking about at all," he said. "I am talking about this," Max replied; and therewith he began to explain to Elkan the aspirations and talent of Boris Volkovisk and his--Max'--scheme for their successful development. For more than half an hour he unfolded a plan by which one thousand dollars might be judiciously expended so as to secure the maximum benefit to Volkovisk's career--a plan that during the preceding two years Volkovisk and he had thoroughly discussed over many a cup of coffee in Marculescu's café. "And so you see, Mr. Lubliner," he concluded, "it's a plain business proposition; and if you was to take for your thousand dollars, say, for example, a one-tenth interest in the business Volkovisk expects to do, understand me, you would get a big return for your investment." Elkan lit a cigar and puffed away reflectively before speaking. "_Nu_," he said at last; "so that is what you wanted to talk to me about?" Max nodded. "Well, then, all I could say is," Elkan went on, "you are coming to the wrong shop. A business proposition like that is for a banker, which he is got so much money he don't know what to do with it, Merech." Max' face fell and he turned disconsolately away. "At the same time, Max," Elkan added, "I ain't feeling sore that you come to me with the proposition, understand me. The trouble ain't with you that you got such an idee, Max; the trouble is with me that I couldn't see it. It's like a feller by the name Dalzell, a buyer for Kammerman's store, says to me this morning. 'Lubliner,' he says, 'I couldn't afford to take no chances buying highgrade garments from a feller that is used to making a popular-price line,' he says, 'because no matter how well equipped your factory would be the trouble is a popular-price manufacturer couldn't think big enough to turn out expensive garments. To such a manufacturer goods at two dollars a yard is the limit, and goods at ten dollars a yard he couldn't imagine at all. And even if he could induce himself to use stuff at ten dollars a yard, y'understand, it goes against him to be liberal with such high-priced goods, so he skimps the garment.'" He blew a great cloud of smoke as a substitute for a sigh. "And Dalzell was right, Max," he concluded. "You couldn't expect that a garment manufacturer like me is going to got such big idees as investing a thousand dollars in a highgrade scheme like yours. With me a thousand dollars means so many yards piece goods, so many sewing machines or a week's payroll; _aber_ it don't mean giving a musician a show he should compose highgrade music. I ain't educated up to it, Max; so I wish you luck that you should raise the money somewheres else." * * * * * When M. Sidney Benson entered his office in the Siddons Theatre Building late that afternoon he found Jassy seated at his desk in the mournful contemplation of some music manuscript. "_Nu_, Milton," Benson cried, "you shouldn't look so _rachmonos_. I surely think I got 'em coming!" "You think you got 'em coming!" Jassy repeated with bitter emphasis. "You said that a dozen times already--and always the feller wasn't so big a sucker like he looked!" "That was because I didn't work it right," Benson replied. "This time I am making out to do the feller a favour by letting him in on the show, and right away he becomes interested. His name is Elkan Lubliner, a manufacturer by cloaks and suits, and to-night he is coming down with his wife yet, and you are going to take 'em round to the 'Diners Out.'" "I am going to the 'Diners Out' _mit_ 'em?" Milton ejaculated with every inflection of horror and disgust. "Sure!" Benson replied cheerfully. "Six dollars it'll cost us, because Ryan pretty near laughs in my face when I asked him for three seats. But never mind, Milton, it'll be worth the money." "Will it?" Jassy retorted. "Well, not for me, Mr. Benson. Why, the last time I seen that show I says I wouldn't sit through it again for a hundred dollars." "A hundred dollars is a lot of money, Milton," Benson said. "_Aber_ I think if you work it right you will get a hundred times a hundred dollars before we are through, on account I really got this feller going. So you should listen to me and I would tell you just what you want to say to the feller between the acts." Therewith Benson commenced to unfold a series of "talking points" which he had spent the entire day in formulating; and, as he proceeded, Jassy's eyes wandered from the title page of the manuscript music inscribed "Opus 47--Trio in G moll," and began to glow in sympathy with Benson's well-laid plan. "There's no use shilly-shallying, Milton," Benson concluded. "The season is getting late, and if we're ever going to put on that show now is the time." Milton nodded eagerly. "_Aber_ why don't you take 'em to the show yourself, Mr. Benson?" he asked hopefully. "Because, not to jolly you at all, Mr. Benson, I must got to say it you are a wonderful talker." Benson shrugged his shoulders and smiled weakly. "I am a wonderful talker, I admit," he agreed; "but I got a hard face, Milton, whereas you, anyhow, look honest. So you should meet me at Hanley's afterward, understand me, and we would try to close the deal there and then." He dug his hand into his trousers pocket and produced a modest roll of bills, from which he detached six dollars. "Here is the money," he added, "and you should be here to meet them people at eight o'clock sharp." On the stroke of eight Milton Jassy returned to Benson's office in the Siddons Theatre Building and again seated himself at his desk in front of the pile of manuscript music. This time, however, he brushed aside the title page of his Opus 47 and spread out an evening paper to beguile the tedium of awaiting Benson's "prospects." Automatically he turned to the department headed Music and Musicians, and at the top of the column his eye fell on the following item: Ferencz Lánczhid, the Budapest virtuoso, will be the soloist at the concert this evening of the Philharmonic Society. He will play the Tschaikovsky Violin Concerto, Opus 35, and the remainder of the program will consist of Dvorák's Symphony, _Aus der Neuen Welt_, and the ever-popular Meistersinger Overture. Jassy heaved a tremulous sigh as he concluded the paragraph and leaned back in his chair, while in his ears sounded the adagio passage that introduces the first movement of the "New World Symphony." Simultaneously the occupant of the next office slammed down his rolltop desk and began to whistle a lively popular melody. It was "Wildcat Rag," and Milton struck the outspread newspaper with his clenched fist. Then rising to his feet he gathered together the loose pages of his "Opus 47" and placed them tenderly in a leather case just as the door opened and Elkan and Yetta entered. "I hope we ain't late," Elkan said. "Not at all," Milton replied. "This is Mr. and Mrs. Lubliner--ain't it?" As he drew forward a chair for Yetta he saluted his visitors with a slight, graceful bow, a survival of his conservatory days. "Sit down," he said; "we got lots and lots of time." "I thought the show started at a quarter-past eight--ain't it?" Elkan asked. "It does and it doesn't," Milton replied hesitatingly; "that is to say, some shows start at a quarter-past eight and others not till half-past eight." "But I mean this here 'Diners Out' starts at a quarter-past eight--ain't it?" Elkan insisted. "'The Diners Out!'" Milton exclaimed as though he heard the name for the first time. "Oh, sure, the 'Diners Out' starts at a quarter-past eight, and that's just what I wanted to talk to you about." He turned to Yetta with an engaging smile which, with his black hair and his dark, melancholy eyes, completely won over that far from unimpressionable lady. "Now, Mrs. Lubliner," he began, "your husband is a business man--ain't it? And if some one comes to him and says, 'Mr. Lubliner, I got here two garments for the same price--say, for example, two dollars. One of 'em is made of cheap material, _aber_ plenty of it _mit_ cheap embroidery on it, understand me; while the other is from finest silk a garment--not much of it, y'understand, but plain and beautiful.'" "What for a garment could you got for two dollars?" Elkan asked--"especially a silk garment?" "He's only saying for example, Elkan," Yetta interrupted. "Garments I am only using, so to speak," Milton explained. "What I really mean is: You got your choice to go to a popular show like the 'Diners Out' or to a really highgrade show, Mr. Lubliner. So I leave it to you, Mr. Lubliner. Which shall it be?" Once again he smiled at Yetta. "Why, to the highgrade show, sure," Yetta replied, and she seized her husband by the arm. "Come along, Elkan!" she cried; and after Milton had secured the leather portfolio containing his "Opus 47" they proceeded immediately to the elevator. "We could walk over there from here," Milton said when they reached the sidewalk, and he led the way across town toward Carnegie Hall. "What for a show is this we are going to see?" Elkan asked. "Also a musical show?" Milton nodded. "The best musical show there is," he declared. "Do you like maybe to hear good music?" "I'm crazy about it," Yetta replied. "Symphonies, concerti and such things?" Milton inquired. "Symphonies?" Elkan repeated. "What is symphonies?" "I couldn't explain it to you," Milton said, "because we ain't got time; _aber_ you would see for yourself. Only one thing I must tell you, Mr. Lubliner--when the orchestra plays you shouldn't speak nothing--Mrs. Lubliner neither." "I wouldn't open my mouth at all," Elkan assured him solemnly; and a few minutes later Milton seated himself in the last row of the parterre at Carnegie Hall, with Elkan and Yetta--one each side of him. "So you ain't never been to a symphony concert before?" Milton began, leaning toward Elkan; and, as the latter shook his head, a short, stout person in the adjoining seat raised his eyebrows involuntarily. "Well, you got a big pleasure in store for you," Milton went on; "and another thing I must got to tell you: Might you would hear some pretty jumpy music which you would want to keep time to _mit_ your foot. Don't you do it!" Elkan's neighbour concealed a smile with one hand, and then, he, too, turned to Elkan, who had received Milton's warning with a sulky frown. "You're friend is right," he said. "People always have to be told that the first time they go to a symphony concert; and the next time they go they not only see the wisdom of such advice, but they want to get up and lick the man that does beat time with his foot." He accompanied his remark with so gracious a smile that Elkan's frown immediately relaxed. "A new beginner couldn't get too much advice," he said, and his neighbour leaned farther forward and addressed Milton. "You've chosen a fine program to introduce your friend to good music with," he said; and therewith began a lively conversation that lasted until a round of applause signalized the appearance of the conductor. The next moment he raised his baton and the celli began to sigh the mournful phrase which ushers in the symphony. Milton leaned back luxuriously as the woodwind commenced the next phrase; and then, while the introduction ended with a sweeping crescendo and the tempo suddenly increased, Elkan sat up and his eyes became fixed on the trombone and trumpet players. He maintained this attitude throughout the entire first movement, and it was not until the conductor's arm fell motionless at his side that he settled back in his seat. "Well," Milton asked, "what do you think of it?" "A-Number-One!" Elkan answered hoarsely. "It would suit me just so well if it would last the whole evening and we wouldn't have no singing and dancing at all." "What do you mean--no singing and dancing!" Milton exclaimed. "Sure!" Elkan continued. "I wish them fellers would play the whole evening." The conductor tapped his desk with his baton. "Don't worry," Milton commented as he settled himself for the next movement. "You'll get your wish all right." Elkan looked inquiringly at his mentor, but Milton only placed his forefinger to his lips; and thereafter, until the conclusion of the symphony, the pauses between the movements of the symphony were so brief that Elkan had no opportunity to make further inquiries. "Well, neighbour," asked the gentleman on his right, as the musicians filed off the stage for the ten-minutes' intermission, "what do you think of your first symphony?" Elkan smiled and concealed his shyness by clearing his throat. "The symphony is all right," he said; "but, with all them operators there, what is the use they are trying to save money hiring only one foreman?" "One foreman?" his neighbour cried. "Sure--the feller with the stick," Elkan went on blandly. "Naturally he couldn't keep his eye on all them people at oncet--ain't it? I am watching them fellers, which they are working them big brass machines, for the last half hour, and except for five or ten minutes they sit there doing absolutely nothing--just fooling away their time." "Them fellers ain't fooling away their time," Milton said gravely. "They ain't got nothing to do only at intervals." "Then I guess they must pay 'em by piecework--ain't it?" Elkan asked. "They pay 'em so much a night," Milton explained. "Well, in that case, Mr. Jassy," Elkan continued, "all I could say is if I would got working in my place half a dozen fellers which I am paying by the day, understand me, and the foreman couldn't keep 'em busy only half the time, _verstehst du_, he would quick look for another job." Elkan's neighbour on the right had been growing steadily more crimson, and at last he hurriedly seized his hat and passed out into the aisle. "That's a pretty friendly feller," Elkan said as he gazed after him. "Do you happen to know his name?" "I ain't never heard his name," Milton replied; "but he is seemingly crazy about music. I seen him here every time I come." "Well, I don't blame him none," Elkan commented; "because you take the Harlem Winter Garden, for instance, and though the music is rotten, understand me, they got the nerve to charge you yet for a lot of food which half the time you don't want at all; whereas here they didn't even ask us we should buy so much as a glass beer." At this juncture the short, stout person returned and proceeded to entertain Elkan and Yetta by pointing out among the audience the figures of local and international millionaires. "And all them fellers is crazy about music too?" Elkan asked. "So crazy," his neighbour said, "that the little man over there, with the white beard, spends almost twenty thousand a year on it!" "And yet," Milton said bitterly, "there's plenty fellers in the city which year in and year out composes chamber music and symphonic music which they couldn't themselves make ten dollars a week; and, when it comes right down to it, none of them millionaires would loosen up to such new beginners for even five hundred dollars to help them get a hearing." The short person received Milton's outburst with a faint smile. "I've heard that before," he commented, "but I never had the pleasure of meeting any of those great unknown composers." "That's because most of 'em is so bashful they ain't got sense enough to push themselves forward," Milton replied; "_aber_ if you really want to meet one I could take you to-night yet to a café on Delancey Street where there is playing a trio which the pianist is something you could really call a genius." "You don't tell me!" Elkan's neighbour cried. "Why, I should be delighted to go with you." "How about it, Mr. Lubliner?" Milton asked. "Are you and Mrs. Lubliner agreeable to go downtown after the show to the café on Delancey Street? It's a pretty poor neighbourhood already." Yetta smiled. "Sure, I know," she said; "but it wouldn't be the first time me and Elkan was in Delancey Street." "Then it's agreed that we're all going to hear the genius," Elkan's neighbour added. "I heard you call one another Jassy and Lubliner--it's hardly fair you shouldn't know my name too." He felt in his waistcoat pocket and finally handed a visiting card to Elkan, who glanced at it hurriedly and with trembling fingers passed it on to his wife, for it was inscribed in old English type as follows: +==============================+ | | | =Mr. Joseph Kammerman= | | | | =Fostoria Hotel= | | | | =New York= | | | +==============================+ "Once and for all, I am telling you, Volkovisk, either you would got to play music here or quit!" Marculescu cried at eleven o'clock that evening. "The customers is all the time kicking at the stuff you give us." "What d'ye mean, stuff?" Max Merech protested. "That was no stuff, Mr. Marculescu. That was from Brahms a trio, and it suits me down to the ground." "Suits you!" Marculescu exclaimed. "Who in blazes are you?" "I am _auch_ a customer, Mr. Marculescu," Max replied with dignity. "_Yow_, a customer!" Marculescu jeered. "You sit here all night on one cup coffee. A customer, _sagt er_! A loafer--that's what you are! It ain't you I am making my money from, Merech--it's from them _Takeefim_[A] uptown; and they want to hear music, not Brahms. So you hear what I am telling you, Volkovisk! You should play something good--like 'Wildcat Rag'." [Footnote A: _Takeefim_--Aristocracy.] "Wait a minute, Mr. Marculescu," Max interrupted. "Do you mean to told me them lowlife bums in front there, which makes all that _Geschrei_ over 'Dixerlie' and such like _Narrischkeit_, is _Takeefim_ yet?" "I don't want to listen to you at all, Merech!" Marculescu shouted. "I don't care if you want to listen to me _oder_ not," Merech said. "I was a customer here when you got one little store _mit_ two waiters; and it was me and all the other fellers you are calling loafers now what give you, with our few pennies, your first start. Now you are too good for us with your uptown _Takeefim_. Why, them same _Takeefim_ only comes here, in the first place, because they want to see what it looks like in one of the East Side cafés, where they got such good music and such interesting characters, which sits and drinks coffee and plays chess _und Tarrok_." He glared at the enraged Marculescu and waved his hands excitedly. "What you call loafers they call interesting characters, Mr. Marculescu," he continued, "and what you call stuff they call good music--and that's the way it goes, Mr. Marculescu. You are a goose which is killing its own golden eggs!" "So!" Marculescu roared. "I am a goose, am I? You loafer, you! Out of here before I kick you out!" "You wouldn't kick nothing," Max rejoined, "because I am happy to go out from here! Where all the time is being played such _Machshovos_ like 'Wildcat Rag,' I don't want to stay at all." He rose from his chair and flung ten cents on to the table. "And furthermore," he cried by way of peroration, "people don't got to come five miles down to Delancey Street to hear 'Wildcat Rag,' Mr. Marculescu; so, if you keep on playing it, Mr. Marculescu, you will quick find that it's an elegant tune to bust up to--and that's all I got to say!" As he walked away, Marculescu made a sign to his pianist. "Go ahead, Volkovisk--play 'Wildcat Rag!'" he said. Then he followed Max to the front of the café; and before they reached the front tables, at which sat the slummers from uptown, Volkovisk began to pound out the hackneyed melody. "That's what I think of your arguments, Merech!" Marculescu said, walking behind the cashier's desk. Max paused to crush him with a final retort; but even as he began to deliver it his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, for at that instant the door opened and there entered a party of four, with Elkan Lubliner in the van. A moment later, however, Milton Jassy pushed his guests to one side and strode angrily toward Marculescu. "_Koosh!_" he bellowed and stamped his foot on the floor, whereat the music ceased and even the uptown revellers were startled into silence. Only Marculescu remained unabashed. "Say," he shouted as he rushed from behind his desk, "what do you think this joint is?--a joint!" "I think what I please, Marculescu," Milton said, "and you should tell Volkovisk to play something decent. Also you should bring us two quarts from the best Tchampanyer wine--from French wine Tchampanyer, not _Amerikanischer_." He waved his hand impatiently and three waiters--half of Marculescu's entire staff--came on the jump; so that, a moment later, Jassy and his guests were divested of their wraps and seated at one of the largest tables facing the piano. It was not until then that Milton descried Max Merech hovering round the door. "Merech!" he called. "_Kommen sie 'r über!_" Max shook his head shyly and half-opened the door, but Elkan forestalled him. He fairly bounded from the table and caught his assistant cutter by the arm just as he was disappearing on to the sidewalk. "Max," he said, "what's the matter with you? Ain't you coming in to meet my wife?" Max shrugged in embarrassment. "You don't want me to butt into your party, Mr. Lubliner!" he said. "Listen, Max," Elkan almost pleaded; "not only do I want you to, but you would be doing me a big favour if you would come in and join us. Also, Max, I am going to introduce you as our designer. You ain't got no objections?" "Not at all," Max replied, and he followed his employer into the café. "Yetta," Elkan began, "I think you seen Mr. Merech before--ain't it?" Mrs. Lubliner smiled and extended her hand. "How do you do, Mr. Merech?" she said; and Max bowed awkwardly. "Mr. Kammerman," Elkan continued, "this is our designer, Max Merech; and I could assure you, Mr. Kammerman, a very good one too. He's got a great eye for colour." "And a good ear for music," Milton added as Kammerman shook the blushing dilettante by the hand. "In fact, Mr. Kammerman, if he has got such taste in designing as he is showing in music," Milton went on, "he must be a wonder! Nothing suits him but the best. And now, if you will excuse me, I'll get Volkovisk he should play you his sonata." He left the table with his leather portfolio under his arm, and for more than five minutes he held an earnest consultation with Volkovisk and the cellist, after which he returned smiling to his seat. "First Volkovisk plays his sonata, 'Opus 30,'" he explained, "and then he would do a little thing of my own." He nodded briskly to Volkovisk, and Kammerman settled himself resignedly to a hearing of what he anticipated would be a commonplace piece of music. After the first six measures, however, he sat up straight in his chair and his face took on an expression of wonder and delight. Then, resting his elbow on the table, he nursed his cheek throughout the first movement in a posture of earnest attention. "Why," he cried as the musician paused, "this man is a genius!" Max Merech nodded. His face was flushed and his eyes were filled with tears. "What did I told you, Mr. Lubliner?" he said; and Jassy raised his hand for silence while Volkovisk began the second movement. This and the succeeding movements fully sustained the promise of the earlier portions of the composition; and when at length Volkovisk rose from the piano stool and approached the table Kammerman jumped from his chair and wrung the composer's hand. "Sit in my chair," he insisted, and snapped his fingers at Marculescu, who fumed impotently behind the cashier's desk. "Here," he called; "more wine--and look sharp about it!" Marculescu obeyed sulkily and again the glasses were filled. "Gentlemen," Kammerman said, "and Mrs. Lubliner, I ask you to drink to a great career just beginning." "Lots of people said that before," Max murmured after he had emptied his glass. "They said it," Kammerman replied, "but I pledge it. You shall play no more in this place, Volkovisk--and here is my hand on it." Max Merech beamed across the table at his employer. "Well, Mr. Lubliner," he said, "you lost your chance." Elkan shrugged and smiled. "Might you could find another of them genius fellers for me maybe, Max?" he said. And therewith Kammerman slapped Milton Jassy on the back. "By Jove! We forgot your trio," he said. "Play it, Volkovisk, as your valedictory here." Again Volkovisk sought the piano, and after whispered instructions to his assistants he began a rendition of Jassy's "Opus 47," from the manuscript Milton had brought with him; but, allowing for the faulty technic of the 'cellist and the uncertainty that attends the first reading from manuscript of any composition, there was little to recommend Jassy's work. "Very creditable!" Kammerman said at the end of the movement. "Perhaps we might hear the rest." Max kept his eyes fixed on the table to avoid looking at Jassy, and even Volkovisk seemed embarrassed as he swung round on the piano stool. "Well?" he said inquiringly. Jassy emitted a bitter laugh. "That'll do, Volkovisk," he replied hoarsely. "I guess it needs rehearsing." At this point Max attempted to create a diversion. "Look at that lady sitting there!" he said. "She puts on a yellow hat to an old-gold dress. She's committing murder and she don't know it!" Kammerman seized on the incident as a way of escape from criticising Jassy's trio. "That reminds me, Lubliner," he said. "Give me your business card if you have one with you. I must tell Mr. Dalzell, my cloak buyer, to look over your line. I'm sure, with a designer of Mr. Merech's artistic instincts working for you, you will be making up just the highgrade line of goods we need." * * * * * One year later, the usual crowd of first-nighters lounged in the lobby of the Siddons Theatre during the intermission between the second and third acts of M. Sidney Benson's newest musical comedy, "Marjory from Marguery's," and commented with enthusiasm on the song hit of the show--"My Blériot Maid." A number of the more gifted even whistled the melody, skipping the hard part and proceeding by impromptu and conventional modulation to the refrain, which had been expressly designed by its composer, Milton Jassy, so as to present no technical difficulties to the most modest whistler. Through this begemmed and piping throng, Kammerman and Volkovisk elbowed their way to the street for a breath of fresh air; and as they reached the sidewalk Kammerman heaved a sigh of relief. "What a terrible melody!" he ejaculated. "But the plot ain't bad," Volkovisk suggested, and Kammerman grinned involuntarily. "To be exact, the two plots aren't bad," he said. "It's made up of two old farces. One of them is '_Embrassons nous, Duval_,' and the other '_Un Garçon, de chez Gaillard_.'" "But the costumes are really something which you could call beautiful!" Volkovisk declared. "Merech approved the costumes too," Kammerman agreed with a laugh. "He left after the first act; and he said that if you endured it to the end you were to be sure to tell Jassy the colorings were splendid!" He lit a cigarette reflectively. "That man is a regular shark for coloring!" he said. "It seems that when I first met him that night he was only an assistant cutter; but Elkan Lubliner made him designer very shortly afterward--and it has proved a fine thing for both of them. I understand we bought fifteen thousand dollars' worth of goods from them during the past year!" "He deserved all the good luck that came to him," Volkovisk cried; and Kammerman placed his hand affectionately on his protégé's shoulder. "There's a special Providence that looks after artists," he said as they reëntered the theatre, "whether they paint, write, compose, or design garments." CHAPTER FIVE ONE OF ESAU'S FABLES THE MOUSE SCRATCHES THE LION'S BACK; THE LION SCRATCHES THE MOUSE'S BACK "No, Elkan," said Louis Stout, of Flugel & Stout. "When you are coming to compare Johnsonhurst _mit_ Burgess Park it's already a molehill to a mountain." "Burgess Park ain't such high ground neither," Elkan Lubliner retorted. "Max Kovner says he lives out there on Linden Boulevard three months only and he gets full up with malaria something terrible." "Malaria we ain't got it in Burgess Park!" Louis declared. "I am living there now six years, Elkan, and I never bought so much as a two-grain quinine pill. Furthermore, Elkan, Kovner's malaria you could catch in Denver, Colorado, or on an ocean steamer, y'understand; because, with a lowlife bum like Max Kovner, which he sits up till all hours of the night--a drinker and a gambler, understand me--you don't got to be a professor exactly to diagonize his trouble. It ain't malaria, Elkan, it's _Katzenjammer!_" "But my Yetta is stuck on Johnsonhurst," Elkan protested, "and she already makes up her mind we would move out there." "That was just the way with my wife," Louis said. "For six months she is crying all the time Ogden Estates; and if I would listen to her, Elkan, and bought out there, y'understand, instead we would be turning down offers on our house at an advance of twenty per cent. on the price we paid for it, we would be considering letting the property go under foreclosure! You ought to see that place Ogden Estates nowadays, Elkan--nothing but a bunch of Italieners lives there." "But----" Elkan began. "Another thing," Louis Stout broke in: "Out in Johnsonhurst what kind of society do you got? Moe Rabiner lives there, and Marks Pasinsky lives there--and _Gott weiss wer noch_. My partner, Mr. Flugel, is approached the other day with an offer of some property in Johnsonhurst, and I was really in favour he should take it up; but he says to me, 'Louis,' he says, 'a place where such people lives like Pasinsky and Rabiner I wouldn't touch at all!' And he was right, Elkan. Salesmen and designers only lives in Johnsonhurst; while out in Burgess Park we got a nice class of people living, Elkan. You know J. Kamin, of the Lee Printemps, Pittsburgh?" "Used to was one of our best customers," Philip Scheikowitz replied, "though he passed us up last year." "His sister, Mrs. Benno Ortelsburg, lives one house by the other with me," Louis went on. "Her husband does a big real-estate business there. Might you also know Julius Tarnowitz, of the Tarnowitz-Wixman Department Store, Rochester?" "Bought from us a couple years a small bill," Marcus Polatkin said. "I wish we could sell him more." "Well, his brother, Sig Tarnowitz, lives across the street from us," Louis cried triumphantly. "Sig's got a fine business there on Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn." "What for a business?" "A furniture business," Louis replied. "And might you would know also Joel Ribnik, which he is running the McKinnon-Weldon Drygoods Company, of Cyprus, Pennsylvania?" "That's the feller what you nearly sold that big bill to last month, Elkan," Scheikowitz commented. "Well, his sister is married to a feller by the name Robitscher, of Robitscher, Smith & Company, the wallpaper house and interior decorators. They got an elegant place down the street from us." "But----" Elkan began again. "But nothing, Elkan!" Marcus Polatkin interrupted with a ferocious wink; for Louis Stout, as junior partner in the thriving Williamsburg store of Flugel & Stout, was viewing Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company's line preparatory to buying his spring line of dresses. "But nothing, Elkan! Mr. Stout knows what he is talking about, Elkan; and if I would be you, instead I would argue with him, understand me, I would take Yetta out to Burgess Park on Sunday and give the place a look." "That's the idea!" Louis cried. "And you should come and take dinner with us first. Mrs. Stout would be delighted." "What time do you eat dinner?" Philip Scheikowitz asked, frowning significantly at Elkan. "Two o'clock," Louis replied, and Polatkin and Scheikowitz nodded in unison. "He'll be there," Polatkin declared. "At a quarter before two," Scheikowitz added and Elkan smiled mechanically by way of assent. "So come along, Mr. Stout," Polatkin said, "and look at them Ethel Barrymore dresses. I think you'll like 'em." He led Stout from the office as he spoke while Scheikowitz remained behind with Elkan. "Honest, Elkan," he said, "I'm surprised to see the way you are acting with Louis Stout!" "What do you mean, the way I'm acting, Mr. Scheikowitz?" Elkan protested. "Do you think I am going to buy a house in a neighbourhood which I don't want to live in at all just to oblige a customer?" "_Schmooes_, Elkan!" Scheikowitz exclaimed. "No one asks you you should buy a house there. Be a little reasonable, Elkan. What harm would it do you, supposing you and Yetta should go out to Burgess Park next Sunday? Because you know the way Louis Stout is, Elkan. He will look over our line for two weeks yet before he decides on his order--and meantime we shouldn't entegonize him." "I don't want to antagonize him," Elkan said; "but me and Yetta made our arrangements to go out to Johnsonhurst next Sunday." "Go out there the Sunday after," cried Scheikowitz. "Johnsonhurst would still be on the map, Elkan. It ain't going to run away exactly." Thus persuaded, Elkan and Yetta on the following Sunday elbowed their way through the crowd at the entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge, and after a delay of several minutes boarded a train for Burgess Park. "Well, all I can say is," Yetta gasped, after they had seized on the only vacant seats in the car, "if it's this way on Sunday what would it be on weekdays?" "There must have been a block," Elkan said meekly. Only by the exercise of the utmost marital diplomacy had he induced his wife to make the visit to Louis Stout's home, and one of his most telling arguments had been the advantage of the elevated railroad journey to Burgess Park over the subway ride to Johnsonhurst. "Furthermore," Yetta insisted, referring to another of Elkan's plausible reasons for visiting Burgess Park, "I suppose all these Italieners and _Bétzimmers_ are customers of yours which we was going to run across on our way down there. Ain't it?" Elkan blushed guiltily as he looked about him at the carload of holiday-makers; but a moment later he exclaimed aloud as he recognized in a seat across the aisle no less a person than Joseph Kamin, of Le Printemps, Pittsburgh. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Kamin?" he said. "Not Elkan Lubliner, from Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company?" Mr. Kamin exclaimed. "Well, who would think to meet you here!" He rose from his seat, whereat a bulky Italian immediately sank into it; and as livery of seizin he appropriated the comic section of Mr. Kamin's Sunday paper, which had fallen to the floor of the car, and spread it wide open in front of him. "Now you lost your seat," Elkan said; "so you should take mine." He jumped to his feet and Kamin sat down in his place, while a Neapolitan who hung on an adjacent strap viciously scowled his disappointment. "You ain't acquainted with Mrs. Lubliner?" Elkan said. "Pleased to meetcher," Kamin murmured. Yetta bowed stiffly and Elkan hastened to make conversation by way of relieving Mr. Kamin's embarrassment. "Looks like an early spring the way people is going to the country in such crowds," he said. "I bet yer," Kamin rejoined emphatically. "I arrived in New York two weeks ahead of my schedule, because I simply got to do my buying now or lose a lot of early spring trade." "Have you been in town long?" Elkan asked. "Only this morning," Kamin answered; "and I am going down to eat dinner with my sister, Mrs. Ortelsburg. She lives in Burgess Park." "Is that so?" Elkan exclaimed. "We ourselves are going to Burgess Park--to visit a friend." "A customer," Yetta corrected. "A customer could also be a friend," Kamin declared, "especially if he's a good customer." "This is a very good customer," Elkan went on, "by the name Louis Stout." "Louis Stout, from Flugel & Stout?" Kamin cried. "Why, him and Benno Ortelsburg is like brothers already! Well, then, I'll probably see you down in Burgess Park this afternoon, on account every Sunday afternoon Louis plays pinocle at my brother-in-law's house. Why don't he fetch you round to take a hand?" "I should be delighted," Elkan said; but Yetta sniffed audibly. "I guess we would be going home right after dinner, before the crowd starts back," she said. "Not on a fine day like this you wouldn't," Kamin protested; "because once you get out to Burgess Park you ain't in such a hurry to come back. I wish we would got such a place near Pittsburgh, Mrs. Lubliner. I bet yer I would quick move out there. The smoke gets worser and worser in Pittsburgh; in fact, it's so nowadays we couldn't sell a garment in pastel shades." "Well, we got plenty blacks, navy blues, Copenhagen blues and brown in our spring line, Mr. Kamin," Elkan said; and therewith he commenced so graphically to catalogue Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company's new stock that, by the time the train drew into Burgess Park, Kamin was making figures on the back of an envelope in an effort to convince Elkan that his prices were all wrong. "But, anyhow," Kamin said, as they parted in front of the Ortelsburgs' colonial residence, "I will see you in the store to-morrow morning sure." "You'll see me before then, because me and Yetta is coming round this afternoon sure--ain't we, Yetta?" Mrs. Lubliner nodded, for her good humour had been restored by Elkan's splendid exhibition of salesmanship. "This afternoon is something else again," Kamin said, "because a feller which tries to mix pinocle with business is apt to overplay his hand in both games." * * * * * "No, Joe; you're wrong," Benno Ortelsburg said to his brother-in-law, Joseph Kamin, as they sipped their after-dinner coffee in the Ortelsburg library that day. "It wouldn't be taking advantage of the feller at all. You say yourself he tries to sell goods to you on the car already. Why shouldn't we try to sell Glaubmann's house to him while he's down here? And we'll split the commission half and half." Kamin hesitated before replying. "In business, Joe--it's Esau's fable of the lion and the mouse every time!" Ortelsburg continued. "The mouse scratches the lion's back and the lion scratches the mouse's back! Ain't it?" "But you know so well as I do, Benno, that Glaubmann's house on Linden Boulevard ain't worth no eighteen thousand dollars," Kamin said. "Why ain't it?" Benno retorted. "Glaubmann's Linden Boulevard house is precisely the same house as this, built from the same plans and everything--and this house costs me thirteen thousand five hundred dollars. Suburban real estate is worth just so much as you can get some sucker to pay for it, Joe. So I guess I better get the cards and chips ready, because I see Glaubmann coming up the street now." A moment later Glaubmann entered the library and greeted Kamin uproariously. "Hello, Joe!" he cried. "How's the drygoods business in Pittsburgh?" "Not so good as the real-estate business in Burgess Park, Barney," Kamin replied. "They tell me you are selling houses hand over fist." "_Yow_--hand over fist!" Barnett cried. "If I carry a house six months and sell it at a couple thousand dollars' profit, what is it?" "I got to get rid of a whole lot of garments to make a couple thousand dollars, Barney," Kamin said; "and, anyhow, if you sell a house for eighteen thousand dollars which it cost you thirteen-five you would be making a little more as four thousand dollars." "Sure I would," Glaubmann replied; "_aber_ the people which buys green-goods and gold bricks ain't investing in eighteen-thousand-dollar propositions! Such yokels you could only interest in hundred-dollar lots between high and low water on some of them Jersey sandbars." "There is all kinds of come-ons, Barney," Joe said, "and the biggest one, understand me, is the business man who is willing to be played for a sucker, so as he can hold his customers' trade." "You got the proper real-estate spirit, Joe," Benno declared, as he returned with the cards and chips. "You don't allow the ground to grow under your feet. Just at present, though, we are going to spiel a little pinocle and we would talk business afterward." "Real estate ain't business," Kamin retorted. "It's a game like pinocle; and I got a little Jack of Diamonds and Queen of Spades coming round here in a few minutes which I would like to meld." "Now you are talking poetry," Barnett said. "Take it from me, Barney," Benno Ortelsburg interrupted, "this ain't no poetry. It's a fact; and if you could see your way clear to pay a thousand dollars' commission, y'understand, me and Joe is got a customer for your Linden Boulevard house at eighteen thousand dollars." "Jokes you are making me!" Barnett cried. "You shouldn't drink so much schnapps after dinner, Benno, because I could as much get eighteen thousand for that Linden Boulevard house as I would pay you a thousand dollars commission if I got it." "You ain't paying me the thousand dollars," Benno protested. "Don't you suppose Joe's got a look-in-here?" "And furthermore," Joe said, "you also got Louis Stout to consider. If you think Louis Stout is going to sit by and see a commission walk past him, Benno, you are making a big mistake." "I'm willing we should give Louis a hundred or so," Benno agreed. "We got to remember Louis is a customer of his also." "A customer of who's?" Barnett asked, as the doorbell rang. "_Stiegen!_" Benno hissed; and a moment later he ushered Elkan and Yetta into the library, while Mr. Stout brought up the rear. Benno cleared his throat preparatory to introducing the newcomers, but Louis Stout brushed hastily past him. "Mr. Glaubmann," Louis said, "this is my friend, Elkan Lubliner." "And you forget Mrs. Lubliner," cried Mrs. Ortelsburg, who had hurried downstairs at the sound of voices in the hall. "I'm Mrs. Ortelsburg," she continued, turning to Yetta. "Won't you come upstairs and take your things off?" "Elkan," Louis Stout continued, "you better go along with her. I want you to see what an elegant lot of clothes-closets they got upstairs. You know most houses is designed by archytecks which all they are trying to do is to save money for the builder. _Aber_ this archyteck was an exception. The way he figures it he tries to build the house to please the women, _mit_ lots of closet room, and--excuse me, ladies--to hell with the expenses! I'll go upstairs with you and show you what I mean." Benno frowned angrily. "'Tain't necessary, Louis," he said. "Mrs. Ortelsburg would show him." He drew forward chairs; and, after Elkan and Yetta had followed Mrs. Ortelsburg upstairs, he closed the library door. "Couldn't I introduce people in my own house, Stout?" he demanded. Louis Stout shrugged his shoulders. "If you mean as a matter of ettykit--yes," he retorted; "_aber_ if it's a real-estate transaction--no. When I bring a customer to Mr. Glaubmann for his Linden Boulevard house, Ortelsburg, I do the introducing myself, which afterward I don't want no broker to claim he earned the commission by introducing the customer first--understand me?" He seated himself and smiled calmly at Kamin, Glaubmann, and his host. "I ain't living in the country for my health exactly," he declared, "and don't you forget it." "Where's your written authorization from the owner?" Ortelsburg demanded, raising a familiar point of real-estate brokerage law; and Stout tapped his breast pocket. "Six months ago already," Stout replied, "Mr. Glaubmann writes me if I hear of a customer for his house he would protect me, and I got the letter here in my pocket. Ain't that right, Mr. Glaubmann?" Glaubmann had walked toward the window and was looking out upon the budding white poplars that spread their branches at a height of six feet above the sidewalks of Burgess Park. He nodded in confirmation of Louis' statement; and as he did so a short, stout person, who was proceeding hurriedly down the street in the direction of the station, paused in front of the Ortelsburg residence. A moment later he rang the bell and Ortelsburg himself opened the door. "_Nu_, Mr. Kovner!" he said. "What could I do for you?" "Mr. Glaubmann just nods to me out of your window," Max Kovner replied, "and I thought he wants to speak to me." Benno returned to the library with Max at his heels. "Do you want to speak to Mr. Kovner, Glaubmann?" he asked, and Glaubmann started perceptibly. During the months of Max Kovner's tenancy Glaubmann had not only refrained from visiting his Linden Boulevard house, but he had also performed feats of disappearance resembling Indian warfare in his efforts to avoid Max Kovner on the streets of Burgess Park. All this was the result of Max Kovner's taking possession of the Linden Boulevard house upon Glaubmann's agreement to make necessary plumbing repairs and to paint and repaper the living rooms; and Glaubmann's complete breach of this agreement was reflected in the truculency of Max Kovner's manner as he entered the Ortelsburg library. "Maybe Glaubmann don't want to speak to me," he cried, "but I want to speak to him, and in the presence of you gentlemen here also." He banged Ortelsburg's library table with his clenched fist. "Once and for all, Mr. Glaubmann," he said, "either you would fix that plumbing and do that painting, understand me, or I would move out of your Linden Boulevard house the first of next month sure!" Glaubmann received this ultimatum with a defiant grin. "_Schmooes_, Kovner," he said, "you wouldn't do nothing of the kind! You got _mit_ me a verbal lease for one year in the presence of my wife, your wife and a couple of other people which the names I forget." "And how about the repairs?" Kovner demanded. "If you seen the house needs repairs and you go into possession anyhow," Glaubmann retorted, "you waive the repairs, because the agreement to repair merges in the lease. That's what Kent J. Goldstein, my lawyer, says, Kovner; and ask any other lawyer, Kovner, and he could tell you the same." "So," Kovner exclaimed, "I am stuck with that rotten house for a year! Is that the idee?" Glaubmann nodded. "All right, Mr. Glaubmann," Kovner concluded. "You are here in a strange house to me and I couldn't do nothing; but I am coming over to your office to-morrow, and if I got to sit there all day, understand me, we would settle this thing up." "That's all right," Ortelsburg interrupted. "When you got real-estate business with Glaubmann, Mr. Kovner, his office is the right place to see him. _Aber_ here is a private house and Sunday, Mr. Kovner, and we ain't doing no real-estate business here. So, if you got a pressing engagement somewheres else, Mr. Kovner, don't let me hurry you." He opened the library door, and with a final glare at his landlord Max passed slowly out. "That's a dangerous feller," Glaubmann said as his tenant banged the street door behind him. "He goes into possession for one year without a written lease containing a covenant for repairs by the landlord, y'understand, and now he wants to blame me for it! Honestly, the way some people acts so unreasonable, Kamin, it's enough to sicken me with the real-estate business!" Kamin nodded sympathetically, but Louis Stout made an impatient gesture by way of bringing the conversation back to its original theme. "That ain't here or there," he declared. "The point is I am fetching you a customer for your Linden Boulevard house, Glaubmann, and I want this here matter of the commission settled right away." Ortelsburg rose to his feet as a shuffling on the stairs announced the descent of his guests. "Commissions we would talk about afterward," he said. "First let us sell the house." * * * * * In Benno Ortelsburg's ripe experience there were as many methods of selling suburban residences as there were residences for sale; and, like the born salesman he was, he realized that each transaction possessed its individual obstacles, to be overcome by no hard-and-fast rules of salesmanship. Thus he quickly divined that whoever sought to sell Elkan a residence in Burgess Park must first convince Yetta, and he proceeded immediately to apportion the chips for a five-handed game of auction pinocle, leaving Yetta to be entertained by his wife. Mrs. Ortelsburg's powers of persuasion in the matter of suburban property were second only to her husband's, and the game had not proceeded very far when Benno looked into the adjoining room and observed with satisfaction that Yetta was listening open-mouthed to Mrs. Ortelsburg's fascinating narrative of life in Burgess Park. "Forty hens we got it," she declared; "and this month alone they are laying on us every day a dozen eggs--some days ten, or nine at the least. Then, of course, if we want a little fricassee once in a while we could do that also." "How do you do when you are getting all of a sudden company?" Yetta asked. "I didn't see no delicatessen store round here." "You didn't?" Mrs. Ortelsburg exclaimed. "Why, right behind the depot is Mrs. J. Kaplan's a delicatessen store, which I am only saying to her yesterday, 'Mrs. Kaplan,' I says, 'how do you got all the time such fresh, nice smoke-tongue here?' And she says, 'It's the country air,' she says, 'which any one could see; not alone smoke-tongue keeps fresh, _aber_ my daughter also, when she comes down here,' she says, 'she is pale like anything--and look at her now!' And it's a fact, Mrs. Lubliner, the daughter did look sick, and to-day yet she's got a complexion fresh like a tomato already. That's what Burgess Park done for her!" "But don't you got difficulty keeping a girl, Mrs. Ortelsburg?" Yetta inquired. "Difficulty?" Mrs. Ortelsburg cried. "Why, just let me show you my kitchen. The girls love it here. In the first place, we are only twenty minutes from Coney Island; and, in the second place, with all the eggs which we got it, they could always entertain their fellers here in such a fine, big kitchen, which I am telling my girl, Lena: 'So long as you give 'em omelets or fried eggs _mit_ fat, Lena, I don't care how many eggs you use--_aber_ butter is butter in Burgess Park _oder_ Harlem.'" In this vein Mrs. Ortelsburg continued for more than an hour, while she conducted Yetta to the kitchen and cellar and back again to the bedrooms above stairs, until she decided that sufficient interest had been aroused to justify the more robust method of her husband. She therefore returned to the library, and therewith began for Benno Ortelsburg the real business of the afternoon. "Well, boys," he said, "I guess we would quit pinocle for a while and join the ladies." He chose for this announcement a moment when Elkan's chips showed a profit of five dollars; and as, in his capacity of banker, he adjusted the losses of the other players, he kept up a merry conversation directed at Mrs. Lubliner. "Here in Burgess Park," he said, "we play pinocle and we leave it alone; while in the city when a couple business men play pinocle they spend a day at it--and why? Because they only get a chance to play pinocle once in a while occasionally. Every night they are going to theatre _oder_ a lodge affair, understand me; whereas here, the train service at night not being so extra elegant, y'understand, we got good houses and we stay in 'em; which in Burgess Park after half-past seven in the evening any one could find a dozen pinocle games to play in--and all of 'em breaks up by half-past ten already." With this tribute to the transit facilities and domesticity of Burgess Park, he concluded stacking up the chips and turned to Mrs. Lubliner. "Yes, Mrs. Lubliner," he continued with an amiable smile, "if you wouldn't persuade your husband to move out to Burgess Park, understand me, I shall consider it you don't like our house here at all." "But I do like your house!" Yetta protested. "I should hope so," Benno continued, "on account it would be a poor compliment to a lot of people which could easy be good customers of your husband. For instance, this house was decorated by Robitscher, Smith & Company, which Robitscher lives across the street already; and his wife is Joel Ribnik's--the McKinnon-Weldon Drygoods Company's--a sister already." "You don't tell me?" Yetta murmured. "And Joel is staying with 'em right now," Benno went on. "Furthermore, we got our furniture and carpets by Sig Tarnowitz, which he lives a couple of doors down from here--also got relatives in the retail drygoods business by the name Tarnowitz-Wixman Drygoods Company. The brother, Julius Tarnowitz, is eating dinner with 'em to-day." "It's a regular buyers' colony here, so to speak," Louis Stout said, and Joseph Kamin nodded. "Tell you what you do, Benno," Joseph suggested. "Get Tarnowitz and Ribnik to come over here. I think Elkan would like to meet them." Benno slapped his thigh with a resounding blow. "That's a great idee!" he cried; and half an hour later the Ortelsburg library was thronged with visitors, for not only Joel Ribnik and Julius Tarnowitz had joined Benno's party, but seated in easy chairs were Robitscher, the decorator, and Tarnowitz, the furniture dealer. "Yes, siree, sir!" Robitscher cried. "Given the same decorative treatment to that Linden Boulevard house, Mr. Lubliner, and it would got Ortelsburg's house here skinned to pieces, on account over there it is more open and catches the sun afternoon and morning both." During this pronouncement Elkan's face wore a ghastly smile and he underwent the sensations of the man in the tonneau of a touring car which is beginning to skid toward a telegraph pole. "In that case I should recommend you don't buy a Kermanshah rug for the front room," Sigmund Tarnowitz interrupted. "I got in my place right now an antique Beloochistan, which I would let go at only four hundred dollars." "_Aber_ four hundred dollars is an awful lot of money to pay for a rug," Elkan protested. He had avoided looking at Yetta for the past half-hour; but now he glanced fearfully at her, and in doing so received a distinct shock, for Yetta sat with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, inoculated beyond remedy with the virus of the artistic-home fever. "Four hundred ain't so much for a rug," she declared. "Not for an antique Beloochistan," Sig Tarnowitz said, "because every year it would increase in value on you." "Just the same like that Linden Boulevard house," Ortelsburg added, "which you could take it from me, Mrs. Lubliner, if you don't get right away an offer of five hundred dollars advance on your purchase price I would eat the house, plumbing and all." At the word "plumbing" Glaubmann started visibly. "The plumbing would be fixed so good as new," he said; "and I tell you what I would do also, Mr. Lubliner--I would pay fifty per cent. of the decorations if Mr. Ortelsburg would make me an allowance of a hundred dollars on the commission!" "Could anything be fairer than this?" Ortelsburg exclaimed; and he grinned maliciously as Louis Stout succumbed to a fit of coughing. "But we ain't even seen the house!" Elkan cried. "Never mind we ain't seen it," Yetta said; "if the house is the same like this that's all I care about." "Sure, I know," Elkan replied; "but I want to see the house first before I would even commence to think of buying it." "_Schon gut!_" Glaubmann said. "I ain't got no objection to show you the house from the outside; _aber_ there is at present people living in the house, understand me, which for the present we couldn't go inside." "Mr. Lubliner don't want to see the inside, Glaubmann!" Ortelsburg cried, in tones implying that he deprecated Glaubmann's suggestion as impugning Elkan's good faith in the matter. "The inside would be repaired and decorated to suit, Mr. Glaubmann, but the outside he's got a right to see; so we would all go round there and give a look." Ten minutes afterward a procession of nine persons passed through the streets of Burgess Park and lingered on the sidewalk opposite Glaubmann's house. There Ortelsburg descanted on the comparatively high elevation of Linden Boulevard and Mrs. Ortelsburg pointed out the chicken-raising possibilities of the back lot; and, after gazing at the shrubbery and incipient shade trees that were planted in the front yard, the line of march was resumed in the direction of Burgess Park's business neighbourhood. Another pause was made at Mrs. J. Kaplin's delicatessen store; and, laden with packages of smoked tongue, Swiss cheese and dill pickles, the procession returned to the Ortelsburg residence marshalled by Benno Ortelsburg, who wielded as a baton a ten-cent loaf of rye bread. Thus the remainder of the evening was spent in feasting and more pinocle until nearly midnight, when Elkan and Yetta returned to town on the last train. Hence, with his late homecoming and the Ortelsburgs' delicatessen supper, Elkan slept ill that night, so that it was past nine o'clock before he arrived at his office the following morning. Instead of the satirical greeting which he anticipated from his senior partner, however, he was received with unusual cordiality by Polatkin, whose face was spread in a grin. "Well, Elkan," he said, "you done a good job when you decided to buy that house." "When I decided to buy the house? Who says I decided to buy the house?" Elkan cried. "J. Kamin did," Polatkin explained. "He was here by a quarter to eight already; and not alone J. Kamin was here, but Joel Ribnik and Julius Tarnowitz comes in also. Scheikowitz and me has been on the jump, I bet yer; in fact, Scheikowitz is in there now with J. Kamin and Tarnowitz. Between 'em, those fellers has picked out four thousand dollars' goods." Elkan looked at his partner in unfeigned astonishment. "So soon?" he said. "Ribnik too," Polatkin continued. "He makes a selection of nine hundred dollars' goods--among 'em a couple stickers like them styles 2040 and 2041. He says he is coming back in half an hour, on account he's got an appointment with a brother-in-law of his." "By the name Robitscher?" Elkan asked. "That's the feller," Polatkin answered. "Ribnik says you promised Robitscher the decorations from the house you are buying." "What d'ye mean I promised him the decorations from the house I am buying?" Elkan exclaimed in anguished tones. "In the first place, I ain't promised him nothing of the kind; and, in the second place, I ain't even bought the house yet." "That part will be fixed up all right," Polatkin replied, "because Mr. Glaubmann rings up half an hour ago, and he says that so soon as we need him and the lawyer we should telephone for 'em." For a brief interval Elkan choked with rage. "Say, lookyhere, Mr. Polatkin," he sputtered at last, "who is going to live in this house--you _oder_ me?" "You are going to live in the house, Elkan," Polatkin declared, "because me I don't need a house. I already got one house, Elkan, and I ain't twins exactly; and also them fellers is very plain about it, Elkan, which they told me and Scheikowitz up and down, that if you wouldn't buy the house they wouldn't confirm us the orders." At this juncture Scheikowitz entered the office. From the doorway of the showroom he had observed the discussion between Elkan and his partner; and he had entirely deserted his prospective customers to aid in Elkan's coercion. "Polatkin is right, Elkan!" he cried. "You got to consider Louis Stout also. Kamin said he would never forgive us if the deal didn't go through." Elkan bit his lips irresolutely. "I don't see what you are hesitating about," Polatkin went on. "Yetta likes the house--ain't it?" "She's crazy about it," Elkan admitted. "Then what's the use talking?" Scheikowitz declared; and he glanced anxiously toward Tarnowitz and Kamin, who were holding a whispered conference in the showroom. "Let's make an end and get the thing over. Telephone this here Glaubmann he should come right over with Ortelsburg and the lawyer." "But ain't I going to have no lawyer neither?" Elkan demanded. "Sure you are," Scheikowitz replied. "I took a chance, Elkan, and I telephoned Henry D. Feldman half an hour since already. He says he would send one up of his assistants, Mr. Harvey J. Sugarberg, right away." * * * * * When it came to drawing a real-estate contract there existed for Kent J. Goldstein no incongruities of time and place. Kent was the veteran of a dozen real-estate booms, during which he had drafted agreements at all hours of the day and night, improvising as his office the back room of a liquor saloon or the cigar counter of a barber shop; and, in default of any other writing material, he was quite prepared to tattoo a brief though binding agreement with gunpowder on the skin of the vendor's back. Thus the transaction between Glaubmann and Elkan Lubliner presented no difficulties to Kent J. Goldstein; and he handled the details with such care and dispatch that the contract was nearly finished before Harvey J. Sugarberg remembered the instructions of his principal. As attorney for the buyer, it was Henry D. Feldman's practice to see that the contract of sale provided every opportunity for his client lawfully to avoid taking title should he desire for any reason, lawful or unlawful, to back out; and this rule of his principal occurred to Harvey just as he and Goldstein were writing the clause relating to incumbrances. "The premises are to be conveyed free and clear of all incumbrances," Kent read aloud, "except the mortgage and covenant against nuisances above described and the present tenancies of said premises." He had brought with him two blank forms of agreement; and as he filled in the blanks on one of them he read aloud what he was writing and Harvey Sugarberg inserted the same clause in the other. Up to this juncture Harvey had taken Kent's dictation with such remarkable docility that Elkan and his partners had frequently exchanged disquieting glances, and they were correspondingly elated when Harvey at length balked. "One moment, Mr. Goldstein," he said--and, but for a slight nervousness, he reproduced with histrionic accuracy the tone and gesture of his employer--"as _locum tenens_ for my principal I must decline to insert the phrase, 'and the present tenancies of said premises.'" Kent wasted no time in forensic dispute when engaged in a real-estate transaction, though, if necessary, he could make kindling of the strongest rail that ever graced the front of a jury-box. "How 'bout it, Glaubmann?" he said. "The premises is occupied--ain't they?" Glaubmann flapped his right hand in a gesture of _laissez-faire_. "The feller moves out by the first of next month," he said; and Kent turned to Elkan. "Are you satisfied that the tenant stays in the house until the first?" he asked. "That will be three days after the contract is closed." Elkan shrugged his shoulders. "Why not?" he said. "All right, Mr.----Forget your name!" Kent cried. "Cut out 'and the present tenancies of said premises.'" At this easy victory a shade of disappointment passed over the faces of Harvey Sugarberg and his clients, and the contract proceeded without further objection to its rapid conclusion. "Now then, my friends," Kent announced briskly, "we're ready for the signatures." At this, the crucial point of all real-estate transactions, a brief silence fell upon the assembled company, which included not only the attorneys and the clients, but Ortelsburg, Kamin, Tarnowitz and Ribnik as well. Finally Glaubmann seized a pen, and, jabbing it viciously in an inkpot, he made a John Hancock signature at the foot of the agreement's last page. "Now, Mr. Lubliner," Kent said--and Elkan hesitated. "Ain't we going to wait for Louis Stout?" he asked; and immediately there was a roar of protest that sounded like a mob scene in a Drury Lane melodrama. "If Louis Stout ain't here it's his own fault," Ortelsburg declared; and Ribnik, Tarnowitz, and Kamin glowered in unison. "I guess he's right, Elkan," Polatkin murmured. "It is his own fault if he ain't here," Scheikowitz agreed feebly; and, thus persuaded, Elkan appended a small and, by contrast with Glaubmann's, a wholly unimpressive signature to the agreement. Immediately thereafter Elkan passed over a certified check for eight hundred dollars, according to the terms of the contract, which provided that the title be closed in twenty days at the office of Henry D. Feldman. "Well, Mr. Lubliner," Glaubmann said, employing the formula hallowed by long usage in all real-estate transactions involving improved property, "I wish you luck in your new house." "Much obliged," Elkan said; and after a general handshaking the entire assemblage crowded into one elevator, so that finally Elkan was left alone with his partners. Polatkin was the first to break a silence of over five minutes' duration. "Ain't it funny," he said, "that we ain't heard from Louis?" Scheikowitz nodded; and as he did so the elevator door creaked noisily and there alighted a short, stout person, who, having once been described in the I. O. M. A. Monthly as Benjamin J. Flugel, the Merchant Prince, had never since walked abroad save in a freshly ironed silk hat and a Prince Albert coat. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Flugel?" Polatkin and Scheikowitz cried with one voice, and Mr. Flugel bowed. Albeit a tumult raged within his breast, he remained outwardly the dignified man of business; and, as Elkan viewed for the first time Louis Stout's impressive partner, he could not help congratulating himself on the mercantile sagacity that had made him buy Glaubmann's house. "And this is Mr. Lubliner?" Flugel said in even tones. "Pleased to meet you," Elkan said. "I had dinner with your partner only yesterday." Flugel gulped convulsively in an effort to remain calm. "I know it," he said; "and honestly the longer I am in business with that feller the more I got to wonder what a _Schlemiel_ he is. Actually he goes to work and tries to do his own partner without knowing it at all. Mind you, if he would be doing it from spite I could understand it; but when one partner don't know that the other partner practically closes a deal for a tract of a hundred lots and six houses in Johnsonhurst, and then persuades a prospective purchaser that, instead of buying in Johnsonhurst, he should buy in Burgess Park, understand me, all I got to say is that if Louis Stout ain't crazy the least he deserves is that the feller really and truly should buy in Burgess Park." "But, Mr. Flugel," Elkan interrupted, "I did buy in Burgess Park." "What!" Flugel shouted. "I say that I made a contract for a house out there this morning only," Elkan said. For a few seconds it seemed as though Benjamin J. Flugel's heirs-at-law would collect a substantial death benefit from the I. O. M. A., but the impending apoplexy was warded off by a tremendous burst of profanity. "_Aber_, Mr. Flugel," Scheikowitz protested, "Louis tells us only last Saturday, understand me, you told him that Johnsonhurst you wouldn't touch at all, on account such lowlifes like Rabiner and Pasinsky lives out there!" "I know I told him that," Flugel yelled; "because, if I would say I am going to buy out there, Stout goes to work and blabs it all over the place, and the first thing you know they would jump the price on me a few thousand dollars. He's a dangerous feller, Louis is, Mr. Scheikowitz!" Elkan shrugged his shoulders. "That may be, Mr. Flugel," he said, "but I signed the contract with Glaubmann for his house on Linden Boulevard--and that's all there is to it!" Polatkin and Scheikowitz nodded in melancholy unison. "Do you got the contract here?" Flugel asked; and Elkan picked up the document from his desk, where it had been placed by Goldstein. "You paid a fancy price for the house," Flugel continued, as he examined the agreement. "I took your partner's advice, Mr. Flugel," Elkan retorted. "Why, for eighteen thousand five hundred dollars, in Johnsonhurst," Flugel continued, "I could give you a palace already!" He scanned the various clauses of the contract with the critical eye of an experienced real-estate operator; and before he had completed his examination the elevator door again creaked open. "Is Glaubmann gone?" cried a voice from the interior of the car, and the next moment Kovner alighted. Flugel looked up from the contract. "Hello, Kovner," he said, "are you in this deal too?" "I ain't in any deal," Kovner replied. "I am looking for Barnett Glaubmann. They told me in his office he is coming over here and would be here all the morning." "Well, he was here," Elkan replied, "but he went away again." Kovner sat down without invitation. "It ain't no more as I expected," he began in the dull, resigned tones of a man with a grievance. "That swindler has been dodging me for four months now, and I guess he will keep on dodging me for the rest of the year that he claims I got a lease on his house for." "What house?" Flugel asked. "The house which I am living in it," Max replied--"on Linden Boulevard, Burgess Park." "On Linden Boulevard, Burgess Park!" Flugel repeated. "Why, then it's the same house--ain't it, Lubliner?" Elkan nodded, and as he did so Flugel struck the desk a tremendous blow with his fist. "Fine!" he ejaculated. "Fine!" Kovner repeated. "What the devil you are talking about, fine? Do you think it's fine I should got to live a whole year in a house which the least it must got to be spent on it is for plumbing a hundred dollars and for painting a couple hundred more?" "That's all right," Flugel declared with enthusiasm. "It ain't so bad as it looks; because if you can show that you got a right to stay in that house for the rest of the year, understand me, I'll make a proposition to you." "Show it?" Kovner exclaimed. "I don't got to show it, because I couldn't help myself, Mr. Flugel. Glaubmann claims that I made a verbal lease for one year, and he's right. I was fool enough to do so." Flugel glanced inquiringly at Polatkin and Scheikowitz. "How about that?" he asked. "The contract don't say nothing about a year's lease." "I know it don't," Elkan replied, "because when our lawyer raises the question about the tenant Glaubmann says he could get him out at any time." "And he can too," Kovner declared with emphasis, but Flugel shook his head. "No, he can't, Kovner," he said; "or, anyway, he ain't going to, because you are going to stay in that house." "With the rotten plumbing it's got?" Kovner cried. "Not by a whole lot I ain't." "The plumbing could be fixed and the painting also," Flugel retorted. "By Glaubmann?" Kovner asked. "No, sir," Flugel replied; "by me, with a hundred dollars cash to boot. I would even give you an order on my plumber he should fix up the plumbing and on my house painter he should fix up the painting, Kovner; _aber_ you got to stick it out that you are under lease for the rest of the year." "And when do I get the work done?" Kovner demanded. "To-day," Flugel announced--"this afternoon if you want it." "But hold on there a minute!" Elkan protested. "If I am going to take that house I don't want no painting done there till I am good and ready." Flugel smiled loftily at Elkan. "You ain't going to take that house at all," he said, "because the contract says that it is to be conveyed free and clear, except the mortgage and a covenant against nuisances. So you reject the title on the grounds that the house is leased for a year. Do you get the idee?" Elkan nodded. "And next Sunday," Flugel continued, "I wish you'd take a run down with me in my oitermobile to Johnsonhurst. It's an elegant, high-class suburb." * * * * * Insomnia bears the same relation to the calling of real-estate operators that fossyjaw does to the worker in the match industry; and, during the twenty days that preceded the closing of his contract with Elkan, Barnett Glaubmann spent many a sleepless night in contemplation of disputed brokerage claims by Kamin, Stout and Ortelsburg. Moreover, the knowledge that Henry D. Feldman represented the purchaser was an influence far from sedative; and what little sleep Glaubmann secured was filled with nightmares of fence encroachments, defects in the legal proceedings for opening of Linden Boulevard as a public highway, and a score of other technical objections that Feldman might raise to free Elkan from his contract. Not once, however, did Glaubmann consider the tenancy of Max Kovner as any objection to title. Indeed, he was so certain of Kovner's willingness to move out that he even pondered the advisability of gouging Max for twenty-five or fifty dollars as a consideration for accepting a surrender of the verbal lease; and to that end he avoided the Linden Boulevard house until the morning before the date set for the closing of the title. Then, having observed Max board the eight-five train for Brooklyn Bridge, he sauntered off to interview Mrs. Kovner; and as he turned the corner of Linden Boulevard he sketched out a plan of action that had for its foundation the complete intimidation of Mrs. Kovner. This being secured, he would proceed to suggest the payment of fifty dollars as the alternative of strong measures against Max Kovner for allowing the Linden Boulevard premises to fall into such bad repair; and he was so full of his idea that he had begun to ascend the front stoop of the Kovner house before he noticed the odour of fresh paint. Never in the history of the Kovner house had the electric bell been in working order. Hence Glaubmann knocked with his naked fist and left the imprint of his four knuckles on the wet varnish just as Mrs. Kovner flung wide the door. It was at this instant that Glaubmann's well-laid plans were swept away. "Now see what you done, you dirty slob you!" she bellowed. "What's the matter with you? Couldn't you ring the bell?" "Why, Mrs. Kovner," Glaubmann stammered, "the bell don't ring at all. Ain't it?" "The bell don't ring?" Mrs. Kovner exclaimed. "Who says it don't?" She pressed the button with her finger and a shrill response came from within. "Who fixed it?" Glaubmann asked. "Who fixed it?" Mrs. Kovner repeated. "Who do you suppose fixed it? Do you think we got from charity to fix it? _Gott sei Dank_, we ain't exactly beggars, Mr. Glaubmann. Ourselves we fixed it, Mr. Glaubmann--and the painting and the plumbing also; because if you would got in savings bank what I got it, Mr. Glaubmann, you wouldn't make us so much trouble about paying for a couple hundred dollars' repairs." "_Aber_," Glaubmann began, "you shouldn't of done it!" "I know we shouldn't," Mrs. Kovner replied. "We should of stayed here the rest of the year with the place looking like a pigsty already! _Aber_ don't kick till you got to, Mr. Glaubmann. It would be time enough to say something when we sue you by the court yet that you should pay for the repairs we are making here." Glaubmann pushed his hat back from his forehead and wiped his streaming brow. "_Nu_, Mrs. Kovner," he said at last, "it seems to me we got a misunderstanding all round here. I would like to talk the matter over with you." With this conciliatory prelude he assumed an easy attitude by crossing his legs and supporting himself with one hand on the freshly painted doorjamb, whereat Mrs. Kovner uttered a horrified shriek, and the rage which three weeks of housepainters' clutter had fomented in her bosom burst forth unchecked. "Out from here, you dirty loafer you!" she shrieked, and grabbed a calcimining brush from one of the many paintpots that bestrewed the hallway. Glaubmann bounded down the front stoop to the sidewalk just as Mrs. Kovner made a frenzied pass at him with the brush; and consequently, when he entered Kent J. Goldstein's office on Nassau Street an hour later, his black overcoat was speckled like the hide of an axis deer. "Goldstein," he said hoarsely, "is it assault that some one paints you from head to foot with calcimine?" "It is if you got witnesses," Goldstein replied; "otherwise it's misfortune. Who did it?" "That she-devil--the wife of the tenant in that house I sold Lubliner," Glaubmann replied. "I think we're going to have trouble with them people, Goldstein." "You will if you try to sue 'em without witnesses, Glaubmann," Goldstein observed; "because suing without witnesses is like trying to play pinocle without cards. It can't be done." Glaubmann shook his head sadly. "I ain't going to sue 'em," he said. "I ain't so fond of lawsuits like all that; and, besides, a little calcimine is nothing, Goldstein, to what them people can do to me. They're going to claim they got there a year's verbal lease." Goldstein shrugged his shoulders. "That's all right," he commented. "They want to gouge you for fifty dollars or so; and, with the price you're getting for the house, Glaubmann, you can afford to pay 'em." "Gouge nothing!" Glaubmann declared. "They just got done there a couple hundred dollars' painting and plumbing, y'understand, and they're going to stick it out." Goldstein pursed his lips in an ominous whistle. "A verbal lease, hey?" he muttered. Glaubmann nodded sadly. "And this time there is witnesses," he said; and he related to his attorney the circumstances under which the original lease was made, together with the incident attending Kovner's visit to Ortelsburg's house. "It looks like you're up against it, Glaubmann," Goldstein declared. "But couldn't I claim that I was only bluffing the feller?" Glaubmann asked. "Sure you could," Goldstein replied; "but when Kovner went to work and painted the house and fixed the plumbing he called your bluff, Glaubmann; so the only thing to do is to ask for an adjournment to-morrow." "And suppose they won't give it to us?" Glaubmann asked. Goldstein shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a lawyer, Glaubmann--not a prophet," he said; "but if I know Henry D. Feldman you won't get any adjournment--so you may as well make your plans accordingly." For a brief interval Glaubmann nodded his head slowly, and then he burst into a mirthless laugh. "Real estate," he said, "that's something to own. Rheumatism is a fine asset compared to it; in fact if some one gives me my choice, Goldstein, I would say rheumatism every time. Both of 'em keep you awake nights; but there's one thing about rheumatism, Goldstein"--here he indulged in another bitter laugh--"you don't need a lawyer to get rid of it!" he said, and banged the door behind him. * * * * * If there was any branch of legal practice in which Henry D. Feldman excelled it was conveyancing, and he brought to it all the histrionic ability that made him so formidable as a trial lawyer. Indeed, Feldman was accustomed to treat the conveyancing department of his office as a business-getter for the more lucrative field of litigation, and he spared no pains to make each closing of title an impressive and dramatic spectacle. Thus the _mise-en-scène_ of the Lubliner closing was excellent. Feldman himself sat in a baronial chair at the head of his library table, while to a seat on his right he had assigned Kent J. Goldstein. On his left he had placed Mr. Jones, the representative of the title company, a gaunt, sandy-haired man of thirty-five who, by the device of a pair of huge horn spectacles, had failed to distract public attention from an utterly stupendous Adam's apple. Next to the title company's representative were placed Elkan Lubliner and his partners, and it was to them that Henry D. Feldman addressed his opening remarks. "Mr. Lubliner," he said in the soft accents in which he began all his crescendos, "the examination of the record title to Mr. Glaubmann's Linden Boulevard premises has been made at my request by the Law Title Insurance and Guaranty Company." He made a graceful obeisance toward Mr. Jones, who acknowledged it with a convulsion of his Adam's apple. "I have also procured a survey to be made," Feldman continued; and, amid a silence that was broken only by the heavy breathing of Barnett Glaubmann, he held up an intricate design washed with watercolour on glazed muslin. "Finally I have done this," he declared, and his brows gathered in a tragic frown as his glance swept in turn the faces of Kent J. Goldstein, Benno Ortelsburg, J. Kamin, and Glaubmann--"I have procured an inspector's report upon the occupation of the _locus in quo_." "Oo-ee!" Glaubmann murmured, and Louis Stout exchanged triumphant glances with Polatkin and Scheikowitz. "And I find," Feldman concluded, "there is a tenant in possession, claiming under a year's lease which will not expire until October first next." Mr. Jones nodded and cleared his throat so noisily that, to relieve his embarrassment, he felt obliged to crack each of his knuckles in turn. As for Ribnik and Tarnowitz, they sat awestruck in the rear of Feldman's spacious library and felt vaguely that they were in a place of worship. Only Kent J. Goldstein remained unimpressed; and in order to show it he scratched a parlour match on the leg of Feldman's library table; whereat Feldman's _ex-cathedra_ manner forsook him. "Where in blazes do you think you are, Goldstein?" he asked in colloquial tones--"in a barroom?" "If it's solid mahogany," Goldstein retorted, "it'll rub up like new. I think you were talking about the tenancy of the premises here." Feldman choked down his indignation and once more became the dignified advocate. "That is not the only objection to title, Mr. Goldstein," he said. "Mr. Jones, kindly read the detailed objections contained in your report of closing." Mr. Jones nodded again and responded to Feldman's demand in a voice that profoundly justified the size of his larynx. "Description in deed dated January 1, 1783," he began, "from Joost van Gend to William Wauters, is defective; one course reading 'thence along said ditch north to a white-oak tree' should be 'south to a white-oak tree.'" "Well, what's the difference?" Goldstein interrupted. "It's monumented by the white-oak tree." "That was cut down long ago," Mr. Jones said. "Not by me!" Glaubmann declared. "I give you my word, gentlemen, the trees on the lot is the same like I bought it." Feldman allowed his eyes to rest for a moment on the protesting Glaubmann, who literally crumpled in his chair. "Proceed, Mr. Jones," Feldman said to the title company's representative, who continued without further interruption to the end of his list. This included all the technical objections which Glaubmann had feared, as well as a novel and interesting point concerning a partition suit in Chancery, brought in 1819, and affecting Glaubmann's chain of title to a strip in the rear of his lot, measuring one quarter of an inch in breadth by seven feet in length. "So far as I can see, Feldman," Goldstein commented as Mr. Jones laid down his report, "the only objection that will hold water is the one concerning Max Kovner's tenancy. As a matter of fact, I have witnesses to show that Kovner has always claimed that he didn't hold a lease." For answer, Feldman touched the button of an electric bell. "Show in Mr. and Mrs. Kovner," he said to the boy who responded. "We'll let them speak for themselves." This, it would appear, they were more than willing to do; for as soon as they entered the room and caught sight of Glaubmann, who by this time was fairly cowering in his chair, they immediately began a concerted tirade that was only ended when Goldstein banged vigorously on the library table, using as a gavel one of Feldman's metal-tipped rulers. "That'll do, Goldstein!" Feldman said hoarsely. "I think I can preserve order in my own office." "Why don't you then?" Goldstein retorted, as he leaned back in his chair and regarded with a malicious smile the damage he had wrought. "Yes, Mr. Glaubmann," Kovner began anew, "you thought you got us helpless there in your house; but----" "Shut up!" Feldman roared again, forgetting his rôle of the polished advocate; and Goldstein fairly beamed with satisfaction. "Don't bully your own witness," he said. "Let me do it for you." He turned to Kovner with a beetling frown. "Now, Kovner," he commenced, "you claim you've got a verbal lease for a year of this Linden Boulevard house, don't you?" "I sure do," Kovner replied, "and I got witnesses to prove it." "That's all right," Goldstein rejoined; "so long as there's Bibles there'll always be witnesses to swear on 'em. The point is: How do you claim the lease was made?" "I don't claim nothing," Kovner replied. "I got a year's lease on that property because, in the presence of my wife and his wife, Mr. Goldstein, he says to me I must either take the house for a year from last October to next October or I couldn't take it at all." Feldman smiled loftily at his opponent. "The art of cross-examination is a subtle one, Goldstein," he said, "and if you don't understand it you're apt to prove the other fellow's case." "Nevertheless," Goldstein continued, "I'm going to ask him one more question, and that is this: When was this verbal agreement made--before or after you moved into the house?" "Before I moved in, certainly," Kovner answered. "I told you that he says to me I couldn't move in unless I would agree to take the place for a year." "And when did you move in?" Goldstein continued. "On the first of October," Kovner said. "No, popper," Mrs. Kovner interrupted; "we didn't move in on the first. We moved in the day before." "That's right," Kovner said--"we moved in on the thirtieth of September." "So," Goldstein declared, "you made a verbal agreement before September thirtieth for a lease of one year from October first?" Kovner nodded and Goldstein turned to Henry D. Feldman, whose lofty smile had completely disappeared. "Well, Feldman," he said, "you pulled a couple of objections on me from 'way back in the last century, understand me; so I guess it won't hurt if I remind you of a little statute passed in the reign of Charles the Second, which says: 'All contracts which by their terms are not to be performed within one year must be in writing and signed by the party to be charged.' I mean the Statute of Frauds." "I know what you mean all right," Feldman replied; "but you'll have to prove that before a court and jury. Just now we are confronted with Kovner, who claims to have a year's lease; and my client is relieved from his purchase in the circumstances. No man is bound to buy a lawsuit, Goldstein." "I know he ain't," Goldstein retorted; "but what's the difference, Feldman? He'll have a lawsuit on his hands, anyhow, because if he don't take title now, understand me, I'll bring an action to compel him to do so this very afternoon." At this juncture a faint croaking came from the vicinity of Louis Stout, who throughout had been as appreciative a listener as though he were occupying an orchestra chair and had bought his seat from a speculator. "Speak up, Mr. Stout!" Feldman cried. "I was saying," Louis replied faintly, "that with my own ears I heard Glaubmann say to Kovner that he's got a verbal lease for one year." "And when was this?" Feldman asked. "About three weeks ago," Stout replied. "Then, in that case, Mr. Goldstein," Feldman declared, "let me present to you another proposition of law." He paused to formulate a sufficiently impressive "offer" as the lawyers say, and in the silence that followed Elkan shuffled to his feet. "It ain't necessary, Mr. Feldman," he said. "I already made up my mind about it." "About what?" Louis Stout exclaimed. "About taking the house," Elkan replied. "If you'll let me have the figures, Mr. Feldman, I'll draw a check and have it certified and we'll close this thing up." "_Aber_, Elkan," Louis cried, "first let me communicate with Flugel." "That ain't necessary neither," Elkan retorted. "I'm going to make an end right here and now; and you should be so good, Mr. Feldman, and fix me up the statement of what I owe here. I want to get through." Polatkin rose shakily to his feet. "What's the matter, Elkan?" he said huskily. "Are you crazy, _oder_ what?" "Sit down, Mr. Polatkin," Elkan commanded, and there was a ring of authority in his tone that made Polatkin collapse into his chair. "I am buying this house." "But, Elkan," Louis Stout implored, "why don't you let me talk to Flugel over the 'phone? Might he would got a suggestion to make maybe." "That's all right," Elkan said. "The only suggestion he makes is that if I go to work and close this contract, y'understand, he would never buy another dollar's worth of goods from us so long as he lives. So you shouldn't bother to ring him up, Mr. Stout." Louis Stout flushed angrily. "So far as that goes, Lubliner," he says, "I don't got to ring up Mr. Flugel to tell you the same thing, so you know what you could do." "Sure I know what I could do," Elkan continued. "I could either do business like a business man or do business like a muzhik, Mr. Stout. _Aber_ this ain't _Russland_, Mr. Stout--this is America; and if I got to run round wiping people's shoes to sell goods, then I don't want to do it at all." J. Kamin took a cigar out of his mouth and spat vigorously. "You're dead right, Elkan," he said. "Go ahead and close the contract and I assure you you wouldn't regret it." Elkan's eyes blazed and he turned on Kamin. "You assure me!" he said. "Who in thunder are you? Do you think I'm looking for your business now, Kamin? Why, if you was worth your salt as a merchant, understand me, instead you would be fooling away your time trying to make a share of a commission, which the most you would get out of it is a hundred dollars, y'understand, you would be attending to your business buying your spring line. You are wasting two whole days on this deal, Kamin; and if two business days out of your spring buying is only worth a hundred dollars to you, Kamin, go ahead and get your goods somewheres else than in our store. I don't need to be Dun or Bradstreet to get a line on you, Kamin--and don't you forget it!" At this juncture a faint cough localized Joel Ribnik, who had remained with Julius Tarnowitz in the obscurity cast by several bound volumes of digests and reports. "Seemingly, Mr. Polatkin," he said, "you are a millionaire concern, the way your partner talks! Might you don't need our business, neither, maybe?" Polatkin was busy checking the ravages made upon his linen by the perspiration that literally streamed down his face and neck; but Scheikowitz, who had listened open-mouthed to Elkan's pronunciamento, straightened up in his chair and his face grew set with determination. "We ain't millionaires, Mr. Ribnik," he said--"far from it; and we ain't never going to be, understand me, if we got to buy eighteen-thousand dollar houses for every bill of goods we sell to _Schnorrers_ and deadbeats!" "Scheikowitz!" Polatkin pleaded. "Never mind, Polatkin," Scheikowitz declared. "The boy is right, Polatkin; and if we are making our living in America we got to act like Americans--not peasants. So, go ahead, Stout. Telephone Flugel and tell him from me that if he wants to take it that way he should do so; and you, too, Stout--and that's all there is to it!" "Then I apprehend, gentlemen, that we had better proceed to close," Feldman said; and Elkan nodded, for as Scheikowitz finished speaking a ball had risen in Elkan's throat which, blink as he might, he could not down for some minutes. "All right, Goldstein," Feldman continued. "Let's fix up the statement of closing." "One moment, gentlemen," Max Kovner said. "Do I understand that, if Elkan Lubliner buys the house to-day, we've got to move out?" Feldman raised his eyebrows. "I think Mr. Goldstein will agree with me, Kovner, when I say you haven't a leg to stand on," he declared. "You're completely out of court on your own testimony." "You mean we ain't got a lease for a year?" Mrs. Kovner asked. "That's right," Goldstein replied. "And I am working my fingers to the bone getting rid of them _verfluchte_ painters and all!" she wailed. "What do you think I am anyway?" "Well, if you don't want to move right away," Elkan began, "when would it be convenient for you to get out, Mrs. Kovner?" "I don't want to get out at all," she whimpered. "Why should I want to get out? The house is an elegant house, which I just planted yesterday string beans and tomatoes; and the parlor looks elegant now we got the old paper off." "Supposing we say the first of May," Elkan suggested--"not that I am so crazy to move out to Burgess Park, y'understand; but I don't see what is the sense buying a house in the country and then not living in it." There was a brief silence, broken only by the soft weeping of Mrs. Kovner; and at length Max Kovner shrugged his shoulders. "_Nu_, Elkan," he said, "what is the use beating bushes round? Mrs. Kovner is stuck on the house and so am I. So long as you don't want the house, and there's been so much trouble about it and all, I tell you what I'll do: Take back two thousand dollars a second mortgage on the house, payable in one year at six per cent., which it is so good as gold, understand me, and I'll relieve you of your contract and give you two hundred dollars to boot." A smile spread slowly over Elkan's face as he looked significantly at Louis Stout. "I don't want your two hundred dollars, Max," he said. "You can have the house and welcome; and you should use the two hundred to pay your painting and plumbing bills." "That's all right," Louis Stout said; "there is people which will see to it that he does. Also, gentlemen, I want everybody to understand that I claim full commission here from Glaubmann as the only broker in the transaction!" "_Nu_, gentlemen," Glaubmann said; "I'll leave this to the lawyers if it ain't so: From one transaction I can only be liable for one commission--ain't it?" Feldman and Goldstein nodded in unison. "Then all I could say is that yous brokers and drygoods merchants should fight it out between yourselves," he declared; "because I'm going to pay the money for the commission into court--and them which is entitled to it can have it." "But ain't you going to protect me, Glaubmann?" Ortelsburg demanded. Glaubmann raised his hand for silence. "One moment, Ortelsburg," he said. "I think it was you and Kamin told me that real estate is a game the same like auction pinocle?" Ortelsburg nodded sulkily. "Then you fellers should go ahead and play it," Glaubmann concluded. "And might the best man win!"[B] [Footnote B: In the face of numerous decisions to the contrary, the author holds for the purposes of this story that a verbal lease for one year, to commence in the future, is void.] CHAPTER SIX A TALE OF TWO JACOBEAN CHAIRS NOT A DETECTIVE STORY "Yes, Mr. Lubliner," said Max Merech as he sat in the front parlour of Elkan's flat one April Sunday; "if you are going to work to buy furniture, understand me, it's just so easy to select good-looking chairs as bad-looking chairs." "_Aber_ sometimes it's a whole lot harder to sit on 'em comfortably," Elkan retorted sourly. On the eve of moving to a larger apartment he and Yetta had invited Max to suggest a plan for furnishing and decorating their new dwelling; and it seemed to Elkan that Max had taken undue advantage of the privilege thus accorded him. Indeed, Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company's æsthetic designer held such pronounced views on interior decoration, and had expressed them so freely to Elkan and Yetta, that after the first half-hour of his visit the esteem which they had always felt toward their plush furniture and Wilton rugs had changed--first to indifference and then, in the case of Yetta, at least, to loathing. "I always told you that the couch over there was hideous, Elkan," Yetta said. "Hideous it ain't," Max interrupted; "_aber_ it ain't so beautiful." "Well, stick the couch in the bedroom, then," Elkan said. "It makes no difference to me." "Sure, I know," Yetta exclaimed: "but what would we put in its place?" Elkan shrugged his shoulders. "What d'ye ask me for?" Elkan cried. "Like as not I'd say another couch." "There is couches and couches," Max said with an apologetic smile, "but if you would ask my advice I would say why not a couple nice chairs there--something in monhogany, like Shippendaler _oder_ Sheratin." Suddenly he slapped his thigh in an access of inspiration. "I came pretty near forgetting!" he cried. "I got the very thing you want--and a big bargain too! Do you know Louis Dishkes, which runs the Villy dee Paris Store in Amsterdam Avenue?" "I think I know him," Elkan said with ironic emphasis. "He owes us four hundred dollars for two months already." "Well, Dishkes is got a brother-in-law by the name Ringentaub, on Allen Street, which he is a dealer in antics." "Antics?" Elkan exclaimed. "Sure!" Max explained. "Antics--old furniture and old silver." "You mean a second-hand store?" Elkan suggested. "Not a second-hand store," Max declared. "A second-hand store is got old furniture from two years old _oder_ ten years old, understand me; _aber_ an antic store carries old furniture from a hundred years old already." "And this here Ringentaub is got furniture from a hundred years old already?" Elkan cried. "From older even," answered Max; "from two hundred and fifty years old also." "_Ich glaub's!_" Elkan cried. "You can believe it _oder_ not, Mr. Lubliner," Max continued; "but Ringentaub got in his store a couple Jacobean chairs, which they are two hundred and fifty years old already. And them chairs you could buy at a big sacrifice yet." Elkan and Yetta exchanged puzzled glances, and Elkan even tapped his forehead significantly. "They was part of a whole set," Max went on, not noticing his employer's gesture; "the others Ringentaub sold to a collector." Elkan flipped his right hand. "A collector is something else again," he said; "but me I ain't no collector, Max, _Gott sei Dank_! I got my own business, Max, and I ain't got to buy from two hundred and fifty years old furniture." "Why not?" Max asked. "B. Gans is got his own business, too, Mr. Lubliner, and a good business also; and he buys yet from Ringentaub--only last week already--an angry cat cabinet which it is three hundred years old already." "An angry cat cabinet?" Elkan exclaimed. "That's what I said," Max continued; "'angry' is French for 'Henry' and 'cat' is French for 'fourth'; so this here cabinet was made three hundred years ago when Henry the Fourth was king of France--and B. Gans buys it last week already for five hundred dollars!" Therewith Max commenced a half-hour dissertation upon antique furniture which left Yetta and Elkan more undecided than ever. "And you are telling me that big people like B. Gans and Andrew Carnegie buys this here antics for their houses?" Elkan asked. "J. P. Morgan also," Max replied. "And them Jacobean chairs there you could get for fifty dollars already." "Well, it wouldn't do no harm supposing we would go down and see 'em," Yetta suggested. "Some night next week," Elkan added, "_oder_ the week after." "For that matter, we could go to-night too," Max rejoined. "Sunday is like any other night down on Allen Street, and you got to remember that Jacobean chairs is something which you couldn't get whenever you want 'em. Let me tell you just what they look like." Here he descanted so successfully on the beauty of Jacobean furniture that Yetta added her persuasion to his, and Elkan at length surrendered. "All right," he said. "First we would have a little something to eat and then we would go down there." Hence, a few minutes after eight that evening they alighted at the Spring Street subway station; and Max Merech piloted Elkan and Yetta beneath elevated railroads and past the windows of brass shops, with their gleaming show of candlesticks and samovars, to a little basement store near the corner of Rivington Street. "It don't look like much," Max apologized as he descended the few steps leading to the entrance; "_aber_ he's got an elegant stock inside." When he opened the door a trigger affixed to the door knocked against a rusty bell, but no one responded. Instead, from behind a partition in the rear came sounds of an angry dispute; and as Elkan closed the door behind him one of the voices rose higher than the rest. "Take my life--take my blood, Mr. Sammet!" it said; "because I am making you the best proposition I can, and that's all there is to it." Max was about to stamp his foot when Elkan laid a restraining hand on his shoulder; and, in the pause that followed, the heavy, almost hysterical breathing of the last speaker could be heard in the front of the store. "I don't want your life _oder_ your blood, Dishkes," came the answer in bass tones, which Elkan recognized as the voice of his competitor, Leon Sammet. "I am your heaviest creditor, and all I want is that you should protect me." "I know you are my heaviest creditor," Louis Dishkes replied. "To my sorrow I know it! If it wouldn't be for your rotten stickers which I got in my place, might I would be doing a good business there to-day, maybe!" "_Schmooes_, Dishkes!" Sammet replied. "The reason you didn't done a good business there is that you ain't no business man, Dishkes--and anyhow, Dishkes, it don't do no good you should insult me!" "What d'ye mean insult you?" Dishkes cried angrily. "I ain't insulting you, Sammet. You are insulting me. You want me I should protect you and let my other creditors go to the devil--ain't it? What d'ye take me for--a crook?" "That's all right," Sammet declared. "I wouldn't dandy words with you, Dishkes. For the last time I am asking you: Will you take advantage of the offer I am getting for you from the Mercantile Outlet Company, of Nashville, for your entire stock? Otherwise I would got nothing more to say to you." There was a sound of scuffling feet as the party in the rear of the store rose from their chairs. "You ain't got no need to say nothing more to me, Mr. Sammet," Dishkes announced firmly, "because I am through with you, Mr. Sammet. Your account ain't due till to-morrow, and you couldn't do nothing till Tuesday. Ain't it? So Tuesday morning early you should go ahead and sue me, and if I couldn't raise money to save myself I will go _mechullah_; but it'll be an honest _mechullah_, and that's all there is to it." As Dishkes finished speaking Elkan drew Max and Yetta into the shadow cast by a tall highboy; and, without noticing their presence, Leon Sammet plunged toward the door and let himself out into the street. Immediately Elkan tiptoed to the door and threw it wide open, after which he shuffled his feet with sufficient noise to account for the entrance of three people. Thereat Ringentaub emerged from behind the partition. "Hello, Ringentaub," Max cried. "I am bringing you here some customers." Ringentaub bowed and coughed a warning to Dishkes and Mrs. Ringentaub, who continued to talk in hoarse whispers behind the partition. "What's the matter, Ringentaub?" Max Merech asked; "couldn't you afford it here somehow a little light?" Ringentaub reached into the upper darkness and turned on a gas jet which had been burning a blue point of flame. "I keep it without light here on purpose," he said, "on account Sundays is a big night for the candlestick fakers up the street and I don't want to be bothered with their trade. What could I show your friends, Mr. Merech?" Max winked almost imperceptibly at Elkan and prepared to approach the subject of the Jacobean chairs by a judicious detour. "Do you got maybe a couple Florentine frames, Ringentaub?" he asked; and Ringentaub shook his head. "Florentine frames is hard to find nowadays, Mr. Merech," he said; "and I guess I told it you Friday that I ain't got none." Elkan shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "I thought might you would of picked up a couple since then, maybe," Max rejoined, glancing round him. "You got a pretty nice highboy over there, Ringentaub, for a reproduction." Ringentaub nodded satirically. "That only goes to show how much you know about such things, Mr. Merech," he retorted, "when you are calling reproductions something which it is a gen-wine Shippendaler, understand me, in elegant condition." It was now Elkan's turn to nod, and he did so with just the right degree of skepticism as at last he broached the object of his visit. "I suppose," he said, "that them chairs over there is also gen-wine Jacobean chairs?" * * * * * "I'll tell you what I'll do with you, Mr. Merech," Ringentaub declared. "You could bring down here any of them good Fourth Avenue or Fifth Avenue dealers, understand me, or any conoozer you want to name, like Jacob Paul, _oder_ anybody, y'understand; and if they would say them chairs ain't gen-wine Jacobean I'll make 'em a present to you free for nothing." "I ain't _schnorring_ for no presents, Mr. Ringentaub," Max declared. "Bring 'em out in the light and let's give a look at 'em." Ringentaub drew the chairs into the centre of the floor, and placing them beneath the gas jet he stepped backward and tilted his head to one side in silent admiration. "_Nu_, Mr. Merech," he said at last, "am I right or am I wrong? Is the chairs gen-wine _oder_ not? I leave it to your friends here." Max turned to Elkan, who had been edging away toward the partition, from which came scraps of conversation between Dishkes and Mrs. Ringentaub. "What do you think, Mr. Lubliner?" Max asked; and Elkan frowned his annoyance at the interruption, for he had just begun to catch a few words of the conversation in the rear room. "Sure--sure!" he said absently. "I leave it to you and Mrs. Lubliner." Yetta's face had fallen as she viewed the apparently decayed and rickety furniture. "Ain't they terrible shabby-looking!" she murmured, and Ringentaub shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "You would look shabby, too, lady," he said, "if you would be two hundred and fifty years old; _aber_ if you want to see what they look like after they are restored, y'understand, I got back there one of the rest of the set which I already sold to Mr. Paul; and I am fixing it up for him." As he finished speaking he walked to the rear and dragged forward a reseated and polished duplicate of the two chairs. "I dassent restore 'em before I sell 'em," Ringentaub explained; "otherwise no one believes they are gen-wine." "And how much do you say you want for them chairs, Ringentaub?" Max asked. "I didn't say I wanted nothing," Ringentaub replied. "The fact is, I don't know whether I want to keep them chairs _oder_ not. You see, Mr. Merech, Jacobean chairs is pretty near so rare nowadays that it would pay me to wait a while. In a couple of years them chairs double in value already." "Sure, I know," Max said. "You could say the same thing about your whole stock, Ringentaub; and so, if I would be you, Ringentaub, I would take a little vacation of a couple years or so. Go round the world _mit_ Mrs. Ringentaub, understand me, and by the time you come back you are worth twicet as much as you got to-day; but just to help pay your rent while you are away, Mr. Ringentaub, I'll make you an offer of thirty-five dollars for the chairs." Ringentaub seized a chair in each hand and dragged them noisily to one side. "As I was saying," he announced, "I ain't got no Florentine frames, Mr. Merech; so I am sorry we couldn't do no business." "Well, then, thirty-seven-fifty, Mr. Ringentaub," Max continued; and Ringentaub made a flapping gesture with both hands. "Say, lookyhere," he growled, "what is the use talking nonsense, Mr. Merech? For ten dollars apiece you could get on Twenty-third Street a couple chairs, understand me, made in some big factory, y'understand--A-Number-One pieces of furniture--which would suit you a whole lot better as gen-wine pieces. These here chairs is for conoozers, Mr. Merech; so, if you want any shiny candlesticks _oder_ Moskva samovars from brass-spinners on Center Street, y'understand, a couple doors uptown you would find plenty fakers. _Aber_ here is all gen-wine stuff, y'understand; and for gen-wine stuff you got to pay full price, understand me, which if them chairs stays in my store till they are five hundred years old already I wouldn't take a cent less for 'em as fifty dollars." Max turned inquiringly to Mrs. Lubliner; and, during the short pause that followed, the agonized voice of Louis Dishkes came once more from the back room. "What could I do?" he said to Mrs. Ringentaub. "I want to be square _mit_ everybody, and I must got to act quick on account that sucker Sammet will close me up sure." "_Ai, tzuris!_" Mrs. Ringentaub moaned; at which her husband coughed noisily and Elkan moved nearer to the partition. "Would you go as high as fifty dollars, Mrs. Lubliner?" Max asked, and Yetta nodded. "All right, Mr. Ringentaub," Max concluded; "we'll take 'em at fifty dollars." "And you wouldn't regret it neither," Ringentaub replied. "I'll make you out a bill right away." He darted into the rear room and slammed the partition door behind him. "_Koosh_, Dishkes!" he hissed. "Ain't you got no sense at all--blabbing out your business in front of all them strangers?" It was at this juncture that Elkan rapped on the door. "Excuse me, Mr. Ringentaub," he said, "but I ain't no stranger to Mr. Dishkes--not by four hundred dollars already." He opened the door as he spoke, and Dishkes, who was sitting at a table with his head bowed on his hands, looked up mournfully. "_Nu_, Mr. Lubliner!" he said. "You are after me, too, ain't it?" Elkan shook his head. "Not only I ain't after you, Dishkes," he said, "but I didn't even know you was in trouble until just now." "And you never would of known," Ringentaub added, "if he ain't been such a _dummer Ochs_ and listened to people's advice. He got a good chance to sell out, and he wouldn't took it." "Sure, I know," Elkan said, "to an auction house; the idee being to run away _mit_ the proceeds and leave his creditors in the lurches!" Dishkes again buried his head in his hands, while Ringentaub blushed guiltily. "That may be all right in the antic business, Mr. Ringentaub," Elkan went on, "but in the garment business we ain't two hundred and fifty years behind the times exactly. We got associations of manufacturers and we got good lawyers, too, understand me; and we get right after crooks like Sammet, just the same as some of us helps out retailers that want to be decent, like Dishkes here." Louis Dishkes raised his head suddenly. "Then you heard the whole thing?" he cried; and Elkan nodded. "I heard enough, Dishkes," he said; "and if you want my help you could come down to my place to-morrow morning at ten o'clock." At this juncture the triggered bell rang loudly, and raising his hand for silence Ringentaub returned to the store. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Paul!" he said. He addressed a broad-shouldered figure arrayed in the height of Canal Street fashion. Aside from his clothing, however, there was little to betray the connoisseur of fine arts and antiques in the person of Jacob Paul, who possessed the brisk, businesslike manner and steel-blue eyes of a detective sergeant. "Hello, Ringentaub!" he said. "You are doing a rushing business here--ain't it? More customers in the back room too?" He glanced sharply at the open doorway in the partition, through which Elkan and Dishkes could be seen engaged in earnest conversation. "_Yow_--customers!" Ringentaub exclaimed. "You know how it is in the antic business, Mr. Paul. For a hundred that looks, understand me, one buys; and that one, Mr. Paul, he comes into your place a dozen times before he makes up his mind yet." "Well," Paul said with a smile, "I've made up my mind at last, Ringentaub, and I'll take them other two chairs at forty-five dollars." Ringentaub nodded his head slowly. "I thought you would, Mr. Paul," he said; "but just the same you are a little late, on account this here gentleman already bought 'em for fifty dollars." A shade of disappointment passed over Paul's face as he turned to Max Merech. "I congratulate you, Mister----" "Merech," Max suggested. "Merech," Paul continued. "You paid a high price for a couple of good pieces." "I ain't paying nothing," Max replied. "I bought 'em for this lady here and her husband." It was then that Jacob Paul for the first time noticed Yetta's presence, and he bowed apologetically. "Is he also a collector?" he asked, and Max shook his head. "He's in the garment business," Yetta volunteered, "for himself." A puzzled expression wrinkled Paul's flat nose. "I guess I ain't caught the name," he said. "Lubliner," Yetta replied; "Elkan Lubliner, of Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company." "You don't tell me?" Jacob Paul said. "And so Mr. Lubliner is interested in antiques. That's quite a jump, from cloaks and suits to antiques already." "Well," Merech explained, "Mr. Lubliner is refurnishing his house." "Maybe," Elkan added as he appeared in the doorway of the partition, followed by Dishkes and Mrs. Ringentaub. "Buying a couple pieces of furniture is one thing, Merech, and refurnishing your house is another." "You made a good start anyhow," Paul interrupted. "A couple chairs like them gives a tone to a room which is got crayon portraits hanging in it even." Yetta blushed in the consciousness of what she had always considered to be a fine likeness of Elkan's grandfather--the Lubliner _Rav_--which hung in a silver-and-plush frame over the mantelpiece of the Lubliner front parlour. Elkan was unashamed, however, and he glared angrily at the connoisseur, who had started to leave the store. "I suppose," he cried, "it ain't up to date that a feller should have hanging in his flat a portrait of his grandfather--_olav hasholem!_--which he was a learned man and a _Tzadek_, if there ever was one." Paul hesitated, with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll tell you, Mr. Lubliner," he said solemnly; "to me a crayon portrait is rotten, understand me, if it would be of a _Tzadek oder_ a murderer." And with a final bow to Mrs. Lubliner he banged the door behind him. "Well, what d'ye think for a _Rosher_ like that?" Elkan exclaimed. "The fellow is disappointed that you got ahead of him buying the chairs, Mr. Lubliner," Ringentaub explained; "so he takes a chance that you and Mrs. Lubliner is that kind of people which is got hanging in the parlour crayon portraits, understand me, and he knocks you for it." Elkan shrugged his shoulders. "What could you expect from a feller which is content at fifty years of age to be a collector only?" he asked, and Dishkes nodded sympathetically. "I bet yer, Mr. Lubliner," he agreed; "and so I would be at your store to-morrow morning at ten o'clock sure." * * * * * "I don't doubt your word for a minute, Elkan," Marcus Polatkin said the following morning when Elkan related to him the events of the preceding night; "_aber_ you couldn't blame Sammet none. Concerns like Sammet Brothers, which they are such dirty crooks that everybody is got suspicions of 'em, y'understand, must got to pay their bills prompt to the day, Elkan; because if they wouldn't be themselves good collectors, understand me, they would bust up quick." "Sammet Brothers ain't in no danger of busting up," Elkan declared. "Ain't they?" Marcus rejoined. "Well, you would be surprised, Elkan, if I would tell you that only yesterday already I am speaking to a feller by the name Hirsch, which works for years by the Hamsuckett Mills as city salesman, understand me, and he says that the least Sammet Brothers owes them people is ten thousand dollars." "That shows what a big business they must do," Elkan said. "_Yow_--a big business!" Marcus concluded. "This here Hirsch says not only Sammet Brothers' business falls off something terrible, y'understand, but they are also getting to be pretty slow pay; and if it wouldn't be that the Hamsuckett people is helping 'em along, _verstehst du_, they would of gone up _schon_ long since already." "And a good job too," Elkan said. "The cloak-and-suit trade could worry along without 'em, Mr. Polatkin; but anyhow, Mr. Polatkin, I ain't concerned with Sammet Brothers. The point is this: Dishkes says he has got a good stand there on Amsterdam Avenue, and if he could only hold on a couple months longer he wouldn't got no difficulty in pulling through." Polatkin shrugged his shoulders. "For my part," he said, "it wouldn't make no difference if Dishkes busts up now _oder_ two months from now." "But the way he tells me yesterday," Elkan replied, "not only he wouldn't got to bust up on us if he gets his two months' extension, but he says he would be doing a good business at that time." Polatkin nodded skeptically. "Sure, I know, Elkan," he said. "If everybody which is asking an extension would do the business they hope to do before the extension is up, Elkan," he said, "all the prompt-pay fellows must got to close up shop on account there wouldn't be enough business to go round." "Well, anyhow," Elkan rejoined, "he's coming here to see us this morning, Mr. Polatkin, and he could show you how he figures it that he's got hopes to pull through." Polatkin made a deprecatory gesture with his hand. "If a feller is going to bust up on me, Elkan, I'd just as lief he ain't got no hopes at all," he grumbled; "otherwise he wastes your whole day on you figuring out his next season's profits if he can only stall off his creditors. With such a hoping feller, if you don't want to be out time as well as money, understand me, you should quick file a petition in bankruptcy against him; otherwise he wouldn't give you no peace at all." Nevertheless, when Dishkes arrived, half an hour later, Polatkin ushered him into the firm's office and summoned Scheikowitz and Elkan to the conference. "Well, Dishkes," he said in kindly accents, "you are up against it." Dishkes nodded. He was by no means of a robust physical type, and his hands trembled so nervously as he fumbled for his papers in his breast pocket that he dropped its contents on the office floor. Elkan stooped to assist in retrieving the scattered papers, and among the documents he gathered together was a cabinet photograph. "My wife!" Dishkes murmured hoarsely. "She ain't so strong, and I am sending her up to the country a couple months ago. I've been meaning I should go up and see her ever since, but----" Here he gulped dismally; and there was an embarrassed silence, broken only by the faint noise occasioned by Philip Scheikowitz scratching his chin. "That's a _Rosher_--that feller Sammet," Polatkin said at length. "Honestly, the way some business men ain't got no mercy at all for the other feller, you would think, Scheikowitz, they was living back in the old country yet!" Scheikowitz nodded and glanced nervously from the photograph to Elkan. "I think you was telling me you got a couple idees about helping Dishkes out, Elkan," he said. "So, in the first place, Dishkes, you should please let us see a list of your creditors." With this prelude Scheikowitz drew forward his chair and plunged into a discussion of Dishkes' affairs that lasted for more than two hours; and when Dishkes at length departed he took with him notices of a meeting addressed to his twenty creditors, prepared for immediate mailing by Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company's stenographer. "And that's what we let ourselves in for," Scheikowitz declared after the elevator door had closed behind Dishkes. "To-morrow morning at eleven o'clock the place here would look like the waiting room of a depot, and all our competitors would be rubbering at our stock already." "Let 'em rubber!" Elkan said. "If I don't get an extension for that feller my name ain't Elkan Lubliner at all; because between now and then I am going round to see them twenty creditors, and I bet yer they will sign an extension agreement, with the figures I am going to put up to them!" "Figures!" Scheikowitz jeered. "What good is figures to them fellers? Showing figures to a bankrupt's creditors is like taking to a restaurant a feller which is hungry and letting him look at the knives and forks and plates, understand me!" Elkan nodded. "Sure, I know," he said; "but the figures ain't all." Surreptitiously he drew from his pocket a faded cabinet photograph. "I sneaked this away from Dishkes when he wasn't noticing," Elkan declared; "and if this don't fix 'em nothing will!" * * * * * "Say, lookyhere, Lubliner," Leon Sammet cried after Elkan had broached the reason for his visit late that afternoon, "don't give me that tale of woe again. Every time we are asking Dishkes for money he pulls this here sick-wife story on us, understand me; and it don't go down with me no more." "What d'ye mean don't go down with you?" Elkan demanded. "Do you claim his wife ain't sick?" "I don't claim nothing," Sammet retorted. "I ain't no doctor, Lubliner. I am in the cloak-and-suit business, and I got to pay my creditors with United States money, Lubliner, if my wife would be dying yet." "Which you ain't got no wife," Elkan added savagely. "_Gott sei Dank!_" Sammet rejoined. "_Aber_ if I did got one, y'understand, I would got _Verstand_ enough to pick out a healthy woman, which Dishkes does everything the same. He picks out a store there on an avenue when it is a dead neighbourhood, understand me--and he wants us we should suffer for it." "The neighbourhood wouldn't be dead after three months," Elkan said. "Round the corner on both sides of the street is building thirty-three-foot, seven-story elevator apartments yet; and when they are occupied, Dishkes would do a rushing business." "That's all right," Sammet answered. "I ain't speculating in real-estate futures, Lubliner; so you might just so well go ahead and attend to your business, Lubliner, because me I am going to do the same." "But lookyhere, Sammet," Elkan still pleaded. "I seen pretty near every one of Dishkes' creditors and they all agree the feller should have a three months' extension." "Let 'em agree," Sammet shouted. "They are their own bosses and so am I, Lubliner; so if they want to give him an extension of their account I ain't got nothing to say. All I want is eight hundred dollars he owes me; and the rest of them suckers could agree till they are black in the face." "_Aber_, anyhow, Sammet," Elkan said, "come to the meeting to-morrow morning and we would see what we could do." "See what we could do!" Sammet bellowed. "You will see what I could do, Lubliner; and I will come to the meeting to-morrow and I'll do it too. So, if you don't mind, Lubliner, I could still do a little work before we close up here." For a brief interval Elkan dug his nails into the palms of his hands, and his eyes unconsciously sought a target for a right swing on Sammet's bloated face; but at length he nodded and forced himself to smile. "_Schon gut_, Mr. Sammet," he said; "then I will see you to-morrow." A moment later he strode down lower Fifth Avenue toward the place of business of the last creditor on Dishkes' list. This was none other than Elkan's distinguished friend, B. Gans, the manufacturer of high-grade dresses; and it required less than ten minutes to procure his consent to the proposed extension. "And I hope," Elkan said, "that we could count on you to be at the meeting to-morrow." "That's something I couldn't do," B. Gans replied; "but I'll write you a letter and give you full authority you should represent me there. Excuse me a minute and I'll dictate it to Miss Scheindler." When he returned, five minutes later, he sat down at his desk and, crossing his legs, prepared to beguile the tedium of waiting. "Well, Elkan," he said, "what you been doing with yourself lately? Thee-aytres and restaurants, I suppose?" "Thee-aytres I ain't so much interested in no more," Elkan said. "The fact is, I am going in now for antics." "Antics!" B. Gans exclaimed. "Sure," Elkan replied; and there was a certain pride in his tones. "Antics is what I said, Mr. Gans--Jacobson chairs and them--now--cat's furniture." "Cat's furniture?" Gans repeated. "What d'ye mean cat's furniture?" "Angry cats," Elkan explained; and then a great light broke upon B. Gans. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "You mean Henri Quatre furniture?" "Hungry cat _oder_ angry cat," Elkan said. "All I know is we are refurnishing our flat, Mr. Gans, and we are taking an advice from Max Merech, our designer. It's a funny thing about that feller, Mr. Gans--with garments he is right up to the minute, _aber mit_ furniture nothing suits him unless it would be anyhow a hundred years old." "So you are buying some antique furniture for your flat?" B. Gans commented, and Elkan nodded. "We made a start anyhow," he said. "We bought a couple Jacobson chairs--two hundred and fifty years old already." "Good!" B. Gans exclaimed. "I want to tell you, Elkan, you couldn't go far wrong if you would buy any piece of furniture over a hundred years old. They didn't know how to make things ugly in them days--and Jacobean chairs especially. I am furnishing my whole dining room in that period and my library in Old French. It costs money, Elkan, but it's worth it." Elkan nodded and steered the conversation into safer channels; so that by the time Miss Scheindler had brought in the letter they were discussing familiar business topics. "Also," Gans said as he appended his neat signature to the letter, "I wish you and Dishkes luck, Elkan; and keep up the good work about the antique furniture. Even when you would get stuck with a reproduction instead of a genuine piece once in a while, if it looks just as good as the original and no one tells you differently, understand me, you feel just as happy." Thus encouraged, Elkan went home that evening full of a determination to acquire all the antique furniture his apartment would hold; and he and Yetta sat up until past midnight conning the pages of a heavy volume on the subject, which Yetta had procured from the neighbouring public library. Accordingly Elkan rose late the following morning, and it was almost nine o'clock before he reached his office and observed on the very top of his morning mail a slip of paper containing a message in the handwriting of Sam, the office boy. "A man called about Jacobowitz," it read, and Elkan immediately rang his deskbell. "What Jacobowitz is this?" he demanded as Sam entered, and the office boy shrugged. "I should know!" he said. "What d'ye mean you should know?" Elkan cried. "Ain't I always told it you you should write down always the name when people call?" "Ain't Jacobowitz a name?" Sam replied. "Furthermore, you couldn't expect me I should get the family history from everybody which is coming in the place, Mr. Lubliner--especially when the feller says he would come back." "Why didn't you tell me he is coming back?" Elkan asked, and again Sam shrugged. "When the feller is coming back, Mr. Lubliner," he said, "it don't make no difference if I tell you _oder_ not. He would come back anyhow." Having thus disposed of the matter to his entire satisfaction, Sam withdrew and banged the door triumphantly behind him, while Elkan fell to examining his mail. He had hardly cut the first envelope, however, when his door opened to admit Dishkes. "_Nu_, Dishkes!" Elkan said. "You are pretty early, ain't it?" Dishkes nodded. "I'm a _Schlemiel_, Mr. Lubliner," he said, "and that's all there is to it. Yesterday I went to work and lost my wife's picture." Elkan slapped his thigh with his hand. "Well, ain't I a peach?" he said. "I am getting so mixed up with these here antics I completely forgot to tell Yetta anything about it. I didn't even show it to her, Dishkes; so you must leave me have it for a day longer, Dishkes." As he spoke he drew the cabinet photograph from his breast pocket and handed it to Dishkes, who gazed earnestly at it for a minute. Then, resting his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing, whereat Elkan jumped from his seat and passed hurriedly out of the room. As he walked toward the showroom the strains of a popular song came from behind a rack. "Sam," he bellowed, "who asks you you should whistle round here?" The whistling ceased and Sam emerged from his hiding-place with a feather brush. "I could whistle without being asked," Sam replied; "and furthermore, Mr. Lubliner, when I am dusting the samples I must got to whistle; otherwise the dust gets in my lungs, which I value my lungs the same like you do, Mr. Lubliner, even if I would be here only a boy working on stock!" With this decisive rejoinder he resumed dusting the samples, while Elkan returned to his office, where he found that Dishkes had regained his composure. * * * * * Despite the fact that all of Dishkes' creditors save one had signed an extension agreement, the meeting in Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company's showroom was well attended; and when Leon Sammet came in, at quarter-past eleven, the assemblage had already elected Charles Finkman, of Maisener & Finkman, as chairman. He had just taken his seat in Philip Scheikowitz's new revolving chair and was in the act of noisily clearing his throat in lieu of pounding the table with a gavel. "Gentlemen," he said, "first, I want to thank you for the signal honour you are doing me in appointing me your chairman. For sixteen years now my labours in the Independent Order Mattai Aaron ain't unknown to most of you here. Ten years ago, at the national convention held in Sarahcuse, gentlemen, I was unanimously elected by the delegates from sixty lodges to be your National Grand Master; and----" At this juncture Leon Sammet rose ponderously to his feet. "Say, Finkman!" retorted Sammet. "What has all this _Stuss_ about the I. O. M. A. got to do _mit_ Dishkes here?" Again Finkman cleared his throat, and this time he produced a note of challenge that caused the members of the I. O. M. A. there present to lean forward in their seats. They expected a crushing rejoinder and they were not disappointed. "What is the motto of the I. O. M. A., Sammet?" Finkman thundered. "'Justice, Fraternity and Charity!' And I say to you now that, as chairman of this meeting, as well as Past National Grand Master of that noble order to which you and I both belong, _verstehst du_, I will see that justice be done, fraternity be encouraged and charity dispensed on each and every occasion. "Now, my brothers, here is a fellow member of our organization in distress, y'understand; and I ask you one and all this question"--he raised his voice to a pitch that made the filaments tremble in the electric-light bulbs--"Who," he roared, "who will come to his assistance?" He paused dramatically just as Sam, the office boy, stuck his head in the showroom doorway and rent the silence with his high, piping voice. "Mr. Lubliner," he said, "the man is here about Jacobowitz." Elkan flapped his hand wildly, but it was too late to prevent the entrance of no less a person than Jacob Paul--the connoisseur of antiques and fine arts. "Hello, Finkman!" he said; "what's the trouble here?" Elkan started from his seat to interrupt his visitor, but there was something in Finkman's manner that made him sit down again. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Paul?" Finkman exclaimed; and the clarion note had deserted his voice, leaving only a slight hoarseness to mark its passing. "What brings you here?" "I might ask the same of you, Finkman," Jacob Paul replied; and as his keen eyes scanned the assembled company they rested for a minute on Leon Sammet, who forthwith began to perspire. "The fact is," Finkman began, "this here is a meeting of creditors of Louis Dishkes, of the Villy dee Paris Store on Amsterdam Avenue." Paul turned to Louis Dishkes, proprietor of the Ville de Paris Store, who sat at the side of the room behind Scheikowitz's desk in an improvised prisoner's dock. "What's the matter, Dishkes?" Paul asked. "Couldn't you make it go up there?" Dishkes shrugged hopelessly. "Next month, when them houses round the corner is rented," he said, "I could do a good business there." "You ought to," Paul agreed. "You ain't got no competitors, so far as I could see." "That's what we all think!" Elkan broke in--"that is to say, all of us except Mr. Sammet; and he ain't willing to wait for his money." Leon Sammet moved uneasily in his chair as Jacob Paul faced about in his direction. "Why ain't you willing to wait, Sammet?" he asked; and Leon mopped his face with his handkerchief. "Well, it's like this, Mr. Paul----" he began, but the connoisseur of antiques raised his hand. "One moment, Sammet," he said. "You know as well as anybody else, and better even, that a millionaire concern like the Hamsuckett Mills must got to wait once in a while." He paused significantly. "If we didn't," he continued, "there's plenty of solvent concerns would be forced to the wall--ain't it? Furthermore, if the Hamsuckett Mills did business the way you want to, Sammet, I wouldn't keep my job as credit man and treasurer very long." Sammet nodded weakly and plied his handkerchief with more vigour, while Elkan sat and stared at his acquaintance of Sunday night in unfeigned astonishment. "Then what is the use of talking, Sammet?" Paul said. "So long as you are the only one standing out, why don't you make an end of it? How long an extension does Dishkes want?" "Two months," Finkman answered. "And where is the agreement you fellows all signed?" Paul continued. Elkan took a paper from the desk in front of Dishkes and passed it to Paul, who drew from his waistcoat pocket an opulent gold-mounted fountain pen. Then he walked over to Leon Sammet and handed him the pen and the agreement. "_Schreib_, Sammet," he said, "and don't make no more fuss about it." A moment later Sammet appended a shaky signature to the agreement and returned it, with the pen, to Paul. A quarter of an hour later Jacob Paul sat in Elkan's office and smoked one of Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company's best cigars. "Now I put it up to you, Lubliner," he said: "them Jacobean chairs are pretty high at fifty dollars, but I want 'em, and I'm willing to give you sixty for 'em." Elkan smiled and made a wide gesture with both hands. "My dear Mr. Paul," he said, "after what you done to-day for Dishkes I'll make you a present of 'em--free for nothing." "No, you won't do no such thing," Paul declared; "because I'm going to sell 'em again and at a profit, as I may as well tell you." "My worries what you are going to do with 'em!" Elkan declared. "But one thing I ain't going to do, Mr. Paul--I ain't going to make no profit on you; so go ahead and take the chairs at what I paid for 'em--and that's the best I could do for you." It required no further persuasion for Jacob Paul to draw a fifty-dollar check to Elkan's order; and as he rose to leave Elkan pressed his hand warmly. "Come up and see me, Mr. Paul, when we get through refurnishing," he said. "I promise you you would see a flat furnished to your taste--no crayon portraits nor nothing." * * * * * It was late in the afternoon when Elkan's office door opened to admit Sam, the office boy. "Mr. Lubliner," he said, "another feller is here about this here--now--Jacobowitz." Elkan glanced through the half-open door and recognized the figure of Ringentaub, the antiquarian. "Tell him to come in," he said; and a moment later Ringentaub was wringing Elkan's hand and babbling his gratitude for his brother-in-law's deliverance from bankruptcy. "God will bless you for it, Mr. Lubliner," he said; "and I am ashamed of myself when I think of it. I am a dawg, Mr. Lubliner--and that's all there is to it." Here he drew a greasy wallet from his breast-pocket and extracted three ten-dollar bills. "Take 'em, Mr. Lubliner," he said, "and forgive me." He pressed the bills into Elkan's hand. "What's this?" Elkan demanded. "That's the change from your fifty dollars," Ringentaub replied; "because, so help me, Mr. Lubliner, there is first-class material in them chairs and the feller that makes 'em for me is a highgrade cabinetmaker. Then you got to reckon it stands me in a couple of dollars also to get 'em fixed up antique, y'understand; so, if you get them chairs for twenty dollars you are buying a bargain, Mr. Lubliner." "Why, what d'ye mean?" Elkan cried. "Ain't them chairs gen-wine Jacobean chairs?" "Not by a whole lot they ain't," Ringentaub declared fervently. "But Mr. Paul thinks they are!" Elkan exclaimed. "Sure, I know," Ringentaub answered; "and that shows what a lot a collector knows about such things. Paul is a credit man for the Hamsuckett Mills, Mr. Lubliner; but he collects old furniture on the side." For a moment Elkan gazed open-mouthed at the antiquarian and a great light began to break in on him. "So-o-o!" he cried. "That's what you mean by a collector!" Ringentaub nodded. "And furthermore, Mr. Lubliner, when collectors knows more about antiques as dealers does, Mr. Lubliner," he said with his hand on the doorknob, "I'll go into the woollen piece-goods business too--which you could take it from me, Mr. Lubliner, it wouldn't be soon, by a hundred years even." * * * * * When Elkan emerged from the One-Hundred-and-Sixteenth Street station of the subway that evening a familiar voice hailed him from the rear. "_Nu_, Elkan!" cried B. Gans, for it was none other than he. "You made out fine at the meeting this morning--ain't it?" "Who told you?" Elkan asked as he linked arms with the highgrade manufacturer. "Never mind who told me," B. Gans said jokingly; "but all I could say is you made a tremendous hit with Jacob Paul, Elkan--and if that ain't no compliment, understand me, I don't know what is. Why, there ain't a better judge of men _oder_ antique furniture in this here city than Paul, Elkan. He's an A-Number-One credit man, too, and I bet yer he gets a big salary from them Hamsuckett Mills people, which the least his income could be--considering what he picks up selling antiques--is fifteen thousand a year." "Does Paul sell all the antiques he collects?" Elkan asked. "Does he?" B. Gans rejoined. "Well, I should say he does! Myself I bought from him in the past two weeks half a dozen chairs, understand me--four last week and two to-day--which I am paying him five hundred dollars for the lot. They're worth it, too, Elkan. I never seen finer examples of the period." "But are you sure they're gen-wine?" Elkan asked as they reached the entrance to his apartment house. "Paul says they are," B. Gans answered, slapping Elkan's shoulder in farewell; "and if he's mistaken, Elkan, then I'm content that I should be." Two hours later, however, after Elkan had recounted to Yetta all the incidents of Dishkes' meeting and the resulting sale of the chairs, his conscience smote him. "What d'ye think, Yetta?" he asked. "Should I tell Paul and Gans the chairs ain't gen-wine, _oder_ not?" For more than ten minutes Yetta wrinkled her forehead over this knotty ethical point; then she delivered her opinion. "Mr. Gans tells you he is just as happy if they ain't gen-wine--ain't it?" she said. Elkan nodded. "And Mr. Paul acted honest, because he didn't know they wasn't gen-wine neither, ain't it?" she continued. Again Elkan nodded. "Then," Yetta declared, "if you are taking it so particular as all that, Elkan, there's only one thing for you to do--give me the thirty dollars!" "Is that so!" Elkan exclaimed ironically. "And what will you do with the money?" "The only thing I can do with it, _Schlemiel_," she said. "Ten dollars I will give Louis Dishkes he should take a trip up to the country over Sunday and visit his wife." "And what will we do with the other twenty?" Elkan asked. "We'll send a present with him to Mrs. Dishkes," Yetta concluded with a smile, "and it wouldn't be no antics neither!" CHAPTER SEVEN SWEET AND SOUR ARE THE USES OF COMPETITIVE SALESMANSHIP "_Aber_ me and Yetta is got it all fixed up we would go to Mrs. Kotlin's already," Elkan Lubliner protested as he mopped his forehead one hot Tuesday morning in July. "The board there is something elegant, Mr. Scheikowitz. Everybody says so." "_Yow!_ everybody!" Philip Scheikowitz retorted. "Who is everybody, Elkan? A couple drummers like Marks Pasinsky, one or two real estaters, understand me, and the rest of 'em is wives from J to L retailers, third credit, which every time their husbands comes down to spend Sunday with 'em, y'understand, he must pretty near got to pawn the shirt from his back for car fare already." "Scheikowitz is right, Elkan," Marcus Polatkin joined in. "A feller shouldn't make a god from his stomach, Elkan, especially when money don't figure at all, so if you would be going down to Egremont Beach, understand me, there's only one place you should stay, y'understand, and that's the New Salisbury." "Which if you wouldn't take our word for it, Elkan," Scheikowitz added, "just give a look here." He drew from his coat pocket the summer resort section of the previous day's paper and thrust it toward his junior partner, indicating as he did so a half column headed: MIDSEASON GAIETY AT EGREMONT BEACH which reads as follows: The season is in full swing here. On Saturday night Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Gans gave a Chinese Lantern Dinner in the Hanging Gardens at which were present Mr. and Mrs. Sam Feder, Mr. and Mrs. Max Koblin, Mr. and Mrs. Henry D. Feldman, Mr. Jacob Scharley and Miss Hortense Feldman. Among those who registered Friday at the New Salisbury were Mr. Jacob Scharley of San Francisco, Mr. and Mrs. Sol Klinger, Mr. Leon Sammet and his mother, Mrs. Leah Sammet. "I thought that Leon's brother Barney was staying down at Egremont," Polatkin said after he and Elkan had read the item. "Barney is at Mrs. Kotlin's," Scheikowitz explained, "because _mit_ Leon Sammet, Polatkin, nothing is too rotten for Barney to stay at, and besides he thinks Barney would get a little _small_ business there, which the way Sammet Brothers figures, understand me, if they could stick a feller with three bills of goods for a couple hundred dollars apiece, y'understand, so long as he pays up on the first two, he couldn't eat up their profits if he would bust up on 'em _mit_ the third." "Sure I know," Elkan said, "_aber_ I ain't going down to Egremont for business, Mr. Scheikowitz, I'm going because it ain't so warm down there." "_Schmooes_, Elkan!" Scheikowitz retorted. "It wouldn't make it not one degrees warmer in Egremont supposing you could get a couple new accounts down there." "B. Gans don't take it so particular about the weather," Polatkin commented. "I bet yer he would a whole lot sooner take off his coat and shirt and _spiel_ a little auction pinocle _mit_ Sol Klinger and Leon Sammet and all them fellers as be giving dinners already in a tuxedo suit to Sam Feder. I bet yer he gets a fine accommodation from the Kosciusko Bank out of that dinner yet." "The other people also he ain't _schencking_ no dinners to 'em for nothing neither," Scheikowitz declared. "Every one of 'em means something to B. Gans, I bet yer." Elkan nodded. "Particularly Scharley," he said. "What d'ye mean, particularly Scharley?" Polatkin and Scheikowitz inquired with one voice. "Why, ain't you heard about Scharley?" Elkan asked. "It's right there in the _Daily Cloak and Suit Journal_." He indicated the front sheet of that newsy trade paper, where under the heading of "Incorporations" appeared the following item: The Scharley, Oderburg Drygoods Company, San Francisco, Cal., has filed articles of incorporation, giving its capital stock as $500,000, and expects to open its new store in September next. "And you are talking about staying by Mrs. Kotlin's!" Scheikowitz exclaimed in injured tones. "You should ought to be ashamed of yourself, Elkan." Elkan received his senior partner's upbraiding with a patient smile. "What show do we stand against a concern like B. Gans?" he asked. "B. Gans sells him only highgrade goods, Elkan," Scheikowitz declared. "I bet yer the least the feller buys is for twenty thousand dollars garments here, and a good half would be popular price lines, which if we would get busy, we stand an elegant show there, Elkan." "You should ought to go down there to-morrow yet," Polatkin cried, "because the first thing you know Leon Sammet would entertain him _mit_ oitermobiles yet, and Sol Klinger gets also busy, understand me, and the consequences is we wouldn't be in it at all." "Next Saturday is the earliest Yetta could get ready," Elkan replied positively, and Polatkin strode up and down the floor in an access of despair. "All right, Elkan," he said, "if you want to let such an opportunity slip down your fingers, y'understand, all right. _Aber_ if I would be you, Elkan, I would go down there to-night yet." Elkan shrugged his shoulders. "I couldn't get Yetta she should close up the flat under the very least _two_ days, Mr. Polatkin," he said. "She must got to fix everything just right, _mit_ moth-camphor and _Gott weisst was nach_, otherwise she wouldn't go at all. The rugs alone takes a whole day to fix." "Do as you like, Elkan," Polatkin declared, "_aber_ you mark my words, if Leon Sammet ain't shoving heaven and earth right now, y'understand, I don't know nothing about the garment business at all." In fulfilment of this prophecy, when Elkan entered his office the following morning Polatkin waved in his face a copy of the morning paper. "Well," he said, "what did I told you, Elkan?" Scheikowitz nodded slowly. "My partner is right, Elkan," he added, "so stubborn you are." "What's the matter now?" Elkan asked, and for answer Polatkin handed him the paper with his thumb pressed against a paragraph as follows: Mr. and Mrs. Sam Feder, Mr. and Mrs. Max Koblin, Mr. and Mrs. Henry D. Feldman, Miss Hortense Feldman, and Mr. Jacob Scharley were guests of Mr. Leon Sammet at a Chinese Lantern Dinner this evening given in the Hanging Gardens of the New Salisbury. "I thought it would be at the least an oitermobile ride," Polatkin said in melancholy tones, "but with that sucker all he could do is stealing a competitor's idees. B. Gans gives Scharley a dinner and Leon Sammet is got to do it, too, _mit_ the same guests and everything." "Even to Feldman's sister already," Scheikowitz added, "which it must be that Feldman is trying to marry her off to Scharley even if he would be a widower _mit_ two sons in college. She's a highly educated young lady, too." "Young she ain't no longer," Polatkin interrupted, "and if a girl couldn't cook even a pertater, understand me, it don't make no difference if she couldn't cook it in six languages, y'understand, Feldman would got a hard job marrying her off _anyhow_." Scheikowitz made an impatient gesture with both hands, suggestive of a dog swimming. "That's neither here or there, Polatkin," he said. "The point is Elkan should go right uptown and _geschwind_ pack his grip and be down at the Salisbury this afternoon yet, if Yetta would be ready _oder_ not. We couldn't afford to let the ground grow under our feet and that's all there is _to_ it." Thus, shortly after six o'clock that evening, Elkan and Yetta alighted from the 5:10 special from Flatbush Avenue and picked their way through a marital throng that kissed and embraced with as much ardour as though the reunion had concluded a parting of ten years instead of ten hours. At length the happy couples dragged themselves apart and crowded into the automobile 'bus of the New Salisbury, sweeping Elkan and Yetta before them, so that when the 'bus arrived at the hotel Elkan and Yetta were the last to descend. A burly yellow-faced porter seized the baggage with the contemptuous manner that Ham nowadays evinces toward Shem, and Elkan and Yetta followed him through the luxurious social hall to the desk. There the room clerk immediately shot out a three-carat diamond ring, and when Elkan's eyes became accustomed to the glare he saw that beneath it was a fat white hand extended in cordial greeting. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Williams," Elkan cried, as he shook hands fervently. "Ain't you in the Pitt House, Sarahcuse, no more?" "I'm taking a short vacation in a sensible manner, Mr. Lubliner," Mr. Williams replied in the rounded tones that only truly great actors, clergymen, and room clerks possess. "Which means that I am interested in a real-estate development near here, and I'm combining business with pleasure for a couple of months." Elkan nodded admiringly. "You got the right idee, Mr. Williams," he said. "This is my wife, Mr. Williams." The room clerk acknowledged the introduction with a bow that combined the grace of Paderewski and the dignity of Prince Florizel in just the right proportions. "Delighted to know you, Madame," he declared. "Have you made reservations, Mr. Lubliner?" Elkan shook his head and after an exchange of confidential murmurs Mr. Williams assigned them a room with an ocean view, from which they emerged less than half an hour later to await on the veranda the welcome sound of the dinner gong. A buzz of animated conversation filled the air, above which rose a little shriek of welcome as Mrs. Gans rushed toward Yetta with outstretched hands. "Why, hello, Yetta!" she cried. "I didn't know you was coming down here." They exchanged the kiss of utter peace that persists between the kin of highgrade and popular-priced manufacturers. "I read about you in the newspapers," Yetta said, as they seated themselves in adjoining rockers, and Mrs. Gans flashed all the gems of her right hand in a gesture of deprecation. "I tell you," she said, "it makes me sick here the way people carries on. Honestly, Yetta, I don't see Barney only at meals and when he's getting dressed. Everything is Mister _Scharley_, Mister _Scharley_. You would think he was H. P. Morgan _oder_ the Czar of _Russland_ from the fuss everybody makes over him." Yetta nodded in sympathy and suddenly Mrs. Gans clutched the arm of her chair. "There he is now," she hissed. "Where?" Yetta asked, and Mrs. Gans nodded toward a doorway at the end of the veranda, on which in electric bulbs was outlined the legend, "Hanging Gardens." Yetta descried a short, stout personage between fifty and sixty years of age, arrayed in a white flannel suit of which the coat and waistcoat were cut in imitation of an informal evening costume. On his arm there drooped a lady no longer in her twenties, and from the V-shaped opening in the rear of her dinner gown a medical student could have distinguished with more or less certainty the bones of the cervical vertebræ, the right and left scapula and the articulation of each with the humerus and clavicle. "That's Miss Feldman," Mrs. Gans whispered. "She's refined like anything, Yetta, and she talks French better as a waiter already." At this juncture the dinner gong sounded and Yetta rejoined Elkan in the social hall. "What is the trouble you are looking so _rachmonos_, Elkan?" she asked as she pressed his arm consolingly. "To-night it's Sol Klinger," Elkan replied. "He's got a dinner on in the Hanging Gardens for Scharley, Yetta, and I guess I wouldn't get a look-in even." "You've got six weeks before you," Yetta assured him, "and you shouldn't worry. Something is bound to turn up, ain't it?" She gave his arm another little caress and they proceeded immediately to the dining room, where the string orchestra and the small talk of two hundred and fifty guests strove vainly for the ascendency in one maddening cacophony. It was nearly eight o'clock before Elkan and Yetta arose from the table and repaired to the veranda whose rockers were filled with a chattering throng. "Let's get out of this," Elkan said, and they descended the veranda steps to the sidewalk. Five minutes later they were seated on a remote bench of the boardwalk, and until nine o'clock they watched the beauty of the moon and sea, which is constant even at Egremont Beach. When they rose to go Yetta noticed for the first time a shawl-clad figure on the adjacent bench, and immediately a pair of keen eyes flashed from a face whose plump contentment was framed in a jet black wig of an early Victorian design. * * * * * "Why, if it ain't Mrs. Lesengeld," Yetta exclaimed and the next moment she enfolded the little woman in a cordial embrace. "You grown a _bisschen_ fat, Yetta," Mrs. Lesengeld said. "I wouldn't knew you at all, if you ain't speaking to me first." "This is my husband, Mrs. Lesengeld--Mr. Lubliner," Yetta went on. "He heard me talk often from you, Mrs. Lesengeld, and what a time you got it learning me I should speak English yet." Elkan beamed at Mrs. Lesengeld. "And not only _that_," he said, "but also how good to her you was when she was sick already. There ain't many boarding-house ladies like you, Mrs. Lesengeld." "And there ain't so many boarders like Yetta, neither," Mrs. Lesengeld retorted. "And do you got a boarding-house down here, Mrs. Lesengeld?" Yetta asked. "I've gone out of the boarding-house business," Mrs. Lesengeld replied, "which you know what a trouble I got it _mit_ that lowlife Lesengeld, _olav hasholom_, after he failed in the pants business, how I am working my fingers to the bones already keeping up his insurings in the I. O. M. A. and a couple thousand dollars in a company already." Yetta nodded. "Which I got my reward at last," Mrs. Lesengeld concluded. "Quick diabetes, Yetta, and so I bought for ten thousand dollars a mortgage, understand me, and my son-in-law allows me also four dollars a week which I got it a whole lot easier nowadays." "And are you staying down here?" Elkan asked. "Me, I got for twenty dollars a month a little house _mit_ two rooms only, right on the sea, which they call it there Bognor Park. You must come over and see us, Yetta. Such a _gemütlich_ little house we got it you wouldn't believe at all, and every Sunday my daughter Fannie and my son-in-law comes down and stays with us." "And are you going all the way home alone?" Elkan asked anxiously. "Fannie is staying down with me to-night. She meets me on the corner of the Boulevard, where the car stops, at ten o'clock already," Mrs. Lesengeld replied. "Then you must got to come right along with us," Elkan said, "and we'll see you would get there on time." "Where are you going?" Mrs. Lesengeld asked. "Over to the Salisbury," Elkan answered, and Mrs. Lesengeld sank back on to the bench. "_Geh weg_, Mr. Lubliner," she cried. "I am now fifty years old and I was never in such a place in my life, especially which under this shawl I got only a plain cotton dress yet." Elkan flapped his hand reassuringly. "A fine-looking lady like you, Mrs. Lesengeld," he said, as he seized her hands and drew her gently to her feet, "looks well in anything." "And you'll have a water ice in the Hanging Gardens with us," Yetta persisted as she slipped a hand under Mrs. Lesengeld's shawl and pressed her arm affectionately. Ten minutes later they arrived at the stoop of the New Salisbury, to the scandalization and horror of the three score A to F first credit manufacturers and their wives. Moreover, approximately a hundred and fifty karats of blue white diamonds rose and fell indignantly on the bosoms of twenty or thirty credit-high retailers' wives, when the little, toilworn woman with her shawl and ritualistic wig entered the Hanging Gardens chatting pleasantly with Elkan and Yetta; and as they seated themselves at a table the buzz of conversation hushed into silence and then roared out anew with an accompaniment of titters. At the next table Sol Klinger plied with liquors and cigars the surviving guests of his dinner, and when Elkan nodded to him, he ignored the salutation with a blank stare. He raged inwardly, not so much at Elkan's invasion of that fashionable precinct as at the circumstance that his guest of honour had departed with Miss Feldman for a stroll on the boardwalk some ten minutes previously, and he was therefore unable to profit by Elkan's _faux pas_. "The feller ain't got no manners at all," he said to Max Koblin, who nodded gloomily. "It's getting terrible mixed down here, Sol," Max commented as he hiccoughed away a slight flatulency. "Honestly if you want to be in striking distance of your business, Sol, so's you could come in and out every day, you got to rub shoulders with everybody, ain't it?" He soothed his outraged sensibilities with a great cloud of smoke that drifted over Elkan's table, and Mrs. Lesengeld broke into a fit of coughing which caused a repetition of the titters. "And do you still make that brown stewed fish sweet and sour, Mrs. Lesengeld?" Yetta asked by way of putting the old lady at her ease. "Make it!" Mrs. Lesengeld answered. "I should say I do. Why you wouldn't believe the way my son-in-law is crazy about it. We got it every Sunday regular, and I tell you what I would do, Yetta." She laid her hand on Yetta's arm and her face broke into a thousand tiny wrinkles of hospitality. "You should come Friday to lunch sure," she declared, "and we would got some brown stewed fish sweet and sour and a good plate of _Bortch_ to begin with." Sol Klinger had been leaning back in his chair in an effort to overhear their conversation, and at this announcement he broke into a broad guffaw, which ran around the table after he had related the cause of it to his guests. Indeed, so much did Sol relish the joke that with it he entertained the occupants of about a dozen seats in the smoking car of the 8:04 express the next morning, and he was so full of it when he entered Hammersmith's Restaurant the following noon that he could not forego the pleasure of visiting Marcus Polatkin's table and relating it to Polatkin himself. Polatkin heard him through without a smile and when at its conclusion Klinger broke into a hysterical appreciation of his own humour, Polatkin shrugged. "I suppose, Klinger," he said, "your poor mother, _olav hasholom_, didn't wear a _sheitel_ neither, ain't it?" "My mother, _olav hasholom_, would got more sense as to butt in to a place like that," Klinger retorted. "Even if you wouldn't of been ashamed to have taken her there, Klinger," he added. Klinger flushed angrily. "That ain't here or there, Polatkin," he said. "You should ought to put your partner wise, Polatkin, that he shouldn't go dragging in an old _Bubé_ into a place like the Salisbury and talking such nonsense like brown stewed fish sweet and sour." He broke into another laugh at the recollection of it--a laugh that was louder but hardly as unforced as the first one. "What's the matter _mit_ brown stewed fish sweet and sour, Klinger?" Polatkin asked. "I eat already a lot of _a-la's_ and _en cazzerolls_ in a whole lot of places just so _grossartig_ as the Salisbury, understand me, and I would _schenck_ you a million of 'em for one plate of brown stewed fish sweet and sour like your mother made it from _zu Hause_ yet." "But what for an interest does a merchant like Scharley got to hear such things," Klinger protested lamely. "Honestly, I was ashamed for your partner's sake to hear such a talk going on there." "Did Scharley got any objections?" Polatkin asked. "Fortunately the feller had gone away from the table," Klinger replied, "so he didn't hear it at all." "Well," Polatkin declared, taking up his knife and fork as a signal that the matter was closed, "ask him and see if he wouldn't a whole lot sooner eat some good brown stewed fish sweet and sour as a Chinese Lantern Dinner--whatever for a bunch of poison that might be, Klinger--and don't you forget it." Nevertheless when Polatkin returned to his place of business he proceeded at once to Elkan's office. "Say, lookyhere Elkan," he demanded, "what is all this I hear about you and Yetta taking an old _Bubé_ into the Hanging Gardens already, and making from her laughing stocks out of the whole place." Elkan looked up calmly. "It's a free country, Mr. Polatkin," he said, "and so long as I pay my board _mit_ U. S. money, already I would take in there any of my friends I would please." "Sure, I know," Polatkin expostulated, "but I seen Klinger around at Hammersmith's and he says----" "Klinger!" Elkan exclaimed. "Well, you could say to Klinger for me, Mr. Polatkin, that if he don't like the way I am acting around there, understand me, he should just got the nerve to tell it me to my face yet." Polatkin flapped the air with his right hand. "Never mind Klinger, Elkan," he said. "You got to consider you shouldn't make a fool of yourself before Scharley and all them people. How do you expect you should get such a merchant as Scharley he should accept from you entertainment like a Chinese Lantern Dinner, if you are acting that way?" "Chinese Lantern Dinner be damned!" Elkan retorted. "When we got the right goods at the right price, Mr. Polatkin, why should we got to give a merchant dinners yet to convince him of it?" "Dinners is nothing, Elkan," Polatkin interrupted with a wave of his hand. "You got to give him dyspepsha even, the way business is nowadays." "_Aber_ I was talking to the room clerk last night," Elkan went on, "and he tells me so sure as you are standing there, Mr. Polatkin, a Chinese Lantern Dinner would stand us in twenty dollars a head." "Twenty dollars a head!" Polatkin exclaimed and indulged himself in a low whistle. "So even if I _would_ be staying at the Salisbury, understand me," Elkan said, "I ain't going to throw away our money out of the window exactly." "_Aber_ how are you going to get the feller down here, if you wouldn't entertain him or something?" Elkan slapped his chest with a great show of confidence. "Leave that to _me_, Mr. Polatkin," he said, and put on his hat preparatory to going out to lunch. Nevertheless when he descended from his room at the New Salisbury that evening and prepared to take a turn on the boardwalk before dinner, his confidence evaporated at the coolness of his reception by the assembled guests of the hotel. Leon Sammet cut him dead, and even B. Gans greeted him with half jovial reproach. "Well, Elkan," he said, "going to entertain any more _fromme Leute_ in the Garden to-night?" "Seemingly, Mr. Gans," Elkan said, "it was a big shock to everybody here to see for the first time an old lady wearing a _sheitel_. I suppose nobody here never seen it before, ain't it?" B. Gans put a fatherly hand on Elkan's shoulder. "I'll tell yer, Elkan," he said, "if I would be such a _rosher_, understand me, that I would hold it against you because you ain't forgetting an old friend, like this here lady must be, y'understand, I should never sell a dollar's worth more goods so long as I live, _aber_ if Klinger and Sammet would start kidding you in front of Scharley, understand me, it would look bad." "Why would it look bad, Mr. Gans?" Elkan broke in. "Because it don't do nobody no good to have funny stories told about 'em, except an actor _oder_ a politician, Elkan," Gans replied as the dinner gong began to sound, "which if a customer wouldn't take _you_ seriously, he wouldn't take your goods seriously neither, Elkan, and that's all there is _to_ it." He smiled reassuringly as he walked toward the dining room and left Elkan a prey to most uncomfortable reflections, which did not abate when he overheard Klinger and Sammet hail Gans at the end of the veranda. "Well, Mr. Gans," Klinger said with a sidelong glance at Elkan, "what are you going to eat to-night--brown stewed fish sweet _und_ sour?" Elkan could not distinguish B. Gans' reply, but he scowled fiercely at the trio as they entered the hotel lobby, and he still frowned as he sauntered stolidly after them to await Yetta in the social hall. "What's the matter, Mr. Lubliner," the room clerk asked when Elkan passed the desk. "Aren't you feeling well to-day?" "I feel all right, Mr. Williams," Elkan replied, "but this here place is getting on my nerves. It's too much like a big hotel out on the road somewheres. Everybody looks like they would got something to sell, understand me, and was doing their level best to sell it." "You're quite right, Mr. Lubliner," the clerk commented, "and that's the reason why I came down here. In fact," he added with a guilty smile, "I made a date to show some of my lots to-morrow to a prospective customer." At this juncture a porter appeared bearing a basket of champagne and followed by two waiters with ice buckets, and the room clerk jerked his head sideways in the direction toward which the little procession had disappeared. "That's for Suite 27, the Feldmans' rooms," he explained. "Miss Feldman is giving a little chafing-dish dinner there to Mr. Scharley and a few friends." He accepted with a graceful nod Elkan's proffered cigar. "Which goes to show that it's as you say, Mr. Lubliner," he concluded. "If you have drygoods, real estate or marriageable relatives to dispose of, Mr. Lubliner, Egremont's the place to market them." * * * * * "Yes, Mr. Williams," said Jacob Scharley at two o'clock the following afternoon as they trudged along the sands of Bognor Park, one of Egremont Beach's new developments, "I was trying to figure out how these here Chinese Lantern Dinners stands in a sucker like Leon Sammet twenty dollars a head, when by the regular bill of fare it comes exactly to seven dollars and fifty cents including drinks." "You can't figure on a special dinner according to the prices on the regular bill of fare," said Mr. Williams, the room clerk, who in his quality of real-estate operator was attempting to shift the conversation from hotel matters to the topic of seaside lots. "Why, ice cream is twenty-five cents on the bill of fare, but at one of those dinners it's served in imitation Chinese lanterns, which makes it worth double at least." "For my part," Scharley broke in, "they could serve it in kerosene lamps, Mr. Williams, because I never touch the stuff." "It's a parallel case to lots here and lots on Mizzentop Beach, which is the next beach below," Williams continued. "Here we have a boardwalk extending right down to our property, and we are getting seven hundred and fifty dollars a lot, while there, with practically the same transit facilities but no boardwalk or electric lights, they get only four hundred and----" "_Aber_ you take a piece of tenderloin steak a half an inch thick and about the size of a price ticket, understand me," Scharley interrupted, "and even if you _would_ fix it up with half a cent's worth of peas and spill on it a bottle cough medicine and glue, _verstehst du mich_, how could you make it figure up more as a dollar and a quarter, Mr. Williams? Then the clams, Mr. Williams, must got to have inside of 'em at the very least a half a karat pink pearl in 'em, otherwise thirty-five cents would be big yet." "Very likely," Mr. Williams agreed as a shade of annoyance passed over his well modelled features, "but just now, Mr. Scharley, I'm anxious to show you the advantage of these lots of ours, and you won't mind if I don't pursue the topic of Chinese Lantern Dinners any farther." "I'm only too glad not to talk about it at all," Scharley agreed. "In fact if any one else tries to ring in another one of them dinners on me, Mr. Williams, I'll turn him down on the spot. Shaving-dish parties neither, which I assure you, Mr. Williams, even if Miss Feldman would be an elegant, refined young lady, understand me, she fixes something in that shaving dish of hers last night, understand me, which I thought I was poisoned already." Williams deemed it best to ignore this observation and therefore made no comment. "But anyhow," Scharley concluded as they approached a little wooden shack on the margin of the water, "I'm sick and tired of things to eat, so let's talk about something else." Having delivered this ultimatum, his footsteps lagged and he stopped short as he began to sniff the air like a hunting dog. "M-m-m-m!" he exclaimed. "What _is_ that?" "That's a two-room shed we rent for twenty dollars a month," Williams explained. "We have eight of them and they help considerably to pay our office rent over in New York." "Sure I know," Scharley agreed, "_aber_, m-m-m-m!" Once more he expanded his nostrils to catch a delicious fragrance that emanated from the little shack. "_Aber_, who lives there?" he insisted, and Mr. Williams could not restrain a laugh. "Why, it's that old lady with the wig that Lubliner brought over to the hotel the other night," he replied. "I thought I saw Sol Klinger telling you about it yesterday." "He started to tell me something about it," Scharley said, "when Barney Gans butted in and wouldn't let him. What _was_ it about this here old lady?" "There isn't anything to it particularly," Williams replied, "excepting that it seemed a little strange to see an old lady in a shawl and one of those religious wigs in the Hanging Gardens, and there was something else Klinger told me about Mrs. Lubliner and the old lady talking about brown stewed fish sweet and----" At this juncture Scharley snapped his fingers excitedly. "Brown stewed fish sweet and sour!" he almost shouted. "I ain't smelled it since I was a boy already." He wagged his head and again murmured, "M-m-m-m-m!" Suddenly he received an inspiration. "How much did you say them shanties rents for, Mr. Williams?" he said. "Twenty dollars a month," Williams replied. "You don't tell me!" Scharley exclaimed solemnly. "I wonder if I could give a look at the inside of one of 'em--this one here, for instance." "I don't think there'd be any objection," Williams said, and no sooner were the words out of his mouth than Scharley started off on a half trot for the miniature veranda on the ocean side of the little house. "Perhaps I'd better inquire first if it's convenient for them to let us in now," Williams said, as he bounded after his prospective customer and knocked gently on the doorjamb. There was a sound of scurrying feet within, and at length the door was opened a few inches and the bewigged head of Mrs. Lesengeld appeared in the crack. "_Nu_," she said, "what _is_ it?" "I represent the Bognor Park Company," Williams replied, "and if it's perfectly convenient for you, Mrs.----" "Lesengeld," she added. "Used to was Lesengeld & Schein in the pants business?" Scharley asked, and Mrs. Lesengeld nodded. "Why, Lesengeld and me was lodge brothers together in the I. O. M. A. before I went out to the Pacific Coast years ago already," Scharley declared. "I guess he's often spoken to you about Jake Scharley, ain't it?" "Maybe he did, Mr. Scharley, _aber_ he's dead _schon_ two years since already," Mrs. Lesengeld said, and then added the pious hope, "_olav hasholom_." "You don't say so," Scharley cried in shocked accents. "Why, he wasn't no older as me already." "Fifty-three when he died," Mrs. Lesengeld said. "Quick diabetes, Mr. Scharley. Wouldn't you step inside?" Scharley and Williams passed into the front room, which was used as a living room and presented an appearance of remarkable neatness and order. In the corner stood an oil stove on which two saucepans bubbled and steamed, and as Mrs. Lesengeld turned to follow her visitors one of the saucepans boiled over. "Oo-ee!" she exclaimed. "_Mein fisch._" "Go ahead and tend to it," Scharley cried excitedly; "don't mind us. It might get burned already." He watched her anxiously while she turned down the flame. "Brown stewed fish sweet and sour, ain't it?" he asked, and Mrs. Lesengeld nodded as she lowered the flame to just the proper height. "I _thought_ it was," Scharley continued. "I ain't smelled it in forty years already. My poor mother, _olav hasholom_, used to fix it something elegant." He heaved a sigh as he sat down on a nearby campstool. "This smells just like it," he added. In front of the window a table had been placed, spread with a spotless white cloth and laid for two persons, and Scharley glanced at it hastily and turned his head away. "Forty years ago come next _Shevuos_ I ain't tasted it already," he concluded. Mrs. Lesengeld coloured slightly and clutched at her apron in an agony of embarrassment. "The fact is we only got three knives and forks," she said, "otherwise there is plenty fish for everybody." "Why, we just had our lunch at the hotel before we started," Mr. Williams said. "_You_ did," Scharley corrected him reproachfully, "_aber_ I ain't hardly touched a thing since last night. That shaving-dish party pretty near killed me, already." "Well, then, we got just enough knives and forks," Mrs. Lesengeld cried. "Do you like maybe also _Bortch_, Mr. Scharley?" "_Bortch!_" Mr. Scharley exclaimed, and his voice trembled with excitement. "Do you mean a sort of soup _mit_ beets and--and--all that?" "That's it," Mrs. Lesengeld replied, and Scharley nodded his head slowly. "Mrs. Lesengeld," he said, "would you believe me, it's so long since I tasted that stuff I didn't remember such a thing exists even." "And do you like it?" Mrs. Lesengeld repeated. "Do I _like_ it!" Scharley cried. "_Um Gottes Willen_, Mrs. Lesengeld, I _love_ it." "Then sit right down," she said heartily. "Everything is ready." "If you don't mind, Mr. Scharley," Williams interrupted, "I'll wait for you at the office of the company. It's only a couple of hundred yards down the beach." "Go as far as you like, Mr. Williams," Scharley said as he tucked a napkin between his collar and chin. "I'll be there when I get through." After Mrs. Lesengeld had ushered out Mr. Williams, she proceeded to the door of the rear room and knocked vigorously. "Don't be foolish, Yetta, and come on out," she called. "It ain't nobody but an old friend of my husband's." A moment later Yetta entered the room, and Scharley scrambled to his feet, a knife grasped firmly in one hand, and bobbed his head cordially. "Pleased to meetcher," he said. "This is Mrs. Lubliner, Mr. Scharley," Mrs. Lesengeld said. "Don't make no difference, Mrs. Lesengeld," Scharley assured her, "any friend of yours is a friend of mine, so you should sit right down, Mrs. Lubliner, on account we are all ready to begin." Then followed a moment of breathless silence while Mrs. Lesengeld dished up the beetroot soup, and when she placed a steaming bowlful in front of Scharley he immediately plunged his spoon into it. A moment later he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Oo-ee!" he exclaimed. "What an elegant soup!" Mrs. Lesengeld blushed, and after the fashion of a _cordon bleu_ the world over, she began to decry her own handiwork. "It should ought to got just a _Bisschen_ more pepper into it," she murmured. "_Oser a Stück_," Scharley declared solemnly, as he consumed the contents of his bowl in great gurgling inhalations. "There's only one thing I got to say against it." He scraped his bowl clean and handed it to Mrs. Lesengeld. "And that is," he concluded, "that it makes me eat so much of it, understand me, I'm scared I wouldn't got no room for the brown stewed fish." Again he emptied the bowl, and at last the moment arrived when the brown stewed fish smoked upon the table. Mrs. Lesengeld helped Scharley to a heaping plateful, and both she and Yetta watched him intently, as with the deftness of a Japanese juggler he balanced approximately a half pound of the succulent fish on the end of his fork. For nearly a minute he blew on it, and when it reached an edible temperature he opened wide his mouth and thrust the fork load home. Slowly and with great smacking of his moist lips he chewed away, and then his eyes closed and he laid down his knife and fork. "_Gan-éden!_" he declared as he reached across the table and shook hands with Mrs. Lesengeld. "Mrs. Lesengeld," he said, "my mother _olav hasholom_ was a good _cook_, understand me, _aber_ you are a _good cook_, Mrs. Lesengeld, and that's all there is to it." Forthwith he resumed his knife and fork, and with only two pauses for the necessary replenishments, he polished off three platefuls of the fish, after which he heaved a great sigh of contentment, and as a prelude to conversation he lit one of B. Gans' choicest cigars. "There's some dessert coming," Mrs. Lesengeld said. "Dessert after this, Mrs. Lesengeld," he replied, through clouds of contented smoke, "would be a sacrilege, ain't it?" "That's something I couldn't make at all," Mrs. Lesengeld admitted. "All I got it here is some _frimsel kugel_." "_Frimsel kugel!_" Scharley exclaimed, laying down his cigar. "Why ain't you told me that before?" A quarter of an hour later he again lighted his cigar, and this time he settled back in his campstool for conversation, while Mrs. Lesengeld busied herself about the oil stove. Instantly, however, he straightened up as another and more delicious odour assailed his nostrils, for Mrs. Lesengeld made coffee by a mysterious process, that conserved in the flavour of the decoction the delicious fragrance of the freshly ground bean. "And are you staying down here with Mrs. Lesengeld?" Scharley asked Yetta after he had finished his third cup. "In this little place here?" Mrs. Lesengeld cried indignantly. "Well, I should say not. She's stopping at the Salisbury, ain't you, Yetta?" Yetta nodded and sighed. "It ain't so comfortable as here," she said. "I bet yer," Scharley added fervently. "I am stopping there too, and them Chinese Lantern Dinners which they are putting up!" He waved his hand eloquently. "Poison ain't no word for it, Missus Er----" he concluded lamely as he tried to remember Yetta's name, which after so much soup, fish and coffee had completely escaped him. "Lubliner," Yetta said. "I guess you know my husband, Mr. Scharley, Elkan Lubliner of Polatkin, Scheikowitz & Company." Scharley struck the table with his open hand. "Zoitenly, I do," he cried. "Why, he is the feller which Sol Klinger is telling me about." Yetta coloured slightly and bit her lips. "What did he tell you about him?" she asked. "Why," Scharley said, drawing vigorously on his imagination, "he says to me what a bright young feller he is and----" Here he reflected that in a highly competitive trade like the cloak and suit business this statement sounded a trifle exaggerated. "And," he went on hurriedly, "he told me how he saw you and him with Mrs. Lesengeld up at the hotel the other evening, and I says, 'What,' I says, 'you don't mean Mrs. Lesengeld whose husband used to was in the pants business?' and he said he didn't know, 'because,' I says, 'if that's the same party,' I says, 'I would like for her to come up to the hotel and take dinner with me some time,' I says." He smiled cordially at Mrs. Lesengeld. "And I hope you will," he concluded earnestly, "to-morrow night sure." Mrs. Lesengeld shook her head. "I ain't fixed to go to no swell hotel," she demurred. "I ain't got no clothes nor nothing." "What do you care about clothes, Mrs. Lesengeld?" Scharley protested. "And besides," Yetta said with sudden inspiration, "we could get up a little chafing-dish dinner in our room, ain't it?" "For that matter we could do it in my room," Scharley cried, as there sounded a vigorous knocking on the outside of the door leading to the veranda, and a moment later Williams entered. "Excuse me, Mr. Scharley," he said, "but I have to be getting back to the hotel and if you're quite through we'll go and look at that map of the lots down in the office." Scharley waved his hand airily. "Sit down, Mr. Williams," he said, "and drink the cup of coffee of your life." He handed the room clerk a cigar. "I could promise you one thing, Mr. Williams," he went on, "I got a great idee of buying some lots here and building a little house on 'em, _gemütlich_ just like this, and if I do, Williams, I would take them lots from you for certain sure. Only one thing, Williams, I want you to do me for a favour." He paused and puffed carefully on his cigar. "I want you to pick me out a couple good vacant rooms on the top floor of the Salisbury for Saturday night," he said, "where I could give a shaving-dish party, so if any of the guests of the hotel objects, understand me, they wouldn't get the smell of the _Bortch_, coffee, and brown stewed fish sweet and sour." * * * * * On the following Wednesday afternoon Elkan sat at his desk, while Marcus Polatkin and Philip Scheikowitz leaned over his left shoulder and right shoulder respectively, and watched carefully the result of a pencilled addition which Elkan was making. "With them crêpe meteors," Elkan said at last, "Scharley's order comes to four thousand three hundred dollars." Polatkin and Scheikowitz nodded in unison. "It ain't bad for a start," Scheikowitz volunteered as he sat down and lit a cigar. "For a finish, neither," Polatkin added, "so far as that's concerned." Elkan wheeled round in his chair and grinned delightedly. "And you ought to seen Sol Klinger when we walked into the Hanging Gardens," he said. "He got white like a sheet. It tickled Scharley to death, and he went right to work and put his arm through Mrs. Lesengeld's arm and took her right down to the middle table, like she would be a queen already." "Sure," Scheikowitz agreed, "what does a real merchant like Scharley care if she would wear a _sheitel oder_ not, so long as she is a lady already." Elkan's grin spread until it threatened to engulf his ears. "She didn't wear no _sheitel_," he said. "What!" Scheikowitz cried. "I didn't think a religious woman like Mrs. Lesengeld would take off her _sheitel_ at _her_ time of life." "What d'ye mean _her_ time of life?" Elkan cried indignantly. "Friday afternoon yet before Yetta went home from her place there at Bognor Park, Mrs. Lesengeld says to her that a widder don't got to wear no _sheitel_ if she don't want to, which if you think, Mr. Scheikowitz, that fifty-three is a time of life, understand me, I think differencely, especially when I seen her with her hair all fixed up on Saturday night." "Who fixed it?" Marcus Polatkin asked, and Elkan grinned again. "Who d'ye suppose?" he replied. "Why, her and Yetta spent pretty near an hour up in our room before they got through, and I tell yer with the way they turned up the hem and fixed the sleeves of one of Yetta's black dresses, it fitted her like it would be made for her." "And did she look good in it?" Scheikowitz inquired. "Did she look good in it!" Elkan exclaimed. "Well, you can just bet your life, Mr. Polatkin, that there Hortense Feldman wasn't one, two, six with her. In fact, Mr. Polatkin, you would take your oath already that there wasn't two years between 'em. I had a good chance to compare 'em on account when we went down to the Hanging Gardens, understand me, Miss Feldman sits at the next table already." Polatkin smiled broadly. "She must have had a big _Schreck_," he commented. "Why, B. Gans told me last Saturday that Henry D. Feldman thinks that he's going to fix the whole thing up between her and Scharley." "I guess he ain't got that idee no longer," Elkan declared, "because everybody in Egremont knows Scharley was down visiting Mrs. Lesengeld over Sunday, and takes her and her daughter Fannie and Fannie's husband out oitermobiling." "You don't tell me?" Scheikowitz exclaimed. "Furthermore, on Monday," Elkan continued, "he goes down there to dinner with me and Yetta, and Mrs. Lesengeld cooks some _Tebeches_ which fairly melts in your mouth already." He smacked his lips over the recollection. "Yesterday, as you know," he went on, "I took Scharley and Mrs. Lesengeld over to Coney Island in an oitermobile and to-night yet we are all going sailing on Egremont Bay." Polatkin rose to his feet and shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said, "why not? They're about the same age." "He's two years older as she is," Elkan declared, "and I bet yer they wouldn't lose no time. It'll be next fall sure." * * * * * One busy morning three months later Elkan ripped open a heavy cream-laid envelope and drew out the following announcement, engraved in shaded old English type: =Mrs. Fannie Stubin= =has the honor of announcing the marriage= =of her mother= =Mrs. Sarah Lesengeld= =to= =Mr. Jacob Scharley= =On Tuesday the first of October= =at San Francisco, California= "And what are we going to send them for a present?" Polatkin asked. Elkan smiled serenely. "A solid silver chafing dish," he replied without hesitation, "at the very least, big enough to hold five pounds of brown stewed fish sweet and sour." THE END [Illustration: Printer's Mark] THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y. +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's Notes: | | | | The 1912 edition of this text contains numerous words and phrases | | with variant spellings. For the most part these variations have | | been retained to maintain the flavor of the original text, and | | only obvious spelling and puncuation errors have been corrected, | | as detailed below. A few changes have also been made with | | formatting of punctuation for text consistency. | | | | The name of character Kent J. Goldenfein, who is introduced on | | pages 142-145, changes on page 210 to Kent J. "Goldstein" and | | subsequently remains "Goldstein" for the remainder of the story. | | This inconsistency has been retained to match the 1912 text. | | | | | | Typographical Corrections: | | | | Page 4. Added close-quotes. ("... Yosel to come to America.") | | | | Page 10. Removed close-quotes. (threshold of the cutting room.) | | | | Page 14. Changed question mark to comma. ("He is in Minsk," said | | young Borrochson.) | | | | Page 27. Changed "de,manded" to "demanded". (Philip demanded.) | | | | Page 27. Changed "jerred" to "jeered". (Philip jeered.) | | | | Page 37. Removed close-quotes. (Polatkin rose to his feet.) | | | | Page 50. Added period. (the tops of her powdered cheeks.) | | | | Page 64. Changed "Scheikowizt" to "Scheikowitz". (Scheikowitz | | protested.) | | | | Page 87. Changed "Sheikowitz" to "Scheikowitz". ("... Mr. | | Scheikowitz, so sure as I am sitting here....") | | | | Page 91. Added open-quotes. ("I suppose, Elkan, you are | | wondering....") | | | | Page 92. Changed "Poltakin" to "Polatkin". ("... Flixman's store?" | | Polatkin asked.) | | | | Page 97. Changed "Mr" to "Mr." ("... right buying idee, Mr. | | Kapfer....") | | | | Page 152. Removed close-quotes. (begun at dinner that evening.) | | | | Page 153. Added close-quotes. ("... oder Schwefel & Zucker.") | | | | Page 153. Changed "Kolbin's" to "Koblin's". (Max Koblin's house) | | | | Page 182. Removed end-quotes. (to make further inquiries.) | | | | Page 199. Added close-quotes. ("What time do you eat dinner?") | | | | Page 225. Changed "tansactions" to "transactions". (all | | real-estate transactions involving) | | | | Page 241. Added close-quotes. ("... the other fellow's case.") | | | | Page 263. Added period. ("... makes up his mind yet.") | | | | Page 279. Added period. (his high, piping voice.) | | | | Page 281. Added comma. ("If we didn't," he continued....) | | | | Page 294. Added close-quotes. ("... for a couple of months.") | | | | Page 295. Changed "deprecatio" to "deprecation." (gesture of | | deprecation.) | | | | Page 312. Corrected open-quotes. ("Brown stewed fish....") | | | | Page 317. Added close-quotes. ("... Scheikowitz & Company.") | | | | Page 320. Added close-quotes. ("... three hundred dollars.") | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ 
4376	----	Celebration of Women Writers" and by Gardner Buchanan. HTML version by Al Haines. Sowing Seeds in Danny by Nellie L. McClung This story is lovingly dedicated to my dear mother. "SO MANY FAITHS--SO MANY CREEDS,-- SO MANY PATHS THAT WIND AND WIND WHILE JUST THE ART OF BEING KIND,-- IS WHAT THE OLD WORLD NEEDS!" People of the Story MRS. BURTON FRANCIS--a dreamy woman, who has beautiful theories. MR. FRANCIS--her silent husband. CAMILLA ROSE--a capable young woman who looks after Mrs. Francis's domestic affairs, and occasionally helps her to apply her theories. THE WATSON FAMILY, consisting of-- JOHN WATSON--a man of few words who works on the "Section." MRS. WATSON--who washes for Mrs. Francis. PEARL WATSON--an imaginative, clever little girl, twelve years old, who is the mainstay of the family. MARY WATSON--a younger sister. TEDDY WATSON. BILLY WATSON. JIMMY WATSON. PATSEY WATSON. TOMMY WATSON. ROBERT ROBLIN WATSON, known as "Bugsey." DANIEL MULCAHEY WATSON--"Wee Danny." "Teddy will be fourteen on St. Patrick's Day and Danny will be four come March." MRS. McGUIRE--an elderly Irishwoman of uncertain temper who lives on the next lot. DR. BARNER--the old doctor of the village, clever man in his profession, but of intemperate habits. MARY BARNER--his beautiful daughter. DR. HORACE CLAY--a young doctor, who has recently come to the village. REV. HUGH GRANTLEY--the young minister. SAMUEL MOTHERWELL--a well off but very stingy farmer. MRS. MOTHERWELL--his wife. TOM MOTHERWELL--their son. ARTHUR WEMYSS--a young Englishman who is trying to learn to farm. JIM RUSSELL--an ambitious young farmer who lives near the Motherwells. JAMES DUCKER--a retired farmer, who has political aspirations. CONTENTS I. Sowing Seeds in Danny II. The Old Doctor III. The Pink Lady IV. The Band of Hope V. The Relict of the Late McGuire VI. The Musical Sense VII. "One of Manitoba's Prosperous Farmers" VIII. The Other Doctor IX. The Live Wire X. The Butcher Ride XI. How Pearl Watson Wiped out the Stain XII. From Camilla's Diary XIII. The Fifth Son XIV. The Faith that Moveth Mountains XV. "Inasmuch" XVI. How Polly Went Home XVII. "Egbert and Edythe" XVIII. The Party at Slater's XIX. Pearl's Diary XX. Tom's New Viewpoint XXI. The Crack in the Granite XXII. Shadows XXIII. Saved XXIV. The Harvest XXV. Cupid's Emissary XXVI. The Thanksgiving Conclusion: Convincing Camilla Sowing Seeds in Danny CHAPTER I SOWING SEEDS IN DANNY In her comfortable sitting room Mrs. J. Burton Francis sat, at peace with herself and all mankind. The glory of the short winter afternoon streamed into the room and touched with new warmth and tenderness the face of a Madonna on the wall. The whole room suggested peace. The quiet elegance of its furnishings, the soft leather-bound books on the table, the dreamy face of the occupant, who sat with folded hands looking out of the window, were all in strange contrast to the dreariness of the scene below, where the one long street of the little Manitoba town, piled high with snow, stretched away into the level, white, never-ending prairie. A farmer tried to force his tired horses through the drifts; a little boy with a milk-pail plodded bravely from door to door, sometimes laying down his burden to blow his breath on his stinging fingers. The only sound that disturbed the quiet of the afternoon in Mrs. Francis's sitting room was the regular rub-rub of the wash-board in the kitchen below. "Mrs. Watson is slow with the washing to-day," Mrs. Francis murmured with a look of concern on her usually placid face. "Possibly she is not well. I will call her and see." "Mrs. Watson, will you come upstairs, please?" she called from the stairway. Mrs. Watson, slow and shambling, came up the stairs, and stood in the doorway wiping her face on her apron. "Is it me ye want ma'am?" she asked when she had recovered her breath. "Yes, Mrs. Watson," Mrs. Francis said sweetly. "I thought perhaps you were not feeling well to-day. I have not heard you singing at your work, and the washing seems to have gone slowly. You must be very careful of your health, and not overdo your strength." While she was speaking, Mrs. Watson's eyes were busy with the room, the pictures on the wall, the cosey window-seat with its numerous cushions; the warmth and brightness of it all brought a glow to her tired face. "Yes, ma'am," she said, "thank ye kindly, ma'am. It is very kind of ye to be thinkin' o' the likes of me." "Oh, we should always think of others, you know," Mrs. Francis replied quickly with her most winning smile, as she seated herself in a rocking-chair. "Are the children all well? Dear little Danny, how is he?" "Indade, ma'am, that same Danny is the upsettinest one of the nine, and him only four come March. It was only this morn's mornin' that he sez to me, sez he, as I was comin' away, 'Ma, d'ye think she'll give ye pie for your dinner? Thry and remimber the taste of it, won't ye ma, and tell us when ye come home,' sez he." "Oh, the sweet prattle of childhood," said Mrs. Francis, clasping her shapely white hands. "How very interesting it must be to watch their young minds unfolding as the flower! Is it nine little ones you have, Mrs. Watson?" "Yes, nine it is, ma'am. God save us. Teddy will be fourteen on St. Patrick's Day, and all the rest are younger." "It is a great responsibility to be a mother, and yet how few there be that think of it," added Mrs. Francis, dreamily. "Thrue for ye ma'am," Mrs. Watson broke in. "There's my own man, John Watson. That man knows no more of what it manes than you do yerself that hasn't one at all at all, the Lord be praised; and him the father of nine." "I have just been reading a great book by Dr. Ernestus Parker, on 'Motherhood.' It would be a great benefit to both you and your husband." "Och, ma'am," Mrs. Watson broke in, hastily, "John is no hand for books and has always had his suspicions o' them since his own mother's great-uncle William Mulcahey got himself transported durin' life or good behaviour for havin' one found on him no bigger'n an almanac, at the time of the riots in Ireland. No, ma'am, John wouldn't rade it at all at all, and he don't know one letther from another, what's more." "Then if you would read it and explain it to him, it would be so helpful to you both, and so inspiring. It deals so ably with the problems of child-training. You must be puzzled many times in the training of so many little minds, and Dr. Parker really does throw wonderful light on all the problems that confront mothers. And I am sure the mother of nine must have a great many perplexities." Yes, Mrs. Watson had a great many perplexities--how to make trousers for four boys out of the one old pair the minister's wife had given her; how to make the memory of the rice-pudding they had on Sunday last all the week; how to work all day and sew at night, and still be brave and patient; how to make little Danny and Bugsey forget they were cold and hungry. Yes, Mrs. Watson had her problems; but they were not the kind that Dr. Ernestus Parker had dealt with in his book on "Motherhood." "But I must not keep you, Mrs. Watson," Mrs. Francis said, as she remembered the washing. "When you go downstairs will you kindly bring me up a small red notebook that you will find on the desk in the library?" "Yes ma'am," said Mrs. Watson, and went heavily down the stairs. She found the book and brought it up. While she was making the second laborious journey down the softly padded stairs, Mrs. Francis was making an entry in the little red book. Dec. 7, 1903. Talked with one woman to-day RE Beauty of Motherhood. Recommended Dr. Parker's book. Believe good done. Then she closed the book with a satisfied feeling. She was going to have a very full report for her department at the next Annual Convention of the Society for Propagation of Lofty Ideals. In another part of the same Manitoba town lived John Watson, unregenerate hater of books, his wife and their family of nine. Their first dwelling when they had come to Manitoba from the Ottawa Valley, thirteen years ago, had been C. P. R. box-car No. 722, but this had soon to be enlarged, which was done by adding to it other car-roofed shanties. One of these was painted a bright yellow and was a little larger than the others. It had been the caboose of a threshing outfit that John had worked for in '96. John was the fireman and when the boiler blew up and John was carried home insensible the "boys" felt that they should do something for the widow and orphans. They raised one hundred and sixty dollars forthwith, every man contributing his wages for the last four days. The owner of the outfit, Sam Motherwell, in a strange fit of generosity, donated the caboose. The next fall Sam found that he needed the caboose himself, and came with his trucks to take it back. He claimed that he had given it with the understanding that John was going to die. John had not fulfilled his share of the contract, and Sam felt that his generosity had been misplaced. John was cutting wood beside his dwelling when Sam arrived with his trucks, and accused him of obtaining goods under false pretences. John was a man of few words and listened attentively to Sam's reasoning. From the little window of the caboose came the discordant wail of a very young infant, and old Sam felt his claims growing more and more shadowy. John took the pipe from his mouth and spat once at the woodpile. Then, jerking his thumb toward the little window, he said briefly: "Twins. Last night." Sam Motherwell mounted his trucks and drove away. He knew when he was beaten. The house had received additions on every side, until it seemed to threaten to run over the edge of the lot, and looked like a section of a wrecked freight train, with its yellow refrigerator car. The snow had drifted up to the windows, and entirely over the little lean-to that had been erected at the time that little Danny had added his feeble wail to the general family chorus. But the smoke curled bravely up from the chimney into the frosty air, and a snug pile of wood by the "cheek of the dure" gave evidence of John's industry, notwithstanding his dislike of the world's best literature. Inside the floor was swept and the stove was clean, and an air of comfort was over all, in spite of the evidence of poverty. A great variety of calendars hung on the wall. Every store in town it seems had sent one this year, last year and the year before. A large poster of the Winnipeg Industrial Exhibition hung in the parlour, and a Massey-Harris self-binder, in full swing, propelled by three maroon horses, swept through a waving field of golden grain, driven by an adipose individual in blue shirt and grass-green overalls. An enlarged picture of John himself glared grimly from a very heavy frame, on the opposite wall, the grimness of it somewhat relieved by the row of Sunday-school "big cards" that were stuck in around the frame. On the afternoon that Mrs. Watson had received the uplifting talk on motherhood, and Mrs. Francis had entered it in the little red book, Pearlie Watson, aged twelve, was keeping the house, as she did six days in the week. The day was too cold for even Jimmy to be out, and so all except the three eldest boys were in the kitchen variously engaged. Danny under promise of a story was in the high chair submitting to a thorough going over with soap and water. Patsey, looking up from his self-appointed task of brushing the legs of the stove with the hair-brush, loudly demanded that the story should begin at once. "Story, is it?" cried Pearlie in her wrath, as she took the hair-brush from Patsey. "What time have I to be thinkin' of stories and you that full of badness. My heart is bruck wid ye." "I'll be good now," Patsey said, penitently, sitting on the wood-box, and tenderly feeling his skinned nose. "I got hurt to-day, mind that, Pearlie." "So ye did, poor bye," said Pearlie, her wrath all gone, "and what will I tell yez about, my beauties?" "The pink lady where Jimmy brings the milk," said Patsey promptly. "But it's me that's gettin' combed," wailed Danny. "I should say what ye'r to tell, Pearlie." "True for ye," said Pearlie, "Howld ye'r tongue, Patsey. What will I tell about, honey?" "What Patsey said'll do" said Danny with an injured air, "and don't forget the chockalut drops she had the day ma was there and say she sent three o' them to me, and you can have one o' them, Pearlie." "And don't forget the big plate o' potatoes and gravy and mate she gave the dog, and the cake she threw in the fire to get red of it," said Mary, who was knitting a sock for Teddy. "No, don't tell that," said Jimmy, "it always makes wee Bugsey cry." "Well," began Pearlie, as she had done many times before. "Once upon a time not very long ago, there lived a lovely pink lady in a big house painted red, with windies in ivery side of it, and a bell on the front dure, and a velvet carpet on the stair and--" "What's a stair?' asked Bugsey. "It's a lot of boxes piled up higher and higher, and nailed down tight so that ye can walk on them, and when ye get away up high, there is another house right farninst ye--well anyway, there was a lovely pianny in the parlow, and flowers in the windies, and two yalla burds that sing as if their hearts wud break, and the windies had a border of coloured glass all around them, and long white curtings full of holes, but they like them all the better o' that, for it shows they are owld and must ha' been good to ha' stood it so long. Well, annyway, there was a little boy called Jimmie Watson"--here all eyes were turned on Jimmy, who was sitting on the floor mending his moccasin with a piece of sinew. "There was a little boy called Jimmy Watson who used to carry milk to the lady's back dure, and a girl with black eyes and white teeth all smiley used to take it from him, and put it in a lovely pitcher with birds flying all over it. But one day the lady, herself, was there all dressed in lovely pink velvet and lace, and a train as long as from me to you, and she sez to Jimmy, sez she, 'Have you any sisters or brothers at home,' and Jim speaks up real proud-like, 'Just nine,' he sez, and sez she, swate as you please, 'Oh, that's lovely! Are they all as purty as you?' she sez, and Jimmy sez, 'Purtier if anything,' and she sez, 'I'll be steppin' over to-day to see yer ma,' and Jim ran home and told them all, and they all got brushed and combed and actin' good, and in she comes, laving her carriage at the dure, and her in a long pink velvet cape draggin' behind her on the flure, and wide white fer all around it, her silk skirts creakin' like a bag of cabbage and the eyes of her just dancin' out of her head, and she says, 'These are fine purty childer ye have here, Mrs. Watson. This is a rale purty girl, this oldest one. What's her name?' and ma ups and tells her it is Rebecca Jane Pearl, named for her two grandmothers, and Pearl just for short. She says, 'I'll be for taking you home wid me, Pearlie, to play the pianny for me,' and then she asks all around what the children's names is, and then she brings out a big box, from under her cape, all tied wid store string, and she planks it on the table and tearin' off the string, she sez, 'Now, Pearlie, it's ladies first, tibby sure. What would you like to see in here?' And I says up quick--'A long coat wid fer on it, and a handkerchief smellin' strong of satchel powder,' and she whipped them out of the box and threw them on my knee, and a new pair of red mitts too. And then she says, 'Mary, acushla, it's your turn now.' And Mary says, 'A doll with a real head on it,' and there it was as big as Danny, all dressed in green satin, opening its eyes, if you plaze." "Now, me!" roared Danny, squirming in his chair. "'Daniel Mulcahey Watson, what wud you like?' she says, and Danny ups and says, 'Chockaluts and candy men and taffy and curren' buns and ginger bread,' and she had every wan of them." "'Robert Roblin Watson, him as they call Bugsey, what would you like?' and 'Patrick Healy Watson, as is called Patsey, what is your choice?' says she, and--" In the confusion that ensued while these two young gentlemen thus referred to stated their modest wishes, their mother came in, tired and pale, from her hard day's work. "How is the pink lady to-day, ma?" asked Pearlie, setting Danny down and beginning operations on Bugsey. "Oh, she's as swate as ever, an' can talk that soft and kind about children as to melt the heart in ye." Danny crept up on his mother's knee "Ma, did she give ye pie?" he asked, wistfully. "Yes, me beauty, and she sent this to you wid her love," and Mrs. Watson took a small piece out of a newspaper from under her cape. It was the piece that had been set on the kitchen table for Mrs. Watson's dinner. Danny called them all to have a bite. "Sure it's the first bite that's always the best, a body might not like it so well on the second," said Jimmy as he took his, but Bugsey refused to have any at all. "Wan bite's no good," he said, "it just lets yer see what yer missin." "D'ye think she'll ever come to see us, ma?" asked Pearlie, as she set Danny in the chair to give him his supper. The family was fed in divisions. Danny was always in Division A. "Her? Is it?" said Mrs. Watson and they all listened, for Pearlie's story to-day had far surpassed all her former efforts, and it seemed as if there must be some hope of its coming true. "Why och! childer dear, d'ye think a foine lady like her would be bothered with the likes of us? She is r'adin' her book, and writin' letthers, and thinkin' great thoughts, all the time. When she was speakin' to me to-day, she looked at me so wonderin' and faraway I could see that she thought I wasn't there at all at all, and me farninst her all the time--no childer, dear, don't be thinkin' of it, and Pearlie, I think ye'd better not be puttin' notions inter their heads. Yer father wouldn't like it. Well Danny, me man, how goes it?" went on Mrs. Watson, as her latest born was eating his rather scanty supper. "It's not skim milk and dhry bread ye'd be havin', if you were her child this night, but taffy candy filled wid nuts and chunks o' cake as big as yer head." Whereupon Danny wailed dismally, and had to be taken from his chair and have the "Little Boy Blue" sung to him, before he could be induced to go on with his supper. The next morning when Jimmy brought the milk to Mrs. Francis's back door the dark-eyed girl with the "smiley" teeth let him in, and set a chair beside the kitchen stove for him to warm his little blue hands. While she was emptying the milk into the pitcher with the birds on it, Mrs. Francis, with a wonderful pink kimono on, came into the kitchen. "Who is this boy, Camilla?" she asked, regarding Jimmy with a critical gaze. "This is Master James Watson, Mrs. Francis," answered Camilla with her pleasant smile. "He brings the milk every morning." "Oh yes; of course, I remember now," said Mrs. Francis, adjusting her glasses. "How old is the baby, James?" "Danny is it?" said Jim. "He's four come March." "Is he very sweet and cunning James, and do you love him very much?" "Oh, he's all right," Jim answered sheepishly. "It is a great privilege to have a little brother like Daniel. You must be careful to set before him a good example of honesty and sobriety. He will be a man some day, and if properly trained he may be a useful factor in the uplifting and refining of the world. I love little children," she went on rapturously, looking at Jimmy as if he wasn't there at all, "and I would love to train one, for service in the world to uplift and refine." "Yes ma'am," said Jimmy. He felt that something was expected of him, but he was not sure what. "Will you bring Daniel to see me to-morrow, James?" she said, as Camilla handed him his pail. "I would like to speak to his young mind and endeavour to plant the seeds of virtue and honesty in that fertile soil." When Jimmy got home he told Pearlie of his interview with the pink lady, as much as he could remember. The only thing that he was sure of was that she wanted to see Danny, and that she had said something about planting seeds in him. Jimmy and Pearlie thought it best not to mention Danny's proposed visit to their mother, for they knew that she would be fretting about his clothes, and would be sitting up mending and sewing for him when she should be sleeping. So they resolved to say "nothin' to nobody." The next day their mother went away early to wash for the Methodist minister's wife, and that was always a long day's work. Then the work of preparation began on Danny. A wash-basin full of snow was put on the stove to melt, and Danny was put in the high chair which was always the place of his ablutions. Pearlie began to think aloud. "Bugsey, your stockin's are the best. Off wid them, Mary, and mend the hole in the knees of them, and, Bugsey, hop into bed for we'll be needin' your pants anyway. It's awful stylish for a little lad like Danny to be wearin' pants under his dresses, and now what about boots? Let's see yours, Patsey. They're all gone in the uppers, and Billy's are too big, even if they were here, but they're off to school on him. I'll tell you what Mary, hurry up wid that sock o' Ted's and we'll draw them on him over Bugsey's boots and purtind they're overstockin's, and I'll carry him all the way so's not to dirty them." Mary stopped her dish-washing, and drying her hands on the thin towel that hung over the looking glass, found her knitting and began to knit at the top of her speed. "Isn't it good we have that dress o' his, so good yet, that he got when we had all of yez christened. Put the irons on there Mary; never mind, don't stop your knittin'. I'll do it myself. We'll press it out a bit, and we can put ma's handkerchief, the one pa gev her for Christmas, around his neck, sort o' sailor collar style, to show he's a boy. And now the snow is melted, I'll go at him. Don't cry now Danny, man, yer going' up to the big house where the lovely pink lady lives that has the chocaklut drops on her stand and chunks of cake on the table wid nuts in them as big as marbles. There now," continued Pearlie, putting the towel over her finger and penetrating Danny's ear, "she'll not say she can plant seeds in you. Yer ears are as clean as hers," and Pearlie stood back and took a critical view of Danny's ears front and back. "Chockaluts?" asked Danny to be sure that he hadn't been mistaken. "Yes," went on Pearlie to keep him still while she fixed his shock of red hair into stubborn little curls, and she told again with ever growing enthusiasm the story of the pink lady, and the wonderful things she had in the box tied up with store string. At last Danny was completed and stood on a chair for inspection. But here a digression from the main issue occurred, for Bugsey had grown tired of his temporary confinement and complained that Patsey had not contributed one thing to Danny's wardrobe while he had had to give up both his stockings and his pants. Pearlie stopped in the work of combing her own hair to see what could be done. "Patsey, where's your gum?" she asked. "Git it for me this minute," and Patsey went to the "fallen leaf" of the table and found it on the inside where he had put it for safe keeping. "Now you give that to Bugsey," she said, "and that'll make it kind o' even though it does look as if you wuz gettin' off pretty light." Pearlie struggled with her hair to make it lie down and "act dacint," but the image that looked back at her from the cracked glass was not encouraging, even after making allowance for the crack, but she comforted herself by saying, "Sure it's Danny she wants to see, and she won't be lookin' much at me anyway." Then the question arose, and for a while looked serious-- What was Danny to wear on his head? Danny had no cap, nor ever had one. There was one little red toque in the house that Patsey wore, but by an unfortunate accident, it had that very morning fallen into the milk pail and was now drying on the oven door. For a while it seemed as if the visit would have to be postponed until it dried, when Mary had an inspiration. "Wrap yer cloud around his head and say you wuz feart of the earache, the day is so cold." This was done and a blanket off one of the beds was pressed into service as an outer wrap for Danny. He was in such very bad humour at being wrapped up so tight that Pearlie had to set him down on the bed again to get a fresh grip on him. "It's just as well I have no mitts," she said as she lifted her heavy burden. "I couldn't howld him at all if I was bothered with mitts. Open the dure, Patsey, and mind you shut it tight again. Keep up the fire, Mary. Bugsey, lie still and chew your gum, and don't fight any of yez." When Pearlie and her heavy burden arrived at Mrs. Francis's back door they were admitted by the dark-haired Camilla, who set a rocking-chair beside the kitchen stove for Pearlie to sit in while she unrolled Danny, and when Danny in his rather remarkable costume stood up on Pearlie's knee, Camilla laughed so good humouredly that Danny felt the necessity of showing her all his accomplishments and so made the face that Patsey had taught him by drawing down his eyes, and putting his fingers in his mouth. Danny thought she liked it very much, for she went hurriedly into the pantry and brought back a cookie for him. The savoury smell of fried salmon, for it was near lunch time, increased Danny's interest in his surroundings, and his eyes were big with wonder when Mrs. Francis herself came in. "And is this little Daniel!" she cried rapturously. "So sweet; so innocent; so pure! Did Big Sister carry him all the way? Kind Big Sister. Does oo love Big Sister?" "Nope," Danny spoke up quickly, "just like chockaluts." "How sweet of him, isn't it, really?" she said, "with the world all before him, the great untried future lying vast and prophetic waiting for his baby feet to enter. Well has Dr. Parker said; 'A little child is a bundle of possibilities and responsibilities.'" "If ye please, ma'am," Pearlie said timidly, not wishing to contradict the lady, but still anxious to set her right, "it was just this blanket I had him rolled in." At which Camilla again retired to the pantry with precipitate haste. "Did you see the blue, blue sky, Daniel, and the white, white snow, and did you see the little snow-birds, whirling by like brown leaves?" Mrs. Francis asked with an air of great childishness. "Nope," said Danny shortly, "didn't see nothin'." "Please, ma'am," began Pearlie again, "it was the cloud around his head on account of the earache that done it." "It is sweet to look into his innocent young eyes and wonder what visions they will some day see," went on Mrs. Francis, dreamily, but there she stopped with a look of horror frozen on her face, for at the mention of his eyes Danny remembered his best trick and how well it had worked on Camilla, and in a flash his eyes were drawn down and his mouth stretched to its utmost limit. "What ails the child?" Mrs. Francis cried in alarm. "Camilla, come here." Camilla came out of the pantry and gazed at Danny with sparkling eyes, while Pearlie, on the verge of tears, vainly tried to awaken in him some sense of the shame he was bringing on her. Camilla hurried to the pantry again, and brought another cookie. "I believe, Mrs. Francis, that Danny is hungry," she said. "Children sometimes act that way," she added, laughing. "Really, how very interesting; I must see if Dr. Parker mentions this strange phenomenon in his book." "Please, ma'am, I think I had better take him home now," said Pearlie. She knew what Danny was, and was afraid that greater disgrace might await her. But when she tried to get him back into the blanket he lost every joint in his body and slipped to the floor. This is what she had feared--Danny had gone limber. "I don't want to go home" he wailed dismally. "I want to stay with her, and her; want to see the yalla burds, want a chockalut." "Come Danny, that's a man," pleaded Pearlie, "and I'll tell you all about the lovely pink lady when we go home, and I'll get Bugsey's gum for ye and I'll--" "No," Danny roared, "tell me how about the pink lady, tell her, and her." "Wait till we get home, Danny man." Pearlie's grief flowed afresh. Disgrace had fallen on the Watsons, and Pearlie knew it. "It would be interesting to know what mental food this little mind has been receiving. Please do tell him the story, Pearlie." Thus admonished, Pearlie, with flaming cheeks began the story. She tried to make it less personal, but at every change Danny screamed his disapproval, and held her to the original version, and when it was done, he looked up with his sweet little smile, and said to Mrs. Francis nodding his head. "You're it! You're the lovely pink lady." There was a strange flush on Mrs. Francis's face, and a strange feeling stirring her heart, as she hurriedly rose from her chair and clasped Danny in her arms. "Danny! Danny!" she cried, "you shall see the yellow birds, and the stairs, and the chocolates on the dresser, and the pink lady will come to-morrow with the big parcel." Danny's little arms tightened around her neck. "It's her," he shouted. "It's her." When Mrs. Burton Francis went up to her sitting-room, a few hours later to get the "satchel" powder to put in the box that was to be tied with the store string, the sun was shining on the face of the Madonna on the wall, and it seemed to smile at her as she passed. The little red book lay on the table forgotten. She tossed it into the waste-paper basket. CHAPTER II THE OLD DOCTOR Close beside Mrs. Francis's comfortable home stood another large house, weather-beaten and dreary looking, a house whose dilapidated verandas and broken fence clearly indicated that its good days had gone by. In the summer-time vines and flowers grew around it to hide its scars and relieve its grimness, pathetic as a brave smile on a sad face. Dr. Barner, brilliant, witty and skilful, had for many years been a victim of intemperance, but being Scotch to the backbone, he never could see how good, pure "Kilmarnock," made in Glasgow, could hurt anyone. He knew that his hand shook, and his brain reeled, and his eyes were bleared; but he never blamed the whiskey. He knew that his patients sometimes died while he was enjoying a protracted drunk, but of course, accidents will happen, and a doctor's accidents are soon buried and forgotten. Even in his worst moments, if he could be induced to come to the sick bed, he would sober up wonderfully, and many a sufferer was relieved from pain and saved from death by his gentle and skilful, though trembling, hands. He might not be able to walk across the room, but he could diagnose correctly and prescribe successfully. When he came to Millford years ago, his practice grew rapidly. People wondered why he came to such a small place, for his skill, his wit, his wonderful presence would have won distinction anywhere. His wife, a frail though very beautiful woman, at first thought nothing of his drinking habits--he was never anything but gentlemanly in her presence. But the time came when she saw honour and manhood slowly but surely dying in him, and on her heart there fell the terrible weight of a powerless despair. Her health had never been robust and she quickly sank into invalidism. The specialist who came from Winnipeg diagnosed her case as chronic anaemia and prescribed port wine, which she refused with a queer little wavering cry and a sudden rush of tears. But she put up a good fight nevertheless. She wanted to live so much, for the sake of Mary, her beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter. Mrs. Barner did not live to see the whole work of degeneration, for the end came in the early spring, swift and sudden and kind. The doctor's grief for his wife was sincere. He always referred to her as "my poor Mildred," and never spoke of her except when comparatively sober. Mary Barner took up the burden of caring for her father without question, for she loved him with a great and pitying love, to which he responded in his best moments. In the winter she went with him on his drives night and day, for the fear of what might happen was always in her heart. She was his housekeeper, his office-girl, his bookkeeper; she endured all things, loneliness, poverty, disgrace, without complaining or bitterness. One day shortly after Mrs. Barner's death big John Robertson from "the hills" drove furiously down the street to the doctor's house, and rushed into the office without ringing the bell. His little boy had been cut with the mower-knives, and he implored the doctor to come at once. The doctor sat at his desk, just drunk enough to be ugly-tempered, and curtly told Mr. Robertson to go straight to perdition, and as the poor man, wild with excitement, begged him to come and offered him money, he yawned nonchalantly, and with some slight variations repeated the injunction. Mary hearing the conversation came in hurriedly. "Mary, my dear," the doctor said, "please leave us. This gentleman is quite forgetting himself and his language is shocking." Mary did not even look at her father. She was packing his little satchel with all that would be needed. "Now pick him up and take him," she said firmly to big John. "He'll be all right when he sees your little boy, never mind what he says now." Big John seized the doctor and bore him struggling and protesting to the wagon. The doctor made an effort to get out. "Put him down in the bottom with this under his head"--handing Big John a cushion--"and put your feet on him," Mary commanded. Big John did as she bid him, none too gently, for he could still hear his little boy's cries and see that cruel jagged wound. "Oh, don't hurt him," she cried piteously, and ran sobbing into the house. Upstairs, in what had been her mother's room, she pressed her face against her mother's kimono that still hung behind the door. "I am not crying for you to come back, mother," she sobbed bitterly, "I am just crying for your little girl." The doctor was asleep when John reached his little shanty in the hills. The child still lived, his Highland mother having stopped the blood with rude bandaging and ashes, a remedy learned in her far-off island home. John shook the doctor roughly and cursed him soundly in both English and Gaelic, without avail, but the child's cry so full of pain and weakness roused him with a start. In a minute Dr. Frederick Barner was himself. He took the child gently from his mother and laid him on the bed. For two days the doctor stayed in John's dirty little shanty, caring for little Murdock as tenderly as a mother. He cooked for the child, he sang to him, he carried him in his arms for hours, and soothed him with a hundred quaint fancies. He superintended the cleaning of the house and scolded John's wife soundly on her shiftless ways; he showed her how to bake bread and cook little dishes to tempt the child's appetite, winning thereby her undying gratitude. She understood but little of the scolding, but she saw his kindness to her little boy, for kindness is the same in all languages. On the third day, the little fellow's fever went down and, peeping over the doctor's shoulder, he smiled and chattered and asked for his "daddy" and his "mathar." Then Big John broke down utterly and tried to speak his gratitude, but the doctor abruptly told him to quit his blubbering and hitch up, for little Murdock would be chasing the hens again in a week or two. The doctor went faithfully every day and dressed little Murdock's wound until it no longer needed his care, remaining perfectly sober meanwhile. Hope sprang up in Mary's heart--for love believeth all things. At night when he went to bed and she carefully locked the doors and took the keys to her room, she breathed a sigh of relief. One more day won! But alas for Mary's hopes! They were built upon the slipping, sliding sands of human desire. One night she found him in the office of the hotel; a red-faced, senseless, gibbering old man, arguing theology with a brother Scotchman, who was in the same condition of mellow exhilaration. Mary's white face as she guided her father through the door had an effect upon the men who sat around the office. Kind-hearted fellows they were, and they felt sorry for the poor little motherless girl, sorry for "old Doc" too. One after another they went home, feeling just a little ashamed. The bartender, a new one from across the line, a dapper chap with diamonds, was indignant. "I'll give that old man a straight pointer," he said, "that his girl has to stay out of here. This is no place for women, anyway"--which is true, God knows. Five years went by and Mary Barner lived on in the lonely house and did all that human power could do to stay her father's evil course. But the years told heavily upon him. He had made some fatal mistakes in his prescribing, and the people had been compelled to get in another doctor, though a great many of those who had known him in his best days still clung to the "old man" in spite of his drinking. They could not forget how he had fought with death for them and for their children. Of all his former skill but little remained now except his wonderful presence in the sick-room. He could still inspire the greatest confidence and hope. Still at his coming a sick man's fears fell away from him, and in their stead came hope and good cheer. This was the old man's good gift that even his years of sinning could not wholly destroy. God had marked him for a great physician. CHAPTER III THE PINK LADY When Mrs. Francis decided to play the Lady Bountiful to the Watson family, she not only ministered to their physical necessity but she conscientiously set about to do them good, if they would be done good to. Mrs. Francis's heart was kind, when you could get to it; but it was so deeply crusted over with theories and reflections and abstract truths that not very many people knew that she had one. When little Danny's arms were thrown around her neck, and he called her his dear sweet, pink lady, her pseudo-intellectuality broke down before a power which had lain dormant. She had always talked a great deal of the joys of motherhood, and the rapturous delights of mother-love. Not many of the mothers knew as much of the proper care of an infant during the period of dentition as she. She had read papers at mothers' meetings, and was as full of health talks as a school physiology. But it was the touch of Danny's soft cheek and clinging arms that brought to her the rapture that is so sweet it hurts, and she realised that she had missed the sweetest thing in life. A tiny flame of real love began to glimmer in her heart and feebly shed its beams among the debris of cold theories and second-hand sensations that had filled it hitherto. She worried Danny with her attentions, although he tried hard to put up with them. She was the lady of his dreams, for Pearl's imagination had clothed her with all the virtues and graces. Hers was a strangely inconsistent character, spiritually minded, but selfish; loving humanity when it is spelled with a capital, but knowing nothing of the individual. The flower of holiness in her heart was like the haughty orchid that blooms in the hothouse, untouched by wind or cold, beautiful to behold but comforting no one with its beauty. Pearl Watson was like the rugged little anemone, the wind flower that lifts its head from the cheerless prairie. No kind hand softens the heat or the cold, nor tempers the wind, and yet the very winds that blow upon it and the hot sun that beats upon it bring to it a grace, a hardiness, a fragrance of good cheer, that gladdens the hearts of all who pass that way. Mrs. Francis found herself strongly attracted to Pearl. Pearl, the housekeeper, the homemaker, a child with a woman's responsibility, appealed to Mrs. Francis. She thought about Pearl very often. Noticing one day that Pearl was thin and pale, she decided at once that she needed a health talk. Pearl sat like a graven image while Mrs. Francis conscientiously tried to stir up in her the seeds of right living. "Oh, ma!" Pearl said to her mother that night, when the children had gone to bed and they were sewing by the fire. "Oh, ma! she told me more to-day about me insides than I would care to remember. Mind ye, ma, there's a sthring down yer back no bigger'n a knittin' needle, and if ye ever broke it ye'd snuff out before ye knowed what ye was doin', and there's a tin pan in yer ear that if ye got a dinge in it, it wouldn't be worth a dhirty postage stamp for hearin' wid, and ye mustn't skip ma, for it will disturb yer Latin parts, and ye mustn't eat seeds, or ye'll get the thing that pa had--what is it called ma?" Her mother told her. "Yes, appendicitis, that's what she said. I never knowed there were so many places inside a person to go wrong, did ye, ma? I just thought we had liver and lights and a few things like that." "Don't worry, alannah," her mother said soothingly, as she cut out the other leg of Jimmy's pants. "The Lord made us right I guess, and he won't let anything happen to us." But Pearl was not yet satisfied. "But, oh ma," she said, as she hastily worked a buttonhole. "You don't know about the diseases that are goin' 'round. Mind ye, there's tuberoses in the cows even, and them that sly about it, and there's diseases in the milk as big as a chew o' gum and us not seein' them. Every drop of it we use should be scalded well, and oh, ma, I wonder anyone of us is alive for we're not half clean! The poison pours out of the skin night and day, carbolic acid she said, and every last wan o' us should have a sponge bath at night--that's just to slop yerself all up and down with a rag, and an oliver in the mornin'. Ma, what's an oliver, d'ye think?" "Ask Camilla," Mrs. Watson said, somewhat alarmed at these hygienic problems. "Camilla is grand at explaining Mrs. Francis's quare ways." Pearl's brown eyes were full of worry. "It's hard to git time to be healthy, ma," she said; "we should keep the kittle bilin' all the time, she says, to keep the humanity in the air--Oh, I wish she hadn't a told me, I never thought atin' hurt anyone, but she says lots of things that taste good is black pison. Isn't it quare, ma, the Lord put such poor works in us and us not there at the time to raise a hand." They sewed in silence for a few minutes. Then Pearl said: "Let us go to bed now, ma, me eyes are shuttin'. I'll go back to-morrow and ask Camilla about the 'oliver.'" CHAPTER IV THE BAND OF HOPE Mary Barner had learned the lesson early that the only easing of her own pain was in helping others to bear theirs, and so it came about that there was perhaps no one in Millford more beloved than she. Perhaps it was the memory of her own lost childhood that caused her heart to go out in love and sympathy to every little boy and girl in the village. Their joys were hers; their sorrows also. She took slivers from little fingers with great skill, beguiling the owners thereof with wonderful songs and stories. She piloted weary little plodders through pages of "homework." She mended torn "pinnies" so that even vigilant mothers never knew that their little girls had jumped the fence at all. She made dresses for concerts at short notice. She appeased angry parents, and many a time prevented the fall of correction's rod. When Tommy Watson beguiled Ignatius McSorley, Jr., to leave his mother's door, and go swimming in the river, promising faithfully to "button up his back"--Ignatius being a wise child who knew his limitations--and when Tommy Watson forgot that promise and basely deserted Ignatius to catch on the back of a buggy that came along the river road, leaving his unhappy friend clad in one small shirt, vainly imploring him to return, Ignatius could not go home, for his mother would know that he had again yielded to the siren's voice; so it was to the Barner back door that he turned his guilty steps. Miss Barner was talking to a patient in the office when she heard a small voice at the kitchen door full of distress, whimpering: "Please Miss Barner, I'm in a bad way. Tommy Watson said he'd help me and he never!" Miss Barner went quickly, and there on the doorstep stood a tiny cupid in tears, tightly clasping his scanty wardrobe to his bosom. "He said he'd help me and he never!" he repeated in a burst of rage as she drew him in hastily. "Never mind, honey," she said, struggling to control her laughter. "Just wait till I catch Tommy Watson!" Miss Barner was the assistant Band of Hope teacher. On Monday afternoon it was part of her duty to go around and help the busy mothers to get the children ready for the meeting. She also took her turn with Mrs. White in making taffy, for they had learned that when temperance sentiment waned, taffy, with nuts in it, had a wonderful power to bind and hold the wavering childish heart. There was no human way of telling a taffy day--the only sure way was to go every time. The two little White girls always knew, but do you think they would tell? Not they. There was secrecy written all over their blond faces, and in every strand of their straw-coloured hair. Once they deliberately stood by and heard Minnie McSorley and Mary Watson plan to go down to the creamery for pussy-willows on Monday afternoon--there were four plates of taffy on their mother's pantry shelf at the time and yet they gave no sign--Minnie McSorley and Mary Watson went blindly on and reaped a harvest of regrets. There was no use offering the White girls anything for the information. Glass alleys, paint cards or even popcorn rings were powerless to corrupt them. Once Jimmy Watson became the hero of an hour by circulating the report that he had smelled it cooking when he took the milk to Miss Barner's; but alas, for circumstantial evidence. Every child went to Band of Hope that Monday afternoon eager and expectant; but it was only a hard lesson on the effect of alcohol on the lining of the stomach that they got, and when Mrs. White complimented them on their increased attendance and gave out the closing hymn, Oh, what a happy band are we! the Hogan twins sobbed. When the meeting was over, Miss Barner exonerated Jimmy by saying it was icing for a cake he had smelled, and the drooping spirits of the Band were somewhat revived by her promise that next Monday would surely be Taffy Day. On the last Monday of each month the Band of Hope had a programme instead of the regular lesson. Before the programme was given the children were allowed to tell stories or ask questions relating to temperance. The Hogan twins were always full of communications, and on this particular Monday it looked as if they would swamp the meeting. William Henry Hogan (commonly known as Squirt) told to a dot how many pairs of shoes and bags of flour a man could buy by denying himself cigars for ten years. During William Henry's recital, John James Hogan, the other twin, showed unmistakable signs of impatience. He stood up and waved his hand so violently that he seemed to be in danger of throwing that useful member away forever. Mrs. White gave him permission to speak as soon as his brother had finished, and John James announced with a burst of importance: "Please, teacher, my pa came home last night full as a billy-goat." Miss Barner put her hand hastily over her eyes. Mrs. White gasped, and the Band of Hope held its breath. Then Mrs. White hurriedly announced that Master James Watson would recite, and Jimmy went forward with great outward composure and recited: As I was going to the lake I met a little rattlesnake; I fed him with some jelly-cake, Which made his little-- But Mrs. White interrupted Jimmy just then by saying that she must insist on temperance selections at these programmes, whereat Pearlie Watson's hand waved appealingly, and Miss Barner gave her permission to speak. "Please ma'am," Pearl said, addressing Mrs. White, "Jimmy and me thought anything about a rattlesnake would do for a temperance piece, and if you had only let Jimmy go on you would have seen what happened even a snake that et what he hadn't ought to, and please ma'am, Jimmy and me thought it might be a good lesson for all of us." Miss Barner thought that Pearlie's point was well taken, and took Jimmy with her into the vestry from which he emerged a few minutes later, flushed and triumphant, and recited the same selection, with a possible change of text in one place: As I was going to the lake I met a little rattlesnake; I fed him on some jelly-cake, Which made his little stomach ache. The musical committee then sang: We're for home and mother, God and native land, Grown up friend and brother, Give us now your hand. and won loud applause. Little Sissy Moore knew only the first verse, but it would never have been known that she was saying dum--dum--dum--dum--dum--dum--dum--dum dum-dum-dum, if Mary Simpson hadn't told. Wilford Ducker, starched as stiff as boiled and raw starch could make him, recited "Perish, King Alcohol, we will grow up," but was accorded a very indifferent reception by the Band of Hopers. Wilford was allowed to go to Band of Hope only when Miss Barner went for him and escorted him home again. Mrs. Ducker had been very particular about Wilford from the first. Then the White girls recited a strictly suitable piece. It was entitled "The World and the Conscience." Lily represented a vain woman of the world bent upon pleasure with a tendency toward liquid refreshment. Her innocent china-blue eyes and flaxen braids were in strange contrast to the mad love of glittering wealth which was supposed to fill her heart: Give to me the flowing bowl, And Pleasure's glittering crown; The path of Pride shall be my goal, And conscience's voice I'll drown! Then Blanche sweetly admonished her: Oh! lay aside your idle boasts, No Pleasure thus you'll find; The flowing bowl a serpent is To poison Soul and Mind. Oh, sign our pledge, while yet you can, Nor look upon the Wine When it is red within the Cup, Let not its curse be thine! Thereupon the frivolous creature repents of her waywardness, and the two little girls join hands and recite in unison: We will destroy this giant King, And drive him from our land; And on the side of Temp-er-ance We'll surely take our stand! and the piece was over. Robert Roblin Watson (otherwise known as Bugsey), who had that very day been installed as a member of the Band of Hope, after he had avowed his determination "never to touch, taste nor handle alcoholic stimulants in any form as a beverage and to discourage all traffic in the same," was the next gentleman on the programme. Pearlie was sure Bugsey's selection was suitable. She whispered to him the very last minute not to forget his bow, but he did forget it, and was off like a shot into his piece. I belong to the Band of Hope, Never to drink and never to smoke; To love my parents and Uncle Sam, Keep Alcohol out of my diaphragm; To say my prayers when I go to bed, And not put the bedclothes over my head; Fill up my lungs with oxygen, And be kind to every living thing. There! I guess there can't be no kick about that, Pearl thought to herself as Bugsey finished, and the applause rang out loud and louder. Pearlie had forgotten to tell Bugsey to come down when he was done, and so he stood irresolute, as the applause grew more and more deafening. Pearl beckoned and waved and at last got him safely landed, and when Mrs. White announced that to-day was Taffy Day, owing to Miss Barner's kindness, Bugsey's cup of happiness was full. Miss Barner said she had an extra big piece for the youngest member, Master Danny Watson. Pearlie had not allowed any person to mention taffy to him because Danny could not bear to be disappointed. But there were no disappointments that day. Taffy enough for every one, amber-coloured taffy slabs with nuts in it, cream taffy in luscious nuggets, curly twists of brown and yellow taffy. Oh look, there's another plateful! and it's coming this way. "Have some more, Danny. Oh, take a bigger piece, there's lots of it." Was it a dream? When the last little Band of Hoper had left the vestry, Mary Barner sat alone with her thoughts, looking with unseeing eyes at the red and silver mottoes on the wall. Pledge cards which the children had signed were gaily strung together with ribbons across the wall behind her. She was thinking of the little people who had just gone--how would it be with them in the years to come?--they were so sweet and pure and lovely now. Unconsciously she bowed her head on her hands, and a cry quivered from her heart. The yellow sunlight made a ripple of golden water on the wall behind her and threw a wavering radiance on her soft brown hair. It was at that moment that the Rev. Hugh Grantley, the new Presbyterian minister, opened the vestry door. CHAPTER V THE RELICT OF THE LATE MCGUIRE Close beside the Watson estate with its strangely shaped dwelling stood another small house, which was the earthly abode of one Mrs. McGuire, also of Irish extraction, who had been a widow for forty years. Mrs. McGuire was a tall, raw-boned, angular woman with piercing black eyes, and a firm forbidding jaw. One look at Mrs. McGuire usually made a book agent forget the name of his book. When she shut her mouth, no lips were visible; her upturned nose seemed seriously to contemplate running up under her sun bonnet to escape from this wicked world with all its troubling, and especially from John Watson, his wife and his family of nine. One fruitful cause of dispute between Mrs. McGuire and the Watsons was the boundary line between the two estates. In the spring Mrs. Watson and the boys put up a fence of green poplar poles where they thought the fence should be, hoping that it might serve the double purpose of dividing the lots and be a social barrier between them and the relict of the late McGuire. The relict watched and waited and said not a word, but it was the ominous silence that comes before the hail. Mrs. McGuire hated the Watson family collectively, but it was upon John Watson, the man of few words, that she lavished the whole wealth of her South of Ireland hatred, for John Watson had on more than one occasion got the better of her in a wordy encounter. One time when the boundary dispute was at its height, she had burst upon John as he went to his work in the morning, with a storm of far-reaching and comprehensive epithets. She gave him the history of the Watson family, past, present, and future--especially the future; every Watson that ever left Ireland came in for a brief but pungent notice. John stood thoughtfully rubbing his chin, and when she stopped, not from lack of words, but from lack of breath, he slowly remarked: "Mistress McGuire, yer a lady." "Yer a liar!" she snapped back, with a still more eloquent burst of invectives. John lighted his pipe with great deliberation, and when it was drawing nicely he took it from his mouth and said, more to himself than to her: "Stay where ye are, Pat McGuire. It may be hot where ye are, but it would be hotter for ye if ye were here, and ye'd jist have the throuble o' movin'. Stay where ye are, Pat, wherever ye are." He walked away leaving Mrs. McGuire with the uncomfortable feeling that he had some way got the best of her. The Watsons had planted their potatoes beside the fence, and did not dream of evil. But one morning in the early autumn, the earliest little Watson who went out to get a basin of water out of the rain barrel, to wash the "sleeps" out of his eyes, dropped the basin in his astonishment, for the fence was gone--it was removed to Mrs. McGuire's woodpile, and the lady herself was industriously digging the potatoes. Bugsey, for he was the early little bird, ran back into the house screaming: "She's robbed us! She's robbed us! and tuk our fence." The Watson family gathered as quickly as a fire brigade at the sound of the gong, but in the scramble for garments some were less fortunate than others. Wee Tommy, who was a little heavier sleeper than the others, could find nothing to put on but one overshoe and an old chest protector of his mother's, but he arrived at the front, nevertheless. Tommy was not the boy to desert his family for any minor consideration such as clothes. Mrs. McGuire leaned on her hoe and nonchalantly regarded the gathering forces. She had often thought out the scene, and her air of indifference was somewhat overdone. The fence was on her ground, so it was, and so were two rows of the potatoes. She could do what she liked with her own, so she could. She didn't ask them to plant potatoes on her ground. If they wanted to stand there gawkin' at her, they wur welcome. She always did like comp'ny; but she was afraid the childer would catch cowld, they were dressed so loight for so late in the season. She picked up the last pailful as she spoke, and retired into her own house, leaving the Watson family to do the same. Mrs. Watson counselled peace. John ate his breakfast in silence; but the young Watsons, and even Pearlie, thirsted for revenge. Bugsey Watson forgot his Band of Hope teaching of returning good for evil, and standing on the disputed territory, he planted his little bare legs far apart and shouted, dancing up and down to the rhythm: Chew tobacco, chew tobacco, Spit, spit, spit! Old McGuire, old McGuire, Nit, nit, nit! Mrs. McGuire did occasionally draw comfort from an old clay pipe--but Bugsey's punishment was near. A long shadow fell upon him, and turning around he found himself face to face with Mary Barner who stood spellbound, listening to her lately installed Band of Hoper! Bugsey's downfall was complete! He turned and ran down the road and round behind an elevator, where half an hour later Pearl found him shedding penitential tears, not alas! because he had sinned, but because he had been found out. The maternal instinct was strong in Pearlie. Bugsey in tears was in need of consolation; Bugsey was always in need of admonition. So she combined them: "Don't cry, alannah. Maybe Miss Barner didn't hear yez at all at all. Ladies like her do be thinkin' great thoughts and never knowin' what's forninst them. Mrs. Francis never knows what ye'r sayin' to her at the toime; ye could say 'chew tobacco, chew tobacco' all ye liked before her; but what for did ye sass owld lady McGuire? Haven't I towld ye time out of mind that a soft answer turns away wrath, and forbye makes them madder than anything ye could say to them?" Bugsey tearfully declared he would never go to Band of Hope again. Taffy or no taffy, he could not bear to face her. "Go tell her, Bugsey man," Pearlie urged. "Tell her ye'r sorry. I w'uldn't mind tellin' Miss Barner anything. Even if I'd kilt a man and hid his corp, she's the very one I'd git to help me to give me a h'ist with him into the river, she's that good and swate." The subject of this doubtful compliment had come down so early that morning believing that Mrs. McGuire was confined to her bed with rheumatism. Seeing the object of her solicitude up and about, she would have returned without knowing what had happened; but Bugsey's remarkable musical turn decided her that Mrs. McGuire was suffering from worse than a rheumatic knee. She went into the little house, and heard all about it. When she went home a little later she found Robert Roblin Watson, with resolute heart but hanging head, waiting for her on the back step. What passed between them neither of them ever told, but in a very few minutes Robert Roblin ran gaily homeward, happy in heart, shriven of his sin, and with one little spot on his cheek which tingled with rapture. Better still, he went, like a man, and made his peace with Mrs. McGuire! CHAPTER VI THE MUSICAL SENSE Mrs. Francis, in the sweetest of tea gowns, was intent upon Dr. Ernestus Parker's book on "Purposeful Motherhood." It was the chapter dealing with the "Musical Sense in Children" which engrossed Mrs. Francis's attention. She had just begun subdivision C in the chapter, "When and How the Musical Sense Is Developed," when she thought of Danny. She fished into the waste-paper basket for her little red note-book, and with her silver mounted pencil she made the following entry: DANIEL WATSON, AGED 4. MUS. SENSE. DEVELOPED. IF SO, WHEN. IF NOT, HOW, AND AT ONCE. She read on feverishly. She felt herself to be in the throes of a great idea. Then she called Camilla. Camilla is always so practical, she thought. To Camilla she elaborated the vital points of Dr. Parker's theory of the awakening of the musical sense, reading here and there from the book, rapidly and unintelligibly. She was so excited she was incoherent. Camilla listened patiently, although her thoughts were with her biscuits in the oven below. "And now, Camilla," she said when she had gone all over the subject, "how can we awaken the musical sense in Daniel? You know I value your opinion so much." Camilla was ready. "Take him to hear Professor Welsman play," she said. "The professor will give his recital here on the 15th." Mrs. Francis wrote rapidly. "I believe," she said looking up, "your suggestion is a good one. You shall have the credit of it in my notes." Plan of awakening mus. sense suggested by C--. Camilla smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Francis. You are very kind." When Camilla went back to the kitchen and took the biscuits from the oven, she laughed softly to herself. "This is going to be a good time for some further suggestions. Pearl must go with Danny. What a treat it will be for poor little Pearl! Then we must have a new suit for Danny, new dress for Pearl, new cap for D., new hat for P., all suggested by C. There are a few suggestions which C. will certainly make." On the evening of the professor's recital there were no two happier people in the audience than Pearlie Watson and her brother Daniel Mulcahey Watson; not because the great professor was about to interpret for them the music of the masters--that was not the cause of their happiness--but because of the good supper they had had and the good clothes they wore, their hearts were glad. They had spent the afternoon at Mrs. Francis's (suggested by C.). Danny's new coat had a velvet collar lovely to feel (suggested by C.). Pearl had a wonderful new dress--the kind she had often dreamed of--made out of one of Mrs. Francis's tea gowns. (Not only suggested but made by C.). It had real buttons on it, and there was not one pin needed. Pearl felt she was just as well dressed as the little girl on the starch box. Her only grief was that when she had on her coat--which was also new, and represented one-half month of Camilla's wages--the velvet on her dress did not show. But Camilla, anticipating this difficulty, laid back the fronts in stunning lapels, and to complete the arrangement, put one of her own lace collars around the neck of the coat, the ends coming down over the turned-back fronts. When Pearl looked in the glass she could not believe her eyes! Mr. Francis did not attend piano recitals, nor the meetings of the Browning Club. Mrs. Francis was often deeply grieved with James for his indifference in regard to these matters. But the musical sense in James continued to slumber and sleep. The piano recital by Professor Welsman was given under the auspices of the Ladies' Aid of the Methodist Church, the proceeds to be given toward defraying the cost of the repairs on the parsonage. The professor was to be assisted by local talent, it said on the programmes. Pearl was a little bit disappointed about the programmes. She had told Danny that there would be a chairman who would say: "I see the first item on this here programme is remarks by the chair, but as yez all know I ain't no hand at makin' a speech we'll pass on to the next item." But there was not a sign of a chairman, not even a chair. The people just came up themselves, without anybody telling them, and did their piece and went back. It looked sort of bold to Pearl. First the choir came in and sang: "Praise Waiteth for Thee, O Lord, in Zion." Pearl did not like the way they treated her friend Dr. Clay. Twice when he began to sing a little piece by himself, doing all right, too, two or three of them broke in on him and took the words right out of his mouth. Pearl had seen people get slapped faces for things like that. Pearl thought it just served them right when the doctor stopped singing and let them have it their own way. When the professor came up the aisle everybody leaned forward to have a good look at him. "He is just like folks only for his hair," Pearl thought. Pearl lifted Danny on her knee and told him to look alive now. She knew what they were there for. Then the professor began to play. Indifferently at first after the manner of his kind, clever gymnastics to limber up his fingers perhaps, and perhaps to show how limber they are; runs and trills, brilliant execution, one hand after the other in mad pursuit, crossing over, back again, up and down in the vain endeavour to come up with the other hand; crescendo, diminuendo, trills again! Danny yawned widely. "When's he goin' to begin?" he asked, sleepily. Mrs. Francis watched Danny eagerly. The musical sense was liable to wake up any minute. But it would have to hurry, for Daniel Mulcahey was liable to go to sleep any minute. Pearl was disgusted with the professor and her thoughts fell into vulgar baseball slang: "Playin' to the grand stand, ain't ye? instead o' gettin' down to work. That'll do for ketch and toss. Play the game! Deliver the goods!" Then the professor began the full arm chords with sudden fury, writhing upon the stool as he struck the angry notes from the piano. Pearl's indignation ran high. "He's lost his head--he's up in the air!" she shouted, but the words were lost in the clang of musical discords. But wait! Pearl sat still and listened. There was something doing. It was a Welsh rhapsodie that he was playing. It was all there--the mountains and the rivers, and the towering cliffs with glimpses of the sea where waves foam on the rocks, and sea-fowl wheel and scream in the wind, and then a bit of homely melody as the country folk drive home in the moonlight, singing as only the Welsh can sing, the songs of the heart; songs of love and home, songs of death and sorrowing, that stab with sudden sweetness. A child cries somewhere in the dark, cries for his mother who will come no more. Then a burst of patriotic fire, as the people fling defiance at the conquering foe, and hold the mountain passes till the last man falls. But the glory of the fight and the march of many feet trail off into a wailing chant--the death song of the brave men who have died. The widow mourns, and the little children weep comfortless in their mountain home, and the wind rushes through the forest, and the river foams furiously down the mountain, falling in billows of lace over the rocks, and the sun shines over all, cold and pitiless. "Why, Pearlie Watson, what are you crying for?" Mrs. Francis whispered severely. Pearl's sobs had disturbed her. Danny lay asleep on Pearl's knees, and her tears fell fast on his tangled curls. "I ain't cryin', I ain't cryin' a bit. You leave me alone," Pearl blubbered rudely, shaking off Mrs Francis's shapely hand. Mrs. Francis was shocked. What in the world was making Pearl cry? The next morning Mrs. Francis took out her little red book to enter the result of her experiment, and sat looking long and earnestly at its pages. Then she drew a writing pad toward her and wrote an illuminative article on "Late Hours a Frequent and Fruitful Cause of Irritability in Children." CHAPTER VII "ONE OF MANITOBA'S PROSPEROUS FARMERS" Mr. Samuel Motherwell was a wealthy farmer who lived a few miles from Millford. Photographs of Mr. Motherwell's premises may be seen in the agricultural journals, machinery catalogues, advertisements for woven wire, etc.--"the home of one of Manitoba's prosperous farmers." The farm buildings were in good repair; a large red barn with white trimmings surmounted by a creaking windmill; a long, low machine shed filled with binders, seeders, disc-harrows--everything that is needed for the seed-time and harvest and all that lies between; a large stone house, square and gray, lonely and bare, without a tree or a shrub around it. Mr. Motherwell did not like vines or trees around a house. They were apt to attract lightning and bring vermin. Potatoes grew from the road to the house; and around the front door, as high as the veranda, weeds flourished in abundance, undisturbed and unnoticed. Behind the cookhouse a bed of poppies flamed scarlet against the general sombreness, and gave a strange touch of colour to the common grayness. They seemed out of place in the busy farmyard. Everything else was there for use. Everybody hurried but the poppies; idlers of precious time, suggestive of slothful sleep, they held up their brazen faces in careless indifference. Sam had not planted them--you may be sure of that. Mrs. Motherwell would tell you of an English girl she had had to work for her that summer who had brought the seed with her from England, and of how one day when she sent the girl to weed the onions, she had found her blubbering and crying over what looked to Mrs. Motherwell nothing more than weeds. The girl then told her she had brought the seed with her and planted it there. She was the craziest thing, this Polly Bragg. She went every night to see them because they were like a "bit of home," she said. Mrs. Motherwell would tell you just what a ridiculous creature she was! "I never see the beat o' that girl," Mrs. Motherwell would say. "Them eyes of hers were always red with homesickness, and there was no reason for it in the world, her gettin' more wages than she ever got before, and more'n she was earnin', as I often told her. Land! the way that girl would sing when she had got a letter from home, the queerest songs ye ever heard: Down by the biller there grew a green willer, Weeping all night with the bank for a piller. Well, I had to stop her at last," Mrs. Motherwell would tell you with an apologetic swallow, which showed that even generous people have to be firm sometimes in the discharge of unpleasant duties. "And, mind you," Mrs. Motherwell would go on, with a grieved air, "just as the busy time came on didn't she up and take the fever--you never can depend on them English girls--and when the doctor was outside there in the buggy waitin' for her--he took her to the hospital--I declare if we didn't find her blubberin' over them poppies, and not a flower on them no mor'n nothing." Sam Motherwell and his wife were nominally Presbyterians. At the time that the Millford Presbyterian Church was built Sam had given twenty-five dollars toward it, the money having been secured in some strange way by the wiles of Purvis Thomas, the collector. Everybody was surprised at Sam's prodigality. The next year, a new collector--for Purvis Thomas had gone away--called on Mr. Motherwell. The grain was just beginning to show a slight tinge of gold. It was one of those cloudless sunshiny days in the beginning of August, when a faint blue haze lies on the Tiger Hills, and the joy of being alive swells in the breast of every living thing. The creek, swollen with the July rain, ran full in its narrow channel, sparkling and swirling over its gravelly bed, and on the green meadow below the house a herd of shorthorns contentedly cropped the tender after-grass. In the farmyard a gigantic turkey-gobbler marched majestically with arched neck and spreading wings, feeling himself very much the king of the castle; good-natured ducks puddled contentedly in a trough of dirty water; pigeons, white winged and graceful, circled and wheeled in the sunshine; querulous-voiced hens strutted and scratched, and gossiped openly of mysterious nests hidden away. Sam stood leaning on a pitchfork in front of the barn door. He was a stout man of about fifty years of age, with an ox-like face. His countenance showed the sullen stolidity of a man who spoke little but listened always, of a man who indulged in suspicious thoughts. He knew everything about his neighbours, good and bad. He might forget the good, but never the evil. The tragedies, the sins, the misdeeds of thirty years ago were as fresh in his memory as the scandal of yesterday. No man had ever been tempted beyond his strength but Sam Motherwell knew the manner of his undoing. He extended no mercy to the fallen; he suggested no excuse for the erring. The collector made known his errand. Sam became animated at once. "What?" he cried angrily, "ain't that blamed thing paying yet? I've a good notion to pull my money out of it and be done with it. What do you take me for anyway?" The collector ventured to call his attention to his prosperous surroundings, and evident wealth. "That's like you town fellows," he said indignantly. "You never think of the hired help and twine bills, and what it costs to run a place like this. I pay every time I go, anyway. There ain't a time that I let the plate go by me, when I'm there. By gosh! you seem to think I've money to burn." The collector departed empty-handed. The next time Sam went to Millford he was considerably surprised to have the young minister, the Reverend Hugh Grantley, stop him on the street and hand him twenty-five dollars. "I understand, sir, that you wish to withdraw the money that you invested in the Lord's work," he said as he handed the money to Sam, whose fingers mechanically closed over the bills as he stared at the young man. The Rev. Hugh Grantley was a typical Scotchman, tall and broad shouldered, with an eye like cold steel. Not many people had contradicted the Rev. Hugh Grantley, at least to his face. His voice could be as sweet as the ripple of a mountain stream, or vibrate with the thunder of the surf that beats upon his own granite cliffs. "The Lord sends you seed-time and harvest," he said, fixing his level gray eye on the other man, who somehow avoided his gaze, "has given you health of body and mind, sends you rain from heaven, makes his sun to shine upon you, increases your riches from year to year. You have given Him twenty-five dollars in return and you regret it. Is that so?" "I don't know that I just said that," the other man stammered. "I don't see no need of these fine churches and paid preachers. It isn't them as goes to church most that is the best." "Oh, I see," the young man said, "you would prefer to give your money for the relief of the poor, for hospitals or children's homes, or something like that. Is that so?" "I don't know as there's any reason for me givin' up the money I work hard for." Sam was touched on a vital spot. "Well, I'll tell you the reason," the minister said; his voice was no louder, but it fell with a sledge-hammer emphasis. He moved a step nearer his companion, and some way caught and held his wavering vision. "God owns one-tenth of all that stuff you call your own. You have cheated Him out of His part all these years, and He has carried you over from year to year, hoping that you will pay up without harsh proceedings. You are a rich man in this world's goods, but your soul is lean and hungry and naked. Selfishness and greed have blinded your eyes. If you could see what a contemptible, good-for-nothing creature you are in God's sight, you would call on the hills to fall on you. Why, man, I'd rather take my chances with the gambler, the felon, the drunkard, than with you. They may have fallen in a moment of strong temptation; but you are a respectable man merely because it costs money to be otherwise. The Lord can do without your money. Do not think for a minute that God's work will not go on. 'He shall have dominion from sea to sea,' but what of you? You shall lie down and die like the dog. You shall go out into outer darkness. The world will not be one bit better because you have passed through it." Sam was incoherent with rage. "See here," he sputtered, "what do you know about it? I pay my debts. Everybody knows that." "Hold on, hold on," the young man said gently, "you pay the debts that the law compels you to pay. You have to pay your hired help and your threshing bills, and all that, because you would be 'sued' if you didn't. There is one debt that is left to a man's honour, the debt he owes to God, and to the poor and the needy. Do you pay that debt?" "Well, you'll never get a cent out of me anyway. You have a mighty poor way of asking for money--maybe if you had taken me the right way you might have got some." "Excuse me, Mr. Motherwell," the young man replied with unaffected good humour, "I did not ask you for money at all. I gave you back what you did give. No member of our congregation will ask you for any, though there may come a time when you will ask us to take it." Sam Motherwell broke into a scornful laugh, and, turning away, went angrily down the street. The fact that the minister had given him back his money was a severe shock to some of his deep-rooted opinions. He had always regarded churches as greedy institutions, looking and begging for money from everyone; ministers as parasites on society, living without honest labour, preying on the working man. Sam's favourite story was the old one about the woman whose child got a coin stuck in its throat. She did not send for the doctor, but for the minister! Sam had always seen considerable truth in this story and had told it to every minister he had met. He told himself now that he was glad to get back the money, twenty-five dollars was not picked up every day. But he was not glad. The very touch of the bills was distasteful to him! He did not tell his wife of the occurrence. Nor did he put the money in the black bag, where their money was always kept in the bureau drawer, safe under lock and key. He could not do that without telling his wife where it came from. So he shoved it carelessly into the pocket of the light overcoat that he was wearing. Sam Motherwell was not a careless man about money, but the possession of this particular twenty-five dollars gave him no pleasure. CHAPTER VIII THE OTHER DOCTOR The young minister went down the street with a thoughtful face. "I wonder if I did right," he was thinking. "It is a hard thing to talk that way to a human being, and yet it seems to be the only thing to do. Oh, what it would mean for God's work if all these rich farmers were saved from their insatiable greed." He turned into Dr. Clay's office. "Oh, Clay!" he burst out when he had answered the young man's friendly greeting, "it is an awful thing to lay open a mean man's meanness, and tell him the plain truth about himself." "It is, indeed," the young doctor answered, "but perhaps it is heroic treatment your man needed, for I would infer that you have been reading the law to someone. Who was it?" "Sam Motherwell," the minister answered. "Well, you had a good subject," the doctor said gravely. "For aggravated greed, and fatty degeneration of the conscience, Mr. Motherwell is certainly a wonder. When that poor English girl took the fever out here, it was hard to convince Sam that she was really sick. 'Look at them red cheeks of hers,' he said to me, 'and her ears ain't cold, and her eyes is bright as ever. She's just lookin' for a rest, I think, if you wuz to ask me.'" "How did you convince him?" "I told him the girl would have to have a trained nurse, and would be sick probably six weeks, and then they couldn't get the poor girl off their hands quick enough. 'I don't want that girl dyin' round here,' Sam said." "Is Mrs. Motherwell as close as he is?" the minister asked after a pause. "Some say worse," the doctor replied, "but I don't believe it. She can't be." The minister's face was troubled. "I wish I knew what to do for them," he said sadly. "I'll tell you something you can do for me," the doctor said sitting up straight, "or at least something you may try to do." "What is it?" the minister asked. "Devise some method, suggest some course of treatment, whereby my tried and trusty horse Pleurisy will cease to look so much like a saw-horse. I'm afraid the Humane Society will get after me." The minister laughed. Everybody knew Dr. Clay's horse; there was no danger of mistaking him for any other. He was tall and lean and gaunt. The doctor had bought him believing him to be in poor condition, which good food and good care would remedy. But as the months went by, in spite of all the doctor could do, Pleurisy remained the same, eating everything the doctor brought him, and looking for more, but showing no improvement. "I've tried everything except egg-nog," the doctor went on, "and pink pills, and I would like to turn over the responsibility to someone else. I think perhaps his trouble must be mental--some gnawing sorrow that keeps him awake at night. I don't mind driving Pleurisy where people know me and know that I do feed him occasionally, but it is disconcerting when I meet strangers to have kind-looking old ladies shake their heads at me. I know what they're thinking, and I believe Pleurisy really enjoys it, and then when I drive past a farmhouse to see the whole family run out and hold their sides is not a pleasure. Talk about scattering sunshine! Pleurisy leaves a trail of merriment wherever he goes." "What difference does it make what people think when your conscience is clear. You do feed your horse, you feed him well, so what's the odds," inquired the Rev. Hugh Grantley, son of granite, child of the heather, looking with lifted brows at his friend. "Oh, there you go!" the doctor said smiling. "That's the shorter catechism coming out in you--that Scotch complacency is the thing I wish I had, but I can't help feeling like a rogue, a cheat, an oppressor of the helpless, when I look at Pleurisy." "Horace," the minister said kindly, with his level gray eyes fixed thoughtfully on his friend's handsome face, "a man in either your calling or mine has no right to ask himself how he feels. Don't feel your own pulse too much. It is disquieting. It is for us to go on, never faltering and never looking behind." "In other words, to make good, and never mind the fans," the doctor smiled. Then he became serious. "But Grantley, I am not always so sure I am right as you are. You see a sinner is always a sinner and in danger of damnation, for which there is but one cure, but a sick man may have quinsy or he may have diphtheria, and the treatment is different. But oh! Grantley, I wish I had that Scotch-gray confidence in myself that you have. If you were a doctor you would tell a man he had typhoid, and he'd proceed to have it, even if he had only set out to have an ingrowing toe-nail. But my patients have a decided will of their own. There's young Ab Cowan--they sent for me last night to go out to see him. He has a bad attack of quinsy, but it is the strangest case I ever saw." The gaiety had died out of the young man's face, and he looked perplexed and anxious. "I do wish the old doctor and I were on speaking terms," he concluded. "And are you not?" the minister asked in surprise. "Miss Barner told me that you had been very kind--and I thought--" There was a flush on the minister's face, and he hesitated. "Oh, Miss Barner and I are the best of friends," the doctor said. "I say, Grantley, hasn't that little girl had one lonely life, and isn't she the brave little soul!" The minister was silent, all but his eyes. The doctor went on: "'Who hath sorrow, who hath woe, who hath redness of eyes?' Solomon, wasn't it, who said it was 'they who tarry long at the wine'? I think he should have added 'those who wait at home.' Don't you think she is a remarkably beautiful girl, Grantley?" he asked abruptly. "I do, indeed," the minister answered, giving his friend a searching glance. "But how about the doctor, why will he not speak to you?" He was glad of a chance to change the subject. "I suppose the old man's pride is hurt every time he sees me. He evidently thinks he is all the medical aid they need around here. But I do wish he would come with me to see this young Cowan; it's the most puzzling case I've ever met. There are times, Grantley, when I think I should be following the plough." The minister looked at him thoughtfully. "A man can only do his best, Horace," he said kindly. CHAPTER IX THE LIVE WIRE "Who is this young gentleman or lady?" Dr. Clay asked of Pearlie Watson one day when he met her wheeling a baby carriage with an abnormally fat baby in it. "This is the Czar of all the Rooshia," Pearl answered gravely, "and I'm his body-guard." The doctor's face showed no surprise as he stepped back to get a better look at the czar, who began to squirm at the delay. "See the green plush on his kerridge," Pearl said proudly, "and every stitch he has on is hand-made, and was did for him, too, and he's fed every three hours, rain or shine, hit or miss." "Think of that!" the doctor exclaimed with emphasis, "and yet some people tell us that the Czar has a hard time of it." Pearl drew a step nearer, moving the carriage up and down rapidly to appease the wrath of the czar, who was expressing his disapproval in a very lumpy cry. "I'm just 'tendin', you know, about him bein' the czar," she said confidentially. "You see, I mind him every day, and that's the way I play. Maudie Ducker said one day I never had no time to play cos we wuz so pore, and that started me. It's a lovely game." The doctor nodded. He knew something of "'tendin' games" too. "I have to taste everything he eats, for fear of Paris green," Pearl went on, speaking now in the loud official tone of the body-guard. "I have to stand between him and the howlin' mob thirstin' for his gore." "He seems to howl more than the mob," the doctor said smiling. "He's afraid we're plottin'," Pearl whispered. "Can't trust no one. He ain't howlin'. That's his natcheral voice when he's talkin' Rooshan. He don't know one English word, only 'Goo!' But he'll say that every time. See now. How is a precious luvvy-duvvy? See the pitty man, pull um baby toofin!" At which the czar, secure in his toothlessness, rippled his fat face into dimples, and triumphantly brought forth a whole succession of "goos." "Ain't he a peach?" Pearlie said with pride. "Some kids won't show off worth a cent when ye want them to, but he'll say 'goo' if you even nudge him. His mother thinks 'goo' is awful childish, and she is at him all the time to say 'Daddy-dinger,' but he never lets on he hears her. Say, doctor"--Pearlie's face was troubled--"what do you think of his looks? Just between ourselves. Hasn't he a fine little nub of a nose? Do you see anything about him to make his mother cry?" The doctor looked critically at the czar, who returned his gaze with stolid indifference. "I never saw a more perfect nub on any nose," he answered honestly. "He's a fine big boy, and his mother should be proud of him." "There now, what did I tell you!" Pearlie cried delightedly, nodding her head at an imaginary audience. "That's what I always say to his mother, but she's so tuk up with pictures of pretty kids with big eyes and curly hair, she don't seem to be able to get used to him. She never says his nose is a pug, but she says it's 'different,' and his voice is not what she wanted. He cries lumpy, I know, but his goos are all right. The kid in the book she is readin' could say 'Daddy-dinger' before he was as old as the czar is, and it's awful hard on her. You see, he can't pat-a-cake, or this-little-pig-went-to-market, or wave a bye-bye or nothin'. I never told her what Danny could do when he was this age. But I am workin' hard to get him to say 'Daddy-dinger.' She has her heart set on that. Well, I must go on now." The doctor lifted his hat, and the imperial carriage moved on. She had gone a short distance when she remembered something: "I'll let you know when he says it, doc!" she shouted. "All right, don't forget," he smiled back. When Pearlie turned the next corner she met Maudie Ducker. Maudie Ducker had on a new plaid dress with velvet trimming, and Maudie knew it. "Is that your Sunday dress," she asked Pearl, looking critically at Pearlie's faded little brown winsey. "My, no!" Pearlie answered cheerfully. "This is just my morning dress. I wear my blue satting in the afternoon, and on Sundays, my purple velvet with the watter-plait, and basque-yoke of tartaric plaid, garnished with lace. Yours is a nice little plain dress. That stuff fades though; ma lined a quilt for the boys' bed with it and it faded gray." Maudie Ducker was a "perfect little lady." Her mother often said so; Maudie could not bear to sit near a child in school who had on a dirty pinafore or ragged clothes, and the number of days that she could wear a pinafore without its showing one trace of stain was simply wonderful! Maudie had two dolls which she never played with. They were propped up against the legs of the parlour table. Maudie could play the "Java March" and "Mary's Pet Waltz" on the piano. She always spoke in a hushed vox tremulo, and never played any rough games. She could not bear to touch a baby, because it might put a sticky little finger on her pinafore. All of which goes to show what a perfect little lady she was. When Maudie made inquiries of Pearl Watson as to her Sabbath-day attire, her motives were more kindly than Pearl thought. Maudie's mother was giving her a party. Hitherto the guests upon such occasions had been selected with great care, and with respect to social standing, and blue china, and correct enunciation. This time they were selected with greater care, but with respect to their fathers' politics. All conservatives and undecided voters' children were included. The fight-to-a-finish-for-the-grand-old-party Reformers were tabooed. Algernon Evans, otherwise known as the Czar of all the Rooshias, only son of J. H. Evans, editor of the Millford Mercury, could not be overlooked. Hence the reason for asking Pearl Watson, his body-guard. Millford had two weekly newspapers--one Conservative in its tendencies and the other one Reform. Between them there existed a feud, long standing, unquenchable, constant. It went with the printing press, the subscription list and the good-will of the former owner, when the paper changed hands. The feud was discernible in the local news as well as in the editorials. In the Reform paper, which was edited at the time of which we write by a Tipperary man named McSorley, you might read of a distressing accident which befell one Simon Henry (also a Reformer), while that great and good man was abroad upon an errand of mercy, trying to induce a drunken man to go quietly to his home and family. Mr. Henry was eulogised for his kind act, and regret was expressed that Mr. Henry should have met with such rough usage while endeavouring to hold out a helping hand to one unfortunate enough to be held in the demon chains of intemperance. In the Conservative paper the following appeared: We regret to hear that Simon Henry, secretary of the Young Liberal Club, got mixed up in a drunken brawl last evening and as a result will be confined to his house for a few days. We trust his injuries are not serious, as his services are indispensable to his party in the coming campaign. Reports of concerts, weddings, even deaths, were tinged with partyism. When Daniel Grover, grand old Conservative war-horse, was gathered to his fathers at the ripe age of eighty-seven years, the Reform paper said that Mr. Grover's death was not entirely unexpected, as his health had been failing for some time, the deceased having passed his seventieth birthday. McSorley, the Liberal editor, being an Irishman, was not without humour, but Evans, the other one, revelled in it. He was like the little boys who stick pins in frogs, not that they bear the frogs any ill-will, but for the fun of seeing them jump. He would sit half the night over his political editorials, smiling grimly to himself, and when he threw himself back in his chair and laughed like a boy the knife was turned in someone! One day Mr. James Ducker, lately retired farmer, sometimes insurance agent, read in the Winnipeg Telegram that his friend the Honourable Thomas Snider had chaperoned an Elk party to St. Paul. Mr. Ducker had but a hazy idea of the duties of a chaperon, but he liked the sound of it, and it set him thinking. He remembered when Tom Snider had entered politics with a decayed reputation, a large whiskey bill, and about $2.20 in cash. Now he rode in a private car, and had a suite of rooms at the Empire, and the papers often spoke of him as "mine host" Snider. Mr. Ducker turned over the paper and read that the genial Thomas had replied in a very happy manner to a toast at the Elks' banquet. Whereupon Mr. Ducker became wrapped in deep thought, and during this passive period he distinctly heard his country's call! The call came in these words: "If Tom Snider can do it, why not me?" The idea took hold of him. He began to brush his hair artfully over the bald spot. He made strange faces at his mirror, wondering which side of his face would be the best to have photographed for his handbills. He saw himself like Cincinnatus of old called from the plough to the Senate, but he told himself there could not have been as good a thing in it then as there is now, or Cincinnatus would not have come back to the steers. Mr. Ducker's social qualities developed amazingly. He courted his neighbours assiduously, sending presents from his garden, stopping to have protracted conversations with men whom he had known but slightly before. Every man whose name was on the voters' list began to have a new significance for him. There was one man whom he feared--that was Evans, editor of the Conservative paper. Sometimes when his fancy painted for him a gay and alluring picture of carrying "the proud old Conservative banner that has suffered defeat, but, thank God! never disgrace in the face of the foe" (quotation from speech Mr. Ducker had prepared), sometimes he would in the midst of the most glowing and glorious passages inadvertently think of Evans, and it gave him goose-flesh. Mr. Ducker had lived in and around Millford for some time. So had Evans, and Evans had a most treacherous memory. You could not depend on him to forget anything! When Evans was friendly with him, Mr. Ducker's hopes ran high, but when he caught Evans looking at him with that boyish smile of his twinkling in his eyes, the vision of chaperoning an Elk party to St. Paul became very shadowy indeed. Mr. Ducker tried diplomacy. He withdrew his insurance advertisement from McSorley's paper, and doubled his space in Evans's, paying in advance. He watched the trains for visitors and reported them to Evans. He wrote breezy little local briefs in his own light cow-like way for Evans's paper. But Mr. Ducker's journalistic fervour received a serious set back one day. He rushed into the Mercury office just as the paper went to press with the news that old Mrs. Williamson had at last winged her somewhat delayed flight. Evans thanked him with some cordiality for letting him know in time to make a note of it, and asked him to go around to Mrs. Williamson's home and find out a few facts for the obituary. Mr. Ducker did so with great cheerfulness, rather out of keeping with the nature of his visit. He felt that his way was growing brighter. When he reached the old lady's home he was received with all courtesy by her slow-spoken son. Mr. Ducker bristled with importance as he made known his errand, in a neat speech, in which official dignity and sympathy were artistically blended. "The young may die, but the old must die," he reminded Mr. Williamson as he produced his pencil and tablet. Mr. Williamson gave a detailed account of his mother's early life, marriages first and second, and located all her children with painstaking accuracy. "Left to mourn her loss," Mr. Ducker wrote. "And the cause of her death?" Mr. Ducker inquired gently, "general breaking down of the system, I suppose?" with his pencil poised in the air. Mr. Williamson knit his shaggy brows. "Well, I wouldn't say too much about mother's death if I were you. Stick to her birth, and the date she joined the church, and her marriages--they're sure. But mother's death is a little uncertain, just yet." A toothless chuckle came from the adjoining room. Mrs. Williamson had been an interested listener to the conversation. "Order my coffin, Ducker, on your way down, but never mind the flowers, they might not keep," she shrilled after him as he beat a hasty retreat. When Mr. Ducker, crestfallen and humiliated, re-entered the Mercury office a few moments later, he was watched by two twinkling Irish eyes, that danced with unholy merriment at that good man's discomfiture. They belonged to Ignatius Benedicto McSorley, the editor of the other paper. But Mrs. Ducker was hopeful. A friend of hers in Winnipeg had already a house in view for them, and Mrs. Ducker had decided the church they would attend when the session opened, and what day she would have, and many other important things that it is well to have one's mind made up on and not leave to the last. Maudie Ducker had been taken into the secret, and began to feel sorry for the other little girls whose papas were contented to let them live always in such a pokey little place as Millford. Maudie also began to dream dreams of sweeping in upon the Millford people in flowing robes and waving plumes and sparkling diamonds, in a gorgeous red automobile. Wilford Ducker only of the Ducker family was not taken into the secret. He was too young, his mother said, to understand the change. The nomination day was drawing near, which had something to do with the date of Maudie Ducker's party. Mrs. Ducker told Maudie they must invite the czar and Pearl Watson, though, of course, she did not say the czar. She said Algernon Evans and that little Watson girl. Maudie, being a perfect little lady objected to Pearl Watson on account of her scanty wardrobe, and to the czar's moist little hands; but Mrs. Ducker, knowing that the czar's father was their long suit, stood firm. Mr. Ducker had said to her that very morning, rubbing his hands, and speaking in the conspirator's voice: "We must leave no stone unturned. This is the time of seed-sowing, my dear. We must pull every wire." The czar was a wire, therefore they proceeded to pull him. They did not know he was a live wire until later. Pearl Watson's delight at being asked to a real party knew no bounds. Maudie need not have worried about Pearl's appearing at the feast without the festal robe. The dress that Camilla had made for her was just waiting for such an occasion to air its loveliness. Anything that was needed to complete her toilet was supplied by her kind-hearted mistress, the czar's mother. But Mrs. Evans stood looking wistfully after her only son as Pearl wheeled him gaily down the walk. He was beautifully dressed in the finest of mull and valenciennes; his carriage was the loveliest they could buy; Pearl in her neat hat and dress was a little nurse girl to be proud of. But Mrs. Evans's pretty face was troubled. She was thinking of the pretty baby pictures in the magazines, and Algernon was so--different! And his nose was--strange, too, and she had massaged it so carefully, too, and when, oh when, would he say "Daddy-dinger!" But Algeron was not envious of any other baby's beauty that afternoon, nor worried about his nose either as he bumped up and down in his carriage in glad good humour, and delivered full-sized gurgling "goos" at every person he met, even throwing them along the street in the prodigality of his heart, as he waved his fat hands and thumped his heavy little heels. Pearl held her head high and was very much the body-guard as she lifted the weighty ruler to the ground. Mrs. Ducker ran down the steps and kissed the czar ostentatiously, pouring out such a volume of admiring and endearing epithets that Pearl stood in bewilderment, wondering why she had never heard of this before. Mrs. Ducker carried the czar into the house, Pearl following with one eye shut, which was her way of expressing perplexity. Two little girls in very fluffy short skirts, sat demurely in the hammock, keeping their dresses clean and wondering if there would be ice-cream. Within doors Maudie worried out the "Java March" on the piano, to a dozen or more patient little listeners. On the lawn several little girls played croquet. There were no boys at the party. Wilford was going to have the boys--that is, the Conservative boys the next day. Mrs. Ducker did not believe in co-education. Boys are so rough, except Wilford. He had been so carefully brought up, he was not rough at all. He stood awkwardly by the gate watching the girls play croquet. He had been left without a station at his own request. Patsey Watson rode by on a dray wagon, dirty and jolly. Wilford called to him furtively, but Patsey was busy holding on and did not hear him. Wilford sighed heavily. Down at the tracks a freight train shunted and shuddered. Not a boy was in sight. He knew why. The farmers were loading cattle cars. Pearl went around to the side lawn where the girls were playing croquet, holding the czar's hand tightly. "What are you playin'?" she asked. They told her. "Can you play it?" Mildred Bates asked. "I guess I can," Pearl said modestly. "But I'm always too busy for games like that!" "Maudie Ducker says you never play," Mildred Bates said with pity in her voice. "Maudie Ducker is away off there," Pearl answered with dignity. "I have more fun in one day than Maudie Ducker'll ever have if she lives to be as old as Melchesidick, and it's not this frowsy standin'-round-doin'-nothin' that you kids call fun either." "Tell us about it, Pearl," they shouted eagerly. Pearl's stories had a charm. "Well," Pearl began, "ye know I wash Mrs. Evans's dishes every day, and lovely ones they are, too, all pink and gold with dinky little ivy leaves crawlin' out over the edges of the cups. I play I am at the seashore and the tide is comin' in o'er and o'er the sand and 'round and 'round the land, far as eye can see--that's out of a book. I put all the dishes into the big dish pan, and I pertend the tide is risin' on them, though it's just me pourin' on the water. The cups are the boys and the saucers are the girls, the plates are the fathers and mothers and the butter chips are the babies. Then I rush in to save them, but not until they cry 'Lord save us, we perish!' Of course, I yell it for them, good and loud too--people don't just squawk at a time like that--it often scares Mrs. Evans even yet. I save the babies first, I slush them around to clean them, but they never notice that, and I stand them up high and dry in the drip-pan. Then I go in after the girls, and they quiet down the babies in the drip-pan; and then the mothers I bring out, and the boys and the fathers. Sometimes some of the men make a dash out before the women, but you bet I lay them back in a hurry. Then I set the ocean back on the stove, and I rub the babies to get their blood circlin' again, and I get them all put to bed on the second shelf and they soon forget they were so near death's door." Mary Ducker had finished the "Java March" and "Mary's Pet Waltz," and had joined the interested group on the lawn and now stood listening in dull wonder. "I rub them all and shine them well," Pearl went on, "and get them all packed off home into the china cupboard, every man jack o' them singin' 'Are we yet alive and see each other's face,' Mrs. Evans sings it for them when she's there. "Then I get the vegetable dishes and bowls and silverware and all that, and that's an excursion, and they're all drunk, not a sober man on board. They sing 'Sooper up old boys,' 'We won't go home till mornin' and all that, and crash! a cry bursts from every soul on board. They have struck upon a rock and are going down! Water pours in at the gunnel (that's just me with more water and soap, you know), but I ain't sorry for them, for they're all old enough to know that 'wine is a mocker, strong drink is ragin', and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.' But when the crash comes and the swellin' waters burst in they get sober pret' quick and come rushin' up on deck with pale faces to see what's wrong, and I've often seen a big bowl whirl 'round and 'round kind o' dizzy and say 'woe is me!' and sink to the bottom. Mrs. Evans told me that. Anyway I do save them at last, when they see what whiskey is doin' for them. I rub them all up and send them home. The steel knives--they're the worst of all. But though they're black and stained with sin, they're still our brothers, and so we give them the gold cure--that's the bath-brick, and they make a fresh start. "When I sweep the floor I pertend I'm the army of the Lord that comes to clear the way from dust and sin, let the King of Glory in. Under the stove the hordes of sin are awful thick, they love darkness rather than light, because their deeds are evil! But I say the 'sword of the Lord and of Gideon!' and let them have it! Sometimes I pertend I'm the woman that lost the piece of silver and I sweep the house diligently till I find it, and once Mrs. Evans did put ten cents in a corner just for fun for me, and I never know when she's goin' to do something like that." Here Maudie Ducker, who had been listening with growing wonder interrupted Pearl with the cry of "Oh, here's pa and Mr. Evans. They're going to take our pictures!" The little girls were immediately roused out of the spell that Pearlie's story had put upon them, and began to group themselves under the trees, arranging their little skirts and frills. The czar had toddled on his uncertain little fat legs around to the back door, for he had caught sight of a red head which he knew and liked very much. It belonged to Mary McSorley, the eldest of the McSorley family, who had brought over to Mrs. Ducker the extra two quarts of milk which Mrs. Ducker had ordered for the occasion. Mary sat on the back step until Mrs. Ducker should find time to empty her pitcher. Mary was strictly an outsider. Mary's father was a Reformer. He ran the opposition paper to dear Mr. Evans. Mary was never well dressed, partly accounted for by the fact that the angels had visited the McSorley home so often. Therefore, for these reasons, Mary sat on the back step, a rank outsider. The czar, who knew nothing of these things, began to "goo" as soon as he saw her. Mary reached out her arms. The czar stumbled into them and Mary fell to kissing his bald head. She felt more at home with a baby in her arms. It was at this unfortunate moment that Mr. Ducker and Mr. Evans came around to the rear of the house. Mr. Evans was beginning to think rather more favourably of Mr. Ducker, as the prospective Conservative member. He might do all right--there are plenty worse--he has no brains--but that does not matter. What need has a man of brains when he goes into politics? Brainy men make the trouble. The Grits made that mistake once, elected a brainy man, and they have had no peace since. Mr. Ducker had adroitly drawn the conversation to a general discussion of children. He knew that Mr. Evans's weak point was his little son Algernon. "That's a clever looking little chap of yours, Evans," he had remarked carelessly as they came up the street. (Mr. Ducker had never seen the czar closely.) "My wife was just saying the other day that he has a wonderful forehead for a little fellow." "He has," the other man said smiling, not at all displeased. "It runs clear down to his neck!" "He can hardly help being clever if there's anything in heredity," Mr. Ducker went on with infinite tact, feeling his rainbow dreams of responding to toasts at Elk banquets drawing nearer and nearer. Then the Evil Genius of the House of Ducker awoke from his slumber, sat up and took notice! The house that the friend in Winnipeg had selected for them fell into irreparable ruins! Poor Maudie's automobile vanished at a touch. The rosy dreams of Cincinnatus, and of carrying the grand old Conservative banner in the face of the foe turned to clay and ashes! They turned the corner, and came upon Mary McSorley who sat on the back step with the czar in her arms. Mary's head was hidden as she kissed the czar's fat neck, and in the general babel of voices, within and without, she did not hear them coming. "Speaking about heredity," Mr. Ducker said suavely, speaking in a low voice, and looking at whom he supposed to be the latest McSorley, "it looks as if there must be something in it over there. Isn't that McSorley over again? Low forehead, pug nose, bulldog tendencies." Mr. Ducker was something of a phrenologist, and went blithely on to his own destruction. "Now the girl is rather pleasant looking, and some of the others are not bad at all. But this one is surely a regular little Mickey. I believe a person would be safe in saying that he would not grow up a Presbyterian."--Mr. Evans was the worshipful Grand Master of the Loyal Orange Lodge, and well up in the Black, and this remark Mr. Ducker thought he would appreciate. "McSorley will never be dead while this little fellow lives," Mr. Ducker laughed merrily, rubbing his hands. The czar looked up and saw his father. Perhaps he understood what had been said, and saw the hurt in his father's face and longed to heal him of it; perhaps the time had come when he should forever break the goo-goo bonds that had lain upon his speech. He wriggled off Mary's knee, and toddling uncertainly across the grass with a mighty mental conflict in his pudgy little face, held out his dimpled arms with a glad cry of "Daddy-dinger!" That evening while Mrs. Ducker and Maudie were busy fanning Mr. Ducker and putting wet towels on his head, Mr. Evans sat down to write. "Some more of that tiresome election stuff, John," his pretty little wife said in disappointment, as she proudly rocked the emancipated czar to sleep. "Yes, dear, it is election stuff, but it is not a bit tiresome," he answered smiling, as he kissed her tenderly. Several times during the evening, and into the night, she heard him laugh his happy boyish laugh. James Ducker did not get the nomination. CHAPTER X THE BUTCHER-RIDE Patsey Watson waited on the corner of the street. It was in the early morning and Patsey's face bore marks of a recent and mighty conflict with soap and water. Patsey looked apprehensively every now and then at his home; his mother might emerge any minute and insist on his wearing a coat; his mother could be very tiresome that way sometimes. It seemed long this morning to wait for the butcher, but the only way to be sure of a ride was to be on the spot. Sometimes there were delays in getting away from home. Getting on a coat was one; finding a hat was the worst of all. Since Bugsey got the nail in his foot and could not go out the hat question was easier. The hat was still hard to find, but not impossible. Wilford Ducker came along. Wilford had just had a dose of electric oil artfully concealed in a cup of tea, and he felt desperate. His mother had often told him not to play with any of the Watson boys, they were so rough and unladylike in their manner. Perhaps that was why Wilford came over at once to Patsey. Patsey did not care for Wilford Ducker even if he did live in a big house with screen doors on it. Mind you, he did not wear braces yet, only a waist with white buttons on it, and him seven! Patsey's manner was cold. "You goin' fer butcher-ride?" Wilford asked. "Yep," Patsey answered with very little warmth. "Say, Pat, lemme go," Wilford coaxed. "Nope," Patsey replied, indifferently. "Aw, do, Pat, won't cher?" Mrs. Ducker had been very particular about Wilford's enunciation. Once she dismissed a servant for dropping her final g's. Mrs. Ducker considered it more serious to drop a final g than a dinner plate. She often spoke of how particular she was. She said she had insisted on correct enunciation from the first. So Wilford said again: "Aw, do, Pat, won't cher?" Patsey looked carelessly down the street and began to sing: How much wood would a wood-chuck chuck If a wood-chuck could chuck wood. "What cher take fer butcher-ride, Pat?" Wilford asked. "What cher got?" Patsey had stopped singing, but still beat time with his foot to the imaginary music. Wilford produced a jack-knife in very good repair. Patsey stopped beating time, though only for an instant. It does not do to be too keen. "It's a good un," Wilford said with pride. "It's a Rodger, mind ye--two blades." "Name yer price," Patsey condescended, after a deliberate examination. "Lemme ride all week, ord'rin' and deliv'rin'." "Not much, I won't," Patsey declared stoutly. "You can ride three days for it." Wilford began to whimper, but just then the butcher cart whirled around the corner. Wilford ran toward it. Patsey held the knife. The butcher stopped and let Wilford mount. It was all one to the butcher. He knew he usually got a boy at this corner. Patsey ran after the butcher cart. He had caught sight of someone whom Wilford had not yet noticed. It was Mrs. Ducker. Mrs. Ducker had been down the street ordering a crate of pears. Mrs. Ducker was just as particular about pears as she was about final g's, so she had gone herself to select them. When she saw Wilford, her son, riding with the butcher--well, really, she could not have told the sensation it gave her. Wilford could not have told, either, just how he felt when he saw his mother. But both Mrs. Ducker and her son had a distinct sensation when they met that morning. She called Wilford, and he came. No sooner had he left his seat than Patsey Watson took his place. Wilford dared not ask for the return of the knife: his mother would know that he had had dealings with Patsey Watson, and his account at the maternal bank was already overdrawn. Mrs. Ducker was more sorrowful than angry. "Wilford!" she said with great dignity, regarding the downcast little boy with exaggerated scorn, "and you a Ducker!" She escorted the fallen Ducker sadly homeward, but, oh, so glad that she had saved him from the corroding influence of the butcher boy. While Wilford Ducker was unfastening the china buttons on his waist, preparatory to a season of rest and retirement, that he might the better ponder upon the sins of disobedience and evil associations, Patsey Watson was opening and shutting his new knife proudly. "It was easy done," he was saying to himself. "I'm kinder sorry I jewed him down now. Might as well ha' let him have the week. Sure, there's no luck in being mane." CHAPTER XI HOW PEARL WATSON WIPED OUT THE STAIN Mrs. Motherwell felt bitterly grieved with Polly for failing her just when she needed her the most; "after me keepin' her and puttin' up with her all summer," she said. She began to wonder where she could secure help. Then she had an inspiration! The Watsons still owed ten dollars on the caboose. The eldest Watson girl was big enough to work. They would get her. And get ten dollars' worth of work out of her if they could. The next Saturday night John Watson announced to his family that old Sam Motherwell wanted Pearlie to go out and work off the caboose debt. Mrs. Watson cried, "God help us!" and threw her apron over her head. "Who'll keep the dandrew out of me hair?" Mary said tearfully, "if Pearlie goes away?" "Who'll make me remember to spit on me warts?" Bugsey asked. "Who'll keep house when ma goes to wash?" wee Tommy wailed dismally. Danny's grievance could not be expressed in words. He buried his tousy head in Pearl's apron, and Pearl saw at once that her whole house were about to be submerged in tears, idle tears. "Stop your bleatin', all of yez!" she commanded in her most authoritative voice. "I will go!" she said, with blazing eyes. "I will go, I will wipe the stain off me house once and forever!" waving her arm dramatically toward the caboose which formed the sleeping apartment for the boys. "To die, to die for those we love is nobler far than wear a crown!" Pearl had attended the Queen Esther cantata the winter before. She knew now how poor Esther felt. On the following Monday afternoon everything was ready for Pearl's departure. Her small supply of clothing was washed and ironed and neatly packed in a bird-cage. It was Mary who thought of the bird-cage "sittin' down there in the cellar doin' nothin', and with a handle on it, too." Mary was getting to be almost as smart as Pearl to think of things. Pearl had bidden good-bye to them all and was walking to the door when her mother called her back to repeat her parting instructions. "Now, mind, Pearlie dear, not to be pickin' up wid strangers, and speakin' to people ye don't know, and don't be showin' yer money or makin' change wid anyone." Pearl was not likely to disobey the last injunction. She had seventeen cents in money, ten cents of which Teddy had given her, and the remaining seven cents had come in under the heading of small sums, from the other members of the family. She was a pathetic little figure in her brown and white checked dress, with her worldly effects in the bird-cage, as she left the shelter of her father's roof and went forth into the untried world. She went over to Mrs. Francis to say good-bye to her and to Camilla. Mrs. Francis was much pleased with Pearl's spirit of independence and spoke beautifully of the opportunities for service which would open for her. "You must keep a diary, Pearl," she said enthusiastically. "Set down in it all you see and feel. You will have such splendid opportunities for observing plant and animal life--the smallest little insect is wonderfully interesting. I will be so anxious to hear how you are impressed with the great green world of Out of Doors! Take care of your health, too, Pearl; see that your room is ventilated." While Mrs. Francis elaborated on the elements of proper living, Camilla in the kitchen had opened the little bundle in the cage, and put into it a pair of stockings and two or three handkerchiefs, then she slipped in a little purse containing ten shining ten-cent pieces, and an orange. She arranged the bundle to look just as it did before, so that she would not have to meet Pearl's gratitude. Camilla hastily set the kettle to boil, and began to lay the table. She could hear the velvety tones of Mrs. Francis's voice in the library. "Mrs. Francis speaks a strange language," she said, smiling to herself, "but it can be translated into bread and butter and apple sauce, and even into shoes and stockings, when you know how to interpret it. But wouldn't it be dreadful if she had no one to express it in the tangible things of life for her. Think of her talking about proper diet and aids to digestion to that little hungry girl. Well, it seems to be my mission to step into the gap--I'm a miss with a mission"--she was slicing some cold ham as she spoke--"I am something of a health talker, too." Camilla knocked at the library door, and in answer to Mrs. Francis's invitation to enter, opened the door and said: "Mrs. Francis, would it not be well for Pearl to have a lunch before she starts for her walk into the country; the air is so exhilarating, you know." "How thoughtful you are, Camilla!" Mrs. Francis exclaimed with honest admiration. Thus it happened that Pearlie Watson, aged twelve, began her journey into the big unknown world, fully satisfied in body and soul, and with a great love for all the world. At the corner of the street stood Mrs. McGuire, and at sight of her Pearl's heart stopped beating. "It's bad luck," she said. "I'd as lief have a rabbit cross me path as her." But she walked bravely forward with no outward sign of her inward trembling. "Goin' to Sam Motherwell's, are ye?" the old lady asked shrilly. "Yes'm," Pearl said, trembling. "She's a tarter; she's a skinner; she's a damner; that's what she is. She's my own first cousin and I know HER. Sass her; that's the only way to get along with her. Tell her I said so. Here, child, rub yer j'ints with this when ye git stiff." She handed Pearl a black bottle of home-made liniment. Pearl thanked her and hurried on, but at the next turn of the street she met Danny. Danny was in tears; Danny wasn't going to let Pearlie go away; Danny would run away and get lost and runned over and drownded, now! Pearl's heart melted, and sitting on the sidewalk she took Danny in her arms, and they cried together. A whirr of wheels aroused Pearl and looking up she saw the kindly face of the young doctor. "What is it, Pearl?" he asked kindly. "Surely that's not Danny I see, spoiling his face that way!" "It's Danny," Pearl said unsteadily. "It's hard enough to leave him widout him comin' afther me and breakin' me heart all over again." "That's what it is, Pearl," the doctor said, smiling. "I think it is mighty thoughtless of Danny the way he is acting." Danny held obstinately to Pearl's skirt, and cried harder than ever. He would not even listen when the doctor spoke of taking him for a drive. "Listen to the doctor," Pearl commanded sternly, "or he'll raise a gumboil on ye." Thus admonished Danny ceased his sobs; but he showed no sign of interest when the doctor spoke of popcorn, and at the mention of ice-cream he looked simply bored. "He's awful fond of 'hoo-hung' candy," Pearlie suggested in a whisper, holding her hand around her mouth so that Danny might not hear her. "Ten cents' worth of 'hoo-hung' candy to the boy that says good-bye to his sister like a gentleman and rides home with me." Danny dried his eyes on Pearl's skirt, kissed her gravely and climbed into the buggy beside the doctor. Waterloo was won! Pearl did not trust herself to look back as she walked along the deeply beaten road. The yellow cone-flowers raised their heads like golden stars along the roadside, and the golden glory of the approaching harvest lay upon everything. To the right the Tiger Hills lay on the horizon wrapped in a blue mist. Flocks of blackbirds swarmed over the ripening oats, and angrily fought with each other. "And it not costin' them a cent!" Pearl said in disgust as she stopped to watch them. The exhilaration of the air, the glory of the waving grain, the profusion of wild flowers that edged the fields with purple and yellow were like wine to her sympathetic Irish heart as she walked through the grain fields and drank in all the beauties that lay around, and it was not until she came in sight of the big stone house, gloomy and bare, that she realised with a start of homesickness that she was Pearl Watson, aged twelve, away from home for the first time, and bound to work three months for a woman of reputed ill-temper. "But I'll do it," Pearl said, swallowing the lump that gathered in her throat, "I can work. Nobody never said that none of the Watsons couldn't work. I'll stay out me time if it kills me." So saying, Pearl knocked timidly at the back door. Myriads of flies buzzed on the screen. From within a tired voice said, "Come in." Pearl walked in and saw a large bare room, with a long table in the middle. A sewing machine littered with papers stood in front of one window. The floor had been painted a dull drab, but the passing of many feet had worn the paint away in places. A stove stood in one corner. Over the sink a tall, round-shouldered woman bent trying to get water from an asthmatic pump. "Oh, it's you, is it?" she said in a tone so very unpleasant that Pearl thought she must have expected someone else. "Yes'm," Pearl said meekly. "Who were ye expectin'?" Mrs. Motherwell stopped pumping for a minute and looked at Pearl. "Why didn't ye git here earlier?" she asked. "Well," Pearl began, "I was late gettin' started by reason of the washin' and the ironin', and Jimmy not gettin' back wid the boots. He went drivin' cattle for Vale the butcher, and he had to have the boots for the poison ivy is that bad, and because the sugar o' lead is all done and anyway ma don't like to keep it in the house, for wee Danny might eat it--he's that stirrin' and me not there to watch him now." "Lord! what a tongue you have! Put down your things and go out and pick up chips to light the fire with in the morning." Pearl laid her bird-cage on a chair and was back so soon with the chips that Mrs. Motherwell could not think of anything to say. "Now go for the cows," she said, "and don't run them home!" "Where will I run them to then, ma'am?" Pearl asked innocently. "Good land, child, have I to tell you everything? Folks that can't do without tellin' can't do much with, I say. Bring the cows to the bars, and don't stand there staring at me." When Pearl dashed out of the door, she almost fell over the old dog who lay sleepily snapping at the flies which buzzed around his head. He sprang up with a growl which died away into an apologetic yawn as she stooped to pat his honest brown head. A group of red calves stood at the bars of a small field plaintively calling for their supper. It was not just an ordinary bawl, but a double-jointed hyphenated appeal, indicating a very exhausted condition indeed. Pearl looked at them in pity. The old dog, wrinkling his nose and turning away his head, did not give them a glance. He knew them. Noisy things! Let 'em bawl. Come on! Across the narrow creek they bounded, Pearl and old Nap, and up the other hill where the silver willows grew so tall they were hidden in them. The goldenrod nodded its plumy head in the breeze, and the tall Gaillardia, brown and yellow, flickered unsteadily on its stem. The billows of shadow swept over the wheat on each side of the narrow pasture; the golden flowers, the golden fields, the warm golden sunshine intoxicated Pearl with their luxurious beauty, and in that hour of delight she realised more pleasure from them than Sam Motherwell and his wife had in all their long lives of barren selfishness. Their souls were of a dull drab dryness in which no flower took root, there was no gold to them but the gold of greed and gain, and with it they had never bought a smile or a gentle hand pressure or a fervid "God bless you!" and so it lost its golden colour, and turned to lead and ashes in their hands. When Pearl and Nap got the cows turned homeward they had to slacken their pace. "I don't care how cross she is," Pearl said, "if I can come for the cows every night. Look at that fluffy white cloud! Say, wouldn't that make a hat trimming that would do your heart good. The body of the hat blue like that up there, edged 'round with that cloud over there, then a blue cape with white fur on it just to match. I kin just feel that white stuff under my chin." Then Pearl began to cake-walk and sing a song she had heard Camilla sing. She had forgotten some of the words, but Pearl never was at a loss for words: The wild waves are singing to the shore As they were in the happy days of yore. Pearl could not remember what the wild waves were singing, so she sang what was in her own heart: She can't take the ripple from the breeze, And she can't take the rustle from the trees; And when I am out of the old girl's sight I can-just-do-as-I-please. "That's right, I think the same way and try to act up to it," a man's voice said slowly. "But don't let her hear you say so." Pearl started at the sound of the voice and found herself looking into such a good-natured face that she laughed too, with a feeling of good-fellowship. The old dog ran to the stranger with every sign of delight at seeing him. "I am one of the neighbours," he said. "I live over there"--pointing to a little car-roofed shanty farther up the creek. "Did I frighten you? I am sorry if I did, but you see I like the sentiment of your song so much I could not help telling you. You need not think it strange if you find me milking one of the cows occasionally. You see, I believe in dealing directly with the manufacturer and thus save the middleman's profit, and so I just take what milk I need from So-Bossie over there." "Does she know?" Pearl asked, nodding toward the house. "Who? So-Bossie?" "No, Mrs. Motherwell." "Well, no," he answered slowly. "You haven't heard of her having a fit, have you?" "No," Pearl answered wonderingly. "Then we're safe in saying that the secret has been kept from her." "Does it hurt her, though?" Pearl asked. "It would, very much, if she knew it," the young man replied gravely. "Oh, I mean the cow," Pearl said hastily. "It doesn't hurt the cow a bit. What does she care who gets the milk? When did you come?" "To-night," Pearl said. "I must hurry. She'll have a rod in steep for me if I'm late. My name's Pearl Watson. What's yours?" "Jim Russell," he said. "I know your brother Teddy." Pearl was speeding down the hill. She shouted back: "I know who you are now. Good-bye!" Pearl ran to catch up to the cows, for the sun was throwing long shadows over the pasture, and the plaintive lowing of the hungry calves came faintly to her ears. A blond young man stood at the bars with four milk pails. He raised his hat when he spoke to Pearl. "Madam says you are to help me to milk, but I assure you it is quite unnecessary. Really, I would much prefer that you shouldn't." "Why?" Pearl asked in wonder. "Oh, by Jove! You see it is not a woman's place to work outside like this, don't you know." "That's because ye'r English," Pearl said, a sudden light breaking in on her. "Ma says when ye git a nice Englishman there's nothing nicer, and pa knowed one once that was so polite he used to say 'Haw Buck' to the ox and then he'd say, 'Oh, I beg yer pardon, I mean gee.' It wasn't you, was it?" "No," he said smiling, "I have never driven oxen, but I have done a great many ridiculous things I am sure." "So have I," Pearl said confidentially, as she sat down on a little three-legged stool to milk So-Bossie. "You know them fluffy white things all made of lace and truck like that, that is hung over the beds in rich people's houses, over the pillows, I mean?" "Pillow-shams?" he asked. "Yes, that's them! Well, when I stayed with Camilla one night at Mrs. Francis's didn't I think they were things to pull down to keep the flies off ye'r face. Say, you should have heard Camilla laugh, and ma saw a girl at a picnic once who drank lemonade through her veil, and she et a banana, skin and all." Pearl laughed heartily, but the Englishman only smiled faintly. Canadian ways were growing stranger all the time. "Say," Pearl began after a pause, "who does the cow over there with the horns bent down look like? Someone we both know, only the cow looks pleasanter." "My word!" the Englishman exclaimed, "you're a rum one." Pearl looked disappointed. "Animals often look like people," she said. "We have two cows at home, one looks like Mrs. White, so good and gentle, wouldn't say boo to a goose; the other one looks just like Fred Miller. He works in the mill, and his hair goes in a roll on the top; his mother did it that way with a hair-pin too long, I guess, and now it won't go any other way, and I know an animal that looks like you; he's a dandy, too, you bet. It is White's dog, and he can jump the fence easy as anything." "Oh, give over, give over!" the Englishman said stiffly. Pearl laughed delightedly. "It's lots of fun guessing who people are like," she said. "I'm awful smart at it and so is Mary, four years younger'n me. Once we could not guess who Mrs. Francis was like, and Mary guessed it. Mrs. Francis looks like prayer--big bug eyes lookin' away into nothin', but hopin' it's all for the best. Do you pray?" "I am a rector's son," he answered. "Oh, I know, minister's son, isn't that lovely? I bet you know prayers and prayers. But it isn't fair to pray in a race is it? When Jimmy Moore and my brother Jimmy ran under twelve, Jimmie Moore prayed, and some say got his father to pray, too; he's the Methodist minister, you know, and, of course, he won it; but our Jimmy could ha' beat him easy in a fair race, and no favours; but he's an awful snoopie kid and prays about everything. Do you sing?" "I do--a little," the Englishman said modestly. "Oh, my, I am glad," Pearl cried rapturously. "When I was two years old I could sing 'Hush my babe lie,' all through--I love singin'--I can sing a little, too, but I don't care much for my own. Have they got an organ here?" "I don't know," he answered, "I've only been in the kitchen." "Say, I'd like to see a melodeon. Just the very name of it makes me think of lovely sounds, religious sounds, mountin' higher and higher and swellin' out grander and grander, rollin' right into the great white throne, and shakin' the streets of gold. Do you know the 'Holy City,'" she asked after a pause. The Englishman began to hum it in a rich tenor. "That's it, you bet," she cried delightedly. "Just think of you coming all the way across the ocean and knowing that just the same as we do. I used to listen at the keyhole when Mrs. Francis had company, and I was there helping Camilla. Dr. Clay sang that lots of times." The Englishman had not sung since he had left his father's house. He began to sing now, in a sweet, full voice, resonant on the quiet evening air, the cows staring idly at him. The old dog came down to the bars with his bristles up, expecting trouble. Old Sam and his son Tom coming in from work stopped to listen to these strange sounds. "Confound them English!" old Sam said. "Ye'd think I was payin' him to do that, and it harvest-time, too!" When Dr. Clay, with Danny Watson gravely perched beside him, drove along the river road after saying good-bye to Pearl, they met Miss Barner, who had been digging ferns for Mrs. McGuire down on the river flat. The doctor drew in his horse. "Miss Barner," he said, lifting his hat, "if Daniel Mulcahey Watson and I should ask you to come for a drive with us, I wonder what you would say?" Miss Barner considered for a moment and then said, smiling: "I think I would say, 'Thank you very much, Mr. Watson and Dr. Clay, I shall be delighted to come if you have room for me.'" Life had been easier for Mary Barner since Dr. Clay had come to Millford. It was no longer necessary for her to compel her father to go when he was sent for, and when patients came to the office, if she thought her father did not know what he was doing, she got Dr. Clay to check over the prescriptions. It had been rather hard for Mary to ask him to do this, for she had a fair share of her father's Scotch pride; but she had done too many hard things in her life to hesitate now. The young doctor was genuinely glad to serve her, and he made her feel that she was conferring, instead of asking, a favour. They drove along the high bank that fell perpendicularly to the river below and looked down at the harvest scene that lay beneath them. The air was full of the perfume of many flowers and the chatter of birds. The Reverend Hugh Grantley drove swiftly by them, whereupon Danny made his presence known for the first time by the apparently irrelevant remark: "I know who Miss Barner's fellow is! so I do." Now if Dr. Clay had given Danny even slight encouragement, he would have pursued the subject, and that might have saved complications in the days to come. CHAPTER XII FROM CAMILLA'S DIARY It is nearly six months since I came to live with Mrs. Francis, and I like housework so well and am so happy at it, that it shows clearly that I am not a disguised heiress. My proud spirit does not chafe a bit at having to serve meals and wear a cap (you should see how sweet I look in a cap). I haven't got the fear on my heart all day that I will make a mistake in a figure that will rise up and condemn me at the end of the month as I used to be when I was book-keeping on a high stool, for the Western Hail and Fire Insurance Company (peace to its ashes!). "All work is expression," Fra Elbertus says, so why may I not express myself in blueberry pie and tomato soup? Mrs. Francis is an appreciative mistress, and she is not so entirely wrapped up in Browning as to be insensible to a good salad either, I am glad to say. One night after we had company and everything had gone off well, Mr. Francis came out into the kitchen, and looked over his glasses at me. He opened his mouth twice to speak, but seemed to change his mind. I knew what was struggling for utterance. Then he laid fifty cents on the window sill, pointed at it, nodded to me, and went out hurriedly. My first impulse was to hand it back--then I thought better of it--words do not come easily to him. So he expressed himself in currency. I put the money into my purse for a luck penny. Mrs. Francis is as serene as a summer sea, and can look at you without knowing you are there. Mr. Francis is a peaceful man, too. He looks at his wife in a helpless way when she begins to explain the difference between the Elizabethan and the Victorian poets--I don't believe he cares a cent for either of them. Mrs. Francis entertains quite a bit; I like it, too, and I do not go and cry into the sink because I have to wait on the guests. She entertains well and is a delightful hostess, but some of the people whom she entertains do not appreciate her flights of fancy. I do not like to see them wink at each other, although I know it is funny to hear Mrs. Francis elaborate on the mother's influence in the home and the proper way to deal with selfishness in children; but she means well, and they should remember that, no matter how funny she gets. April 18th.--She gave me a surprise to-day. She called me upstairs and read to me a paper she was preparing to read before some society--she belongs to three or four--on the domestic help problem. Well, it hadn't very much to do with the domestic help problem, but of course I could not tell her that so when she asked me what I thought of it I said: "If all employers were as kind as you and Mr. Francis there would be no domestic help problem." She looked at me suddenly, and something seemed to strike her. I believe it came to her that I was a creature of like passions with herself, capable of gratitude, perhaps in need of encouragement. Hitherto I think she has regarded me as a porridge and coffee machine. She put her arm around me and kissed me. "Camilla," she said gently--she has the softest, dreamiest voice I ever heard--"I believe in the aristocracy of brains and virtue. You have both." Farewell, oh Soulless Corporation! A long, last, lingering farewell, for Camilla E. Rose, who used to sit upon the high stool and add figures for you at ten dollars a week, is far away making toast for two kindly souls, one of whom tells her she has brains and virtue and the other one opens his mouth to speak, and then pushes fifty cents at her instead. Danny Watson, bless his heart! is bringing madam up. He has wound himself into her heart and the "whyness of the what" is packing up to go. May 1st.--Mrs. Francis is going silly over Danny. A few days ago she asked me if I could cut a pattern for a pair of pants. I told her I had made pants once or twice and meekly inquired whom she wanted the pants for. She said for a boy, of course--and she looked at me rather severely. I knew they must be for Danny, and cut the pattern about the size for him. She went into the sewing-room, and I only saw her at meal times for two days. She wrestled with the garment. Last night she asked me if I would take a parcel to Danny with her love. I was glad to go, for I was just dying to see how she had got along. When I held them up before Mrs. Watson the poor woman gasped. "Save us all!" she cried. "Them'll fit none of us. We're poor, but, thank God, we're not deformed!" I'll never forget the look of those pants. They haunt me still. May 15th.--Pearl Watson is the sweetest and best little girl I know. Her gratitude for even the smallest kindness makes me want to cry. She told me the other day she was sure Danny was going to be a doctor. She bases her hopes on the questions that Danny asks. How do you know you haven't got a gizzard? How would you like to be ripped clean up the back? and Where does your lap go to when you stand up? She said, "Ma and us all have hopes o' Danny." Mrs. Francis has a new role, that of matchmaker, though I don't suppose she knows it. She had Mary Barner and the young minister for tea to-night. Mary grows dearer and sweeter every day. People say it is not often one girl praises another; but Mary is a dear little gray-eyed saint with the most shapely hands I ever saw. Reverend Hugh thinks so, too, I have no doubt. It was really too bad to waste a good fruit salad on him though, for I know he didn't know what he was eating. Excelsior would taste like ambrosia to him if Mary sat opposite--all of which is very much as it should be, I know. I thought for a while Mary liked Dr. Clay pretty well, but I know it is not serious, for she talks quite freely of him. She is very grateful to him for helping her so often with her father. But those gray-eyed Scotch people never talk of what is nearest the heart. I wonder if he knows that Mary Barner is a queen among women. I don't like Scotchmen. They take too much for granted. CHAPTER XIII THE FIFTH SON Arthur Wemyss, fifth son of the Reverend Alfred Austin Wemyss, Rector of St. Agnes, Tilbury Road, County of Kent, England, had but recently crossed the ocean. He and six hundred other fifth sons of rectors and earls and dukes had crossed the ocean in the same ship and had been scattered abroad over Manitoba and the Northwest Territories to be instructed in agricultural pursuits by the honest granger, and incidentally to furnish nutriment for the ever-ready mosquito or wasp, who regarded all Old Country men as their lawful meat. The honest granger was paid a sum varying between fifty and one hundred fifty dollars for instructing one of these young fellows in farming for one year, and although having an Englishman was known to be a pretty good investment, the farmers usually spoke of them as they would of the French-weed or the rust in the wheat. Sam Motherwell referred to his quite often as "that blamed Englishman" and often said, unjustly, that he was losing money on him every day. Arthur--the Motherwells could not have told his other name--had learned something since he came. He could pull pig-weed for the pigs and throw it into the pen; he had learned to detect French-weed in the grain; he could milk; he could turn the cream-separator; he could wash dishes and churn, and he did it all with a willingness, a cheerfulness that would have appealed favourably to almost any other farmer in the neighbourhood, but the lines had fallen to Arthur in a stony place, and his employer did not notice him at all unless to find fault with him. Yet he bore it all with good humour. He had come to Canada to learn to farm. The only real grievance he had was that he could not get his "tub." The night he arrived, dusty and travel-stained after his long journey, he had asked for his "tub," but Mr. Motherwell had told him in language he had never heard before--that there was no tub of his around the establishment, that he knew of, and that he could go down and have a dip in the river on Sunday if he wanted to. Then he had conducted him with the lantern to his bed in the loft of the granary. A rickety ladder led up to the bed, which was upon a temporary floor laid about half way across the width of the granary. Bags of musty smelling wheat stood at one end of this little room. Evidently Mr. Motherwell wished to discourage sleep-walking in his hired help, for the floor ended abruptly and a careless somnambulist would be precipitated on the old fanning mill, harrow teeth and other debris which littered the floor below. The young Englishman reeled unsteadily going up the ladder. He could still feel the chug-chug-chug of the ocean liner's engines and had to hold tight to the ladder's splintered rungs to preserve his equilibrium. Mr. Motherwell raised the lantern with sudden interest. "Say," he said, more cheerfully than he had yet spoken, "you haven't been drinking, have you?" "Intoxicants, do you mean?" the Englishman asked, without turning around. "No, I do not drink." "You didn't happen to bring anything over with you, did you, for seasickness on the boat?" Mr. Motherwell queried anxiously, holding the lantern above his head. "No, I did not," the young man said laconically. "Turn out at five to-morrow morning then," his employer snapped in evident disappointment, and he lowered the lantern so quickly that it went out. The young man lay down upon his hard bed. His utter weariness was a blessing to him that night, for not even the racing mice, the musty smells or the hardness of his straw bed could keep him from slumber. In what seemed to him but a few minutes, he was awakened by a loud knocking on the door below, voices shouted, a dog barked, cow-bells jangled; he could hear doors banging everywhere, a faint streak of sunlight lay wan and pale on the mud-plastered walls. "By Jove!" he said yawning, "I know now what Kipling meant when he said 'the dawn comes up like thunder.'" A few weeks after Arthur's arrival, Mrs. Motherwell called him from the barn, where he sat industriously mending bags, to unhitch her horse from the buggy. She had just driven home from Millford. Nobody had taken the trouble to show Arthur how it was done. "Any fool ought to know," Mr. Motherwell said. Arthur came running from the barn with his hat in his hand. He grasped the horse firmly by the bridle and led him toward the barn. As they came near the water trough the horse began to show signs of thirst. Arthur led him to the trough, but the horse tossed his head and was unable to get it near the water on account of the check. Arthur watched him a few moments with gathering perplexity. "I can't lift this water vessel," he said, looking at the horse reproachfully. "It's too heavy, don't you know. Hold! I have it," he cried with exultation beaming in his face; and making a dash for the horse he unfastened the crupper. But the exultation soon died from his face, for the horse still tossed his head in the vain endeavour to reach the water. "My word!" he said, wrinkling his forehead, "I believe I shall have to lift the water-vessel yet, though it is hardly fit to lift, it is so wet and nasty." Arthur spoke with a deliciously soft Kentish accent, guiltless of r's and with a softening of the h's that was irresistible. A light broke over his face again. He went behind the buggy and lifted the hind wheels. While he was holding up the wheels and craning his neck around the back of the buggy to see if his efforts were successful, Jim Russell came into the yard, riding his dun-coloured pony Chiniquy. He stood still in astonishment. Then the meaning of it came to him and he rolled off Chiniquy's back, shaking with silent laughter. "Come, come, Arthur," he said as soon as he could speak. "Stop trying to see how strong you are. Don't you see the horse wants a drink?" With a perfectly serious face Jim unfastened the check, whereupon the horse's head was lowered at once, and he drank in long gulps the water that had so long mocked him with its nearness. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Russell," the Englishman cried delightedly. "Thanks awfully, it is monstrously clever of you to know how to do everything. I wish I could go and live with you. I believe I could learn to farm if I were with you." Jim looked at his eager face so cruelly bitten by mosquitoes. "I'll tell you, Arthur," he said smiling, "I haven't any need for a man to work, but I suppose I might hire you to keep the mosquitoes off the horses. They wouldn't look at Chiniquy, I am sure, if they could get a nip at you." The Englishman looked perplexed. "You are learning as well as any person could learn," Jim said kindly. "I think you are doing famously. No person is particularly bright at work entirely new. Don't be a bit discouraged, old man, you'll be a rich land-owner some day, proprietor of the A. J. Wemyss Stock Farm, writing letters to the agricultural papers, judge of horses at the fairs, giving lectures at dairy institutes--oh, I think I see you, Arthur!" "You are chaffing me," Arthur said smiling. "Indeed I am not. I am very much in earnest. I have seen more unlikely looking young fellows than you do wonderful things in a short time, and just to help along the good work I am going to show you a few things about taking off harness that may be useful to you when you are president of the Agricultural Society of South Cypress, or some other fortunate municipality." Arthur's face brightened. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Russell," he said. That night Arthur wrote home a letter that would have made an appropriate circular for the Immigration Department to send to prospective settlers. CHAPTER XIV THE FAITH THAT MOVETH MOUNTAINS When supper was over and Pearl had washed the heavy white dishes Mrs. Motherwell told her, not unkindly, that she could go to bed. She would sleep in the little room over the kitchen in Polly's old bed. "You don't need no lamp," she said, "if you hurry. It is light up there." Mrs. Motherwell was inclined to think well of Pearl. It was not her soft brown eyes, or her quaint speech that had won Mrs. Motherwell's heart. It was the way she scraped the frying-pan. Pearl went up the ladder into the kitchen loft, and found herself in a low, long room, close and stifling, one little window shone light against the western sky and on it innumerable flies buzzed unceasingly. Old boxes, old bags, old baskets looked strange and shadowy in the gathering gloom. The Motherwells did not believe in giving away anything. The Indians who went through the neighbourhood each fall looking for "old clo'" had long ago learned to pass by the big stone house. Indians do not appreciate a strong talk on shiftlessness the way they should, with a vision of a long cold winter ahead of them. Pearl gazed around with a troubled look on her face. A large basket of old carpet rags stood near the little bed. She dragged it into the farthest corner. She tried to open the window, but it was nailed fast. Then a determined look shone in her eyes. She went quickly down the little ladder. "Please ma'am," she said going over to Mrs. Motherwell, "I can't sleep up there. It is full of diseases and microscopes." "It's what?" Mrs. Motherwell almost screamed. She was in the pantry making pies. "It has old air in it," Pearl said, "and it will give me the fever." Mrs. Motherwell glared at the little girl. She forgot all about the frying pan. "Good gracious!" she said. "It's a queer thing if hired help are going to dictate where they are going to sleep. Maybe you'd like a bed set up for you in the parlour!" "Not if the windies ain't open," Pearl declared stoutly. "Well they ain't; there hasn't been a window open in this house since it was built, and there isn't going to be, letting in dust and flies." Pearl gasped. What would Mrs. Francis say to that? "It's in yer graves ye ought to be then, ma'am," she said with honest conviction. "Mrs. Francis told me never to sleep in a room with the windies all down, and I as good as promised I wouldn't. Can't we open that wee windy, ma'am?" Mrs. Motherwell was tired, unutterably tired, not with that day's work alone, but with the days and years that had passed away in gray dreariness; the past barren and bleak, the future bringing only visions of heavier burdens. She was tired and perhaps that is why she became angry. "You go straight to your bed," she said, with her mouth hard and her eyes glinting like cold flint, "and none of your nonsense, or you can go straight back to town." When Pearl again reached the little stifling room, she fell on her knees and prayed. "Dear God," she said, "there's gurms here as thick as hair on a dog's back, and You and me know it, even if she don't. I don't know what to do, dear Lord--the windy is nelt down. Keep the gurms from gittin' into me, dear Lord. Do ye mind how poor Jeremiah was let down into the mire and ye tuk care o' him, didn't ye? Take care o' me, dear Lord. Poor ma has enough to do widout me comin' home clutterin' up the house wid sickness. Keep yer eye on Danny if ye can at all, at all. He's awful stirrin'. I'll try to git the windy riz to-morrow by hook or crook, so mebbe it's only to-night ye'll have to watch the gurms. Amen." Pearl braided her hair into two little pigtails, with her little dilapidated comb. When she brought out the contents of the bird-cage and opened it in search of her night-dress, the orange rolled out, almost frightening her. The purse, too, rattled on the bare floor as it fell. She picked it up, and by going close to the fly-specked window she counted the ten ten-cent pieces, a whole dollar. Never was a little girl more happy. "It was Camilla," she whispered to herself. "Oh, I love Camilla! and I never said 'God bless Camilla,'"--with a sudden pang of remorse. She was on her knees in a moment and added the postscript. "I can send the orange home to ma, and she can put the skins in the chist to make the things smell nice, and I'll git that windy open to-morrow." Clasping her little purse in her hand, and with the orange close beside her head, she lay down to sleep. The smell of the orange made her forget the heavy air in the room. "Anyway," she murmured contentedly, "the Lord is attendin' to all that." Pearl slept the heavy sleep of healthy childhood and woke in the gray dawn before anyone else in the household was stirring. She threw on some clothing and went down the ladder into the kitchen. She started the fire, secured the basin full of water and a piece of yellow soap and came back to her room for her "oliver." "I can't lave it all to the Lord to do," she said, as she rubbed the soap on her little wash-rag. "It doesn't do to impose on good nature." When Tom, the only son of the Motherwells, came down to light the fire, he found Pearl setting the table, the kitchen swept and the kettle boiling. Pearl looked at him with her friendly Irish smile, which he returned awkwardly. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered, rather good-looking lad of twenty. He had heavy gray eyes, and a drooping mouth. Tom had gone to school a few winters when there was not much doing, but his father thought it was a great deal better for a boy to learn to handle horses and "sample wheat," and run a binder, than learn the "pack of nonsense they got in school nowadays," and when the pretty little teacher from the eastern township came to Southfield school, Mrs. Motherwell knew at one glance that Tom would learn no good from her--she was such a flighty looking thing! Flowers on the under side of her hat! So poor Tom grew up a clod of the valley. Yet Mrs. Motherwell would tell you, "Our Tom'll be the richest man in these parts. He'll get every cent we have and all the land, too; and I guess there won't be many that can afford to turn up their noses at our Tom. And, mind ye, Tom can tell a horse as well as the next one, and he's a boy that won't waste nothin', not like some we know. Look at them Slaters now! Fred and George have been off to college two years, big over-grown hulks they are, and young Peter is going to the Agricultural College in Guelph this winter, and the old man will hire a man to take care of the stock, and him with three boys of his own. Just as if a boy can learn about farmin' at a college! and the way them girls dress, and the old lady, too, and her not able to speak above a whisper. The old lady wears an ostrich feather in her bonnet, and they're a terrible costly thing, I hear. Mind you they only keep six cows, and they send every drop they don't use to the creamery. Everybody can do as they like, I suppose, but I know they'll go to the wall, and they deserve it too!" And yet! She and Mrs. Slater had been girls together and sat in school with arms entwined and wove romances of the future, rosy-hued and golden. When they consulted the oracle of "Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief," the buttons on her gray winsey dress had declared in favour of the "rich man." Then she had dreamed dreams of silks and satins and prancing steeds and liveried servants, and ease, and happiness--dreams which God in His mercy had let her forget long, long ago. When she had become the mistress of the big stone house, she had struggled hard against her husband's penuriousness, defiantly sometimes, and sometimes tearfully. But he had held her down with a heavy hand of unyielding determination. At last she grew weary of struggling, and settled down in sullen submission, a hopeless heavy-eyed, spiritless women, and as time went by she became greedier for money than her husband. "Good-morning," Pearl said brightly. "Are you Mr. Tom Motherwell?" "That's what!" Tom replied. "Only you needn't mind the handle." Pearl laughed. "All right," she said, "I want a little favor done. Will you open the window upstairs for me?" "Why?" Tom asked, staring at her. "To let in good air. It's awful close up there, and I'm afraid I'll get the fever or somethin' bad." "Polly got it," Tom said. "Maybe that is why Polly got it. She's awful sick now. Ma says she'll like as not die. But I don't believe ma will let me open it." "Where is Polly?" Pearl asked eagerly. She had forgotten her own worries. "Who is Polly? Did she live here?" "She's in the hospital now in Brandon," Tom said in answer to her rapid questions. "She planted them poppies out there, but she never seen the flowers on them. Ma wanted me to cut them down, for Polly used to put off so much time with them, but I didn't want to. Ma was mad, too, you bet," he said, with a reminiscent smile at his own foolhardiness. Pearl was thinking--she could see the poppies through the window, bright and glowing in the morning light. They rocked lightly in the wind, and a shower of crimson petals fell. Poor Polly! she hadn't seen them. "What's Polly's other name?" she asked quickly. "Polly Bragg," he answered. "She was awful nice, Polly was, and jolly, too. Ma thought she was lazy. She used to cry a lot and wish she could go home; but my! she could sing fine." Pearl went on with her work with a preoccupied air. "Tom, can you take a parcel for me to town to-day?" "I am not goin'," he said in surprise. "Pa always goes if we need anything. I haven't been in town for a month." "Don't you go to church?" Pearl asked in surprise. "No, you bet I don't, not now. The preacher was sassy to pa and tried to get money. Pa says he'll never touch wood in his church again, and pa won't give another cent either, and, mind you, last year we gave twenty-five dollars." "We paid fourteen dollars," Pearl said, "and Mary got six dollars on her card." "Oh, but you town people don't have the expenses we have." "That's true, I guess," Pearl said doubtfully--she was wondering about the boot bills. "Pa gets a dollar and a quarter every day, and ma gets seventy-five cents when she washes. We're gettin' on fine." Then Mrs. Motherwell made her appearance, and the conversation came to an end. That afternoon when Pearl had washed the dishes and scrubbed the floor, she went upstairs to the little room to write in her diary. She knew Mrs. Francis would expect to see something in it, so she wrote laboriously: I saw a lot of yalla flowers and black-burds. The rode was full of dust and wagging marks. I met a man with a top buggy and smelt a skunk. Mrs. M. made a kake to-day--there was no lickens. I'm goin' to tidy up the granary for Arthur. He's offel nice--an' told me about London Bridge--it hasn't fallen down at all, he says, that's just a song. All day long the air had been heavy and close, and that night while Pearl was asleep the face of the heavens was darkened with storm-clouds. Great rolling masses came up from the west, shot through with flashes of lightening, and the heavy silence was more ominous than the loudest thunder would have been. The wind began in the hills, gusty and fitful at first, then bursting with violence over the plain below. There was a cutting whine in it, like the whang of stretched steel, fateful, deadly as the singing of bullets, chilling the farmer's heart, for he knows it means hail. Pearl woke and sat up in bed. The lightning flashed in the little window, leaving the room as black as ink. She listened to the whistling wind. "It's the hail," she whispered delightedly. "I knew the Lord would find a way to open the windy without me puttin' my fist through it--I'll have a look at the clouds to see if they have that white edge on them. No--I won't either--it isn't my put in. I'll just lave the Lord alone. Nothin' makes me madder than when I promise Tommy or Mary or any of them something and then have them frettin' all the time about whether or not I'll get it done. I'd like to see the clouds though. I'll bet they're a sight, just like what Camilla sings about: Dark is His path on the wings o' the storm. In the kitchen below the Motherwells gathered with pale faces. The windows shook and rattled in their casings. "Keep away from the stove, Tom," Mrs. Motherwell said, trembling. "That's where the lightnin' strikes." Tom's teeth were chattering. "This'll fix the wheat that's standing, every--bit of it," Sam said. He did not make it quite as strong as he intended. Something had taken the profanity out of him. "Hadn't you better go up and bring the kid down, ma?" Tom asked, thinking of Pearl. "Her!" his father said contemptuously. "She'll never hear it." The wind suddenly ceased. Not a breath stirred, only a continuous glare of lightning. Then crack! crack! crack! on the roof, on the windows, everywhere, like bad boys throwing stones, heavier, harder, faster, until it was one beating, thundering roar. It lasted but a few minutes, though it seemed longer to those who listened in terror in the kitchen. The roar grew less and less and at last ceased altogether, and only a gentle rain was falling. Sam Motherwell sat without speaking, "You have cheated the Lord all these years, and He has borne with you, trying to make you pay up without harsh proceedings"--he found himself repeating the minister's words. Could this be what he meant by harsh proceedings? Certainly it was harsh enough taking away a man's crop after all his hard work. Sam was full of self-pity. There were very few men who had ever been treated as badly as he felt himself to be. "Maybe there'll only be a streak of it hailed out," Tom said, breaking in on his father's dismal thoughts. "You'll see in the mornin'," his father growled, and Tom went back to bed. When Pearl woke it was with the wind blowing in upon her; the morning breeze fragrant with the sweetness of the flowers and the ripening grain. The musty odours had all gone, and she felt life and health in every breath. The blackbirds were twittering in the oats behind the house, and the rising sun was throwing long shadows over the field. Scattered glass lay on the floor. "I knew the dear Lord would fix the gurms," Pearl said as she dressed, laughing to herself. But her face clouded in a moment. What about the poppies? Then she laughed again. "There I go frettin' again. I guess the Lord knows they're, there and He isn't going to smash them if Polly really needs them." She dressed herself hastily and ran down the ladder and around behind the cookhouse, where a strange sight met her eyes. The cookhouse roof had been blown off and placed over the poppies, where it had sheltered them from every hailstone. Pearl looked under the roof. The poppies stood there straight and beautiful, no doubt wondering what big thing it was that hid them from the sun. When Tom and his father went out in the early dawn to investigate the damage done by the storm, they found that only a narrow strip through the field in front of the house had been touched. The hail had played a strange trick; beating down the grain along this narrow path, just as if a mighty roller had come through it, until it reached the house, on the other side of which not one trace of damage could be found. "Didn't we get off lucky?" Tom exclaimed "and the rest of the grain is not even lodged. Why, twenty-five dollars would cover the whole loss, cookhouse roof and all." His father was looking over the rippling field, green-gold in the rosy dawn. He started uncomfortably at Tom's words. Twenty-five dollars! CHAPTER XV INASMUCH After sundown one night Pearl's resolve was carried into action. She picked a shoe-box full of poppies, wrapping the stems carefully in wet newspaper. She put the cover on, and wrapped the box neatly. Then she wrote the address. She wrote it painfully, laboriously, in round blocky letters. Pearl always put her tongue out when she was doing anything that required minute attention. She was so anxious to have the address just right that her tongue was almost around to her ear. The address read: Miss Polly Bragg, english gurl and sick with fever Brandon Hospittle Brandon. Then she drew a design around it. Jimmy's teacher had made them once in Jimmy's scribbler, just beautiful. She was sorry she could not do a bird with a long strip of tape in his mouth with "Think of Me" or "From a Friend" or "Love the Giver" on it. Ma knew a man once who could do them, quick as wink. He died a drunkard with delirium trimmings, but was terrible smart. Then she stuck, under the string, a letter she had written to Camilla. Camilla would get them sent to Polly. "I know how to get them sent to Camilla too, you bet," she murmured. "There are two ways, both good ones, too. Jim Russell is one way. Jim knows what flowers are to folks." She crept softly down the stairs. Mrs Motherwell had left the kitchen and no one was about. The men were all down at the barn. She turned around the cookhouse where the poppies stood straight and strong against the glowing sky. A little single red one with white edges swayed gently on its slender stem and seemed to beckon to her with pleading insistence. She hurried past them, fearing that she would be seen, but looking back the little poppy was still nodding and pleading. "And so ye can go, ye sweetheart," she whispered. "I know what ye want." She came back for it. "Just like Danny would be honin' to come, if it was me," she murmured with a sudden blur of homesickness. Through the pasture she flew with the speed of a deer. The tall sunflowers along the fence seemed to throw a light in the gathering gloom. A night hawk circled in the air above her, and a clumsy bat came bumping through the dusk as she crossed the creek just below Jim's shanty. Bottles, Jim's dog, jumped up and barked, at which Jim himself came to the door. "Come back, Bottles," he called to the dog. "How will I ever get into society if you treat callers that way, and a lady, too! Dear, dear, is my tie on straight? Oh, is that you Pearl? Come right in, I am glad to see you." Over the door of Jim's little house the words "Happy Home" were printed in large letters and just above the one little window another sign boldly and hospitably announced "Hot Meals at all Hours." Pearl stopped at the door. "No, Jim," she said, "it's not visitin' I am, but I will go in for a minute, for I must put this flower in the box. Can ye go to town, Jim, in a hurry?" "I can," Jim replied. "I mean now, this very minute, slappet-bang!" Jim started for the door. "Howld on, Jim!" Pearl cried, "don't you want to hear what ye'r goin' for? Take this box to Camilla--Camilla E. Rose at Mrs. Francis's--and she'll do the rest. It's flowers for poor Polly, sick and dyin' maybe with the fever. But dead or alive, flowers are all right for folks, ain't they, Jim? The train goes at ten o'clock. Can ye do it, Jim?" Jim was brushing his hair with one hand and reaching for his coat with the other. "Here's the money to pay for the ride on the cars," Pearl said, reaching out five of her coins. Jim waved his hand. "That's my share of it," he said, pulling his cap down on his head. "You see, you do the first part, then me, then Camilla--just like the fiery cross." He was half way to the stable as he spoke. He threw the saddle on Chiniquy and was soon galloping down the road with the box under his arm. Camilla came to the door in answer to Jim's ring. He handed her the box, and lifting his hat was about to leave without a word, when Camilla noticed the writing. "From Pearl," she said eagerly. "How is Pearl? Come in, please, while I read the letter--it may require an answer." Camilla wore a shirt-waist suit of brown, and the neatest collar and tie, and Jim suddenly became conscious that his boots were not blackened. Camilla left him in the hall, while she went into the library and read the contents of the letter to Mr. and Mrs. Francis. She returned presently and with a pleasant smile said, holding out her hand, "You are Mr. Russell. I am glad to meet you. Tell Pearl the flowers will be sent to-night." She opened the door as she spoke, and Jim found himself going down the steps, wondering just how it happened that he had not said one word--he who was usually so ready of speech. "Well, well," he said to himself as he untied Chiniquy, "little Jimmy's lost his tongue, I wonder why?" All the way home the vision of lovely dark eyes and rippling brown hair with just a hint of red in it, danced before him. Chiniquy, taking advantage of his master's preoccupation, wandered aimlessly against a barbed wire, taking very good care not to get too close to it himself. Jim came to himself just in time to save his leg from a prod from the spikes. "Chiniquy, Chiniquy," he said gravely, "I understand now something of the hatred the French bear your illustrious namesake. But no matter what the man's sins may have been, surely he did not deserve to have a little flea-bitten, mangey, treacherous, mouse-coloured deceiver like you named for him." When Camilla had read Pearl's letter to Mr. and Mrs. Francis, the latter was all emotion. How splendid of her, so sympathetic, so full of the true inwardness of Christian love, and the sweet message of the poppy, the emblem of sleep, so prophetic of that other sleep that knows no waking! Is it not a pagan thought, that? What tender recollections they will bring the poor sufferer of her far away, happy childhood home! Mrs. Francis's face was shining with emotion as she spoke. Then she became dreamy. "I wonder is her soul attune to the melodies of life, and will she feel the love vibrations of the ether?" Mr. Francis had noiselessly left the room when Camilla had finished her rapid explanation. He returned with his little valise in his hand. He stood a moment irresolutely looking, in his helpless dumb way, at his wife, who was so beautifully expounding the message of the flowers. Camilla handed him the box. She understood. Mrs. Francis noticed the valise in her husband's hand. "How very suddenly you make up your mind, James," she said. "Are you actually going away on the train to-night? Really James, I believe I shall write a little sketch for our church paper. Pearl's thoughtfulness has moved me, James. It really has touched me deeply. If you were not so engrossed in business, James, I really believe it would move you; but men are so different from us, Camilla. They are not so soulful. Perhaps it is just as well, but really sometimes, James, I fear you give business too large a place in your life. It is all business, business, business." Mrs. Francis opened her desk, and drawing toward her her gold pen and dainty letter paper, began her article. Camilla followed Mr. Francis into the hall, and helped him to put on his overcoat. She handed him his hat with something like reverence in her manner. "You are upon the King's business to-night," she said, with shining eyes, as she opened the door for him. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only waved his hand with an impatient gesture and was gone. CHAPTER XVI HOW POLLY WENT HOME "We'll have to move poor Polly, if she lives thro' the night," the nurse said to the house doctor in the hospital that night. "She is making all the patients homesick. To hear her calling for her mother or for 'someone from 'ome' is hard on the sick and well." "What are her chances do you think?" the doctor asked gravely. He was a wiry little man with a face like leather, but his touch brought healing and his presence, hope. "She is dying of homesickness as well as typhoid," the nurse said sadly, "and she seems so anxious to get better, poor thing! She often says 'I can't die miss, for what'll happen mother.' But for the last two days, in her delirium, she seems to be worrying more about her work and her flowers. I think they were pretty hard people she lived with. 'Surely she'll praise me this time,' she often says, 'I've tried my 'ardest.' The strenuous life has been too much for poor Polly. Listen to her now!" Polly was singing. Clear and steady and sweet, her voice rang over the quiet ward, and many a fevered face was raised to listen. Polly's mind was wandering in the shadows, but she still sang the songs of home in a strange land: Down by the biller there grew a green willer A weeping all night with the bank for a piller. And over and over again she sang with a wavering cadence, incoherently sometimes, but always with tender pleading, something about "where the stream was a-flowin', the gentle kine lowin', and over my grave keep the green willers growin'." "It is pathetic to hear her," the nurse said, "and now listen to her asking about her poppies." "In the box, miss; I brought the seed hacross the hocean, and they wuz beauties, they wuz wot came hup. They'll be noddin' and wavin' now red and 'andsome, if she hasn't cut them. She wouldn't cut them, would she, miss? She couldn't 'ave the 'eart, I think." "No indeed, she hasn't cut them," the nurse declared with decision, taking Polly's burning hand tenderly in hers. "No one could cut down such beauties. What nonsense to think of such a thing, Polly. They're blooming, I tell you, red and handsome, almost as tall as you are, Polly." The office-boy touched the nurse's arm. "A gentleman who gave no name left this box for one of the typhoid patients," he said, handing her the box. The nurse read the address and the box trembled in her hands as she nervously opened it and took out the contents. "Polly, Polly!" she cried, excitedly, "didn't I tell you they were blooming, red and handsome." But Polly's eyes were burning with delirium and her lips babbled meaninglessly. The nurse held the poppies over her. Her arms reached out caressingly. "Oh, miss!" she cried, her mind coming back from the shadows. "They have come at last, the darlin's, the sweethearts, the loves, the beauties." She held them in a close embrace. "They're from 'ome, they're from 'ome!" she gasped painfully, for her breath came with difficulty now. "I can't just see them, miss, the lights is movin' so much, and the way the bed 'eaves, but, tell me, miss, is there a little silky one, hedged with w'ite? It was mother's favourite one of hall. I'd like to 'ave it in my 'and, miss." The nurse put it in her hand. She was only a young nurse and her face was wet with tears. "It's like 'avin' my mother's 'and, miss, it is," she murmured softly. "Ye wouldn't mind the dark if ye 'ad yer mother's 'and, would ye, miss?" And then the nurse took Polly's throbbing head in her strong young arms, and soothed its restless tossing with her cool soft touch, and told her through her tears of that other Friend, who would go with her all the way. "I'm that 'appy, miss," Polly murmured faintly. "It's like I was goin' 'ome. Say that again about the valley," and the nurse repeated tenderly that promise of incomparable sweetness: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. "It's just like 'avin' mother's 'and to 'old the little silky one," Polly murmured sleepily. The nurse put the poppies beside Polly's face on the pillow, and drawing a screen around her went on to the next patient. A case of urgent need detained her at the other end of the ward, and it was not until the dawn was shining blue in the windows that she came back on her rounds. Polly lay just as she had left her. The crimson petals lay thick upon her face and hair. The homesickness and redness of weeping had gone forever from her eyes, for they were looking now upon the King in his beauty! In her hand, now cold and waxen, she held one little silky poppy, red with edges of white. Polly had gone home. There was a whisper among the poppies that grew behind the cookhouse that morning as the first gleam of the sun came yellow and wan over the fields; there was a whisper and a shivering among the poppies as the morning breezes, cold and chill, rippled over them, and a shower of crystal drops mingled with the crimson petals that fluttered to the ground. It was not until Pearl came out and picked a handful of them for her dingy little room that they held up their heads once more and waved and nodded, red and handsome. CHAPTER XVII "EGBERT AND EDYTHE" When Tom Motherwell called at the Millford post office one day he got the surprise of his life. The Englishman had asked him to get his mail, and, of course, there was the Northwest Farmer to get, and there might be catalogues; but the possibilities of a letter addressed to Mr. Thos. Motherwell did not occur to him. But it was there! A square gray envelope with his own name written on it. He had never before got a real letter. Once he had a machinery catalogue sent to him, with a typewritten letter inside beginning "Dear Sir," but his mother had told him that it was just money they were after, but what would she say if she saw this? He did not trust himself to open it in the plain gaze of the people in the office. The girl behind the wicket noticed his excitement. "Ye needn't glue yer eye on me," Tom thought indignantly. "I'll not open it here for you to watch me. They're awful pryin' in this office. What do you bet she hasn't opened it?" He moved aside as others pressed up to the wicket, feeling that every eye was upon him. In a corner outside the door, Tom opened his letter, and laboriously made out its contents. It was written neatly with carefully shaded capitals: Dear Tom: We are going to have a party to-morrow night, because George and Fred are going back to college next week. We want you to come and bring your Englishman. We all hope you will come. Ever your friend, NELLIE SLATER. Tom read it again with burning cheeks. A party at Slater's and him invited! He walked down the street feeling just the same as when his colt got the prize at the "Fair." He felt he was a marked man--eagerly sought after--invited to parties--girls writing to him! That's what it was to have the cash!--you bet pa and ma were right!--money talks every time! When he came in sight of home his elation vanished. His father and mother would not let him go, he knew that very well. They were afraid that Nellie Slater wanted to marry him. And Nellie Slater was not eligible for the position of daughter-in-law. Nellie Slater had never patched a quilt nor even made a tie-down. She always used baking powder instead of cream of tartar and soda, and was known to have a leaning toward canned goods. Mrs. Motherwell considered her just the girl to spend a man's honest earnings and bring him to seedy ruin. Moreover, she idled away her time, teaching cats to jump, and her eighteen years old, if she was a day! Tom knew that if he went to the party it must be by stealth. When he drove up to the kitchen door his mother looked up from her ironing and asked: "What kept you, Tom?" Tom had not been detained at all, but Mrs. Motherwell always used this form of salutation to be sure. Tom grumbled a reply, and handing out the mail began to unhitch. Mrs. Motherwell read the addresses on the Englishman's letters: Mr. Arthur Wemyss, c/o Mr. S. Motherwell, Millford P.O., Manitoba, Canada, Township 8, range 16, sec't. 20. North America. "Now I wonder who's writing to him?" she said, laying the two letters down reluctantly. There was one other letter addressed to Mr. Motherwell, which she took to be a twine bill. It was post-marked Brandon. She put it up in the pudding dish on the sideboard. As Tom led the horse to the stable he met Pearl coming in with the eggs. "See here, kid," he said carelessly, handing her the letter. Tom knew Pearl was to be trusted. She had a good head, Pearl had, for a girl. "Oh, good shot!" Pearl cried delightedly, as she read the note. "Won't that be great? Are your clothes ready, though?" It was the eldest of the family who spoke. "Clothes," Tom said contemptuously. "They are a blamed sight readier than I am." "I'll blacken your boots," Pearl said, "and press out a tie. Say, how about a collar?" "Oh, the clothes are all right, but pa and ma won't let me go near Nellie Slater." "Is she tooberkler?" Pearl asked quickly. "Not so very," Tom answered guardedly. "Ma is afraid I might marry her." "Is she awful pretty?" Pearl asked, glowing with pleasure. Here was a rapturous romance. "You bet," Tom declared with pride. "She's the swellest girl in these parts"--this with the air of a man who had weighed many feminine charms and found them wanting. "Has she eyes like stars, lips like cherries, neck like a swan, and a laugh like a ripple of music?" Pearl asked eagerly. "Them's it," Tom replied modestly. "Then I'd go, you bet!" was Pearl's emphatic reply. "There's your mother calling." "Yes'm, I'm comin'. I'll help you, Tom. Keep a stout heart and all will be well." Pearl knew all about frustrated love. Ma had read a story once, called "Wedded and Parted, and Wedded Again." Cruel and designing parents had parted young Edythe (pronounced Ed'-ith-ee) and Egbert, and Egbert just pined and pined and pined. How would Mrs. Motherwell like it if poor Tom began to pine and turn from his victuals. The only thing that saved Egbert from the silent tomb where partings come no more, was the old doctor who used to say, "Keep a stout heart, Egbert, all will be well." That's why she said it to Tom. Edythe had eyes like stars, mouth like cherries, neck like a swan, and a laugh like a ripple of music, and wasn't it strange, Nellie Slater had, too? Pearl knew now why Tom chewed Old Chum tobacco so much. Men often plunge into dissipation when they are crossed in love, and maybe Tom would go and be a robber or a pirate or something; and then he might kill a man and be led to the scaffold, and he would turn his haggard face to the howling mob, and say, "All that I am my mother made me." Say, wouldn't that make her feel cheap! Wouldn't that make a woman feel like thirty cents if anything would. Here Pearl's gloomy reflections overcame her and she sobbed aloud. Mrs. Motherwell looked up apprehensively "What are you crying for, Pearl?" she asked not unkindly. Then, oh, how Pearl wanted to point her finger at Mrs. Motherwell, and say with piercing clearness, the way a woman did in the book: "I weep not for myself, but for you and for your children." But, of course, that would not do, so she said: "I ain't cryin'--much." Pearl was grating horse-radish that afternoon, but the tears she shed were for the parted lovers. She wondered if they ever met in the moonlight and vowed to be true till the rocks melted in the sun, and all the seas ran dry. That's what Egbert had said, and then a rift of cloud passed athwart the moon's face, and Edythe fainted dead away because it is bad luck to have a cloud go over the moon when people are busy plighting vows, and wasn't it a good thing that Egbert was there to break her fall? Pearl could just see poor Nellie Slater standing dry-eyed and pale at the window wondering if Tom could get away from his lynx-eyed parents who dogged his every footstep, and Pearl's tears flowed afresh. But Nellie Slater was not standing dry-eyed and pale at the window. "Did you ask Tom Motherwell?" Fred, her brother, asked, looking up from a list he held in his hand. "I sent him a note," Nellie answered, turning around from the baking-board. "We couldn't leave Tom out. Poor boy, he never has any fun, and I do feel sorry for him." "His mother won't let him come, anyway," Fred said smiling. "So don't set your heart on seeing him, Nell." "How discouraging you are Fred," Nellie replied laughing. "Now, I believe he will come. Tom would be a smart boy if he had a chance, I think. But just think what it must be like to live with two people like the Motherwells. You do not realise it, Fred, because you have had the superior advantages of living with clever people like your brother Peter and your sister Eleanor Mary; isn't that so, Peter?" Peter Slater, the youngest of the family, who had just come in, laid down the milk-pails before replying. "We have done our best for them all, Nellie," he said modestly. "I hope they will repay us. But did I hear you say Tom Motherwell was coming?" "You heard Nell say so," Fred answered, checking over the names. "Nell seems to like Tom pretty well." "I do, indeed," Nellie assented, without turning around. "You show good taste, Eleanor," Peter said as he washed his hands. "Who is going to drive into town for Camilla?" Nellie asked that evening. "I am," Fred answered promptly. "No, you're not, I am," Peter declared. George looked up hastily. "I am going to bring Miss Rose out," he said firmly. Then they laughed. "Father," Nellie said gravely, "just to save trouble among the boys, will you do it?" "With the greatest of pleasure," her father said, smiling. Under Pearl's ready sympathy Tom began to feel the part of the stricken lover, and to become as eager to meet Nellie as Egbert had been to meet the beautiful Edythe. He moped around the field that afternoon and let Arthur do the heavy share of the work. The next morning before Mrs. Motherwell appeared Pearl and Tom decided upon the plan of campaign. Pearl was to get his Sunday clothes taken to the bluff in the pasture field, sometime during the day. Then in the evening Tom would retire early, watch his chance, slip out the front door, make his toilet on the bluff, and then, oh bliss! away to Edythe. Pearl had thought of having him make a rope of the sheets; but she remembered that this plan of escape was only used when people were leaving a place for good--such as a prison; but for coming back again, perhaps after all, it was better to use the front door. Egbert had used the sheets, though. Fortune favoured Pearl's plans that afternoon. A book agent called at the back door with the prospectus of a book entitled, "Woman's Influence in the Home." While he was busy explaining to Mrs. Motherwell the great advantages of possessing a copy of this book, and she was equally busy explaining to him her views on bookselling as an occupation for an able-bodied man, Pearl secured Tom's suit, ran down the front stairs, out the front door and away to the bluff. Coming back to the house she had an uneasy feeling that she was doing something wrong. Then she remembered Edythe, dry-eyed and pale, and her fears vanished. Pearl had recited once at a Band of Hope meeting a poem of her own choosing--this was before the regulations excluding secular subjects became so rigid. Pearl's recitation dealt with a captive knight who languished in a mouldy prison. He begged a temporary respite--his prayer was heard--a year was given him. He went back to his wife and child and lived the year in peace and happiness. The hour came to part, friends entreated--wife and child wept--the knight alone was calm. He stepped through the casement, a proud flush on his cheek, casting aside wife, child, friends. "What are wife and child to the word of a knight?" he said. "And behold the dawn has come!" Pearl had lived the scene over and over; to her it stood for all that was brave and heroic. Coming up through the weeds that day, she was that man. Her step was proud, her head was thrown back, her brown eyes glowed and burned; there was strength and grace in every motion. When Tom Motherwell furtively left his father's house, and made his way to the little grove where his best clothes were secreted, his movements were followed by two anxious brown eyes that looked out of the little window in the rear of the house. The men came in from the barn, and the night hush settled down upon the household. Mr. and Mrs. Motherwell went to their repose, little dreaming that their only son had entered society, and, worse still, was exposed to the baneful charms of the reckless young woman who was known to have a preference for baking powder and canned goods, and curled her hair with the curling tongs. CHAPTER XVIII THE PARTY AT SLATER'S "I wonder how we are going to get all the people in to-night," Edith Slater said gravely as the family sat at supper. "I am afraid the walls will be bulged out to-morrow." "The new chicken-house and the cellar will do for the overflow meetings," George remarked. "I borrow the pantry if it comes to a crush, you and I, Camilla," Peter Slater said, helping himself to another piece of pie. Camilla had come out in the afternoon to help with the preparations. "No, Camilla is my partner," Fred said severely. "Peter is growing up too fast, don't you think so, mother? Since I lent him my razor to play with there's no end to the airs he gives himself. I think he should go to bed at eight o'clock to-night, same as other nights." Peter laughed scornfully, but Nellie interposed. "You boys needn't quarrel over Camilla for Jim Russell is coming, and when Camilla sees him, what chance do you suppose you'll have?" "And when Jim sees Camilla, what chance will you have, Nell?" George asked. "Not one in a hundred; but I am prepared for the worst," Nellie answered, good-naturedly. "That means she has asked Tom Motherwell," Peter explained. Then Mrs. Slater told them to hurry along with their supper for the people would soon be coming. It was Mrs. Slater who had planned the party. Mrs. Slater was the leading spirit in everything in the household that required dash and daring. Hers was the dominant voice, though nothing louder than a whisper had been heard from her for years. She laughed in a whisper, she cried in a whisper. Yet in some way her laugh was contagious, and her tears brought comfort to those with whom she wept. When she proposed the party the girls foresaw difficulties. The house was small--there were so many to ask--it was a busy time. Mrs. Slater stood firm. "Ask everybody," she whispered. "Nobody minds being crowded at a party. I was at a party once where we had to go outside to turn around, the house was so small. I'll never forget what a good time we had." Mr. Slater was dressed and ready for anything long before the time had come for the guests to arrive. An hour before he had sat down resignedly and said, "Come, girls, do as you think best with the old man, scrub him, polish him, powder him, blacken his eyebrows, do not spare him, he's yours," and the girls had laughingly accepted the privilege. George, whose duty it was to attend to the lamps for the occasion, came in with a worried look, on his usually placid face. "The aristocratic parlour-lamp is indisposed," he said. "It has balked, refuses to turn up, and smells dreadfully." "Bring in the plebeians, George," Fred cried gaily, "and never mind the patrician--the forty-cent plebs never fail. I told Jim Russell to bring his lantern, and Peter can stand in a corner and light matches if we are short." "It's working now," Edith called from the parlour, "burning beautifully; mother drew her hand over it." Soon the company began to arrive. Bashful, self-conscious girls, some of them were, old before their time with the marks of toil, heavy and unremitting, upon them, hard-handed, stoop-shouldered, dull-eyed and awkward. These were the daughters of rich farmers. Good girls they were, too, conscientious, careful, unselfish, thinking it a virtue to stifle every ambition, smother every craving for pleasure. When they felt tired, they called it laziness and felt disgraced, and thus they had spent their days, working, working from the gray dawn, until the darkness came again, and all for what? When in after years these girls, broken in health and in spirits, slipped away to premature graves, or, worse still, settled into chronic invalidism, of what avail was the memory of the cows they milked, the mats they hooked, the number of pounds of butter they made. Not all the girls were like these. Maud Murray was there. Maud Murray with the milkmaid cheeks and curly black hair, the typical country girl of bounding life aid spirits, the type so often seen upon the stage and so seldom elsewhere. Mrs. Motherwell had warned Tom against Maud Murray as well as Nellie Slater. She had once seen Maud churning, and she had had a newspaper pinned to the wall in front of her, and was reading it as she worked, and Mrs. Motherwell knew that a girl who would do that would come to no good. Martha Perkins was the one girl of whom Mrs. Motherwell approved. Martha's record on butter and quilts and mats stood high. Martha was a nice quiet girl. Mrs. Motherwell often said a "nice, quiet, unappearing girl." Martha certainly was quiet. Her conversational attainments did not run high. "Things is what they are, and what's the good of saying anything," Martha had once said in defence of her silent ways. She was small and sallow-skinned and was dressed in an anaemic gray; her thin hay-coloured hair was combed straight back from a rather fine forehead. She stooped a little when she walked, and even when not employed her hands picked nervously at each other. Martha's shyness, the "unappearing" quality, was another of her virtues in the eyes of Tom's mother. Martha rarely left home even to go to Millford. Martha did not go to the Agricultural Fair when her mats and quilts and butter and darning and buttonholes on cotton got their red tickets. Martha stayed at home and dug potatoes--a nice, quiet, unappearing girl. When they played games at the Slaters that evening, Martha would not play. She never cared for games she said, they tired a person so. She would just watch the others, and she wished again that she had her knitting. Then the kitchen floor was cleared; table, chairs and lounge were set outside to make room for the dancing, and when the violins rang out with the "Arkansaw Traveller," and big John Kennedy in his official voice of caller-off announced, "Select your partners," every person felt that the real business of the evening had begun. Tom had learned to dance, though his parents would have been surprised had they known it. Out in the granary on rainy days hired men had obligingly instructed him in the mysteries of the two-step and waltz. He sat in a corner and watched the first dance. When Jim Russell came into the hall, after receiving a warm welcome from Mr. and Mrs. Slater, who stood at the door, he was conscious of a sudden thrill of pleasure. It was the vision of Camilla, at the farther end of the dining-room, as she helped the Slater girls to receive their guests. Camilla wore a red dress that brought out the blue-black of her eyes, and it seemed to Jim as he watched her graceful movements that he had never seen anyone so beautiful. She was piloting a bevy of bashful girls to the stairway, and as she passed him she gave him a little nod and smile that set his heart dancing. He heard the caller-off calling for partners for a quadrille. The fiddlers had already tuned their instruments. From where he stood he could see the figures forming, but Jim watched the stairway. At last she came, with a company of other girls, none of whom he saw, and he asked her for the first dance. Jim was not a conceited young man, but he felt that she would not refuse him. Nor did she. Camilla danced well and so did Jim, and many an eye followed them as they wound in and out through the other dancers. When the dance was over he led her to a seat and sat beside her. They had much to talk of. Camilla was anxious to hear of Pearl, and it seemed all at once that they had become very good friends indeed. The second dance was a waltz. Tom did not know that it was the music that stirred his soul with a sudden tenderness, a longing indefinite, that was full of pain and yet was all sweetness. Martha who sat near him looked at him half expectantly. But her little gray face and twitching hands repelled him. On the other side of the room, Nellie Slater, flushed and smiling was tapping her foot to the music. He found himself on his feet. "Who cares for mats?" he muttered. He was beside Nellie in an instant. "Nellie, will you dance with me?" he faltered, wondering at his own temerity. "I will, Tom, with pleasure," she said, smiling. His arm was around her now and they were off, one, two, three; one, two, three; yes, he had the step. "Over the foam we glide," in and out through the other dancers, the violins weaving that story of love never ending. "What though the world be wide"--Nellie's head was just below his face--"Love's golden star will guide." Nellie's hand was in his as they floated on the rainbow-sea. "Drifting along, glad is our song"--her hair blew against his cheek as they swept past the open door. What did he care what his mother would say. He was Egbert now. Edythe was in his arms. "While we are side by side" the violins sang, glad, triumphant, that old story that runs like a thread of gold through all life's patterns; that old song, old yet ever new, deathless, unchangeable, which maketh the poor man rich and without which the richest becomes poor! When the music stopped, Tom awoke from his idolatrous dream. He brought Nellie to a seat and sat awkwardly beside her. His old self-complacency had left him. Nellie was talking to him, but he did not hear what she said. He was not looking at her, but at himself. Before he knew it she had left him and was dancing with Jim Russell. Tom looked after them, miserable. She was looking into Jim's face, smiling and talking. What the mischief were they saying? He tried to tell himself that he could buy and sell Jim Russell; Jim had not anything in the world but a quarter of scrub land. They passed him again, still smiling and talking. "Nellie Slater is making herself mighty cheap," he thought angrily. Then the thought came home to him with sudden bitterness--how handsome Jim was, so straight and tall, so well-dressed, so clever, and, bitterest of all, how different from him. When Jim and Camilla were sitting out the second dance he told her about Arthur, the Englishman, who sat in a corner, shy and uncomfortable. Camilla became interested at once, and when he brought Arthur over and introduced him, Camilla's friendly smile set him at his ease. Then Jim generously vacated his seat and went to find Nellie Slater. "Select your partners for a square dance!" big John, the caller-off announced, when the floor was cleared. This was the dance that Mr. and Mrs. Slater would have to dance. It was in vain that Mrs. Slater whispered that she had not danced for years, that she was a Methodist bred and born. That did not matter. Her son Peter declared that his mother could dance beautifully, jigs and hornpipes and things like that. He had often seen her at it when she was down in the milkhouse alone. Mrs. Slater whispered dreadful threats; but her son Peter insisted, and when big John's voice rang out "Honors all," "Corners the same," Mrs. Slater yielded to the tide of public opinion. Puffing and blowing she got through the "First four right and left," "Right and left back and ladies' chain"; but when it came to "Right hand to partner" and "Grand right and left," it was good-bye to mother! Peter dashed into the set to put his mother right, but mother was always pointing the wrong way. "Swing the feller that stole the sheep," big John sang to the music; "Dance to the one that drawed it home," "Whoop 'er up there, you Bud," "Salute the one that et the beef" and "Swing the dog, that gnawed the bone." "First couple lead to the right," and mother and father went forward again and "Balance all!" Tonald McKenzie was opposite mother; Tonald McKenzie did steps--Highland fling steps they were. Tonald was a Crofter from the hills, and had a secret still of his own which made him a sort of uncrowned king among the Crofters. It was a tight race for popularity between mother and Tonald in that set, and when the two stars met face to face in the "Balance all!" Tonald surpassed all former efforts. He cracked his heels together, he snapped his fingers; he threaded the needle; he wrung the dishcloth--oh you should have seen Tonald! Then big John clapped his hands together, and the first figure was over. In the second figure for which the violins played "My Love Is but a Lassie Yet," Mrs. Slater's memory began to revive, and the dust of twenty years fell from her dancing experience. She went down the centre and back again, right and left on the side, ladies' chain on the head, right hand to partner and grand right and left, as neat as you please, and best of all, when all the ladies circled to the left, and all the gentlemen circled to the right, no one was quicker to see what was the upshot of it all; and before big John told them to "Form the basket," mother whispered to father that she knew what was coming, and father told mother she was a wonderful woman for a Methodist. "Turn the basket inside out," "Circle to the left--to the centre and back, circle to the right," "Swing the girl with the hole in her sock," "Promenade once and a half around on the head, once and a half around on the side," "Turn 'em around to place again and balance all!" "Clap! Clap! Clap!" Mother wanted to quit then, but dear me no! no one would let her, they would dance the "Break-down" now, and leave out the third figure, and as a special inducement, they would dance "Dan Tucker." She would stay for "Dan Tucker." Peter came in for "Tucker," an extra man being necessary, and then off they went into Clear the way for old Dan Tucker, He's too late to come to supper. Two by two they circled around, Peter in the centre singing-- Old Dan Tucker Was a fine old man-- Then back to the right-- He washed his face In the frying-pan. Then around in a circle hand in hand-- He combed his hair On a wagon-wheel, And died with the tooth-ache In his heel! As they let go of their partners' hands and went right and left, Peter made his grand dash into the circle, and when the turn of the tune came he was swinging his mother, his father had Tonald's partner, and Tonald was in the centre in the title roll of Tucker, executing some of the most intricate steps that had ever been seen outside of the Isle of Skye. Then the tune changed into the skirling bag-pipe lilt all Highlanders love--and which we who know not the Gaelic profanely call "Weel may the keel row"--and Tonald got down to his finest work. He was in the byre now at home beyond the sea, and it is not strange faces he will be seein', but the lads and lassies of the Glen, and it is John McNeash who holds the drone under his arm and the chanter in his hands, and the salty tang of the sea comes up to him and the peat-smoke is in his nostrils, and the pipes skirl higher and higher as Tonald McKenzie dances the dance of his forbears in a strange land. They had seen Tonald dance before, but this was different, for it was not Tonald McKenzie alone who danced before them, but the incarnate spirit of the Highlands, the unconquerable, dauntless, lawless Highlands, with its purple hills and treacherous caverns that fling defiance at the world and fear not man nor devil. Tonald finished with a leap as nimble as that with which a cat springs on its victim while the company watched spellbound. He slipped away into a corner and would dance no more that night. When twelve o'clock came, the dancing was over, and with the smell of coffee and the rattle of dishes in the kitchen it was not hard to persuade big John Kennedy to sing. Big John lived alone in a little shanty in the hills, and the prospect of a good square meal was a pleasant one to the lonely fellow who had been his own cook so long. Big John lived among the Crofters, whose methods of cooking were simple in the extreme, and from them he had picked up strange ways of housekeeping. He ate out of the frying pan; he milked the cow in the porridge pot, and only took what he needed for each meal, reasoning that she had a better way of keeping it than he had. Big John had departed almost entirely from "white man's ways," and lived a wild life free from the demands of society. His ability to "call off" at dances was the one tie that bound him to the Canadian people on the plain. "Oh, I can't sing," John said sheepishly, when they urged him. "Tell us how it happened any way John," Bud Perkins said. "Give us the story of it." "Go on John. Sing about the cowboy," Peter Slater coaxed. "It iss a teffle of a good song, that," chuckled Tonald. "Well," John began, clearing his throat, "here it's for you. I've ruined me voice drivin' oxen though, but here's the song." It was a song of the plains, weird and wistful, with an uncouth plaintiveness that fascinated these lonely hill-dwellers. As I was a-walkin' one beautiful morning, As I was a-walkin' one morning in May, I saw a poor cowboy rolled up in his blanket, Rolled up in his blanket as cold as the clay! The listener would naturally suppose that the cowboy was dead in his blanket that lovely May morning; but that idea had to be abandoned as the song went on, because the cowboy was very much alive in the succeeding verses, when-- Round the bar bummin' where bullets were hummin' He snuffed out the candle to show why he come! Then his way of giving directions for his funeral was somewhat out of the usual procedure but no one seemed to notice these little discrepancies-- Beat the drum slowly boys, beat the drum lowly boys, Beat the dead march as we hurry along. To show that ye love me, boys, write up above me, boys, "Here lies a poor cowboy who knows he done wrong." In accordance with a popular custom, John SPOKE the last two words in a very slow and distinct voice. This was considered a very fine thing to do--it served the purpose of the "Finis" at the end of the book, or the "Let us pray," at the end of the sermon. The applause was very loud and very genuine. Bud Perkins, who was the wit of the Perkins family, and called by his mother a "regular cut-up," was at last induced to sing. Bud's "Come-all-ye" contained twenty-three verses, and in it was set forth the wanderings of one, young Willie, who left his home and native land at a very tender age, and "left a good home when he left." His mother tied a kerchief of blue around his neck. "God bless you, son," she said. "Remember I will watch for you, till life itself is fled!" The song went on to tell how long the mother watched in vain. Young Willie roamed afar, but after he had been scalped by savage bands and left for dead upon the sands, and otherwise maltreated by the world at large, he began to think of home, and after shipwrecks, and dangers and hair-breadth escapes, he reached his mother's cottage door, from which he had gone long years before. Then of course he tried to deceive his mother, after the manner of all boys returning after a protracted absence-- Oh, can you tell me, ma'm, he said, How far to Edinboro' town. But he could not fool his mother, no, no! She knew him by the kerchief blue, still tied around his neck. When the applause, which was very generous, had been given, Jim Russell wanted to know how young Willie got his neck washed in all his long meanderings, or if he did not wash, how did he dodge the health officers. George Slater gravely suggested that perhaps young Willie used a dry-cleaning process--French chalk or brown paper and a hot iron. Peter Slater said he did not believe it was the same handkerchief at all. No handkerchief could stand the pace young Willie went. It was another one very like the one he had started off with. He noticed them in the window as he passed, that day, going cheap for cash. The young Englishman looked more and more puzzled. It was strange how Canadians took things. He turned to Camilla. "It is only a song, don't you know," he said with a distressed look. "It is really impossible to say how he had the kerchief still tied around his neck." The evening would not have been complete without a song from Billy McLean. Little Billy was a consumptive, playing a losing game against a relentless foe; but playing like a man with unfailing cheerfulness, and eyes that smiled ever. There is a bright ship on the ocean, Bedecked in silver and gold; They say that my Willie is sailing, Yes, sailing afar I am told, was little Billy's song, known and loved in many a thresher's caboose, but heard no more for many a long day, for little Billy gave up the struggle the next spring when the snow was leaving the fields and the trickle of water was heard in the air. But he and his songs are still lovingly remembered by the boys who "follow the mill," when their thoughts run upon old times. Peter and Fred Slater came in with the coffee. Jim Russell with a white apron around his neck followed with a basket of sandwiches, and Tom Motherwell with a heaping plate of cake. "Did you make this cake, Nell?" Tom whispered to Nellie in the pantry as she filled the plate for him. "Me!" she laughed. "Bless you no! I can't make anything but pancakes." Martha Perkins still sat by the window. She looked older and more careworn--she was thinking of how late it was getting. Martha could make cakes, Tom knew that. Martha could do everything. "Go along Tom," Nellie was saying, "give a piece to big John. Don't you see how hungry he looks." Their eyes met. Hers were bright and smiling. He smiled back. Oh pshaw! pancakes are not so bad. Jim Russell whispered to Camilla, as he passed near where she and Arthur sat, "Will you please come and help Nellie in the pantry? We need you badly." Camilla called Maud Murray to take her seat. She knew Maud would be kind to the young Englishman. When Camilla reached the pantry she found Nellie and Tom Motherwell happily engaged in eating lemon tarts, and evidently not needing her at all. Jim was ready with an explanation. "I was thinking of poor Thursa, far across the sea," he said, "what a shock it would be to her if Arthur was compelled to write home that he had changed his mind," and Camilla did not look nearly so angry as she should have, either. After supper there was another song from Arthur Wemyss, the young Englishman. He played his own accompaniment, his fingers, stiffened though they were with hard work, ran lightly over the keys. Every person sat still to listen. Even Martha Perkins forgot to twirl her fingers and leaned forward. It was a simple little English ballad he sang: Where'er I wander over land or foam, There is a place so dear the heart calls home. Perhaps it was because the ocean rolled between him and his home that he sang with such a wistful longing in his voice, that even his dullest listener felt the heart-cry in it. It was a song of one who reaches longing arms across the sea to the old home and the old friends, whom he sees only in his dreams. In the silence that followed the song, his fingers unconsciously began to play Mendelssohn's beautiful air, "We Would See Jesus, for the Shadows Lengthen." Closely linked with the young man's love of home was his religious devotion. The quiet Sabbath morning with its silvery chimes calling men to prayer; the soft footfalls in the aisle; the white-robed choir, his father's voice in the church service, so full of divine significance; the many-voiced responses and the swelling notes of the "Te Deum"--he missed it so. All the longing for the life he had left, all the spiritual hunger and thirst that was in his heart sobbed in his voice as he sang: We would see Jesus, For the shadows lengthen O'er this little landscape of our life. We would see Jesus, Our weak faith to strengthen, For the last weariness, the final strife. We would see Jesus, other lights are paling, Which for long years we have rejoiced to see, The blessings of our pilgrimage are failing, We would not mourn them for we go to Thee. He sang on with growing tenderness through all that divinely tender hymn, and the longing of it, the prayer of it was not his alone, but arose from every heart that listened. Perhaps they were in a responsive mood, easily swayed by emotion. Perhaps that is why there was in every heart that listened a desire to be good and follow righteousness, a reaching up of feeble hands to God. The Reverend Hugh Grantley would have said that it was the Spirit of God that stands at the door of every man's heart and knocks. The young man left the organ, and the company broke up soon after. Before they parted, Mr. Slater in whom the Englishman's singing had revived the spiritual hunger of his Methodist heart, requested them to sing "God be with you till we meet again." Every one stood up and joined hands. Martha, with her thoughts on the butter and eggs; Tonald McKenzie and big John with the vision of their lonely dwellings in the hills looming over them; Jim and Camilla; Tom and Nellie, hand in hand; little Billy, face to face with the long struggle and its certain ending. Little Billy's voice rang sweet and clear above the others-- God be with you till we meet again, Keep love's banner floating o'er you, Smite death's threatening wave before you; God be with you till we meet again! CHAPTER XIX PEARL'S DIARY When Pearl got Tom safely started for the party a great weight seemed to have rolled from her little shoulders. Tom was going to spend the night--what was left of it--with Arthur in the granary, and so avoid the danger of disturbing his parents by his late home-coming. Pearl was too excited to sleep, so she brought out from her bird-cage the little note-book that Mrs. Francis had given her, and endeavoured to fill some of its pages with her observations. Mrs. Francis had told her to write what she felt and what she saw. She had written: August 8th.--I picked the fethers from 2 ducks to-day. I call them cusmoodles. I got that name in a book. The cusmoodles were just full of cheety-wow-wows. That's a pretty name, too, I think. I got that out of my own head. The cheety-wow-wows are wanderers to-night, I guess. They lost their feather-bed. Arthur's got a girl. Her name is Thursa. He tells me about her, and showed me her picter. She is beautiful beyond compare, and awful savin' on her clothes. At first I thought she had a die-away-ducky look, but I guess it's because she was sorry Arthur was comin' away. August 9th.--Mrs. Motherwell is gittin' kinder, I think. When I was gittin' the tub for Arthur yesterday, and gittin' water het, she said, "What are you doin', Pearl?" I says, "gittin' Arthur a bath." She says, "Dear me, it's a pity about him." I says, "Yes'm, but he'll feel better now." She says, "Duz he want anyone to wash his back?"--I says, "I don't know, but I'll ask him," and I did, too; but he says, "No, thanks awfully." August 10th.--The English Church minister called one day to see Arthur. He read some of the Bible to us and then he gave us a dandy prayer. He didn't make it--it was a bot one. There's wild parsley down on the crik. Mrs. M. sed't wuz poison, but I wanted to be sure, so I et it, and it isn't. There's wild sage all over, purple an lovely. I pickt a big lot ov it, to taik home--we mite have a turkey this winter. August 11th.--I hope tom's happy; it's offel to be in love. I hope I'll never be. My hands are pretty sore pullin' weeds, but I like it; I pertend it's bad habits I'm rootin' out. Arthur's offel good: he duz all the work he can for me, and he sings for me and tells me about his uncle the Bishop. His uncle's got servants and leggin's and lots of things. Arthur's been kind of sick lately. I made verses one day, there not very nice, but there true--I saw it: The little lams are beautiful, There cotes are soft and nice, The little calves have ringworm, And the 2-year olds have lice! Now I'm going' to make more; it seems to bad to leve it like that. It must be very nasty, But to worrie, what's the use; Better be cam and cheerfull, And appli tobaka jooce. Sometimes I feal like gittin' lonesum but I jist keep puttin' it of. I say to myself I won't git lonesum till I git this cow milked, and then I say o shaw I might as well do another, and then I say I won't git lonesum till I git the pails washed and the flore scrubbed, and I keep settin' it of and settin' it of till I forgit I was goin' to be. One day I wuz jist gittin' reddy to cry. I could feel tears startin' in my hart, and my throte all hot and lumpy, thinkin' of ma and Danny an' all of them, and I noticed the teakettle just in time--it neaded skourin'. You bet I put a shine on it, and, of course, I couldn't dab tears on it and muss it up, so I had to wait. Mrs. M. duzn't talk to me. She has a morgage or a cancer I think botherin' her. Ma knowed a woman once, and everybuddy thot she was terrible cross cos she wouldn't talk at all hardly and when she died, they found she'd a tumult in her insides, and then you bet they felt good and sorry, when we're cross at home ma says it's not the strap we need, but a good dose of kastor oil or Seany and we git it too. I gess I got Bugsey's and Patsey's bed paid fer now. Now I'll do Teddy's and Jimmy's. This ain't a blot it's the liniment Mrs. McGuire gave me. I have it on me hands. I'm gittin on to be therteen soon. 13 is pretty old I gess. I'll soon turn the corner now and be lookin' 20 square in the face--I'll never be homesick then. I ain't lonesome now either--it's just sleep that's in my eyes smuggin them up. Jim Russell is offel good to go to town he doesn't seem to mind it a bit. Once I said I wisht I'd told Camilla to remind Jimmy to spit on his warts every day--he's offell careless, and Jim said he'd tell Camilla, and he often asks me if I want to tell Camilla anything, and it's away out of his rode to go round to Mrs. Francis house too. I like Jim you bet. CHAPTER XX TOM'S NEW VIEWPOINT Pearl was quite disappointed in Tom's appearance the morning after the party. Egbert always wore a glorified countenance after he had seen Edythe; but Tom looked sleepy and somewhat cross. He went to his work discontentedly. His mother's moroseness annoyed him. His father's hard face had never looked so forbidding to him as it did that morning. Mrs. Slater's hearty welcome, her good-natured motherly smiles, Mr. Slater's genial and kindly ways, contrasted sharply with his own home life, and it rankled in him. "It's dead easy for them Slater boys to be smart and good, too," he thought bitterly; "they are brought right up to it. They may not have much money, but look at the fun they have. George and Fred will be off to college soon, and it must be fun in the city,--they're dressed up all the time, ridin' round on street cars, and with no chores to do." The trees on the poplar bluff where he had made his toilet the evening before were beginning to show the approach of autumn, although there had been no frost. Pale yellow and rust coloured against the green of their hardier neighbours, they rippled their coin-like leaves in glad good-will as he drove past them on his way to the hayfield. The sun had risen red and angry, giving to every cloud in the sky a facing of gold, and long streamers shot up into the blue of the mid-heaven. There is no hour of the day so hushed and beautiful as the early morning, when the day is young, fresh from the hand of God. It is a new page, clean and white and pure, and the angel is saying unto us "Write!" and none there be who may refuse to obey. It may be gracious deeds and kindly words that we write upon it in letters of gold, or it may be that we blot and blur it with evil thoughts and stain it with unworthy actions, but write we must! The demon of discontent laid hold on Tom that morning as he worked in the hayfield. New forces were at work in the boy's heart, forces mighty for good or evil. A great disgust for his surrounding filled him. He could see from where he worked the big stone house, bare and gray. It was a place to eat in, a place to sleep in, the same as a prison. He had never known any real enjoyment there. He knew it would all be his some day, and he tried to feel the pride of possession, but he could not--he hated it. He saw around him everywhere the abundance of harvest--the grain that meant money. Money! It was the greatest thing in the world. He had been taught to chase after it--to grasp it--then hide it, and chase again after more. His father put money in the bank every year, and never saw it again. When money was banked it had fulfilled its highest mission. Then they drew that wonderful thing called interest, money without work--and banked it--Oh, it was a great game! It was the first glimmerings of manhood that was stirring in Tom's heart that morning, the new independence, the new individualism. Before this he had accepted everything his father and mother had said or done without question. Only once before had he doubted them. It was several years before. A man named Skinner had bought from Tom's father the quarter section that Jim Russell now farmed, paying down a considerable sum of money, but evil days fell upon the man and his wife; sickness, discouragement, and then, the man began to drink. He was unable to keep up his payments and Tom's father had foreclosed the mortgage. Tom remembered the day the Skinners had left their farm, the woman was packing their goods into a box. She was a faded woman in a faded wrapper, and her tears were falling as she worked. Tom saw her tears falling, and he had told her with the awful cruelty of a child that it was their own fault that they had lost the farm. The woman had shrunk back as if he had struck her and cried "Oh, no! No! Tom, don't say that, child, you don't know what you say," then putting her hands on his shoulders she had looked straight into his face--he remembered that she had lost some teeth in front, and that her eyes were sweet and kind. "Some day, dear," she said, "when you are a man, you will remember with shame and sorrow that you once spoke hard to a broken-hearted, homeless woman." Tom had gone home wondering and vaguely unhappy, and could not eat his supper that night. He remembered it all now, remembered it with a start, and with a sudden tightening of his heart that burned and chilled him. The hot blood rushed into his head and throbbed painfully. He looked at the young Englishman who was loading the hay on the rack, with a sudden impulse. But Arthur was wrapped in his own mask of insular reserve, and so saw nothing of the storm that was sweeping over the boy's soul. Then the very spirit of evil laid hold on Tom. When the powers of good are present in the heart, and can find no outlet in action, they turn to evil. Tom had the desire to be kind and generous; ambition was stirring in him. His sullenness and discontent were but the outward signs of the inward ferment. He could not put into action the powers for good without breaking away, in a measure at least, from his father and mother. He felt that he had to do something. He was hungry for the society of other young people like himself. He wanted life and action and excitement. There is one place where a young man can always go and find life and gaiety and good-fellowship. One door stands invitingly open to all. When the church of God is cold and dark and silent, and the homes of Christ's followers are closed except to the chosen few, the bar-room throws out its evil welcome to the young man on the street. Tom had never heard any argument against intemperance, only that it was expensive. Now he hated all the petty meanness that he had been so carefully taught. The first evening that Tom went into the bar-room of the Millford hotel he was given a royal welcome. They were a jolly crowd! They knew how to enjoy life, Tom told himself. What's the good of money if you can't have a little fun with it? Tom had never had much money of his own, he had never needed it or thought anything about it. Now the injustice of it rankled in him. He had to have money. It was his. He worked for it. He would just take it, and then if it was missed he would tell his father and mother that he had taken it--taking your own is not stealing--and he would tell them so and have it out with them. Thus the enemy sowed the tares. CHAPTER XXI A CRACK IN THE GRANITE While Pearl was writing her experiences in her little red book, Mr. and Mrs. Motherwell were in the kitchen below reading a letter which Mr. Motherwell had just brought from the post office. It read as follows: BRANDON HOSPITAL, August 10th. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Motherwell: I know it will be at least some slight comfort for you to know that the poppies you sent Polly reached her in time to be the very greatest comfort to her. Her joy at seeing them and holding them in her hands would have been your reward if you could have seen it, and although she had been delirious up to that time for several days, the sight of the poppies seemed to call her mind back. She died very peacefully and happily at daybreak this morning. She was a sweet and lovable girl and we had all grown very fond of her, as I am sure you did, too. May God abundantly bless you, dear Mr. and Mrs. Motherwell, for your kind thoughtfulness to this poor lonely girl. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me." Yours cordially, (Nurse) AGNES HUNT. "By Jinks." Sam Motherwell took the letter from his wife's hand and excitedly read it over to himself, going over each word with his blunt forefinger. He turned it over and examined the seal, he looked at the stamp and inside of the envelope, and failing to find any clue to the mystery he ejaculated again: "By Jinks! What the deuce is this about poppies. Is that them things she sowed out there?" His wife nodded. "Well, who do you suppose sent them? Who would ever think of sending them?" Mrs. Motherwell made no reply. "It's a blamed nice letter anyway," he said, looking it over again, "I guess Polly didn't give us a hard name to them up there in the 'ospital, or we wouldn't ha' got a letter like this; and poor Polly's dead. Well, she was a kind of a good-natured, willin' thing too, and not too slow either." Mrs. Motherwell was still silent. She had not thought that Polly would die, she had always had great faith in the vitality of English people. "You can't kill them," she had often said; but now Polly was dead. She was sick, then, when she went around the house so strangely silent and flushed. Mrs. Motherwell's memory went back with cruel distinctness--she had said things to Polly then that stung her now with a remorse that was new and terrible, and Polly had looked at her dazed and wondering, her big eyes flushed and pleading. Mrs. Motherwell remembered now that she had seen that look once before. She had helped Sam to kill a lamb once, and it came back to her now, how through it all, until the blow fell, the lamb had stood wondering, pleading, yet unflinching, and she had run sobbing away--and now Polly was dead--and those big eyes she had so often seen tearful, yet smiling, were closed and their tears forever wiped away. That night she dreamed of Polly, confused, troubled dreams; now it was Polly's mother who was dead, then it was her own mother, dead thirty years ago. Once she started violently and sat up. Someone had been singing--the echo of it was still in the room: Over my grave keep the green willers growing. The yellow harvest moon flooded the room with its soft light. She could see through the window how it lay like a mantle on the silent fields. It was one of those glorious, cloudless nights, with a hint of frost in the air that come just as the grain is ripening. From some place down the creek a dog barked; once in a while a cow-bell tinkled: a horse stamped in the stable and then all was still. Numberless stars shone through the window. The mystery of life and death and growing things was around her. As for man his days are as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth--for it is soon cut off and we fly away--fly away where?--where?--her head throbbed with the question. The eastern sky flushed red with morning; a little ripple came over the grain. She watched it listlessly. Polly had died at daybreak--didn't the letter say? Just like that, the light rising redder and redder, the stars disappearing, she wondered dully to herself how often she would see the light coming, like this, and yet, and yet, some time would be the last, and then what? We shall be where suns are not, A far serener clime. came to her memory she knew not from whence. But she shuddered at it. Polly's eyes, dazed, pleading like the lamb's, rose before her; or was it that Other Face, tender, thorn-crowned, that had been looking upon her in love all these long years! She spoke so kindly to Pearl when she went into the kitchen that the little girl looked up apprehensively. "Are ye not well, ma'am?" she asked quickly. Mrs. Motherwell hesitated. "I did not sleep very well," she said, at last. "That's the mortgage," Pearl thought to herself. "And when I did sleep, I had such dreadful dreams," Mrs. Motherwell went on, strangely communicative. "That looks more like the cancer," Pearl thought as she stirred the porridge. "We got bad news," Mrs. Motherwell said. "Polly is dead." Pearl stopped stirring the porridge. "When did she die," she asked eagerly. "The morning before yesterday morning, about daylight." Pearl made a rapid calculation. "Oh good!" she cried, "goody--goody--goody! They were in time." She saw her mistake in a moment, and hastily put her hand over her mouth as if to prevent the unruly member from further indiscretions. She stirred the porridge vigorously, while her cheeks burned. "Yes, they were," Mrs. Motherwell said quietly. Pearl set the porridge on the back of the stove and ran out to where the poppies nodded gaily. Never before had they seemed so beautiful. Mrs. Motherwell watched her through the window bending over them. Something about the poppies appealed to her now. She had once wanted Tom to cut them down, and she thought of it now. She tapped on the window. Pearl looked up, startled. "Bring in some," she called. When the work was done for the morning, Mrs. Motherwell went up the narrow stair way to the little room over the kitchen to gather together Polly's things. She sat on Polly's little straw bed and looked at the dismal little room. Pearl had done what she could to brighten it. The old bags and baskets had been neatly piled in one corner, and quilts had been spread over them to hide their ugliness from view. The wind blew gently in the window that the hail had broken. The floor had been scrubbed clean and white--the window, what was left of it--was shining. She was reminded of Polly everywhere she looked. The mat under her feet was one that Polly had braided. A corduroy blouse hung at the foot of the bed. She remembered now that Polly had worn it the day she came. In a little yellow tin box she found Polly's letters--the letters that had given her such extravagant joy. She could see her yet, how eagerly she would seize them and rush up to this little room with them, transfigured. Mrs. Motherwell would have to look at them to find out Polly's mother's address. She took out the first letter slowly, then hurriedly put it back again in the envelope and looked guiltily around the room. But it had to be done. She took it out again resolutely, and read it with some difficulty. It was written in a straggling hand that wandered uncertainly over the lines. It was a pitiful letter telling of poverty bitter and grinding, but redeemed from utter misery by a love and faith that shone from every line: My dearest polly i am glad you like your plice and your misses is so kind as wot you si, yur letters are my kumfit di an nit. bill is a ard man and says hif the money don't cum i will ave to go to the workus. but i no you will send it der polly so hi can old my little plice hi got a start todi a hoffcer past hi that it wos the workhus hoffcer. bill ses he told im to cum hif hi cant pi by septmbr but hi am trustin God der polly e asn't forgot us. hi 'm glad the poppies grew. ere's a disy hi am sendin yu hi can mike the butonoles yet. hi do sum hevry di mrs purdy gave me fourpence one di for sum i mide for her hi ad a cup of tee that di. hi am appy thinkin of yu der polly. "And Polly is dead!" burst from Mrs. Motherwell as something gathered in her throat. She laid the letter down and looked straight ahead of her. The sloping walls of the little kitchen loft, with its cobwebbed beams faded away, and she was looking into a squalid little room where an old woman, bent and feeble, sat working buttonholes with trembling fingers. Her eyes were restless and expectant; she listened eagerly to every sound. A step is at the door, a hand is on the latch. The old woman rises uncertainly, a great hope in her eyes--it is the letter--the letter at last. The door opens, and the old woman falls cowering and moaning, and wringing her hands before the man who enters. It is the officer! Mrs. Motherwell buried her face in her hands. "Oh God be merciful, be merciful," she sobbed. Sam Motherwell, knowing nothing of the storm that was passing through his wife's mind, was out in the machine house tightening up the screws and bolts in the binders, getting ready for the harvest. The barley was whitening already. The nurse's letter had disturbed him. He tried to laugh at himself--the idea of his boxing up those weeds to send to anybody. Still the nurse had said how pleased Polly was. By George, it is strange what will please people. He remembered when he went down to Indiana buying horses, how tired he got of the look of corn-fields, and how the sight of the first decent sized wheat field just went to his heart, when he was coming back. Someway he could not laugh at anything that morning, for Polly was dead. And Polly was a willing thing for sure; he seemed to see her yet, how she ran after the colt the day it broke out of the pasture, and when the men were away she would hitch up a horse for him as quick as anybody. "I kind o' wish now that I had given her something--it would have pleased her so--some little thing," he added hastily. Mrs. Motherwell came across the yard bareheaded. "Come into the house, Sam," she said gently. "I want to show you something." He looked up quickly, but saw something in his wife's face that prevented him from speaking. He followed her into the house. The letters were on the table, Mrs. Motherwell read them to him, read them with tears that almost choked her utterance. "And Polly's dead, Sam!" she cried when she had finished the last one. "Polly's dead, and the poor old mother will be looking, looking for that money, and it will never come. Sam, can't we save that poor old woman from the poorhouse? Do you remember what the girl said in the letter, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my little ones, ye have done it unto Me?' We didn't deserve the praise the girl gave us. We didn't send the flowers, we have never done anything for anybody and we have plenty, plenty, and what is the good of it, Sam? We'll die some day and leave it all behind us." Mrs. Motherwell hid her face in her apron, trembling with excitement. Sam's face was immovable, but a mysterious Something, not of earth, was struggling with him. Was it the faith of that decrepit old woman in that bare little room across the sea, mumbling to herself that God had not forgotten? God knows. His ear is not dulled; His arm is not shortened; His holy spirit moves mightily. Sam Motherwell stood up and struck the table with his fist. "Ettie," he said, "I am a hard man, a danged hard man, and as you say I've never given away much, but I am not so low down yet that I have to reach up to touch bottom, and the old woman will not go to the poor house if I have money enough to keep her out!" Sam Motherwell was as good as his word. He went to Winnipeg the next day, but before he left he drew a check for one hundred dollars, payable to Polly's mother, which he gave to the Church of England clergyman to send for him. About two months afterwards he received a letter from the clergyman of the parish in which Polly's mother lived, telling him that the money had reached the old lady in time to save her from the workhouse; a heart-broken letter of thanks from Polly's mother herself accompanied it, calling on God to reward them for their kindness to her and her dear dead girl. CHAPTER XXII SHADOWS One morning when Tom came into the kitchen Pearl looked up with a worried look on her usually bright little face. "What's up, kid?" he asked kindly. He did not like to see Pearl looking troubled. "Arthur's sick," she said gravely. "Go on!" he answered, "he's not sick. I know he's been feeling kind of used up for about a week, but he worked as well as ever yesterday. What makes you think he is sick?" "I went out last night to be sure I had shut the henhouse door, and I heard him groanin', and I said, knockin' on the door, 'What's wrong, Arthur?' and he said, 'Oh, I beg your pardon, Pearl, did I frighten you?' and I said, 'No, but what's wrong?' and he said, 'Nothing at all, Pearl, thank you'; but I know there is. You know how polite he is--wouldn't trouble anybody. Wouldn't ask ye to slap 'im on the back if he was chokin'. I went out two or three times and once I brought him out some liniment, and he told me every time he would be 'well directly,' but I don't believe him. If Arthur groans there's something to groan for, you bet." "Maybe he's in love," Tom said sheepishly. "But you don't groan, Tom, do you?" she asked seriously. "Maybe I ain't in love, though, Pearl. Ask Jim Russell, he can tell you." "Jim ain't in love, is he?" Pearl asked anxiously. Her responsibilities were growing too fast. One love affair and a sick man she felt was all she could attend to. "Well, why do you suppose Jim comes over here every second day to get you to write a note to that friend of yours?" "Camilla?" Pearl asked open-mouthed. Tom nodded. "Camilla can't leave Mrs. Francis," Pearl declared with conviction. "Jim's a dandy smart fellow. He only stays on the farm in the summer. In the winter he book-keeps for three or four of the stores in Millford and earns lots of money," Tom said, admiringly. After a pause Pearl said thoughtfully, "I love Camilla!" "That's just the way Jim feels, too, I guess," Tom said laughing as he went out to the stable. When Tom went out to the granary he found Arthur dressing, but flushed and looking rather unsteady. "What's gone wrong with you, old man?" he asked kindly. "I feel a bit queer," Arthur replied, "that's all. I shall be well directly. Got a bit of a cold, I think." "Slept in a field with the gate open like as not," Tom laughed. Arthur looked at him inquiringly. "You'll feel better when you get your breakfast," Tom went on. "I don't wonder you're sick--you haven't been eatin' enough to keep a canary bird alive. Go on right into the house now. I'll feed your team." "It beats all what happens to our help," Mrs. Motherwell complained to Pearl, as they washed the breakfast dishes. "It looks very much as if Arthur is goin' to be laid up, too, and the busy time just on us." Pearl was troubled. Why should Arthur be sick? He had plenty of fresh air; he tubbed himself regularly. He never drank "alcoholic beverages that act directly on the liver and stomach, drying up the blood, and rendering every organ unfit for work." Pearl remembered the Band of Hope manual. No, and it was not a cold. Colds do not make people groan in the night--it was something else. Pearl wished her friend, Dr. Clay, would come along. He would soon spot the trouble. After dinner, of which Arthur ate scarcely a mouthful, as Pearl was cleaning the knives, Mrs. Motherwell came into the kitchen with a hard look on her face. She had just missed a two-dollar bill from her satchel. "Pearl," she said in a strained voice, "did you see a two-dollar bill any place?" "Yes, ma'am," Pearl answered quickly, "Mrs Francis paid ma with one once for the washing, but I don't know where it might be now." Mrs. Motherwell looked at Pearl keenly. It was not easy to believe that that little girl would steal. Her heart was still tender after Polly's death, she did not want to be hard on Pearl, but the money must be some place. "Pearl, I have lost a two-dollar bill. If you know anything about it I want you to tell me," she said firmly. "I don't know anything about it no more'n ye say ye had it and now ye've lost it," Pearl answered calmly. "Go up to your room and think about it," she said, avoiding Pearl's gaze. Pearl went up the narrow little steps with a heart that swelled with indignation. "Does she think I stole her dirty money, me that has money o' me own--a thief is it she takes me for? Oh, wirra! wirra! and her an' me wuz gittin' on so fine, too; and like as not this'll start the morgage and the cancer on her again." Pearl threw herself on the hot little bed, and sobbed out her indignation and her homesickness. She could not put it off this time. Catching sight of her grief-stricken face in the cracked looking glass that hung at the head of the bed, she started up suddenly. "What am I bleatin' for?" she said to herself, wiping her eyes on her little patched apron. "Ye'd think to look at me that I'd been caught stealin' the cat's milk"--she laughed through her tears--"I haven't stolen anything and what for need I cry? The dear Lord will get me out of this just as nate as He bruk the windy for me!" She took her knitting out of the bird-cage and began to knit at full speed. "Danny me man, it is a good thing for ye that the shaddah of suspicion is on yer sister Pearlie this day, for it gives her a good chance to turn yer heel. 'Sowin' in the sunshine, sowin' in the shaddah,' only it's knittin' I am instead of sewin', but it's all wan, I guess. I mind how Paul and Silas were singin' in the prison at midnight. I know how they felt. 'Do what Ye like, Lord,' they wur thinkin'. 'If it's in jail Ye want us to stay, we're Yer men.'" Pearl knit a few minutes in silence. Then she knelt beside the bed. "Dear Lord," she prayed, clasping her work-worn hands, "help her to find her money, but if anyone did steal it, give him the strength to confess it, dear Lord. Amen." Mrs. Motherwell, downstairs, was having a worse time than Pearl. She could not make herself believe that Pearl had stolen the money, and yet no one had had a chance to take it except Pearl, or Tom, and that, of course, was absurd. She went again to have a look in every drawer in her room, and as she passed through the hall she detected a strange odour. She soon traced it to Tom's light overcoat which hung there. What was the smell? It was tobacco, and something more. It was the smell of a bar-room! She sat down upon the step with a nameless dread in her heart. Tom had gone to Millford several times since his father had gone to Winnipeg, and he had stayed longer than was necessary, too; but no, no. Tom would not spend good money that way. The habit of years was on her. It was the money she thought of first. Then she thought of Pearl. Going to the foot of the stairway she called: "Pearl, you may come down now." "Did ye find it?" Pearl asked eagerly. "No." "Do ye still think I took it?" "No, I don't, Pearl," she answered. "All right then, I'll come right down," Pearl said gladly. CHAPTER XXIII SAVED! That night Arthur's condition was, to Pearl's sharp eyes, alarming. He tried to quiet her fears. He would be well directly, it was nothing, nothing at all, a mere indisposition (Pearl didn't know what that was); but when she went into the granary with a pitcher of water for him, and found him writing letters in the feeble light of a lantern, she took one look at him, laid down the pitcher and hurried out to tell Tom. Tom was in the kitchen taking off his boots preparatory to going to bed. "Tom," she said excitedly, "get back into yer boots, and go for the doctor. Arthur's got the thing that Pa had, and it'll have to be cut out of him or he'll die." "What?" Tom gasped, with one foot across his knee. "I think he has it," Pearl said, "he's actin' just like what Pa did, and he's in awful pain, I know, only he won't let on; and we must get the doctor or he might die before mornin', and then how'd we feel?" Tom hesitated. "Remember, Tom, he has a father and a mother and four brothers, and a girl called Thursa, and an uncle that is a bishop, and how'd we ever face them when we go to heaven if we just set around and let Arthur die?" "What is it, Pearl?" Mrs. Motherwell said coming into the room, having heard Pearl's excited tones. "It's Arthur, ma'am. Come out and see him. You'll see he needs the doctor. Ginger tea and mustard plasters ain't a flea-bite on a pain like what he has." "Let's give him a dose of aconite," Tom said with conviction; "that'll fix him." Mrs. Motherwell and Pearl went over to the granary. "Don't knock at the door," Pearl whispered to her as they went. "Ye can't tell a thing about him if ye do. Arthur'd straighten up and be polite at his own funeral. Just look in the crack there and you'll see if he ain't sick." Mrs. Motherwell did see. Arthur lay tossing and moaning across his bed, his letter pad and pencil beside him on the floor. Mrs. Motherwell did not want Tom to go to Millford that night. One of the harvesters' excursions was expected--was probably in--then--there would be a wild time. Besides, the two-dollar bill still worried her. If Tom had it he might spend it. No, Tom was safer at home. "Oh, I don't think he's so very bad," she said. "We'll get the doctor in the morning if he isn't any better. Now you go to bed, Pearl, and don't worry yourself." But Pearl did not go to bed. When Mrs. Motherwell and Tom had gone to their own rooms, she built up the kitchen fire, and heated a frying-pan full of salt, with which she filled a pair of her own stockings and brought them to Arthur. She remembered that her mother had done that when her father was sick, and that it had eased his pain. She drew a pail of fresh water from the well, and brought a basinful to him, and bathed his burning face and hands. Arthur received her attentions gratefully. Pearl knew what she would do. She would run over and tell Jim, and Jim would go for the doctor. Jim would not be in bed yet, she knew, and even if he were, he would not mind getting up. Jim would go to town any time she wanted anything. One time when she had said she just wished she knew whether Camilla had her new suit made yet, Jim jumped right up and said he'd go and see. Mrs. Motherwell had gone to her room very much concerned with her own troubles. Why should Tom fall into evil ways? she asked herself--a boy who had been as economically brought up as he was. Other people's boys had gone wrong, but she had alway thought that the parents were to blame some way. Then she thought of Arthur; perhaps he should have the doctor. She had been slow to believe that Polly was really sick--and had had cause for regret. She would send for the doctor, in the morning. But what was Pearl doing so long in the kitchen?--She could hear her moving around--Pearl must go to her bed, or she would not be able to get up in the morning. Pearl was just going out of the kitchen with her hat and coat on when Mrs. Motherwell came in. "Where are you going, Pearl," she asked. "To git someone to go for the doctor," Pearl answered stoutly. "Is he worse?" Mrs. Motherwell asked quickly. "He can't git worse," Pearl replied grimly. "If he gits worse he'll be dead." Mrs. Motherwell called Tom at once, and told him to bring the doctor as soon as he could. "Where's my overcoat mother?" Tom called from the hall. "Take your father's" she said, "he is going to get a new one while he is in Winnipeg, that one's too small for him now. I put yours outside to air. It had a queer smell on it I thought, and now hurry, Tom. Bring Dr. Barner. I think he's the best for a serious case. Dr. Clay is too young, Anyway, the old man knowns far more than he does, if you can only get him sober." Pearl's heart sank. "Arthur's as good as dead," she said as she went to the granary, crying softly to herself. "Dr. Clay is the only man who could save him, and they won't have him." The sun had gone down and heavy clouds filled the sky. Not a star was to be seen, and the night was growing darker and darker. A sound of wheels came from across the creek, coming rapidly down the road. The old dog barked viciously. A horse driven at full speed dashed through the yard; Pearl ran shouting after, for even in the gathering darkness she recognised the one person in all the world who could save Arthur. But the wind and the barking of the dog drowned her voice, and the sound of the doctor's wheels grew fainter in the distance. Only for a moment was Pearl dismayed. "I'll catch him coming back," she said, "if I have to tie binding twine across the road to tangle up Pleurisy's long legs. He's on his way to Cowan's, I know. Ab Cowan has quinsy. Never mind, Thursa, we'll get him. I hope now that the old doctor is too full to come--oh, no I don't either, I just hope he's away and Dr. Clay will have it done before he gets here." When Tom arrived in Millford he found a great many people thronging the streets. One of the Ontario's harvesters' excursions had arrived a few hours before, and the "Huron and Bruce" boys were already making themselves seen and heard. Tom went at once to Dr. Barner's office and found that the doctor was out making calls, but would be back in an hour. Not at all displeased at having some time to spend, Tom went back to the gaily lighted front street. The crowds of men who went in and out of the hotels seemed to promise some excitement. Inside of the Grand Pacific, a gramophone querulously sang "Any Rags, Any Bones, Any Bottles To-day" to a delighted company of listeners. When Tom entered he was received with the greatest cordiality by the bartender and others. "Here is life and good-fellowship," Tom thought to himself, "here's the place to have a good time." "Is your father back yet, Tom?" the bartender asked as he served a line of customers. "He'll come up Monday night, I expect," Tom answered, rather proud of the attention he was receiving. The bartender pushed a box of cigars toward him. "Have a cigar, Tom," he said. "No, thank you," Tom answered, "not any." Tom could not smoke, but he drew a plug of chewing tobacco from his pocket and took a chew, to show that his sympathies were that way. "I guess perhaps some of you men met Mr. Motherwell in Winnipeg. He's in there hiring men for this locality," the bartender said amiably. "That's the name of the gent that hired me," said one. "Me too." "And me," came from others. "I'd no intention of comin' here," a man from Paisley said. "I was goin' to Souris, until that gent got a holt of me, and I thought if he wuz a sample of the men ye raise here, I'd hike this way." "He's lookin' for a treat," the bartender laughed. "He's sized you up, Tom, as a pretty good fellow." "No, I ain't after no treat," the Paisley man declared. "That's straight, what I told you." Tom unconsciously put his hand in his coat pocket and felt the money his father had put there. He drew it out wondering. The quick eyes of the bartender saw it at once. "Tom's getting out his wad, boys," he laughed. "Nothin' mean about Tom, you bet Tom's goin' to do somethin'." In the confusion that followed Tom heard himself saying: "All right boys, come along and name yer drinks." Tom had a very indistinct memory of what followed. He remembered having a handful of silver, and of trying to put it in his pocket. Once when the boys were standing in front of the bar at his invitation he noticed a miserable, hungry looking man, who drank greedily. It was Skinner. Then someone took him by the arm and said something about his having enough, and Tom felt himself being led across a floor that rose and fell strangely, to a black lounge that tried to slide away from him and then came back suddenly and hit him. The wind raged and howled with increasing violence around the granary where Arthur lay tossing upon his hard bed. It seized the door and rattled it in wanton playfulness, as if to deceive the sick man with the hope that a friend's hand was on the latch, and then raced blustering and screaming down to the meadows below. The fanning mill and piles of grain bags made fantastic shadows on the wall in the lantern's dim light, and seemed to his distorted fancy like dark and terrible spectres waiting to spring upon him. Pearl knelt down beside him, tenderly bathing his burning face. "Why do you do all this for me, Pearl?" he asked slowly, his voice coming thick and painfully. She changed the cloth on his head before replying. "Oh, I keep thinkin' it might be Teddy or Jimmy or maybe wee Danny," she replied gently, "and besides, there's Thursa." The young man opened his eyes and smiled bravely. "Yes, there's Thursa," he said simply. Pearl kept the fire burning in the kitchen--the doctor might need hot water. She remembered that he had needed sheets too, and carbolic acid, when he had operated on her father the winter before. Arthur did not speak much as the night wore on, and Pearl began to grow drowsy in spite of all her efforts. She brought the old dog into the granary with her for company. The wind rattled the mud chinking in the walls and drove showers of dust and gravel against the little window. She had put the lantern behind the fanning mill, so that its light would not shine in Arthur's eyes, and in the semi-darkness, she and old Nap waited and listened. The dog soon laid his head upon her knee and slept, and Pearl was left alone to watch. Surely the doctor would come soon...it was a good thing she had the dog...he was so warm beside her, and... She sprang up guiltily. Had she been asleep...what if he had passed while she slept...she grew cold at the thought. "Did he pass, Nap?" she whispered to the dog, almost crying. "Oh Nap, did we let him go past?" Nap yawned widely and flicked one ear, which was his way of telling Pearl not to distress herself. Nobody had passed. Pearl's eyes were heavy with sleep. "This is not the time to sleep," she said, yawning and shivering. Arthur's wash-basin stood on the floor beside the bed, where she had been bathing his face. She put more water into it. "Now then," she said, "once for his mother, once for his father, a big long one for Thursa," holding her head so long below the water that it felt numb, when she took it out. "I can't do one for each of the boys," she shivered, "I'll lump the boys, here's a big one for them." "There now," her teeth chattered as she wiped her hair on Arthur's towel, "that ought to help some." Arthur opened his eyes and looked anxiously around him. Pearl was beside him at once. "Pearl," he said, "what is wrong with me? What terrible pain is this that has me in its clutches?" The strength had gone out of the man, he could no longer battle with it. Pearl hesitated. It is not well to tell sick people your gravest fears. "Still Arthur is English, and the English are gritty," Pearl thought to herself. "Arthur," she said, "I think you have appendicitis." Arthur lay motionless for a few moments. He knew what that was. "But that requires an operation," he said at length, "a very skilful one." "It does," Pearl replied, "and that's what you'll get as soon as Dr. Clay gets here, I'm thinking." Arthur turned his face into his pillow. An operation for appendicitis, here, in this place, and by that young man, no older than himself perhaps? He knew that at home, it was only undertaken by the oldest and best surgeons in the hospitals. Pearl saw something of his fears in his face. So she hastened to reassure him. She said cheerfully: "Don't ye be worried, Arthur, about it at all at all. Man alive! Dr. Clay thinks no more of an operation like that than I would o' cuttin' your nails." A strange feeling began at Arthur's heart, and spread up to his brain. It had come! It was here! From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence and famine; from battle and murder and sudden death;--Good Lord, deliver us! He had prayed it many times, meaninglessly. But he clung to it now, clung to it desperately. As a drowning man. He put his hand over his eyes, his pain was forgotten: Other lights are paling--which for long years we have rejoiced to see...we would not mourn them for we go to Thee! Yes it was all right; he was ready now. He had come of a race of men who feared not death in whatever form it came. Bring us to our resting beds at night--weary and content and undishonoured--and grant us in the end the gift of sleep. He repeated the prayer to himself slowly. That was it, weary and content, and undishonoured. "Pearl," he said, reaching out his burning hand until it rested on hers, "all my letters are there in that black portmanteau, and the key is in my pocket-book. I have a fancy that I would like no eye but yours to see them--until I am quite well again." She nodded. "And if you...should have need...to write to Thursa, tell her I had loving hands around me...at the last." Pearl gently stroked his hand. "And to my father write that I knew no fear"--his voice grew steadier--"and passed out of life glad to have been a brave man's son, and borne even for a few years a godly father's name." "I will write it, Arthur," she said. "And to my mother, Pearl" his voice wavered and broke--"my mother...for I was her youngest child...tell her she was my last...and tenderest thought." Pearl pressed his hand tenderly against her weather-beaten little cheek, for it was Danny now, grown a man but Danny still, who lay before her, fighting for his life; and at the thought her tears fell fast. "Pearl," he spoke again, after a pause, pressing his hand to his forehead, "while my mind holds clear, perhaps you would be good enough, you have been so good to me, to say that prayer you learned. My father will be in his study now, and soon it will be time for morning prayers. I often feel his blessing on me, Pearl. I want to feel it now, bringing peace and rest...weary and content and undishonoured, and...undishonoured...and grant us..." His voice grew fainter and trailed away into incoherency. And now, oh thou dignified rector of St. Agnes, in thy home beyond the sea, lay aside the "Appendix to the Apology of St. Perpetua," over which thou porest, for under all thy dignity and formalism there beats a loving father's heart. The shadows are gathering, dear sir, around thy fifth son in a far country, and in the gathering shadows there stalks, noiselessly, relentlessly, that grim, gray spectre, Death. On thy knees, then, oh Rector of St. Agnes, and blend thy prayers with the feeble petitions of her who even now, for thy house, entreats the Throne of Grace. Pray, oh thou on whom the bishop's hands have been laid, that the golden bowl be not broken nor the silver cord loosed, for the breath of thy fifth son draws heavily, and the things of time and sense are fading, fading, fading from his closing eyes. Pearl repeated the prayer. --And grant, oh most merciful Father for His sake; That we may hereafter lead a godly, righteous and a sober life-- She stopped abruptly. The old dog lifted his head and listened. Snatching up the lantern, she was out of the door before the dog was on his feet; there were wheels coming, coming down the road in mad haste. Pearl swung the lantern and shouted. The doctor reined in his horse. She flashed the lantern into his face. "Oh Doc!" she cried, "dear Doc, I have been waitin' and waitin' for ye. Git in there to the granary. Arthur's the sickest thing ye ever saw. Git in there on the double jump." She put the lantern into his hand as she spoke. Hastily unhitching the doctor's horse she felt her way with him into the driving shed. The night was at its blackest. "Now, Thursa," she laughed to herself, "we got him, and he'll do it, dear Doc, he'll do it." The wind blew dust and gravel in her face as she ran across the yard. When she went into the granary the doctor was sitting on the box by Arthur's bed, with his face in his hands. "Oh, Doc, what is it?" she cried, seizing his arm. The doctor looked at her, dazed, and even Pearl uttered a cry of dismay when she saw his face, for it was like the face of a dead man. "Pearl," he said slowly, "I have made a terrible mistake, I have killed young Cowan." "Bet he deserved it, then," Pearl said stoutly. "Killed him," the doctor went on, not heeding her, "he died in my hands, poor fellow! Oh, the poor young fellow! I lanced his throat, thinking it was quinsy he had, but it must have been diphtheria, for he died, Pearl, he died, I tell you!" "Well!" Pearl cried, excitedly waving her arms, "he ain't the first man that's been killed by a mistake, I'll bet lots o' doctors kill people by mistake, but they don't tell--and the corpse don't either, and there ye are. I'll bet you feel worse about it than he does, Doc." The doctor groaned. "Come, Doc," she said, plucking his sleeve, "take a look at Arthur." The doctor rose uncertainly and paced up and down the floor with his face in his hands, swaying like a drunken man. "O God!" he moaned, "if I could but bring back his life with mine; but I can't! I can't! I can't!" Pearl watched him, but said not a word. At last she said: "Doc, I think Arthur has appendicitis. Come and have a look at him, and see if he hasn't." With a supreme effort the doctor gained control of himself and made a hasty but thorough examination. "He has," he said, "a well developed case of it." Pearl handed him his satchel. "Here, then," she said, "go at him." "I can't do it, Pearl," he cried. "I can't. He'll die, I tell you, like that other poor fellow. I can't send another man to meet his Maker." "Oh, he's ready!" Pearl interrupted him. "Don't hold back on Arthur's account." "I can't do it," he repeated hopelessly. "He'll die under my knife, I can't kill two men in one night. O God, be merciful to a poor, blundering, miserable wretch!" he groaned, burying his face in his hands, and Pearl noticed that the back of his coat quivered like human flesh. Arthur's breath was becoming more and more laboured; his eyes roved sightlessly around the room; his head rolled on the pillow in a vain search for rest; his fingers clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes. Pearl was filled with dismay. The foundations of her little world were tottering. All but One. There was One who had never failed her. He would not fail her now. She dropped on her knees. "O God, dear God," she prayed, beating her hard little brown hands together, "don't go back on us, dear God. Put the gimp into Doc again; he's not scared to do it, Lord, he's just lost his grip for a minute; he's not scared Lord; it looks like it, but he isn't. You can bank on Doc, Lord, he's not scared. Bear with him, dear Lord, just a minute--just a minute--he'll do it, and he'll do it right, Amen." When Pearl rose from her knees the doctor had lifted his head. "Do you want hot water and sheets and carbolic?" she asked. He nodded. When she came back with them the doctor was taking off his coat. His instruments were laid out on the box. "Get a lamp," he said to Pearl. Pearl's happy heart was singing with joy. "O Lord, dear Lord, You never fail," she murmured as she ran across to the kitchen. When she came back with the lamp and a chair to set it on, the doctor was pinning a sheet above the bed. His face was white and drawn, but his hand was firm and his mouth was a straight line. Arthur was tossing his arms convulsively. The doctor listened with his ear a minute upon the sick man's heart, then the gauze mask was laid upon his face and the chloroform soon did its merciful work. The doctor handed Pearl the bottle. "A drop or two if he moves," he said. Then Horace Clay, the man with a man's mistakes, his fears, his heart-burnings, was gone, and in his place stood Horace Clay, the doctor, keen, alert, masterful, indomitable, with the look of battle on his face. He worked rapidly, never faltering; his eyes burning with the joy of the true physician who fights to save, to save a human life from the grim old enemy, Death. "You have saved his life, Pearl," the doctor said two hours later. Arthur lay sleeping easily, the flush gone from his face, and his breath coming regularly. The doctor put his hand gently on her tumbled little brown head. "You saved him from death, Pearl, and me--from something worse." And then Pearl took the doctor's hand in both of hers, and kissed it reverently. "That's for Thursa," she said, gravely. Tom was awakened by some one shaking him gently. "Tom, Tom Motherwell, what are you doing here?" A woman knelt beside him; her eyes were sweet and kind and sad beyond expression. "Tom, how did you come here?" she asked, gently, as Tom struggled to rise. He sat up, staring stupidly around him. "Wha' 's a matter? Where's this?" he asked thickly. "You're in the sitting-room at the hotel," she said. He would have lain down again, but she took him firmly by the arm. "Come Tom," she said. "Come and have a drink of water." She led him out of the hotel to the pump at the corner of the street. Tom drank thirstily. She pumped water on his hands, and bathed his burning face in it. The cold water and the fresh air began to clear his brain. "What time is it?" he asked her. "Nearly morning," she said. "About half-past three, I think," and Tom knew even in the darkness that she had lost more teeth. It was Mrs. Skinner. "Tom," she said, "did you see Skinner in there? I came down to get him--I want him--the child is dead an hour ago." She spoke hurriedly. Tom remembered now. Yes, he had seen Skinner, but not lately; it was a long, long time ago. "Now Tom, go home," she said kindly. "This is bad work for you, my dear boy. Stop it now, dear Tom, while you can. It will kill you, body and soul." A thought struggled in Tom's dull brain. There was something he wanted to say to her which must be said; but she was gone. He drank again from the cup that hung beside the pump. Where did he get this burning thirst, and his head, how it pounded! She had told him to go home. Well, why wasn't he at home? What was he doing here? Slowly his memory came back--he had come for the doctor; and the doctor was to be back in an hour, and now it was nearly morning, didn't she say? He tried to run, but his knees failed him--what about Arthur? He grew chill at the thought--he might be dead by this time. He reached the doctor's office some way. His head still throbbed and his feet were heavy as lead; but his mind was clear. A lamp was burning in the office but no one was in. It seemed a month ago since he had been there before. The air of the office was close and stifling, and heavy with stale tobacco smoke. Tom sat down, wearily, in the doctor's armchair; his heart beat painfully--he'll be dead--he'll be dead--he'll be dead--it was pounding. The clock on the table was saying it too. Tom got up and walked up and down to drown the sound. He stopped before a cabinet and gazed horrified at a human skeleton that grinned evilly at him. He opened the door hastily, the night wind fanned his face. He sat down upon the step, thoroughly sober now, but sick in body and soul. Soon a heavy step sounded on the sidewalk, and the old doctor came into the patch of light that shone from the door. "Do you want me?" he asked as Tom stood up. "Yes," Tom answered; "at once." "What's wrong?" the doctor asked brusquely. Tom told him as well as he could. "Were you here before, early in the evening?" Tom nodded. "Hurry up then and get your horse," the doctor said, going past him into the office. "Yes, I thought so," the doctor said gathering up his instruments. "I ought to know the signs--well, well, the poor young Englishman has had plenty of time to die from ten in the evening till four the next morning, without indecent haste either, while this young fellow was hitting up the firewater. Still, God knows, I shouldn't be hard on him. I've often kept people waiting for the same reason and," he added grimly, "they didn't always wait either." When Tom and the old doctor drove into the yard everything was silent. The wind had fallen, and the eastern sky was bright with morning. The old dog who lay in front of the granary door raised his head at their approach and lifted one ear, as if to command silence. Tom helped the doctor out of the buggy. He tried to unhitch the horse, but the beating of his heart nearly choked him--the fear of what might be in the granary. He waited for the exclamation from the doctor which would proclaim him a murderer. He heard the door open again--the doctor was coming to tell him--Tom's knees grew weak--he held to the horse for support--who was this who had caught his arm--it was Pearl crying and laughing. "Tom, Tom, it's all over, and Arthur's going to get well," she whispered. "Dr. Clay came." But Pearl was not prepared for what happened. Tom put his head down upon the horse's neck and cried like a child--no, like a man--for in the dark and terrible night that had just passed, sullied though it was by temptations and yieldings and neglect of duty, the soul of a man had been born in him, and he had put away childish things forever. Dr. Clay was kneeling in front of the box cleaning his instruments, with his back toward the door, when Dr. Barner entered. He greeted the older man cordially, receiving but a curt reply. Then the professional eye of the old doctor began to take in the situation. A half-used roll of antiseptic lint lay on the floor; the fumes of the disinfectants and of the ansthetic still hung on the air. Tom's description of the case had suggested appendicitis. "What was the trouble?" he asked quickly. The young doctor told him, giving him such a thoroughly scientific history of the case that the old doctor's opinion of him underwent a radical change. The young doctor explained briefly what he had attempted to do by the operation; the regular breathing and apparently normal temperature of the patient was, to the old doctor, sufficient proof of its success. He stooped suddenly to examine the dressing that the young doctor was showing him, but his face twitched with some strong emotion--pride, professional jealousy, hatred were breaking down before a stronger and a worthier feeling. He turned abruptly and grasped the young doctor's hand. "Clay!" he cried, "it was a great piece of work, here, alone, and by lamplight. You are a brave man, and I honour you." Then his voice broke. "I'd give every day of my miserable life to be able to do this once more, just once, but I haven't the nerve, Clay"; the hand that the young doctor held trembled. "I haven't the nerve. I've been going on a whiskey nerve too long." "Dr. Barner," the young man replied, as he returned the other's grasp, "I thank you for your good words, but I wasn't alone when I did it. The bravest little girl in all the world was here and shamed me out of my weakness and," he added reverently, "I think God Himself steadied my hand." The old man looked up wondering. "I believe you, Clay," he said simply. CHAPTER XXIV THE HARVEST Tom went straight to his mother that morning and told her everything--the party he had gone to, his discontent, his desire for company and fun, and excitement, taking the money, and the events of the previous night. Mrs. Motherwell saw her boy in a new light as she listened, and Tom had a glorified vision of his mother as she clasped him in her arms crying: "It is our fault Tom, mine and your father's; we have tried to make you into a machine like we are ourselves, and forgot that you had a soul, but it's not too late yet, Tom. I hate the money, too, if it's only to be hoarded up; the money we sent to Polly's mother has given me more pleasure than all the rest that we have." "Mother," Tom said, "how do you suppose that money happened to be in that overcoat pocket?" "I don't know," she answered; "your father must have left it there when he wore it last. It looks as if the devil himself put it there to tempt you, Tom." When his father came back from Winnipeg, Tom made to him a full confession as he had to his mother; and was surprised to find that his father had for him not one word of reproach. Since sending the money to Polly's mother Sam had found a little of the blessedness of giving, and it had changed his way of looking at things, in some measure at least. He had made up his mind to give the money back to the church, and now when he found that it had gone, and gone in such a way, he felt vaguely that it was a punishment for his own meanness, and in a small measure, at least, he was grateful that no worse evil had resulted from it. "Father, did you put that money there?" Tom asked. "Yes, I did Tom," he answered. "I ought to be ashamed of myself for being so careless, too." "It just seemed as if it was the devil himself," Tom said. "I had no intention of drinking when I took out that money." "Well, Tom," his father said, with a short laugh, "I guess the devil had a hand in it, he was in me quite a bit when I put it there, I kin tell ye." The next Sunday morning Samuel Motherwell, his wife and son, went to church. Sam placed on the plate an envelope containing fifty dollars. On the following morning Sam had just cut two rounds with the binder when the Reverend Hugh Grantley drove into the field. Sam stopped his binder and got down. "Well, Mr. Motherwell," the minister said, holding out his hand cordially as he walked over to where Sam stood, "how did it happen?" Sam grasped his hand warmly. "Ask Tom," he said, nodding his head toward his son who was stooking the grain a little distance away. "It is Tom's story." Mr. Grantley did ask Tom, and Tom told him; and there in the sunshine, with the smell of the ripe grain in their nostrils as the minister helped him to carry the sheaves, a new heaven and a new earth were opened to Tom, and a new life was born within him, a life of godliness and of brotherly kindness, whose blessed influence has gone far beyond the narrow limits of that neighbourhood. It was nearly noon when the minister left him and drove home through the sun-flooded grain fields, with a glorified look on his face as one who had seen the heavens opened. Just before he turned into the valley of the Souris, he stopped his horse, and looked back over the miles and miles of rippling gold. The clickety-click-click of many binders came to his ears. Oh what a day it was! all sunshine and blue sky! Below him the river glinted through the trees, and the railway track shimmered like a silver ribbon, and as he drove into the winding valley, the Reverend Hugh Grantley sang, despite his Cameronian blood, sang like a Methodist: Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below, Praise Him above, ye heavenly host, Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. CHAPTER XXV CUPID'S EMISSARY Mrs. McGuire did not look like Cupid's earthly representative as she sat in her chintz-covered rocking-chair and bitterly complained of the weather. The weather was damp and cloudy, and Mrs. McGuire said her "jints were jumpin'." The little Watsons were behaving so well that even with her rheumatism to help her vision she could find no fault with them, "just now"; but she reckoned the mischief "was hatchin'." A change was taking place in Mrs. McGuire, although she was unconscious of it; Mary Barner, who was a frequent and welcome visitor, was having an influence even on the flinty heart of the relict of the late McGuire. Mary "red up" her house for her when her rheumatism was bad. She cooked for her, she sang and read for her. Above all things, Mary was her friend, and no one who has a friend can be altogether at war with the world. One evening when Mary was reading the "Pilgrim's Progress" to her, the Reverend Hugh Grantley came in and begged to be let stay and enjoy the reading, too. He said Miss Barner's voice seemed to take the tangles out of his brain, whereupon Mrs. McGuire winked at herself. That night she obligingly fell asleep just where Christian resolved to press on to the Heavenly City at all costs, and Mistrust and Timorous ran down the hill. After that the minister came regularly, and Mrs. McGuire, though she complained to herself that it was hard to lose so much of the reading, fell asleep each night, and snored loudly. She said she had been young herself once, and guessed she knew how it was with young folks. Just hoped he was good enough for Mary, that was all; men were such deceivers--they were all smooth as silk, until it came to livin' with 'em, and then she shook her head grimly, thinking no doubt of the vagaries of the late McGuire. The Reverend Hugh Grantley walked up and down the floor of his study in deep meditation. But his thoughts were not on his Sunday sermon nor yet on the topic for the young people's meeting, though they were serious enough by the set of his jaw. His friend Clay had just left him. Clay was in a radiant humour. Dr. Barner's friendly attitude toward him had apparently changed the aspect of affairs, and now the old doctor had suggested taking him into partnership. "Think of it, Grantley," the young man had exclaimed, "what this will mean to me. He is a great man in his profession, so clever, so witty, so scholarly, everything. He was the double gold medallist in his year at McGill, and he has been keeping absolutely sober lately--thanks to your good offices"--at which the other made a gesture of dissent--"and then I would be in a better position to look after things. As it has been, any help I gave Mary in keeping the old man from killing people had to be done on the sly." The minister winced and went a shade paler at the mention of her name, but the doctor did not notice. "Mary is anxious to have it brought about, too," he went on, "for it has always been a worry to her when he was away, but now he will do the office work, and I will do the driving. It will be a distinct advantage to me, though of course I would do it anyway for her sake." Then it was well for the minister that he came of a race that can hold its features in control. This easy naming of her name, the apparent proprietorship, the radiant happiness in Clay's face, could mean but one thing. He had been blind, blind, blind! He heard himself saying mechanically. "Yes, of course, I think it is the only thing to do," and Clay had gone out whistling. He sat for a few minutes perfectly motionless. Then a shudder ran through him, and the black Highland blood surged into his face, and anger flamed in his eyes. He sprang to his feet with his huge hands clenched. "He shall not have her," he whispered to himself. "She is mine. How dare he name her!" Only for a moment did he give himself to the ecstasy of rage. Then his arms fell and he stood straight and calm and strong, master of himself once more. "What right have I?" he groaned wearily pressing his hands to his head. "Who am I that any woman should desire me. Clay, with his easy grace, his wit, his manliness, his handsome face, no wonder that she prefers him, any woman would, and Clay is worthy, more worthy," he thought in an agony of renunciation. He thought of Clay's life as he had known it now for years. So fair and open and clean. "Yes, Clay is worthy of her." He repeated it dully to himself as he walked up and down. Every incident of the past three months came back to him now with cruel distinctness--the sweetness of her voice, the glorious beauty of her face, so full sometimes of life's pain, so strong too in the overcoming of it, and her little hands--oh what pretty little hands they were--he had held them once only for a moment, but she must have felt the love that throbbed in his touch, and he had thought that perhaps--perhaps Oh, unutterable blind fool that he was! He pressed his hands again to his head and groaned aloud; and He who hears the cry of the child or of the strong man in agony drew near and laid His pierced hands upon him in healing and benediction. The next Sunday the Reverend Hugh Grantley was at his best, and his sermons had a new quality that appealed to and comforted many a weary one who, like himself, was traveling by the thorn-road. In Mrs. McGuire's little house there was nothing to disturb the reading now, for the minister came no more, but the joyousness had all gone from Mary's voice, and Mrs. McGuire found herself losing all interest in Christian's struggles as she looked at Mary's face. Once she saw the minister pass and she beat upon the window with her knitting needle, but he hurried by without looking up. Then the anger of Mrs. McGuire was kindled mightily, and she sometimes woke up in the night to express her opinion of him in the most lurid terms she could think of, feeling meanwhile the futility of human speech. It was a hard position for Mrs. McGuire, who had always been able to settle her own affairs with ease and grace. One day when this had been going on about a month, Mrs. McGuire sat in her chintz-covered rocking-chair and thought hard, for something had to be done. She narrowed her black eyes into slits and thought and thought. Suddenly she started as if she heard something, and perhaps she did--the angel who brought the inspiration may have whirred his wings a little. Mary Barner was coming that afternoon to "red up" a little for her, for her rheumatism had been very bad. With wonderful agility she rose and made ready for bed. First, however, she carefully examined the latch on her kitchen door. Now this latch had a bad habit of locking itself if the door was closed quickly. Mrs. McGuire tried it and found it would do this every time, and with this she seemed quite satisfied. About half after three o'clock Mary came and began to set the little house in order. When this was done Mrs. McGuire asked her if she would make her a few buttermilk biscuits, she had been wishing for them all day. When she saw Mary safely in the kitchen her heart began to beat. Now if the minister was at home, the thing was as good as done. She watched at the window until Jimmy Watson came from school, and then, tapping on the glass, beckoned him to come in, which he did with great trepidation of spirit. She told him to go at once and tell Mr. Grantley to come, for she needed him very badly. Then she got back into bed, and tried to compose her features into some resemblance of invalidism. When Mr. Grantley came she was resting easier she said (which was true), but would he just get her a drink of water from the kitchen, and would he please shut the door quick after him and not let the cat up. Mr. Grantley went at once and she heard the door shut with a snap. Just to be sure that it was "snibbed," Mrs. McGuire tiptoed after him in her bare feet, a very bad thing for a sick-a-bed lady to do, too, but to her credit, be it written, she did not listen at the keyhole. She got back into bed, exclaiming to herself with great emphasis: "There, now, fight it out among yerselves." When the minister stepped quickly inside the little kitchen, closing the door hurriedly behind him to prevent the invasion of the cat (of which there wasn't one and never had been any), he beheld a very busy and beautiful young woman sifting flour into a baking-dish. "Mary!" he almost shouted, hardly believing his senses. He recovered himself instantly, and explained his errand, but the pallor of his face was unmistakable. When Mary handed him the cup of water she saw that his hand was shaking; but she returned to her baking with the greatest composure. The minister attempted to lift the latch, he rattled the door in vain. "Come out this way," Mary said as sweetly as if she really wanted him to go. She tried to open the outside door, also in vain. Mrs. McGuire had secured it from the outside with a clothes-line prop and a horse nail. The minister came and tried it, but Mrs. McGuire's work held good. Then the absurdity of the position struck them both, and the little house rang with their laughter--laughter that washed away the heartaches of the dreary days before. The minister's reserve was breaking down. "Mary," he said, taking her face between his hands, "are you going to marry Horace Clay?" "No," she answered, meeting his eyes with the sweetest light in hers that ever comes into a woman's face. "Well, then," he said, as he drew her to him, "you are going to marry me." The day had been dark and rainy, but now the clouds rolled back and the sunshine, warm and glorious, streamed into the kitchen. The teakettle, too, on the stove behind them, threw up its lid and burst into a thunder of bubbles. The next time they tried the door it yielded, Mrs. McGuire having made a second barefoot journey. When they came up from the little kitchen, the light ineffable was shining in their faces, but Mrs. McGuire called them back to earth by remarking dryly: "It's just as well I wasn't parchin' for that drink." CHAPTER XXVI THE THANKSGIVING The prairie lay sere and brown like a piece of faded tapestry beneath the November sun that, peering through the dust-laden air, seemed old and worn with his efforts to warm the poor old faded earth. The grain had all been cut and gathered into stacks that had dotted the fields, two by two, like comfortable married couples, and these in turn had changed into billowy piles of yellow straw, through which herds of cattle foraged, giving a touch of life and colour to the unending colourless landscape. The trees stood naked and bare. The gardens where once the corn waved and the hollyhocks flaunted their brazen beauty, now lay a tangled litter of stalks, waiting the thrifty farmer's torch to clear them away before the snow came. The earth had yielded of her fruits and now rested from her labour, worn and spent, taking no thought of comeliness, but waiting in decrepit indifference for her friend, the North Wind, to bring down the swirling snow to hide her scars and heal her unloveliness with its kindly white mantle. But although the earth lay sere and brown and dust-laden, the granaries and elevators were bursting with a rich abundance. Innumerable freight-trains loaded with wheat wound heavily up the long grade, carrying off all too slowly the produce of the plain, and still the loads of grain came pouring in from the farms. The cellars were full of the abundance of the gardens--golden turnips, rosy potatoes and rows of pale green cabbages hanging by their roots to the beams gave an air of security against the long, cold, hungry winter. Inside of John Watson's home, in spite of November's dullness, joy and gladness reigned, for was not Pearl coming home? Pearl, her mother's helper and adviser; Pearl, her silent father's wonder and delight, the second mother of all the little Watsons! Pearl was coming home. Events in the Watson family were reckoned from the time of Pearl's departure or the time of her expected home-coming. "Pa got raised from one dollar and a quarter to one dollar and a half just six weeks from the day Pearl left, lackin' two days," and Mrs. Evans gave Mary a new "stuff" dress, "on the Frida' as Pearl left or the Thursda' three weeks before," and, moreover, the latest McSorley baby was born "on the Wednesda' as Pearl was comin' home on the Saturda' four weeks after." Domestic affairs were influenced to some degree by Pearl's expected arrival. "Don't be wearin' yer sweater now, Tommy man, I'm feart the red strip'll run in it when its washed; save it clean till Pearlie comes, there's a man." "Patsey, avick, wobble yer tooth now man alive. Don't be havin' that loose thing hangin' in yer jaw, and Pearlie comin' home so soon." The younger children, whose appetites were out of all proportion to the supply, were often "tided over" what might have been a tearful time by a promise of the good time coming. When Danny cried because the bottom of his porridge plate was "always stickin' through," and later in the same day came home in the same unmanned condition because he had smelled chickens cooking down at the hotel when he and Jimmy went with the milk, Mary rose to the occasion and told him in a wild flight of unwarranted extravagance that they would have a turkey when Pearl came home. 'N cranberry sauce. 'N brown gravy. No-ow! The house had undergone some preparations for the joyous event. Everything was scrubbed that could be scrubbed. An elaborately scalloped newspaper drape ornamented the clock shelf; paper chains, made of blue and yellow sale-bills, were festooned from the elbow of the stove pipes to the window curtains; the wood box was freshly papered with newspaper; red flannel was put in the lamps. The children were scrubbed until they shone. Bugsey's sweater had a hole in the "chist," but you would never know it the way he held his hand. Tommy's stocking had a hole in the knee, but he had artfully inserted a piece of black lining that by careful watching kept up appearances. Mrs. Watson, instigated by Danny, had looked at the turkeys in the butcher shop that morning, asked the price and came away sorrowful. Even Danny understood that a turkey was not to be thought of. They compromised on a pot-roast because it makes so much gravy, and with this and the prospect of potatoes and turnips and prune-pie, the family had to be content. On the day that Pearlie was expected home, Mrs. Watson and Mary were busy preparing the evening meal, although it was still quite early in the afternoon. Wee Danny stood on a syrup keg in front of the window, determined to be the first to see Pearlie. Mrs. Watson was peeling the potatoes and singing. Mrs. Watson sang because her heart was glad, for was not Pearlie coming home. She never allowed her singing to interfere with more urgent duties; the singing could always wait, and she never forgot just where she had left it, but would come back and pick up at the exact place she had discarded it. "Sure ain't it great the way ma never drops a stitch in her singin'," her eldest son Teddy had said admiringly one day. "She can lave a note half turned up in the air, and go off and lave it, and ye'd think she'd forgot where she left it, but never a fear o' ma, two days afther she'll rache up for it and bring it down and slip off into the choon agin, nate as nate." On this particular day Mrs. Watson sang because she couldn't help it, for Pearlie was coming home-- From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strands, she sang, as she peeled the potatoes-- Where Africa's sunny fount-- "Come, Mary alanna, and scour the knives, sure an' I forgot them at noon to-day. -tains Flow down their crimson sands; From many an ancient river And many a sandy-- Put a dhrop more wather in the kittle Tommy--don't ye hear it spittin'?" -plain They call us to deliver-- Here a shout sounded outside, and Bugsey came tumbling in and said he thought he had seen Pearlie coming away down the road across the track, whereupon Danny cried so uproariously that Bugsey, like the gentleman he was, withdrew his statement, or at least modified it by saying it might be Pearlie and it might not. But it was Pearl, sure enough, and Danny had the pleasure of giving the alarm, beating on the window, maudlin with happiness, while Pearl said good-bye to Tom Motherwell, who had brought her home. Tommy and Bugsey and Patsey waited giggling just inside the door, while Mary and Mrs. Watson went out to greet her. Pearl was in at last, kissing every little last Watson, forgetting she had done Tommy and doing him over again; with Danny holding tightly to her skirt through it all, everybody talking at once. Then the excitement calmed down somewhat, but only to break right out again, for Jimmy who had been downtown came home and found the box which Tom Motherwell had left on the step after Pearl had gone in. They carried it in excitedly and eager little hands raised the lid, eager little voices shouted with delight. "Didn't I tell ye we'd have a turkey when Pearlie came home," Mary shouted triumphantly. Pearlie rose at once to her old position of director-in-chief. "The turkey'll be enough for us, and it'll be done in time yet, and we'll send the chicken to Mrs. McGuire, poor owld lady, she wuz good to me the day I left. Now ma, you sit down, me and Mary'll git along. Here Bugsey and Tommy and Patsey and Danny, here's five cents a piece for ye to go and buy what ye like, but don't ye buy anything to ate, for ye'll not need it, but yez can buy hankies, any kind ye like, ye'll need them now the winter's comin' on, and yez'll be havin' the snuffles." When the boys came back with their purchases they were put in a row upon their mother's bed to be out of the way while the supper was being prepared, all except wee Bugsey, who went, from choice, down to the tracks to see the cars getting loaded--the sizzle of the turkey in the oven made the tears come. Two hours later the Watson family sat down to supper, not in sections, but the whole family. The table had long since been inadequate to the family's needs, but two boards, with a flour-sack on them, from the end of it to the washing machine overcame the difficulty. Was there ever such a turkey as that one? Mrs. Watson carved it herself on the back of the stove. "Sure yer poor father can't be bothered with it, and it's a thing he ain't handy at, mirover, no more'n meself; but the atin' is on it, praise God, and we'll git at it someway." Ten plates were heaped full of potatoes and turnips, turkey, brown gravy, and "stuffin"; and still that mammoth turkey had layers of meat upon his giant sides. What did it matter if there were not enough plates to go around, and Tommy had to eat his supper out of the saucepan; and even if there were no cups for the boys, was not the pail with the dipper in it just behind them on the old high-chair. When the plates had all been cleaned the second time, and the turkey began to look as if something had happened to it, Mary brought in the surprise of the evening--it was the jelly Mrs. Evans had sent them when she let Mary come home early in the afternoon, a present from Algernon, she said, and the whipped cream that Camilla had given Jimmy when he ran over to tell her and Mrs. Francis that Pearlie had really come. Then everyone saw the advantage of having their plates licked clean, and not having more turkey than they knew what to do with. Danny was inarticulate with happiness. "Lift me down, Pearlie," he murmured sleepily as he poked down the last spoonful, "and do not jiggle me." When Patsey and Bugsey and Tommy and Danny had gone to bed, and Mary and Mrs. Watson were washing the dishes (Pearlie was not allowed to help, being the guest of honour), John Watson sat silently smoking his pipe, listening with delight while Pearl related her experiences of the last three months. She was telling about the night that she had watched for the doctor. Not a word did she tell about, her friend, the doctor's agitation, nor what had caused it on that occasion, and she was very much relieved to find that her listeners did not seem to have heard about the circumstances of Ab Cowan's death. "Oh, I tell ye, Doctor Clay's the fellow," she said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "He knew what was wrong wid Arthur the minute he clapped his eyes on him--tore open his little satchel, slapped the chloroform into his face, whisked out his knives and slashed into him as aisy as ma wud into a pair of pants for Jimmie there, and him waitin' for them." "Look at that now!" her father exclaimed, pulling out the damper of the stove and spitting in the ashes. "Yon's a man'll make his mark wherever he goes." A knock sounded on the door. Teddy opened it and admitted Camilla and Jim Russell. "I've got a letter for you Pearl," Jim said when the greetings were over. "When Tom brought the mail this evening this letter for you was in with the others, and Arthur brought it over to see if I would bring it in. I didn't really want to come, but seeing as it was for you, Pearl, I came." Camilla was not listening to him at all. Pearl took the letter wonderingly. "Read it Camilla," she said, handing it to her friend. Camilla broke the seal and read it. It was from Alfred Austin Wemyss, Rector of St. Agnes, Tillbury Road, County of Kent, England. It was a stately letter, becoming a rector, dignified and chaste in its language. It was the letter of a dignitary of the Church to an unknown and obscure child in a distant land, but it told of a father and mother's gratitude for a son's life saved, it breathed an admiration for the little girl's devotion and heroism, and a love for her that would last as long as life itself. Pearl sat in mute wonder, as Camilla read--that could not mean her! We do not mean to offer money as a payment for what you have done, dear child (Camilla read on), for such a service of love can only be paid in love; but we ask you to accept from us this gift as our own daughter would accept it if we had had one, and we will be glad to think that it has been a help to you in the securing of an education. Our brother, the bishop, wishes you to take from him a gift of 20 pounds, and it is his desire that you should spend it in whatever way will give you the most pleasure. We are, dear Pearl, Your grateful friends, ALFRED A. and MARY WEMYSS. "Here is a Bank of England draft for 120 pounds, nearly $600," Camilla said, as she finished the letter. The Watson family sat dumb with astonishment. "God help us!" Mrs. Watson cried at last. "He has," Camilla said reverently. Then Pearl threw her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her over and over again. "Ma, dear," she cried, "ye'll git it now, what I always wanted ye to have, a fur-lined cape, and not lined wid rabbit, or squirrel or skunk either, but with the real vermin! and it wasn't bad luck to have Mrs. McGuire cross me path when I was going out. But they can't mane me, Camilla, sure what did I do?" But Camilla and Jim stood firm, the money was for her and her only. Everyone knew, Jim said, that if she had not stayed with Arthur that long night and watched for the doctor, that Arthur would have been dead in the morning. And Arthur had told him a dozen times, Jim said, that Pearl had saved his life. "Well then, 't was aisy saved," Pearl declared, "if I saved it." Just then Dr. Clay came in with a letter in his hand. "My business is with this young lady," he said as he sat on the chair Mrs. Watson had wiped for him, and drew Pearl gently toward him. "Pearl, I got some money to-night that doesn't belong to me." "So did I," Pearl said. "No, you deserve all yours, but I don't deserve a cent. If it hadn't been for this little girl of yours, Mr. Watson, that young Englishman would have been a dead man." "Faith, that's what they do be sayin', but I don't see how that wuz. You're the man yerself Doc," John replied, taking his pipe from his mouth. "No," the doctor went on. "I would have let him die if Pearl hadn't held me up to it and made me operate." Pearl sprang up, almost in tears. "Doc," she cried indignantly, "haven't I towld ye a dozen times not to say that? Where's yer sense, Doc?" The doctor laughed. He could laugh about it now, since Dr. Barner had quite exonerated him from blame in the matter, and given it as his professional opinion that young Cowan would have died any way--the lancing of his throat having perhaps hastened, but did not cause his death. "Pearl," the doctor said smiling, "Arthur's father sent me 50 pounds and a letter that will make me blush every time I think of it. Now I cannot take the money. The operation, no doubt, saved his life, but if it hadn't been for you there would have been no operation. I want you to take the money. If you do not, I will have to send it back to Arthur's father and tell him all about it." Pearl looked at him in real distress. "And I'll tell everyone else, too, what kind of a man I am--Jim here knows it already"--the doctor's eyes were smiling as he watched her troubled little face. "Oh, Doctor Clay," she cried, "you're worse 'n Danny when you get a notion inter yer head. What kin I do with ye?" "I do not know," the doctor laughed, "unless you marry me when you grow up." "Well," Pearl answered gravely, "I can't do that till ma and me git the family raised, but I'm thinkin' maybe Mary Barner might take ye." "I thought of that, too," the doctor answered, while a slight shadow passed over his face, "but she seems to think not. However, I'm not in a hurry Pearl, and I just think I'll wait for you." After Camilla and Jim and the doctor had gone that night, and Teddy and Billy and Jimmy had gone to bed, Pearl crept into her father's arms and laid her head on his broad shoulder. "Pa," she said drowsily, "I'm glad I'm home." Her father patted her little brown hand. "So am I, acushla," he said; after a pause he whispered, "yer a good wee girl, Pearlie," but Pearl's tired little eyes had closed in sleep. Mrs. Watson laid more wood on the fire, which crackled merrily up the chimney. "Lay her down, John dear," she whispered. "Yer arms'll ache, man." On the back of the stove the teakettle simmered drowsily. There was no sound in the house but the regular breathing of the sleeping children. The fire burned low, but John Watson still sat holding his little sleeping girl in his arms. Outside the snow was beginning to fall. CONCLUSION CONVINCING CAMILLA "If you can convince me, Jim, that you are more irresponsible and more in need of a guiding hand than Mrs. Francis--why then I'll--I'll be--" Jim sprang from his chair. "You'll be what, Camilla? Tell me quick," he cried eagerly. "I'll be--convinced," she said demurely, looking down. Jim sat down again and sighed. "Will you be anything else?" he asked. "Convince me first," she said firmly. "I think I can do it," he said, "I always have to write down what I want to do each day, and what I need to buy when I come in here, and once, when I wrote my list, nails, coffee, ploughshare, mail, I forgot to put on it, 'come back,' and perhaps you may remember I came here that evening and stayed and stayed--I was trying to think what to do next." "That need not worry you again, Jim," she said sweetly. "I can easily remember that, and will tell you every time." "To 'come back'?" he said. "Thank you, Camilla, and I will do it too." She laughed. "Having to make a list isn't anything. Poor Mrs. Francis makes a list and then loses it, then makes a second list, and puts on it to find the first list, and then loses that; and Jim, she once made biscuits and forgot the shortening." "I made biscuits once and forgot the flour," Jim declared proudly. Camilla shook her head. "And, Camilla," Jim said gravely, "I am really very irresponsible, you know Nellie Slater--she is a pretty girl, isn't she?" "A very pretty girl," Camilla agreed. "About your size--fluffy hair--" "Wavy, Jim," Camilla corrected. "Hers is fluffy, yours is wavy," Jim said firmly--"lovely dark eyes--well, she was standing by the window, just before the lamps were lighted, and I really am very absent-minded you know--I don't know how it happened that I mistook her for you." Camilla reached out her hand. He seized it eagerly. "Jim--I am convinced," she said softly. Fifteen minutes afterwards Camilla said: "I cannot tell her, Jim, I really cannot. I don't how know to begin to tell her." "Why do you need to tell her?" Jim asked. "Hasn't the lady eyes and understanding? What does she think I come for?" "She doesn't know you come. She sees somebody here, but she thinks it's the grocery-boy waiting until I empty his basket." "Indeed," Jim said a little stiffly, "which one, I wonder." "Don't you remember the night she said to me 'And what did you say this young man's name is, Camilla'--no, no, Jim, she hasn't noticed you at all." Jim was silent a moment. "Well now," he said at last, "she seemed to be taking notice that morning I came in without any very good excuse, and she said 'How does it happen that you are not harvesting this beautiful day, Mr. Russell?'" "Yes, and what did you say?" Camilla asked a trifle severely. Jim looked a little embarrassed. "I said--I had not felt well lately, and I had come in to see the doctor." "And what was that?" Camilla was still stern. "The ingenious device of an ardent lover," he replied quickly. "'Ardened sinner you mean, Jim," she laughed. "But the next time you had a splendid excuse, you had a message from Pearl. Was my new suit done?" "Yes, and then I came to see--" There was a frou-frou of skirts in the hall. Camilla made a quick move and Jim became busy with the books on the table. Mrs. Francis entered. "Camilla," she began after she had spoken cordially to Jim, "Mr. Francis is in need of a young man to manage his business for him, and he has made up his mind--quite made up his mind, Camilla, to take Mr. Russell into partnership with him if Mr. Russell will agree. Mr. Francis needs just such a young man, one of education, good habits and business ability and so, Camilla, I see no reason why your marriage should not take place at once." "Marriage!" Camilla gasped. "Yes," Mrs. Francis said in her richest tones. "Your marriage, Camilla, at once. You are engaged are you not?" "I am--convinced," Camilla said irrelevantly. And then it was Mrs. Francis who laughed as she held out a hand to each of them. "I do see--things--sometimes," she said. 
45530	----	[Illustration: To the girls' surprise they heard an exclamation.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE SECRET OF STEEPLE ROCKS By HARRIET PYNE GROVE [Illustration] THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Akron, Ohio :: New York ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright MCMXXVIII THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY The Secret of Steeple Rocks _Made in the United States of America_ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE SECRET OF STEEPLE ROCKS CHAPTER I STEEPLE ROCKS "Are you satisfied, Beth?" Elizabeth Secrest turned with a smile to the two girls who had come up behind her, their footfalls silent in the sand. "The world is mine," she answered, with a comprehensive sweep of her arm and hand toward the foaming surf which was almost at their feet. "Doesn't it _fill_ you, some way?" "Yes, Beth; I'm not myself at all. Here,--take these and look at those towering rocks with them." Sarita Moore handed her fine glasses, all shining and new, to the older girl, who directed them toward a distant pile of rocks. There two rose high, irregularly decreasing in circumference, and at this distance apparently pointed at their tops. Below them massed the other rocks of the dark headland. Elizabeth looked long and steadily. "Steeple Rocks!" she murmured. "I wish that I owned them! But I would give them a better name. I'd call them Cathedral Rocks. Doesn't the whole mass make you think of the cathedrals,--the cathedrals that you and I are going to see some day, Leslie?" The third girl of the group now took the glasses which her sister offered. "Sometimes, Beth, I can't follow the lines of your imagination; but it doesn't take much this time to make a cathedral out of that. _Are_ you happy, Beth?" There was a tone of anxiety in the question. "Yes, child. Who could help being happy here? Look at that ocean, stretching out and away--into eternity, I think,--and the clouds--and the pounding of the surf. Think, girls! It's going to put us to sleep to-night!" "Unless it keeps us awake," suggested Leslie, "but I'm all lifted out of myself, too, Beth. Imagine being here all summer! Look at Dal, Sarita." Leslie pointed toward a masculine figure standing on the beach not far in advance of them. "It's 'what are the wild waves saying?' to Dal all right!" Dalton Secrest, who had preceded his two sisters and their friend in their visit to the beach and the tossing waves, stood facing the sea, his hands in his pockets, his tall young body straight before the strong breeze. He heard the girls' voices above the noise of the surf, as they came more closely behind him, and turned with a smile as his sister had done. [Illustration: Map of Steeple Rocks] "What great thoughts are you thinking Dal?" Sarita queried. "Sorry that I can't claim any just this minute, Sarita. I was thinking about what fish there are in the sea for me. When I'm not building the shack I'm going to fish, girls, and I was wondering if the bay wouldn't be the best place for that." "Of course it would, Dal," Leslie replied, "but you can easily find out where the fishermen get their fish. I thought at first that I should never want to eat. It is almost enough to look. But now,--'I dunno,' as the song goes!" "We'd better be getting back to the tents," said Dalton. "Beth looks as if she had not had enough, but I'll have to gather some wood for a fire and by the time we have our supper it will be dark. We can watch the sunset just as well from above." With this, Dalton Secrest linked arms with the girls, and with one on each side of him ran as rapidly as sand would permit to where Elizabeth had found a seat upon a rock back of the sands. "Come on, Beth. Time for eats. Les and Sairey Gamp are going to do the cooking while you sit out on the point with your little pencil to sketch." "Don't you call me 'Sairey Gamp,' Dal Secrest," laughed Sarita. "Never you mind, Sairey, you can get it back on me. If I have any time left from building, fishing and bringing home the bacon, I shall be the wild pirate of Pirates' Cove!" "Listen to Dal!" cried Leslie. "You'd think that he had to support the family! But I will admit, Dal, that if 'bacon' is fish, it will certainly help out expenses." Dalton fell back with his older sister, Beth, while the two others went on, all directing their way to a spot some distance ahead, where the climb to the upper level was not difficult. All four were exhilarated by the new scenes, the beauty and almost mystery of the sea, the beach, the rocks and crags, and the invitation of the singing pines where their tents were pitched. As anyone might surmise, their arrival was recent. Sensibly they had pitched their tents first, while Dalton could have the assistance of the man who drove them there; but after the necessary things were accomplished they hastened to get as close to the sea as possible, for none of them had ever seen it before. It was one of the interesting spots on the much indented coast of Maine. There were an obscure little fishing village, a bay, into which a few small streams emptied, and a stretch of real coast, washed by the ocean itself. It was this beach which the newcomers had just visited with such pleasure, at a place varying in its outlines, from curving sands washed by a restless sea to high rocks and half-submerged boulders, where the water boiled and tossed. As the summer visitors climbed the ascent, they noticed that in the village at their left most of the fishers' cottages lay within easy reach of the beach proper, from which the launching of boats was easy. There was a dock, stout, but small. It was quite evident that no large vessels came in. The bay lay in the direction of Steeple Rocks, but the climb to reach it would have been impossible from the beach. This was blocked by the high cliff whose rocks reached out into the waves and curved around into one side of the bay's enclosure, though gradually lowering in height. Much farther away, around the curving, rocky, inland shore of the bay, and across its quiet waters from this cliff, loomed the other more bulging headland which reminded Beth of a cathedral in some of its outlines. But Beth was an artist, and an artist had not named Steeple Rocks. Dalton helped Elizabeth while the other girls scrambled up to the path by themselves. "I do hate to play the invalid, Dal," breathlessly said Beth, clutching her brother's arm. "What _is_ the matter with me, anyhow?" "Nothing in the world, Doc said, but being just played out. What do you expect? You can't do a million things and teach school, for fun, of course, on the side, and feel as frisky as a rabbit at the end of the year. Just wait, old girl. We had to let you help us get ready to come, but about two weeks of doing nothing and sleeping in this air,--well, you will probably be able to help _me_ up the rocks!" Leslie, meanwhile, was explaining to her chum Sarita how their property included the smaller headland and its rocks. "There is right of way, of course, but this is ours." The girls were standing by this time high on the rocks, from which they could look down and back, along the beach where they had been. At this place the point ran out to its curving, jutting, broken but solid rampart which kept the sea from the bay. Below them a few boats dotted the surface of the bay. Sarita through her glass was watching a vessel which was passing far out on the ocean. "How did it happen, Leslie, that you never came here?" Sarita asked. "You see, Father had just bought it the summer before he died. He had been up in Canada and then down on the coast of Maine. He came home to tell us of the place he had bought at a great bargain, where we had an ocean view, a bay to fish in, and a tiny lake of our own. Then came all our troubles and we had almost forgotten about it, except to count it among our assets, pay tax on it and wish that we could raise some money on it. But nobody wanted a place that had no good roads for an automobile and was not right on the railroad, though, for that matter, I don't think it's so terribly far." "Yes, it is, Les, for anybody that wants to be in touch with civilization, but who wants to be for the summer?" "Well, as we told you when Beth said I could ask you to come along, it is just what we want to camp in, and there are people near enough for safety, besides the 'Emporium' of modern trade in the village, if that is what one can call this scattered lot of cottages." "It is more picturesque, Beth says, just as it is, and most of the summer cottages are on the other side of the village, or beyond the Steeple Rocks, in the other direction, so we'll not be bothered with anybody unless we want to be. I like folks, myself, but when you camp you want to camp, and Beth is so tired of kiddies that she says she doesn't want to see anybody under fifteen for the whole three months!" Sarita laughed at this. "She seemed jolly enough on the way." "Oh, Beth is jolly and perfectly happy to come; but we did not have any idea how worn out she was, simply doing too much and so afraid _we'd_ have too much to do to get our lessons. Why, when Dal and I waked up to the fact that Elizabeth was almost a _goner_, we were scared to pieces. She couldn't get up one morning after Commencement was over,--but you remember about that and how we sent for the doctor in a hurry. My, what a relief when he said that it was just overdoing and that she was to stay in bed and sleep, and eat anything she wanted to!" "She told me how you wanted to feed her every half hour." "Yes," laughed Leslie, "and I tried all the good recipes in the cook book, almost." But the girls walked out on the point a little distance, then returned, while Leslie, from her memory of her father's plan, pointed out the place behind a windbreak of rocks where Elizabeth thought he intended to build the "Eyrie." Strolling back from the Point, across an open space partly grown with straggling weeds and grass, the girls entered the pine woods, which was the thing of beauty upon the Secrest land. There Beth was seated upon a box, watching Dalton build a fire. "Ever and anon that lad shakes a finger at me, girls, to keep me from doing anything," Beth said, in explanation of her idleness. "Good for Dal," said Leslie. "Sarita and I are the chief cooks and bottle-washers around here. Just sit there, Beth, and tell us what to do, if we can't think of it ourselves. I see that you brought water, Dal. Shall we boil it before drinking?" "No; this is from the prettiest spring you ever saw. I opened some boxes and set up the tables, so you can go ahead. I'm going to get a supply of wood handy. We'll fix up our portable stove to-morrow, but I want to have it in good shape, and then I thought that you girls would like a camp fire to-night." "Oh, we do!" cried Leslie and Sarita almost with one voice. "We'll have hot wieners and open a can of beans. They'll heat in a minute. Dal, that is a fine arrangement, fixing those stones for us to rest our pan on." It was Leslie who finished these remarks, as she and Sarita busied themselves with the work of supper and Dalton went back into the woods again for more wood. They heard the sound of his hatchet as they put a cloth on the little folding table and set it in a convenient place outside of the tent. "The table will make a good buffet, but I want to take my plate and sit on the pine needles." "You will be obliged to, for want of chairs at present," said Elizabeth, jumping up and insisting on being allowed to help. What a new atmosphere it was! Here they were, off in the "wilds" and their own wilds at that, with all sorts of happy experiences before them. Dalton, whistling a popular song went about hither and yon, gathering a supply of wood, lopping off undesirable portions of old limbs here and there. Looking up at a sound, he was surprised to see a rough-looking man approaching him. He was ill-featured, dark, grim, and of stalwart build. Dalton, rather glad of his hatchet, stood his ground, waiting to be addressed. "What are you folks doing here?" the man demanded. "This is our land, sir," replied Dalton, "and we have just come to camp here for the summer." He felt like adding, "any objections?" but thought that he would not be the one to start any trouble by impertinence. He did not like the man's tone, however. "How do we know that you own this land? I'd not heard of its being sold." "It can easily be proved. Our name is Secrest. My father bought this several years ago." "Is your father here?" "Well, excuse me, sir, would you prefer to ask your questions of my father? Are you the mayor of the village?" "No; but any of us have a right to know what strangers are going to do." "Perhaps you have, sir," said Dalton, in a more friendly way, "but it's a free country, you know, and we own this piece of ground. I'm expecting to camp here all summer, and to build a more permanent home, or start one, for our summers here." The man nodded. "Well, if that is so, and if you mind your own business, you may like it. But it ain't healthy around here for snoopers, nor folks that are too cur'ous. That's all." The man stalked away, tying more tightly a red handkerchief around his neck, and hitching up the collar of his rough coat. The ocean breeze was growing a little chilly. But a thought occurred to Dalton and he spoke again to the man. "Wait a moment, please. How about these woods and the places around here,--are they safe for my sisters and our friend?" "Yes, safe enough. It's too far from the railroad for tramps and thieves and there ain't no good roads for the fellers with cars. The folks over at Steeple Rocks growl about that." "We have neighbors over in that direction, then?" "So you didn't _know_ that. H'm. You don't know much about this place, if your father did buy it." "No. None of us were ever here before." "And your father's dead." Dalton looked up surprised at that, for he had purposely avoided answering that question about his father. The man grinned a little. "I reckon a kid like you wouldn't be talkin' about buildin' a cabin himself if he had a father. Have you got a boat?" "No, but we're going to have one." "Remember what I said, then, about minding your own affairs." Having no good reply to this, which Dalton resented, he curbed his rising anger at this rude acquaintance and watched him stride in the direction of the road, which wound through the woods some distance away. "Well, your room is far better than your company," thought Dalton, as he picked up his sticks, making a load of them. He wondered whether this were one of the fishermen or not. He did not have the same speech as that of the other New Englanders whom they had recently met. The man who had brought their goods from the station had been most friendly, answering their questions and volunteering all kinds of interesting information about the country. It was odd that he had not mentioned the people at Steeple Rocks, but it had so happened. With such thoughts, Dalton went through the woods, whose wonderful pines had so delighted them, and finally joined the girls, arranging his firewood at a convenient distance. Leslie found little things for Dalton to do and supper was hurried up. The table was used for buttering bread and fixing sandwiches; then each with a loaded plate sought a place around the fire, which Dalton heaped with firewood till it blazed as hotly as was safe. There was some scrambling around when the wind veered and blew the smoke in the wrong direction, but the camp was more or less protected from the direct breeze. Happy and hungry, the campers disposed of a good meal in the midst of considerable fun and joking. Long acquaintance had made Sarita like a member of the family. She and Leslie recounted amusing incidents of their school year just ended, or consulted Dalton about their plans for the camp and the Eyrie. Elizabeth woke to something like her old fire and announced that she intended to go back to "sweet sixteen" and play with the rest of them. "Oh, Beth, bob your hair, then!" urged Leslie, running her fingers through her own curly brown mop. "Not much she doesn't!" Dalton objected. "I can't imagine Beth without her piles of pretty hair. Who was that beau, Beth, that wrote about your 'waves of burnished gold'?" Beth laughed. "I was very mad, then, when you infants discovered that poem." "Beth's hair is just a little too dark to be called 'golden,'" reflectively said Sarita. "You might braid it and wear it over your shoulders, Indian fashion." "It would be in my way, my dear." "Bob it, Beth!" again said Leslie. "Dalton is just like the rest of the men about a girl's hair. Think how fine it will be not to have so much to dry when you go in swimming." "Don't you weaken, Beth," spoke Dalton, eating his last sandwich. "Think of the 'artistic Miss Secrest' without her 'wonderful hair.'" "Come now, folks, it's my hair. I'm not doing anything at all about it, and what a waste of time and opportunity to discuss such a subject here! Come on, girls, we must fix up the beds. Dal, please help us with the cots, and did you think what a fine dresser that big box will make, girls? It has a division in it, you remember. We'll set it on end, put a cover on it over some paper, tack a curtain across, and there will be our dressing table, with a big shelf behind the curtain. I'm wasted in the schoolroom, Sarita. I ought to be an interior decorator. To-morrow some of those pretty spruce limbs will make a fine background for our mirror!" "Beth! Did you honestly _buy_ that mirror in the store by the station? Dal, it's the funniest thing you ever saw and we look crooked in it. Beth must have liked it because it makes her look fat!" Springing up, the party of four piled their plates and cups on the table, where Sarita busied herself in repacking the food in its containers and the others went into the larger tent. There trunks and boxes had been left in confusion. In a short time Dalton had the three cots up and took another to his own tent, which stood opposite the larger one. Leslie had suggested the arrangement, insisting that they must live on an "Avenue." Elizabeth and Leslie were now drawing both woolen and cotton blankets from a big trunk of supplies, together with four warm bathrobes. Sarita came in just in time to seize upon hers with an exclamation of welcome. "We'll probably want to sleep in 'em," she said, with an exaggerated shiver, putting on the garment over her sweater while Leslie laughed at her. Trunks were pulled around into place, boxes piled out of the way, flashlights and the convenient bags or cases, with which they had traveled, found and placed by their owners' cots. On the rude dresser, to be made more attractive in the future, a candlestick, candle and a box of matches stood ready if needed, "And if anybody lights the candle, let him beware of burning up the place!" warned Beth. "Her, not 'him,' Beth," corrected Leslie. "The only 'him' has a tent of his own. I'm going to see, too, that Dal has enough blankets on his bed and everything. No, keep out, Beth. Don't worry; I'll think of just exactly what we have that he must have, too. Say, what did we do with those towels? Thanks. Dal is grand to do things for us, but when it comes to fixing up himself,--" Leslie ran across the boulevard, which Sarita now called the space between the tents, and the girls smiled as they heard her arguing with Dalton about something. "Listen, Dal! It gets _cold_ up here. I've known girls that camped in Maine. I know that you're hot-blooded and all that. I'll just tuck these blankets in at the foot, and I know that you'll want to draw them up by morning." Some bass murmur came from her brother and then the girls heard Leslie's more carrying voice. "No, I'll brace them back on this box and _then_ they won't be too heavy on your feet. Well, have it your own way, then, but if you _freeze_, I'll not be responsible!" Leslie was grinning herself, when she came into the girls' tent and saw Sarita shaking with laughter, as she sat on the edge of her cot undressing. "We'' couldn't help hear, Les!" she said. "The boulevard should be wider. What was it beside the blanket discussion?" "The last thing he said to me was 'Can't you let a guy go to bed?'--but he was laughing and lifted the flap of the tent for me with a most ridiculous bow. Dal's the funniest thing!" "All the same I'd be scared to death, going to bed away off here, if it wasn't for Dal across there." "I imagine that I would be, too, though Beth and I have gotten used to taking care of ourselves. Now you in bed first, Beth. You must get out of the way of 'going over the house' to see if everything is all right. I _will_ boss _somebody_!" "You can boss _me_ all you please, Leslie. You may even tuck me into bed," said Beth, looking so sweet with her long, light braids, that Leslie walked right over, turned back the blankets on Beth's cot, almost lifted the slight figure into place, tucked her in snugly and kissed her soundly. The first day in camp was over. Dalton had purposely said nothing about the man of the woods. He would mention it to Leslie and Sarita in the morning, but on the whole he expected no trouble. The fishermen reached the bay, as a rule, from the ocean itself, rather than from the high cliffs. There was little to bring anyone in that direction, except possibly someone of their neighbors from Steeple Rocks. His question to the man had been more to test his purposes, than for information, and Dalton was sorry that he had not mentioned the target practice which he had induced the girls to take up more as a safe means of defence than as a sport, though he had not told them that. But Dalton Secrest was of no timid sort. This was a new adventure and promised much. What it was to include he did not yet know. There were to be some moments not exactly "healthy," as the man had warned, though Dalton himself was not responsible for unraveling the mystery of Steeple Rocks. CHAPTER II PEGGY DESCENDS Elizabeth, Dalton and Leslie Secrest were intelligent young people of some culture and background, though that impression might not always be given when Dalton or Leslie fell into the modern school vernacular. Elizabeth, two years out of college, was more careful, inasmuch as she was teaching drawing and other lines of school art to children and was also the head of their little family. It had all happened very suddenly, the death of the parents and the plunge into partial self-support. Interest from the invested life insurance furnished part of their income, and what Elizabeth called her "munificent salary" the rest. Dalton earned enough outside of school hours to help considerably. Elizabeth had insisted that he must finish high school and now thought that he should take enough of their principal to see him through college. This was a subject of argument between them, for Dalton considered that out of the question. He had just been graduated from high school and had prevailed upon his sister to take the money for this adventure, particularly with the purpose of finding out how valuable the property was for a possible sale. Plans were all a little vague, but when the doctor ordered Beth somewhere for change and rest, Leslie and Dalton executed the whole affair, with Beth's advice and assistance. Enthusiasm had grown when they came upon a letter outlining their father's plans for building what he called the "Eyrie" and now that they were here, seeing upon the spot their few but beautiful acres, and the limitless sea by which they lay, values went up, mentally at least. Beth of the "burnished locks," was not beautiful, but her golden-brown hair crowned a delicate face with fairly regular features, steady blue eyes, dreamy when they had a chance to dream, and a sensitive mouth. She was slight and of medium height, twenty-three at her next birthday. Dalton, eighteen on the day of his graduation, was most fortunately a tall, strong lad, with a very practical turn. Vocational training had fostered this and young as he was, Dalton expected, with some help, to build a very respectable log cabin from the timber on the place. His last two vacations had been spent in helping a carpenter and small contractor. While his experience might not apply to handling logs, it would help. Leslie, like Dalton, was more of the brunette type, though not dark. Brown hair and lashes, grey eyes, good features with a pleasing mouth, laughing or firm as circumstances might demand, were her assets. She was taller at not quite sixteen than her older sister, and according to her own statement could not "draw a crooked line"; but she could play on ukelele or guitar as well as on the piano at home, and she and Sarita knew all the songs, old and new, that their generation afforded. Sarita, brown-haired, brown-eyed, demure, pretty, half a head shorter than Leslie and a few months younger, was the fortunate one of the party in having a father. An easy-going step-mother let Sarita do very much as she pleased, a delightful, though not altogether safe method of management. But Sarita's pleasures were always harmless ones and included those of her chum Leslie. Both girls were active, energetic and capable, with many an enthusiastic scheme or ambition originating in their fertile minds. Dalton sometimes called them the "self-starters." After a trip with Dalton to view the little lake and to help him bring water from the spring, the girls spent the morning of the second day in arranging their camp quarters. Elizabeth, when challenged to bring forth her curtains for their "dresser," surprised Leslie and Sarita by producing them, deep ruffles that had once graced some home-made dressing table. "They were in a trunk in the attic," Beth explained, "and I thought that we could use them here in the Eyrie, if it ever gets built." The cots, trunks and the beruffled box took up most of the room in the larger tent, but some perishable supplies were stored there; and Dalton set about making what the girls called a chicken coop, to keep their boxes of food stuffs from harm, all to be covered with a huge piece of waterproofing. While he was doing this, he had an opportunity to tell Leslie and Sarita about his inquisitive visitor of the evening before. He described the man and gave details of the conversation. "What do you suppose he meant, Dal?" asked Sarita in some excitement, her brown eyes growing larger. Leslie, too, was alert, scenting some secret. "Oh, I imagine that there is a bit of rum-running, perhaps," replied Dalton, driving another nail. "We'd probably better take his advice about minding our own business, though I will admit that it made me hot to have a chap like that laying down the law. I'll make a few inquiries among the fishermen. I've got to see about getting a boat, too. I wouldn't do this, but we have to make our stuff safe from rain or little foragers. What a waste of time it is to work here, Sarita." "Yes, it is. Poor you, Dal--let's not have an Eyrie." "Oh, I'll like building that, when I get at it. It isn't going to take so long, when the materials come and the man who is to help me comes with his helpers. I'm going through the woods some time to-day to mark the trees that I want." "Don't take the big lovely ones, Dal," said Leslie. "No, I'll not. I shall select the trees with less symmetrical limbs or placed where thinning out will be good." "Do you know all about old-fashioned 'log-raising,' Dal?" Sarita asked. "No, I don't know 'all' about anything, Sairey, but this man helps build the new-fangled log houses that they have in the north woods, so I have hopes. There! That's finished!" "Look, Dal," suddenly Leslie said in a low voice, and Dalton turned to see a gentleman riding among the trees and coming toward them. The little camp had been placed back a short distance in the grove, where a more open space occurred, with smaller trees and bushes. It had pleased Elizabeth here, though she said that she was being cut off from a view of the sea. But it was better so, more retired, and the smaller trees were, safer neighbors in a storm than the tall ones. Lovely ferns, vines entwining the trees, and wild flowers grew about them. Beth was in the tent, still straightening and unpacking but the three outside watched the pretty horse and its straight rider. The gentleman dismounted, fastened the horse to a tree, and walked toward them. "Good morning," he said, and the young people returned the greeting. Everything was in perfect taste about the riding costume, Leslie noticed. The gentleman rather nervously flexed a small whip in his gloved hands and looked sharply with keen black eyes from one to another, addressing Dalton in particular. "I am told that you have purchased this place and are about to build a house of some sort upon it." "Yes, sir. My father bought the ground something over two years ago." "Are you sure that the purchase was completed?" "Yes, sir. We hold the deed and I preserved the check that my father gave for the land, when we came across it in going through his papers." "Where is the deed?" The gentleman spoke a little abruptly, Leslie thought. Who in the world could he be? "The deed is in the bank at home, but I suppose if you want to assure yourself of our right here, you could consult the records here. I'm not sure just where the place is where the deed was recorded, but my sister will know. Leslie, please ask Beth to come." "That is not necessary," impatiently their caller said. "I am sorry to tell you, but I am quite sure that your title is not clear. I understood that this land belonged to me. It is certainly included in the description upon the deed that I hold." "It is very strange," said Dalton. "I think that you must be mistaken. When did you purchase the land to which you refer?" Leslie was proud of Dalton. He talked just like Father and was so dignified and nice without being "mad." The gentleman hesitated. "It is part of a tract which I acquired some time ago. If I were, you I would not go on building, for I should certainly not sell this land on the bay. It is too bad, but why can you not look up a camp at some other place upon the coast? I know of several excellent places to be purchased at a low price. Indeed, considering the matter from your standpoint, I might part with a strip of land some forty miles from here for merely a nominal price." The man was almost fascinating when he smiled in this persuasive way, Sarita was thinking, but why so suave and urgent? Dalton smiled. "If I have to prove that I own it, so do you," he said, "and I think that I will not consider anything else just now. Perhaps it would be just as well not to go on with the building, though I have already ordered some material. If this should prove to be your land, I will pay you for occupancy, but we'll just continue to camp here. My older sister is very tired after her teaching and likes this place. My father's plans were all made and we expect to carry them out in part. But we will not destroy anything, and I will not cut down the trees that I intended until we look into the matter at the courthouse." That this did not please the gentleman was quite evident. He frowned. "I should like you to leave at once," he said at last. "I do not intend to leave at once, sir," sharply said Dalton. "May I ask your name?" "Yes. I am the owner of Steeple Rocks and have my summer home there. I should advise you to leave. My name is Ives. I am wondering if you are yet of age. I understand that your father is not living?" "No, I am not of age, and it is true that my father is not living." "Who, then, is the executor of your estate?" "My sister is executrix, the older one. We have a friend, though, who is our lawyer whenever we need one. If necessary, I can write to consult him about this; but you can easily find out whether or not our deed is recorded." "That is not the question, young man. The question is whether the man of whom your father bought the land had any right to it. You will avoid trouble if you leave the place. My lawyer will look into the matter. A few days, of course, will make no difference. There is a truck on my place which I should be willing to lend you for the transfer." With a business-like air, Mr. Ives took a card from his pocket and wrote something upon it with a shining gold pencil. Dalton, Leslie and Sarita watched him with various expressions. Dalton's face was firm and sober. Leslie's eyes were contracted a little as if she were sizing up a suspicious character. Sarita wore a look of bright interest. This was an adventure. Handing the card to Dalton, Mr. Ives said, "That is the name of the little village where I can permit you to camp, or can offer you land with a clear title. One reason that we like this place is its comparative isolation and we want to keep our holding large and intact. But you would doubtless enjoy more companionship and that you will find in the other community. The homes are scattered, however, and the beach and views are beyond criticism. As I said, in view of your disappointment about this, I can afford to be generous." Dalton glanced at the address on Mr. Ives' personal and listened to what was said. "I see your point, Mr. Ives," he replied, "but none of us intend in any way to disturb the quiet of Steeple Rocks. We, too, like the wildness of the place, as well as the feeling that we are on land that our father admired. My sister is an artist and rocks and woods appeal to her. Thank you for the offer of the truck, but we'll not be moving till we find out definitely the facts in the case." "If you will call, I will give you such information as you want about my ownership," Mr. Ives said, in the tone of speaking to an obstinate boy. Quickly he turned away, and a silent group watched him until he disappeared among the trees. Then Sarita dropped to the ground and sat holding her knees. "Well, what do you think of that!" she cried, "Going to tell Beth, Dal?" "No; not a word, please, girls. Beth is too happy to have her fun spoiled and her sleep disturbed by a new problem." Dalton sat down on an old stump and Leslie dropped beside Sarita. "She got out her pencils and paints and things a little while ago," said Leslie, "and she was unpacking her easel when I left the tent. That accounts, perhaps for her not coming out. I wonder she didn't hear Mr. Ives. There she comes, now." "Let me handle it, please, Les," said her brother in a low voice. "Hello, Beth, getting ready to paint up the place?" "Yes, I'm taking my easel out on the rocks. I must get a sketch right away of the bay and Cathedral Rocks. I thought I heard another voice out here, but I was too lazy and busy with my traps to come out." "You don't want to see anybody, do you, Beth? Well, this was only the man that lives across the bay, or around the bay, as you like, the man of Steeple Rocks. I imagine that he wouldn't mind your sketching them. What do you think, girls?" Dalton's voice was so sarcastic that Beth laughed. "You didn't like him, that's certain. I'm glad that I didn't come out. He can't help my sketching his rocks, however. Oh, isn't it too glorious here! I thought that you were going to take a swim as soon as the tide was right." "The girls are, I guess, and I'm tempted, too; but Beth, I think that I'd be more sensible to hike out and see about our building affairs and one thing and another. I may get a horse in the village and ride to the station, too, to see about the other junk that's to come. You won't be afraid without me, will you, girls?" "No, indeed," Leslie declared. "Besides, Sarita and I are going to put up our target and practice a little. Bail us out if we get arrested for shooting, Dal. But if they hear it at the village at all, it may warn anybody of 'hostile intent.'" "I don't like to hear you speak in that way, Leslie," said Beth, with decision. "It is right for you to learn, I think, but use the greatest care, please. Load just before you try for the target and be sure that all your cartridges have been exploded. If you never get reckless or careless it is all right. You'd better fix your target in front of the rocks, too. Then there will be no possibility of someone's coming through the trees to get shot." "My, Beth, you think of everything don't you? We'll not do it at all, if it makes you nervous, and I promise you, up and down and 'cross my heart,' that no 'weepon' is going to be left loaded. In case of an attack by Indians, we shall have cartridges handy anyhow." "In case of a _large_ band of Indians," grinned Dalton, rising from the stump, "there are plenty of cartridges in my tent." "Just think," said Sarita, looking around at the spruces and ferns, "once there were Indians all over this place. I 'spect they liked it, too." "I 'spect they did," returned Dalton, "and I 'spect that they and the white men had a great time trying to drive each other off." With his back to Beth, Dalton winked at Leslie. "Girls," he added in a new tone, "whatever happens, I'm going to take one dip with you. Come on. Everybody into bathing suits!" Beth was already strolling toward her rocks, but one more unusual adventure was in store for the others. It was not quite as convenient as if their property sloped directly to the beach, but the trail was not long to a descent whose footing was not too impossible. Presently they were on their way, Dalton running ahead, with his bathrobe over his arm, the girls in their coats over their bathing suits, for the breeze was a little cool. Yet the sun was warm, and the lapping waves of a smooth sea invited them. "Dal says," Leslie was saying, "that he is going to find out where the deed is recorded and he may be able to get into touch with the man of whom Father bought the place. He doesn't know when he'll be back. Let's get Beth to bed early to-night. It will be easy, because she is ordered to do it, you know. Then she won't know if Dalton doesn't get back. Will you be afraid?" "Very likely, but it has to be done. Mr. Ives looked rich. Don't you suppose that he could even get the records fixed up if he wanted to?" "I don't know. I should imagine that we'd have some account of the recording, some receipt, or something. I don't know much about such things, but Dal will find out, and Beth, too, if we have to tell her. Oh, if Beth can have only a few weeks of rest, it will be enough! Mercy, what's that?" The girls looked back along the narrow, weed-grown trail. A loud clattering on the rocky way announced the coming of a horse at some speed. The girls drew off among some bushes. They were startled to see a great black horse dashing over the uneven ground and a frightened girl clinging to reins and saddle, with no control of the animal. A white face and tight-set lips flashed by, as the horse swerved suddenly, almost unseating its rider. Then it dashed on. "It shied at us," said Sarita. "Look. She's trying to shake loose from the stirrups--to jump, I suppose. My! There's that pretty nearly straight-up-and-down place just beyond where we go down to the beach!" Leslie set her teeth together and shivered. "Poor girl! But perhaps the horse won't fall. At that pace I'm afraid it will kill her to jump." Both girls started to run forward, as a turn in the cliff and the trail took the horse and its rider out of sight for a few moments, behind a clump of wind-blown pines and some bushes. But the girls hurried around to where they could see the road again, and they wondered where Dalton might be. "If Dal has gotten to the beach," said Leslie, "we'll have to call him to help, in case of a bad accident." "It is pretty level after that one place," Sarita answered, "and perhaps someone at the village will catch--" But they heard a frightened scream. Now they could see the scene clearly. What was the girl doing? And there stood Dalton at the side of the trail opposite the cliff's edge. His feet were apart, bracing his body, for his arms were outstretched to catch the girl. There went a flying, falling figure,--and Dalton, under the impact, fell too. What a crash among the bushes! CHAPTER III PEGGY IVES The running girls reached the scene just as Dalton and the girl who had jumped from the horse were picking themselves up and out of some blackberry bushes. Leslie was relieved to see that Dalton was disentangling himself with all his limbs in working order. "Oh! oh! Didn't I _kill_ you, falling on you that way? I ought to have known better, but you held up your hands, you know. Say, I could have chosen some bushes that weren't _blackberry_ bushes, though!" Somewhat hysterical Leslie thought the young lady, but when she knew her better, she found that this was Peggy Ives' usual style of conversation. "Just look a little farther on and you will see why any bushes would do," said Dalton, pulling a long blackberry branch from her dress and giving her his hand to help her up. "Say, you are all scratched up, too, and you even had the sense to throw your robe over the bush,--not that it did much good! I'm full of prickles, but I am certainly much obliged!" By this time the young girl was on her feet, looking questioningly at the girls who had stepped up closely. "Are you hurt, Dal?" Leslie inquired. "Not to amount to anything,--a few scratches." "And a bump or two," added the new acquaintance. "I caught you sideways," said Dalton, "and only eased your fall. Are you sure that you are whole?" "Oh, yes. I'm not feeling so good, but neither are you. My name is Peggy Ives." "Mine is Dalton Secrest and this is my sister Leslie." Leslie, rather ashamed of having asked after her brother's safety first, held out her hand to Peggy and asked if she could not help get out some of the prickles. Sarita was introduced while they drew out of the bushes and crossed the trail to the edge of the cliff, where there were rocks to make seats for them. Peggy limped a little and Leslie put an arm around her, finding Peggy a slim little thing, glad of someone to lean upon. Dalton still stood by the blackberry bushes, getting rid of briars, and wiping off the result of some scratches, with a handkerchief which he had found in his bathrobe pocket. "What became of my horse?" Peggy asked. "Did either of you see it?" "Yes," Sarita answered. "He ran on and fell, but he must have picked himself up, for I looked down the road a minute ago and he wasn't there." "I am going to 'catch it' at home. Oh, here they come!" They all looked up the road, in the direction of Steeple Rocks, to see Mr. Ives and a pleasant-looking youth of perhaps Dalton's age. Both were riding, their horses carefully held in to keep them from stumbling. "Did you get thrown, Peggy?" the boy asked, as Peggy rose and limped out toward them. "No. I jumped. That boy over there--" "Never mind, Peggy," said Mr. Ives impatiently. "Jack says that you bolted into the woods and left him. Where is your horse?" "I don't know. This girl says that she saw him roll down the hill, but he isn't there now. They were ever so kind to me--" Peggy seemed fated to be interrupted, for Mr. Ives again broke in upon her speech to direct the boy to give Peggy his horse and go down into the village to find the other. "If you can't find him, go to Bill's and get a horse to bring you home." Peggy was helped upon the other horse, after a vain effort to introduce Mr. Ives to the girls. Dalton had thrown his bathrobe around his shoulders and started for the beach as soon as he had seen the Ives delegation approaching. "I have met them, Peggy," Mr. Ives had said shortly. "You did not see me bow to them." "Neither did we," said Sarita, a moment after Peggy, looking back with a smile and wave, had ridden away. "Neither did we what?" asked Leslie. "See Mr. Ives bow to us." "Well, he gave us a look anyway, and maybe he did bow. I didn't think about it." "Scene number two in the Secrest-Ives meller-dramer!" Sarita went on. Leslie laughed. "What brilliant idea have you now, Sarita? What was scene number one? Mr. Ives' appearance?" "Yes. Villain appears, threatens hero. Scene two, villain's daughter rescued by the hero. Leading lady, star of the movies, yet to be discovered. Perhaps she is the villain's daughter." "She is a nice little thing, isn't she? I imagine that she is a little younger than we are, but it's hard to tell. She has a funny streak,--telling Dal that she could have chosen the bushes!" "I liked her, and Mr. Ives can be just as nice as pie, but he wants to get rid of us, that's clear, and he doesn't like it that Dal isn't more upset and scared about it." "Smart girl. That's what I think, too. But I wouldn't say that he is really a 'villain.' Perhaps he is right. Wouldn't it be _too_ bad if there was something crooked about the title and Father didn't know it! The only thing is, I can't imagine that Father would buy a piece of land without knowing all about it." "And your dad a lawyer, too!" "Exactly. But look at Dal, going in anyhow! The salt water will nearly kill him with those scratches!" They did not stay in the water long on this first occasion, but they all found it invigorating and Dalton insisted that after the first he did not notice the scratches. "I'm hurrying off now," he said, after they came out of the water. "I'll probably have to get the name of the man Father bought the place of from the deed. I wish we'd brought our deed with us. Perhaps Beth will remember it, and I can ask her casually, 'by the way, Beth, do you remember,' and so forth?" "I'll ask her, and tell you. You'll not be dressed before we get there." "No. Take your time. Don't hurry Sarita up the cliff and maybe have some accident yourself. Turned out to be Ives' daughter?" "Yes, I suppose so, by the way he bossed her, and her name is Peggy Ives. Didn't you kind of like her?" "A smart little thing. She screamed just before she jumped; but she was plucky about her bruises. I shouldn't be surprised but she sprained her ankle. Get acquainted, girls. Perhaps the stern parent will relent toward us." "I think I see ourselves calling at Steeple Rocks! You'd better go. _You_ have been invited, you know." Dalton laughed and ran on, his bathrobe flapping about his ankles. But like Peggy, Dalton was not feeling "so good." He had fairly thought at the impact that his shoulder was broken or dislocated. Then he found, as they picked themselves out of the blackberry briars, that it was not. The cold sea water felt good to it and he gave himself a vigorous rubbing both in and out of the water, not trying to swim out far from shore, a sensible plan in any event, since they did not know the coast here. Now his shoulder ached. When Leslie came into the little camp, shortly after his own arrival, he called to her. "Any of that liniment, Les, that I use?" "Yes, Dal. Do you suppose that Beth would go anywhere with you along and no liniment?" Dalton heard Sarita laugh at this. "I didn't know, Leslie," Dalton returned. "I didn't expect to play football up here, you know. Please hunt me up the bottle,--that's a good girl!" Leslie made no reply, for she was already hunting the liniment. Handing it in through the flap of the tent, she said, "Let me rub your shoulder for you, Dal." "Thanks. I'll do it this time, but it knocks out my going anywhere with my good clothes on. Did you ever see such luck!" "Don't worry, Dal. If Mr. Ives really is going to do anything mean, all he would have to do would be to telephone somebody to fix it up and that would get ahead of you anyhow. It is too late to go to-day, seems to me. Get up early to-morrow morning and start." "Perhaps I will, but I'll go to the village and get some means of transportation arranged for." Shortly Dalton was out, arrayed in his camp outfit, an old shirt and a sweater covering the aching shoulder. But he looked more dogged than happy as he started down the trail again, and Sarita remarked to Leslie that Dalton was blue. "I believe that he is more worried over what Mr. Ives said to us than he will say. But I'm not going to worry. Whatever is right will be found out, I hope, and anyhow we are in this lovely country. It wouldn't cost much to put our things in a truck and go somewhere else, but not on any old land of Mr. Ives'! We could rent a spot near here. But what I'm wondering about is if he has any reason why he wouldn't want us to stay around. There are other tourists, though, in cottages." "But none so near Steeple Rocks, Leslie, or on the bay. Maybe he just wants what he thinks is his own land." "Or _wants_ to think it." As so often it happens, the day had turned out entirely different from their plans. Instead of target practice the girls chose other pursuits. Elizabeth was absorbed in her first successful sketches. Dalton brought back from the village some fine fish and reported that he had found out how to get to the county seat, where the deed would be recorded. He had found someone at the village who would drive him there. Elizabeth was not admitted to this news, but after their delicious supper, she officiated as chief nurse in making Dalton comfortable. The other girls had given her the details of the accident. "It will do no harm to wait a little in seeing about your building, Dalton," consolingly said Beth, gently rubbing in the liniment. "By morning, though, this will feel better, I am sure." "Gee, your hands are soft, Beth. You are as good as Mother used to be!" "That is about the nicest thing you could say to me, Dal," returned his sister. "I've been a poor substitute, but I have wanted to take her place a little." "You are all right, Beth," said Dalton, with boyish embarrassment over sentiment expressed. "You've had to do Father's job too. _Boy_, that feels the best yet! Do you know what I'm going to do, Beth?" "I am no mind-reader, Dal." "Well, I've decided to put off building or even cutting the trees for a week or two. I'll fish and poke around in a boat, seeing the place. You and the girls will want to come along sometimes, too. We'll go out and get you fine views of the shore and beach and all the rocks you want to sketch. And the next fish we eat may be what we have caught. How do you like lobster and shrimps, Beth?" "I am perishing for some!" "Here's the boy that will get them for you!" Thus Elizabeth accepted the change of plan without being troubled by a knowledge of the cause. CHAPTER IV "SNOOPERS" The camping adventure developed rapidly and more pleasantly during the next few days. Elizabeth was enthusiastic, sleeping soundly, taking a daily dip or two with the other girls and adding to the really good sketches which she was making either in the woods or on the cliffs and shore. Dalton returned from his trip to the county seat with the news for Leslie and Sarita that the deed had been properly recorded. Someone at the courthouse had asked Dalton, in connection with some inquiry of his, whether he had an abstract of title or not. This Dalton did not know and he promptly wrote to their lawyer friend to inquire. "If we have, Leslie, I'd like to see Mr. Ives get around that." "Perhaps he just wanted to frighten us and get us away. Could he be connected with rum-running, do you suppose?" "Men apparently as honest as he _are_," Dalton replied, "but unless it is on a large scale, I scarcely think so. I've put it up to Jim Lyon, anyway. I wouldn't be surprised if he took a vacation and came on. I offered him a bunk with me,--you wouldn't mind, would you, Les?" "It wouldn't do, especially as he likes Beth; but there would be some place that he could stay, or he could have a camp of his own." "He could bring his sister and the kiddies, too," Sarita suggested. "Of course! There is a lovely place for a camp right on our little lake. It would have been much more convenient for us, too, only we wanted to be nearer the ocean. Write again and suggest it, Dal. Mrs. Marsh looked sort of wistful when we were talking about going and wished that they could afford a trip. If Mr. Marsh can't get away, why couldn't they put the youngsters in the old Ford and drive through?" "Write and suggest it, Leslie. Jim has a key to our deposit box, and I imagine that if we have an 'abstract' or a 'guarantee of title' it's in there. I don't remember; but there were a lot of papers and things that I never looked at. Now I'm going to have a good time fishing. I found out who sold the place to Father, and I've written to him,--so let nature take its course while we camp. I met a chap on the train that has a motor boat, a regular little yacht, he says, and he has invited me to go out with him. Then I'm getting a little boat of our own _with an engine in it_, Les, and it is big enough to sail the briny all right, except in a storm, perhaps." This was a great surprise to Leslie and Sarita, who greeted the news with enthusiasm, though Leslie remarked that she did not suppose he ought to have taken the money. "Well, Leslie, it is my money, and I got this at a wonderful bargain,--you will be surprised. It belongs to a man at the county seat and he is starting to leave the state altogether, after being accustomed to spend the summers here, you know. He almost gave the little boat away. I took a big chance, of course, for I haven't seen it, but he said that if it wasn't what he said it was, I needn't finish paying for it. He took a chance on me, too, for I only gave him a small payment. But I'll send him a check as soon as I see it. It's in a boat house at the village." The girls could scarcely realize their good fortune, but Dalton rather dreaded telling Elizabeth. He spent some little time thinking how to approach the subject diplomatically and then gave it up when the time came. Elizabeth did look sober and warned Dalton that he was using money which should be saved for his further education; but she, too, was pleased with the thought of the trips that they would take together. Was the outdoor life making her think less of the "welfare of the children?" The boat was in fairly good condition, Dalton found, though he had it carefully gone over, helping in this himself. At odd times, he and Leslie began to make a way down to the bay from the rocks, to a place which Dalton thought would be suitable for the boat. Nature had provided most of the steps, but there was one stretch where it was necessary to assist nature and make a safer footing. Then a rope, fastened above and below, would give confidence, for a fall would not be pleasant if it ended on the rocks on the edge, or in the water. On a ledge above the water, one then walked to a small cove. There, at the most protected part of the bay, where the higher part of the cliff began to start out into the curving point or arm which formed a real breakwater, the new boat should lie. But Dalton spent only a part of his time on these preparations. In a rented boat he and the girls rowed out on the bay and examined its every cove. "Snoopers," Sarita said they were, and Leslie remarked that so far their observations _had_ been "healthy" for them, which reference Elizabeth did not understand. But then she did not always understand the jokes of the younger girls. She had her own thoughts and dreams and seldom inquired about apparently trivial matters. Several times when they were on the bay they saw the rough man of Dalton's first acquaintance. But he paid no attention to them and gave Dalton no opportunity to nod or speak, if he had wanted to do so. Bay and sea were often dotted with fishing boats that either remained or went out to a greater distance or to other points along the coast. The girls began to talk learnedly about codfish and mackerel, lobster, haddock and halibut. They did not tire of the sea food and Elizabeth came back to earth enough to discover how to cook most effectively the fish which Dalton, Leslie and Sarita caught. At last the day came when the new boat was ready. Launched at the village, it contained its young owner at the wheel and a boy of about Dalton's age, who was fussing about the engine to see that it was working properly. Leslie and Sarita were in the bow, uttering mild squeals of delight at the way the little vessel cut the water, as they went some distance out into the ocean, preparatory to entering the broad mouth of the bay. When they were ready to turn and enter the bay, the young mechanic, Tom Carey by name, took the wheel and showed Dalton what part of the bay to avoid, though the entrance was large enough and without any rocks in its deep waters. "But keep away from the little bay or cove under Steeple Rocks," said Tom. "The buoys, of course, warn you." "It is safe enough with a flat boat, isn't it?" Dalton inquired. "I came very near rowing in there the other day, but there was that buoy with 'Danger' on it and I put off my going till I should ask what is the matter." "Matter enough. I suppose that it is years since anyone has tried to go into the bay from this side. Around the other side of the headland, though, there are the boats that belong to the Ives' place and they get out into the bay here by that rocky channel you see. It's wide enough, and luckily there is that sort of a long bar of broken rocks that separates their dock from Pirates' Cove. That is what the smaller bay is called. There is a terrible current or undertow, they say, and the last person that ever went in over there never came back. Folks saw the boat drift in under the rocks and not a scrap of the boat was ever seen again, and the man seemed to be knocked over by the rocks. Nobody ever saw him again, either. He was some sort of a foreigner. It's funny how many foreigners we get here." "Where do they come from?" asked Leslie, who had come to watch the proceedings when the bay was entered. "I guess that some of them come over from Canada," replied Tom. "They don't stay very long, as a rule, though there is one family of Russians that has been here for several years. They seem to have a lot of relatives that visit them, especially in the summer. Bill Ritter, too, always has a lot working for him that can't speak good English or don't speak English at all. They may come from the fisheries down the coast. Bill's Swiss, they say." "What does he do?" idly asked Leslie, watching the waves. "He fishes; and I think that he supplies the Steeple Rocks folks with fish and lobster. He's always going there. You've probably seen him. There he is now in a rowboat." Dalton looked in the direction to which Tom nodded and saw the darkly red, sunburned features of the man who had spoken to him in his own woods. "Yes, I've seen him before. And that is the boat from which somebody waved to me, when I was over by Pirates' Cove. It was probably Bill that pointed out the buoy with the danger sign. When he saw me row to it and read it, he rowed away. He must have been rowing towards me before. I'm much obliged to Bill. Look at him, Leslie. That is the man I was telling you about." Leslie, with a quick, understanding look at her brother, gazed in the direction of the rowboat to which they were now nearer. But its occupant, after a glance in their direction, rowed farther away and seemed to be making preparations to cast his line. Sarita now came from where she had been leaning over to look at the depths and asked what Tom thought of Dalton's boat and its engine. "They're all right. That engine is almost new. Keep her oiled and you can go to Europe with her." "We'll go to Europe in a larger boat, I think," laughed Leslie. "Honestly, though, could we put out to sea in this boat?" "It would be less rough out farther than here about the coast and these rocks, except inside the bay, of course. But I wouldn't advise you to get out there in stormy weather. You are going to keep your launch inside the bay, aren't you?" "Yes, just as soon as we get the place fixed for it. Dal wants you to see the place, don't you Dal?" "Yes. I can't imagine the boat's getting beaten on the rocks badly there, even in a gale; but I want you to look at the cove and see what you think." Leslie thought that gales seemed almost impossible on a day like that. The sky was serene, with gently floating masses of white clouds against the blue. The sea was almost calm, except where a line of breakers came in close to the shore. In the bay there were only ripples, with the salt water gently bathing the rocks of the cliffs and washing them with a light spray. "Cathedral Rocks" towered at the northern end of the bay and their own smaller cliff made a low headland at its southern side. As they carefully approached the lower end, they could see Elizabeth up on the rocks with her big umbrella and her easel. She was too deeply engaged to see them at first, but when she heard their hail, she came to look over and wave joyfully. CHAPTER V PEGGY SAYS "THANK YOU" This was only the beginning of trips. Leslie, Sarita, Dalton, and very often Elizabeth, went about bay and sea in the new launch, which Leslie named at once the "Sea Crest Yacht," only a variation of their own name, she said. Sarita thought it delightful that their name was so appropriate to these circumstances and declared that their prospective cabin ought to be called Sea Crest instead of the Eyrie. But Leslie reminded her that their father had suggested an "Eyrie." "We'll have an 'eagles' nest' on the rocks, perhaps, unless it does seem very much better to build in the woods," said Dalton bareheaded, keeping the wheel steady as the little yacht cut the waves. "Perhaps Dalton would prefer some other name for his boat, Leslie," suggested Elizabeth, by way of reminding her sister not to be too possessive. "He told me that I might name it," Leslie replied, "didn't you, Dal?" Dalton nodded. "It's the Secrest yacht," said he. "I like Leslie's idea. I'm teaching her to be at the wheel, Beth, and all about the engine, too. I hope that you have no objections." "It will probably be too late if I have, but do use judgment, children!" "We will, dear old emergency brake!" "Poor old Beth! She didn't want to be so grown up and careful, but had to be!" As she spoke, Leslie put her arm around Elizabeth, who was standing beside her. "I'm letting you all share the responsibility now," laughed Elizabeth. "I hope that I'll not regret it!" "If we get reckless, Beth, we've learned that we have to take the consequences," Sarita inserted. "Yes, but we don't _like_ consequences, Sarita." "Hear, hear!" came from Dalton, "but Les can run the launch if she keeps away from the rocks. Luckily the entrance to the bay is broad enough, and the bay itself is remarkably free from rocks that we can't see. Tom has given me full instructions, and he even drew a little chart for me." In two weeks time the "yacht" and a newly painted rowboat were safely tied or anchored within the little cove below the Eyrie, as they had decided to call their rocks, whether a cabin or lookout were ever built there or not. It was Dalton who suggested a "lookout," a small shelter among the rocks, where Elizabeth could paint, and from which all of them could watch the changing sea, or be protected from a storm. As Dalton told Leslie and Sarita, perhaps it was a good thing that they were hindered in their first plans and work. "We'll have a much better idea of what we want to do, for being around the place a while." Although Dalton occasionally felt uneasy about matters, his materials had not arrived for the cabin, and the man whom he had expected to help him was delayed with other work. They heard nothing from the young lawyer at home about an abstract of title. Indeed, he had not replied to their letter at all, which seemed strange, considering his previous devotion to Elizabeth. Mr. Ives had not appeared again, nor had they seen anything of Peggy. She, very likely, was more hurt with her fall than she had been willing to admit. Dalton wrote another letter to the lawyer and after learning that one of Bill's sons had charge of the little village post office, he hired a horse and rode himself to the town at the railroad station, to see it safely on its way. Just why he should be so suspicious of Mr. Ives, he did not quite know, but it was instinctive. Fishing trips in the rowboat were successful. They were managing to have good meals at slight expense. It was the other part of their undertaking that took the money, Dalton's boat and the prospective building. But they had no regrets. There would be enough to do it and Dalton told Beth that with her attaining fame from some picture of Steeple Rocks, and his learning to fish and handle a boat, they would be "fixed for life." It was a great adventure and the lure of Pirates' Cove brought much speculation to Leslie and Sarita. "What would it be called Pirates' Cove for," asked Leslie, "if no pirates ever went there? It isn't any worse with rocks than lots of other places around here where we go, and I think that the story of a whirlpool or current is all nonsense!" "That's all right, Les," said Dalton, who was standing by her on the Sea Crest at the time when she made this remark. "Watch your wheel, Sis. There. Turn it that way just a little now. Good girl. But all the same, you keep out of Pirates' Cove, Leslie. So far as the name is concerned, there are plenty of Pirates' Coves on this coast. I've no doubt. It's a good name for any rather mysterious place." "Yes, it is," said Sarita, who was waiting her turn at the wheel, "but that is it. When we _have_ a Pirates' Cove right at our door, so to speak, why not get some good of it?" Dalton laughed at this and said that they would row around into the Ives' territory "one of these days. We can see all the rocks closer there." "Not I," firmly said Leslie, not knowing that she would be the first one to go. "It might remind Mr. Ives of our existence, if he should see us. Let's let well enough alone, folks. When we hear that we have an abstract of title and everything, you can go over to Steeple Rocks, Dal, and tell him so." "I'll begin to cut down a few trees, then," said Dalton, with a grin. "That will bring _him_ over fast enough." But their freedom from Mr. Ives was due to another cause, as they found out at once; for when they came back from this trip, they found Peggy Ives at the camp, in animated conversation with Beth. Beth was showing Peggy their camp and she was admiring the convenience of their "bungalow tent," when Leslie and Sarita appeared in the door. "Oh, here is our circus lady," cried Sarita before she thought. She and Leslie had so dubbed Peggy, but they had not intended to announce it. Peggy's eyes smiled at Sarita, however, as she turned from an examination of the ruffled dressing table. "Is _that_ what you call me! I _was_ quite a performer, wasn't I? I just came over to tell you how much obliged I am that your brother made me jump before I got to that awful place further on. I came to say 'thank you' to him, and then I want you all to come over to Steeple Rocks to have dinner with us." "Thank you, Miss Peggy," Elizabeth said at once. "I scarcely think that we can do that. You see, we have chiefly camping clothes, and we are not ready for dinner at a home like yours." "Oh, we don't always dress for dinner. Mother lets me come in to the table in my sport things. She wants to see you. Father had to go away on business the very next day after I fell, and we haven't seen a thing of him since. I would have been over before, but I did give my ankle a terrible wrench and then I was sick a little, too. Mother said it was 'shock,' but my nerves are all right!" "I'd think that the scare you had would do something to them," Sarita remarked. "It is ever so good of you to ask us over," Leslie added, glad that Elizabeth had started the "regrets," "but Beth is right about our clothes, Peggy. _You'd_ better visit _us_ here. We'll have a beach party and chowder. Wouldn't that be fun?" "Yes, it would. I'd like to; but still, we want to have you come to Steeple Rocks, too. Where are the clothes you traveled in? You will like my mother. She is nicer than my father, and I am _very sure_ that she will be disappointed if you can not come. She told me to bring you to-day if you would, and if you had something else that you were doing to-day, you could come to-morrow. Then she didn't know whether you had a car, or horses, or anything, if you thought it too far to walk. It's terribly rough for a car, of course." They were outside, now, sitting upon the various seats that Dalton had provided, from stones, or logs found in the woods. "No, we haven't any car or any horses, but it is not too far for us to walk," gently said Elizabeth. "I still think, though, that, as Leslie says, it would be better for you to visit us here. Stay to supper with us. Dal is fishing now. Sometimes he gets a big fellow that we can scarcely eat up." "I wouldn't dare stay this time, thank you. Mother would think that I'd had another accident. Besides, the boy that you saw the other day is with me. He stopped back in the woods on the way over from the road. I'd _love_ to stay, though." Peggy looked as if she were almost ready to yield, in spite of better judgment. "We'll hurry up the meal," Leslie suggested. "There comes Dal now. Go and ask your friend to come too. It doesn't take any time to cook fish on our portable stove, and it will be such fun to have you." "I'd love to see how you do it! Well, I'll go and call Jack and see what he says." Dalton reached the tent just as the "circus lady" was disappearing into the woods. "'How now, Malvolio?'" he inquired facetiously. "More communications from the Ives?" "Peggy came to say 'thank you,' Dal," Beth replied. "She is a dear little girl,--though for that matter, I imagine that she is only a year or so younger than Leslie and Sarita." "She just told me that she is fourteen," said Leslie, who had walked a little distance with Peggy. "She did it in such a funny way, saying that perhaps we thought her too young to 'play with us,' but she _would_ like to know us. Imagine, Dal." Leslie looked at her brother with a funny smile that Elizabeth, naturally did not understand. "Why is that strange?" she asked. "I know that Dal does not like Mr. Ives, from something he said; but why shouldn't he like Peggy?" "There isn't any reason at all," Dalton answered. "She did give me a lame shoulder and a few bruises and scratches on our first acquaintance, to be sure, but that was nothing." "This sounds as if your meeting Peggy were in a fight. Dal," Sarita said, "but hurry up with that fish. Leslie and I will help you clean it, while Beth gets the things ready to cook it." Thus it happened that neither Leslie nor Sarita could offer a fishy hand to Jack Morgan, who came hurrying into camp with Peggy, his blue eyes smiling and his frank face interested, as they could clearly see. He acknowledged the introductions with the manner of a boy used to meeting people, and laughed when Leslie and Sarita displayed their hands, cleaning fish with Dalton over some paper which could be gathered up and burned later. "I hated to be hurried away that day when Peggy scared the Ives family nearly to death, but her father and I did not know but she might be seriously hurt after all; and after being shaken up by the ride home, she was glad enough to be taken care of in a hurry, weren't you, Peggy?" "M'm-h'm," nodded Peggy, watching operations with the fish. "If Dad hadn't been so cross over nothing, I wouldn't have minded so much." "He was worried, Peggy," said Jack. Leslie thought it good of him to make excuses for his handsome but irritable host. At once they all liked Jack Morgan. He turned out to be a cousin of Peggy's, whom Mrs. Ives had invited for the summer at Steeple Rocks. Peggy privately informed Leslie that Jack was worth a dozen of their other guests, most of them friends of her father's, she said. But almost everyone was grown up, she said, and Peggy had no chums of her own. Sarita and Leslie forthwith invited her to make chums of them, and they were not a little touched at the eagerness with which Peggy accepted the offer. The little hurriedly-prepared supper broke any remaining ice. When Jack finally rode off with Peggy, both insisted that there must be a beach party at Steeple Rocks very soon, to which all the camping party would come. Beth thought that it would be very pleasant and accepted for the family, which was just as well; but she did not notice that while the rest commented on the kindness of the invitation, none of them committed themselves about coming. "We did that very well, Dal," Sarita remarked afterwards. "They know that we'd love to come, but if Mr. Ives appears and says anything, they may remember that Beth was the only one who said anything definite about accepting, and even she said 'if we can.' I am pretty sure that they are all regular summer folks with money and clothes and style." "It does not sound very well to hear Peggy criticise her father," Dalton suggested, to the girls' surprise. They had seen Peggy go up purposely but shyly to Dalton after supper, to say her "thank you," they supposed, and they had noticed Dalton's friendly response. "I thought of it, too," said Leslie, "and I am sure that Beth did; but at that, Peggy Ives may have reason to dread her father, even though she should not speak so before strangers. I don't trust him." Yet it was Leslie, on the very next day, when she was at the beach, alone, who accepted an invitation to enter the Ives' launch. She was the first one of the Secrest party to land at Steeple Rocks. CHAPTER VI A "CLOSE-UP" VIEW Dalton had gone to the town on the railroad, where he had arranged to have his mail sent for a while, writing to the lawyer again and telling him to direct important letters to the general delivery there for the present. Sarita had a headache and was lying down for the afternoon, looked in upon occasionally by Elizabeth, who was at her usual occupation of sketching or painting. Beth ascribed Sarita's headache to some cheap candy which the girls had bought at the village and was hoping that a little soreness about Sarita's throat would not amount to anything. Leslie, who had been in the ocean earlier in the day with Elizabeth, was a bit of bright color on the beach in a red frock and sweater to match. She was easily seen from the launch, where figures waved at her and pointed toward the dock, a small one at the end of the town nearest the Secrest headland, as Peggy had begun to call it. They were beckoning her to come, Leslie saw; and making a pile of her shells, for gathering them was her latest occupation, she ran toward the little dock. There, before she arrived the pretty launch was bobbing up and down inside the breakwater. "Come on for a cruise, Leslie!" called Peggy. "It's grand this afternoon. We'll bring you back in time for anything." Jack was out on the rough boards to help Leslie inside of the launch. It was really not necessary to accept or refuse, only to climb in. A large, dark woman looked critically at Leslie and Leslie found no sympathy in her eyes when, after she was seated, she met her glance. "Madame Kravetz, this is Leslie Secrest. Madame teaches me, Leslie. Where is Sarita?" "She has a headache and Beth is hoping that it doesn't mean tonsilitis. Sarita wore a thin dress and forgot her sweater when we went out last night, but Beth is dosing her and perhaps it will not amount to anything." Leslie was wondering a little about Peggy's governess. She did not look French, and her name was certainly not French. She might be one of those Swiss who are part French and part German. Leslie did not like her expression. Jack was running the launch. Out to sea they started; then, after a time, they made for the bay, which was better for launches than the sea, which was growing rough. For a while they cruised around among the fishing boats and a few pretty sail-boats until Peggy directed Jack to head for Steeple Rocks. "Take Leslie through the channel, Jack, and show her our little harbor in our own bay." Madam Kravetz started to say something, but closed her thin lips rather tightly instead. Leslie thought that she had been about to make an objection, but she was having too good a time to think much about their chaperon. The channel was interesting. Jack was careful between rocks at the entrance, but the distance widened as they proceeded. At their right a narrow islet with high rocks kept the force of the ocean from the channel and other rocks made a breakwater for the Ives' harbor, "Ives Bay." "People are often afraid when we take them through the channel for the first time," said Peggy, "especially if they have heard the stories about Pirates' Cove. But we tell them that the channel is deep and safe even for a boat of fair size, if they veer away a little from the rocks on the Cove side." Peggy nodded toward the rocks at their left over which tossing waters left their spray. "Dad showed Jack where to go and where not to go," she added. "I just _love_ Steeple Rocks, Leslie, and I wish that you would come here a lot." Leslie saw that Madame Kravetz looked annoyed. She almost turned her back upon the girls and looked out over the boat's edge with a frown. "These are Beth's 'Cathedral Rocks,'" Leslie replied to Peggy. "She loves them, more than any of us. Beth is an artist, you know. But we all love to look at them and I like any rock on the coast. They beat sand for beauty any day, though I will say that for bathing, you may give me a sandy beach." Little waves lapped the shore near the dock where Jack skilfully brought their boat. Leslie felt thrilled, as she confided to Sarita later, to see a pretty sailboat tied there, together with other boats of various sorts. Dear me, they could have everything they wanted, she supposed. In response to Leslie's exclamation over the number of boats, Peggy said that her father had a large yacht, too, that had to be docked in the other bay. "We wondered if that larger dock were not yours," said Leslie. "I think that you are a very lucky girl, Peggy, to have so much fun." "But after all, Leslie, it's _people_ that make fun and good times, not _things_, or even places, though I like to cruise." Peggy frowned and looked thoughtful, while Leslie wondered again. But now Jack was offering to help the ladies out of the boat "What are you going to do now?" asked Madame Kravetz. "Oh, I want to show Leslie all over Steeple Rocks. Jack and I have been intending to explore them more ourselves, but we haven't had time, with all the company we have had." "No,--and you haven't time now," coldly said Peggy's governess. "Your mother will expect to meet your friend, since you have brought her here; and then it will be necessary to see her home before long, if her sister does not worry about what has become of her." "Oh, you always think up such horrid things, Madame K," rather pettishly Peggy said. "All right, though, for I want Mother to see Leslie." It was quite a climb to reach the top of the headland and then, indeed, they were only at the beginning of the higher mass known as Steeple Rocks. But good steps had been made, with a strong railing, that made the ascent easy to the young people. Madame Kravetz, also, climbed easily. When they reached the top of the steps, they walked from the upper platform to a rocky expanse which was evidently the rear of the Steeple Rocks garden, for presently they came among little trees, planted with decorative intent, and Leslie found herself within a formal garden. Flowers were blossoming and Leslie would have liked to linger, had not Peggy hurried her on to show her the house, an immense affair, of how many rooms Leslie could only guess. There were gables and ells and corners and masses of stone. There were chimneys and bay windows and balconies. From the rear they went around to the front, past a porte-cochere, where a big car was standing. The entrance was particularly beautiful, Leslie thought, with wide steps and pillars. Great flags of stone made the porch floor. Light wicker chairs stood about and a long wicker couch was piled with pretty cushions in gay colors. "And they don't want _us_ to have even a log cabin!" Leslie thought, in a moment of resentment. But no one could be resentful with Peggy, who was the most hospitable creature imaginable. Jack, too, felt the responsibility of making Leslie have a good time. Peggy took Leslie to her own pretty room first, where both girls made themselves a little more presentable. Leslie was glad that her dress and sweater were respectable, since she was to meet Mrs. Ives. Gathering shells on the beach had not improved the appearance of her hands, which were now washed with Peggy's pet soap, fragrant and soothing. Then they joined Jack on the porch again, to find him at a little table behind tall glasses of delicious lemonade and a dish of cakes. This was almost better than camping! But never mind. The Secrests, too, would have a house one of these days! Through the trees they could see a tennis court where active figures were playing and other people were about. White, red, blue, orange, all sorts of colors, had a share in the sport costumes. "It's doubles," said Peggy. "There, it's over. Now they will be coming in, I think." In a few minutes small groups, perhaps a dozen people in all, sauntered toward the house, Mrs. Ives hurrying on before the rest. "That's Mother in the white," said Peggy, going to the steps to stop her. "Oh, Mother, stop a minute, won't you? Leslie's here." Mrs. Ives halted and turned toward Leslie and Jack. "Yes, Peggy, if Jack will order some lemonade and cakes for us all. That is what I was hurrying for. So this is Leslie?" She cordially extended a hand to Leslie, who rose and stepped forward to greet her, rather surprised to find her so young, in appearance, at least, with her bobbed hair and youthful dress. Referring to their kindness to Peggy, Mrs. Ives renewed her invitation. But Leslie saw that her hostess was not speaking very seriously. "Thank you, Mrs. Ives," she said. "We were glad to be invited, but there have been things to hinder us (indeed there had), and then, we are scarcely prepared to mingle with your guests. We came to camp, you know." "That will make no difference," cordially said Mrs. Ives, "but perhaps you will best enjoy the beach party that Peggy is planning. Peggy, you arrange it and have what you want. Excuse me, Miss Leslie, I must go on." Although Leslie felt that Mrs. Ives pleasant cordiality was not assumed, she saw that her mind was wandering toward her older guests during the time of their brief conversation. One of the ladies was waiting for her and both went into the large room which Leslie had noticed as she passed in the hall. Sounds of music presently reached them. "Now that's over," coolly Peggy remarked, "and we've gotten rid of Madame. Jack, I want to take Leslie to my room and talk with her a little bit. Will you be ready to take her back in the launch when we come down?" "I surely will, but you'd better make it snappy if you don't want to have Miss Beth worrying over what has become of her wandering sister." Leslie looked at her watch. There was time for a little visit only. She followed Peggy back into the attractive room with its comfortable, summer fittings. So near the sea, the house was suitably screened from the strong winds by the pile of headland rocks with their two towers. Peggy, however, considered this a decided drawback, since there was no good view of the sea from any of the windows. "But Dad said that I would be glad sometimes not to be blown away or think that I was going to sail off with the house! He wanted it close up against the rocks, and you can see for yourself that part of the house fairly joins them. Dad has his office there and his own little library. He's a shivery sort of man, anyhow, used to Florida in the winters, you know." "How would I know, sweet Peggy?" "Probably you wouldn't," laughed Peggy. "That is what my own father used to call me, 'sweet Peggy,' after the old song." "Oh, then, Mr. Ives is really not your father," said the surprised Leslie. But that accounted for some of Peggy's rather disrespectful speeches. "No, and I ought to be ashamed of myself for not liking him better. I can have anything I want and he doesn't care. O Leslie, I wish that you would let me talk to you about things sometimes! You are all so happy, and we aren't, very, here. I don't know just what is the matter, either!" "Why, of course you may talk to me, Peggy! It seems to me that you might be happy enough, a nice, pretty girl with everything to make you happy. Why, child, we've had real trouble,--well, I suppose that you have been through that, too, losing your father." "Yes, though I was pretty small, then. Haven't you very much to live on, either?" Peggy was quite frank in her question, but Leslie, to whom having money or not having it was only an agreeable or disagreeable incident, did not mind. "Not so very much, Peggy," she answered, "but enough to get along and more than some people. Then we are always expecting to do and be something wonderful, you see!" Leslie was laughing a little, but Peggy understood. "Perhaps that's it," Peggy said. "Nobody here wants to do anything but have a good time. If I had been allowed to have one of my girl friends here this summer, I suppose I would have been satisfied. But when Mother invited Jack, even, Dad made a terrible to-do about it and almost said that he should not come; but he had already been invited. Dad said that he did not want any 'curious boys' around. Leslie, there is something funny going on and I wish I could find out what it is. I'm pretty sure that Mother doesn't know either, and she worries. She has been worried ever since that old foreigner came to be a sort of secretary or something to Dad. He manages his business, Dad says sometimes. He's a Count. Madame Kravetz belongs to the nobility, too." "From what country?" asked Leslie, interested. "Russia, I think, though she claims to be French. Old Count Herschfeld is supposed to be Austrian. You'll see him sometime. He has fishy eyes and is very straight and tall and pale, and has a slit for a mouth, and walks like a soldier. Probably he was some sort of a general in the war." "If I were you, Peggy, I wouldn't worry over anything that you can't help. You will be able to enjoy this wonderful place. It must be great to be in Florida for the winters, too." "I suppose it is. I never thought about it. Mother married Dad when I was about six years old. He was nicer then than he is now. We travel so much that I have a teacher with me all the time. But I heard Mother talking to Dad about _not_ putting me in school, so I suppose that boarding school will be the next thing for me." "Do you like your governess?" "I do _not_. To myself I call her 'Crabby.' Kravetz, Kravy, Crabby, you see. Sometime I will forget before company!" "Better not," smiled Leslie. "But if they let you, suppose you stay around with us a good deal this summer. You and Sarita and I will be a sort of--'triumvirate,' you know. Dal will be terribly busy pretty soon, building our log cabin, and we'll have to run our launch half the time without him, and fish in the small boat, too. He is taking most of his fun now, he says, though, of course, he will like to build the house, too. He is crazy about the woods and about making things and having a house of our own. We sold our house when Elizabeth got a place to teach in a bigger town only a few miles away." "I wish Elizabeth taught me," said Peggy. "I could learn more if I liked the teacher and was sure that what she said was true." Leslie was quite impressed by that statement. She had not liked the face of the governess either. "I'm going to be real good and see if they will not let me off from lessons, though Mother said that Madame Kravy needed the money and the place. But she could stay just the same. Dad said the other day that he needed some one 'to help him in his office.'" Leslie wondered what his business could be that he carried it on in this remote spot. But he might be some big executive who had to keep in touch with affairs and write "letters and things." Busily they talked. Peggy thanked Leslie for asking her to be a member of a "triumvirate" and said that if Sarita did not mind she surely would belong. "Jack is sort of lost, too, without anybody of his own age. Perhaps Dalton would not mind if he hung around when he was building." "Well, Peggy, I think that I ought to tell you something, if you promise not to say a word to Elizabeth about it. You see Beth was all used up when school was out, and if she can only have a little while to be happy and get strong again, why then it won't make so much difference what happens, and I suppose that she will have to know about this. Now it _might_ interfere with the 'triumvirate.'" "Tell, me. I'll not say a word. I can't imagine what it is." "I'm sure you never could. You see, Peggy, your father may not _want_ you to come to see us, or have us out here, or anything. Was he there when your mother sent word for us to come?" "No." "I thought so." Then Leslie gave the details of their first meeting with Mr. Ives, summing up the case quite clearly. "So, you see, if Mr. Ives wants to get us off the land, and we stand up for what we think are our rights, it may not be so very pleasant all around. We'd always like you, Peggy, but it might be embarrassing for you to have much to do with us." "It would be a great deal more pleasant than not to have anything to do with you. Little Peggy will try diplomacy. I'll find out what Dad is up to; but if I don't, and the position in the triumvirate is still open, I'll fill it, you can be sure." "Well, then, Peggy, don't do anything you oughtn't for our sakes." "How about little Peggy's sake, Leslie?" "Same thing. But if your mother lets you, you will certainly be welcome _on_ the Sea Crest and in the Eyrie pretty soon." "When shall we have the first meeting of the 'triumvirate'?" "Say to-morrow." "To-morrow it is." The faintly ticking little wrist watches announced to the girls who glanced at them that they must bring the visit to a close. They ran downstairs and Leslie strolled out, while Peggy hunted up her cousin. In a few minutes the three were going down the steps to the Ives' launch, which carried them past the foaming rocks and into the bay toward Leslie's homing spot, the little rude dock at the base of the Secrest headland. Pirates' Cove looked just as interesting and deadly as ever, as they passed it. The Sea Crest bobbed up and down gently in recognition of the other boat, and Jack gallantly handed Leslie to a safe foothold and saw her up the more difficult steps, before he took the wheel from Peggy and waved a goodbye. The little launch chugged away. Leslie stopped at the top to lean upon a rock and watch the boat and her new friends. What a queer household there was at Steeple Rocks. Mr. Ives was not Peggy's father. She was glad of that. She was sure that others there beside Madame Kravetz were foreign. The lady who waited for Mrs. Ives and joined her had spoken to her in French, probably because Mrs. Ives knew French; for she heard the guest "jabber" something else to another lady that followed them. There was something queer going on, Peggy had said. Of course. It was that, perhaps, that made Mr. Ives try to send them all away. Leslie's thoughts were busy with impressions received at Steeple Rocks. CHAPTER VII RIGHTS ASSURED On Leslie's arrival in camp, she found only Beth there. Something savory was steaming on the portable stove, which stood out under the trees, protected from any breeze too strong both by the natural screen and one manufactured from canvas. "Soup to-night, Leslie," said Beth. "Sarita thought that she could enjoy it. Step into the tent and see what you think of that water color. I finished it. Tell me that the sky looks like the one we see here!" "Oh, it does, Beth," called Leslie in a moment from the tent. Then she came out to help. "It is lovely, Beth, the prettiest thing you have done yet. Where is Sarita?" "Back in the woods with her glass. The last I saw of her she was trailing a warbler and trying to find its nest. I think that she called it a redstart. She is ever so much better, though rather weak after that headache. Her throat is a little raw, but she will escape any further trouble, I think. I hope that Dal will get back in time for supper. I was almost worried about you, gone so long." "Peggy and Jack picked me up from the beach and I had a trip to Steeple Rocks. There doesn't seem to be anything to do, Beth,--do you care if I go to hunt Sarita?" "Not at all." Back into the fragrant woods Leslie strolled and met Sarita coming with Dalton by the little trail, now quite a path of their making, that led through the woods from the road. The two were laughing and talking as they came and Dalton waved triumphantly a letter as he saw Leslie. "Letter from Jim Lyon, Leslie. We have the abstract of title safely reposing in our deposit box, where Jim says it had better stay. We are to refer Mr. Ives to him. This land never _did_ belong to Mr. Ives. He sent me a little list of names of the owners. So Mr. Ives is--mistaken! In other words, it's all a bluff, for some unknown reason, to get rid of us, or grab the land, or something." "Then we can go right on and have our shack! How grand! Sarita, if your head wasn't shaky, we'd have a war-dance right here where they used to have 'em!" "What's the matter with Sarita?" Dalton inquired. "She does look a little peaked." "Oh, I'm all right now, Dal. Beth was sure that I was going to be sick, but it was only a sick headache, I think. Beth's been doctoring me all day. My throat is a little raw and that's all. Let's hurry up to tell Beth the good news." "You have forgotten that she does not know the bad news." "Sure enough. Why not tell her now?" "No,--I--think not," hesitatingly said Dalton. "I've another letter for her from Jim,--I told him that she did not know what Mr. Ives said and that we are trying to keep her from worry. I transacted some business about the building, and that will be enough news for Beth about my trip. If Beth and Peggy don't know, it will make relations less strained, I think." "I told Peggy to-day, Dal. I almost had to. Do you mind?" "You have as much right as I have, Leslie, to manage affairs with Peggy. Tell me about it." "I will. I'll tell nearly everything at supper, then we'll have a private confab later. What do you think? I was at the very stronghold of the enemy,--Steeple Rocks!" Leslie enjoyed the surprise of Dalton and Sarita, but she continued to speak of Beth. "We'd better let her have a little longer time to rest. This doesn't spoil _our_ fun at all, but she might worry and not sleep." Dalton wore a wide grin. "Your freedom from care shows your confidence in your natural protector," said he, tapping his chest. Leslie laughed with Sarita, but told her brother that he was more nearly right than he thought. "Under these circumstances I'd certainly hate to be here without you!" "Thanks for the tribute, Les; I'm almost overcome, but I think that I can manage to get into camp without assistance." But Dalton pretended to stagger a little, while both laughing girls ran to his support just as they emerged from the deeper wood into the clearing. Elizabeth, watching the soup, looked up, startled to see Dalton apparently in need of help, but it was evident in a moment that it was only what she termed "some silly joke" as she summoned them to supper. "Now Beth, don't look at me in that tone of voice," jovially urged Dalton. "See this letter that I have for you? Don't halt supper, though, while you read it. I'm half starved." "I think that I can manage to wait until after supper," dryly returned Elizabeth, but she flushed when she saw the letter. "Nice old Beth," crooned Leslie. "I'm doing all the clearing up after supper, and you shall have a free day to-morrow, too, shan't she, Sarita?" "I _think_ so! Poor Beth would just get into some inspiring mood for her latest masterpiece, when she would happen to think that I ought to have some medicine, or a drink, or something." "Nonsense! I had a lovely, quiet day." But Beth was tired and after reading her letter she went to bed, while Leslie cleared away the evidences of the meal and washed the dishes with Sarita's help. Dalton then built a fire out on the rocks which overlooked bay and sea and there they toasted marshmallows and talked, Sarita wrapped like a mummy, as she declared, to keep her from too strong a breeze. They put her in a sheltered spot, but they sat for a long time about the cheerful blaze, talking over the events of the day and other things. Dalton gave the details of his trip to town more fully than he had done before Beth at supper. By the firelight the girls read again the letter from Mr. Lyon to Dalton. "Here's what he says, Sarita," said Leslie, leaning where the light would fall upon the page. "'I'm glad that you suggested our coming to Maine, Dalton. It may be possible, though we do not want to drive with a big camping outfit. Can such things be purchased near you? I believe that you ordered yours sent on. I may as well take my vacation there.'" Here Leslie pursed up her mouth and gave Sarita a comical glance. "'You may imagine how the children shouted when I read them your message. Marsh can not come, but Mary looked as if the mere suggestion of Maine breezes were refreshing. We are having very hot weather. I will wait to hear again from you before making definite plans.'" "He will also wait to hear what Beth thinks, I imagine," said Sarita. "We can let them use the bungalow tent if we get some building done by the time they want to come," Dalton suggested. "Now that we've had the brilliant idea of an Eyrie first, here on the rocks, that ought to be finished _pronto_, and its one big room will do for you girls if our company comes before the shack in the woods gets finished. That will take longer. But I've ordered lumber for the Eyrie and it's going to back right up against the rocks. We are going to have a frame inside, then use the rocks around here for the outside, a real stone house, you see, girls, and I shall have it built with a little window looking over the rocks and out to sea, our real 'lookout.' You girls can help gather the smaller stones if you want to, and Beth may have, some artistic ideas. "A man is coming to help me. I've ordered a wheelbarrow and a lot of things. Just wait till the truck comes to-morrow!" "Shall you begin to cut down the trees that you have marked, Dal, now that you know our title is all right?" "I am not sure. Cutting down trees will mean that someone from Steeple Rocks will be right over. I think that it might be better to get the Eyrie right up, with a lock on the door." "Aha! Our castle, Sarita!" cried Leslie. "You are right, Dal. Now let me tell you all about Peggy. She wants to be with us as much as possible, Sarita. It was too pathetic. Imagine not being happy with all the advantages that she has! But she told me that Mr. Ives is not her real father." Leslie paused to let this statement take effect. "Good!" Sarita exclaimed, and Dalton, too, nodded his approval. "Then, her governess, too, is Some queer foreigner and an old Count Somebody, that is in some business or other with Mr. Ives, is there and her mother has worried ever since he appeared on the scene somewhere in Florida,--" "I admire your definite way of telling the facts," Dalton remarked. "I want you to get only the main fact, Dal, the 'atmosphere' of Steeple Rocks. From what Peggy says it is clear that she is uneasy and that there is some mystery there. If we take Peggy into our society, Sarita, we are very likely to find out what it is, and anyhow the kiddie needs us, I think. She may be as old as we are in some ways, and again she is just a little girl. But she is true blue, I believe, nothing deceitful about her." "You can take her around on our launch, Les," Dalton suggested. "I'll be too busy for a while to take out the boats, and you can run the launch as well as I can now." "I'll do it. We'll cruise around and fish sometimes. By the way, Jack Morgan may come over to 'help you with the building,' he said, when he deposited me on our rocks; and Peggy announced that both of them would be over to-morrow." Dalton's grin was again in evidence. "We'll see who wins out, the folks that want to get rid of us, or those that want us to stay," and to emphasize his remark, he threw another stick on the fire. By the flickering light they strolled around to look at the place where the Eyrie was to be built. As in the case of the Steeple Rocks home, it could be built against the protecting rocks, in a natural "corner," where the rocks of the headland might form almost two walls. But Dalton explained that it would be better to have a good frame inside, and both girls said that as Dal always knew what he was about they would leave it to him to show them by doing it. It was quite late when Dalton left them, but Sarita and Leslie lingered. "Be in pretty soon, Dal," said Leslie. They turned into a favorite corner of the rocks, where they, could perch upon one and see over a ledge. "Why, look, Sarita," continued Leslie. "There is a big ship. See all the lights!" "It is either moving very, very slowly out there," said Sarita, "or standing still. Look! There's a signal of some sort." Climbing around the rocks, careful of slipping in the dark, Leslie and Sarita found a post from which they could see the entire bay and its surrounding waters. Neither had said so, but each was wondering whether there might not be some answering lights from the village or from Steeple Rocks. It was from the village, however, that a motor boat put out. They could hear the chugging sound of its engine and watched its light. It was eerie there, with the sound of the breakers, the faint noise of the little engine as it went farther away, the great dark headlands and woods, the misty air from the ocean. Sarita drew dose to Leslie and took her hand. "It is all so big that it scares me," she whispered. "I love it," Leslie whispered back, "but I imagine that it's just as well for nobody to see us here." "Let's go back," hastily said Sarita. "If you want to, but who could see us in this dark?" Leslie looked up at the sky glittering with stars. "If it were moonlight it would be different. But perhaps we'd better not talk. Somebody might be snooping around to see if any of us were up." Sarita, not quite herself yet, sat down on the rocks at hand, but Leslie stood with deepest interest, watching the moving light. "Now they are there," she whispered to Sarita; "Come on, child, I'm going to see you to bed and then come back with my flashlight to see where that motorboat comes back to,--don't you admire my English?" "I'll wait with you, Leslie." "No, not after the day you have had. I ought to have been more thoughtful. Come on, honey-child, if only to save me from Beth's reproofs." Leslie never knew how wise a move she had made, for when she and Sarita had been in the tent for a little while, moving carefully, with only an occasional flash of the flashlight, in order not to disturb Beth, a watcher among the rocks moved slowly away toward the village. Their fire on the rocks had been noted. It was just as well, too, that Leslie waited for some little time after Sarita was in her cot before leaving the tent again. She knew that it would be some time, very likely, before the launch would return, especially if, as she thought, they were engaged in rum-running. In consequence, she, too, undressed, slipping on her warm bathrobe and her rubber-soled tennis shoes for her little venture. She grew sleepy as she sat for a little while on the edge of her cot, wrapped in a blanket. Then, when she found herself nodding, she roused with a start! Oh, she must have gone to sleep and it would be too late! But she looked at her watch and found that only twenty minutes had passed since she and Sarita had come in. It _was_ a little spooky, Leslie thought, to go out to the rocks alone. She had half a notion to call Dalton, but when she tiptoed to his tent she heard his even breathing and had not the heart to waken him. Coming from the darkness of the tent, it did not seem so black under the starlight. She kept to the path and occasional flashes from her light showed her the ground before her. Their fire was out. When she reached the spot where she and Sarita had stood, she was surprised to see the launch half way toward the bay. It had not taken them long to load, she thought. And a second surprise, though not so much of one, either, was to see the launch speeding in the direction of Steeple Rocks, not by way of the bay and the channel, but from the ocean, doubtless to the Ives' bay. Something, then, was to be taken from the ship to Mr. Ives. Perhaps it wasn't liquor. Perhaps Mr. Ives was a jewel smuggler. Perhaps he wasn't! Leslie laughed to herself at another idea. Mr. Ives was away. It might be that he himself was on board the vessel and was delivered here instead of being taken further down to the port. That was probably it. Still-- CHAPTER VIII THE EYRIE True to the arrangement, Dalton's man arrived the next morning with two trucks instead of one and another man to assist. They were real New Englanders, with speech quaint to these young people. The head man told the girls that the shack would be up by night. They thought that he was joking, but if it had not been for a few hindrances it might have been accomplished. It was necessary, however, to fasten it very securely to the rocks, for lack of much foundation, though Sarita declared that it fulfilled every requirement of a house founded upon the rock. It was surprising how much two men with Dalton's trained assistance could accomplish in one day, and they left for home well satisfied with what had been done. As some more lumber was needed the men drove the trucks back to town, but they promised to come early and expected to stay the next night and, indeed, until the Eyrie was completed. Neither Jack nor Peggy put in an appearance, but the girls scarcely thought about it, in the excitement of the growing building. Leslie had told Sarita and Dalton about her having seen the launch move toward Steeple Rocks, and both girls related what had happened before to Dalton. He said little, but seemed to agree with them in regard to the possibilities. That night it was the girls who retired before Dalton. He was fussing around, as Leslie expressed it, seeing that tools were under cover and everything about their materials in order, when they left him and went into their tent. Remembering what warnings had been given him, Dalton felt a little uneasy, now that they were actually launched in building, though in so small a way. He hoped that no one had discovered the undertaking so far. Finally he went to bed and slept till some time past midnight when he woke with an uneasy feeling. The surf was booming beyond the camp and the rocks. He heard an owl hooting in the woods. Then he thought he heard sounds as if someone or something was moving through the thickets or brushing by the bushes along the path. It would be hard to make one's way through this grove without some noise. Again he heard the cracking of a stick. Reaching for his gun, Dalton sprang out of his cot and peered through the flap of his tent. A dark figure was stealthily entering the camp, making its way toward the pile of lumber. It was carrying something. This was placed against the lumber and a match was lit. Dalton waited no longer. He stepped out from his tent, directed his gun toward the stars, away from the tents, and fired. Crack! The shot reverberated among the rocks and the intruder lost no time in getting out of range and sight. Dalton smiled grimly as he ran in apparent pursuit, but really to see that the dropped match had gone out. He darted behind the lumber, then, not knowing but the shot might be returned. The sounds of someone crashing through the woods came to him and he came to the conclusion that he had successfully frightened away his enemy. Most likely he would not want to be identified, Dalton thought. There was not much danger that there would be any battle now. "Oh, Dal! What is the matter? What--are you hurt?" Here was Leslie, coming from the door of his tent, where she had evidently gone first to find him. "Here, Sis,--get back to bed _instanter!_ No, nobody is shot. I'm sorry that I had to wake you all up, but somebody was trying to set fire to our lumber and I had to scare him away. Did you hear him smashing through the woods?" "Yes, and I thought that he had shot you. I was glad to see your cot empty, then I was afraid that you were shot out in the woods!" "Go back and tell the girls what happened. We'll not be bothered again to-night; besides, I'll stay awake till daylight. You sleep on and wake me up when the men come, if I oversleep." "All right. I don't think that Beth even woke up. Her nerves certainly have gotten cured. Sarita is awake, though. I told her I'd find out. Want my flashlight, Dal?" "No, thank you, Les. I have my own if I need it." "Well, don't stay where you might get hurt, then." "No. I'm going back to the tent again, but I'll have to sneak around a little from time to time. Don't worry if you hear me." Fortunately for Dalton, Leslie wakened early and roused her brother when the workmen arrived. Such progress was made that in a few days the entire Eyrie was complete, "lookout," stone wall and all. There was plenty of material for the wall. Boulders near at hand were pried and rolled into position and smaller stones were lifted to place above, all secured by mortar, like a brick wall. The roof, with the little window that looked toward the sea and above the rocks, took some little time, for it must be made weather-proof. But so small a shelter was soon finished. Elizabeth promised herself much fun in their finishing the inside to their liking. It was to be their watch tower as well as "The Artist's Retreat," Leslie declared. "I'll give you a day or two more of my valuable time," said Dalton, "to put up shelves and make the step that we need at the door, then I'm going to begin on the trees. The men have another job and that is why they were willing to work overtime every day and finish this. If I decide to stay here all winter by myself, I'll have this plastered. But this boarding up will do this summer. "The other man that I engaged for the log house can come pretty soon. My plans are fine unless something interferes. I think that I will report to Mr. Ives the matter of the man who tried to set fire to our lumber. I can't think that he would want that to happen. A fire here would spread to his own woods. Trust a man to look after his own interests, even if he is willing that something should happen to us. I don't think that he was concerned in it. It is hard to understand, unless Bill or someone works on his own in smuggling." "You are sure that it is smuggling, Dal?" "What else could it be?" Then at last came Peggy and Jack, the very day after the Eyrie was completed, coming in the Ives' launch and docking where they had left Leslie. Up by the rocky steps they climbed, not seeing Sarita and Leslie, who were peering at them over the rocks. "Welcome to our Eyrie!" cried Leslie as they reached the top. "Oh, hello, girls," Peggy returned. "You almost scared me. I didn't know that you were so close. We just had to come as soon as we could to see what you have been doing. Have you built your Eyrie, then, or started it?" "Just come on a little way and then turn around to your right. Couldn't you see the little lookout window from the bay?" "Didn't notice it. Oh, how cute! And you are making the step of stones, too, with concrete." Peggy ran around to where Dalton was on his knees, pointing up the step in front of the Eyrie door. He was so absorbed in his work that he did not look up for a moment. Then he lifted his face and saw Peggy. "Yes; this is home-made concrete. Let's hope that it will last. Where have you been, Peggy? Leslie told us that we might expect you over some time ago. You have missed all the excitement of our first home-building." "I know it. It's been so stupid, except for our playing tennis and cruising around a little. Jack is perishing for someone old enough for him to have real fun with. The rest of our guests are too old and I guess that they are all leaving anyhow. We couldn't come, you know. Well, yes, we _could_, but Dad was home, and I didn't want to risk having an order not to come over at all. So I told Jack that we'd just wait and say nothing till Dad left. Mother said that he was going away again, and we made no remarks at all. "But now Dad is gone and we can have that beach party. Leslie told you, I suppose, that she told me about Dad's claiming to own your land." Dalton was rather surprised at the way in which Peggy put it, but he answered her seriously. "Yes, Leslie told us about the visit she had with you. I hope that we shall not have any trouble with Mr. Ives. We have had word that we have an abstract of title, so we shall not leave, of course. But I scarcely think that it would be the thing for us to go to Steeple Rocks when he might not want us there. It is very kind for your mother to invite us, but you must remember that she does not know anything about it all. Can't you continue to come here instead? You girls can have all kinds of fun together." "But we like you, too. Didn't you rescue, me from a--stony grave? I want _you_ to see Steeple Rocks." "And I confess that there is no place I should rather see." Dalton was on his feet now, replacing the boards by which they could enter the Eyrie door without setting foot upon the wide step, just completed. Jack, Sarita and Leslie came up now, for an introduction between Jack and Dalton, and to peep within the one large room of the Eyrie. It was still quite primitive, with a sliding bar on the inside of the door to make it secure at night, and a hasp, staple and padlock on the outside, but the boards had been neatly fitted together, perpendicularly, and the rafters were not unpleasant to the eye. Already the girls had decorated them with spruce, and a bouquet of wild flowers stood upon the long shelf which Dalton had put up. "We can't have any fireplace here," said Leslie, "but we shall in our bigger house." "Who knows?" Dalton inquired. "We may enlarge this place sometime and make what Father expected it to be." "Sure enough, who knows?" quoted Peggy. "I believe that Dalton will do anything he wants to do!" Dalton gave Peggy a big brotherly smile. "Thanks," he said. "I'm going to try, but things do not always turn out as you expect, Peggy." "I should say they don't!" CHAPTER IX THE FIRST TREE FALLS "Dal, are you sure that we ought to do this?" Elizabeth Secrest eyed her brother seriously. "Yes, Beth. I know that you are thinking about the money, and I don't blame you. You have had a hard enough time to earn our income, and if I slash around and spend all our principal, you'll be thinking 'What's the use?' But Beth, there is a method in my madness, and if we get a livable house up, next summer you can bring some of the girls, charge them a reasonable price for room, and board, too, or let them cook for themselves. Then I ought to make a little money out of the launch. There's a little colony only a few miles away, if we don't get enough people here to pay." "It is a pity to spoil our woods with people," said Beth. "But we'll make the camp ourselves," urged Dalton, "and have only nice folks. How would a girls' camp strike you, and I might have a few boys somewhere?" "No, thanks. I get enough of that in school time." "Poor Beth! But suppose we manage it so you do not have to teach during the year. If I got some one to play chaperon and run the affairs, would you be hostess and perhaps teach a class of girls in sketching or something in your line?" "Dal, I'd hate it. Wait till Leslie grows up a little further to try all that. You wouldn't like it yourself." "I'd like anything that took you out of the school room. But I have another plan for that. All right, Beth; but just the same, we'll go ahead now. There are possibilities here. I promise you to spend as little as possible and to do as much of the work myself as I can." "I don't want you to kill yourself and not to have any of the fun, fishing and all." Beth had a sympathetic voice that always carried more meaning than her words themselves. "I have already had a great time with that, and I shall again, later. But you know how I like this sort of thing. I'd like to be a big contractor some day. The first tree comes down to-morrow morning!" Dalton had another reason for working steadily at their camp. The experience with the man who had tried to set fire to their lumber had made quite an impression. Dalton had talked it over with Leslie, who thought that it might be the Eyrie which could be especially objectionable, since it had the view of the bay and any operations there. "You don't suppose, Dal, that they could think us spying?" "They might think that we would report them if we saw anything unusual; but if they think that we are here on purpose it will reassure them when we build a larger and more permanent home,--unless all this comes from Mr. Ives, and he is really determined to get us away, for some reason." "We girls are going to try to find out." "Don't use Peggy unless she wants to be in it, whether her father is concerned or not." "What do you think of me, Dal Secrest! Peggy shall know everything that we know, if she lends herself to our investigating. She was thunderstruck when she found out about our having an abstract of title, and Mr. Ives' name not even mentioned." Dalton nodded. "Peggy is an unusually nice girl, but she is considerably younger and hasn't much judgment. Don't let her get into trouble at home, if you can help it. As for me, I'm going to be right on the job most of the time, and while we are putting up the log house, I'll keep a man to sleep right here in camp. I would sleep in the Eyrie now, to watch it, if it were not for being farther away from you girls." "How about our sleeping there, then? With the padlock off, they will know that someone is inside, and there will be enough air with that one window open on the side of the ocean." "Someone might climb up on the roof," laughed Dalton. "Yes, but I'd like to see them climb out and into the window. There's a sheer drop of I don't know how many feet. And one thing, I don't see how they could set fire to the Eyrie." Dalton did not tell Leslie of what he had been afraid, namely that Eyrie and rocks might be blown up with dynamite. But he finally consented to have the girls move over to the Eyrie, which suited Beth; nor did she know how many times Dalton wakened at first and came over to see if Eyrie and girls were safe. But Dalton Secrest was not easily moved from any purpose that he was convinced to be a wise one. The first tree fell by his ax at the appointed time. All the girls, Peggy included, were on hand to watch operations, and Jack arrived, from an errand to the village, just in time. "There!" said Dalton, leaning on his ax, "that's done!" The girls, warned away before the tree fell, came around to look at it. "Doesn't it seem a pity to cut any tree down!" Leslie exclaimed. "Yes, it does," Dalton acknowledged, "but you need not be afraid. I appreciate this woods perhaps more than you do, Leslie. But you notice that the trees are all growing too thickly here. I shall cut two more out." To illustrate, Dalton gave a sharp blow with the ax to one of the trees which he had marked. "Have you another ax, Dalton?" Jack inquired. "What is the matter with my taking a hand in this?" "Only the fact that your host, Mr. Ives, does not want us to build here," frankly Dalton replied. "What is the matter with him?" asked Jack, not much impressed with the news. He took the ax from Dalton's hand and applied it to the base of the tree with some skill. Peggy jumped up and down like some little child and clapped her hands. Dalton rubbed his hands and stood back to rest a little. Leslie watched Jack with some admiration. They were just beginning to get acquainted with Jack, who was not as talkative as Peggy, but manly and capable. Leslie had an idea that he was not from as wealthy a home as Steeple Rocks, though he seemed to have clothes for all occasions. She was glad that he was related to Peggy and not to Mr. Ives. It would be hard to like anybody that really belonged to Mr. Ives, she thought, though she was conscious that she might not be quite fair to the suave gentleman, so unpleasant had been their relations. "Go on, Jack; that was good," Peggy was saying. "It will be such fun to watch a real log house go up. Didn't the pioneers always help each other?" "I fancy not when a man was building on land belonging to someone else!" All of the young people were startled at this new voice which came from behind them, as they faced the tree and Jack. They turned to see a tall, straight man of possibly sixty years, looking coldly upon the scene. "Count Herschfeld!" exclaimed Jack. Peggy shrugged her shoulders. "I rather think there isn't anything of the sort here," said she. Dalton tossed aside the ax, which Jack had half unconsciously handed him, and stepped forward. "And who may you be?" he asked quietly, setting his lips firmly as he stopped speaking. "Introduce us, Peggy," sneeringly said the older man. Peggy threw back her head and stepped from beside Sarita toward Dalton. "This is Count Herschfeld, Dalton. Count Herschfeld, this is my friend, Dalton Secrest, who is building on his _own land_! Miss Elizabeth, Count Herschfeld,--Miss Leslie and Miss Sarita--" Peggy began to be embarrassed with the number of introductions. She was not very old, and Elizabeth put an arm around her, as she stepped forward in great surprise. "Are you visiting at Steeple Rocks, Count Herschfeld?" Elizabeth inquired, starting to put out her hand, then remembering that his first remark had not been friendly. What could it mean? She glanced at the faces around her. Jack, frowning, was leaning against the tree. Sarita and Leslie had drawn together and were looking at the Count with anything but friendly expressions. It seemed as if they were not as surprised as she. "You could scarcely call it visiting, Miss Secrest. I conduct Mr. Ives' business affairs very largely." "I see. Can we do anything for you this morning?" "Most certainly; you can order your brother to refrain from cutting any more of Mr. Ives' trees, and I am sorry to inform you, as Mr. Ives informed you some time ago, that we should like to have you withdraw from these woods." "But they _belong_ to us, Count Herschfeld. There must be some grave mistake on your part. My father purchased this land, which is duly recorded and we hold deed and abstract of title in the usual way. My father was a lawyer, sir, and it is not very likely that he would accept a doubtful title." Beth's voice sounded very courteous and sweet, but she was as dignified as she was in the school room. "Good old Beth," whispered Leslie to Sarita. "She knew all about it all the time. We could have saved ourselves all that trouble if we had told her!" "But you did it to save _her_ the worry. It's a joke on us, all the same!" What would the Count say next, Leslie thought. He could not have expected them to be so sure of their rights. With a sneering smile on his face, Count Herschfeld stood there, bracing himself now with his walking stick. "I have no doubt that you think yourselves within your rights," began he, but Dalton stepped up to him with a card on which he had been scribbling while Beth talked. "Here is the address of our lawyer, Count Herschfeld," said Dalton. "You may wish to telegraph him. I want to have no trouble over this, but neither do I propose to be hindered. I have looked up the records purposely before beginning to build. We are not harming any one, Count Herschfeld, and we want to be let alone. I hope that we shall not be obliged to seek any protection from the law!" Dalton spoke strongly and meaningly. Count Herschfeld lifted his eyebrows at that, but the sneer on his face remained. "I will report what you say to Mr. Ives," he replied, "also the felling of the trees." "Mean old thing!" Peggy cried, as the Count disappeared through the trees. "Probably he'll tell about our being here and Jack's helping! He couldn't have heard the chopping clear from Steeple Rocks, could he?" "No, Peggy," said Dalton. "Beth, we'll have to tell you what happened before. It's a good joke on us. We have spent lots of time and trouble finding out, and here you knew all about the abstract of title and everything." "It was my business to know, Dal. Why didn't you tell me?" Elizabeth was quite amazed that she had not been informed at first. "Mr. Ives came right over, and you were so worn out that we didn't have the heart to give you anything to worry about. That was all. Write to Jim, Beth, and hurry up his coming!" "I'd scarcely like to do that, Dal,"--but Elizabeth was smiling. "Suppose we just go right on, as you have been doing, Dal. We have the right of it. I am surprised that a man of Mr. Ives' wealth and position should do this. Do you know, Peggy, why he thinks he owns this land?" "I don't think that he thinks he owns it," replied Peggy, her cheeks red with excitement. "He wants you to go away, and I don't think that he is very smart about it, either. He might know that you would know what you are about." "Why should he want us to go away, Peggy?" queried the still amazed Elizabeth. "What harm could we do here? Does he want all this woods and country about the bay to himself?" "Something like that," Peggy agreed. "He was fussing at Mother, for 'bringing so many guests' to the place, and he said that he came here to get 'away from civilization.' Seems to me, though, that he makes a great many trips back into it!" "Perhaps he is obliged to," kindly said Beth. "What is his business, Peggy?" "I don't know. He doesn't drink, if that is what you are thinking. He has wines for those foreigners, friends of his, and the 'Counts' that are always coming, but he never takes any to amount to anything." "Oh, Peggy, I never thought of such a thing. Please consider that question unasked!" Beth had not given possible smuggling any thought. "I don't care, Miss Beth. I'm worried myself about all this." "Cheer up, Peggy," said Jack. "Your dad and these folks will let their lawyers fix it all up, and meanwhile we'll have all the fun we want." "Unless Dad takes a notion to keep us at home!" "Here goes for the other tree," said Jack, picking up the ax again. Leaving the two boys engaged in their task, the rest strolled from the woods to the rocks, where Beth disappeared into the Eyrie, which she was fitting up to her taste. The other girls went down to the launch, the Sea Crest, in which they were soon speeding out upon the bay. "Every morning," said Peggy, "Jack will bring me over, either through the woods or in our launch. I'm going to say a little something to Mother, so she will avoid the subject with Dad, and perhaps she will help us to come. She sometimes does when Dad is unreasonable." Leslie did not quite know whether she approved of this or not. Any form of deceit was abhorrent to Leslie and she liked Peggy too much to want her concerned in it. The situation at Steeple Rocks did not seem very admirable, to tell the truth. CHAPTER X THE SECRET No more was heard from the Count. Dalton and Jack spent a busy week, working together and becoming very well acquainted. They were of almost the same age with many ideas in common. Jack was intending to enter a university in the autumn and tried to persuade Dalton to enter with him, but Dalton told him that he was the man of the family and while it had been a matter of course to expect a college education while his father lived, it might not be best now. He had that matter to decide. If he went, he would work his way almost entirely. The girls had savory lunches for the boys, but they were often out on interesting affairs of their own about which they said little either to Beth, Dalton or Jack. The Sea Crest and the little row boat dubbed the "Swallow" were in frequent use. For the most part the girls wore their bathing suits, with raincoats or heavy coats over them, according to the weather. They swam near the beach, they made trips to the village; they climbed over the rocks, and under Peggy's leadership they became acquainted with the literal ups and downs of the rocky paths around Steeple Rocks. They talked of secrets and mysteries before the boys, inviting their questions, but Dalton and Jack claimed that if they had anything to tell they would tell it. "Oh, you'll be sorry!" cried Peggy to Dalton, whom she liked very much, it seemed, "when we find out why is Pirates' Cove or uncover a pirate hoard, or something!" "If you find it on our side, Miss, it belongs to us!" "Finders keepers, Dal," laughed Peggy. Of the girls Leslie was Peggy's favorite, but Sarita had no reason to be jealous, since Peggy was too much younger to spoil the old close relation between the older girls. Yet Peggy was a bit of fire and energy and real lovableness to them both, and old enough in her ways to adapt herself to them if they forgot to adapt their plans to Peggy. Through Sarita, Peggy was introduced to the different gulls and other sea birds that flapped or sailed or flew over the bay and in the woods. Leslie knew them too and Peggy was envious, she said, until she found out that looking through Sarita's good lenses, she, too, could distinguish the differences and learn to identify some of them. The little sandpipers that flew in wheeling flocks or skimmed with rapid feet over the sands were her particular delight. Leslie and Sarita wondered what Peggy's real name might be, if Mr. Ives were only her step-father, but Peggy did not seem inclined to talk about herself and they were too polite to ask. That she had been christened Marguerite, Margaret, or some other more dignified name than Peggy they naturally supposed, but they were puzzled a little, as doubtless mischievous Peggy intended, when she wrote large upon the sand one day at the beach the name Angelina. "That, of course, is my real name, and Mother used to call me Angel sometimes till Dad said that it wasn't very 'characteristic.'" But Peggy's pretty lips were parted in what might easily be called an impish grin. "Don't tell whoppers, little girl," advised Sarita. "Thanks. I'm glad you think that 'Angel' is appropriate." "Your lightning deductions are something wonderful," lazily said Leslie, who was lying on the sand in the sun. It was really a hot morning "for once," as Peggy said, and the girls could safely take their time to their dip. Peggy was telling them about bathing in Florida, and how she loved it. "But I'm glad to be here with you girls now and the peppy days that we usually have here just suit me. How about going around home after a while, letting me have a lunch fixed up and exploring that little cave we found. Perhaps there is a passage to that hole in Pirates' Cove." "Whoever heard of a hole in a Cove?" Sarita queried. "You know what I mean, the hole in the rocks there." Leslie jumped to her feet. "Come on, then. Let's do something. One more dip and then for camp!" Three heads bobbed up and down in the surf as they tossed a big ball, one that Peggy had brought from Florida, from one to another while they swam. By this time they had learned where it was safe for them and where the undertow might be a little too strong. Dalton, who was a strong swimmer, had both inquired and investigated. A run and a climb and running again brought them into camp, where they changed to dry garments and started on a hike through the woods toward Steeple Rocks. By this time Leslie and Sarita had become quite familiar with the way. They scarcely liked to appear at the great house there just because they knew that Mr. Ives was away; yet Peggy frankly wanted them, and her mother cordially urged them to come often. She thanked them for making life at the coast so pleasant to Peggy. Count Herschfeld was away, too. Peggy said that it was like a different place with him away and openly rejoiced in the absence of "the Kravetz," as Jack called her, most disrespectfully. Where she had gone Peggy did not know. The pleasant fact was enough for her she told the girls, though not in just those words. Peggy was a great girl to "rattle on," Sarita said; but Leslie thought that there was always a point to Peggy's remarks and enjoyed them. When they arrived at Steeple Rocks, Peggy ran in to interview the housekeeper, while Leslie and Sarita strolled about the grounds, which by this time were in their prettiest summer garb. In part the gardens were formal, but there were nooks cleverly wild, yet rescued from the uncomfortable features of real wildness. They sat down on a rustic bench near the tennis court and surveyed the arbors, the porches, the solid, handsome house, the mass of Beth's Cathedral Rocks and their steeple spires, towering behind and above. "Grim and mysterious, aren't they, Sarita?" "Yes, Leslie. I rather like the distant view best." "We get advantage of the distance for the outlines." "I wonder if Mr. Ives has built anything into the rock,--I mean bored or blasted into it See how closely that wall joins the rock." "That is where Mr. Ives' library and office are, Peggy said, and I think that she mentioned a safe built into the rock. She said that was why he keeps everybody away from that part of the house." "Oh, he does, does he?" "So Peggy said. She says it's no temptation to her to go near his 'old office.'" Sarita smiled. "Peggy has turned out to be the most enthusiastic member of our 'triumvirate.' Do you like her mother?" "I don't know what to think of Mrs. Ives. She is lovely to us and she seems to think a great deal of Peggy, if she does turn her over to other people. Perhaps she has to. Do you remember Mrs. Peacock? She didn't do a thing but preen her feathers and play bridge and golf till the crash came; then she gathered up her kiddies from various schools and went to work to take care of them." "Yes. It's hard to tell about the society women." The girls rose as they saw Peggy tripping down the steps with a picnic basket in her hand. They joined her and went toward the path which led around into the rocks. They crossed the path by which they had entered the grounds from their own and the Ives' woods, crossing also the rocky way with the steps which led down to the dock where the Ives' yacht was supposed to stay. On a narrow ledge to their left they had need to be careful, but it led to a small cave which they had discovered before. It was not like one hollowed out by the action of water, but more like a space in the midst of rocks which some giant had been piling, one upon another. There were cracks and fissures, too, and the retreat was large enough to be interesting. "I've got sandwiches and doughnuts, pickles, some shrimp salad, and a blueberry pie," Peggy announced, "and there is some lemonade in the 'icy-hot.'" She swung the basket to the rocky floor as she spoke and sat down beside it. "You are all hot with climbing and carrying that basket," sympathetically said Leslie. "You should have let me carry it part of the way as I wanted to." "It helped me swing around that narrow place," laughed Peggy. "Besides, let the hostess provide the eats." "Are you hostess?" "Isn't this Steeple Rocks? I know that you are laughing at the lunch, but those were the things I found and they all looked good." "I know by experience, Peggy, that anything from your house is good," said Leslie. "This isn't the first time that you have treated us. Hurrah for blueberry pie in Maine! We found a new place for blueberries, Peggy, scrumptious ones." Peggy had saluted when Leslie complimented the Steeple Rocks cooking. Now she changed expression. "Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum, I smell the--smoke of an English-_mun_! Isn't that funny? Don't you smell cigar smoke, girls?" "I believe I do a little, Peggy," Sarita replied. She was at the opening, and taking a careful step or two she looked over the ledge, her hand on a rocky protuberance for safety's sake. "Somebody's going down toward the dock. Perhaps we are getting a whiff from the pipe he is smoking." "Please see who it is, Sarita, if you can without being seen. Mother said that Dad might be home to-day, and if he is, I want to keep out of sight as much as possible." Leslie, listening, puckered her brows and Peggy saw her. "Now Leslie, don't worry. It isn't bad of me to keep out of trouble. You just don't understand, that's all." Peggy gave Leslie an engaging look out of frank, affectionate eyes. "Little flirt," laughed Leslie. "She knows, Sarita, that she only has to look at us with 'them eyes' to have us melt. Why don't you try that on Mr. Ives?" "You think that I'm just pretending! I don't like you any mare, Leslie Secrest!" But Peggy was half smiling as she spoke and Leslie did not apologize. Sarita was still looking out over the ledge. Then quickly she stepped back behind the jutting rocks and plumped herself down by the other girls. "It's Bill," she said. "He was going on down, but I couldn't get a good look at him till he suddenly turned; and then I was afraid that he would see me watching him,--hence my sudden retreat!" "Could there be some other ledge along here, and someone on it?" Leslie suggested. "This one ends here, I suppose, with that big bulge of rock." "Suppose we fasten a sign of some sort here and then look up from below and see just what is near us here. That does not smell like a pipe, and I can smell it yet. Can't you?" "Yes, Peggy, though not so much," said Leslie. "Sarita, this is more like an Eyrie than ours, isn't it? You can see most of the bay, our headland, the sea and a bit of the village from here. Do you suppose that we can see this with our 'mind's eye' next winter when we are digging into our books and have nothing better to look at than the flat plains of home?" "I wonder," said Sarita. Below them lay the bay, sparkling in the sun. Its salty waves leaped up on many a half-submerged rock near the shore, that sent back the spray. Beyond the rim of confining rocks and the Secrest headland, the sea surged more quietly than usual, though there was a line of breakers to be seen. The sky was a deep blue, its clouds in heaps of billowing, floating white. "This," said Peggy, "is the home of the 'triumvirate.'" "'Triumvirate' is not exactly appropriate, Peggy," Sarita remarked. "No," said Leslie. "How about the Three Bears?" "Who's been sitting in _my_ chair?" squeaked Peggy in a high voice. They all laughed. It did not take much to make them laugh to-day. Peggy was rummaging in her basket and now handed out some paper napkins. "Let's have a good name, then," she continued. "What would a triumvirate of girls be?" "_Femina_ is the Latin word for woman," said Leslie. "Put it in place of _vir_ and see what you have." "Tri-tri--" began Peggy, thinking; "trium-feminate!" she triumphantly finished, flourishing a bottle of olives so vigorously that the cork, previously loosened, came out and the liquid spilled. Soon the girls were munching sandwiches and olives, drinking copiously of the cold lemonade and talking as busily as ever of Jack, Dalton and the prospective log house; of the queer happenings at camp and at sea; and of their secret, the 'mystery', in regard to which they had teased or tried to tease the boys. "Tell me again, Peggy," said Leslie, "just what you heard said and just where it was. I want to get it straight. It may be that we ought to tell Dal and Beth." "It's all right with _me_, Leslie, if you do," said Peggy. "I'm sure that Dad has something up with the Count, and if either he or the Count are going to do anything to you folks, I don't want it to happen. But I'm hoping, of course, that for Mother's sake Dad isn't into anything real wicked. "Well, it was the night after he was supposed to have gone away that last time. I was as wide awake as anything and I thought that I'd slip out of the house and go down to the shore a while. The house was all still, you know, and I guess it must have been about two o'clock. I would have taken my bathing suit for a dip, but I promised Mother that I would never go in all alone. So I just slipped out in my silk negligee and slippers, though it was a little shivery. "I sauntered down the long flight of steps, holding to the railing, and all at once I heard Dad's voice below me. I almost ran up the steps in a hurry, but what I heard was interesting, so I scrooched down on the step right where I was to listen a minute. _That_ was curiosity, I'll admit, and I ought to have been noble enough not to have done it,--only that things are queer, and when they are, a body has _some_ right to find out. What do you think, Leslie?" "I don't know, Peggy; but it does seem that way." "Anyhow Dad was saying next, 'They are not mere children to be frightened and driven off as you supposed. If I had known that what you told me was an absolute lie, I wouldn't have gone as far in my statement to them as I did. Just let it drop.'" Peggy's air and dignified speech so reminded the girls of the suave Mr. Ives that both of them smiled broadly. The words were brutally frank, but Peggy's tone robbed them of sharpness. Now she was the cold Count in her recital. The girls could fairly see him draw himself up in courteous resentment. "'You do not mince words, I see. It was the only way to produce the effect through you. If you believed it yourself, you could intimidate them.'" "'But they were not intimidated. I do not like this intimacy with my daughter any more than you do. But the first object must be to avoid suspicion. I would suggest that we employ'--then I missed a few words just at the important place! Dad dropped his voice a little, and you know how the surf roars sometimes. But I got _one clue_ or one thing that might be as important. The Count started in to talk. 'See to it,' he said, 'that they'--then a mumble of words--'by the twenty-eighth.' "I said it over to myself, so I wouldn't forget to tell you girls exactly what had been said, and then I realized that Dad was coming up the steps. They shook, as you remember they do a little when somebody walks. It was too far to get to the top before he reached me, so what did I do but whisk out to the side and drop under the steps to wait till he passed!" "But it is some distance, in places, to the rocks underneath!" Peggy nodded. "I knew it, but it was 'instinctive,' as you say, Leslie, to get out of Dad's way, and by good luck a nice rock was reachable under my step. I just scrooched there again till Dad went by and I'm sure he never saw me. I waited, because I thought the Count might come next, but he never did, and I was so curious that when I hitched up again--you ought to have seen my acrobatic performance, girls,--I sneaked down the steps to the bottom and finally all around the place and never a sign did I see of the Count. There wasn't a sign of a boat, either, and there had scarcely been time, I think, for a boat to get around behind the channel entrance." "I don't know," Leslie said. "You may have taken more time than you thought." "Perhaps so, but wouldn't I have heard a boat?" "A launch certainly, but not a row boat against the sound of the surf if it was rather rough that night." "Perhaps the Count was behind a tree," Sarita suggested. Peggy looked at Sarita to see if she were in earnest. "You know very well, Sarita, that there isn't a tree there!" CHAPTER XI THE INTENTIONAL "ACCIDENT" "I wonder what Bill was doing down at your dock," said Sarita. "It needs some repairs," Peggy replied. "I heard Dad say to Mother that he was going to bring the yacht down from where _it_ has been undergoing something or other. I smell that smoke again, Sarita. Where do you suppose it comes from?" Peggy jumped up and went out upon the shelf again. "Don't smell it at all out here," she said. Sniffing, Peggy walked back further within their rocky den. "Must be a volcano under here, girls. I smell it more strongly." "Do volcanoes smoke tobacco?" joked Leslie. "This must be a new kind," Peggy returned. "Come here, girls." Sarita and Leslie, rather cramped from long sitting, rose and shook out their frocks. Leslie tossed a bit of her last sandwich to the rocks below and said that the birds might have it. "You are right, Peggy. It isn't very strong, but I do notice a bit of tobacco smoke. Isn't it queer? Perhaps someone is outside and there is some current that whisks the scent through here." "Nothing like having an imagination, Sarita. Perhaps there is a smuggler's den below us. We may smell the liquor if we stay long enough. Perhaps Bill has some little cave inside, too." So speaking, Peggy again ran out upon the ledge to look toward the Ives' dock on this side. There was no sign of Bill. "If there is this much of a cave here, why _mightn't_ there be one somewhere below? We haven't found the way to one, but we just might have missed it." "That is so, Peggy," said Leslie. "_Isn't_ this odd!" Leslie and Sarita were sniffing till Peggy laughed at the whole performance. "If I looked as funny as you girls do, sniffing and going from one crevice to another, I wonder that you didn't make fun of me at the start!" "We were more interested in the smoke than in how anybody looked," Sarita returned. "It is stronger way back here, don't you think so?" Sarita was back where she was obliged to stoop considerably. There was a crack, or fissure, and a hole of no great size into what Peggy called the "inner darkness." "I believe that I could crawl into that," said Peggy, with some decision. "Not for the world!" cried Leslie. "My dear chief investigator of the 'tri-feminate,' you might step off into space and fall into some crevice that we _never_ could get you out of!" "That _would_ be a calamity," grinned Peggy. "I won't then,--not now, at any rate. It must be as you think, somebody is smoking somewhere and a current brings the odor up here,--but some way that theory doesn't satisfy me." "That is because we _scent_ a mystery, Peggy," said Sarita. "It's fun to imagine things. I'd just as lief find _Bill_ to be a villain, but perhaps we'd better not meddle too much with things around here, Peggy." Peggy set her lips together. "If there's anything that _ought_ to be found out, why, then, it ought to be,--that's all there is about it!" Peggy's attitude settled it. Though the older girls felt that care should be taken not to go beyond the bounds of courtesy within the limits of Steeple Rocks, they certainly had no objections to Peggy's solving any mystery there, particularly if the Count were the chief villain. Peggy had not told them of her little adventure in such detail before. With the words of Peggy's step-father clearly in her mind, Leslie felt jubilant to think that their possession was to be practically undisputed. But what other plan was there in which they were probably concerned? She would tell Dalton, or get Peggy to tell him. Probably Peggy would enjoy the excitement of it. The date was interesting. That would be July twenty-eighth, perhaps. Was something to happen to them before that time? "See that they ... by the twenty-eighth!" Pleasant prospect! Such thoughts ran through Leslie's mind and Sarita asked her what she was thinking about. "I'm just thinking what the next enemy move will be. Peggy, I hope that you can find out what the plan is and what they intend to do to us." "I'll try," Peggy promised. "What I'm wondering about is how we can get over on the front of the cliff and see if there are any caves there." "I don't know that I ever used my glasses on the headland when we were close," said Sarita. "Suppose we take the Sea Crest out and go over that way." "You forget how we watched those gulls and things that were roosting up there," Peggy reminded Sarita in her usual indefinite way at which Sarita always laughed. "Gulls and things, indeed. I'm sure that I found an eagle's nest and we were following a bald eagle as he flew. However, girls, I'm not so sure that we'd see anything if it were there. We never saw _this_ from the bay, you know. There is one opening that we know of." "What's that?" Peggy inquired. "There in Pirates' Cove." "But there is the whirlpool, or whatever it is, and the buoys say danger." "Sometimes I have wondered if that were a fiction," thoughtfully Leslie remarked, "just to protect the old pirates or smugglers; and maybe Bill and his rum-runners take advantage of it. Do you remember, Sarita, how those gulls the other day were floating near that place? It was fairly quiet, you know, not much spray on the rocks, and I noticed how wide that low opening is. I think that a person could almost stand up there, if there is anything to stand on. I'd like to find out how it looks at low tide. I'm not sure that we ever were out there or thought of it at low tide. Were we?" The other girls did not know, but Sarita suggested that they would not dare risk going among the rocks there in any event and the girls agreed with her. "Dalton would go up in the air if we rowed in there, to say nothing of Elizabeth," said Sarita. "I'd like to _do_ it, girls," and Peggy's tones vibrated with her suppressed energy. "Much you would, if you once got inside and found that the whirlpool, or undertow, or what not, was no joke. Promise me that you'll not try it." "Oh, I'll not do anything of that sort without you girls. But if ever you do, I want to be along." "It is a bargain," laughed Leslie, with no serious thoughts of its possibility. Peggy had asked permission to stay at the Eyrie if she were asked for supper, rather imagining that she would be, if chance took her there at the time. Jack probably would be working with Dalton until late. She welcomed, accordingly, the suggestion of their going out in the Sea Crest to take a look at the great bulk of the headland where it jutted out in its irregular masses over the waters that bathed its base. Before leaving, however, Peggy tarried behind to carry out an idea. It took the girls some time to climb carefully back to level ground and they took their own pace through the woods, or along the cliff, as fancy directed on their way back to the camp. They found Jack and Dalton perspiringly happy over their wood-chopping activities, for they were now trimming the trees of their branches and taking these to an open spot where they would dry for firewood. "Don't take the Sea Crest," said Dalton. "Catch us a fish for supper, girls." "All right, we'll either catch or buy one for you boys. Where's Beth?" "Haven't seen her this afternoon. She said that she was going to write to Mrs. Marsh. I went down to the village for her to get some groceries; so mind you have a good supper for your workmen, Les!" "We will. I'll stop to see Beth." At the camp they found Beth bringing up her correspondence, which was such a waste of valuable time in this glorious spot, the girls thought. Leslie and Beth planned their meal, which was to be a good one, whether they caught a fish or not. Peggy received her desired invitation before they descended the rocky way to where the row boat was moored. Sarita had stopped at the tent to get her field glass. They looked rather longingly at the Sea Crest, but their purpose could be as easily accomplished in the Swallow and there was a better chance of catching a fish for supper. Leslie was in charge of the fishing tackle and prepared to lure some unwary denizen of the deep to its destruction. So Sarita said, as she put her glass in a safe place and took the oars. The bay was calm and beautiful. This, after all, was their chief pleasure. Rowing steadily, for there was really no time to waste if they caught any fish for supper they reached the spot immediately opposite Pirates' Cove and its frowning cavern. "See? There are a lot of water birds now," said Leslie, pointing to some herring gulls that floated contentedly in the cove, not very far from the opening. "Yes," said Sarita, "but remember that they can lift their little feet and fly away from any wave or tugging below." Letting her oars rest, Sarita took her glass and began to scan the rocks above. "What's that sign up there?" she queried, her glass turned toward the left. "Funny! I never noticed it before." Sarita lowered her glass and looked at the girls. Peggy was as sober as a judge, her eyes widening. "Let Leslie look first," she said, as Sarita offered her the lenses. Sarita put them into Leslie's hand and she, too, expressed surprise. "There doesn't seem to be anything written on it," she remarked, still looking. "It is just a square white thing of some sort." Sarita looked again and then offered the glass again to Peggy, who did not try to keep from laughing now. "You little mischief!" Leslie cried. "Sarita, that is where we were this afternoon and Peggy stuck something up there. What is it, Peggy?" "Oh, there was just a piece of pasteboard in the bottom of the basket and I had a brilliant thought. That is why I stayed behind and you had to call to me to hurry up. I just pinned our paper napkins on top of the pasteboard and then stuck it up. The first good wind will blow it down. I thought that we could tell from down here what was next to it, you know, and whether there would be any chance of getting around any further." "Did you want our retreat discovered, Peggy?" "I thought of that, but I imagine that people have climbed all over there before, don't you?" "Very likely," Leslie replied. "Now be good children while I get ready to catch Dal's fish." The boat had drifted a little, and Peggy, who now was the only one with oars, looked mischievous as she allowed it to go just within the circle indicated by the chief buoy and one or two others. The other girls did not notice. Sarita was scanning the cliff and Leslie was engaged with the line. But they heard a hail and saw a boat approaching. "They'd better do all their calling before I begin to fish," said Leslie, looking at the approaching boat. "That's Bill and there's somebody else,--oh, it's Tom! We haven't seen him for an age." Tom was beckoning and Leslie looked around to see what could be the matter. "Peggy," she said; "child, you've gotten us inside the forbidden territory. Pull out!" Peggy did so without a word, but Tom continued to pull toward them and came up smiling. "How do you do, Miss Secrest and--?" He did not mention the other names, but took off his cap in salute. "Bill called my attention to you and I saw that you were in dangerous quarters, so I rowed over. See what luck we have had." Tom displayed the fish in the bottom of their boat with pride, while the girls acknowledged the presence of Bill with little nods and "how do you do's." He was not very responsive and one "How do you do, Miss?" sufficed for all. "Oh, Tom!" exclaimed Leslie, who felt that she knew the lad that had shown them how to run the Sea Crest. "Couldn't we buy some of those fish? We're not doing it for fun this time. The boys are hungry for fish and Dal doesn't have time to fish these days--he's so busy getting ready to build our log cabin." Leslie cast a surreptitious glance at Bill, remembering his warning to Dalton. But Bill was looking at Sarita's glass, which she held loosely in her hand. "Of course you can have some of our fish. We were going to sell them anyhow. It will be all right with you, Bill, won't it? I'm working for Bill now sometimes, Miss Leslie." Bill had surlily nodded assent to Tom's question, while Leslie bent over eagerly to look into the other boat, now close beside them, and to select her fish. "Kin ye see very fur with them, Miss?" Bill was now asking Sarita. "Oh, yes," she replied. "It isn't exactly like a spy glass, you know, but you ought to look at the moon with it some night when it's full!" Sarita bid fair to start on her favorite fad now. "I noticed ye lookin' at the rocks. What wuz ye lookin' fur? Do ye mind lettin' me look through 'em?" Sarita handed over her glass immediately. "Certainly you may use it," she said, though by this time it had occurred to her that Bill's question might have some other ground than mere curiosity. But it would never do to show any reluctance. "I thought that I found an eagle's nest the other day, and I was looking for that first. Then that forbidding old cliff is interesting anyway, don't you think so?" Bill grunted some reply as he focused the lenses with no unpracticed hand. "Somebody's tacked something up there," he said presently, the glass pointed in the direction of the "retreat." "I did that," said Peggy. "That is to show our prowess. We've been climbing around about as far as we could go, I guess, and I was wondering if there weren't other places we could get to." This was very bold, Sarita thought, to the man who was very likely the chief smuggler. But then, Bill worked for Mr. Ives, she knew. "You'd better be keerful, Miss Peggy. Fust thing ye know, ye'll miss yer footing and git drawed under in Pirates' Cove. Here, Tom, I guess she wouldn't mind if you took a look, too," and Bill handed the glass to Tom, who wiped his fishy hands first, then took it and looked through the lenses with deep interest. "No wonder you are crazy about the birds, Miss Sarita," said Tom. "I can see every feather on that gull." "I ought to have showed you when we were all on the Sea Crest so much," replied Sarita. "I was busy then," said Tom. Bill Ritter now asked Leslie if she had picked out the fish that she wanted. Leslie then pointed them out and Bill started to gather them up. Suddenly the boat tipped a little. Bill, stooping, seemed to lose his balance and fell against Tom, unexpectedly. For _calamitas calamitatum_,--Sarita's cherished field glass flew from Tom's hand, seeking a watery grave just inside of Pirates' Cove. Sarita gave a little exclamation. Bill's boat righted. Bill himself caught hold of Tom, then of the seat, to place himself again, and the incident was ended so far as the final disposal of poor Sarita's bird glass was concerned. Tom gave an angry and startled look at Bill, then began to kick off his shoes and pull off his old sweater. "What're you doing?" growled Bill. "Going down after her glass. You knocked it out of my hand! What did you mean by falling over me that way!" "I was trying to get their fish and put it over. Stay in the boat! You can't dive here. You'll never dive deep enough to git it!" Bill laid a detaining hand on Tom, who was distressed. "Oh, yes, Tom," cried Sarita. "Don't go in after it. Bill is right, and you didn't mean to do it!" "I should say I didn't!" exclaimed Tom, struggling with a desire to pitch Bill overboard. "I will get you some other good glass, Miss Sarita, as soon as I can. No, Miss Leslie, not a cent for the fish. That's the least we can do now. It was Bill's fault, too. I'll be up at the camp to see you about this, Miss Sarita." Seizing the oars, Tom rowed furiously away, paying no attention to Bill's growlings. "Those squatters on Ives' land have enough money to pay for our fish. That other girl picked three beauties and had her money out to pay for them!" Meanwhile Leslie, rather dazed by what had happened, picked up her oars and with Peggy's help rowed quietly toward home. Sarita sat idle, presently putting her face in her hands, while her shoulders heaved a little. Peggy looked serious. "She cares a lot, doesn't she?" she said in a low tone to Leslie. Leslie nodded, her face also serious, and a frown between her brows. Presently Sarita dropped her hands and wiped her eyes a little. "I couldn't help a little weep, girls," she said. "You don't know the things I went without to save up for that field glass! But it doesn't do any good to cry. Perhaps I can buy another some time. I can't let poor Tom buy any. He is taking care of his old grandmother now, Dal said. They live in one of the neatest cottages in the village, but Tom has to make what they live on. Dear me! Think of the birds that I'm going to miss!" "Sarita," said Peggy, "I'm going to buy some glasses. I'll tell Mother that Sarita has gotten me simply crazy about birds and I must have some binoculars like what Dad has, or some good field glasses right away!" Peggy bent over her oars well satisfied with her plans, while the other girls looked at each other and at her with smiles. "What should we do without our Peggy?" affectionately Leslie inquired. "Don't go too far, though, in saying how crazy you are about birds. Stick strictly to the truth, honey." "All right, Leslie. But I do like them and I want the glass awfully anyway. I'd lend Dad's, only I don't suppose you'd want to use that. You can teach me birds, Sarita, and we'll keep the glass at the Eyrie, so Dad will not find out. I'll use my own money if you would feel better." "Please, Peggy, don't do anything about it. I can get along. There are enough other nice things in this grand place! And please don't say a word about it at supper. I'll be able to enjoy the fun then. But if the boys know, they may talk about it and I don't believe that I can stand it just now." Sarita's voice was quivering again. Peggy spoke at once. "It's a perfect shame! Don't worry. I'll not say a word at camp. Besides,--I think that Bill did that on purpose!" "I wonder if he did!" exclaimed Leslie, looking at Sarita. CHAPTER XII ELIZABETH HAS AN ADVENTURE It is not to be supposed that Elizabeth Secrest was not having as good a time as the rest of the party, or that her days were altogether spent in the work and play of the artist. In a delicious rest of mind and body she had quickly gained back her nervous energy. Her camp life soon settled into a brief routine of daily duties, quickly accomplished with the help of the other girls, and into a rest and freedom from responsibility that she had not known for a long time. In this place of beautiful views and big spaces, worries seemed small. She often went alone to the beach, to walk up and down, sketch a little, pick up some newly deposited shell, or merely to sit, feasting her eyes upon the apparently limitless sea. One afternoon Beth was perched upon a rock, near the place where sand gave place to rock and their headland. She was thinking of their log house, so soon to go up now. Dalton was expecting the men on the following day. Her back was toward the village and she was not conscious of anyone's approach until she heard herself addressed. "Pardon me, madam, is this the Ives' headland, and are these what are called Steeple Rocks? From appearance I should say that they are farther on, but my directions pointed here." Beth looked around to see a young gentleman lifting his neat straw hat and regarding her rather seriously. He looked like any young business man from the city. "No, these are not Steeple Rocks. This is the Sea Crest headland," said Beth, making up the name as she talked. "Steeple Rocks lie around the bay, or across it from here." "They are those large masses of rocks with the two towers, then." "Yes. I call them Cathedral Rocks." "A good name." The young man smiled, looking at sea, rocks and sky, turning away from Beth a little and putting his hands in his pockets, like a boy who has just found a good place to play. Beth said nothing. He looked good, but Beth was not in the habit of making acquaintance with strange young gentlemen. "I wonder if you would mind giving me a little information about this neighborhood. I have just come by boat and rail from New York. I might add auto, if one could so denominate the ancient ark in which I was transported to the village." Beth laughed at this. "It must have been an ideal ride," she said. "We know all about that." "I wonder if you are not Miss Secrest." Beth's interviewer hitched himself up on a projecting rock near her. "I shall not trouble you long, but you may be willing to give me some advice. I can not find a desirable place in the village to stay, that is, a desirable place which is not already full of tourists or town families. "I came prepared to camp, but my driver told me that I must get permission to camp in any of these woods and I was referred to the home of a man named Bill Somebody. I caught a glimpse of him and I passed the house instead of stopping! I thought I would stroll a while first. For some reason I was not prejudiced in his favor." A whimsical smile curled around the newcomer's lips. "Bill seems to be the village type of ward boss and manager of the general situation. My brother found that out when he had occasion to inquire what sort of protection we might count on here. He found that there was none at all aside from such as this man and his friends might furnish." "Indeed. Have you had trouble?" "Nothing very serious so far, but it is just as well for a stranger to know about this. It is a funny little village. I have sometimes felt that I ought to do something for some of the people whom I have seen there. Some of the women are so hopeless looking. But my brother tells me to wait until we are better established. We are building a cabin." "I am sure that this is Miss Secrest, then. My name is Evan Tudor and I belong to that great army of aspiring writers that throng New York. While I am writing that best seller, you know, I am on a certain newspaper, and have another side line at times. "Down at the dock a while ago I met a young fellow named Carey, who told me that you owned the first woods up on the heights and that I might ask you for permission to camp there for the night at least." "Yes." Beth was hesitating. She liked the appearance of the gentlemanly stranger, but would it do to offer him a place to camp in their woods? "So, if your brother agrees, will you not consent? I make a neat camp and I will not set the woods on fire." Beth looked into the smiling face of the earnest young man and returned his smile. He might be a help, indeed, if they needed a friend at any time. "We are not stingy about our woods," she said, "to any one who is careful. It is, I know, a fine place, because of the spring and good water. We expect some friends to camp with us later on in the summer. I think that I shall have to talk with my brother before I can say positively that you can make a real camp on our place, but surely for to-night we shall not refuse hospitality. Did you say that you have your outfit ready? We might spare you some things." "Thank you. You are generous and kind. It is quite a relief to have it settled temporarily. Where shall I find your brother?" "He went out with our launch this afternoon, but he may be back at any time. You will probably want your equipment brought up by the road, not on the trail along the cliff. I can scarcely tell you now where to go, but you may select any spot that you like, if Dal is not there, and someone can show you the way to our camp; whoever brings you up will know the direction. It is toward the cliff, in any event. I will be there, or at the Eyrie, our little watch tower on the cliff." "Young Carey may bring my stuff, or get me some one," he said. "I will be at the camp or the Eyrie in about an hour, I think." Evan Tudor smiled as he mentioned the Eyrie, for he was thinking that the "dove-cote" would be a more suitable place for a pretty, gentle girl like Beth. But people did not always recognize in Beth's soft speech and ways of a gentlewoman her real energy and the fire of purpose which made it possible to do what she did. Bowing his thanks, Evan Tudor left Beth, treading quickly and surely close to the line of swirling foam, where the retreating waters were leaving the sand more or less closely packed. Beth watched him naturally enough, as he was the only person on the beach except herself. He carried his hat and let the breeze blow his thick brown locks as it would while he strode along. If the young lawyer at home had seen the interest in Beth's eyes, he would very probably have refused the opportunity which had just come to him to try an important case, and might have come to Maine on the next train. Mr. Tudor was above medium height, slender, active, with a lean, attractive face and a pair of keen gray eyes which were to be employed with great effect during the next few weeks in the lines of a duty and interest. Beth followed him with her eyes till he had left the beach for the village; then she rose to go back to camp. But she had another slight interruption before she reached the place where the Secrest party usually climbed to the trail. Rarely villagers were to be found on this part of the beach, unless it might be a few children gathering shells. Now, however, an odd party was slowly advancing along the shore. Two women with little shawls tied over their heads, long, full skirts and big shoes, were behind a few children who were shouting in their delight. The women were talking together and madly gesticulating as they talked. One of the peculiarly dressed children went too near the water and a wave which came in farther than the last one, as waves have a habit of doing, drenched the little one's feet. His mother, presumably, jerked him away roughly and spanked him soundly. Beth halted a moment at that and eyed the woman with some disgust. But that was an ignorant woman's way of bringing up her family. As Beth paused, one of the older children saw her and ran to show her a shell, probably attracted by Beth's face. An elfin face, none too clean, looked up at Beth, speaking a jumble of words in a foreign tongue. Beth shook her head to indicate that she did not understand, but she smiled and patted the little shoulder. In a moment the motley group stood around her. As Beth had picked up a handful of pretty shells when she first walked out upon the beach, she divided them impartially among the children. The mothers began to talk in guttural and foreign words, but Beth replied in English, knowing that it would be useless to try French, the only foreign tongue in which she could speak at all. The women and children laughed, and one little chap spoke proudly, waving his hand around. "'Merica!" he repeated several times. "Yes, this is America and the United States," Beth added. The child nodded. He understood that. Beth turned to the women and inquired, "New York?" But they looked at each other and obviously did not understand. Beth tried it again. "Boston?" she asked, for she felt that they must have come in on some recent immigrant trip. Again the women shook their heads. If they had docked at either New York or Boston they had not learned the name of the port. The older boy who had spoken before was watching Beth closely. He now pointed out to sea and said, "Ship,--'Merica." Beth nodded, smiled and turned to go, with her inadequate words of farewell. But they understood the friendliness in Beth's eyes and responded with more unintelligible words from the women and farewell shouts from the children, who went back to the swirling foam, or as near as they were allowed to go. More fishermen and their families brought to the village by Bill, Beth supposed. He must bring them directly from the immigrant ships,--or--another thought came to Beth. What if these people had no right to be here! Were they aliens properly coming in under the quota allowed by the government? Perhaps Bill brought in some of his fishermen illegally. "Poor little kiddies," Beth thought, "this is probably the first time that they ever played upon a beach!" When Beth reached camp, she found that Dalton and the girls had already returned. "I'm so glad that you are here, Dal," said she, "for I don't know but I've done something that I ought not." "What has the head boss done," grinned Dalton, "that she is willing to confess to a mere underling?" "Underling--nothing! You are the protector of this camp." "Come out, Les, Sairey,--and hear what our sister has to say for herself," Dalton called. The girls came out from the tent with smiling faces, ready to hear some joke on Beth. "What's Beth been up to?" queried Sarita. "Has she made friends with the Count? Promised Bill and Mr. Ives to leave these shores?" "Worse," laughed Beth. "I've rented camping space to a dangerously handsome young man. Seriously, Dal, if the young man I met on the beach just now is as good as he looks, it may not be a bad thing for you to have him somewhere near us while you build. But I made arrangements only for his camping in our woods to-night. You will have to decide the matter." "How old is he?" Sarita inquired. "I'm sure I don't know. He is a writer, from New York, and must have come here as blandly ignorant of accommodations as we might have been. I think that he expected to find a suitable room for a night or two in the village. But he has all his camping outfit, I understand. Tom Carey must have directed him to us, from what he said." To her interested audience Beth gave the details of her two adventures. Leslie was more interested in the children than in the young man and asked all about the party. "Funny that Bill gets all these new immigrants," she remarked. "No, Leslie," said her brother. "You see, Bill ships fish by boat or rail and he can get these people to work for him for next to nothing. You ought to see the shacks they live in. I bet some of them wish that they'd never come to 'Merica." "But at least they have enough to eat, catching fish," said Sarita. "I doubt it, if they work for Bill." "Come, children, I must hurry," said Beth. "There is a meal to cook and I promised to meet our boarder at the Eyrie." Beth put on an expression of great dignity. "Ha!" exclaimed Dalton. "Do you girls realize what has occurred? Never can we leave our sister unchaperoned again!" Dalton linked his arm in Beth's and began to stride around the camp with such long and exaggerated strides that Beth, laughing, had to run to keep up with him. But when she told him that the stranger would really arrive by way of the wood, he stopped and more sensibly directed their way into it, while Leslie and Sarita not understanding what that move meant, waved a goodbye. "I'll walk with you a little way," said Beth. "Have you seen anything of Peggy or Jack to-day?" "Not a thing. Peggy was coming early, too, for I told them that I was taking a day off before my men came to work on the house and that we would take out the Sea Crest." "Probably Mr. Ives has come home. Peggy so cherishes coming here, or so she says, that she does not risk him forbidding her to come." "He knows all about it, though. Didn't Peggy relate what he said about disliking the 'intimacy' with us?" "Yes, but that makes Peggy all the more afraid that he will stop it. Possibly he thinks that he will know what we are doing through her, however, though I can't imagine his getting much out of Peggy unless she wants to tell. Leslie worries about it slightly." "That is because it is not the sporting thing to accept a man's hospitality when one is opposing him. That is what bothers Les when Peggy takes her out in his launch or insists on her going around Steeple Rocks. After all, the hospitality is extended by Peggy and her mother." "Certainly, Dal. But Leslie and Sarita are not 'opposing' Mr. Ives exactly, are they?" "I am not so sure that their search for the 'secret' of Steeple Rocks will not result in their finding Mr. Ives much concerned in something decidedly out of the way. By the way, the launch put out from the village last night, or early this morning. I was awake and I heard it. It had disappeared in a thick fog by the time I reached the rocks." "Peggy herself seems to think that something is wrong," said Beth, thoughtfully, "but our girls scent a 'mystery' chiefly, and Sarita hopes to find some 'pirate gold.'" "Much good that would do her if she found it at Steeple Rocks, and the Ives have enough wealth as it is." CHAPTER XIII "WAVES OF BURNISHED GOLD" Before Beth realized it she was some distance within the thick forest with Dalton and she was just saying that she must go back, when they heard someone coming, off the scarcely recognizable trail, and struggling through bushes. Dalton, called, "this way," thinking that it was probably Mr. Tudor. It was the young man himself, fortunately for his good suit of clothes, in which Beth had first seen him, now attired in camping costume, with high leather buskins. "I missed the path, didn't I?" said he, smiling and pulling off his cap, "but I was pretty sure of the general direction toward the sea." "Mr. Tudor, this is my brother, Dalton Secrest," said Beth. "He will help you choose a place for your camp." Dalton held out his hand, liking Evan Tudor at once. "I'm glad to meet you, sir. If you are a writer, I suppose that you want a quiet spot?" "You are right; I should prefer to be back in the woods rather than near the shore. It will give me exercise to take a run to the ocean every day. But I want to thank you for allowing me to camp in your woods. I shall help protect it, I assure you." "I believe that you will, and we may need you, indeed. There is no reason why you should not stay as long as you like." Evan Tudor was surprised and delighted at this quick decision and told Dalton that he should have no reason to regret it, while Beth, seeing that her share in the affair was over, excused herself and went back to camp, though not before she had invited Mr. Tudor to be their guest at supper. "Perhaps I will send the girls to call you after a while," she said. "I suppose that you will show him to some place not too far from the spring, Dal?" "Yes, Beth." While Dalton and Mr. Tudor went back along the poorly defined bridle path to the road, which came from the village to the wood, then took a great curve to avoid it, Dalton explained that there would be some noise for several days while the men were putting up the log cabin, but that there was a good place for a camp of which he was thinking. "You will be surrounded by woods, though the spot is comparatively open, and if it is not too far from the spring you may like it. The little stream from our lake takes a turn there, and there are rocks on which your fires will be safe. Indeed, you might use that water safely, for the lake is never polluted in any way. It is little more than a big pool, fed by springs and a tiny brook above." "That sounds fine, but are you not building near your 'lake'?" "Not too close, though we are nearer the spring than we are at our camp. Beth hated to leave the vicinity of the sea. But now she sees that it will be better to be closer to the water supply." Mr. Tudor asked a number of questions and seemed to be interested in the way to reach Steeple Rocks from the woods. He inquired, too, about who were spending the summer there, in such a way that Dalton wondered if he had heard of the Ives before. Not knowing of any reason why he should not be communicative to this sincere appearing young man, Dalton mentioned Peggy, her mother and step-father, the Count, the foreign governess and the guests. He even told him of Mr. Ives' request that they should leave. "I tell you this, Mr. Tudor, because you, too, may not be wanted here. I'd keep an eye out. Have you any way of defending yourself? By the way, though, we'd rather not have any hunting done here." "I have no interest in hunting--animals, or small game of any sort," and Evan Tudor laughed. "But I am armed, after a fashion." Evan Tudor knew only too well that he would not be wanted, but he hoped to carry out the idea of a harmless writer on a vacation and to conceal his real purpose in coming. It was true enough that he was a writer, also that he needed a vacation. "Is there anyone besides Mr. Ives who feels inhospitable?" he asked. "Yes. A man whom they call Bill interviewed me, too, and warned me to mind my own affairs around here. He has a lot of people fishing for him and ships the fish. I rather think that Bill does a little rum-running, for there is much drinking in the village. Bill may ship that, too, for all I know. You may have to convince Bill that you are not employed by the government to detect rum-runners." "If Bill inquires," said Mr. Tudor with a smile, "you may tell him from me that I am not a prohibition agent, though I might do my duty as a citizen in that line, if necessary. However, I've another purpose, and I'll mightily enjoy this woods of yours. "By the way, I'd like to interview some of those interesting foreign citizens in the village. The setting for them here is just a little more intriguing than in New York, for a change. A friend of yours down there told me a good deal about you. What sort of a chap is Tom Carey?" "Oh, Tom Carey is straight and all right, if he does work for Bill. Bill has taken a notion to Tom and I suppose he finds him smarter and more reliable than most of his workers. You will have to be careful if you interview those foreigners. Bill may not like it." "I see. I'm to be careful about one Mr. Bill Ritter." They were pushing through the woods as they talked. Presently they reached the road where a man waited with a heavily-laden mule. Evan Tudor picked up a typewriter from the protection of some bushes and Dalton gathered up a suitcase, which he saw by the side of the road, and a basket of what he judged were groceries. "It was quite a walk for you with these things," he said. "Not so bad," said Mr. Tudor. "I had help and the mule carries the most of the outfit." It took almost as much time to get through the woods as to unload the outfit, but Dalton assured Mr. Tudor that in the direction of their camp the woods would be found more open and that it was not as far as it seemed. Evan Tudor was delighted with the camping spot and started at once to set up his small tent and arrange his supplies. Dalton began to help him, but the departing man, after he had received his pay, waited a few moments and then asked Dalton to "walk a piece" with him. "I want to ask ye somethin'," he said. There was a twinkle in Evan Tudor's eye as he glanced after them. He hoped that Dalton would establish what the modern youth sometimes calls his "alibi" and successfully divert suspicion; for Evan Tudor was on a quest. "Say," said the man, as he and Dalton had reached a spot out of hearing and Dalton stopped, not thinking it necessary to go any farther. "Say, Bill wants to know what this chap is up to. Is he any coast guard feller?" "Bill came to see us when we first came, and I just told Mr. Tudor that Bill was the high ruler of this little village and would very likely want to know about him. He laughed and said that he had nothing to do with catching rum-runners, or words to that effect. He is a writer looking for material and taking a vacation, I suppose. He just came from New York. "But I'm going to say to Bill sometime that he is going a little too far. The way he does things around here makes any square people suspicious. I'm too busy right now to spend any time on fellows like Bill Ritter, but I am a good citizen of my country and I'm not _protecting_ that sort of thing, either. Bill had better stick to fishing if he doesn't want to get into trouble some day." "I kinda thought you'd feel that way about it," said the man, "but you'll have to tell Bill that. Some of the rest of us don't like Bill any too well, but--well, the kids has to have bread and butter. Bill didn't tell me to ask was he with the coast-guard. That was my put-in. Bill told me to find out what he was up to. See?" "Well, now you know, and you can tell Bill from me that I informed Mr. Tudor about unfriendliness shown us and told him to be on the lookout!" The man laughed roughly. "I will. Sure he's a writer fellow all right?" "That is what he told me, and he talked like one. You noticed that he carried his little typewriter case, didn't you?" "Was that what it was? I noticed that he parked it kinda careful." Dalton felt that this conversation had not been in vain. He repeated it to Mr. Tudor, who was setting up a small heater and began to demur in regard to taking supper at the Secrest camp. "It's an imposition," he declared. "I have plenty to eat right here." "Sure you have, but what will Beth think? Moreover, we caught too many fish to-day for four people to eat up. Better not refuse to come,--make it a celebration of getting into the woods on your vacation." Dalton had scarcely stopped speaking when a feminine "Hoo-hoo" sounded from the woods across the stream. Leslie and Sarita were calling them. "Hoo-hoo," replied Dalton in shrill imitation, and added, "we'll be there, girls; give us ten minutes longer here." Evan Tudor straightened up from his work to look across at the two smiling girls. Introduction was impossible, but he raised his cap and smiled, standing "at attention," Sarita said, till they were lost again among the green spruces and birches. The girls reported to Beth what Dalton had said and preparations went on accordingly. The big fish were baking in the outdoor oven which Dalton had made. Beth was stirring up some blueberry muffins, to be baked in the oven of the "portable." "We were stunned, Beth," said Sarita, "by the style and bearing of your latest conquest. Not to be conceited at all, he looks like our kind of folks. Let's see, what's that sweet poem? "'When I behold thy lovely face 'Neath waves of burnished gold,'--what's the rest of it, Les?" "That's all we ever did get, Sarita. Beth found us as we had just begun to read it off, Dal and I." Beth, her lips tightly pressed together to keep them from laughter, pretended to be deeply offended. "Such girls! Come, now, Leslie, get out a glass of that jelly we brought from home and finish up the table." "It's serious, Sarita," laughed Leslie, still teasing her sister. "She is giving him our precious jelly!" "Don't you really want to, Leslie?" Beth asked. "Of course I do, silly. I know well enough that you are following Mother's rule of the best for guests. Where are the rest of those linen napkins? I suppose you will use those this time." "Yes, if we have any. Look in my trunk, top tray. If you can't find them, we'll just use the paper ones." But Beth kept laughing at the girls, for when Sarita suggested that Mr. Tudor was probably about forty, Leslie corrected her to "I should say thirty, just right for Beth, and poor Jim writes that they can't come yet!" "I don't blame him for taking that case, do you, Leslie?" "No, Sarita, of course not, but what is it that Shakespeare says about opportunity?" "Perhaps Mr. Tudor is not as good as Jim." "He is much more attractive, though I'd vote for Jim now because he is such a good friend." "Well you can't help whom you fall in love with or don't." "Yes, you can. At least you can keep away from people you don't want to fall in love with, like some _fascinating bad_ man; but I suppose that you can't very well make yourself fall in love with _everybody_ that likes _you_." "I'm _so_ glad that I have you girls' wisdom and experience to guide me," demurely said Beth, and Leslie was just thinking up some brilliant reply when they saw Dalton and their guest. But Leslie managed to whisper to Sarita before real introductions took place, "There's where Jim will have to do his best, because Beth doesn't care enough for him, if I'm any judge." Courteously Evan Tudor met the two girls, but he actually seemed almost embarrassed about having accepted the invitation to supper. "Really I think that it is enough to let me camp here, Miss Secrest," he said. "I finally persuaded him," said Dalton, "by telling him that his 'name was already in the pot' and that it would upset all your arrangements if he didn't show up." "Of course we would have been disappointed," cordially Beth added. "Now just excuse us a moment till we get up this camp meal." With her flushed cheeks and pretty smile, Beth made a charming hostess and Sarita whispered to Leslie as they began to do a few last things, "For all Beth says, he sees the 'burnished gold' all right." There was gay conversation and exchange of news during the good but very informal meal that camping made necessary. The Secrests described the locality, in which Evan Tudor was so much interested and he, in turn, had bright accounts of his recent experiences in the great city. "I am going to forget it all for a few weeks," he said. "If I write here, it will be because I can't help it. I brought the old typewriter along for fear the 'best seller' might insist on being written; but all that I really expect to do toward my future profession is to fill a notebook or two for future use. Well, I have one or two sketches to get off at once." "Will you put us all in for 'characters' in your 'best seller,' Mr. Tudor?" Sarita asked. "You might all figure in my fiction, but I'll not use you as 'types.'" "Thanks. I'd be proud to be in one of your novels, but I'd rather not be a 'character sketch.'" "Beth 'sketches' too," said Leslie. "Now, Leslie, are you going to play the part of _l'enfant terrible_?" asked Beth. "Please don't mention my efforts!" "Your brother has already told me that you are an artist, Miss Secrest. I wish that I might see how you interpret this place." Quickly Beth looked at Evan Tudor. He spoke of interpretation. Perhaps he was one who understood. But voices were coming from the woods and Mr. Tudor turned to look in that direction. "Hitch 'em anywhere, Jack," they heard. It was Peggy Ives with her cousin. CHAPTER XIV THE NEW CAMPER It could be easily seen that Peggy was under some excitement. She almost sparkled as she ran into the little clearing, alone first, for Jack was doing her bidding with the horses. She was wearing a new riding outfit and cried, "Look at me, folks. Don't I look grown up?" Not a little was she taken back upon seeing the stranger, but she recovered herself quickly, especially as Dalton rose and took a step toward her as if to protect her from criticism. Gaily Peggy extended her hand high, its fingers drooping. "Congratulate me, Dal," she said, "on some new clothes. We're having company,--but excuse me, Beth, for rushing in this way." Then she paused and waited to be introduced. "Miss Ives," said Beth, formally and sweetly, as if Peggy were as grown as she claimed to be, "you will be glad to meet Mr. Tudor of New York, a writer who is taking a vacation in our fine country." Peggy stepped forward a little to offer her hand prettily and modestly, as she had been taught to do. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Tudor, and I am sorry that I interrupted your visit, but this is the first time that the Eyrie has had company. "The great excitement, girls," she continued, looking at Leslie and Sarita, "is that we are having important guests and I can't get over having new clothes and part of the responsibility." Evan Tudor had said the few pleasant words of greeting that were proper when he met Peggy, and stood by, interested. Jack Morgan now appeared, equally resplendent in riding togs that were new. He came forward as eagerly as Peggy had done, but as he was not saying anything, he was not embarrassed when he observed the stranger. After Jack had been introduced, he began to explain why they had not been over. "Peggy and I have been trying to help my aunt with her plans. Uncle is bringing down, or up, from wherever they are a prince and princess, a grand duchess or two and I don't know whom else for a sort of house party, I suppose. Aunt Kit had a telegram some time ago, but we just heard about it lately. Then Uncle wired that he did not know just when they could get together, but he would bring them in the yacht and everything was to be ready to entertain them in their accustomed style." "That might depend upon their recent fortunes, don't you think, Mr. Morgan?" Mr. Tudor asked. He was standing with his hands behind him, a little smile on his rather thin face. "European royalty has had rather a hard time of it in some countries since the war." "You are right. I imagine that the Russian grand duchess doesn't find it any too pleasant at home." "In fact she could not stay there at all," said Dalton, "if I know anything about it." "But probably Mrs. Ives' guests are not all exiles," Mr. Tudor added, open for information. "Mother and Dad met some of them abroad, I think," Peggy volunteered. "And I think that Count Herschfeld knows some of them, and the Kravetz, too." Beth looked rather disapproving of Peggy's reference to her governess and Mr. Tudor wanted to ask who the Count and "the Kravetz" were; but he thought it not in good taste to ask any more questions. Peggy, however, explained. "The Count, Mr. Tudor, is a sort of secretary for my step-father. Do come over to see my things, girls. I shall have time to play around for several days. Dad wrote that they would be here at the latest somewhere around the twenty-eighth, he thought,--oh, girls, that--" Peggy had just thought. But Leslie spoke at once. "Indeed, we shall be over right away, Peggy. Would to-morrow morning be too soon? It is not very long till the twenty-eighth, is it, Dal?" Leslie looked soberly at her brother. "Not very, Les." "I wish that you would come, too, Dal. You have never been over and Mother was saying that she wanted to see the rest of the Eyrie family." "I want to see your mother, too, Peggy, but I'm too busy with the building, you see. Bring your mother over here." "I will, when the company goes. But then, she always has somebody." Peggy looked rather cross at the thought. "We'll ask your mother out for a little trip in the Sea Crest," Beth suggested. "Perhaps she will feel that she can run off for a little while." "I believe that she might," Peggy replied. Evan Tudor had noted Peggy's startled pause, and Leslie's question concerning the date. He had a particular interest in matters here which he was not disclosing yet, but he welcomed anything which threw any light upon it. When Peggy and Jack went away after their short visit, he walked beside Peggy's horse for some distance till it was necessary to strike off from the trail or bridle path to his own little camp. Several notes went into his small pocket notebook that night before he went to sleep. He was inclined to go abroad to do a little investigating, but he decided that first he should get some familiarity with the woods and coast by daylight. It might be just as well, too, to have one good night's rest. He expected to have few before the twenty-eighth. Early the next morning Evan Tudor was at the roadside, waiting, and who should come to meet him there but Tom Carey, who then rode to the town at the railroad and sent a telegram, written at length, and signed E. T. It was very innocent and related to a certain article which would be ready for the press to meet the editor's date. "Are you deeply engaged in the affairs of a certain man here named Bill?" Evan Tudor facetiously asked Tom, as he handed him the written message. "No, sir. I catch fish for him," said Tom. "I might be doing something else, perhaps, if he meant some things that he said to me, but what I do I do in the open." "Do you know what it is that Bill meant?" "No; I thought that it was liquor, but I am not so sure now." Tom dug his shoe into the turf by the side of the road with a troubled face. "Would you consider finding out for me, if I should take you into my employ without interfering with your work for Bill? Indeed, that would be a part of it." Tom looked up quickly. "You are after Bill!" "I am not sure that I am at all. Something is wrong up here. Can I count on you not to betray me?" "Yes, sir. Something _is_ wrong up here. I've got to stay here with my old grandmom that has been here all her life, and I'd like to see somebody beside Bill running things." "I picked you yesterday, from something you said," Mr. Tudor continued. "I am taking quite a risk to tell anyone that I have a quest here, but I shall need someone, and I happened to find that I need you right away. I made this appointment with you not knowing that I should have to send this telegram, but I hoped to secure your services. I _did_ expect to enjoy a little fishing, but I suppose that I shall have to keep up my writing a while, to give you the excuse of bringing fish to me every day. Tell Bill that the writing chap has ordered fish, shrimp, lobster, anything that you get particularly fine and every day. I mean to write, too,--but not _all_ the time." This mystery appealed to Tom, whose eyes sparkled. "You can count on me, sir. Prob'ly Bill will charge you fancy prices, though." "That is all right, and I'll pay you, too. It's going faster than I thought. Sure you can carry it off so that Bill will not suspect? It's all right for you to show an interest in me, of course." "I've kept more than one thing from Bill already, sir." "Don't forget, then." Tom carried the telegram into the station with an air of great indifference, as he happened to see a man who worked for Bill, in fact one of Bill's chief henchmen, on the platform. "H'lo, Tom. Wot'e ye doin' here?" "What ye doin' yourself?" Tom was grinning. Perhaps it would do no harm to let the man see the telegram. It would be better at any rate than to make any mystery over it. He went right ahead about the business of sending off the message, making out the blank and stuffing the original paper, scribbled by Evan Tudor, into his pocket. But the man was waiting curiously at the door. Tom hoped that it was mere curiosity that moved him. "Wot's the matter? Any of yer folks sick?" "No. I'm sending a message for somebody else, the new man that came in yesterday. I s'pose everybody in town knows--" "Say, wot was it about? Bill was kinda suspicious las' night." "Bill's always suspicious," laughed Tom. "Read it yourself." Tom pulled the mussed paper from his pocket. "The man's on some paper. Abner said that he wouldn't let anybody carry his typewriter but himself yesterday." "That so?" The man scanned the paper. "Lemme show this to Bill?" "I don't know whether I ought to give it to you or not. There's nothing private in it, I suppose, but he paid me to bring it and I was to ask whether there was any message for him. Suppose he asks me about this?" "_Was_ they any message fer him?" "No." "Well, I don't want it anyhow. I kin remember if Bill asts me." But Bill was not quite satisfied with the report of his henchman. He decided to see himself what the "young chap was up to," as he had done in the case of the Secrests. Evan Tudor was quite pleased with himself that he was running his typewriter at top speed, under the trees in his chosen retreat, when a rough man appeared before him with a "Hello." "Good morning sir." Evan looked up from his improvised seat on a boulder. "Too fine a morning to waste this way, isn't it?'" "Might just as well stay in the city if you have to write." "Just what I was thinking. But I don't know. This is a pretty good place to think; and I don't intend to keep it up after I get this off by mail, and maybe one or two other things out of my system." "Hunting a quiet place, then?" "Yes; but it is partly for a vacation, too. Aren't you the man who runs a lot of the fishing around here?" "Yes. How did you know?" "I think I saw you in the village, and someone told me. I got hold of a boy that works for you and I told him to bring me something every day, fish, shrimp, your choicest of anything. Can that be done?" "Yes, but you will have to pay for it." "All right. Want a little pay in advance?" "No objection." "Don't cheat me, then." Evan Tudor's tone was not one which would give offense, rather one inclined to banter. He felt in his vest pocket and took out a folded bill, for five dollars. "That all right?" "We'll do the best we kin fer ye." Bill pocketed the money. This chap was easy. "Say are ye a friend of them Secrests? You was eatin' there last night." "Certainly I am a friend of theirs, though I never saw any of them before last night. And I don't like that, Mr.--" Not recalling Bill's name Mr. Tudor paused for a moment. "That looks a little as if I were being spied on. Are there any parties around here from whom I may need to protect myself?" Evan's eyes flashed. Bill's eyes fell. He was used to taking the initiative in threats. This was something new for him. "If ye mind yer own business, I reckon ye needn't be afraid of nobody." "That is good. I'll not be, but it is just as well in a new country to be ready, I suppose. How are the village people about talking to strangers? I want a little material in the line of characters and I may wander among those interesting shacks a little. Will they throw me out?" Mr. Tudor's face wore a whimsical smile. "They might. I wouldn't advise ye to git too smart around here." Bill sauntered off. He had come from the direction of Steeple Rocks, Mr. Tudor noted. He smiled to himself as he started the typewriter once more. He was _paying_ Bill, Bill the chief sinner, aside from _those who paid him for doing what he was doing_. Evan Tudor spent the rest of the day in spying out the land. He searched the woods, finding it a glorious grove of beautiful trees and interesting growths of bush and fern. He had the love of a scientist for the different phases of wild life and spent some time over curious flowers, taking a list of those he knew for future use in some setting of a story. Toward dark, he entered the Ives' land and after dark he wandered around Steeple Rocks, feeling justified in the intrusion, for his quest was a trust. But as it grew late he hurried back to his tent, for he rather expected that some watcher would know whether he spent the night in his tent or in "snooping." He thought that so far he had escaped observation since evening fell. And after all, an early trip about would be only natural to a newcomer. Evan tried to put himself in the place of the evildoer, suspicious, fearful, and he wished at first to allay those suspicions. As he approached his tent, he thought he heard a rustle in the bushes. He put a tree between himself and the noise, but hummed a little. A shot in the dark would be possible, but scarcely likely. Bill would be the first one to be suspected, and Bill, whether able to prove an alibi or not, did not want any investigating authorities. So reasoning, young Tudor boldly walked to his tent, turned his flashlight inside of it and finding it empty, except for his undisturbed possessions, entered, lit a candle and prepared for the night. He lay awake for some time, a little uncertain whether or not he might be the intended victim of some attack. He was ready but nothing happened. No suspicious noise of any human source disturbed him. Finally he had to fight to keep awake, but when the stirring of the birds denoted the dawn, he fell into a deep slumber and slept far into the morning. CHAPTER XV MORE DISCOVERY There was early rising at the Eyrie on the morning after they had shared their supper with the new camper. Jack arrived from Steeple Rocks even before the men who were to help Dalton, and wore his working clothes. He reported that Peggy was up, expecting the girls at any time, but he drew Leslie aside, as he sometimes did, to tell her the developments at Steeple Rocks. Leslie was glad that Sarita was still getting ready, for Sarita was inclined to tease her over Jack's preference. It was clear that Jack valued Leslie's opinion on affairs at least. "My aunt is nervous and worried, Leslie," said Jack. "She announced this distinguished company about to arrive, but does not seem certain just when they will arrive. The Kravetz is back, but disappears for a long while and pays no attention to Peggy. I overheard her say to Mrs. Ives that it was absurd to dress up Peggy to help entertain '_for so short a time_.' Then my aunt said that she intended to have someone of her own right at hand, and she said it almost in a tone of desperation. The Kravetz sometimes has an air of dictating to my aunt that I have wondered about. "Aunt Kit said 'all my own friends have been sent away on one excuse or another and I have this lot of foreigners to entertain _again_, half the time without my husband, I suppose!' "'He will be here,' the Kravetz said, 'and the Count and I will help you.'" Jack laughed. "The Kravetz got up and went into the house, and Aunt Kit, who knew that I was in the hammock, came right over to me. 'Jack,' she said, 'if I ever needed my own people it's now. Promise me that no matter how insulting Madame Kravetz or anyone may be, you will stay around.' So of course I promised, though if I get scared out at 'royalty' I may come here and bring Peggy any time. Peg, though, is all keyed up and tickled over her new clothes. It will be all right if I escape to the Eyrie, will it?" "You know that it will, Jack," said Leslie heartily. "Do you know who any of them are?" "No, not by name. I supposed that they were people of title that my aunt and uncle met abroad; but from something she said I think that they are people whom she has never met at all. Yet she spoke of entertaining them 'again.' How do you account for that, Leslie?" "Perhaps she has had to entertain a different lot of them some other time," said Leslie. "I expected you to say that. I rather think that she has, and if they are like the Kravetz, well, good-night!" Leslie laughed at Jack's expression, but Jack looked around to see that no one was near and bent to say something low into Leslie's ear. "Jack!" she exclaimed, as if startled. Then she looked into his eyes. "Jack, you've got it! That must be the matter over there,--and your aunt suspects it, but isn't sure, or else,--" Leslie broke off, for Sarita was coming. They both turned with smiles and Leslie said, "Jack was just telling me of all the excitement over the guests that are coming. He does not appreciate it at all and would rather help build log cabins, I guess." As Dalton came up to claim Jack, the girls started toward Steeple Rocks. Sarita led the way, partly by the woods, but they decided to enter the grounds near the cliffs and Sarita suggested visiting the "Retreat," or Peggy's little Eyrie. They found the rocks slippery from the mist, but the more cautious Leslie followed Sarita's lead and they reached the cave without accident. "That was a bit risky, Sairey," she said. "We'd better come here when it is dry." But Sarita hushed her and reminded her that they had come to see if they could notice smoke again. Stooping, they went as far back as they could and Sarita observed that a piece of rock was loose at the hole where Peggy had been tempted to crawl in. She knelt and tugged at it, without any particular purpose except that of general investigation. To her surprise, it gave way and she nearly fell backward, losing her hold upon the rock, which rolled in the other direction, instead of out, though it seemed to stop with a bump against something. Sarita looked up at Leslie with a comical expression as she straightened herself and leaned forward to the opening again. She was about to say something, when to the girls' surprise they heard an exclamation, "What is that?" someone asked. Both girls instinctively drew back and put their fingers to their lips in warning to each other. But what they next heard they placed more as if the sound were conveyed through a speaking tube in this curious place. Another voice was answering. "Rocks fall once in a while. There's quite a crack by you. It's more or less honeycombed, but there is no danger here." "I see. I noticed a little draught when I lit my cigaret." More followed, but the persons speaking were not in the proper position now for more than a murmur to be heard. "How _lucky_ that we didn't say anything near that hole!" whispered Sarita, as both girls withdrew toward the entrance. "Do you suppose that anything we _have_ said here has been heard?" "I scarcely think so. Something would have been done about it, you know. It looks as if the secret of Steeple Rocks were nearly ours, Sarita, doesn't it?" "It certainly does. Wait. I'm going back a minute." Sarita knelt again at the opening and thrust her head within, to Leslie's disapproval. She followed her, catching hold of her dress and looking at the rocks above her to see if any more had been loosened. She was relieved when Sarita drew back again. "Too dark to see anything, Leslie," she reported when they were outside. They covered the rest of the way to Peggy's house with very little conversation. "That was a stranger," Sarita commented. "The other voice was like the Count's," said Leslie. "Shall we tell Peggy?" "I suppose so," said Leslie doubtfully. She was thinking about that. What Jack suspected she would keep to herself for the present, but Peggy had a right to know the secret of her Retreat. Peggy was delighted to see them and took them to her room for what she called the "gorgeous display," some very pretty but suitable frocks for a young girl about to mingle with others who had them. "It is going to be quite a house party," Peggy said, "and a few of them may stay for some time, Mother says. It's awfully interesting, though 'royalty' doesn't mean so much any more. We had a princess once while we were in Florida and she had wonderful jewels. Mother thinks that there is one girl about my age. You simply must come over, girls!" "Clothes, my dear Peggy. Wouldn't we look great to a grand duchess, in this rig, for instance?" Leslie turned slowly around, with the air of a fashion show model, displaying a sweater much the worse for wear and her oldest gym bloomers. "I really meant to put on something better, like Sarita, but I thought that I could sneak up to your room without your mother's seeing me, and we want to go out in the boat afterwards, or we _did_ want to go." "I mind the maids more than I do your mother," laughed Sarita. "The last time, you should have seen the scorn with which your mother's maid looked at me." "Pooh! What's the difference? You girl's always look like somebody nice, no matter what you have on. Jack says so, too. But what has happened to change you about going out in the boat? Is it going to be bad weather?" Peggy glanced toward the window, where sunshine was driving the mists away. "Mercy no! It's going to be a _wonderful_ day. Leslie, tell Peggy what we heard. It's a great discovery, Peggy." Peggy threw across the bed her most cherished frock which she had saved for the last to show them, and clasped her hands together in her eagerness to hear what had happened. They all sat down together on Peggy's low day bed, a pretty wicker affair which stretched at the foot of the other bed. Peggy was in the middle. A background of silk and fluffy chiffon and tulle behind them set off the three heads bent close together, as the girls related in whispers what had occurred. Peggy was delighted, with little thought of what the discovery might imply. "Then there _is_ a cave somewhere! Girls, we have simply _got_ to find it! Will you go back there now with me? I'll call Pugs, to hang up the things, and get into my knickers and sweater in a minute!" Peggy's maid came into the room while the girls were still waiting for Peggy to scramble from one costume into another. She tried to smile and help Peggy, but the girls could see that she had been crying. Peggy explained as soon as they started out. "I didn't know that dear old Pugsy cared that much for me. I've been a lot of trouble to her. But honestly, she's almost a part of the family to Mother and me. Perhaps Mother can get out of it, but Dad says that Pugsy's got to leave. I must have a maid that speaks French now! If it were Mother that wanted it, I could understand, but what does Dad care whether I speak French or not?" "It will be fine when you travel," said Sarita. But Leslie, thinking of what Jack had said, wondered if Mr. Ives did not want to employ another foreigner instead of "Pugsy." A dark-browed maid who was dusting in the hall looked at them in none too friendly a way. Even Sarita spoke of it afterward. But Peggy paid no attention to their surroundings as they left the house behind and darted past flower beds and masses of shrubbery on their way to the rocks. Once there, Peggy viewed the hole and was duly impressed. She had brought a flashlight, which disclosed nothing but rock beyond the hole, with a slight descent to where the loose rock had rolled. Granite walls and an arching ceiling were above. Leslie knew that it was foolish for all of them to enter, though Sarita declared that never a rock could fall on them. Nevertheless the prospect was so tempting that Leslie crawled in after the others. There was at least good air within. They hoped to find a passage to the cave whence the voices had come; but after a short distance, which they could cover without stooping, they were stopped by a granite wall as hard as the rest of Steeple Rocks. There was a deep fissure, however, and there they could feel a decided draught. The light turned off, they sat down to listen. Perhaps they could hear something more, if the people were still in the cave. Peggy suggested that perhaps they had heard the Count and someone back in the office. "I feel pretty sure that they have something back in the rock," whispered she, "perhaps a real cave, and more than just Dad's safe." But Leslie shook her head. "I may be mistaken, but I think that this came from below." As if to confirm her words, there came the sound of conversation, a mere murmur at first, then a few words very loudly conveyed by this queer speaking tube which nature had provided. The next were fainter, and then there was the murmur. "He's walking around," Leslie suggested. Peggy had a picture of someone restlessly pacing a cave. "Well, I hope that Ives will hurry up this house party. I'm certainly sick of staying here. How do I make up as an English lord, Bill?" A hoarse laugh was the answer to this, but Bill was not standing so close to the fissure, it was obvious. "And how am I going to get out of this?" "Same way you got in, by boat and at night." "Why can't I leave in the daytime if you can?" "Well, in the first place, you wouldn't care to play the fisherman, I think, the way you look now, or to stay in one o' the shacks with the rest o' the crowd. I kin take you out to-night, if you want to go, but what I'm going to do now is to swim under water a ways. Want to try it?" "No thanks. But I'll join the rest to-night. A little dirt on my face will make it all right, and I'd rather be with folks than in this terrible place." "A little timid, huh?" "I'll show you whether I'm timid or not!" The girls were breathless, wondering what was going to happen, but the ferocious Bill was evidently possessed of soothing powers. "No, now there ain't no call to git excited. There's going to be enough people here when the schooner comes in." "Yes," sarcastically said the other man. "You're going to make enough money to give up fishing by that time, aren't you?" "I might if they wasn't others I had to divide with," growled Bill. "You pay attention to yer own affairs. You got it fixed with Ives about yerself?" "Yes." The girls heard Peggy gasp, but the voices were not sounding as if either man were very near the "Steeple Rocks speaking tube," as Leslie began to call it. Probably Peggy would not be heard. For some little time the girls sat still, in uncomfortable positions, but they heard nothing more. Peggy was the first to jump up, and by the light of the flashlight which she carried, they all found their way back to the opening and crawled out. "I forgot to look, girls," said Leslie, "to see if there were other rocks that could get loose outside, and after we were in there, listening to Bill and that other man, I began to think what if a rock fell down and closed up this hole!" "We could have called down the speaking tube, Leslie," Sarita suggested. "Yes," said Peggy, "and have Bill see that we stayed in there forever! 'Sad loss of three bright young people at Steeple Rocks', would be in the paper." Peggy was so funny as she said this that Leslie and Sarita both laughed, though the subject was far from laughable. Peggy was frowning now. "Let's go right now and tell Jack," she said. "I certainly heard enough about Dad, didn't I?" Neither Leslie nor Sarita replied to this question, for they knew that Peggy did not expect comment. They were helping each other around the jutting part of the cliff now and did not resume conversation until they were on the path. Then Peggy cried, "Oh, girls! I was going to watch to see where Bill came out, weren't you?" "Yes," said Leslie. "I thought of it when Bill said that he was going to 'swim under water a ways.' What possessed us? But, after all, we could not have seen anything from the Retreat. Come on; let's climb down sort of near your yacht dock, Peggy. Perhaps we can see Bill come out of the water yet." This was no sooner said than done. As quickly as possible, the girls found a spot which would command most of the shore around the bay. The girls looked over the surface of the cliff, as they had done many times before, without finding any opening. "If he has to swim under water, the cave _must_ be at the bottom," said Leslie, decisively, "and the only place, girls, where a boat could go in, is in Pirates' Cove!" "Then Bill will swim out there and get to the rocks outside on _this_ side,--unless he has a boat tied in the channel." "I think that it would be too great a swim to the channel, unless it would be right near our dock around there, and Bill would run the risk of Mother's coming down to the beach or of somebody's seeing him from the house." "Your mother wouldn't be surprised to see Bill there,--not very, would she, Peggy?" "Perhaps not. Let's get up a step higher. We can look over these rocks then, and duck down if Bill should come out anywhere near the dock. _Then_ we shall have to scamper up and out of sight as quickly as possible." In spite of Peggy's evident chagrin at the implications about Mr. Ives in the conversation which they had overheard, she was enjoying the excitement, Leslie could see. There might be some compensations for Peggy, Leslie thought, in the discovery of Mr. Ives' operations, if it led to her freedom from their shadow. But would it? What ought to be done now? She must tell Jack at once,--so much was clear. But it might be even dangerous for anyone who interfered. Could Jack and Peggy keep their knowledge from Mr. Ives and that household of suspicious foreign servants? The more Leslie thought, the more undecided she felt. For some time the girls waited uneasily. Perhaps Bill had gone, or perhaps he was taking some time, making ready for the "enough people" who were to be there when the "schooner" came in! Probably they would miss him altogether. No! There he was! Peeping over the rocks, the girls caught each other's hands in their excitement. Bill came up out of the water and shook it from him like a big mastiff. He looked around hastily to see if he were observed and the girls kept very still. Sarita and Leslie, indeed, ducked behind the rocks, but Peggy, who had taken a black silk handkerchief from her neck, wrapped it about her head and kept on looking. It was not very likely that Bill would see them, yet he might if he looked above on his way over the rocks from those at the base of Steeple Rocks, where he had emerged from the Cove waters. Peggy gave the word to start up. "He's going over the rocks now. Stoop low and you'll get to the top in a jiffy! He'll only hope that we haven't seen him, if he does see us. But it isn't so wonderful for a person to go in swimming anywhere here." CHAPTER XVI THE DILEMMA From the rocky steps where they had been watching the return of Bill Ritter, Leslie, Sarita and Peggy plunged into the woods as soon as possible and by that more devious route reached the Secrest camp. They were rather surprised to find it not yet ten o'clock, but they had spent much less time with Peggy, at what she called her fashion show, than they had expected. Then the time spent in the Retreat and in waiting for Bill's appearance must have been much less than it seemed. When they reached the new clearing on the slight rise of ground not far from the spring, they found Dalton and his men hard at work and Dalton jubilant over the prospect of speedy building. Beth was sitting on a pile of logs making a sketch of the place and the workers, "for us to remember how it looked," she said. Dalton dropped his work to join the girls and look at the sketch. "Pretty good, sister," said he. "Do you know I've a great notion to plaster this house and stay here through the winter." "What do you mean, Dal,--stay _alone_, or no school for any of us?" The tone of the surprised Beth was not as reproving as Dalton might have expected. "No school for anybody," asserted Dalton, though he had really not thought this out before. "It would be the best thing in the world for you, Beth, and think what snow scenes you could immortalize with your pen, pencil and brush!" "Ridiculous boy!" "Oh, let me board with you instead of going to Florida. I never _have_ had any winter sports!" Peggy's voice was coaxing. "We'll have skiing down the hills, that hill where you saved my life, Dal,--and skating, and ice-boating and everything on the bay!" Even Leslie and Sarita, who were more interested in lessons than Peggy, brightened at the thought. "Poor me!" exclaimed Sarita. "I'd have to go home and miss it all!" "Vacation, Sarita," suggested Peggy, "the Christmas vacation." "We'll skate on our little lake, Peggy," said Dalton, "as if it were already decided, and we can have a dog-sled to take us to town,--" "Crazy!" laughed Leslie. "But, Beth, I believe that Dal is in earnest." "Wait till he has fires to make some morning when it is below zero, ice to break, water to carry and everything frozen up." "Not much worse than a furnace to take care of, Beth," said the man of the house. "We'll have a big fireplace in one room and a big heater somewhere, a shed full of coal, and wood on the place,--think it over. I've got to work." Whistling a little, Dalton went back to help and direct. "Dalton just loves this," said Leslie, "but look, Beth, here comes Mr. Tudor." With a salute to everybody, Evan Tudor stopped first to speak to Dalton, then joined the other group with greetings. Peggy, remembering her impulsive entrance of the previous day, bowed sweetly, but with dignity, while Leslie asked if he had been annoyed by the sounds of building so early. "I slept as if I should never waken this morning and I have only just eaten my breakfast. There must be something in this air, as advertised! I prowled around a while last night, enjoying the woods and the shore. At this rate, it looks as if you would have a house up in no time." "They will," said Peggy, "and Dal is planning to make it so they can stay all winter." Peggy looked wickedly at Beth. Evan Tudor looked surprised, but said, "It would be very beautiful here in winter." "I'd like to try it once," said Leslie, "but not unless the whole family wanted to do it, for Beth might get pneumonia and then we'd be in a pretty pickle!" "It would be lovely here, with the ice and snow," Beth acknowledged, relenting a little, "and I seldom ever take cold. I'd have to watch the rest of you to see that you were not careless." "Oh, Beth," cried Peggy, assuming her own presence, "we'd fish through the ice, and Leslie and I would do the cooking!" Then Leslie and Sarita did laugh, for Peggy could not cook anything and had confessed the fact before. "Well," Peggy continued, answering their thought, "couldn't I _learn_?" At this point Beth glanced at her wrist watch and asked if a short trip in the Sea Crest would not be possible before lunch, in order to show Mr. Tudor the bay and the rocks. "If we should be late, Dal will make the hot coffee for the men. They bring their lunches, but we give them something hot, and I have everything ready, beans all cooked and some meat." Everybody thought this a good plan, especially as they could take Peggy home by launch and Jack, if he thought best. Otherwise, Jack could have beans and coffee with Dalton. But Jack decided to go with them, for Peggy privately informed him that she must consult him about something. On the way to the boat, Beth exhibited the Eyrie to Mr. Tudor, while Jack, Leslie, and the other girls went on down the rocks to get the launch ready and start the engine. None of them were disappointed by any lack of enthusiasm on the part of their guest, for though Evan Tudor was not particularly voluble in his speech he gave the impression of not missing any practical or inspirational detail in the comments which he made. After the start Mr. Tudor sat or stood with Beth, who pointed out the sights, while Jack at the wheel listened to what the girls had to tell him with Peggy as chief spokesman. He made little comment at first and the impatient Peggy urged him, saying, "Well, Jack, why don't you go 'up in the air' about it?" "It is too serious, Peggy. I don't think that you know just how serious it is. That fake English lord in the cave only proves what I have been suspecting." "_What_ have you been suspecting, Jack?" "I'd rather not say, Peggy. Suppose we wait a little. I am thinking that about the twenty-eighth we may find some others of the same sort, only pretending to carry out the house party idea with your mother, and then some that are very likely real titled exiles." "But why would they do that? Why should this man hide away? Is he afraid of somebody? And why should Dad let him hide there? Just what is it that Dad is doing?" "I am very much afraid, Peggy, that your step-father is helping these people into the country against the law, and probably for a good price. I hope that it is the Count who is doing it,--that is, I have been hoping that, with Uncle's just letting him use the place and entertaining as his guests only some people brought here in his yacht that really have a right to be here. But I think now that the yacht is a blind and that everybody will come in on the 'schooner.'" "Oh!" Peggy began to understand more clearly. "Shall I tell Mother, Jack?" "No. I've got to find out _what_ to do." But as it happened, neither Jack nor Peggy nor any of the Secrests decided what was to be done; and it was better so. The little cruise was delightful. Troubles seemed far away after they gave themselves to the lure of the water and sky and the motion of the boat. Even Peggy, who had at first been startled and distressed at Jack's clear statements, seemed to forget and joked as usual with the girls. Leslie was thoughtful, wondering what their duty was. It was not pleasant to have such a problem presented to them. Evan Tudor, who could run a launch quite well himself, was entirely content to be a passenger, visiting with the pretty artist and forgetting his quest in these parts, except to fix in mind the location of Steeple Rocks and Pirates' Cove. He intended to go out in a row boat to investigate that region. Jack and Peggy were left at the dock in Ives Bay, while Leslie took the wheel for the homeward trip. This they made quickly, landing in time for Beth to superintend the hot lunch. Mr. Tudor was invited to partake, but he thanked Beth and declined, saying that he had work to do and that his late breakfast made a late lunch desirable. For Leslie and Sarita it had been a full and surprising morning. After lunch was over, with its work, they found a quiet place apart where they could discuss the present dilemma. CHAPTER XVII PIRATES' COVE Bill's men, out in the boats, reported to him at noon the short trip of the Sea Crest and the passengers upon it. Bill accepted the report, thinking that the "writin' feller," if he liked the girl who made pictures and kept himself to his work and his visits with the Secrests, was probably harmless so far as Bill's pursuits were concerned. He dispatched Tom Carey with an excellent choice of fish, which he could leave at the tent if the man had not returned. But Tom chose to wait for Mr. Tudor. "Hello, Tom," Evan Tudor called, as he approached his tent and saw Tom stretched out on a rock by the stream. "Have you been waiting long? You might have left the fish, but I'm glad that you did not. Anything to report?" This last was in a lower tone, after he had jumped across the stream by its little stepping stones to the rock where Tom now stood. "Yes, I have. Here are the fish." "Good. Those are fine. Bill must think that I have an appetite, but then I did not limit the quantity and the more delivered the better business for Bill." "Yes, sir," grinned Tom. "I didn't expect to have any news for you so soon, but Bill is about sick to-day, having a chill or something. So he wants me to take a boat, go to Pirates' Cove, row into the cave and bring out a man." "What?" Evan Tudor was a little puzzled. "I thought, from what I have been told that it was not safe to go into the Cove at all. Miss Secrest just spoke of it on a trip that they took me around the bay and through the channel to Ives Bay." "Yes, sir. I was there when a man told Bill about your being with them." Tom and Evan Tudor exchanged glances. "Miss Secrest told me quite a tale of disappearances and of the danger where that opening occurs." "Yes, sir; that is what is generally thought around here. But my grandmother has always laughed to me about it, and she remembers the time when people used to visit the pirates' cave." "Then probably smugglers built up this tale for their own purposes." Tom nodded assent. "I've told you how Bill wants to get me into all this, and get some hold on me, you know. If you weren't here I'd never do it in the world, but I've pretended to listen to what he says about 'making good money.' I don't know why he doesn't have someone else go, unless it is dangerous and they will not do it, or there is some smuggled stuff that he can't trust them with, or he just wants to get me into it. I'm not afraid to go, and it is a good chance to find out." "Don't risk anything on my account, Tom; but if you think it safe to go, I shall be among those rocks somewhere with a boat. Call if you are in any danger. I am a good swimmer." Tom, rather glad that there would be help at hand if any were needed, went away and Mr. Tudor examined his fish. Soon they were cooking over a good fire, while a well satisfied young man watched them and made more plans. This was a great opportunity. He would visit the cave after Tom and the man had left. There was a possibility of there being others in the cave, but he would risk that. It was not very likely. Perhaps Tom could let him know in some way if there were, though no signal had been agreed upon. Indeed, he must keep out of sight. Evan Tudor did not know, of course, that he would not be the only watcher that night. The only decision that the girls and Jack had been able to make was that of immediate action in seeing Bill take out the man whose voice the girls had heard through the "speaking tube." It would never do to miss that. Leslie thought that perhaps Peggy would want to give up their plan after hearing Jack's plain statements. But the last thing that she said before the Sea Crest left her and Jack at their dock was, "Now don't forget to-night!" Peggy still loved mystery. More than once Peggy afterward remarked to Dalton, with whom she became so very, very well acquainted, that it was funny how the different people who were engaged that night in Pirates' Cove affairs had no knowledge of each other. Bill's man escorted Tom part way, but did not know about Tom's relation to Mr. Tudor. The pretended nobleman had no idea how near discovery he was. The Ives-Secrest group knew nothing about Mr. Tudor and he knew nothing of their interest or presence at first. Peggy and Jack decided that rather than steal out of the house late at night it would be better to go out openly for a row to the Eyrie, early in the evening. Peggy's mother would assume that they had returned, they hoped, for Mrs. Ives was concerned about other things. Their plan was to return with the girls and hide among the rocks in the channel, where there was a view of the Cove. About the time the last boats were going in they would quietly row out from the Eyrie. This plan was carried out. It was about one o'clock when a boat came into the bay from the sea, and after reaching quiet waters, edged around into the channel. Naturally Leslie did not know that it was their own Swallow, borrowed from Beth and Dalton by Mr. Tudor, though he had not come for it till long after the first party had left the Eyrie. Sarita had gone to sleep, lulled by the gentle rocking of their boat, for the wait seemed long. Her head was on Leslie's shoulder, but she was startled awake when Peggy clutched Leslie and whispered, "Oh, who is this? One of Bill's spies?" "Sh-sh," Jack warned. But it would not be easy to see them among the shadows of the rocks, and presently they saw the boat no longer as it gently glided farther within the channel, and none too soon for its occupant, for two more boats, rapidly rowed, approached the mouth of the Cove. In one was Tom, who was given final orders and directions by the man in the other boat. Bay and Cove were comparatively calm. The night, too, was clear so far, bright with stars and a late moon, a condition good for the watchers, but not so favorable to any underhand project. The girls located the dark opening into the cave and watched tensely. The one boat waited at the rocks which marked the beginning of the Cove. Tom's boat entered the Cove and went straight across to the mouth of the cave, with only one exception, when Tom avoided a foaming, restless stretch where some hidden rocks lurked like Scylla of old. "Look! He's gone right on in," said Leslie, "without a bit of trouble!" "Wait till you see if he ever comes out again," Sarita returned, for she still more than half believed in the old story. "If he does and they get away all right, let's go in, too," Peggy suggested, a wild desire to see the inside of that cave taking possession of her. They could take the same course. That boat had kept steady, unharmed, not tossed about by any current or whirlpool. "It would be safe enough," said Jack, looking at his watch, "if we can do it before the tide comes up much. It is not quite low tide now. I looked up the tides before we came out. It will be easier to get in at low tide, though we may have to watch for rocks more. Make up your minds what you want to do, girls." "If it were a question of _wanting_," said Leslie, "I'd say go at once, but I'm not sure it would be very safe. What do you think, Sarita?" But Sarita did not answer, for at that moment Tom's boat shot out from the dark, spray-washed entrance. All had seen the flash of light, presumably from Tom's flashlight, as he took his bearings before starting out of the cave. Two figures were in the boat this time. Over the legend-cursed waters of Pirates' Cove Tom's boat sped, faster than when it was attempting an unknown course. Again they saw him avoid the one tempestuous spot. Again they saw him reach the rocks and the buoy where the other boat waited. The watchers did not hear, however, the rough jeer with which the man who rowed the accompanying boat greeted Tom. "So Bill's got ye at last, has he? Ye'll work fer him now or yer life won't be safe. That's yer 'nishiation, did ye know it?" Tom was spared an answer by the rough order of the man whom he had brought from the cave. It was to the effect that this was his trip and that he wanted to get to land as quickly as possible. So did Tom. The two boats bobbed over the waves and out of the bay to some mooring at the village. The boat load of young people watched, still keeping in the shadow of the rocks and discussing in low tones the likelihood of their being still watched, if at all, by the other boat which had come into the channel. Then they heard the soft plash of oars. Startled, Jack braced himself for possible trouble and Peggy clutched Leslie again. The boat passed them, its occupant leaning to look in their direction. Then it shot back and a voice addressed them. "Why, it's the Eyrie crowd, isn't it?" What a relief! It was only Mr. Tudor! "My, how you scared us, Mr. Tudor!" cried Peggy. "How did you happen to get out here? Did you see that boat come out of the Cove?" "Yes. It would seem that the old story is not true, yet I heard Miss Secrest tell it only to-day." "We're going over. Don't you want to go with us?" "Peggy!" Leslie exclaimed. "Have we decided to go?" "I have, unless you really hate to go." "We're crazy to see it," said Sarita. Mr. Tudor was inwardly amused at the turn of events. Again they were in his favor. "If you think that it will not be a trespass, Miss Peggy, I should like to go with you. It seems safe to me. Suppose you let me go first, however. I noted the boatman's course, and we shall avoid the same rocks that took him aside." "Good!" cried Peggy. "Have you a light? We brought some." "Yes. I have a large flashlight." It seemed like a dream,--the late night, the restless waters, the mystery of the Cove, the yawning entrance of the cave. The Ives boat followed exactly the trail of the Swallow, which the girls now recognized. Now they passed the boiling surf. "Between Scylla and Charybdis," quoted Leslie to Sarita, and Peggy, who did not know what she meant, decided to look that up. Bowing his head, Mr. Tudor pulled upon his oars, and his boat disappeared into the yawning maw of the cavern. Jack was wondering if it were safe to follow immediately, but he heard a call, "Come on," and the entrance was illuminated by the light which Mr. Tudor carried and which he flashed upon the churning waters in the center of the opening. Down went the heads,--a breathless moment! Now! The Secrest-Ives combination were within the pirate cave! Looking about by the steady light which Mr. Tudor held for them, they saw his boat drawn aside a little and near a floating dock, as it might be called, a mere plank tightly fastened to posts at the very edge of a worn rocky ledge, the floor of the cave. Waters stretched to the right and left of them. Above, the roof of the cave was low at the entrance, but lifted to a high vault farther in. "Snug place," said Leslie, turning her own flashlight from side to side. Mr. Tudor examined the landing, made it firm by some quick manipulation, and leaped out of his boat, which he had fastened. "Want to get out?" he inquired, leaning toward the passengers of Jack's boat, which now occupied the other side of the landing space. He held his hand to the girls, while Jack kept the boat steady. "Let us keep together," suggested Mr. Tudor. Having the largest light, he naturally took the lead. They found it a large cave, quite evidently often and recently used. Nature had been assisted in making it a safe storage for either goods or persons, for they found more than one room, with steps cut in uneven places, and a long passage leading somewhere. They did not follow that very far, for Mr. Tudor suggested that it would not be best to stay long "this time" on account of the tide. There were cots standing on end, and one which had been left with bedding on it. Peggy shuddered. "Think of sleeping with such damp bedding!" she said. "This room seems fairly dry, though," said Leslie, "and I feel quite a breeze from somewhere." "Oh, it must be the place where the men were when we heard them talking!" Peggy exclaimed. She and Leslie searched the wall and ceiling and found a crack which they decided to be the opening to the "speaking tube," for the immediate surroundings were like a wide funnel. A pile of old and foreign-looking clothing in one corner gave Mr. Tudor good evidence of what he was seeking. There was a portable stove all greasy and rusty, with a cask which they thought contained gasoline. A wooden door boarded up one opening off from the passage but it was locked. As there was a narrow opening across the top of the ill-fitting door, Mr. Tudor suggested to Jack that he climb up to see what was inside. "Stand on my shoulders," he said. Jack helped himself first by the edge of a thick board in the door, which had been made by nailing horizontal planks across a frame. Partly lifted or supported by Mr. Tudor, Jack clung to the top of the door, with one foot on Mr. Tudor's shoulder, and looked over. "Case after case, and a lot of loose bottles of liquor," he reported. "Bill's activities include more than one line of smuggling," Mr. Tudor replied, as Jack dropped to the floor again. "My muddy feet will not help your coat any," said Jack. "It will dry and brush off. We have not found any pirate treasure for the girls yet," he continued. "Perhaps there is a safe somewhere with the pirate jewels; but we must hurry. I want to see the front space again. Come, please." The party went back into the front of the cave, while Mr. Tudor and Jack searched the wall on the side toward the Ives' little bay and dock. There, indeed, in a little recess, were some steps, the same sort of rocky steps, where the hand of man had assisted nature. At the top there was another door, locked. But this time Mr. Tudor drew a key from his pocket which unlocked it. A breeze blew in, fresh and sweet and cool. Carefully lighting his steps before him Mr. Tudor stepped outside, then made room for the rest. They found themselves on a rocky ledge, rather narrow and walled in by rock. Mr. Tudor rounded a corner carefully, looked and came back. "Very clever," said he. "This door is concealed by the mass of rock, and when you turn that corner, there you are in a narrow opening between rocks that looks just like a hundred others. Look, but be careful not to step off the edge." Each followed directions and looked. "A long plank would reach over to our steps," said Peggy. "I've often wondered why that wide, long board was laid along the side of the steps. There is a sort of fastening there, too. I asked Mother about it once and she said she supposed it was there to strengthen the stairway. I wonder why they go in and out by boat when that is there." "Perhaps," said Jack, "there is more danger of discovery, or maybe it is not as safe a way." "That is what became of the Count that time. I was not far enough down, or not smart enough to see it." Mr. Tudor looked inquiringly at Peggy. "Count Herschfeld?" he asked. "Yes. Do you know him?" "I know of him." They were now back within the cave and Mr. Tudor locked the door again. "A place like this develops," said he. "It is not planned from the first. It has probably been the resort of smugglers from early times." "But we'd better hurry away while the tide is low. There is a plank to be found inside, if you girls would prefer to cross to the steps. I am sure that I saw one somewhere." "No walking the plank for me _yet_," said Peggy. "Are you going to tell on Bill yet, Mr. Tudor?" From what he had said, Peggy knew that he must know about Bill. What else did he know? But she would not be the one to tell about her step-father. "What do you think we ought to do about it, Miss Peggy?" Mr. Tudor countered. "I suppose we can't let smuggling go on." "No," soberly Evan Tudor replied. "It will have to be broken up sometime. Probably we should have a little more proof about Bill and his friends." "Oh, yes," eagerly Peggy replied. "Poor child," Evan Tudor was thinking. Safely they all went through the spray. Mr. Tudor went first, then turned his light upon the place for Jack's exit. To their surprise they found it foggy and by the time they reached Ives Bay and the dock there the fog was rolling in so thickly that it was decided to leave the Swallow among the Ives boats till the next day. Evan Tudor and the girls would walk home. Jack was distressed about this and wanted to accompany them, but Peggy insisted that it would be foolish and the rest agreed. "The more quickly and quietly we get into the house the better, Jack," said Peggy, "and no one will notice the Swallow, Mr. Tudor. We do all sorts of crazy things going back and forth, and Jack and I might easily have rowed home in the Swallow, or all of us landed here and gone on some hike or other." Tired as the girls were, they managed to give a full and clear account of their suspicions and discoveries to Mr. Tudor on the way home. It was a comfort to pass over some of the responsibility to him, though he did not tell them that this smuggling of aliens was the subject of his quest, nor that he represented the law and the United States government. The other smuggling would naturally be attended to at the same time, but it was desired to find the heads of a ring having operations at different points. "We have been so troubled, Mr. Tudor, about our duty, how to notify the right authorities, or whether to do so or not, with Peggy and her family to consider,--though I suppose that it is wrong to be hindered by that." So Leslie told the man who represented the right authority. "It would be a hard thing for you to take up without more proof, Miss Leslie. Suppose you just do nothing but keep your eyes open and tell me about it. I will watch, too. Did you say that a schooner was expected about the twenty-eighth?" "Yes, sir." "I will talk it over with your brother and Miss Beth. Good-night; do not worry about this." CHAPTER XVIII THE NET IS SPREAD The girls found Elizabeth up and greatly worried. She had gone to bed and fallen asleep, she said, waking at midnight to find that they had not come in. "If Dalton had not needed his sleep so much, I would have wakened him," she said. Again the sleepy girls told the story, gathering up the details in the process and filling in what Beth did not know. "But we have passed the responsibility over to Mr. Tudor, Beth. He thinks that more proof is necessary, too. We've found out more than enough for poor little Peggy, though she is the stoutest little piece you ever saw. One thing, she does not like her step-father, or trust him, and she sees that he makes Mrs. Ives miserable. Mr. Tudor asked if she would be likely to warn her step-father and of course, we could not know. So far she has not said anything to her mother." "Do you suppose that Mr. Tudor will do anything?" asked Beth, very much interested. "I don't know. He said that he would talk to Dalton and to you. I'd say wait till they get here, anyhow. We surely are going to watch for that schooner, Beth,--but not to-night!" On the very next day another young man arrived at Evan Tudor's camp. Largely for Bill's benefit, a heavy package marked manuscript was mailed by Mr. Tudor from the village post office. When Tom arrived that day with the regular supply of fish, he was told that he might make his report in the presence of the other young man. He did so, showing some money that Bill had paid him for the trip, a sum which Tom had inwardly hesitated to take, feeling like a traitor. He spoke of his feeling in the matter, but Mr. Tudor assured him that he must seem to be a part of the smuggler group. "You may even have to be arrested with the rest, though if there is any resisting, get out of range! Can you meet that?" "Yes, sir." "Our people will be instructed about you, and you have only to tell who you are. I'm not anticipating any war. Things are coming to a climax now. Have you any information about the schooner that is bringing in the immigrants?" "Yes, sir. Mr. Ives is out with the yacht now. He is expecting to take them off the schooner some distance out, but the yacht has trouble with the engine and they may have to dock her. In that case they'll bring what Bill calls the big bugs to the yacht, by the launch, of course, and take the rest into the cave till they can get them 'distributed.' That is what Mr. Ives calls it. I saw him. He came in to Bill's on the launch, about ten o'clock last night." Mr. Tudor had also seen him, but he did not mention the fact to Tom. "Does Mr. Ives know that you are in this with Bill?" "Yes, sir. He asked me questions and gave me a ten dollar bill. I feel like a Judas." "Remember what he is and you will not feel so. You can give the money back later, if you like." The more puzzling part of this matter to Mr. Tudor was to make no mistake about having the government officers and men on hand at the right time. With careful scouts out on land and sea to guard against surprise when the schooner actually arrived, Mr. Ives and Bill would be thoroughly informed about any suspicious movements. But an innocent looking hunting and fishing party had just arrived at a camp a few miles away, and a few miles down the coast a small passenger vessel had put in, apparently for repairs. A regular coast guard steamer had passed as well and had duly been reported to Bill and Mr. Ives, who were feeling none too easy about this next cargo of aliens to be smuggled in. But thousands of dollars were already in their pockets and they expected to make as much again. Patriotism? Bill had been smuggled in himself years before, and Mr. Ives often told his wife that he owed nothing to Uncle Sam or the flag. He was a brilliant scoundrel, thoroughly selfish and of the type that enjoys intrigue and power. The Count had been embittered by the results of the world war and was glad to do what he could against the country and its laws. Some of the alien immigrants themselves were to be pitied, though they were lending themselves to this scheme. Many of them were caught in some unhappy circumstances at home and cared nothing for governments, only for a refuge. Others were of the dangerous class of communists that were willing to pay and pay heavily for the chance to spread their doctrines in a country that wanted none of them. Then there were the ignorant ones, of "low degree," who believed almost anything that they were told of the chances in America. They were to be largely Bill's prey, robbed of their savings and forced to work for him if he chose. That was the "fine opportunity" waiting for them in America! The new man with Mr. Tudor carried the messages now, at night, for it was no longer best to telegraph from the nearest town. After the sending of the manuscript, the two men now spent long hours in fishing or in tramping about after the manner of tourists. They took notes in prominent places, to carry out the idea of their profession, and, indeed, both of them were correspondents for certain papers. Mr. Tudor told Beth that his "best seller" could more easily be a detective story than anything else. Dalton was admitted to councils now, but he was more anxious to get on with the house than to do any detective work. The chief benefit to him was the knowledge that someone else was watching Bill and Mr. Ives. His family was safe without his being on guard any longer. Like magic, Leslie said, the house went up and it was decided to finish it within and without for cold weather. They would at least have what Sarita called a "proper home" and if they wanted to stay through part of the cold weather they could. At night watch was kept in the Eyrie, as they had planned, for now it was but a short time till the schooner was due. On the twenty-sixth the Ives yacht came into the bay and men were sent for to fix some part of the machinery. Mr. Ives, "cross as two sticks," according to Peggy, appeared at his home and had long consultations with the Count. At other times he could be heard pacing up and down in his office. "He has something on hand that worries him terribly, Peggy," Mrs. Ives told her daughter, "and just at the time of the house party, too! He says that perhaps the yacht will not be ready in time to go for them, but that if it isn't he will get them here some other way." Peggy did not confide this to the other girls. She had stopped talking about the matter. It was not fun any more. They missed her at the Eyrie, for while Jack came as usual, still interested in the house and Dalton, and still wanting to confide in Leslie the matters of the Steeple Rocks mystery, now a mystery no longer, Peggy tried to seem interested in her clothes and the plans for the house party. Would it come off? Would Mr. Tudor tell? He didn't talk as if he would right away. What ought she to do about telling her mother? Peggy's mind was somewhat in confusion. The servants were quiet, inclined to watch Peggy, she imagined. It would have been hard to find opportunity for the secret talk with her mother which she rather longed for sometimes. She and Jack did not attempt to discuss the matter and Mr. Ives asked Jack to drop his "carpenter work" at the Eyrie. Once, while they were playing tennis, Jack muttered to Peggy, "No use, can't do a thing now, Peggy. We'll just wait." A very pleasant thing happened at the Secrest camp in the shape of a surprise for Sarita. Through Mr. Tudor, Tom Carey sent her a package in which was her lost glass. Tom had recovered it that very night after it had fallen into the water, by swimming from his boat and diving where it seemed safe. The glass had lodged upon a rock not far from the surface, he discovered, and while its appearance was spoiled, the lenses were not broken. Keeping the recovery a secret from Bill, Tom had made a trip to town and had the field glass put in shape again, with new covering. A little note explained the facts and Sarita was quite overcome, almost sorry that Tom had gone to the expense but admiring his spirit. "Oh, the poor boy!" she exclaimed. "He paid for it with Bill's money, though," said the smiling Mr. Tudor, in whose presence Sarita had opened the package, "and as he is making a little more than usual, you need not worry about Tom. I will explain in a few days, Miss Sarita. It comes just in time for good service." Meanwhile the net was being drawn more tightly. It was desired to take the Count and Mr. Ives after their connection with the smuggling was further proved by the presence of the aliens illegitimately brought in in the Ives home or upon the Ives yacht. On land and by sea the arrival of the schooner was awaited. CHAPTER XIX SAILS ON THE HORIZON On the night of the twenty-seventh, Leslie Secrest and Sarita Moore were sitting in the Sea Crest to talk. Gently the boat rocked a little in the lapping water of their little cove. Beth and Dalton were above in the Eyrie, where they had a spyglass, not one belonging to Peggy, but one which Dalton had procured. "It would be a fine thing, wouldn't it," he asked, "to hunt down Peggy's step-father with a glass that he will probably pay for?" Idly Leslie dipped her hand in the water. "Let's go over after Peggy," Sarita suggested. "Lots of boats are out yet, and the sunset isn't over. See what entrancing shades there are. Beth is probably copying those over there in the east. Too bad the sun itself isn't in that direction!" Without a word, Leslie sprang into action. "I see a few twinkles of stars coming out, but it isn't too late," she said. They were soon out upon the bay, Sarita waving a farewell to Beth, who had walked out upon the rocks. Before they had gone far toward the channel, by which they would reach Peggy's, to their surprise, the Ives yacht gave forth a deep and sonorous sound. "Listen to Peggy's yacht tooting!" cried Sarita. "Look out, Les. Let's keep out of the way." The yacht, indeed, was moving out; but as there was but one straight course for it out of the bay, Leslie was not concerned. She drove the Sea Crest in another direction, and circled around, as they often did. To their surprise again, there was Peggy herself, waving from the deck. Leslie chose to follow in the wake of the yacht, which drew farther and farther away from them, and finally turned north along the coast, disappearing from view. It had not been Leslie's intention, to be sure, to go out into the open sea very far, but she saw Mr. Tudor and his friend in another launch no bigger than the Sea Crest and she found the sea very little rougher than the bay. "It will be fairly light for more than an hour, Sarita, let's stay out a while." Sarita was willing, and they turned the little Sea Crest toward the open sea and sped on. Suddenly, upon the horizon, a lovely sight greeted their eyes. There hung a large schooner as if suspended from the clouds. It was in full sail, the last pink and lavender of the sunset imparting a tinge of color to the swelling sails. "How lovely!" exclaimed Leslie. "Is it a fishing schooner, or _the_ schooner, I wonder?" "It might be either, or both," laughed Sarita. "How odd! It's simply fading from view! See, it's turned, too." The girls watched the schooner till they could see it no more. Then Leslie turned the launch and ran straight for the bay. "Do you suppose that it _is_ the schooner and that the yacht has gone to meet it now? They certainly would not take Peggy and Mrs. Ives, would they? How terrible it would be if they were boarded out there and Peggy would be in the midst of it!" But as they came on, they saw Mrs. Ives and Peggy in a launch run by no less a personage than Bill himself. Peggy said something to Bill, who ran the launch within speaking distance while she called, "Engine stopped and we had to signal for help. Dad and the Count may have to stay there all night!" Peggy's face was bright. There was much else that she wanted to tell the girls, but Bill wouldn't want to wait, she knew. After nodding brightly to Peggy, Leslie and Sarita looked at each other. "Camouflage," said Leslie "They meant to send them back all the time. Their engine is all right and that's the schooner! Bill will go out with the launch, of course, taking the plumber!" "Plumber!" laughed Sarita. "Well, isn't that whom you send for when anything is out of fix?" Quick-witted Leslie's imagination was right, as it happened. Sending on her boat at full speed, she felt very much relieved to think that Peggy would be safely at home. "I'd pay five cents," she added, "to know if Mr. Tudor is taking this in." As that was Mr. Tudor's chief business at this time, he was not ignorant of all the moves. Like Leslie, however, he was going in to shore. The schooner would be taken care of at the proper time by others. He knew who was on the yacht and where it lay. He was not so impatient as the girls, for he knew what it all involved. The denouement might be dramatic. He hoped that it would be neither dangerous nor fatal to anyone. No move at all was to be made until the alien passengers were transferred from the schooner. Bill's scouts were then to be quietly seized, in order that no signal might be given the yacht, though even then the chase upon the open sea would probably be successful. Tom Carey was of great help in learning who these scouts were. Again that night, like a wraith from the sea, the schooner was seen. Leslie in the Eyrie, where poor Dalton was trying to keep awake after his day of physical labor, found it with the spy-glass and exclaimed. The rest sprang up to look, and while they still tried to distinguish the vessel, whose lights had apparently been extinguished, there was a knock at the door. "It's Tudor," spoke a voice. "Come right in." Dalton hastened to open the door for Mr. Tudor, who was not quite as calm as usual. "Good evening, friends. Have you seen the schooner?" "We have just been looking at it," said Beth, offering the glass to Evan, who looked for some time. "It is flying here and there, like a bird trying to reach its nest and avoid the owl that is watching. Ostensibly it has fishing grounds in the vicinity. Perhaps it was a mistake to have our boat pass again, but it is not investigating. The Ives yacht is lying off the coast with some broken machinery, they say. Bill has just brought off the Count and Mr. Ives. "It will probably be to-morrow night when the schooner unloads. Our boat is leaving just a little before dawn, to assure them that they are not to be searched, and also to prevent their unloading to-night. I believe that our ship is to hail the schooner, appear to be satisfied with inquiry and steam away. Our boat is not very large,--but there is another, not too far out at sea. "Circumstances often determine what it is best to do. I thought that you would like to know what is going on. I am going to take a sleep now, my friend on guard. If I were you, I should sleep, too." After this explanation, Mr. Tudor took his leave. The rather serious Secrest group decided to take his advice. The girls were soon asleep in the Eyrie with their door barred, though Leslie wakened before daylight to lie and think about Peggy. Peggy herself had many thoughts on the morning of the twenty-eighth. She did not know that the schooner had arrived, but that was the date of the house party. Mr. Ives was still nervous but in better poise, giving orders in regard to certain provisions for the guests. Mrs. Ives was mistress of herself and the situation, for her house was ready, the menus made out with the housekeeper. Never had Peggy had such a problem to face. She could not bring herself to inform authority against her step-father, and in her indecision she was ready to see who came, what sort of people they were and whether it were really Mr. Ives who was the real smuggler or not. Perhaps he could be persuaded to give it all up, she thought. Mr. Tudor's knowing worried her. She now felt persuaded that he had been investigating, though she hoped that she was only imagining it. It was out of Peggy's hands, however. If the girls had never started to find a mystery out for themselves, the result would have been the same. Before midnight men were hidden in the pirates' cave, for Tom had fortunately been appointed watch there. Whether tide and hour would permit entrance by water or by plank and the door, they were ready. Tom Carey could tell them little this time, for plans were known only to Bill. The rest followed his orders. One government boat was to take the yacht, another was to follow the schooner, and lest slippery Bill should escape in the launch, provision was made for that. It was hoped that the entire number of aliens, high and low, might be transferred to the yacht first because of its size. No interference was to be made until after that occurred. Mr. Tudor told Elizabeth that the smugglers were doubtless hoping for fog to conceal their activities. The first excitement at the Eyrie occurred about ten o'clock that night, when Dalton, uneasy, sauntered down to their cove and discovered the Sea Crest foundered, not in very deep water to be sure, but it was an unwelcome calamity. The Swallow was floating, but Dalton examined it to find that someone had begun to cut a hole in it. "My coming probably frightened the man away," Dalton reported at the Eyrie. "They do not want the Sea Crest abroad to-night." It did grow somewhat foggy, though not enough so to annoy what boats were out upon the bay. Long since the "engine trouble" of the yacht had been overcome and it had steamed away, up the coast and out of sight. Now, shortly after midnight it appeared, regardless of who might see it, well lighted, its pennants waving in honor of distinguished guests. It approached the bay, at full speed and cutting the waves valiantly. CHAPTER XX CAPTURE Peggy and Jack, at Steeple Rocks, had gone to watch for the yacht at the tops of the steps which ran down to the dock where the yacht was expected. At the sight of it, Jack waited, but Peggy hurried in to announce the arrival. Mrs. Ives and Madame Kravetz were sitting in the drawing room, while Timmons, the butler, was in the hall. "The yacht is coming," said Peggy in her clear voice, "all lit up and everything. It just passed another vessel that was going along and it's coming into the bay! Shall I tell Jack to light the lights outside?" "Timmons will do it. Timmons, rouse the maids if they are drowsy." But Mrs. Ives wondered at the alarmed expression on the face of the butler, and that Madame Kravetz went outside immediately. Mr. Ives and the Count had gone out to the yacht in the morning, ostensibly to go to the port where he was to meet his guests. Some train must have been late to delay them this long, or perhaps the engines had not worked properly. It was all decidedly queer. She looked at Peggy. "What's the matter with 'em?" bluntly asked Peggy. "I am sure I do not know, unless Timmons is excited for fear things may not go as they should." The bay was a trap. No sooner had the yacht gotten well into it than the passing vessel, manned by government men to catch both aliens and smugglers, turned about and rapidly sought the mouth of the bay. The pursuit was short, as Mr. Ives and Count Herschfeld, on board the yacht knew it must be. Hastily the word was passed around among the more important passengers, who were panic-stricken, facing deportation, having many jewels which they were smuggling in. Smaller boats also gathered around the yacht, but it reached the dock, though boarded at once. It attempted no useless defense, for it was immediately seen that a concerted plan on the part of the government forces made them too strong for the smugglers. How Mr. Ives got away, no one knew. He was not seen upon the rocks, but someone saw him take off his coat and leap into the water, though it was thought at the time that he was at once picked up by one of the boats. The approaches to the house were all guarded, it was supposed, but a secret entrance from the cliff, which the girls had not discovered, admitted Mr. Ives to a rocky chamber behind his office. Peggy, sitting in the drawing room with her mother, heard the door to the library and office open behind her. Mr. Ives, a wild figure, appeared. Water was dripping from him. He was drawing on a dry coat as he entered and stuffing its pockets with money from his safe. "Get the car quickly, Kit! They're after me! Call Timmons! Peggy, run up and get my overcoat and all the clothes that you can lay your hands on!" Mrs. Ives in her pretty evening dress ran outside, followed by her husband, while Peggy instinctively started after the overcoat and clothes. But she met Timmons on the stairs, a hurrying Timmons, dressed for departure, carrying her step-father's top-coat and two suit-cases. Her assistance was not necessary. Timmons must have seen the capture at which Peggy guessed. She stood aside to let him pass, but followed rapidly herself. At the foot of the stairs Peggy and Madame Kravetz nearly collided. The governess was rushing out from the dining room with what appeared to be a sack of food, a brown paper sack carried by the particular, elegant Kravetz! She picked up a suitcase in the hall and dashed out of the front door. Peggy heard the sound of the car and immediately thought of her mother, outside in the chill air with only that thin dress to protect her. Perhaps her husband would make her go with him! Luckily Peggy had wrapped herself in her mother's coat when she had gone with Jack to look for the yacht. There lay the pretty silk-lined evening wrap with its warm fur collar. Peggy snatched it up from the hall seat and rushed out as wildly as any of the fleeing conspirators had done. It was only a moment after Madame Kravetz had passed her, before Peggy was at the side of the car with her mother's wrap. She tossed it in, hearing Mr. Ives say, "Very well, ride a short distance with us, Kitty. You have been a good wife,--" But the car started to speed, Peggy knew, over the terrible roads till they reached the good highway and what hiding place Peggy could not imagine. But while she stood there, watching the darkness into which the car had taken her mother and scarcely seeing the stupefied maids that gathered around her, Mr. Tudor, breathless and much chagrined over the escape of Mr. Ives, came hurrying around the house from the dock. Unfortunately for plans, guards around the house had all rushed to prevent escape at the yacht. "Where is your mother, Miss Peggy?" he asked. "Is your father inside? It will be better for him quietly to surrender." "Don't ask me anything, please," said Peggy, suddenly feeling utterly alone. But her maid, the beloved "Pugsy," who had avoided being sent away after all, came with alarmed face from the house just then and went to Peggy, who collapsed upon her shoulder in a storm of sobs. "I am very sorry, Miss Peggy,--_believe_ me, I am," Mr. Tudor stopped to say, though he had one eye on two officers who were entering the house. "I know it," sobbed Peggy, "but do go away now, and find out things for yourself!" Jack, who had been down at the yacht, joined the maid in soothing Peggy and between them they persuaded her to go to bed, promising to let her know when her mother came back. Mrs. Ives was one of the women who believe that vows for better or worse should be kept. Had her husband desired her to accompany him, she would have done so, though it took her into danger and unhappiness. His wet hands drew the cloak around her, as he outlined briefly what had happened. Amazed, in spite of previous suspicions, she listened, while the ear jolted them from side to side. They were all in great suspense. It was a terrific dash for freedom, but at last they reached a good highway where they went on for some miles, turning off finally upon one short, bad stretch to a small village. There Mr. Ives said that he had kept horses for some time, using them in "his business" as he needed them. "Go back with the car," he directed, "stopping somewhere for something to eat, if any place is open. We shall be aboard a ship after a short ride with the horses. I will get word to you, from abroad, probably, in some way. I have plenty of money now." Mrs. Ives knew that scouting parties would be out in every direction as soon as it was known from the servants how Mr. Ives made his escape. Accordingly, she quickly took the car to the main highway and drove slowly homeward, faint and worn, and in no mood for questions. But unlike tempestuous Peggy, she responded courteously when she was stopped. Yes, she had accompanied Mr. Ives part way. They could scarcely expect her to help them, could they? She knew very well that trains would be examined, the woods searched and the coast followed. As it was, her husband was foolishly expectant of escape, she thought. But Mr. Ives was clever enough to elude them, it happened. The Count had been taken, on the yacht. He was the real organizer of the ring. Bill Ritter, trying to escape, had been arrested and through Tom Carey's information, all his chief assistants in this work were gathered in. The village was in a turmoil, for some of the people there were due to be deported. Through Evan Tudor, however, the work of investigation was carried on in a way as little distressing to these poor victims of others' greed as was possible. Tom Carey set to work to organize again the fishing industry, filling orders and carrying on the shipping. Through Jack, Mrs. Ives sent for Mr. Tudor, who was still in his camp, in the intervals of these affairs in which he was concerned. He came to Steeple Rocks rather uncertain of his reception, but Mrs. Ives, sober and depressed, made no reference to his part in the disclosures. "I have heard of you from Peggy, Mr. Tudor," she said, "and I want to consult you as representing the government interests. Your report will probably be accepted, will it not?" Mr. Tudor, relieved, bowed. "Yes, Mrs. Ives." "I want it understood that whatever in the way of restitution is to be done, I will do. I am sorry that I could do nothing for those poor foreigners that were hurried right away. Whether Mr. Ives is ever found or not, I should prefer to have everything made clear and to be free from obligation. So I have made out a list of our property, not including, of course, the small estate which is Peggy's from her own father. My husband told me that the liquor in the cave was Bill Ritter's, though I suppose that my husband was partly responsible for letting it be housed upon our property. "I want to show you the safe and what I found in it, some bonds, cash and important papers. Now will you act for me?" "I will be glad to do so, though I am not a lawyer." "You will be more a witness, I should think. I am dismissing most of the servants; indeed, some of them left because they were afraid of being arrested as aliens. Steeple Rocks will be for sale. I have not found any smuggled jewels, and I scarcely think that my husband ever was concerned in that." "The whole place was thoroughly searched, Mrs. Ives, before your return. After the steamer took charge of the aliens, the force searched yacht and house at once." Mrs. Ives sadly shook her head. "It is a tragedy to me, but if only the shadow does not rest on Peggy, I can bear it." "Nothing of all this attaches to you, Mrs. Ives, and I have seen to it that a very general account so far has been published by the papers. My friend and I so promptly sent in our reports that they are the ones given. I will send you some of the papers." "Thank you. It is a relief to know that all the details are not spread broadcast." Following this conference with Mr. Tudor, Mrs. Ives and Peggy quietly went about Steeple Rocks making ready to close it early, for Mrs. Ives felt that she must get away from the place. Peggy, on the other hand, wanted to stay and asked her mother if she might not stay at the Eyrie. "Will they want you after this?" "I don't see why not. I belong to the 'trium-feminate', you know. Sarita likes me for taking an interest in birds, and Dalton saved my life. I know that _he_ likes me. Leslie is just like Dalton and Elizabeth is _always_ sweet to me. Dal would like to stay all winter and keep Beth from teaching. Why, Mother, why couldn't she tutor me? They might like a boarder that would pay and work, too, and it wouldn't be as expensive for you, I'm sure. Think of traveling expenses and boarding, especially if we have to give nearly everything we have to the government!" Mrs. Ives smiled. "It is not quite as bad as that, Peggy, but we shall see." "I'm going right over now!" declared Peggy. This is how it came about that after a quiet summer, without the expected visit from the Lyon-Marsh party, but with cruises and hikes and picnics, Peggy Ives was still with the Secrests. She was called by her own name, Peggy or Marguerite Nave, though the girls occasionally called her Angelina for fun and Dal said that he was "always sure an angel descended when she leaped out of the air into the blackberry bushes." Beth had consented to tutor Peggy and take care of her as long as it seemed best for her to stay at the Eyrie, "and that may be all winter," Peggy confided to Dalton, who nodded assent. Jack tried in vain to persuade Dalton to go to college with him, but Dalton could not be persuaded. "No, Jack," he said at their final talk. "You go to college, and Leslie and I may both come year after next. But I want to finish this home, and keep Beth out of school this year if possible. The way it looks now, she never will go back. It will be nip and tuck between Jim Lyon and this Evan Tudor, I think, though Jim seems to be losing out at present. I think that Beth is the heroine in that best seller that Mr. Tudor is always joking about." Jack nodded. "All right, Dal. I don't blame you for wanting to fix up this place. And if you bring Leslie to my college year after next,--it will be worth waiting for." By fall the quaint new home was ready for cold weather. Plans had grown, with their interest, till now it included the living room with its big fireplace, two bedrooms and a tiny kitchen, though that would not be used much when it grew cold. Dalton was full of plans for plumbing and electricity and a still larger house, but Beth, while she never threw cold water on the projects, was quite content to regard this as a happy interlude and a summer home. There were more school days for Dalton and Leslie, and as for her,--she had just received a letter from Mrs. Ives which informed her that the father of Evan Tudor wanted to buy Steeple Rocks! Simply, too, Mrs. Ives wrote that she was now a widow and that the long strain of anxiety about her husband's always impending capture was over. On Christmas Eve, Peggy and Dalton were decorating the large room with spruce boughs and some holly wreaths and mistletoe sent by Mrs. Ives. The most perfect little Christmas tree that the Secrest woods could furnish stood in front of the window, ready to be lit up for the world to see, though that world might consist only of a few village children in whose welfare Beth and the rest were interested. Leslie sat in front of the fireplace stringing the last bit of corn out of the popper for festoons upon the tree. Beth was finishing little net stockings for nuts and candy. "We _must_ stop for some supper, children," she was saying. "Oh, never mind about supper; there's too much to do." Peggy gave Dalton a mischievous glance as she spoke. "Never," he promptly replied. "Didn't I bring home the bacon myself?" "Yes, you did," answered Leslie, emptying the corn popper and rising from the floor. "I'll cook that rabbit myself. I can watch it while we finish up. What more is there to do, Beth?" "Not so much. Anita's doll has to have a sash, Sonia's a cap and Josef's drum needs hanging on the tree. If you will get the supper, I will finish, Leslie. The baskets of food for them need a little more arranging. Peggy and Dal may drape the popcorn on the tree, if they will." Something was already bubbling in an old-fashioned iron pot in the fireplace; but it was the same old reliable and speedy "portable" which Leslie used to cook the rabbit. Behind a tall screen in one corner of the room stood a table, the stove and a cupboard, but primitive ways of cooking in the fireplace, were fun when "used in moderation," as Peggy put it. Soon the savory supper was over and everything cleared away. Peggy and Leslie lit the candles on the trees, for they knew that eager feet were trampling the light snow in the path from the village. Childish voices were heard outside before long and then there came a pause. Leslie was about to fling open the door, but Beth signaled to her to wait. It was Anita whose clear voice led the Christmas carol which Beth had taught them, but the children were almost too excited to finish it properly for the lights of the tree shone out over the snow to invite them within. "I couldn't make 'em sing it vera good," said Anita, as Beth drew her inside with the rest of the children and several mothers, one of whom Beth had first met that day on the beach when someone else important entered Beth's life to stay. "It was _beautiful_," Beth answered lovingly. "Now we'll all sing together while you warm your toes and fingers by the fire. Leslie, get your guitar, please, and Peggy, you may lead us if you will. We shall have Sarita to sing with us after Christmas. After we sing about the little Christ-Child, we shall see what Santa can find for us on that tree!" Obediently the children sang and how they shouted when Dalton, who had disappeared during the singing, appeared as Santa Claus with a rosy-cheeked, white-bearded Santa Claus mask. There was no delay in presenting the gifts, in providing which some absent friends had a share. It was much later, after the guests had gone, that Beth sat alone by the fire. Dalton, Leslie and Peggy had taken their skates to the lake. Beth felt a little lonely and was not in a mood to read. She was thinking of someone whom Tom Carey had promised to take in whenever he could get away for a trip to Maine. She was still thrilled over his last letter and she wondered if he had yet received her reply. The flames curled lazily around the last log that Dalton had put on before he left. Unexpectedly, but appropriately to her thought, there came a little rap that Beth knew. "Oh,--why--" she said, as she opened the door quickly to a traveler in a big fur coat. "I couldn't help it, Beth," said Evan Tudor, closing the door upon icy breezes, tossing off his thick gloves and taking both her hands. "Beth, dear, I have sold the 'best seller'! It has just been accepted and I had to come on to make _sure_ that I am, too. It's Christmas Eve, Beth!" "I didn't make any conditions, did I, Evan, in my letter? I'm glad about the 'best seller'--and--you needn't worry about the rest. Oh, how _wonderful_ to have you for Christmas!" THE END 
29257	----	* * * * * Transcriber's Note regarding the illustrations "The Book of Khalid" contains illustrations drawn by Khalil Gibran, the other early Arab-American writer (author of "The Prophet"), that are well-known and exceptional. There are no captions in the original book, and are very difficult to describe in words. Their locations in the text have been marked with the text '[Illustration]'. The reader is encouraged to view these illustrations in the HTML version of this ebook. * * * * * THE BOOK OF KHALID THE BOOK OF KHALID BY AMEEN RIHANI [Illustration] NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1911 COPYRIGHT, 1911 BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY _Published, October_, 1911 CONTENTS BOOK THE FIRST IN THE EXCHANGE CHAPTER PAGE AL-FATIHAH v TO MAN 3 I PROBING THE TRIVIAL 5 II THE CITY OF BAAL 14 III VIA DOLOROSA 25 IV ON THE WHARF OF ENCHANTMENT 34 V THE CELLAR OF THE SOUL 46 VI THE SUMMER AFTERNOON OF A SHAM 58 VII IN THE TWILIGHT OF AN IDEA 70 VIII WITH THE HURIS 83 BOOK THE SECOND IN THE TEMPLE TO NATURE 97 I THE DOWRY OF DEMOCRACY 99 II SUBTRANSCENDENTAL 115 III THE FALSE DAWN 125 IV THE LAST STAR 130 V PRIESTO-PARENTAL 143 VI FLOUNCES AND RUFFLES 154 VII THE HOWDAJ OF FALSEHOOD 167 VIII THE KAABA OF SOLITUDE 181 IX SIGNS OF THE HERMIT 192 X THE VINEYARD IN THE KAABA 202 BOOK THE THIRD IN KULMAKAN TO GOD 217 I THE DISENTANGLEMENT OF THE ME 219 II THE VOICE OF THE DAWN 231 III THE SELF ECSTATIC 239 IV ON THE OPEN HIGHWAY 249 V UNION AND PROGRESS 274 VI REVOLUTIONS WITHIN AND WITHOUT 287 VII A DREAM OF EMPIRE 298 VIII ADUMBRATIONS 311 IX THE STONING AND FLIGHT 325 X THE DESERT 333 AL-KHATIMAH 341 AL-FATIHAH In the Khedivial Library of Cairo, among the Papyri of the Scribe of Amen-Ra and the beautifully illuminated copies of the Korân, the modern Arabic Manuscript which forms the subject of this Book, was found. The present Editor was attracted to it by the dedication and the rough drawings on the cover; which, indeed, are as curious, if not as mystical, as ancient Egyptian symbols. One of these is supposed to represent a New York Skyscraper in the shape of a Pyramid, the other is a dancing group under which is written: "The Stockbrokers and the Dervishes." And around these symbols, in Arabic circlewise, these words:--"_And this is my Book, the Book of Khalid, which I dedicate to my Brother Man, my Mother Nature, and my Maker God._" Needless to say we asked at once the Custodian of the Library to give us access to this Book of Khalid, and after examining it, we hired an amanuensis to make a copy for us. Which copy we subsequently used as the warp of our material; the woof we shall speak of in the following chapter. No, there is nothing in this Work which we can call ours, except it be the Loom. But the weaving, we assure the Reader, was a mortal process; for the material is of such a mixture that here and there the raw silk of Syria is often spun with the cotton and wool of America. In other words, the Author dips his antique pen in a modern inkstand, and when the ink runs thick, he mixes it with a slabbering of slang. But we started to write an Introduction, not a Criticism. And lest we end by writing neither, we give here what is more to the point than anything we can say: namely, Al-Fatihah, or the Opening Word of Khalid himself. With supreme indifference to the classic Arabic proem, he begins by saying that his Book is neither a Memoir nor an Autobiography, neither a Journal nor a Confession. "Orientals," says he, "seldom adventure into that region of fancy and fabrication so alluring to European and American writers; for, like the eyes of huris, our vanity is soft and demure. This then is a book of travels in an impalpable country, an enchanted country, from which we have all risen, and towards which we are still rising. It is, as it were, the chart and history of one little kingdom of the Soul,--the Soul of a philosopher, poet and criminal. I am all three, I swear, for I have lived both the wild and the social life. And I have thirsted in the desert, and I have thirsted in the city: the springs of the former were dry; the water in the latter was frozen in the pipes. That is why, to save my life, I had to be an incendiary at times, and at others a footpad. And whether on the streets of knowledge, or in the open courts of love, or in the parks of freedom, or in the cellars and garrets of thought and devotion, the only _saki_ that would give me a drink without the asking was he who called himself Patience.... "And so, the Book of Khalid was written. It is the only one I wrote in this world, having made, as I said, a brief sojourn in its civilised parts. I leave it now where I wrote it, and I hope to write other books in other worlds. Now understand, Allah keep and guide thee, I do not leave it here merely as a certificate of birth or death. I do not raise it up as an epitaph, a trade-sign, or any other emblem of vainglory or lucre; but truly as a propylon through which my race and those above and below my race, are invited to pass to that higher Temple of mind and spirit. For we are all tourists, in a certain sense, and this world is the most ancient of monuments. We go through life as those pugreed-solar-hatted-Europeans go through Egypt. We are pestered and plagued with guides and dragomans of every rank and shade;--social and political guides, moral and religious dragomans: a Tolstoy here, an Ibsen there, a Spencer above, a Nietzche below. And there thou art left in perpetual confusion and despair. Where wilt thou go? Whom wilt thou follow? "Or wilt thou tarry to see the work of redemption accomplished? For Society must be redeemed, and many are the redeemers. The Cross, however, is out of fashion, and so is the Dona Dulcinea motive. Howbeit, what an array of Masters and Knights have we, and what a variety! The work can be done, and speedily, if we could but choose. Wagner can do it with music; Bakunin, with dynamite; Karl Marx, with the levelling rod; Haeckel, with an injection of protoplasmic logic; the Pope, with a pinch of salt and chrism; and the Packer-Kings of America, with pork and beef. What wilt thou have? Whom wilt thou employ? Many are the applicants, many are the guides. But if they are all going the way of Juhannam, the Beef-packer I would choose. For verily, a gobbet of beef on the way were better than canned protoplasmic logic or bottled salt and chrism.... "No; travel not on a Cook's ticket; avoid the guides. Take up thy staff and foot it slowly and leisurely; tarry wherever thy heart would tarry. There is no need of hurrying, O my Brother, whether eternal Juhannam or eternal Jannat await us yonder. Come; if thou hast not a staff, I have two. And what I have in my Scrip I will share with thee. But turn thy back to the guides; for verily we see more of them than of the ruins and monuments. Verily, we get more of the Dragomans than of the Show. Why then continue to move and remove at their command?--Take thy guidebook in hand and I will tell thee what is in it. "No; the time will come, I tell thee, when every one will be his own guide and dragoman. The time will come when it will not be necessary to write books for others, or to legislate for others, or to make religions for others: the time will come when every one will write his own Book in the Life he lives, and that Book will be his code and his creed;--that Life-Book will be the palace and cathedral of his Soul in all the Worlds." BOOK THE FIRST IN THE EXCHANGE [Illustration] TO MAN _No matter how good thou art, O my Brother, or how bad thou art, no matter how high or how low in the scale of being thou art, I still would believe in thee, and have faith in thee, and love thee. For do I not know what clings to thee, and what beckons to thee? The claws of the one and the wings of the other, have I not felt and seen? Look up, therefore, and behold this World-Temple, which, to us, shall be a resting-place, and not a goal. On the border-line of the Orient and Occident it is built, on the mountain-heights overlooking both. No false gods are worshipped in it,--no philosophic, theologic, or anthropomorphic gods. Yea, and the god of the priests and prophets is buried beneath the Fountain, which is the altar of the Temple, and from which flows the eternal spirit of our Maker--our Maker who blinketh when the Claws are deep in our flesh, and smileth when the Wings spring from our Wounds. Verily, we are the children of the God of Humour, and the Fountain in His Temple is ever flowing. Tarry, and refresh thyself, O my Brother, tarry, and refresh thyself._ KHALID. CHAPTER I PROBING THE TRIVIAL The most important in the history of nations and individuals was once the most trivial, and vice versa. The plebeian, who is called to-day the man-in-the-street, can never see and understand the significance of the hidden seed of things, which in time must develop or die. A garter dropt in the ballroom of Royalty gives birth to an Order of Knighthood; a movement to reform the spelling of the English language, initiated by one of the presidents of a great Republic, becomes eventually an object of ridicule. Only two instances to illustrate our point, which is applicable also to time-honoured truths and moralities. But no matter how important or trivial these, he who would give utterance to them must do so in cap and bells, if he would be heard nowadays. Indeed, the play is always the thing; the frivolous is the most essential, if only as a disguise.--For look you, are we not too prosperous to consider seriously your ponderous preachment? And when you bring it to us in book form, do you expect us to take it into our homes and take you into our hearts to boot?--Which argument is convincing even to the man in the barn. But the Author of the Khedivial Library Manuscript can make his Genius dance the dance of the seven veils, if you but knew. It is to be regretted, however, that he has not mastered the most subtle of arts, the art of writing about one's self. He seldom brushes his wings against the dust or lingers among the humble flowers close to the dust: he does not follow the masters in their entertaining trivialities and fatuities. We remember that even Gibbon interrupts the turgid flow of his spirit to tell us in his Autobiography that he really could, and often did, enjoy a game of cards in the evening. And Rousseau, in a suppurative passion, whispers to us in his Confessions that he even kissed the linen of Madame de Warens' bed when he was alone in her room. And Spencer devotes whole pages in his dull and ponderous history of himself to narrate the all-important narration of his constant indisposition,--to assure us that his ill health more than once threatened the mighty task he had in hand. These, to be sure, are most important revelations. But Khalid here misses his cue. Inspiration does not seem to come to him in firefly-fashion. He would have done well, indeed, had he studied the method of the professional writers of Memoirs, especially those of France. For might he not then have discoursed delectably on The Romance of my Stick Pin, The Tragedy of my Sombrero, The Scandal of my Red Flannel, The Conquest of my Silk Socks, The Adventures of my Tuxedo, and such like? But Khalid is modest only in the things that pertain to the outward self. He wrote of other Romances and other Tragedies. And when his Genius is not dancing the dance of the seven veils, she is either flirting with the monks of the Lebanon hills or setting fire to something in New York. But this is not altogether satisfactory to the present Editor, who, unlike the Author of the Khedivial Library MS., must keep the reader in mind. 'Tis very well to endeavour to unfold a few of the mysteries of one's palingenesis, but why conceal from us his origin? For is it not important, is it not the fashion at least, that one writing his own history should first expatiate on the humble origin of his ancestors and the distant obscure source of his genius? And having done this, should he not then tell us how he behaved in his boyhood; whether or not he made anklets of his mother's dough for his little sister; whether he did not kindle the fire with his father's Korân; whether he did not walk under the rainbow and try to reach the end of it on the hill-top; and whether he did not write verse when he was but five years of age. About these essentialities Khalid is silent. We only know from him that he is a descendant of the brave sea-daring Phoenicians--a title which might be claimed with justice even by the aborigines of Yucatan--and that he was born in the city of Baalbek, in the shadow of the great Heliopolis, a little way from the mountain-road to the Cedars of Lebanon. All else in this direction is obscure. And the K. L. MS. which we kept under our pillow for thirteen days and nights, was beginning to worry us. After all, might it not be a literary hoax, we thought, and might not this Khalid be a myth. And yet, he does not seem to have sought any material or worldly good from the writing of his Book. Why, then, should he resort to deception? Still, we doubted. And one evening we were detained by the sandomancer, or sand-diviner, who was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of the mosque. "I know your mind," said he, before we had made up our mind to consult him. And mumbling his "abracadabra" over the sand spread on a cloth before him, he took up his bamboo-stick and wrote therein--Khalid! This was amazing. "And I know more," said he. But after scouring the heaven, he shook his head regretfully and wrote in the sand the name of one of the hasheesh-dens of Cairo. "Go thither; and come to see me again to-morrow evening." Saying which, he folded his sand-book of magic, pocketed his fee, and walked away. In that hasheesh-den,--the reekiest, dingiest of the row in the Red Quarter,--where the etiolated intellectualities of Cairo flock after midnight, the name of Khalid evokes much resounding wit, and sarcasm, and laughter. "You mean the new Muhdi," said one, offering us his chobok of hasheesh; "smoke to his health and prosperity. Ha, ha, ha." And the chorus of laughter, which is part and parcel of a hasheesh jag, was tremendous. Every one thereupon had something to say on the subject. The contagion could not be checked. And Khalid was called "the dervish of science" by one; "the rope-dancer of nature" by another. "Our Prophet lived in a cave in the wilderness of New York for five years," remarked a third. "And he sold his camel yesterday and bought a bicycle instead." "The Young Turks can not catch him now." "Ah, but wait till England gets after our new Muhdi." "Wait till his new phthisic-stricken wife dies." "Whom will our Prophet marry, if among all the virgins of Egypt we can not find a consumptive for him?" "And when he pulls down the pyramids to build American Skyscrapers with their stones, where shall we bury then our Muhdi?" All of which, although mystifying to us, and depressing, was none the less reassuring. For Khalid, it seems, is not a myth. No; we can even see him, we are told, and touch him, and hear him speak. "Shakib the poet, his most intimate friend and disciple, will bring you into the sacred presence." "You can not miss him, for he is the drummer of our new Muhdi, ha, ha, ha!" And this Shakib was then suspended and stoned. But their humour, like the odor and smoke of gunjah, (hasheesh) was become stifling. So, we lay our chobok down; and, thanking them for the entertainment, we struggle through the rolling reek and fling to the open air. In the grill-room of the Mena House we meet the poet Shakib, who was then drawing his inspiration from a glass of whiskey and soda. Nay, he was drowning his sorrows therein, for his Master, alas! has mysteriously disappeared. "I have not seen him for ten days," said the Poet; "and I know not where he is.--If I did? Ah, my friend, you would not then see me here. Indeed, I should be with him, and though he be in the trap of the Young Turks." And some real tears flowed down the cheeks of the Poet, as he spoke. The Mena House, a charming little Branch of Civilisation at the gate of the desert, stands, like man himself, in the shadow of two terrible immensities, the Sphinx and the Pyramid, the Origin and the End. And in the grill-room, over a glass of whiskey and soda, we presume to solve in few words the eternal mystery. But that is not what we came for. And to avoid the bewildering depths into which we were led, we suggested a stroll on the sands. Here the Poet waxed more eloquent, and shed more tears. "This is our favourite haunt," said he; "here is where we ramble, here is where we loaf. And Khalid once said to me, 'In loafing here, I work as hard as did the masons and hod-carriers who laboured on these pyramids.' And I believe him. For is not a book greater than a pyramid? Is not a mosque or a palace better than a tomb? An object is great in proportion to its power of resistance to time and the elements. That is why we think the pyramids are great. But see, the desert is greater than the pyramids, and the sea is greater than the desert, and the heavens are greater than the sea. And yet, there is not in all these that immortal intelligence, that living, palpitating soul, which you find in a great book. A man who conceives and writes a great book, my friend, has done more work than all the helots that laboured on these pyramidal futilities. That is why I find no exaggeration in Khalid's words. For when he loafs, he does so in good earnest. Not like the camel-driver there or the camel, but after the manner of the great thinkers and mystics: like Al-Fared and Jelal'ud-Deen Rumy, like Socrates and St. Francis of Assisi, Khalid loafs. For can you escape being reproached for idleness by merely working? Are you going to waste your time and power in useless unproductive labour, carrying dates to Hajar (or coals to Newcastle, which is the English equivalent), that you might not be called an idler, a loafer?" "Indeed not," we reply; "for the Poet taking in the sea, or the woods, or the starry-night, the poet who might be just sharing the sunshine with the salamander, is as much a labourer as the stoker or the bricklayer." And with a few more such remarks, we showed our friend that, not being of india-rubber, we could not but expand under the heat of his grandiosity. We then make our purpose known, and Shakib is overjoyed. He offers to kiss us for the noble thought. "Yes, Europe should know Khalid better, and only through you and me can this be done. For you can not properly understand him, unless you read the _Histoire Intime_, which I have just finished. That will give you _les dessous de cartes_ of his character." "_Les dessons_"--and the Poet who intersperses his Arabic with fancy French, explains.--"The lining, the ligaments."--"Ah, that is exactly what we want." And he offers to let us have the use of his Manuscript, if we link his name with that of his illustrious Master in this Book. To which we cheerfully agree. For after all, what's in a name? On the following day, lugging an enormous bundle under each arm, the Poet came. We were stunned as he stood in the door; we felt as if he had struck us in the head with them. "This is the _Histoire Intime_," said he, laying it gently on the table. And we laid our hand upon it, fetching a deep sigh. Our misgivings, however, were lighted with a happy idea. We will hire a few boys to read it, we thought, and mark out the passages which please them most. That will be just what an editor wants. "And this," continued the Poet, laying down the other bundle, "is the original manuscript of my forthcoming Book of Poems.--" Sweet of him, we thought, to present it to us. "It will be issued next Autumn in Cairo.--" Fortunate City! "And if you will get to work on it at once,--" Mercy! "You can get out an English Translation in three month, I am sure--" We sink in our chair in breathless amazement. "The Book will then appear simultaneously both in London and Cairo." We sit up, revived with another happy idea, and assure the Poet that his Work will be translated into a universal language, and that very soon. For which assurance he kisses us again and again, and goes away hugging his Muse. The idea! A Book of Poems to translate into the English language! As if the English language has not enough of its own troubles! Translate it, O Fire, into your language! Which work the Fire did in two minutes. And the dancing, leaping, singing flames, the white and blue and amber flames, were more beautiful, we thought, than anything the Ms. might contain. As for the _Histoire Intime_, we split it into three parts and got our boys working on it. The result was most satisfying. For now we can show, and though he is a native of Asia, the land of the Prophets, and though he conceals from us his origin after the manner of the Prophets, that he was born and bred and fed, and even thwacked, like all his fellows there, this Khalid. CHAPTER II THE CITY OF BAAL The City of Baal, or Baalbek, is between the desert and the deep sea. It lies at the foot of Anti-Libanus, in the sunny plains of Coele-Syria, a day's march from either Damascus or Beirut. It is a city with a past as romantic as Rome's, as wicked as Babel's; its ruins testify both to its glory and its shame. It is a city with a future as brilliant as any New-World city; the railroad at its gate, the modern agricultural implements in its fields, and the porcelain bath-tubs in its hotels, can testify to this. It is a city that enticed and still entices the mighty of the earth; Roman Emperors in the past came to appease the wrath of its gods, a German Emperor to-day comes to pilfer its temples. For the Acropolis in the poplar grove is a mine of ruins. The porphyry pillars, the statues, the tablets, the exquisite friezes, the palimpsests, the bas-reliefs,--Time and the Turks have spared a few of these. And when the German Emperor came, Abd'ul-Hamid blinked, and the Berlin Museum is now the richer for it. Of the Temple of Jupiter, however, only six standing columns remain; of the Temple of Bacchus only the god and the Bacchantes are missing. And why was the one destroyed, the other preserved, only the six columns, had they a tongue, could tell. Indeed, how many blustering vandals have _they_ conquered, how many savage attacks have they resisted, what wonders and what orgies have they beheld! These six giants of antiquity, looking over Anti-Lebanon in the East, and down upon the meandering Leontes in the South, and across the Syrian steppes in the North, still hold their own against Time and the Elements. They are the dominating feature of the ruins; they tower above them as the Acropolis towers above the surrounding poplars. And around their base, and through the fissures, flows the perennial grace of the seasons. The sun pays tribute to them in gold; the rain, in mosses and ferns; the Spring, in lupine flowers. And the swallows, nesting in the portico of the Temple of Bacchus, above the curious frieze of egg-decoration,--as curious, too, _their_ art of egg-making,--pour around the colossal columns their silvery notes. Surely, these swallows and ferns and lupine flowers are more ancient than the Acropolis. And the marvels of extinct nations can not hold a candle to the marvels of Nature. Here, under the decaying beauty of Roman art, lies buried the monumental boldness of the Phoenicians, or of a race of giants whose extinction even Homer deplores, and whose name even the Phoenicians could not decipher. For might they not, too, have stood here wondering, guessing, even as we moderns guess and wonder? Might not the Phoenicians have asked the same questions that we ask to-day: Who were the builders? and with what tools? In one of the walls of the Acropolis are stones which a hundred bricklayers can not raise an inch from the ground; and among the ruins of the Temple of Zeus are porphyry pillars, monoliths, which fifty horses could barely move, and the quarry of which is beyond the Syrian desert. There, now, solve the problem for yourself. Hidden in the grove of silver-tufted poplars is the little Temple of Venus, doomed to keep company with a Mosque. But it is a joy to stand on the bridge above the stream that flows between them, and listen to the muazzen in the minaret and the bulbuls in the Temple. Mohammad calling to Venus, Venus calling to Mohammad--what a romance! We leave the subject to the poet that wants it. Another Laus Veneris to another Swinburne might suggest itself. An Arab Prophet with the goddess, this time--but the River flows between the Temple and the Mosque. In the city, life is one such picturesque languid stream. The shop-keepers sit on their rugs in their stalls, counting their beads, smoking their narghilahs, waiting indifferently for Allah's bounties. And the hawkers shuffle along crying their wares in beautiful poetic illusions,--the flower-seller singing, "Reconcile your mother-in-law! Perfume your spirit! Buy a jasmine for your soul!" the seller of loaves, his tray on his head, his arms swinging to a measured step, intoning in pious thankfulness, "O thou Eternal, O thou Bountiful!" The _sakka_ of licorice-juice, clicking his brass cups calls out to the thirsty one, "Come, drink and live! Come, drink and live!" And ere you exclaim, How quaint! How picturesque! a train of laden camels drives you to the wall, rudely shaking your illusion. And the mules and donkeys, tottering under their heavy burdens, upsetting a tray of sweetmeats here, a counter of spices there, must share the narrow street with you and compel you to move along slowly, languidly like themselves. They seem to take Time by the sleeve and say to it, "What's your hurry?" "These donkeys," Shakib writes, quoting Khalid, "can teach the strenuous Europeans and hustling Americans a lesson." In the City Square, as we issue from the congested windings of the Bazaar, we are greeted by one of those scrub monuments that are found in almost every city of the Ottoman Empire. And in most cases, they are erected to commemorate the benevolence and public zeal of some wali or pasha who must have made a handsome fortune in the promotion of a public enterprise. Be this as it may. It is not our business here to probe the corruption of any particular Government. But we observe that this miserable botch of a monument is to the ruins of the Acropolis, what this modern absolutism, this effete Turkey is to the magnificent tyrannies of yore. Indeed, nothing is duller, more stupid, more prosaic than a modern absolutism as compared with an ancient one. But why concern ourselves with like comparisons? The world is better to-day in spite of its public monuments. These little flights or frights in marble are as snug in their little squares, in front of their little halls, as are the majestic ruins in their poplar groves. In both instances, Nature and Circumstance have harmonised between the subject and the background. Come along. And let the rhymsters chisel on the monument whatever they like about sculptures and the wali. To condemn in this case is to praise. We issue from the Square into the drive leading to the spring at the foot of the mountain. On the meadows near the stream, is always to be found a group of Baalbekians bibbing _arak_ and swaying languidly to the mellow strains of the lute and the monotonous melancholy of Arabic song. Among such, one occasionally meets with a native who, failing as peddler or merchant in America, returns to his native town, and, utilising the chips of English he picked up in the streets of the New-World cities, becomes a dragoman and guide to English and American tourists. Now, under this sky, between Anti-Libanus rising near the spring, Rasulain, and the Acropolis towering above the poplars, around these majestic ruins, amidst these fascinating scenes of Nature, Khalid spent the halcyon days of his boyhood. Here he trolled his favourite ditties beating the hoof behind his donkey. For he preferred to be a donkey-boy than to be called a donkey at school. The pedagogue with his drivel and discipline, he could not learn to love. The company of muleteers was much more to his liking. The open air was his school; and everything that riots and rejoices in the open air, he loved. Bulbuls and beetles and butterflies, oxen and donkeys and mules,--these were his playmates and friends. And when he becomes a muleteer, he reaches in his first venture, we are told, the top round of the ladder. This progressive scale in his trading, we observe. Husbanding his resources, he was soon after, by selling his donkey, able to buy a sumpter-mule; a year later he sells his mule and buys a camel; and finally he sells the camel and buys a fine Arab mare, which he gives to a tourist for a hundred pieces of English gold. This is what is called success. And with the tangible symbol of it, the price of his mare, he emigrates to America. But that is to come. Let us now turn our "stereopticon on the screen of reminiscence," using the pictures furnished by Shakib. But before they can be used to advantage, they must undergo a process of retroussage. Many of the lines need be softened, some of the shades modified, and not a few of the etchings, absolutely worthless, we consign to the flames. Who of us, for instance, was not feruled and bastinadoed by the town pedagogue? Who did not run away from school, whimpering, snivelling, and cursing in his heart and in his sleep the black-board and the horn-book? Nor can we see the significance of the fact that Khalid once smashed the icon of the Holy Virgin for whetting not his wits, for hearing not his prayers. It may be he was learning then the use of the sling, and instead of killing his neighbour's laying-hen, he broke the sacred effigy. No, we are not warranted to draw from these trivialities the grand results which send Shakib in ecstasies about his Master's genius. Nor do we for a moment believe that the waywardness of a genius or a prophet in boyhood is always a significant adumbration. Shakespeare started as a deer-poacher, and Rousseau as a thief. Yet, neither the one nor the other, as far as we know, was a plagiarist. This, however, does not disprove the contrary proposition, that he who begins as a thief or an iconoclast is likely to end as such. But the actuating motive has nothing to do with what we, in our retrospective analysis, are pleased to prove. Not so far forth are we willing to piddle among the knicknacks of Shakib's _Histoire Intime_ of his Master. Furthermore, how can we interest ourselves in his fiction of history concerning Baalbek? What have we to do with the fact or fable that Seth the Prophet lived in this City; that Noah is buried in its vicinity; that Solomon built the Temple of the Sun for the Queen of Sheba; that this Prince and Poet used to lunch in Baalbek and dine at Istachre in Afghanistan; that the chariot of Nimrod drawn by four phoenixes from the Tower of Babel, lighted on Mt. Hermon to give said Nimrod a chance to rebuild the said Temple of the Sun? How can we bring any of these fascinating fables to bear upon our subject? It is nevertheless significant to remark that the City of Baal, from the Phoenicians and Moabites down to the Arabs and Turks, has ever been noted for its sanctuaries of carnal lust. The higher religion, too, found good soil here; for Baalbek gave the world many a saint and martyr along with its harlots and poets and philosophers. St. Minius, St. Cyril and St. Theodosius, are the foremost among its holy children; Ste. Odicksyia, a Magdalene, is one of its noted daughters. These were as famous in their days as Ashtarout or Jupiter-Ammon. As famous too is Al-Iman ul-Ouzaai the scholar; al-Makrizi the historian; Kallinichus the chemist, who invented the Greek fire; Kosta ibn Luka, a doctor and philosopher, who wrote among much miscellaneous rubbish a treaty entitled, On the Difference Between the Mind and the Soul; and finally the Muazzen of Baalbek to whom "even the beasts would stop to listen." Ay, Shakib relates quoting al-Makrizi, who in his turn relates, quoting one of the octogenarian Drivellers, _Muhaddetheen_ (these men are the chief sources of Arabic History) that he was told by an eye and ear witness that when this celebrated Muazzen was once calling the Faithful to prayer, the camels at the creek craned their necks to listen to the sonorous music of his voice. And such was their delight that they forgot they were thirsty. This, by the way of a specimen of the _Muhaddetheen_. Now, about these historical worthies of Baalbek, whom we have but named, Shakib writes whole pages, and concludes--and here is the point--that Khalid might be a descendant of any or all of them! For in him, our Scribe seriously believes, are lusty strains of many varied and opposing humours. And although he had not yet seen the sea, he longed when a boy for a long sea voyage, and he would sail little paper boats down the stream to prove the fact. In truth, that is what Shakib would prove. The devil and such logic had a charm for us once, but no more. Here is another bubble of retrospective analysis to which we apply the needle. It is asserted as a basis for another astounding deduction that Khalid used to sleep in the ruined Temple of Zeus. As if ruined temples had anything to do with the formation or deformation of the brain-cells or the soul-afflatus! The devil and such logic, we repeat, had once a charm for us. But this, in brief, is how it came about. Khalid hated the pedagogue to whom he had to pay a visit of courtesy every day, and loved his cousin Najma whom he was not permitted to see. And when he runs away from the bastinado, breaking in revenge the icon of the Holy Virgin, his father turns him away from home. Complaining not, whimpering not, he goes. And hearing the bulbuls calling in the direction of Najma's house that evening, he repairs thither. But the crabbed, cruel uncle turns him away also, and bolts the door. Whereupon Khalid, who was then in the first of his teens, takes a big scabrous rock and sends it flying against that door. The crabbed uncle rushes out, blustering, cursing; the nephew takes up another of those scabrous missiles and sends it whizzing across his shoulder. The second one brushes his ear. The third sends the blood from his temple. And this, while beating a retreat and cursing his father and his uncle and their ancestors back to fifty generations. He is now safe in the poplar grove, and his uncle gives up the charge. With a broken noddle he returns home, and Khalid with a broken heart wends his way to the Acropolis, the only shelter in sight. In relating this story, Shakib mentions "the horrible old moon, who was wickedly smiling over the town that night." A broken icon, a broken door, a broken pate,--a big price this, the crabbed uncle and the cruel father had to pay for thwarting the will of little Khalid. "But he entered the Acropolis a conqueror," says our Scribe; "he won the battle." And he slept in the temple, in the portico thereof, as sound as a muleteer. And the swallows in the niches above heard him sleep. In the morning he girds his loins with a firm resolution. No longer will he darken his father's door. He becomes a muleteer and accomplishes the success of which we have spoken. His first beau idéal was to own the best horse in Baalbek; and to be able to ride to the camp of the Arabs and be mistaken for one of them, was his first great ambition. Which he realises sooner than he thought he would. For thrift, grit and perseverance, are a few of the rough grains in his character. But no sooner he is possessed of his ideal than he begins to loosen his hold upon it. He sold his mare to the tourist, and was glad he did not attain the same success in his first love. For he loved his mare, and he could not have loved his cousin Najma more. "The realisation is a terrible thing," writes our Scribe, quoting his Master. But when this fine piece of wisdom was uttered, whether when he was sailing paper boats in Baalbek, or unfurling his sails in New York, we can not say. And now, warming himself on the fire of his first ideal, Khalid will seek the shore and launch into unknown seas towards unknown lands. From the City of Baal to the City of Demiurgic Dollar is not in fact a far cry. It has been remarked that he always dreamt of adventures, of long journeys across the desert or across the sea. He never was satisfied with the seen horizon, we are told, no matter how vast and beautiful. His soul always yearned for what was beyond, above or below, the visible line. And had not the European tourist alienated from him the love of his mare and corrupted his heart with the love of gold, we might have heard of him in Mecca, in India, or in Dahomey. But Shakib prevails upon him to turn his face toward the West. One day, following some tourists to the Cedars, they behold from Dahr'ul-Qadhib the sun setting in the Mediterranean and make up their minds to follow it too. "For the sundown," writes Shakib, "was more appealing to us than the sunrise, ay, more beautiful. The one was so near, the other so far away. Yes, we beheld the Hesperian light that day, and praised Allah. It was the New World's bonfire of hospitality: the sun called to us, and we obeyed." CHAPTER III VIA DOLOROSA In their baggy, lapping trousers and crimson caps, each carrying a bundle and a rug under his arm, Shakib and Khalid are smuggled through the port of Beirut at night, and safely rowed to the steamer. Indeed, we are in a country where one can not travel without a passport, or a password, or a little pass-money. And the boatmen and officials of the Ottoman Empire can better read a gold piece than a passport. So, Shakib and Khalid, not having the latter, slip in a few of the former, and are smuggled through. One more longing, lingering glance behind, and the dusky peaks of the Lebanons, beyond which their native City of Baal is sleeping in peace, recede from view. On the high sea of hope and joy they sail; "under the Favonian wind of enthusiasm, on the friendly billows of boyish dreams," they roll. Ay, and they sing for joy. On and on, to the gold-swept shores of distant lands, to the generous cities and the bounteous fields of the West, to the Paradise of the World--to America. We need not dwell too much with our Scribe, on the repulsive details of the story of the voyage. We ourselves have known a little of the suffering and misery which emigrants must undergo, before they reach that Western Paradise of the Oriental imagination. How they are huddled like sheep on deck from Beirut to Marseilles; and like cattle transported under hatches across the Atlantic; and bullied and browbeaten by rough disdainful stewards; and made to pay for a leathery gobbet of beef and a slice of black flint-like bread: all this we know. But that New World paradise is well worth these passing privations. The second day at sea, when the two Baalbekian lads are snug on deck, their rugs spread out not far from the stalls in which Syrian cattle are shipped to Egypt and Arab horses to Europe or America, they rummage in their bags--and behold, a treat! Shakib takes out his favourite poet Al-Mutanabbi, and Khalid, his favourite bottle, the choicest of the Ksarah distillery of the Jesuits. For this whilom donkey-boy will begin by drinking the wine of these good Fathers and then their--blood! His lute is also with him; and he will continue to practise the few lessons which the bulbuls of the poplar groves have taught him. No, he cares not for books. And so, he uncorks the bottle, hands it to Shakib his senior, then takes a nip himself, and, thrumming his lute strings, trolls a few doleful pieces of Arabic song. "In these," he would say to Shakib, pointing to the bottle and the lute, "is real poetry, and not in that book with which you would kill me." And Shakib, in stingless sarcasm, would insist that the music in Al-Mutanabbi's lines is just a little more musical than Khalid's thrumming. They quarrel about this. And in justice to both, we give the following from the _Histoire Intime_. "When we left our native land," Shakib writes, "my literary bent was not shared in the least by Khalid. I had gone through the higher studies which, in our hedge-schools and clerical institutions, do not reach a very remarkable height. Enough of French to understand the authors tabooed by our Jesuit professors,--the Voltaires, the Rousseaus, the Diderots; enough of Arabic to enable one to parse and analyse the verse of Al-Mutanabbi; enough of Church History to show us, not how the Church wielded the sword of persecution, but how she was persecuted herself by the pagans and barbarians of the earth;--of these and such like consists the edifying curriculum. Now, of this high phase of education, Khalid was thoroughly immune. But his intuitive sagacity was often remarkable, and his humour, sweet and pathetic. Once when I was reading aloud some of the Homeric effusions of Al-Mutanabbi, he said to me, as he was playing his lute, 'In the heart of this,' pointing to the lute, 'and in the heart of me, there be more poetry than in that book with which you would kill me.' And one day, after wandering clandestinely through the steamer, he comes to me with a gesture of surprise and this: 'Do you know, there are passengers who sleep in bunks below, over and across each other? I saw them, billah! And I was told they pay more than we do for such a low passage--the fools! Think on it. I peeped into a little room, a dingy, smelling box, which had in it six berths placed across and above each other like the shelves of the reed manchons we build for our silk-worms at home. I wouldn't sleep in one of them, billah! even though they bribe me. This bovine fragrance, the sight of these fine horses, the rioting of the wind above us, should make us forget the brutality of the stewards. Indeed, I am as content, as comfortable here, as are their Excellencies in what is called the Salon. Surely, we are above them--at least, in the night. What matters it, then, if ours is called the Fourth Class and theirs the Primo. Wherever one is happy, Shakib, there is the Primo.'" But this happy humour is assailed at Marseilles. His placidity and stolid indifference are rudely shaken by the sharpers, who differ only from the boatmen of Beirut in that they wear pantaloons and intersperse their Arabic with a jargon of French. These brokers, like rapacious bats, hover around the emigrant and before his purse is opened for the fourth time, the trick is done. And with what ceremony, you shall see. From the steamer the emigrant is led to a dealer in frippery, where he is required to doff his baggy trousers and crimson cap, and put on a suit of linsey-woolsey and a hat of hispid felt: end of First Act; open the purse. From the dealer of frippery, spick and span from top to toe, he is taken to the hostelry, where he is detained a fortnight, sometimes a month, on the pretext of having to wait for the best steamer: end of Second Act; open the purse. From the hostelry at last to the steamship agent, where they secure for him a third-class passage on a fourth-class ship across the Atlantic: end of Third Act; open the purse. And now that the purse is almost empty, the poor emigrant is permitted to leave. They send him to New York with much gratitude in his heart and a little trachoma in his eyes. The result being that a month later they have to look into such eyes again. But the purse of the distressed emigrant now being empty,--empty as his hopes and dreams,--the rapacious bats hover not around him, and the door of the verminous hostelry is shut in his face. He is left to starve on the western shore of the Mediterranean. Ay, even the droll humour and stolidity of Khalid, are shaken, aroused, by the ghoulish greed, the fell inhumanity of these sharpers. And Shakib from his cage of fancy lets loose upon them his hyenas of satire. In a squib describing the bats and the voyage he says: "The voyage to America is the Via Dolorosa of the emigrant; and the Port of Beirut, the verminous hostelries of Marseilles, the Island of Ellis in New York, are the three stations thereof. And if your hopes are not crucified at the third and last station, you pass into the Paradise of your dreams. If they are crucified, alas! The gates of the said Paradise will be shut against you; the doors of the hostelries will be slammed in your face; and with a consolation and a vengeance you will throw yourself at the feet of the sea in whose bosom some charitable Jonah will carry you to your native strands." And when the emigrant has a surplus of gold, when his capital is such as can not be dissipated on a suit of shoddy, a fortnight's lodging, and a passage across the Atlantic, the ingenious ones proceed with the Fourth Act of _Open Thy Purse_. "Instead of starting in New York as a peddler," they say, unfolding before him one of their alluring schemes, "why not do so as a merchant?" And the emigrant opens his purse for the fourth time in the office of some French manufacturer, where he purchases a few boxes of trinketry,--scapulars, prayer-beads, crosses, jewelry, gewgaws, and such like,--all said to be made in the Holy Land. These he brings over with him as his stock in trade. Now, Khalid and Shakib, after passing a fortnight in Marseilles, and going through the Fourth Act of the Sorry Show, find their dignity as merchants rudely crushed beneath the hatches of the Atlantic steamer. For here, even the pleasure of sleeping on deck is denied them. The Atlantic Ocean would not permit of it. Indeed, everybody has to slide into their stivy bunks to save themselves from its rising wrath. A fortnight of such unutterable misery is quite supportable, however, if one continues to cherish the Paradise already mentioned. But in this dark, dingy smelling hole of the steerage, even the poets cease to dream. The boatmen of Beirut and the sharpers of Marseilles we could forget; but in this grave among a hundred and more of its kind, set over and across each other, neither the lute nor the little that remained in that Ksarah bottle, could bring us any solace. We are told that Khalid took up his lute but once throughout the voyage. And this when they were permitted one night to sleep on deck. We are also informed that Khalid had a remarkable dream, which, to our Scribe at least, is not meaningless. And who of us, thou silly Scribe, did not in his boyhood tell his dreams to his mother, who would turn them in her interpretation inside out? But Khalid, we are assured, continued to cherish the belief, even in his riper days, that when you dream you are in Jannat, for instance, you must be prepared to go through Juhannam the following day. A method of interpretation as ancient as Joseph, to be sure. But we quote the dream to show that Khalid should not have followed the setting sun. He should have turned his face toward the desert. They slept on deck that night. They drank the wine of the Jesuits, repeated, to the mellow strains of the lute, the song of the bulbuls, intoned the verses of Al-Mutanabbi, and, wrapping themselves in their rugs, fell asleep. But in the morning they were rudely jostled from their dreams by a spurt from the hose of the sailors washing the deck. Complaining not, they straggle down to their bunks to change their clothes. And Khalid, as he is doing this, implores Shakib not to mention to him any more that New-World paradise. "For I have dreamt last night," he continues, "that, in the multicoloured robes of an Arab amir, on a caparisoned dromedary, at the head of an immense multitude of people, I was riding through the desert. Whereto and wherefrom, I know not. But those who followed me seemed to know; for they cried, 'Long have we waited for thee, now we shall enter in peace.' And at every oasis we passed, the people came to the gate to meet us, and, prostrating themselves before me, kissed the fringe of my garment. Even the women would touch my boots and kiss their hands, exclaiming, '_Allahu akbar!_' And the palm trees, billah! I could see bending towards us that we might eat of their fruits, and the springs seemed to flow with us into the desert that we might never thirst. Ay, thus in triumph we marched from one camp to another, from one oasis to the next, until we reached the City on the Hills of the Cedar Groves. Outside the gate, we were met by the most beautiful of its tawny women, and four of these surrounded my camel and took the reins from my hand. I was then escorted through the gates, into the City, up to the citadel, where I was awaited by their Princess. And she, taking a necklace of cowries from a bag that hung on her breast, placed it on my head, saying, 'I crown thee King of--' But I could not hear the rest, which was drowned by the cheering of the multitudes. And the cheering, O Shakib, was drowned by the hose of the sailors. Oh, that hose! Is it not made in the paradise you harp upon, the paradise we are coming to? Never, therefore, mention it to me more." This is the dream, at once simple and symbolic, which begins to worry Khalid. "For in the evening of the day he related it to me," writes Shakib, "I found him sitting on the edge of his bunk brooding over I know not what. It was the first time he had the blues. Nay, it was the first time he looked pensive and profound. And upon asking him the reason for this, he said, 'I am thinking of the paper-boats which I used to sail down the stream in Baalbek, and that makes me sad.'" How strange! And yet, this first event recorded by our Scribe, in which Khalid is seen struggling with the mysterious and unknown, is most significant. Another instance, showing a latent phase, hitherto dormant, in his character, we note. Among the steerage passengers is a Syrian girl who much resembles his cousin Najma. She was sea-sick throughout the voyage, and when she comes out to breathe of the fresh air, a few hours before they enter the harbour of New York, Khalid sees her, and Shakib swears that he saw a tear in Khalid's eye as he stood there gazing upon her. Poor Khalid! For though we are approaching the last station of the Via Dolorosa, though we are nearing the enchanted domes of the wonder-working, wealth-worshipping City, he is inexplicably sad. And Shakib, directly after swearing that he saw a tear in his eye, writes the following: "Up to this time I observed in my friend only the dominating traits of a hard-headed, hard-hearted boy, stubborn, impetuous, intractable. But from the time he related to me his dream, a change in his character was become manifest. In fact a new phase was being gradually unfolded. Three things I must emphasise in this connection: namely, the first dream he dreamt in a foreign land, the first time he looked pensive and profound, and the first tear he shed before we entered New York. These are keys to the secret chamber of one's soul." And now, that the doors, by virtue of our Scribe's open-sesames, are thrown open, we enter, _bismillah_. CHAPTER IV ON THE WHARF OF ENCHANTMENT Not in our make-up, to be sure,--not in the pose which is preceded by the tantaras of a trumpet,--do the essential traits in our character first reveal themselves. But truly in the little things the real self is exteriorised. Shakib observes closely the rapid changes in his co-adventurer's humour, the shadowy traits which at that time he little understood. And now, by applying his palm to his front, he illumines those chambers of which he speaks, and also the niches therein. He helps us to understand the insignificant points which mark the rapid undercurrents of the seemingly sluggish soul of Khalid. Not in vain, therefore, does he crystallise for us that first tear he shed in the harbour of Manhattan. But his gush about the recondite beauty of this pearl of melancholy, shall not be intended upon the gustatory nerves of the Reader. This then we note--his description of New York harbour. "And is this the gate of Paradise," he asks, "or the port of some subterrestrial city guarded by the Jinn? What a marvel of enchantment is everything around us! What manifestations of industrial strength, what monstrosities of wealth and power, are here! These vessels proudly putting to sea; these tenders scurrying to meet the Atlantic greyhound which is majestically moving up the bay; these barges loading and unloading schooners from every strand, distant and near; these huge lighters carrying even railroads over the water; these fire-boats scudding through the harbour shrilling their sirens; these careworn, grim, strenuous multitudes ferried across from one enchanted shore to another; these giant structures tickling heaven's sides; these cable bridges, spanning rivers, uniting cities; and this superterrestrial goddess, torch in hand--wake up, Khalid, and behold these wonders. Salaam, this enchanted City! There is the Brooklyn Bridge, and here is the Statue of Liberty which people speak of, and which are as famous as the Cedars of Lebanon." But Khalid is as impassive as the bronze goddess herself. He leans over the rail, his hand supporting his cheek, and gazes into the ooze. The stolidity of his expression is appalling. With his mouth open as usual, his lips relaxed, his tongue sticking out through the set teeth,--he looks as if his head were in a noose. But suddenly he braces up, runs down for his lute, and begins to serenade--Greater New York? "On thee be Allah's grace, Who hath the well-loved face!" No; not toward this City does his heart flap its wings of song. He is on another sea, in another harbour. Indeed, what are these wonders as compared with those of the City of Love? The Statue of Eros there is more imposing than the Statue of Liberty here. And the bridges are not of iron and concrete, but of rainbows and--moonshine! Indeed, both these lads are now on the wharf of enchantment; the one on the palpable, the sensuous, the other on the impalpable and unseen. But both, alas, are suddenly, but temporarily, disenchanted as they are jostled out of the steamer into the barge which brings them to the Juhannam of Ellis Island. Here, the unhappy children of the steerage are dumped into the Bureau of Emigration as--such stuff! For even in the land of equal rights and freedom, we have a right to expect from others the courtesy and decency which we ourselves do not have to show, or do not know. These are sturdy and adventurous foreigners whom the grumpy officers jostle and hustle about. For neither poverty, nor oppression, nor both together can drive a man out of his country, unless the soul within him awaken. Indeed, many a misventurous cowering peasant continues to live on bread and olives in his little village, chained in the fear of dying of hunger in a foreign land. Only the brave and daring spirits hearken to the voice of discontent within them. They give themselves up to the higher aspirations of the soul, no matter how limited such aspirations might be, regardless of the dangers and hardship of a long sea voyage, and the precariousness of their plans and hopes. There may be nothing noble in renouncing one's country, in abandoning one's home, in forsaking one's people; but is there not something remarkable in this great move one makes? Whether for better or for worse, does not the emigrant place himself above his country, his people and his Government, when he turns away from them, when he goes forth propelled by that inner self which demands of him a new life? And might it not be a better, a cleaner, a higher life? What say our Masters of the Island of Ellis? Are not these straggling, smelling, downcast emigrants almost as clean inwardly, and as pure, as the grumpy officers who harass and humiliate them? Is not that spirit of discontent which they cherish, and for which they carry the cross, so to speak, across the sea, deserving of a little consideration, a little civility, a little kindness? Even louder than this Shakib cries out, while Khalid open-mouthed sucks his tongue. Here at the last station, where the odours of disinfectants are worse than the stench of the steerage, they await behind the bars their turn; stived with Italian and Hungarian fellow sufferers, uttering such whimpers of expectancy, exchanging such gestures of hope. Soon they shall be brought forward to be examined by the doctor and the interpreting officer; the one shall pry their purses, the other their eyes. For in this United States of America we want clear-sighted citizens at least. And no cold-purses, if the matter can be helped. But neither the eyes, alas, nor the purses of our two emigrants are conformable to the Law; the former are filled with granulations of trachoma, the latter have been emptied by the sharpers of Marseilles. Which means that they shall be detained for the present; and if within a fortnight nothing turns up in their favour, they shall certainly be deported. Trachoma! a little granulation on the inner surface of the eyelids, what additional misery does it bring upon the poor deported emigrant? We are asked to shed a tear for him, to weep with him over his blasted hopes, his strangled aspirations, his estate in the mother country sold or mortgaged,--in either case lost,--and his seed of a new life crushed in its cotyledon by the physician who might be short-sighted himself, or even blind. But the law must be enforced for the sake of the clear-sighted citizens of the Republic. We will have nothing to do with these poor blear-eyed foreigners. And thus our grievous Scribe would continue, if we did not exercise the prerogative of our Editorial Divan. Rather let us pursue our narration. Khalid is now in the hospital, awaiting further development in his case. But in Shakib's, whose eyes are far gone in trachoma, the decision of the Board of Emigration is final, irrevokable. And so, after being detained a week in the Emigration pen, the unfortunate Syrian must turn his face again toward the East. Not out into the City, but out upon the sea, he shall be turned adrift. The grumpy officer shall grumpishly enforce the decision of the Board by handing our Scribe to the Captain of the first steamer returning to Europe--if our Scribe can be found! For this flyaway son of a Phoenician did not seem to wait for the decision of the polyglot Judges of the Emigration Board. And that he did escape, we are assured. For one morning he eludes the grumpy officer, and sidles out among his Italian neighbours who were permitted to land. See him genuflecting now, to kiss the curbstone and thank Allah that he is free. But before he can enjoy his freedom, before he can sit down and chuckle over the success of his escapade, he must bethink him of Khalid. He will not leave him to the mercy of the honourable Agents of the Law, if he can help it. Trachoma, he knows, is a hard case to cure. And in ten days, under the care of the doctors, it might become worse. Straightway, therefore, he puts himself to the dark task. A few visits to the Hospital where Khalid is detained--the patients in those days were not held at Ellis Island--and the intrigue is afoot. On the third or fourth visit, we can not make out which, a note in Arabic is slipt into Khalid's pocket, and with a significant Arabic sign, Shakib takes himself off. The evening of that very day, the trachoma-afflicted Syrian was absent from the ward. He was carried off by Iblis,--the porter and a few Greenbacks assisting. Yes, even Shakib, who knew only a few English monosyllables, could here make himself understood. For money is one of the two universal languages of the world, the other being love. Indeed, money and love are as eloquent in Turkey and Dahomey as they are in Paris or New York. And here we reach one of those hedges in the _Histoire Intime_ which we must go through in spite of the warning-signs. Between two paragraphs, to be plain, in the one of which we are told how the two Syrians established themselves as merchants in New York, in the other, how and wherefor they shouldered the peddling-box and took to the road, there is a crossed paragraph containing a most significant revelation. It seems that after giving the matter some serious thought, our Scribe came to the conclusion that it is not proper to incriminate his illustrious Master. But here is a confession which a hundred crosses can not efface. And if he did not want to bring the matter to our immediate cognisance, why, we ask, did he not re-write the page? Why did he not cover well that said paragraph with crosses and arabesques? We do suspect him here of chicanery; for by this plausible recantation he would shift the responsibility to the shoulders of the Editor, if the secret is divulged. Be this as it may, no red crosses can conceal from us the astounding confession, which we now give out. For the two young Syrians, who were smuggled out of their country by the boatmen of Beirut, and who smuggled themselves into the city of New York (we beg the critic's pardon; for, being foreigners ourselves, we ought to be permitted to stretch this term, smuggle, to cover an Arabic metaphor, or to smuggle into it a foreign meaning), these two Syrians, we say, became, in their capacity of merchants, smugglers of the most ingenious and most evasive type. We now note the following, which pertains to their business. We learn that they settled in the Syrian Quarter directly after clearing their merchandise. And before they entered their cellar, we are assured, they washed their hands of all intrigues and were shrived of their sins by the Maronite priest of the Colony. For they were pious in those days, and right Catholics. 'Tis further set down in the _Histoire Intime_: "We rented a cellar, as deep and dark and damp as could be found. And our landlord was a Teague, nay, a kind-hearted old Irishman, who helped us put up the shelves, and never called for the rent in the dawn of the first day of the month. In the front part of this cellar we had our shop; in the rear, our home. On the floor we laid our mattresses, on the shelves, our goods. And never did we stop to think who in this case was better off. The safety of our merchandise before our own. But ten days after we had settled down, the water issued forth from the floor and inundated our shop and home. It rose so high that it destroyed half of our capital stock and almost all our furniture. And yet, we continued to live in the cellar, because, perhaps, every one of our compatriot-merchants did so. We were all alike subject to these inundations in the winter season. I remember when the water first rose in our store, Khalid was so hard set and in such a pucker that he ran out capless and in his shirt sleeves to discover in the next street the source of the flood. And one day, when we were pumping out the water he asked me if I thought this was easier than rolling our roofs in Baalbek. For truly, the paving-roller is child's play to this pump. And a leaky roof is better than an inundated cellar." However, this is not the time for brooding. They have to pump ahead to save what remained of their capital stock. But Khalid, nevertheless, would brood and jabber. And what an inundation of ideas, and what questions! "Think you," he asks, "that the inhabitants of this New World are better off than those of the Old?--Can you imagine mankind living in a huge cellar of a world and you and I pumping the water out of its bottom?--I can see the palaces on which you waste your rhymes, but mankind live in them only in the flesh. The soul I tell you, still occupies the basement, even the sub-cellar. And an inundated cellar at that. The soul, Shakib, is kept below, although the high places are vacant." And his partner sputters out his despair; for instead of helping to pump out the water, Khalid stands there gazing into it, as if by some miracle he would draw it out with his eyes or with his breath. And the poor Poet cries out, "Pump! the water is gaining on us, and our shop is going to ruin. Pump!" Whereupon the lazy, absent-minded one resumes pumping, while yearning all the while for the plashing stone-rollers and the purling eaves of his home in Baalbek. And once in a pinch,--they are labouring under a peltering rain,--he stops as is his wont to remind Shakib of the Arabic saying, "From the dripping ceiling to the running gargoyle." He is labouring again under a hurricane of ideas. And again he asks, "Are you sure we are better off here?" And our poor Scribe, knee-deep in the water below, blusters out curses, which Khalid heeds not. "I am tired of this job," he growls; "the stone-roller never drew so much on my strength, nor did muleteering. Ah, for my dripping ceiling again, for are we not now under the running gargoyle?" And he reverts into a stupor, leaving the world to the poet and the pump. For five years and more they lead such a life in the cellar. And they do not move out of it, lest they excite the envy of their compatriots. But instead of sleeping on the floor, they stretch themselves on the counters. The rising tide teaches them this little wisdom, which keeps the doctor and Izräil away. Their merchandise, however,--their crosses, and scapulars and prayer-beads,--are beyond hope of recovery. For what the rising tide spares, the rascally flyaway peddlers carry away. That is why they themselves shoulder the box and take to the road. And the pious old dames of the suburbs, we are told, receive them with such exclamations of joy and wonder, and almost tear their coats to get from them a sacred token. For you must remember, they are from the Holy Land. Unlike their goods, they at least are genuine. And every Saturday night, after beating the hoof in the country and making such fabulous profits on their false Holy-Land gewgaws, they return to their cellar happy and content. "In three years," writes our Scribe, "Khalid and I acquired what I still consider a handsome fortune. Each of us had a bank account, and a check book which we seldom used.... In spite of which, we continued to shoulder the peddling box and tramp along.... And Khalid would say to me, 'A peddler is superior to a merchant; we travel and earn money; our compatriots the merchants rust in their cellars and lose it.' To be sure, peddling in the good old days was most attractive. For the exercise, the gain, the experience--these are rich acquirements." And both Shakib and Khalid, we apprehend, have been hitherto most moderate in their habits. The fact that they seldom use their check books, testifies to this. They have now a peddleress, Im-Hanna by name, who occupies their cellar in their absence, and keeps what little they have in order. And when they return every Saturday night from their peddling trip, they find the old woman as ready to serve them as a mother. She cooks _mojadderah_ for them, and sews the bed-linen on the quilts as is done in the mother country. "The linen," says Shakib, "was always as white as a dove's wing, when Im-Hanna was with us." And in the Khedivial Library Manuscript we find this curious note upon that popular Syrian dish of lentils and olive oil. "_Mojadderah_," writes Khalid, "has a marvellous effect upon my humour and nerves. There are certain dishes, I confess, which give me the blues. Of these, fried eggplants and cabbage boiled with corn-beef on the American system of boiling, that is to say, cooking, I abominate the most. But _mojadderah_ has such a soothing effect on the nerves; it conduces to cheerfulness, especially when the raw onion or the leek is taken with it. After a good round pewter platter of this delicious dish and a dozen leeks, I feel as if I could do the work of all mankind. And I am then in such a beatific state of mind that I would share with all mankind my sack of lentils and my pipkin of olive oil. I wonder not at Esau's extravagance, when he saw a steaming mess of it. For what is a birthright in comparison?" That Shakib also shared this beatific mood, the following quaint picture of their Saturday nights in the cellar, will show. "A bank account," he writes, "a good round dish of _mojadderah_, the lute for Khalid, Al-Mutanabbi for me,--neither of us could forego his hobby,--and Im-Hanna, affectionate, devoted as our mothers,--these were the joys of our Saturday nights in our underground diggings. We were absolutely happy. And we never tried to measure our happiness in those days, or gauge it, or flay it to see if it be dead or alive, false or real. Ah, the blessedness of that supreme unconsciousness which wrapped us as a mother would her babe, warming and caressing our hearts. We did not know then that happiness was a thing to be sought. We only knew that peddling is a pleasure, that a bank account is a supreme joy, that a dish of _mojadderah_ cooked by Im-Hanna is a royal delight, that our dour dark cellar is a palace of its kind, and that happiness, like a bride, issues from all these, and, touching the strings of Khalid's lute, mantles us with song." CHAPTER V THE CELLAR OF THE SOUL Heretofore, Khalid and Shakib have been inseparable as the Pointers. They always appeared together, went the rounds of their peddling orbit together, and together were subject to the same conditions and restraints. Which restraints are a sort of sacrifice they make on the altar of friendship. One, for instance, would never permit himself an advantage which the other could not enjoy, or a pleasure in which the other could not share. They even slept under the same blanket, we learn, ate from the same plate, puffed at the same narghilah, which Shakib brought with him from Baalbek, and collaborated in writing to one lady-love! A condition of unexampled friendship this, of complete oneness. They had both cut themselves garments from the same cloth, as the Arabic saying goes. And on Sunday afternoon, in garments spick and span, they would take the air in Battery Park, where the one would invoke the Statue of Liberty for a thought, or the gilded domes of Broadway for a metaphor, while the other would be scouring the horizon for the Nothingness, which is called, in the recondite cant of the sophisticated, a vague something. In the Khedivial Library MS. we find nothing which this Battery Park might have inspired. And yet, we can not believe that Khalid here was only attracted by that vague something which, in his spiritual enceinteship, he seemed to relish. Nothing? Not even the does and kangaroos that adorn the Park distracted or detained him? We doubt it; and Khalid's lute sustains us in our doubt. Ay, and so does our Scribe; for in his _Histoire Intime_ we read the following, which we faithfully transcribe. "Of the many attractions of Battery Park, the girls and the sea were my favourite. For the girls in a crowd have for me a fascination which only the girls at the bath can surpass. I love to lose myself in a crowd, to buffet, so to speak, its waves, to nestle under their feathery crests. For the rolling waves of life, the tumbling waves of the sea, and the fiery waves of Al-Mutanabbi's poetry have always been my delight. In Battery Park I took especial pleasure in reading aloud my verses to Khalid, or in fact to the sea, for Khalid never would listen. "Once I composed a few stanzas to the Milkmaid who stood in her wagon near the lawn, rattling out milk-punches to the boys. A winsome lass she was, fresh in her sororiation, with fair blue eyes, a celestial flow of auburn hair, and cheeks that suggested the milk and cherry in the glass she rattled out to me. I was reading aloud the stanzas which she inspired, when Khalid, who was not listening, pointed out to me a woman whose figure and the curves thereof were remarkable. 'Is it not strange,' said he, 'how the women here indraw their stomachs and outdraw their hips? And is not this the opposite of the shape which our women cultivate?' "Yes, with the Lebanon women, the convex curve beneath the waist is frontward, not hindward. But that is a matter of taste, I thought, and man is partly responsible for either convexity. I have often wondered, however, why the women of my country cultivate that shape. And why do they in America cultivate the reverse of it? Needless to say that both are pruriently titillating,--both distentions are damnably suggestive, quite killing. The American woman, from a fine sense of modesty, I am told, never or seldom ventures abroad, when big with child. But in the kangaroo figure, the burden is slightly shifted and naught is amiss. Ah, such haunches as are here exhibited suggest the _aliats_ of our Asiatic sheep." And what he says about the pruriently titillating convexities, whether frontward or hindward, suggests a little prudery. For in his rhymes he betrays both his comrade and himself. Battery Park and the attractions thereof prove fatal. Elsewhere, therefore, they must go, and begin to draw on their bank accounts. Which does not mean, however, that they are far from the snare. No; for when a young man begins to suffer from what the doctors call hebephrenia, the farther he draws away from such snares the nearer he gets to them. And these lusty Syrians could not repel the magnetic attraction of the polypiosis of what Shakib likens to the _aliat_ (fattail) of our Asiatic sheep. Surely, there be more devils under such an _aliat_ than under the hat of a Jesuit. And Khalid is the first to discover this. Both have been ensnared, however, and both, when in the snare, have been infernally inspired. What Khalid wrote, when he was under the influence of feminine curves, was preserved by Shakib, who remarks that one evening, after returning from the Park, Khalid said to him, 'I am going to write a poem.' A fortnight later, he hands him the following, which he jealously kept among his papers. I dreamt I was a donkey-boy again. Out on the sun-swept roads of Baalbek, I tramp behind my burro, trolling my _mulayiah_. At noon, I pass by a garden redolent of mystic scents and tarry awhile. Under an orange tree, on the soft green grass, I stretch my limbs. The daisies, the anemones, and the cyclamens are round me pressing: The anemone buds hold out to me their precious rubies; the daisies kiss me in the eyes and lips; and the cyclamens shake their powder in my hair. On the wall, the roses are nodding, smiling; above me the orange blossoms surrender themselves to the wooing breeze; and on yonder rock the salamander sits, complacent and serene. I take a daisy, and, boy as boys go, question its petals: Married man or monk, I ask, plucking them off one by one, And the last petal says, Monk. I perfume my fingers with crumpled cyclamens, cover my face with the dark-eyed anemones, and fall asleep. And my burro sleeps beneath the wall, in the shadow of nodding roses. And the black-birds too are dozing, and the bulbuls flitting by whisper with their wings, 'salaam.' Peace and salaam! The bulbul, the black-bird, the salamander, the burro, and the burro-boy, are to each other shades of noon-day sun: Happy, loving, generous, and free;-- As happy as each other, and as free. We do what we please in Nature's realm, go where we please; No one's offended, no one ever wronged. No sentinels hath Nature, no police. But lo, a goblin as I sleep comes forth;-- A goblin taller than the tallest poplar, who carries me upon his neck to the Park in far New York. Here women, light-heeled, heavy-haunched, pace up and down the flags in graceful gait. My roses these, I cry, and my orange blossoms. But the goblin placed his hand upon my mouth, and I was dumb. The cyclamens, the anemones, the daisies, I saw them, but I could not speak to them. The goblin placed his hand upon my mouth, and I was dumb. O take me back to my own groves, I cried, or let me speak. But he threw me off his shoulders in a huff, among the daisies and the cyclamens. Alone among them, but I could not speak. He had tied my tongue, the goblin, and left me there alone. And in front of me, and towards me, and beside me, Walked Allah's fairest cyclamens and anemones. I smell them, and the tears flow down my cheeks; I can not even like the noon-day bulbul Whisper with my wings, salaam! I sit me on a bench and weep. And in my heart I sing O, let me be a burro-boy again; O, let me sleep among the cyclamens Of my own land. Shades of Whitman! But Whitman, thou Donkey, never weeps. Whitman, if that goblin tried to silence him, would have wrung his neck, after he had ridden upon it. The above, nevertheless, deserves the space we give it here, as it shadows forth one of the essential elements of Khalid's spiritual make-up. But this slight symptom of that disease we named, this morbidness incident to adolescence, is eventually overcome by a dictionary and a grammar. Ay, Khalid henceforth shall cease to scour the horizon for that vague something of his dreams; he has become far-sighted enough by the process to see the necessity of pursuing in America something more spiritual than peddling crosses and scapulars. Especially in this America, where the alphabet is spread broadcast, and free of charge. And so, he sets himself to the task of self-education. He feels the embryo stir within him, and in the squeamishness of enceinteship, he asks but for a few of the fruits of knowledge. Ah, but he becomes voracious of a sudden, and the little pocket dictionary is devoured entirely in three sittings. Hence his folly of treating his thoughts and fancies, as he was treated by the goblin. For do not words often rob a fancy of its tongue, or a thought of its soul? Many of the pieces Khalid wrote when he was devouring dictionaries were finally disposed of in a most picturesque manner, as we shall relate. And a few were given to Shakib, of which that Dream of Cyclamens was preserved. And Khalid's motto was, "One book at a time." He would not encumber himself with books any more than he would with shoes. But that the mind might not go barefoot, he always bought a new book before destroying the one in hand. Destroying? Yes; for after reading or studying a book, he warms his hands upon its flames, this Khalid, or makes it serve to cook a pot of _mojadderah_. In this extraordinary and outrageous manner, barbarously capricious, he would baptise the ideal in the fire of the real. And thus, glowing with health and confidence and conceit, he enters another Park from which he escapes in the end, sad and wan and bankrupt. Of a truth, many attractions and distractions are here; else he could not forget the peddling-box and the light-heeled, heavy-haunched women of Battery Park. Here are swings for the mind; toboggan-chutes for the soul; merry-go-rounds for the fancy; and many devious and alluring paths where one can lose himself for years. A sanitarium this for the hebephreniac. And like all sanitariums, you go into it with one disease and come out of it with ten. Had Shakib been forewarned of Khalid's mind, had he even seen him at the gate before he entered, he would have given him a few hints about the cross-signs and barbed-cordons therein. But should he not have divined that Khalid soon or late was coming? Did _he_ not call enough to him, and aloud? "Get thee behind me on this dromedary," our Scribe, reading his Al-Mutanabbi, would often say to his comrade, "and come from this desert of barren gold, if but for a day,--come out with me to the oasis of poesy." But Khalid would only ride alone. And so, he begins his course of self-education. But how he shall manage it, in this cart-before-the-horse fashion, the reader shall know. Words before rules, ideas before systems, epigrams before texts,--that is Khalid's fancy. And that seems feasible, though not logical; it will prove effectual, too, if one finally brushed the text and glanced at the rules. For an epigram, when it takes possession of one, goes farther in influencing his thoughts and actions than whole tomes of ethical culture science. You know perhaps how the Arabs conquered the best half of the world with an epigram, a word. And Khalid loves a fine-sounding, easy-flowing word; a word of supple joints, so to speak; a word that you can twist and roll out, flexible as a bamboo switch, resilient as a fine steel rapier. But once Shakib, after reading one of Khalid's first attempts, gets up in the night when his friend is asleep, takes from the bottom drawer of the peddling-box the evil-working dictionary, and places therein a grammar. This touch of delicacy, this fine piece of criticism, brief and neat, without words withal, Khalid this time is not slow to grasp and appreciate. He plunges, therefore, headlong into the grammar, turns a few somersaults in the mazes of Sibawai and Naftawai, and coming out with a broken noddle, writes on the door the following: "What do I care about your theories of nouns and verbs? Whether the one be derived from the other, concerns not me. But this I know, after stumbling once or twice in your labyrinths, one comes out parsing the verb, to run. Indeed, verbs are more essential than nouns and adjectives. A noun can be represented pictorially; but how, pictorially, can you represent a noun in motion,--Khalid, for instance, running out of your labyrinths? Even an abstract state can be represented in a picture, but a transitive state never. The richest language, therefore, is not the one which can boast of a thousand names for the lion or two thousand for the camel, but the one whose verbs have a complete and perfect gamut of moods and tenses." That is why, although writing in Arabic, Khalid prefers English. For the Arabic verb is confined to three tenses, the primary ones only; and to break through any of these in any degree, requires such crowbars as only auxiliaries and other verbs can furnish. For this and many other reasons Khalid stops short in the mazes of Sibawai, runs out of them exasperated, depressed, and never for a long time after looks in that direction. He is now curious to know if the English language have its Sibawais and Naftawais. And so, he buys him a grammar, and there finds the way somewhat devious, too, but not enough to constitute a maze. The men who wrote these grammars must have had plenty of time to do a little useful work. They do not seem to have walked leisurely in flowing robes disserting a life-long dissertation on the origin and descent of a preposition. One day Shakib is amazed by finding the grammars page by page tacked on the walls of the cellar and Khalid pacing around leisurely lingering a moment before each page, as if he were in an art gallery. That is how he tackled his subject. And that is why he and Shakib begin to quarrel. The idea! That a fledgling should presume to pick flaws. To Shakib, who is textual to a hair, this is intolerable. And that state of oneness between them shall be subject hereafter to "the corrosive action of various unfriendly agents." For Khalid, who has never yet been snaffled, turns restively from the bit which his friend, for his own sake, would put in his mouth. The rupture follows. The two for a while wend their way in opposite directions. Shakib still cherishing and cultivating his bank account, shoulders his peddling-box and jogs along with his inspiring demon, under whose auspices, he tells us, he continues to write verse and gull with his brummagems the pious dames of the suburbs. And Khalid sits on his peddling-box for hours pondering on the necessity of disposing of it somehow. For now he scarcely makes more than a few peddling-trips each month, and when he returns, he does not go to the bank to add to his balance, but to draw from it. That is why the accounts of the two Syrians do not fare alike; Shakib's is gaining in weight, Khalid's is wasting away. Yes, the strenuous spirit is a long time dead in Khalid. He is gradually reverting to the Oriental instinct. And when he is not loafing in Battery Park, carving his name on the bench, he is burrowing in the shelves of some second-hand book-shop or dreaming in the dome of some Broadway skyscraper. Does not this seem inevitable, however, considering the palingenetic burden within him? And is not loafing a necessary prelude to the travail? Khalid, of course, felt the necessity of this, not knowing the why and wherefor. And from the vast world of paper-bound souls, for he relished but pamphlets at the start--they do not make much smoke in the fire, he would say--from that vast world he could command the greatest of the great to help him support the loafing while. And as by a miracle, he came out of that chaos of contending spirits without a scratch. He enjoyed the belligerency of pamphleteers as an American would enjoy a prize fight. But he sided with no one; he took from every one his best and consigned him to Im-Hanna's kitchen. Torquemada could not have done better; but Khalid, it is hoped, will yet atone for his crimes. Monsieur Pascal, with whom he quarrels before he burns, had a particular influence upon him. He could not rest after reading his "Thoughts" until he read the Bible. And of the Prophets of the Old Testament he had an especial liking for Jeremiah and Isaiah. And once he bought a cheap print of Jeremiah which he tacked on the wall of his cellar. From the Khedivial Library MS. we give two excerpts relating to Pascal and this Prophet. "O Monsieur Pascal, "I tried hard to hate and detest myself, as you advise, and I found that I could not by so doing love God. 'Tis in loving the divine in Man, in me, in you, that we rise to the love of our Maker. And in giving your proofs of the true religion, you speak of the surprising measures of the Christian Faith, enjoining man to acknowledge himself vile, base, abominable, and obliging him at the same time to aspire towards a resemblance of his Maker. Now, I see in this a foreshadowing of the theory of evolution, nay a divine warrant for it. Nor is it the Christian religion alone which unfolds to man the twofold mystery of his nature; others are as dark and as bright on either side of the pole. And Philosophy conspiring with Biology will not consent to the apotheosis of Man, unless he wear on his breast a symbol of his tail.... _Au-revoir_, Monsieur Pascal, Remember me to St. Augustine." "O Jeremiah, "Thy picture, sitting among the ruins of the City of Zion, appeals to my soul. Why, I know not. It may be because I myself once sat in that posture among the ruins of my native City of Baal. But the ruins did not grieve me as did the uncle who slammed the door in my face that night. True, I wept in the ruins, but not over them. Something else had punctured the bladderets of my tears. And who knows who punctured thine, O Jeremiah? Perhaps a daughter of Tamar had stuck a bodkin in thine eye, and in lamenting thine own fate--Pardon me, O Jeremiah. Melikes not all these tears of thine. Nor did Zion and her children in Juhannam, I am sure.... Instead of a scroll in thy hand, I would have thee hold a harp. Since King David, Allah has not thought of endowing his prophets with musical talent. Why, think what an honest prophet could accomplish if his message were put into music. And withal, if he himself could sing it. Yes, our modern Jeremiahs should all take music lessons; for no matter how deep and poignant our sorrows, we can always rise from them, harp in hand, to an ecstasy, joyous and divine." Now, connect with this the following from the _Histoire Intime_, and you have the complete history of this Prophet in Khalid's cellar. For Khalid himself never gives us the facts in the case. Our Scribe, however, comes not short in this. "The picture of the Prophet Jeremiah," writes he, "Khalid hung on the wall, above his bed. And every night he would look up to it invokingly, muttering I know not what. One evening, while in this posture, he took up his lute and trolled a favourite ditty. For three days and three nights that picture hung on the wall. And on the morning of the fourth day--it was a cold December morning, I remember--he took it down and lighted the fire with it. The Pamphlet he had read a few days since, he also threw into the fire, and thereupon called to me saying, 'Come, Shakib, and warm yourself.'" And the Pamphlet, we learn, which was thus baptised in the same fire with the Prophet's picture, was Tom Paine's _Age of Reason_. CHAPTER VI THE SUMMER AFTERNOON OF A SHAM For two years and more Khalid's young mind went leaping from one swing to another, from one carousel or toboggan-chute to the next, without having any special object in view, without knowing why and wherefor. He even entered such mazes of philosophy, such labyrinths of mysticism as put those of the Arabian grammaticasters in the shade. To him, education was a sport, pursued in a free spirit after his own fancy, without method or discipline. For two years and more he did little but ramble thus, drawing meanwhile on his account in the bank, and burning pamphlets. One day he passes by a second-hand book-shop, which is in the financial hive of the city, hard by a church and within a stone's throw from the Stock Exchange. The owner, a shabby venerable, standing there, pipe in mouth, between piles of pamphlets and little pyramids of books, attracts Khalid. He too occupies a cellar. And withal he resembles the Prophet in the picture which was burned with Tom Paine's _Age of Reason_. Nothing in the face at least is amiss. A flowing, serrated, milky beard, with a touch of gold around the mouth; an aquiline nose; deep set blue eyes canopied with shaggy brows; a forehead broad and high; a dome a little frowsy but not guilty of a hair--the Prophet Jeremiah! Only one thing, a clay pipe which he seldom took out of his mouth except to empty and refill, seemed to take from the prophetic solemnity of the face. Otherwise, he is as grim and sullen as the Prophet. In his voice, however, there is a supple sweetness which the hard lines in his face do not express. Khalid nicknames him second-hand Jerry, makes to him professions of friendship, and for many months comes every day to see him. He comes with his bucket, as he would say, to Jerry's well. For the two, the young man and the old man of the cellar, the neophite and the master, would chat about literature and the makers of it for hours. And what a sea of information is therein under that frowsy dome. Withal, second-hand Jerry is a man of ideals and abstractions, exhibiting now and then an heretical twist which is as agreeable as the vermiculations in a mahogany. "We moderns," said he once to Khalid, "are absolutely one-sided. Here, for instance, is my book-shop, there is the Church, and yonder is the Stock Exchange. Now, the men who frequent them, and though their elbows touch, are as foreign to each other as is a jerboa to a polar bear. Those who go to Church do not go to the Stock Exchange; those who spend their days on the Stock Exchange seldom go to Church; and those who frequent my cellar go neither to the one nor the other. That is why our civilisation produces so many bigots, so many philistines, so many pedants and prigs. The Stock Exchange is as necessary to Society as the Church, and the Church is as vital, as essential to its spiritual well-being as my book-shop. And not until man develops his mental, spiritual and physical faculties to what Matthew Arnold calls 'a harmonious perfection,' will he be able to reach the heights from which Idealism is waving to him." Thus would the master discourse, and the neophite, sitting on the steps of the cellar, smoking his cigarette, listens, admiring, pondering. And every time he comes with his bucket, Jerry would be standing there, between his little pyramids of books, pipe in mouth, hands in pockets, ready for the discourse. He would also conduct through his underworld any one who had the leisure and inclination. But fortunately for Khalid, the people of this district are either too rich to buy second-hand books, or too snobbish to stop before this curiosity shop of literature. Hence the master is never too busy; he is always ready to deliver the discourse. One day Khalid is conducted into the labyrinthine gloom and mould of the cellar. Through the narrow isles, under a low ceiling, papered, as it were, with pamphlets, between ramparts and mounds of books, old Jerry, his head bowed, his lighted taper in hand, proceeds. And Khalid follows directly behind, listening to his guide who points out the objects and places of interest. And thus, through the alleys and by-ways, through the nooks and labyrinths of these underground temple-ruins, we get to the rear, where the ramparts and mounds crumble to a mighty heap, rising pell-mell to the ceiling. Here, one is likely to get a glimpse into such enchanted worlds as the name of a Dickens or a Balzac might suggest. Here, too, is Shakespeare in lamentable state; there is Carlyle in rags, still crying, as it were, against the filth and beastliness of this underworld. And look at my lord Tennyson shivering in his nakedness and doomed to keep company with the meanest of poetasters. Observe how Emerson is wriggled and ruffled in this crushing crowd. Does he not seem to be still sighing for a little solitude? But here, too, are spots of the rarest literary interest. Close to the vilest of dime novels is an autograph copy of a book which you might not find at Brentano's. Indeed, the rarities here stand side by side with the superfluities--the abominations with the blessings of literature--cluttered together, reduced to a common level. And all in a condition which bespeaks the time when they were held in the affection of some one. Now, they lie a-mouldering in these mounds, and on these shelves, awaiting a curious eye, a kindly hand. "To me," writes Khalid in the K. L. MS., "there is always something pathetic in a second-hand book offered again for sale. Why did its first owner part with it? Was it out of disgust or surfeit or penury? Did he throw it away, or give it away, or sell it? Alas, and is this how to treat a friend? Were it not better burned, than sold or thrown away? After coming out of the press, how many have handled this tattered volume? How many has it entertained, enlightened, or perverted? Look at its pages, which evidence the hardship of the journey it has made. Here still is a pressed flower, more convincing in its shrouded eloquence than the philosophy of the pages in which it lies buried. On the fly-leaf are the names of three successive owners, and on the margin are lead pencil notes in which the reader criticises the author. Their spirits are now shrouded together and entombed in this pile, where the mould never fails and the moths never die. They too are fallen a prey to the worms of the earth. A second-hand book-shop always reminds me of a Necropolis. It is a kind of Serapeum where lies buried the kings and princes with the helots and underlings of literature. Ay, every book is a mortuary chamber containing the remains of some poor literary wretch, or some mighty genius.... A book is a friend, my brothers, and when it ceases to entertain or instruct or inspire, it is dead. And would you sell a dead friend, would you throw him away? If you can not keep him embalmed on your shelf, is it not the wiser part, and the kinder, to cremate him?" And Khalid tells old Jerry, that if every one buying and reading books, disposed of them in the end as he himself does, second-hand book-shops would no longer exist. But old Jerry never despairs of business. And the idea of turning his Serapeum into a kiln does not appeal to him. Howbeit, Khalid has other ideas which the old man admires, and which he would carry out if the police would not interfere. "If I were the owner of this shop," thus the neophite to the master, "I would advertise it with a bonfire of pamphlets. I would take a few hundreds from that mound there and give them the match right in front of that Church, or better still before the Stock Exchange. And I would have two sandwich-men stand about the bonfire, as high priests of the Temple, and chant the praises of second-hand Jerry and his second-hand book-shop. This will be the sacrifice which you will have offered to the god of Trade right in front of his sanctuary that he might soften the induration in the breasts of these worthy citizens, your rich neighbours. And if he does not, why, shut up shop or burn it up, and let us go out peddling together." We do not know, however, whether old Jerry ever adopted Khalid's idea. He himself is an Oriental in this sense; and the business is good enough to keep up, so long as Khalid comes. He is supremely content. Indeed, Shakib asseverates in round Arabic, that the old man of the cellar got a good portion of Khalid's balance, while balancing Khalid's mind. Nay, firing it with free-thought literature. Are we then to consider this cellar as Khalid's source of spiritual illumination? And is this genial old heretic an American avatar of the monk Bohaira? For Khalid is gradually becoming a man of ideas and crotchets. He is beginning to see a purpose in all his literary and spiritual rambles. His mental nebulosity is resolving itself into something concrete, which shall weigh upon him for a while and propel him in the direction of Atheism and Demagogy. For old Jerry once visits Khalid in his cellar, and after partaking of a dish of _mojadderah_, takes him to a political meeting to hear the popular orators of the day. And in this is ineffable joy for Khalid. Like every young mind he is spellbound by one of those masters of spread-eagle oratory, and for some time he does not miss a single political meeting in his district. We even see him among the crowd before the corner groggery, cheering one of the political spouters of the day. And once he accompanies Jerry to the Temple of Atheism to behold its high Priest and hear him chant halleluiah to the Nebular Hypothesis. This is wonderful. How easy it is to dereligionise the human race and banish God from the Universe! But after the High Priest had done this, after he had proven to the satisfaction of every atheist that God is a myth, old Jerry turns around and gives Khalid this warning: "Don't believe all he says, for I know that atheist well. He is as eloquent as he is insincere." And so are all atheists. For at bottom, atheism is either a fad or a trade or a fatuity. And whether the one or the other, it is a sham more pernicious than the worst. To the young mind, it is a shibboleth of cheap culture; to the shrewd and calculating mind, to such orators as Khalid heard, it is a trade most remunerative; and to the scientists, or rather monists, it is the aliment with which they nourish the perversity of their preconceptions. Second-hand Jerry did not say these things to our young philosopher; for had he done so, Khalid, now become edacious, would not have experienced those dyspeptic pangs which almost crushed the soul-fetus in him. For we are told that he is as sedulous in attending these atheistic lectures as he is in flocking with his fellow citizens to hear and cheer the idols of the stump. Once he took Shakib to the Temple of Atheism, but the Poet seems to prefer his _Al-Mutanabby_. In relating of Khalid's waywardness he says: "Ever since we quarrelled about Sibawai, Khalid and I have seldom been together. And he had become so opinionated that I was glad it was so. Even on Sunday I would leave him alone with Im-Hanna, and returning in the evening, I would find him either reading or burning a pamphlet. Once I consented to accompany him to one of the lectures he was so fond of attending. And I was really surprised that one had to pay money for such masquerades of eloquence as were exhibited that night on the platform. Yes, it occurred to me that if one had not a dollar one could not become an atheist. Billah! I was scandalized. For no matter how irreverent one likes to pose, one ought to reverence at least his Maker. I am a Christian by the grace of Allah, and my ancestors are counted among the martyrs of the Church. And thanks to my parents, I have been duly baptized and confirmed. For which I respect them the more, and love them. Now, is it not absurd that I should come here and pay a hard dollar to hear this heretical speechifier insult my parents and my God? Better the ring of Al-Mutanabbi's scimitars and spears than the clatter of these atheistical bones!" From which we infer that Shakib was not open to reason on the subject. He would draw his friend away from the verge of the abyss at any cost. "And this," continues he, "did not require much effort. For Khalid like myself is constitutionally incapable of denying God. We are from the land in which God has always spoken to our ancestors." And the argument between the shrewd verse-maker and the foolish philosopher finally hinges on this: namely, that these atheists are not honest investigators, that in their sweeping generalisations, as in their speciosity and hypocrisy, they are commercially perverse. And Khalid is not long in deciding about the matter. He meets with an accident--and accidents have always been his touchstones of success--which saves his soul and seals the fate of atheism. One evening, returning from a ramble in the Park, he passes by the Hall where his favourite Mountebank was to lecture on the Gospel of Soap. But not having the price of admittance that evening, and being anxious to hear the orator whom he had idolised, Khalid bravely appeals to his generosity in this quaint and touching note: "My pocket," he wrote, "is empty and my mind is hungry. Might I come to your Table to-night as a beggar?" And the man at the stage door, who carries the note to the orator, returns in a trice, and tells Khalid to lift himself off. Khalid hesitates, misunderstands; and a heavy hand is of a sudden upon him, to say nothing of the heavy boot. Ay, and that boot decided him. Atheism, bald, bold, niggardly, brutal, pretending withal, Khalid turns from its door never to look again in that direction, Shakib is right. "These people," he growled, "are not free thinkers, but free stinkards. They do need soap to wash their hearts and souls." An idea did not come to Khalid, as it were, by instalments. In his puerperal pains of mind he was subject to such crises, shaken by such downrushes of light, as only the few among mortals experience. (We are quoting our Scribe, remember.) And in certain moments he had more faith in his instincts than in his reason. "Our instincts," says he, "never lie. They are honest, and though they be sometimes blind." And here, he seems to have struck the truth. He can be practical too. Honesty in thought, in word, in deed--this he would have as the cornerstone of his truth. Moral rectitude he places above all the cardinal virtues, natural and theological. "Better keep away from the truth, O Khalid," he writes, "better remain a stranger to it all thy life, if thou must sully it with the slimy fingers of a mercenary juggler." Now, these brave words, we can not in conscience criticise. But we venture to observe that Khalid must have had in mind that Gospel of Soap and the incident at the stage door. And in this, we, too, rejoice. We, too, forgetting the dignity of our position, participate of the revelry in the cellar on this occasion. For our editorialship, dear Reader, is neither American nor English. We are not bound, therefore, to maintain in any degree the algidity and indifference of our confrères' sublime attitude. We rejoice in the spiritual safety of Khalid. We rejoice that he and Shakib are now reconciled. For the reclaimed runagate is now even permitted to draw on the poet's balance at the banker. Ay, even Khalid can dissimulate when he needs the cash. For with the assistance of second-hand Jerry and the box-office of the atheistical jugglers, he had exhausted his little saving. He would not even go out peddling any more. And when Shakib asks him one morning to shoulder the box and come out, he replies: "I have a little business with it here." For after having impeached the High Priests of Atheism he seems to have turned upon himself. We translate from the K. L. MS. "When I was disenchanted with atheism, when I saw somewhat of the meanness and selfishness of its protagonists, I began to doubt in the honesty of men. If these, our supposed teachers, are so vile, so mercenary, so false,--why, welcome Juhannam! But the more I doubted in the honesty of men, the more did I believe that honesty should be the cardinal virtue of the soul. I go so far in this, that an honest thief in my eyes is more worthy of esteem than a canting materialist or a hypocritical free thinker. Still, the voice within me asked if Shakib were honest in his dealings, if I were honest in my peddling? Have I not misrepresented my gewgaws as the atheist misrepresents the truth? 'This is made in the Holy Land,'--'This is from the Holy Sepulchre'--these lies, O Khalid, are upon you. And what is the difference between the jewellery you passed off for gold and the arguments of the atheist-preacher? Are they not both instruments of deception, both designed to catch the dollar? Yes, you have been, O Khalid, as mean, as mercenary, as dishonest as those canting infidels. "And what are you going to do about it? Will you continue, while in the quagmires yourself, to point contemptuously at those standing in the gutter? Will you, in your dishonesty, dare impeach the honesty of men? Are you not going to make a resolution now, either to keep silent or to go out of the quagmires and rise to the mountain-heights? Be pure yourself first, O Khalid; then try to spread this purity around you at any cost. "Yes; that is why, when Shakib asked me to go out peddling one day, I hesitated and finally refused. For atheism, in whose false dry light I walked a parasang or two, did not only betray itself to me as a sham, but also turned my mind and soul to the sham I had shouldered for years. From the peddling-box, therefore, I turned even as I did from atheism. Praised be Allah, who, in his providential care, seemed to kick me away from the door of its temple. The sham, although effulgent and alluring, was as brief as a summer afternoon." As for the peddling-box, our Scribe will tell of its fate in the following Chapter. CHAPTER VII IN THE TWILIGHT OF AN IDEA It is Voltaire, we believe, who says something to the effect that one's mind should be in accordance with one's years. That is why an academic education nowadays often fails of its purpose. For whether one's mind runs ahead of one's years, or one's years ahead of one's mind, the result is much the same; it always goes ill with the mind. True, knowledge is power; but in order to feel at home with it, we must be constitutionally qualified. And if we are not, it is likely to give the soul such a wrenching as to deform it forever. Indeed, how many of us go through life with a fatal spiritual or intellectual twist which could have been avoided in our youth, were we a little less wise. The young _philosophes_, the products of the University Machine of to-day, who go about with a nosegay of -isms, as it were, in their lapels, and perfume their speech with the bottled logic of the College Professor,--are not most of them incapable of honestly and bravely grappling with the real problems of life? And does not a systematic education mean this, that a young man must go through life dragging behind him his heavy chains of set ideas and stock systems, political, social, or religious? (Remember, we are translating from the Khedivial Library MS.) The author continues: "Whether one devour the knowledge of the world in four years or four nights, the process of assimilation is equally hindered, if the mind is sealed at the start with the seal of authority. Ay, we can not be too careful of dogmatic science in our youth; for dogmas often dam certain channels of the soul through which we might have reached greater treasures and ascended to purer heights. A young man, therefore, ought to be let alone. There is an infinite possibility of soul-power in every one of us, if it can be developed freely, spontaneously, without discipline or restraint. There is, too, an infinite possibility of beauty in every soul, if it can be evoked at an auspicious moment by the proper word, the proper voice, the proper touch. That is why I say, Go thy way, O my Brother. Be simple, natural, spontaneous, courageous, free. Neither anticipate your years, nor lag child-like behind them. For verily, it is as ridiculous to dye the hair white as to dye it black. Ah, be foolish while thou art young; it is never too late to be wise. Indulge thy fancy, follow the bent of thy mind; for in so doing thou canst not possibly do thyself more harm than the disciplinarians can do thee. Live thine own life; think thine own thoughts; keep developing and changing until thou arrive at the truth thyself. An ounce of it found by thee were better than a ton given to thee _gratis_ by one who would enslave thee. Go thy way, O my Brother. And if my words lead thee to Juhannam, why, there will be a great surprise for thee. There thou wilt behold our Maker sitting on a flaming glacier waiting for the like of thee. And he will take thee into his arms and poke thee in the ribs, and together you will laugh and laugh, until that glacier become a garden and thou a flower therein. Go thy way, therefore; be not afraid. And no matter how many tears thou sheddest on this side, thou wilt surely be poked in the ribs on the other. Go--thy--but--let Nature be thy guide; acquaint thyself with one or two of her laws ere thou runnest wild." And to what extent did this fantastic mystic son of a Phoenician acquaint himself with Nature's laws, we do not know. But truly, he was already running wild in the great cosmopolis of New York. From his stivy cellar he issues forth into the plashing, plangent currents of city life. Before he does this, however, he rids himself of all the encumbrances of peddlery which hitherto have been his sole means of support. His little stock of crosses, rosaries, scapulars, false jewellery, mother-of-pearl gewgaws, and such like, which he has on the little shelf in the cellar, he takes down one morning--but we will let our Scribe tell the story. "My love for Khalid," he writes, "has been severely tried. We could no longer agree about anything. He had become such a dissenter that often would he take the wrong side of a question if only for the sake of bucking. True, he ceased to frequent the cellar of second-hand Jerry, and the lectures of the infidels he no longer attended. We were in accord about atheism, therefore, but in riotous discord about many other things, chief among which was the propriety, the necessity, of doing something to replenish his balance at the banker. For he was now impecunious, and withal importunate. Of a truth, what I had I was always ready to share with him; but for his own good I advised him to take up the peddling-box again. I reminded him of his saying once, 'Peddling is a healthy and profitable business.' 'Come out,' I insisted, 'and though it be for the exercise. Walking is the whetstone of thought.' "One evening we quarrelled about this, and Im-Hanna sided with me. She rated Khalid, saying, 'You're a good-for-nothing loafer; you don't deserve the _mojadderah_ you eat.' And I remember how she took me aside that evening and whispered something about books, and Khalid's head, and Mar-Kizhayiah.[1] Indeed, Im-Hanna seriously believed that Khalid should be taken to Mar-Kizhayiah. She did not know that New York was full of such institutions.[2] Her scolding, however, seemed to have more effect on Khalid than my reasoning. And consenting to go out with me, he got up the following morning, took down his stock from the shelf, every little article of it--he left nothing there--and packed all into his peddling-box. He then squeezed into the bottom drawer, which he had filled with scapulars, the bottle with a little of the Stuff in it. For we were in accord about this, that in New York whiskey is better than arak. And we both took a nip now and then. So I thought the bottle was in order. But why he placed his bank book, which was no longer worth a straw, into that bottom drawer, I could not guess. With these preparations, however, we shouldered our boxes, and in an hour we were in the suburbs. We foot it along then, until we reach a row of cottages not far from the railway station. 'Will you knock at one of these doors,' I asked. And he, 'I do not feel like chaffering and bargaining this morning.' 'Why then did you come out,' I urged. And he, in an air of nonchalance, 'Only for the walk.' And so, we pursued our way in the Bronx, until we reached one of our favourite spots, where a sycamore tree seemed to invite us to its ample shade. "Here, Khalid, absent-minded, laid down his box and sat upon it, and I stretched my limbs on the grass. But of a sudden, he jumped up, opened the bottom drawer of his case, and drew from it the bottle. It is quite in order now, I mused; but ere I had enjoyed the thought, Khalid had placed his box at a little distance, and, standing there beside it, bottle in hand, delivered himself in a semi-solemn, semi-mocking manner of the following: 'This is the oil,' I remember him saying, 'with which I anoint thee--the extreme unction I apply to thy soul.' And he poured the contents of the bottle into the bottom drawer and over the box, and applied to it a match. The bottle was filled with kerosene, and in a jiffy the box was covered with the flame. Yes; and so quickly, so neatly it was done, that I could not do aught to prevent it. The match was applied to what I thought at first was whiskey, and I was left in speechless amazement. He would not even help me to save a few things from the fire. I conjured him in the name of Allah, but in vain. I clamoured and remonstrated, but to no purpose. And when I asked him why he had done this, he asked me in reply, 'And why have you not done the same? Now, methinks I deserve my _mojadderah_. And not until you do likewise, will you deserve yours, O Shakib. Here are the lies, now turned to ashes, which brought me my bread and are still bringing you yours. Here are our instruments of deception, our poisoned sources of lucre. I am most happy now, O Shakib. And I shall endeavour to keep my blood in circulation by better, purer means.' And he took me thereupon by the shoulders, looked into my face, then pushed me away, laughing the laugh of the hasheesh-smokers. "Indeed, Im-Hanna was right. Khalid had become too odd, too queer to be sane. Needless to say, I was not prone to follow his example at that time. Nor am I now. _Mashallah!_ Lacking the power and madness to set fire to the whole world, it were folly, indeed, to begin with one's self. I believe I had as much right to exaggerate in peddling as I had in writing verse. My license to heighten the facts holds good in either case. And to some extent, every one, a poet be he or a cobbler, enjoys such a license. I told Khalid that the logical and most effective course to pursue, in view of his rigorous morality, would be to pour a gallon of kerosene over his own head and fire himself out of existence. For the instruments of deception and debasement are not in the peddling-box, but rather in his heart. No; I did not think peddling was as bad as other trades. Here at least, the means of deception were reduced to a minimum. And of a truth, if everybody were to judge themselves as strictly as Khalid, who would escape burning? So I turned from him that day fully convinced that my little stock of holy goods was innocent, and my balance at the banker's was as pure as my rich neighbour's. And he turned from me fully convinced, I believe, that I was an unregenerate rogue. Ay, and when I was knocking at the door of one of my customers, he was walking away briskly, his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes, as usual, scouring the horizon." And on that horizon are the gilded domes and smoking chimneys of the seething city. Leaving his last friend and his last burden behind, he will give civilised life another trial. Loafer and tramp that he is! For even the comforts of the grand cable-railway he spurns, and foots it from the Bronx down to his cellar near Battery Park, thus cutting the city in half and giving one portion to Izräil and the other to Iblis. But not being quite ready himself for either of these winged Furies, he keeps to his cellar. He would tarry here a while, if but to carry out a resolution he has made. True, Khalid very seldom resolves upon anything; but when he does make a resolution, he is even willing to be carried off by the effort to carry it out. And now, he would solve this problem of earning a living in the great city by honest means. For in the city, at least, success well deserves the compliments which those who fail bestow upon it. What Montaigne said of greatness, therefore, Khalid must have said of success. If we can not attain it, let us denounce it. And in what terms does he this, O merciful Allah! We translate a portion of the apostrophe in the K. L. MS., and not the bitterest, by any means. "O Success," the infuriated failure exclaims, "how like the Gorgon of the Arabian Nights thou art! For does not every one whom thou favorest undergo a pitiful transformation even from the first bedding with thee? Does not everything suffer from thy look, thy touch, thy breath? The rose loses its perfume, the grape-vine its clusters, the bulbul its wings, the dawn its light and glamour. O Success, our lords of power to-day are thy slaves, thy helots, our kings of wealth. Every one grinds for thee, every one for thee lives and dies.... Thy palaces of silver and gold are reared on the souls of men. Thy throne is mortised with their bones, cemented with their blood. Thou ravenous Gorgon, on what bankruptcies thou art fed, on what failures, on what sorrows! The railroads sweeping across the continents and the steamers ploughing through the seas, are laden with sacrifices to thee. Ay, and millions of innocent children are torn from their homes and from their schools to be offered to thee at the sacrificial-stone of the Factories and Mills. The cultured, too, and the wise, are counted among thy slaves. Even the righteous surrender themselves to thee and are willing to undergo that hideous transformation. O Success, what an infernal litany thy votaries and high-priests are chanting to thee.... Thou ruthless Gorgon, what crimes thou art committing, and what crimes are being committed in thy name!" From which it is evident that Khalid does not wish for success. Khalid is satisfied if he can maintain his hold on the few spare feet he has in the cellar, and continue to replenish his little store of lentils and olive oil. For he would as lief be a victim of success, he assures us, as to forego his _mojadderah_. And still having this, which he considers a luxury, he is willing to turn his hand at anything, if he can but preserve inviolate the integrity of his soul and the freedom of his mind. These are a few of the pet terms of Khalid. And in as much as he can continue to repeat them to himself, he is supremely content. He can be a menial, if while cringing before his superiors, he were permitted to chew on his pet illusions. A few days before he burned his peddling-box, he had read Epictetus. And the thought that such a great soul maintained its purity, its integrity, even in bonds, encouraged and consoled him. "How can they hurt me," he asks, "if spiritually I am far from them, far above them? They can do no more than place gilt buttons on my coat and give me a cap to replace this slouch. Therefore, I will serve. I will be a slave, even like Epictetus." And here we must interpose a little of our skepticism, if but to gratify an habitual craving in us. We do not doubt that Khalid's self-sufficiency is remarkable; that his courage--on paper--is quite above the common; that the grit and stay he shows are wonderful; that his lofty aspirations, so indomitable in their onwardness, are great: but we only ask, having thus fortified his soul, how is he to fortify his stomach? He is going to work, to be a menial, to earn a living by honest means? Ah, Khalid, Khalid! Did you not often bestow a furtive glance on some one else's checkbook? Did you not even exercise therein your skill in calculation? If the bank, where Shakib deposits his little saving, failed, would you be so indomitable, so dogged in your resolution? Would you not soften a trifle, loosen a whit, if only for the sake of your blood-circulation? Indeed, Shakib has become a patron to Khalid. Shakib the poet, who himself should have a patron, is always ready to share his last dollar with his loving, though cantankerous friend. And this, in spite of all the disagreeable features of a friendship which in the Syrian Colony was become proverbial. But Khalid now takes up the newspapers and scans the Want Columns for hours. The result being a clerkship in a lawyer's office. Nay, an apprenticeship; for the legal profession, it seems, had for a while engaged his serious thoughts. And this of all the professions is the one on which he would graft his scion of lofty morality? Surely, there be plenty of fuel for a conflagration in a lawyer's office. Such rows of half-calf tomes, such piles of legal documents, all designed to combat dishonesty and fraud, "and all immersed in them, and nourished and maintained by them." In what a sorry condition will your Morality issue out of these bogs! A lawyer's clerk, we are informed, can not maintain his hold on his clerkship, if he does not learn to blink. That is why Khalid is not long in serving papers, copying summonses, and searching title-deeds. In this lawyer's office he develops traits altogether foreign to his nature. He even becomes a quidnunc, prying now and then into the personal affairs of his superiors. Ay, and he dares once to suggest to his employer a new method of dealing with the criminals among his clients. Withal, Khalid is slow, slower than the law itself. If he goes out to serve a summons he does not return for a day. If he is sent to search title-deeds, he does not show up in the office for a week. And often he would lose himself in the Park surrounding the Register's Office, pondering on his theory of immanent morality. He would sit down on one of those benches, which are the anchors of loafers of another type, his batch of papers beside him, and watch the mad crowds coming and going, running, as it were, between two fires. These puckered people are the living, moving chambers of sleeping souls. Khalid was always glad to come to this Register's Office. For though the searching of title-deeds be a mortal process, the loafing margin of the working hour could be extended imperceptibly, and without hazarding his or his employer's interest. The following piece of speculative fantasy and insight must have been thought out when he should have been searching title-deeds. "This Register's Office," it is written in the K. L. MS., "is the very bulwark of Society. It is the foundation on which the Trust Companies, the Courts, and the Prisons are reared. Your codes are blind without the miraculous torches which this Office can light. Your judges can not propound the 'laur'--I beg your pardon, the law--without the aid of these musty, smelling, dilapidated tomes. Ay, these are the very constables of the realm, and without them there can be no realm, no legislators, and no judges. Strong, club-bearing constables, these Liebers, standing on the boundary lines, keeping peace between brothers and neighbours. "Here, in these Liebers is an authority which never fails, never dies--an authority which willy-nilly we obey and in which we place unbounded trust. In any one of these Registers is a potentiality which can always worst the quibbles and quiddities of lawyers and ward off the miserable technicalities of the law. Any of them, when called upon, can go into court and dictate to the litigants and the attorneys, the jury and the judge. They are the deceased witnesses come to life. And without them, the judges are helpless, the marshals and sheriffs too. Ay, and what without them would be the state of our real-estate interests? Abolish your constabulary force, and your police force, and with these muniments of power, these dumb but far-seeing agents of authority and intelligence, you could still maintain peace and order. But burn you this Register's Office, and before the last Lieber turn to ashes, ere the last flame of the conflagration die out, you will have to call forth, not only your fire squads, but your police force and even your soldiery, to extinguish other fires different in nature, but more devouring--and as many of them as there are boundary lines in the land." And we now come to the gist of the matter. "What wealth of moral truth," he continues, "do we find in these greasy, musty pages. When one deeds a piece of property, he deeds with it something more valuable, more enduring. He deeds with it an undying human intelligence which goes down to posterity, saying, Respect my will; believe in me; and convey this respect and this belief to your offspring. Ay, the immortal soul breathes in a deed as in a great book. And the implicit trust we place in a musty parchment, is the mystic outcome of the blind faith, or rather the far-seeing faith which our ancestors had in the morality and intelligence of coming generations. For what avails their deeds if they are not respected?... We are indebted to our forbears, therefore, not for the miserable piece of property they bequeath us, but for the confidence and trust, the faith and hope they had in our innate or immanent morality and intelligence. The will of the dead is law for the living." Are we then to look upon Khalid as having come out of that Office with soiled fingers only? Or has the young philosopher abated in his clerkship the intensity of his moral views? Has he not assisted his employer in the legal game of quieting titles? Has he not acquired a little of the delusive plausibilities of lawyers? Shakib throws no light on these questions. We only know that the clerkship or rather apprenticeship was only held for a season. Indeed, Khalid must have recoiled from the practice. Or in his recklessness, not to say obtrusion, he must have been outrageous enough to express in the office of the honourable attorney, or in the neighbourhood thereof, his views about pettifogging and such like, that the said honourable attorney was under the painful necessity of asking him to stay home. Nay, the young Syrian was discharged. Or to put it in a term adequate to the manner in which this was done, he was "fired." Now, Khalid betakes him back to his cellar, and thrumming his lute-strings, lights up the oppressive gloom with Arabic song and music. ----- [1] A monastery in Mt. Lebanon, a sort of Bedlam, where the exorcising monks beat the devil out of one's head with clouted shoes.--EDITOR. [2] And the doctors here practise in the name of science what the exorcising monks practise in the name of religion. The poor devil, or patient, in either case is done to death.--EDITOR. CHAPTER VIII WITH THE HURIS From the house of law the dervish Khalid wends his way to that of science, and from the house of science he passes on to that of metaphysics. His staff in hand, his wallet hung on his shoulder, his silver cigarette case in his pocket, patient, confident, content, he makes his way from one place to another. Unlike his brother dervishes, he is clean and proud of it, too. He knocks at this or that door, makes his wish known to the servant or the mistress, takes the crumbs given him, and not infrequently gives his prod to the dogs. In the vestibule of one of the houses of spiritism, he tarries a spell and parleys with the servant. The Mistress, a fair-looking, fair-spoken dame of seven lustrums or more, issues suddenly from her studio, in a curiously designed black velvet dressing-gown; she is drawn to the door by the accent of the foreigner's speech and the peculiar cadence of his voice. They meet: and magnetic currents from his dark eyes and her eyes of blue, flow and fuse. They speak: and the lady asks the stranger if he would not serve instead of begging. And he protests, "I am a Dervish at the door of Allah." "And I am a Spirit in Allah's house," she rejoins. They enter: and the parley in the vestibule is followed by a tête-à-tête in the parlour and another in the dining-room. They agree: and the stranger is made a member of the Spiritual Household, which now consists of her and him, the Medium and the Dervish. Now, this fair-spoken dame, who dotes on the occult and exotic, delights in the aroma of Khalid's cigarettes and Khalid's fancy. And that he might feel at ease, she begins by assuring him that they have met and communed many times ere now, that they have been friends under a preceding and long vanished embodiment. Which vagary Khalid seems to countenance by referring to the infinite power of Allah, in the compass of which nothing is impossible. And with these mystical circumlocutions of ceremony, they plunge into an intimacy which is bordered by the metaphysical on one side, and the physical on the other. For though the Medium is at the threshold of her climacteric, Khalid afterwards tells Shakib that there be something in her eyes and limbs which always seem to be waxing young. And of a truth, the American woman, of all others, knows best how to preserve her beauty from the ravages of sorrow and the years. That is why, we presume, in calling him, "child," she does not permit him to call her, "mother." Indeed, the Medium and the Dervish often jest, and somewhiles mix the frivolous with the mysterious. We would still follow our Scribe here, were it not that his pruriency often reaches the edge. He speaks of "the _liaison_" with all the rude simplicity and frankness of the Arabian Nights. And though, as the Mohammedans say, "To the pure everything is pure," and again, "Who quotes a heresy is not guilty of it"; nevertheless, we do not feel warranted in rending the veil of the reader's prudery, no matter how transparent it might be. We believe, however, that the pruriency of Orientals, like the prudery of Occidentals, is in fact only an appearance. On both sides there is a display of what might be called verbal virtue and verbal vice. And on both sides, the exaggerations are configured in a harmless pose. Be this as it may, we at least, shall withhold from Shakib's lasciviousness the English dress it seeks at our hand. We note, however, that Khalid now visits him in the cellar only when he craves a dish of _mojadderah_; that he and the Medium are absorbed in the contemplation of the Unseen, though not, perhaps, of the Impalpable; that they gallivant in the Parks, attend Bohemian dinners, and frequent the Don't Worry Circles of Metaphysical Societies; that they make long expeditions together to the Platonic North-pole and back to the torrid regions of Swinburne; and that together they perform their _zikr_ and drink at the same fountain of ecstasy and devotion. Withal, the Dervish, who now wears his hair long and grows his finger nails like a Brahmin, is beginning to have some manners. The Medium, nevertheless, withholds from him the secret of her art. If he desires, he can attend the séances like every other stranger. Once Khalid, who would not leave anything unprobed, insisted, importuned; he could not see any reason for her conduct. Why should they not work together in Tiptology, as in Physiology and Metaphysics? And one morning, dervish-like, he wraps himself in his _aba_, and, calling upon Allah to witness, takes a rose from the vase on the table, angrily plucks its petals, and strews them on the carpet. Which portentous sign the Medium understands and hastens to minister her palliatives. "No, Child, you shall not go," she begs and supplicates; "listen to me, are we not together all the time? Why not leave me alone then with the spirits? One day you shall know all, believe me. Come, sit here," stroking her palm on her lap, "and listen. I shall give up this tiptology business very soon; you and I shall overturn the table. Yes, Child, I am on the point of succumbing under an awful something. So, don't ask me about the spooks any more. Promise not to torment me thus any more. And one day we shall travel together in the Orient; we shall visit the ruins of vanished kingdoms and creeds. Ah, to be in Palmyra with you! Do you know, Child, I am destined to be a Beduin queen. The throne of Zenobia is mine, and yours too, if you will be good. We shall resuscitate the glory of the kingdom of the desert." To all of which Khalid acquiesces by referring as is his wont to the infinite wisdom of Allah, in whose all-seeing eye nothing is impossible. And thus, apparently satisfied, he takes the cigarette which she had lighted for him, and lights for her another from his own. But the smoke of two cigarettes dispels not the threatening cloud; it only conceals it from view. For they dine together at a Bohemian Club that evening, where Khalid meets a woman of rare charms. And she invites him to her studio. The Medium, who is at first indifferent, finally warns her callow child. "That woman is a writer," she explains, "and writers are always in search of what they call 'copy.' She in particular is a huntress of male curiosities, _originales_, whom she takes into her favour and ultimately surrenders them to the reading public. So be careful." But Khalid hearkens not. For the writer, whom he afterwards calls a flighter, since she, too, "like the van of the brewer only skims the surface of things," is, in fact, younger than the Medium. Ay, this woman is even beautiful--to behold, at least. So the Dervish, a captive of her charms, knocks at the door of her studio one evening and enters. Ah, this then is a studio! "I am destined to know everything, and to see everything," he says to himself, smiling in his heart. The charming hostess, in a Japanese kimono receives him somewhat orientally, offering him the divan, which he occupies alone for a spell. He is then laden with a huge scrap-book containing press notices and reviews of her many novels. These, he is asked to go through while she prepares the tea. Which is a mortal task for the Dervish in the presence of the Enchantress. Alas, the tea is long in the making, and when the scrap-book is laid aside, she reinforces him with a lot of magazines adorned with stories of the short and long and middling size, from her fertile pen. "These are beautiful," says he, in glancing over a few pages, "but no matter how you try, you can not with your pen surpass your own beauty. The charm of your literary style can not hold a candle to the charm of your--permit me to read your hand." And laying down the magazine, he takes up her hand and presses it to his lips. In like manner, he tries to read somewhat in the face, but the Enchantress protests and smiles. In which case the smile renders the protest null and void. Henceforth, the situation shall be trying even to the Dervish who can eat live coals. He oscillates for some while between the Medium and the Enchantress, but finds the effort rather straining. The first climax, however, is reached, and our Scribe thinks it too sad for words. He himself sheds a few rheums with the fair-looking, fair-spoken Dame, and dedicates to her a few rhymes. Her magnanimity, he tells us, is unexampled, and her fatalism pathetic. For when Khalid severs himself from the Spiritual Household, she kisses him thrice, saying, "Go, Child; Allah brought you to me, and Allah will bring you again." Khalid refers, as usual, to the infinite wisdom of the Almighty, and, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, wipes the tears that fell--from her eyes over his. He passes out of the vestibule, silent and sad, musing on the time he first stood there as a beggar. Now, the horizon of the Enchantress is unobstructed. Khalid is there alone; and her free love can freely pass on from him to another. And such messages they exchange! Such evaporations of the insipidities of free love! Khalid again takes up with Shakib, from whom he does not conceal anything. The epistles are read by both, and sometimes replied to by both! And she, in an effort to seem Oriental, calls the Dervish, "My Syrian Rose," "My Desert Flower," "My Beduin Boy," et cetera, always closing her message with either a strip of Syrian sky or a camel load of the narcissus. Ah, but not thus will the play close. True, Khalid alone adorns her studio for a time, or rather adores in it; he alone accompanies her to Bohemia. But the Dervish, who was always going wrong in Bohemia,--always at the door of the Devil,--ventures one night to escort another woman to her studio. Ah, those studios! The Enchantress on hearing of the crime lights the fire under her cauldron. "Double, double, toil and trouble!" She then goes to the telephone--g-r-r-r-r you swine--you Phoenician murex--she hangs up the receiver, and stirs the cauldron. "Double, double, toil and trouble!" But the Dervish writes her an extraordinary letter, in which we suspect the pen of our Scribe, and from which we can but transcribe the following: "You found in me a vacant heart," he pleads, "and you occupied it. The divan therein is yours, yours alone. Nor shall I ever permit a chance caller, an intruder, to exasperate you.... My breast is a stronghold in which you are well fortified. How then can any one disturb you?... How can I turn from myself against myself? Somewhat of you, the best of you, circulates with my blood; you are my breath of life. How can I then overcome you? How can I turn to another for the sustenance which you alone can give?... If I be thirst personified, you are the living, flowing brook, the everlasting fountain. O for a drink--" And here follows a hectic uprush about pearly breasts, and honey-sources, and musk-scented arbours, closing with "Your Beduin Boy shall come to-night." Notwithstanding which, the Enchantress abandons the Syrian Dwelling: she no longer fancies the vacant Divan of which Khalid speaks. Fortress or no fortress, she gives up occupation and withdraws from the foreigner her favour. Not only that; but the fire is crackling under the cauldron, and the typewriter begins to click. Ay, these modern witches can make even a typewriter dance around the fire and join in the chorus. "Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!" and the performance was transformed from the studio to the magazine supplement of one of the Sunday newspapers. There, the Dervish is thrown into the cauldron along with the magic herbs. Bubble--bubble. The fire-eating Dervish, how can he now swallow this double-tongued flame of hate and love? The Enchantress had wrought her spell, had ministered her poison. Now, where can he find an antidote, who can teach him a healing formula? Bruno D'Ast was once bewitched by a sorceress, and by causing her to be burned he was immediately cured. Ah, that Khalid could do this! Like an ordinary pamphlet he would consign the Enchantress to the flames, and her scrap-books and novels to boot. He does well, however, to return to his benevolent friend, the Medium. The spell can be counteracted by another, though less potent. Ay, even witchcraft has its homeopathic remedies. And the Medium, Shakib tells us, is delighted to welcome back her prodigal child. She opens to him her arms, and her heart; she slays the fatted calf. "I knew that Allah will bring you back to me," she ejaculates; "my prevision is seldom wrong." And kissing her hand, Khalid falters, "Forgiveness is for the sinner, and the good are for forgiveness." Whereupon, they plunge again into the Unseen, and thence to Bohemia. The aftermath, however, does not come up to the expectations of the good Medium. For the rigmarole of the Enchantress about the Dervish in New York had already done its evil work. And--double--double--wherever the Dervish goes. Especially in Bohemia, where many of its daughters set their caps for him. And here, he is neither shy nor slow nor visionary. Nor shall his theory of immanent morality trouble him for the while. Reality is met with reality on solid, though sometimes slippery, ground. His animalism, long leashed and starved, is eager for prey. His Phoenician passion is awake. And fortunately, Khalid finds himself in Bohemia where the poison and the antidote are frequently offered together. Here the spell of one sorceress can straightway be offset by that of her sister. And we have our Scribe's word for it, that the Dervish went as far and as deep with the huris, as the doctors eventually would permit him. That is why, we believe, in commenting upon his adventures there, he often quotes the couplet, "In my sublunar paradise There's plenty of honey--and plenty of flies." The flies in his cup, however, can not be detected with the naked eye. They are microbes rather--microbes which even the physicians can not manage with satisfaction. For it must be acknowledged that Khalid's immanent morality and intellectualism suffered an interregnum with the huris. Reckless, thoughtless, heartless, he plunges headlong again. It is said in Al-Hadith that he who guards himself against the three cardinal evils, namely, of the tongue (_laklaka_), of the stomach (_kabkaba_), and of the sex (_zabzaba_), will have guarded himself against all evil. But Khalid reads not in the Hadith of the Prophet. And that he became audacious, edacious, and loquacious, is evident from such wit and flippancy as he here likes to display. "Some women," says he, "might be likened to whiskey, others to seltzer water; and many are those who, like myself, care neither for the soda or the whiskey straight. A 'high-ball' I will have." Nay, he even takes to punch; for in his cup of amour there is a subtle and multifarious mixture. With him, he himself avows, one woman complemented another. What the svelte brunette, for instance, lacked, the steatopygous blonde amply supplied. Delicacy and intensity, effervescence and depth, these he would have in a woman, or a hareem, as in anything else. But these excellences, though found in a hareem, will not fuse, as in a poem or a picture. Even thy bones, thou scented high-lacquered Dervish, are likely to melt away before they melt into one. It is written in the K. L. MS. that women either bore, or inspire, or excite. "The first and the last are to be met with anywhere; but the second? Ah, well you have heard the story of Diogenes. So take up your lamp and come along. But remember, when you do meet the woman that inspires, you will begin to yearn for the woman that excites." And here, the hospitality of the Dervish does not belie his Arab blood. In Bohemia, the bonfire of his heart was never extinguished, and the wayfarers stopping before his tent, be they of those who bored, or excited, or inspired, were welcome guests for at least three days and nights. And in this he follows the rule of hospitality among his people. [Illustration] BOOK THE SECOND IN THE TEMPLE [Illustration] TO NATURE _O Mother eternal, divine, satanic, all encompassing, all-nourishing, all-absorbing, O star-diademed, pearl-sandaled Goddess, I am thine forever and ever: whether as a child of thy womb, or an embodiment of a spirit-wave of thy light, or a dumb blind personification of thy smiles and tears, or an ignis-fatuus of the intelligence that is in thee or beyond thee, I am thine forever and ever: I come to thee, I prostrate my face before thee, I surrender myself wholly to thee. O touch me with thy wand divine again; stir me once more in thy mysterious alembics; remake me to suit the majestic silence of thy hills, the supernal purity of thy sky, the mystic austerity of thy groves, the modesty of thy slow-swelling, soft-rolling streams, the imperious pride of thy pines, the wild beauty and constancy of thy mountain rivulets. Take me in thine arms, and whisper to me of thy secrets; fill my senses with thy breath divine; show me the bottom of thy terrible spirit; buffet me in thy storms, infusing in me of thy ruggedness and strength, thy power and grandeur; lull me in thine autumn sun-downs to teach me in the arts that enrapture, exalt, supernaturalise. Sing me a lullaby, O Mother eternal! Give me to drink of thy love, divine and diabolic; thy cruelty and thy kindness, I accept both, if thou wilt but whisper to me the secret of both. Anoint me with the chrism of spontaneity that I may be ever worthy of thee.--Withdraw not from me thy hand, lest universal love and sympathy die in my breast.--I implore thee, O Mother eternal, O sea-throned, heaven-canopied Goddess, I prostrate my face before thee, I surrender myself wholly to thee. And whether I be to-morrow the censer in the hand of thy High Priest, or the incense in the censer,--whether I become a star-gem in thy cestus or a sun in thy diadem or even a firefly in thy fane, I am content. For I am certain that it shall be for the best._--KHALID. CHAPTER I THE DOWRY OF DEMOCRACY Old Arabic books, printed in Bulaq, generally have a broad margin wherein a separate work, independent of the text, adds gloom to the page. We have before us one of these tomes in which the text treats of the ethics of life and religion, and the margins are darkened with certain adventures which Shahrazad might have added to her famous Nights. The similarity between Khalid's life in its present stage and some such book, is evident. Nay, he has been so assiduous in writing the marginal Work, that ever since he set fire to his peddling-box, we have had little in the Text worth transcribing. Nothing, in fact; for many pages back are as blank as the evil genius of Bohemia could wish them. And how could one with that mara upon him, write of the ethics of life and religion? Al-Hamazani used to say that in Jorajan the man from Khorasan must open thrice his purse: first, to pay for the rent; second, for the food; and third, for his coffin. And so, in Khalid's case, at least, is Bohemia. For though the purse be not his own, he was paying dear, and even in advance, in what is dearer than gold, for his experience. "O, that the Devil did not take such interest in the marginal work of our life! Why should we write it then, and for whom? And how will it fare with us when, chapfallen in the end and mortified, we stand before the great Task-Master like delinquent school boys with a blank text in our hands?" (Thus Shakib, who has caught the moralising evil from his Master.) And that we must stand, and fall, for thus standing, he is quite certain. At least, Khalid is. For he would not return to the Text to make up for the blank pages therein, if he were not. "When he returned from his last sojourn in Bohemia," writes our Scribe, "Khalid was pitiful to behold. Even Sindbad, had he seen him, would have been struck with wonder. The tears rushed to my eyes when we embraced; for instead of Khalid I had in my arms a phantom. And I could not but repeat the lines of Al-Mutanabbi, "So phantom-like I am, and though so near, If I spoke not, thou wouldst not know I'm here." ""No more voyages, I trust, O thou Sindbad." And he replied, "Yes, one more; but to our dear native land this time." In fact, I, too, was beginning to suffer from nostalgia, and was much desirous of returning home." But Shakib is in such a business tangle that he could not extricate himself in a day. So, they tarry another year in New York, the one meanwhile unravelling his affairs, settling with his creditors and collecting what few debts he had, the other brooding over the few blank pages in his Text. One day he receives a letter from a fellow traveller, a distinguished citizen of Tammany Land, whom he had met and befriended in Bohemia, relating to an enterprise of great pith and moment. It was election time, we learn, and the high post of political canvasser of the Syrian District was offered to Khalid for a consideration of--but the letter which Shakib happily preserved, we give in full. "Dear Khalid: "I have succeeded in getting Mr. O'Donohue to appoint you a canvasser of the Syrian District. You must stir yourself, therefore, and try to do some good work, among the Syrian voters, for Democracy's Candidate this campaign. Here is a chance which, with a little hustling on your part, will materialise. And I see no reason why you should not try to cash your influence among your people. This is no mean position, mind you. And if you will come up to the Wigwam to-morrow, I'll give you a few suggestions on the business of manipulating votes. "Yours truly, "PATRICK HOOLIHAN." And the said Mr. Hoolihan, the letter shows, is Secretary to Mr. O'Donohue, who is first henchman to the Boss. Such a letter, if luckily misunderstood, will fire for a while the youthful imagination. No; not his Shamrag Majesty's Tammany Agent to Syria, this Canvassership, you poor phantom-like zany! A high post, indeed, you fond and pitiful dreamer, on which you must hang the higher aspirations of your soul, together with your theory of immanent morality. You would not know this at first. You would still kiss the official notification of Mr. Hoolihan, and hug it fondly to your breast. Very well. At last--and the gods will not damn thee for musing--you will stand in the band-wagon before the corner groggery and be the object of the admiration of your fellow citizens--perhaps of missiles, too. Very well, Khalid; but you must shear that noddle of thine, and straightway, for the poets are potted in Tammany Land. We say this for your sake. The orator-dream of youth, ye gods, shall it be realised in this heaven of a dray-cart with its kerosene torch and its drum, smelling and sounding rather of Juhannam? Surely, from the Table of Bohemia to the Stump in Tammany Land, is a far cry. But believe us, O Khalid, you will wish you were again in the gardens of Proserpine, when the silence and darkness extinguish the torch and the drum and the echoes of the shouting crowds. The headaches are certain to follow this inebriation. You did not believe Shakib; you would not be admonished; you would go to the Wigwam for your portfolio. "_High post_," "_political canvasser_," "_manipulation of votes_," you will know the exact meaning of these esoteric terms, when, alas, you meet Mr. Hoolihan. For you must know that not every one you meet in Bohemia is not a Philistine. Indeed, many helots are there, who come from Philistia to spy out the Land. We read in the _Histoire Intime_ of Shakib that Khalid did become a Tammany citizen, that is to say, a Tammany dray-horse; that he was much esteemed by the Honourable Henchmen, and once in the Wigwam he was particularly noticed by his Shamrag Majesty Boss O'Graft; that he was Tammany's Agent to the Editors of the Syrian newspapers of New York, whom he enrolled in the service of the Noble Cause for a consideration which no eloquence or shrewdness could reduce to a minimum; that he also took to the stump and dispensed to his fellow citizens, with rhetorical gestures at least, of the cut-and-dried logic which the Committee of Buncombe on such occasions furnishes its squad of talented spouters; and that--the most important this--he was subject in the end to the ignominy of waiting in the lobby with tuft-hunters and political stock-jobbers, until it pleased the Committee of Buncombe and the Honourable Treasurer thereof to give him--a card of dismissal! But what virtue is there in waiting, our cynical friend would ask. Why not go home and sleep? Because, O cynical friend, the Wigwam now is Khalid's home. For was he not, in creaking boots and a slouch hat, ceremoniously married to Democracy? Ay, and after spending their honeymoon on the Stump and living another month or two with his troll among her People, he returns to his cellar to brood, not over the blank pages in his Text, nor over the disastrous results of the Campaign, but on the weightier matter of divorce. For although Politics and Romance, in the History of Human Intrigue, have often known and enjoyed the same yoke, with Khalid they refused to pull at the plough. They were not sensible even to the goad. Either the yoke in his case was too loose, or the new yoke-fellow too thick-skinned and stubborn. Moreover, the promise of a handsome dowry, made by the Shamrag Father-in-Law or his Brokers materialised only in the rotten eggs and tomatoes with which the Orator was cordially received on his honeymoon trip. Such a marriage, O Mohammad, and such a honeymoon, and such a dowry!--is not this enough to shake the very sides of the Kaaba with laughter? And yet, in the Wigwam this not uncommon affair was indifferently considered; for the good and honourable Tammanyites marry off their Daughters every day to foreigners and natives alike, and with like extraordinary picturesque results. Were it not wiser, therefore, O Khalid, had you consulted your friend the Dictionary before you saw exact meaning of canvass and manipulation, before you put on your squeaking boots and slouch hat and gave your hand and heart to Tammany's Daughter and her Father-in-Law O'Graft? But the Dictionary, too, often falls short of human experience; and even Mr. O'Donohue could at best but hint at the meaning of the esoteric terms of Tammany's political creed. These you must define for yourself as you go along; and change and revise your definitions as you rise or descend in the Sacred Order. For canvass here might mean eloquence; there it might mean shrewdness; lower down, intimidation and coercion; and further depthward, human sloth and misery. It is but a common deal in horses. Ay, in Tammany Land it is essentially a trade honestly conducted on the known principle of supply and demand. These truths you had to discover for yourself, you say; for neither the Dictionary, nor your friend and fellow traveller in Bohemia, Mr. Hoolihan, could stretch their knowledge or their conscience to such a compass. And you are not sorry to have made such a discovery? Can you think of the Dowry and say that? We are, indeed, sorry for you. And we would fain insert in letter D of the Dictionary a new definition: namely, Dowry, n. (Tammany Land Slang). The odoriferous missiles, such as eggs and tomatoes, which are showered on an Orator-Groom by the people. But see what big profits Khalid draws from these small shares in the Reality Stock Company. You remember, good Reader, how he was kicked away from the door of the Temple of Atheism. The stogies of that inspired Doorkeeper were divine, according to his way of viewing things, for they were at that particular moment God's own boots. Ay, it was God, he often repeats, who kicked him away from the Temple of his enemies. And now, he finds the Dowry of Democracy, with all its wonderful revelations, as profitable in its results, as divine in its purpose. And in proof of this, we give here a copy of his letter to Boss O'Graft, written in that downright manner of his contemporaries, the English original of which we find in the _Histoire Intime_. "From Khalid to Boss O'Graft. "Right _Dis_honourable Boss: "I have just received a check from your Treasurer, which by no right whatever is due me, having been paid for my services by Him who knows better than you and your Treasurer what I deserve. The voice of the people, and their eggs and tomatoes, too, are, indeed, God's. And you should know this, you who dare to remunerate me in what is not half as clean as those missiles. I return not your insult of a check, however; but I have tried to do your state some service in purchasing the few boxes of soap which I am now dispatching to the Wigwam. You need more, I know, you and your Honourable Henchmen or Hashmen. And instead of canvassing and orating for Democracy's illustrious Candidate and the Noble Cause, _mashallah!_ one ought to do a little canvassing for Honesty and Truth among Democracy's leaders, tuft-hunters, political stock-jobbers, and such like. O, for a higher stump, my Boss, to preach to those who are supporting and degrading the stumps and the stump-orators of the Republic!" And is it come to this, you poor phantom-like dreamer? Think you a Tammany Boss is like your atheists and attorneys and women of the studio, at whom you could vent your ire without let or hindrance? These harmless humans have no constables at their command. But his Shamrag Majesty--O wretched Khalid, must we bring one of his myrmidons to your cellar to prove to you that, even in this Tammany Land, you can not with immunity give free and honest expression to your thoughts? Now, were you not summoned to the Shamrag's presence to answer for the crime of _lèse-majesté_? And were you not, for your audacity, left to brood ten days and nights in gaol? And what tedium we have in Shakib's History about the charge on which he was arrested. It is unconscionable that Khalid should misappropriate Party funds. Indeed, he never even touched or saw any of it, excepting, of course, that check which he returned. But the Boss was still in power. And what could Shakib do to exonerate his friend? He did much, and he tells as much about it. With check-boot in his pocket, he makes his way through aldermen, placemen, henchmen, and other questionable political species of humanity, up to the Seat of Justice--but such detail, though of the veracity of the writer nothing doubting, we gladly set aside, since we believe with Khalid that his ten days in gaol were akin to the Boots and the Dowry in their motive and effect. But our Scribe, though never remiss when Khalid is in a pickle, finds much amiss in Khalid's thoughts and sentiments. And as a further illustration of the limpid shallows of the one and the often opaque depths of the other, we give space to the following: "When Khalid was ordered to appear before the Boss," writes Shakib, "such curiosity and anxiety as I felt at that time made me accompany him. For I was anxious about Khalid, and curious to see this great Leader of men. We set out, therefore, together, I musing on an incident in Baalbek when we went out to meet the Pasha of the Lebanons and a droll old peasant, having seen him for the first time, cried out, 'I thought the Pasha to be a Pasha, but he's but a man.' And I am sorry, after having seen the Boss, I can not say as much for him." Here follows a little philosophising, unbecoming of our Scribe, on men and names and how they act and react upon each other. Also, a page about his misgivings and the effort he made to persuade Khalid not to appear before the Boss. But skipping over these, "we reach the Tammany Wigwam and are conducted by a thick-set, heavy-jowled, heavy-booted citizen through the long corridor into a little square room occupied by a little square-faced clerk. Here we wait a half hour and more, during which the young gentleman, with his bell before him and his orders to minor clerks who come and go, poses as somebody of some importance. We are then asked to follow him from one room into another, until we reach the one adjoining the private office of the Boss. A knock or two are executed on the door of Greatness with a nauseous sense of awe, and 'Come in,' Greatness within huskily replies. The square-faced clerk enters, shuts the door after him, returns in a trice, and conducts us into the awful Presence. Ye gods of Baalbek, the like of this I never saw before. Here is a room sumptuously furnished with sofas and fauteuils, and rugs from Ispahan. On the walls are pictures of Washington, Jefferson, and the great Boss Tweed; and right under the last named, behind that preciously carved mahogany desk, in that soft rolling mahogany chair, is the squat figure of the big Boss. On the desk before him, besides a plethora of documents, lay many things pell-mell, among which I noticed a box of cigars, the Criminal Code, and, most prominent of all, the Boss' feet, raised there either to bid us welcome, or to remind us of his power. And the rich Ispahan rug, the cuspidor being small and overfull, receives the richly coloured matter which he spurts forth every time he takes the cigar out of his mouth. O, the vulgarity, the bestiality of it! Think of those poor patient Persian weavers who weave the tissues of their hearts into such beautiful work, and of this proud and paltry Boss, whose office should have been furnished with straw. Yes, with straw; and the souls of those poor artist-weavers will sleep in peace. O, the ignominy of having such precious pieces of workmanship under the feet and spittle of such vulgar specimens of humanity. But if the Boss had purchased these rugs himself, with money earned by his own brow-sweat, I am sure he would appreciate them better. He would then know, if not their intrinsic worth, at least their market value. Yes, and they were presented to him by some one _needing, I suppose, police connivance and protection_. The first half of this statement I had from the Boss himself; the second, I base on Khalid's knowingness and suspicion. Be this, however, as it may. "When we entered this sumptuously furnished office, the squat figure in the chair under the picture of Boss Tweed, remained as immobile as a fixture and did not as much as reply to our _salaam_. But he pointed disdainfully to seats in the corner of the room, saying, 'Sit down there,' in a manner quite in keeping with his stogies raised on the desk directly in our face. Such freedom, nay, such bestiality, I could never tolerate. Indeed, I prefer the suavity and palaver of Turkish officials, no matter how crafty and corrupt, to the puffing, spitting manners of these come-up-from-the-shamble men. But Khalid could sit there as immobile as the Boss himself, and he did so, billah! For he was thinking all the while, as he told me when we came out, not of such matters as grate on the susceptibilities of a poet, but on the one sole idea of how such a bad titman could lead by the nose so many good people." Shakib then proceeds to give us a verbatim report of the interview. It begins with the Boss' question, "What do you mean by writing such a letter?" and ends with this other, "What do you mean by immanent morality?" The reader, given the head and tail of the matter, can supply the missing parts. Or, given its two bases, he can construct this triangle of Politics, Ethics, and the Constable, with Khalid's letter, offended Majesty, and a prison cell, as its three turning points. We extract from the report, however, the concluding advice of the Boss. For when he asked Khalid again what he meant by immanent morality, he continued in a crescendo of indignation: "You mean the morality of hayseeds, and priests, and philosophical fools? That sort of morality will not as much as secure a vote during the campaign, nor even help to keep the lowest clerk in office. That sort of morality is good for your mountain peasants or other barbarous tribes. But the free and progressive people of the United States must have something better, nobler, more practical. You'd do well, therefore, to get you a pair of rings, hang them in your ears, and go preach, your immanent morality to the South African Pappoos. But before you go, you shall taste of the rigour of our law, you insolent, brazen-faced, unmannerly scoundrel!" And we are assured that the Boss did not remain immobile as be spurted forth this mixture of wrath and wisdom, nor did the stogies; for moved by his own words, he rose promptly to his feet. "And what of it," exclaims our Scribe. "Surely, I had rather see those boots perform any office, high or low, as to behold their soles raised like mirrors to my face." But how high an office they performed when the Boss came forward, we are not told. All that our Scribe gives out about the matter amounts to this: namely, that he walked out of the room, and as he looked back to see if Khalid was following, he saw him brushing with his hands--his hips! And on that very day Khalid was summoned to appear before the Court and give answer to the charge of misappropriation of public funds. The orator-dream of youth--what a realisation! He comes to Court, and after the legal formalities are performed, he is delivered unto an officer who escorts him across the Bridge of Sighs to gaol. There, for ten days and nights,--and it might have been ten months were it not for his devoted and steadfast friend,--we leave Khalid to brood on Democracy and the Dowry of Democracy. A few extracts from the Chapter in the K. L. MS. entitled "In Prison," are, therefore, appropriate. "So long as one has faith," he writes, "in the general moral summation of the experience of mankind, as the philosophy of reason assures us, one should not despair. But the material fact of the Present, the dark moment of no-morality, consider that, my suffering Brothers. And reflect further that in this great City of New York the majority of citizens consider it a blessing to have a _rojail_ (titman) for their boss and leader.... How often have I mused that if Ponce de Leon sought the Fountain of Youth in the New World, I, Khalid, sought the Fountain of Truth, and both of us have been equally successful! "But the Americans are neither Pagans--which is consoling--nor fetish-worshipping heathens: they are all true and honest votaries of Mammon, their great God, their one and only God. And is it not natural that the Demiurgic Dollar should be the national Deity of America? Have not deities been always conceived after man's needs and aspirations? Thus in Egypt, in a locality where the manufacture of pottery was the chief industry, God was represented as a potter; in agricultural districts, as a god of harvest; among warring tribes as an avenger, a Jehovah. And the more needs, the more deities; the higher the aspirations, the better the gods. Hence the ugly fetish of a savage tribe, and the beautiful mythology of a Greek Civilisation. Change the needs and aspirations of the Americans, therefore, and you will have changed their worship, their national Deity, and even their Government. And believe me, this change is coming; people get tired of their gods as of everything else. Ay, the time will come, when man in this America shall not suffer for not being a seeker and lover and defender of the Dollar.... "Obedience, like faith, is a divine gift; but only when it comes from the heart: only when prompted by love and sincerity is it divine. If you can not, however, reverence what you obey, then, I say, withhold your obedience. And if you prefer to barter your identity or ego for a counterfeit coin of ideology, that right is yours. For under a liberal Constitution and in a free Government, you are also at liberty to sell your soul, to open a bank account for your conscience. But don't blame God, or Destiny, or Society, when you find yourself, after doing this, a brother to the ox. Herein, we Orientals differ from Europeans and Americans; we are never bribed into obedience. We obey either from reverence and love, or from fear. We are either power-worshippers or cowards but never, never traders. It might be said that the masses in the East are blind slaves, while in Europe and America they are become blind rebels. And which is the better part of valour, when one is blind--submission or revolt?... "No; popular suffrage helps not the suffering individual; nor does it conduce to a better and higher morality. Why, my Masters, it can not as much as purge its own channels. For what is the ballot box, I ask again, but a modern vehicle of corruption and debasement? The ballot box, believe me, can not add a cubit to your frame, nor can it shed a modicum of light on the deeper problems of life. Of course, it is the exponent of the will of the majority, that is to say, the will of the Party that has more money at its disposal. The majority, and Iblis, and Juhannam--ah, come out with me to the new gods!..." But we must make allowance for these girds and gibes at Democracy, of which we have given a specimen. Khalid's irony bites so deep at times as to get at the very bone of truth. And here is the marrow of it. We translate the following prophecy with which he closes his Chapter "In Prison," and with it, too, we close ours. "But my faith in man," he swears, "is as strong as my faith in God. And as strong, too, perhaps, is my faith in the future world-ruling destiny of America. To these United States shall the Nations of the World turn one day for the best model of good Government; in these United States the well-springs of the higher aspirations of the soul shall quench the thirst of every race-traveller on the highway of emancipation; and from these United States the sun and moon of a great Faith and a great Art shall rise upon mankind. I believe this, billah! and I am willing to go on the witness stand to swear to it. Ay, in this New World, the higher Superman shall rise. And he shall not be of the tribe of Overmen of the present age, of the beautiful blond beast of Zarathustra, who would riddle mankind as they would riddle wheat or flour; nor of those political moralists who would reform the world as they would a parish. "From his transcendental height, the Superman of America shall ray forth in every direction the divine light, which shall mellow and purify the spirit of Nations and strengthen and sweeten the spirit of men, in this New World, I tell you, he shall be born, but he shall not be an American in the Democratic sense. He shall be nor of the Old World nor of the New; he shall be, my Brothers, of both. In him shall be reincarnated the Asiatic spirit of origination, of Poesy and Prophecy, and the European spirit of Art, and the American spirit of Invention. Ay, the Nation that leads the world to-day in material progress shall lead it, too, in the future, in the higher things of the mind and soul. And when you reach that height, O beloved America, you will be far from the majority-rule, and Iblis, and Juhannam. And you will then conquer those 'enormous mud Megatheriums' of which Carlyle makes loud mention." CHAPTER II SUBTRANSCENDENTAL Deficiencies in individuals, as in States, have their value and import. Indeed, that sublime impulse of perfectibility, always vivacious, always working under various forms and with one underlying purpose, would be futile without them, and fatuous. And what were life without this incessant striving of the spirit? What were life without its angles of difficulty and defeat, and its apices of triumph and power? A banality this, you will say. But need we not be reminded of these wholesome truths, when the striving after originality nowadays is productive of so much quackery? The impulse of perfectibility, we repeat, whether at work in a Studio, or in a Factory, or in a Prison Cell, is the most noble of all human impulses, the most divine. Of that Chapter, In Prison, we have given what might be called the exogenous bark of the Soul, or that which environment creates. And now we shall endeavour to show the reader somewhat of the ludigenous process, by which the Soul, thrumming its own strings or eating its own guts, develops and increases its numbers. For Khalid in these gaol-days is much like Hamlet's player, or even like Hamlet himself--always soliloquising, tearing a passion to rags. And what mean these outbursts and objurgations of his, you will ask; these suggestions, fugitive, rhapsodical, mystical; this furibund allegro about Money, Mediums, and Bohemia; these sobs and tears and asseverations, in which our Lady of the Studio and Shakib are both expunged with great billahs;--the force and significance of these subliminal uprushes, dear Reader, we confess we are, like yourself, unable to understand, without the aid of our Interpreter. We shall, therefore, let him speak. "When in prison," writes Shakib, "Khalid was subject to spasms and strange hallucinations. One day, when I was sweating in the effort to get him out of gaol, he sends me word to come and see him. I go; and after waiting a while at the Iron gate, I behold Khalid rushing down the isle like an angry lion. 'What do you want,' he growled, 'why are you here?' And I, amazed, 'Did you not send for me?' And he snapped up, 'I did; but you should not have come. You should withhold from me your favours.' Life of Allah, I was stunned. I feared lest his mind, too, had gone in the direction of his health, which was already sorrily undermined. I looked at him with dim, tearful eyes, and assured him that soon he shall be free. 'And what is the use of freedom,' he exclaimed, 'when it drags us to lower and darker depths? Don't think I am miserable in prison. No; I am not--I am happy. I have had strange visions, marvellous. O my Brother, if you could behold the sloughs, deeper and darker than any prison-cell, into which _you_ have thrown me. Yes, _you_--and another. O, I hate you both. I hate my best lovers. I hate You--no--no, no, no.' And he falls on me, embraces me, and bathes my cheeks with his tears. After which he falters out beseechingly, 'Promise, promise that you will not give me any more money, and though starving and in rags you find me crouching at your door, promise.' And of a truth, I acquiesced in all he said, seeing how shaken in body and mind he was. But not until I had made a promise under oath would he be tranquillised. And so, after our farewell embrace, he asked me to come again the following day and bring him some books to read. This I did, fetching with me Rousseau's _Emile_ and Carlyle's _Hero-Worship_, the only two books he had in the cellar. And when he saw them, he exclaimed with joy, 'The very books I want! I read them twice already, and I shall read them again. O, let me kiss you for the thought.' And in an ecstasy he overwhelms me again with suffusing sobs and embraces. "What a difference, I thought, between Khalid of yesterday and Khalid of to-day. What a transformation! Even I who know the turn and temper of his nature had much this time to fear. Surely, an alienist would have made a case of him. But I began to get an inkling into his cue of passion, when he told me that he was going to start a little business again, if I lend him the necessary capital. But I reminded him that we shall soon be returning home. 'No, not I,' he swore; 'not until I can pay my own passage, at least. I told you yesterday I'll accept no more money from you, except, of course, the sum I need to start the little business I am contemplating.' 'And suppose you lose this money,' I asked.--'Why, then _you_ lose _me_. But no, you shall not. For I know, I believe, I am sure, I swear that my scheme this time will not be a failure in any sense of the word. I have heavenly testimony on that.'--'And what was the matter with you yesterday? Why were you so queer?' 'O, I had nightmares and visions the night before, and you came too early in the morning. See this.' And he holds down his head to show me the back of his neck. 'Is there no swelling here? I feel it. Oh, it pains me yet. But I shall tell you about it and about the vision when I am out.'--And at this, the gaoler comes to inform us that Khalid's minutes are spent and he must return to his cell." All of which from our Interpreter is as clear as God Save the King. And from which we hope our Reader will infer that those outbursts and tears and rhapsodies of Khalid did mean somewhat. They did mean, even when we first approached his cell, that something was going on in him--a revolution, a _coup d'état_, so to speak, of the spirit. For a Prince in Rags, but not in Debts and Dishonour, will throttle the Harpy which has hitherto ruled and degraded his soul. But the dwelling, too, of that soul is sorely undermined. And so, his leal and loving friend Shakib takes him later to the best physician in the City, who after the tapping and auscultation, shakes his head, writes his prescriptions, and advises Khalid to keep in the open air as much as possible, or better still, to return to his native country. The last portion of the advice, however, Khalid can not follow at present. For he will either return home on his own account or die in New York. "If I can not in time save enough money for the Steamship Company," he said to Shakib, "I can at least leave enough to settle the undertaker's bill. And in either case, I shall have paid my own passage out of this New World. And I shall stand before my Maker in a shroud, at least, which I can call my own." To which Shakib replies by going to the druggist with the prescriptions. And when he returns to the cellar with a package of four or five medicine bottles for rubbing and smelling and drinking, he finds Khalid sitting near the stove--we are now in the last month of Winter--warming his hands on the flames of the two last books he read. _Emile_ and _Hero-Worship_ go the way of all the rest. And there he sits, meditating over Carlyle's crepitating fire and Rousseau's writhing, sibilating flame. And it may be he thought of neither. Perhaps he was brooding over the resolution he had made, and the ominous shaking of the doctor's head. Ah, but his tutelar deities are better physicians, he thought. And having made his choice, he will pitch the medicine bottles into the street, and only follow the doctor's advice by keeping in the open air. Behold him, therefore, with a note in hand, applying to Shakib, in a formal and business-like manner, for a loan; and see that noble benefactor and friend, after gladly giving the money, throw the note into the fire. And now, Khalid is neither dervish nor philosopher, but a man of business with a capital of twenty-five dollars in his pocket. And with one-fifth of this capital he buys a second-hand push-cart from his Greek neighbour, wends his way with it to the market-place, makes a purchase there of a few boxes of oranges, sorts them in his cart into three classes,--"there is no equality in nature," he says, while doing this,--sticks a price card at the head of each class, and starts, in the name of Allah, his business. That is how he will keep in the open air twelve hours a day. But in the district where he is known he does not long remain. The sympathy of his compatriots is to him worse than the doctor's medicines, and those who had often heard him speechifying exchanged significant looks when he passed. Moreover, the police would not let him set up his stand anywhere. "There comes the push-cart orator," they would say to each other; and before our poor Syrian stops to breathe, one of them grumpishly cries out, "Move on there! Move on!" Once Khalid ventures to ask, "But why are others allowed to set up their stands here?" And the "copper" (we beg the Critic's pardon again) coming forward twirling his club, lays his hand on Khalid's shoulder and calmly this: "Don't you think I know you? Move on, I say." O Khalid, have you forgotten that these "coppers" are the minions of Tammany? Why tarry, therefore, and ask questions? Yes, make a big move at once--out of the district entirely. Now, to the East Side, into the Jewish Quarter, Khalid directs his cart. And there, he falls in with Jewish fellow push-cart peddlers and puts up with them in a cellar similar to his in the Syrian Quarter. But only for a month could he suffer what the Jew has suffered for centuries. Why? There is this difference between the cellar of the Semite Syrian and that of the Semite Jew: in the first we eat _mojadderah_, in the second, _kosher_ but stinking flesh; in the first we read poetry and play the lute, in the second we fight about the rent and the division of the profits of the day; in the first we sleep in linen "as white as the wings of the dove," in the second on pieces of smelly blankets; the first is redolent of ottar of roses, Shakib's favourite perfume, the second is especially made insufferable by that stench which is peculiar to every Hebrew hive. For these and other reasons, Khalid separates himself from his Semite fellow peddlers, and makes this time a bigger move than the first. Ay, even to the Bronx, where often in former days, shouldering the peddling-box, he tramped, will he now push his orange-cart and his hopes. There, between City and Country, nearer to Nature, and not far from the traffic of life, he fares better both in health and purse. It is much to his liking, this upper end of the City. Here the atmosphere is more peaceful and soothing, and the police are more agreeable. No, they do not nickname and bully him in the Bronx. And never was he ordered to move on, even though he set up his stand for months at the same corner. "Ah, how much kinder and more humane people become," he says, "even when they are not altogether out of the City, but only on the outskirts of the country expanse." Khalid passes the Spring and Summer in the Bronx and keeps in the open air, not only in the day, but also in the night. How he does this, is told in a letter which he writes to Shakib. But does he sleep at all, you ask, and how, and where? Reader, we thank you for your anxiety about Khalid's health. And we would fain show you the Magic Carpet which he carries in the lock-box of his push-cart. But see for yourself, here be neither Magic Carpet, nor Magic Ring. Only his papers, a few towels, a blanket, some underwear, and his coffee utensils, are here. For Khalid could forego his _mojadderah_, but never his coffee, the Arab that he is. But an Arab on the wayfare, if he finds himself at night far from the camp, will dig him a ditch in the sands and lie there to sleep under the living stars. Khalid could not do thus, neither in the City nor out of it. And yet, he did not lodge within doors. He hired a place only for his push-cart; and this, a small padlock-booth where he deposits his stock in trade. But how he lived in the Bronx is described in the following letter: "My loving Brother Shakib, "I have been two months here, in a neighbourhood familiar to you. Not far from the place where I sleep is the sycamore tree under which I burned my peddling-box. And perhaps I shall yet burn there my push-cart too. But for the present, all's well. My business is good and my health is improving. The money-order I am enclosing with this, will cancel the note, but not the many debts, I owe you. And I hope to be able to join you again soon, to make the voyage to our native land together. Meanwhile I am working, and laying up a little something. I make from two to three dollars a day, of which I never spend more than one. And this on one meal only; for my lodging and my lunch and breakfast cost next to nothing. Yes, I can be a push-cart peddler in the day; I can sleep out of doors at night; I can do with coffee and oranges for lunch and breakfast; but in the evening I will assert my dignity and do justice to my taste: I will dine at the Hermitage and permit you to call me a fool. And why not, since my purse, like my stomach, is now my own? Why not go to the Hermitage since my push-cart income permits of it? But the first night I went there my shabbiness attracted the discomforting attention of the fashionable diners, and made even the waiters offensive. Indeed, one of them came to ask if I were looking for somebody. 'No,' I replied with suppressed indignation; 'I'm looking for a place where I can sit down and eat, without being eaten by the eyes of the vulgar curious.' And I pass into an arbor, which from that night becomes virtually my own, followed by a waiter who from that night, too, became my friend. For every evening I go there, I find my table unoccupied and my waiter ready to receive and serve me. But don't think he does this for the sake of my black eyes or my philosophy. That disdainful glance of his on the first evening I could never forget, billah. And I found that it could be baited and mellowed only by a liberal tip. And this I make in advance every week for both my comfort and his. Yes, I am a fool, I grant you, but I'm not out of my element there. "After dinner I take a stroll in the Flower Gardens, and crossing the rickety wooden bridge over the river, I enter the hemlock grove. Here, in a sequestered spot near the river bank, I lay me on the grass and sleep for the night. I always bring my towels with me; for in the morning I take a dip, and at night I use them for a pillow. When the weather requires it, I bring my blankets too. And hanging one of them over me, tied to the trees by the cords sown to its corners, I wrap myself in the other, and praise Allah. "These and the towels, after taking my bath, I leave at the Hermitage; my waiter minds them for me. And so, I suspect I am happy--if, curse it! I could but breathe better. O, come up to see me. I'll give you a royal dinner at the Hermitage, and a royal bed in the hemlock grove on the river-bank. Do come up, the peace of Allah upon thee. Read my salaam to Im-Hanna." And during his five months in the Bronx he did not sleep five nights within doors, we are told, nor did he once dine out of the Hermitage. Even his hair, a fantastic fatuity behind a push-cart, he did not take the trouble to cut or trim. It must have helped his business. But this constancy, never before sustained to such a degree, must soon cease, having laid up, thanks to his push-cart and the people of the Bronx, enough to carry him, not only to Baalbek, but to _Aymakanenkan_. CHAPTER III THE FALSE DAWN What the Arabs always said of Andalusia, Khalid and Shakib said once of America: a most beautiful country with one single vice--it makes foreigners forget their native land. But now they are both suffering from nostalgia, and America, therefore, is without a single vice. It is perfect, heavenly, ideal. In it one sees only the vices of other races, and the ugliness of other nations. America herself is as lovely as a dimpled babe, and as innocent. A dimpled babe she. But wait until she grows, and she will have more than one vice to demand forgetfulness. Shakib, however, is not going to wait. He begins to hear the call of his own country, now that his bank account is big enough to procure for him the Pashalic of Syria. And Khalid, though his push-cart had developed to a stationary fruit stand,--and perhaps for this very reason,--is now desirous of leaving America anon. He is afraid of success overtaking him. Moreover, the Bronx Park has awakened in him his long dormant love of Nature. For while warming himself on the flames of knowledge in the cellar, or rioting with the Bassarides of Bohemia, or canvassing and speechifying for Tammany, he little thought of what he had deserted in his native country. The ancient historical rivers flowing through a land made sacred by the divine madness of the human spirit; the snow-capped mountains at the feet of which the lily and the oleander bloom; the pine forests diffusing their fragrance even among the downy clouds; the peaceful, sun-swept multi-coloured meadows; the trellised vines, the fig groves, the quince orchards, the orangeries: the absence of these did not disturb his serenity in the cellar, his voluptuousness in Bohemia, his enthusiasm in Tammany Land. And we must not forget to mention that, besides the divine voice of Nature and native soil, he long since has heard and still hears the still sweet voice of one who might be dearer to him than all. For Khalid, after his return from Bohemia, continued to curse the huris in his dreams. And he little did taste of the blessings of "sore labour's bath, balm of hurt minds." Ay, when he was not racked and harrowed by nightmares, he was either disturbed by the angels of his visions or the succubi of his dreams. And so, he determines to go to Syria for a night's sleep, at least, of the innocent and just. His cousin Najma is there, and that is enough. Once he sees her, the huris are no more. Now Shakib, who is more faithful in his narration than we first thought--who speaks of Khalid as he is, extenuating nothing--gives us access to a letter which he received from the Bronx a month before their departure from New York. In these Letters of Khalid, which our Scribe happily preserved, we feel somewhat relieved of the dogmatism, fantastic, mystical, severe, which we often meet with in the K. L. MS. In his Letters, our Syrian peddler and seer is a plain blunt man unbosoming himself to his friend. Read this, for instance. "My loving Brother: "It is raining so hard to-night that I must sleep, or in fact keep, within doors. Would you believe it, I am no more accustomed to the luxuries of a soft spring-bed, and I can not even sleep on the floor, where I have moved my mattress. I am sore, broken in mind and spirit. Even the hemlock grove and the melancholy stillness of the river, are beginning to annoy me. Oh, I am tired of everything here, tired even of the cocktails, tired of the push-cart, tired of earning as much as five dollars a day. Next Sunday is inauguration day for my stationary fruit stand; but I don't think it's going to stand there long enough to deserve to be baptized with champagne. If you come up, therefore, we'll have a couple of steins at the Hermitage and call it square.--O, I would square myself with the doctors by thrusting a poker down my windpipe: I might be able to breathe better then. I pause to curse my fate.--Curse it, Juhannam-born, curse it!-- "I can not sleep, nor on the spring-bed, nor on the floor. It is two hours past midnight now, and I shall try to while away the time by scrawling this to you. My brother, I can not long support this sort of life, being no more fit for rough, ignominious labor. 'But why,' you will ask, 'did you undertake it?' Yes, why? Strictly speaking, I made a mistake. But it's a noble mistake, believe me--a mistake which everybody in my condition ought to make, if but once in their life-time. Is it not something to be able to make an honest resolution and carry it out? I have heard strange voices in prison; I have hearkened to them; but I find that one must have sound lungs, at least, to be able to do the will of the immortal gods. And even if he had, I doubt if he could do much to suit them in America. O, my greatest enemy and benefactor in the whole world is this dumb-hearted mother, this America, in whose iron loins I have been spiritually conceived. Paradoxical, this? But is it not true? Was not the Khalid, now writing to you, born in the cellar? Down there, in the very loins of New York? But alas, our spiritual Mother devours, like a cat, her own children. How then can we live with her in the same house? "I need not tell you now that the ignominious task I set my hands to, was never to my liking. But the ox under the yoke is not asked whether he likes it or not. I have been yoked to my push-cart by the immortal gods; and soon my turn and trial will end. It must end. For our country is just beginning to speak, and I am her chosen voice. I feel that if I do not respond, if I do not come to her, she will be dumb forever. No; I can not remain here any more. For I can not be strenuous enough to be miserably happy; nor stupid enough to be contentedly miserable. I confess I have been spoiled by those who call themselves spiritual sisters of mine. The huris be dam'd. And if I don't leave this country soon, I'll find myself sharing the damnation again--in Bohemia.-- "The power of the soul is doubled by the object of its love, or by such labor of love as it undertakes. But, here I am, with no work and nobody I can love; nay, chained to a task which I now abominate. If a labor of love doubles the power of the soul, a labor of hate, to use an antonym term, warps it, poisons it, destroys it. Is it not a shame that in this great Country,--this Circe with her golden horns of plenty,--one can not as much as keep his blood in circulation without damning the currents of one's soul? O America, equally hated and beloved of Khalid, O Mother of prosperity and spiritual misery, the time will come when you shall see that your gold is but pinchbeck, your gilt-edge bonds but death decrees, and your god of wealth a carcase enthroned upon a dung-hill. But you can not see this now; for you are yet in the false dawn, floundering tumultuously, worshipping your mammoth carcase on a dung-hill--and devouring your spiritual children. Yes, America is now in the false dawn, and as sure as America lives, the true dawn must follow. "Pardon, Shakib. I did not mean to end my letter in a rhapsody. But I am so wrought, so broken in body, so inflamed in spirit. I hope to see you soon. No, I hope to see myself with you on board of a Transatlantic steamer." And is not Khalid, like his spiritual Mother, floundering, too, in the false dawn of life? His love of Nature, which was spontaneous and free, is it not likely to become formal and scientific? His love of Country, which begins tremulously, fervently in the woods and streams, is it not likely to end in Nephelococcygia? His determination to work, which was rudely shaken at a push-cart, is it not become again a determination to loaf? And now, that he has a little money laid up, has he not the right to seek in this world the cheapest and most suitable place for loafing? And where, if not in the Lebanon hills, "in which it seemed always afternoon," can he rejoin the Lotus-Eaters of the East? This man of visions, this fantastic, rhapsodical--but we must not be hard upon him. Remember, good Reader, the poker which he would thrust down his windpipe to broaden it a little. With asthmatic fits and tuberous infiltrations, one is permitted to commune with any of Allah's ministers of grace or spirits of Juhannam. And that divine spark of primal, paradisical love, which is rapidly devouring all others--let us not forget that. Ay, we mean his cousin Najma. Of course, he speaks, too, of his nation, his people, awaking, lisping, beginning to speak, waiting for him, the chosen Voice! Which reminds us of how he was described to us by the hasheesh-smokers of Cairo. In any event, the Reader will rejoice with us, we hope, that Khalid will not turn again toward Bohemia. He will agree with us that, whether on account of his health, or his love, or his mission, it is well, in his present fare of mind and body, that he is returning to the land "in which it seemed always afternoon." CHAPTER IV THE LAST STAR Is it not an ethnic phenomenon that a descendant of the ancient Phoenicians can not understand the meaning and purport of the Cash Register in America? Is it not strange that this son of Superstition and Trade can not find solace in the fact that in this Pix of Business is the Host of the Demiurgic Dollar? Indeed, the omnipresence and omnipotence of it are not without divine significance. For can you not see that this Cash Register, this Pix of Trade, is prominently set up on the altar of every institution, political, moral, social, and religious? Do you not meet with it everywhere, and foremost in the sanctuaries of the mind and the soul? In the Societies for the Diffusion of Knowledge; in the Social Reform Propagandas; in the Don't Worry Circles of Metaphysical Gymnasiums; in Alliances, Philanthropic, Educational; in the Board of Foreign Missions; in the Sacrarium of Vaticinatress Eddy; in the Church of God itself;--is not the Cash Register a divine symbol of the _credo_, the faith, or the idea? "To trade, or not to trade," Hamlet-Khalid exclaims, "that is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer, etc., or to take arms against the Cash Registers of America, and by opposing end--" What? Sacrilegious wretch, would you set your face against the divinity in the Holy Pix of Trade? And what will you end, and how will You end by it? An eternal problem, this, of opposing and ending. But before you set your face in earnest, we would ask you to consider if the vacancy or chaos which is sure to follow, be not more pernicious than what you would end. If you are sure it is not, go ahead, and we give you Godspeed. If you have the least doubt about it--but Khalid is incapable now of doubting anything. And whether he opposes his theory of immanent morality to the Cash Register, or to Democracy, or to the ruling powers of Flunkeydom, we hope He will end well. Such is the penalty of revolt against the dominating spirit of one's people and ancestors, that only once in a generation is it attempted, and scarcely with much success. In fact, the first who revolts must perish, the second, too, and the third, and the fourth, until, in the course of time and by dint of repetition and resistance, the new species of the race can overcome the forces of environment and the crushing influence of conformity. This, we know, is the biological law, and Khalid must suffer under it. For, as far as our knowledge extends, he is the first Syrian, the ancient Lebanon monks excepted, who revolted against the ruling spirit of his people and the dominant tendencies of the times, both in his native and his adopted Countries. Yes, the _êthos_ of the Syrians (for once we use Khalid's philosophic term), like that of the Americans, is essentially money-seeking. And whether in Beirut or in New York, even the moralists and reformers, like the hammals and grocers, will ask themselves, before they undertake to do anything for you or for their country, "What will this profit us? How much will it bring us?" And that is what Khalid once thought to oppose and end. Alas, oppose he might--and End He Must. How can an individual, without the aid of Time and the Unseen Powers, hope to oppose and end, or even change, this monstrous mass of things? Yet we must not fail to observe that when we revolt against a tendency inimical to our law of being, it is for our own sake, and not the race's, that we do so. And we are glad we are able to infer, if not from the K. L, MS., at least from his Letters, that Khalid is beginning to realise this truth. Let us not, therefore, expatiate further upon it. If the reader will accompany us now to the cellar to bid our Syrian friends farewell, we promise a few things of interest. When we first came here some few years ago in Winter, or to another such underground dwelling, the water rose ankle-deep over the floor, and the mould and stench were enough to knock an ox dead. Now, a scent of ottar of roses welcomes us at the door and leads us to a platform in the centre, furnished with a Turkish rug, which Shakib will present to the landlord as a farewell memento. And here are our three Syrians making ready for the voyage. Shakib is intoning some verses of his while packing; Im-Hanna is cooking the last dish of _mojadderah_; and Khalid, with some vague dream in his eyes, and a vaguer, far-looming hope in his heart, is sitting on his trunk wondering at the variety of things Shakib is cramming into his. For our Scribe, we must not fail to remind the Reader, is contemplating great things of State, is nourishing a great political ambition. He will, therefore, bethink him of those in power at home. Hence these costly presents. Ay, besides the plated jewellery--the rings, bracelets, brooches, necklaces, ear-rings, watches, and chains--of which he is bringing enough to supply the peasants of three villages, see that beautiful gold-knobbed ebony stick, which he will present to the vali, and this precious gold cross with a ruby at the heart for the Patriarch, and these gold fountain pens for his literary friends, and that fine Winchester rifle for the chief of the tribe Anezah. These he packs in the bottom of his trunk, and with them his precious dilapidated copy of Al-Mutanabbi, and--what MS. be this? What, a Book of Verse spawned in the cellar? Indeed, the very embryo of that printed copy we read in Cairo, and which Shakib and his friends would have us translate for the benefit of the English reading public. For our Scribe is the choragus of the Modern School of Arabic poetry. And this particular Diwan of his is a sort of rhymed inventory of all the inventions and discoveries of modern Science and all the wonders of America. He has published other Diwans, in which French morbidity is crowned with laurels from the Arabian Nights. For this Modern School has two opposing wings, moved by two opposing forces, Science being the motive power of the one, and Byron and De Musset the inspiring geniuses of the other. We would not be faithful to our Editorial task and to our Friend, if we did not give here a few luminant examples of the Diwan in question. We are, indeed, very sorry, for the sake of our readers, that space will not allow us to give them a few whole qasïdahs from it. To those who are so fortunate as to be able to read and understand the Original, we point out the Ode to the Phonograph, beginning thus: "O Phonograph, thou wonder of our time, Thy tongue of wax can sing like me in rhyme." And another to the Brooklyn Bridge, of which these are the opening lines: "O Brooklyn Bridge, how oft upon thy back I tramped, and once I crossed thee in a hack." And finally, the great Poem entitled, On the Virtue and Benefit of Modern Science, of which we remember these couplets: "Balloons and airships, falling from the skies, Will be as plenty yet as summer flies. * * * * * "Electricity and Steam and Compressed Air Will carry us to heaven yet, I swear." Here be rhymed truth, at least, which can boast of not being poetry. Ay, in this MS. which Shakib is packing along with Al-Mutanabbi in the bottom of his trunk to evade the Basilisk touch of the Port officials of Beirut, is packed all the hopes of the Modern School. Pack on, Shakib; for whether at the Mena House, or in the hasheesh-dens of Cairo, the Future is drinking to thee, and dreaming of thee and thy School its opium dreams. And Khalid, the while, sits impassive on his trunk, and Im-Hanna is cooking the last dinner of _mojadderah_. Emigration has introduced into Syria somewhat of the three prominent features of Civilisation: namely, a little wealth, a few modern ideas, and many strange diseases. And of these three blessings our two Syrians together are plentifully endowed. For Shakib is a type of the emigrant, who returns home prosperous in every sense of the word. A Book of Verse to lure Fame, a Letter of Credit to bribe her if necessary, and a double chin to praise the gods. This is a complete set of the prosperity, which Khalid knows not. But he has in his lungs what Shakib the poet can not boast of; while in his trunk he carries but a little wearing apparel, his papers, and his blankets. And in his pocket, he has his ribbed silver cigarette case--the only object he can not part with--a heart-shaped locket with a little diamond star on its face--the only present he is bringing with him home,--and a third-class passage across the Atlantic. For Khalid will not sleep in a bunk, even though it be furnished with eiderdown cushions and tiger skins. And since he is determined to pass his nights on deck, it matters little whether he travels first class, or second or tenth. Shakib, do what he may, cannot prevail upon him to accept the first-class passage he had bought in his name. "Let us not quarrel about this," says he; "we shall be together on board the same ship, and that settles the question. Indeed, the worse way returning home must be ultimately the best. No, Shakib, it matters not how I travel, if I but get away quickly from this pandemonium of Civilisation. Even now, as I sit on this trunk waiting for the hour of departure, I have a foretaste of the joy of being away from the insidious cries of hawkers, the tormenting bells of the rag-man, the incessant howling of children, the rumbling of carts and wagons, the malicious whir of cable cars, the grum shrieks of ferry boats, and the thundering, reverberating, smoking, choking, blinding abomination of an elevated railway. A musician might extract some harmony from this chaos of noises, this jumble of sounds. But I--extract me quickly from them!" Ay, quickly please, especially for our sake and the Reader's. Now, the dinner is finished, the rug is folded and presented to our landlord with our salaams, the trunks are locked and roped, and our Arabs will silently steal away. And peacefully, too, were it not that an hour before sailing a capped messenger is come to deliver a message to Shakib. There is a pleasant dilative sensation in receiving a message on board a steamer, especially when the messenger has to seek you among the Salon passengers. Now, Shakib dilates with pride as he takes the envelope in his hand; but when he opens it, and reads on the enclosed card, "Mr. Isaac Goldheimer wishes you a _bon voyage_," he turns quickly on his heels and goes on deck to walk his wrath away. For this Mr. Goldheimer is the very landlord who received the Turkish rug. Reflect on this, Reader. Father Abraham would have walked with us to the frontier to betoken his thanks and gratitude. "But this modern Jew and his miserable card," exclaims Shakib in his teeth, as he tears and throws it in the water,--"who asked him to send it, and who would have sued him if he didn't?" But Shakib, who has lived so long in America and traded with its people, is yet ignorant of some of the fine forms and conventions of Civilisation. He does not know that fashionable folk, or those aping the dear fashionable folk, have a right to assert their superiority at his expense.--I do not care to see you, but I will send a messenger and card to do so for me. You are not my equal, and I will let you know this, even at the hour of your departure, and though I have to hire a messenger to do so.--Is there no taste, no feeling, no gratitude in this? Don't you wish, O Shakib,--but compose yourself. And think not so ill of your Jewish landlord, whom you wish you could wrap in that rug and throw overboard. He certainly meant well. That formula of card and messenger is so convenient and so cheap. Withal, is he not too busy, think you, to come up to the dock for the puerile, prosaic purpose of shaking hands and saying ta-ta? If you can not consider the matter in this light, try to forget it. One must not be too visceral at the hour of departure. Behold, your skyscrapers and your Statue of Liberty are now receding from view; and your landlord and his card and messenger will be further from us every while we think of them, until, thanks to Time and Space and Steam! they will be too far away to be remembered. Here, then, with our young Seer and our Scribe, we bid New York farewell, and earnestly hope that we do not have to return to it again, or permit any of them to do so. In fact, we shall not hereafter consider, with any ulterior material or spiritual motive, any more of such disparaging, denigrating matter, in the two MSS. before us, as has to pass through our reluctant hands "touchin' on and appertainin' to" the great City of Manhattan and its distinguished denizens. For our part, we have had enough of this painful task. And truly, we have never before undergone such trials in sailing between--but that Charybdis and Scylla allusion has been done to death. Indeed, we love America, and in the course of our present task, which we also love, we had to suffer Khalid's shafts to pass through our ken and sometimes really through our heart. But no more of this. Ay, we would fain set aside our pen from sheer weariness of spirit and bid the Reader, too, farewell. Truly, we would end here this Book of Khalid were it not that the greater part of the most important material in the K. L. MS. is yet intact, and the more interesting portion of Shakib's History is yet to come. Our readers, though we do not think they are sorry for having come out with us so far, are at liberty either to continue with us, or say good-bye. But for the Editor there is no choice. What we have begun we must end, unmindful of the influence, good or ill, of the Zodiacal Signs under which we work. "Our Phoenician ancestors," says Khalid, "never left anything they undertook unfinished. Consider what they accomplished in their days, and the degree of culture they attained. The most beautiful fabrications in metals and precious stones were prepared in Syria. Here, too, the most important discoveries were made: namely, those of glass and purple. As for me, I can not understand what the Murex trunculus is; and I am not certain if scholars and archæologists, or even mariners and fishermen, will ever find a fossil of that particular species. But murex or no murex, Purple was discovered by my ancestors. Hence the purple passion, that is to say the energy and intensity which coloured everything they did, everything they felt and believed. For whether in bemoaning Tammuz, or in making tear-bottles, or in trading with the Gauls and Britons, the Phoenicians were the same superstitious, honest, passionate, energetic people. And do not forget, you who are now enjoying the privilege of setting down your thoughts in words, that on these shores of Syria written language received its first development. "It is also said that they discovered and first navigated the Atlantic Ocean, my Phoenicians; that they worked gold mines in the distant isle of Thasos and opened silver mines in the South and Southwest of Spain. In Africa, we know, they founded the colonies of Utica and Carthage. But we are told they went farther than this. And according to some historians, they rounded the Cape, they circumnavigated Africa. And according to recent discoveries made by an American archæologist, they must have discovered America too! For in the ruins of the Aztecs of Mexico there are traces of a Phoenician language and religion. This, about the discovery of America, however, I can not verify with anything from Sanchuniathon. But might they not have made this discovery after the said Sanchuniathon had given up the ghost? And if they did, what can We, their worthless descendants do for them now? Ah, if we but knew the name of their Columbus! No, it is not practical to build a monument to a whole race of people. And yet, they deserve more than this from us, their descendants. "These dealers in tin and amber, these manufacturers of glass and purple, these developers of a written language, first gave the impetus to man's activity and courage and intelligence. And this activity of the industry and will is not dead in man. It may be dead in us Syrians, but not in the Americans. In their strenuous spirit it rises uppermost. After all, I must love the Americans, for they are my Phoenician ancestors incarnate. Ay, there is in the nature of things a mysterious recurrence which makes for a continuous, everlasting modernity. And I believe that the spirit which moved those brave sea-daring navigators of yore, is still working lustily, bravely, but alas, not joyously--bitterly, rather, selfishly, greedily--behind the steam engine, the electric motor, the plough, and in the clinic and the studio as in the Stock Exchange. That spirit in its real essence, however, is as young, as puissant to-day as it was when the native of Byblus first struck out to explore the seas, to circumnavigate Africa, to discover even America!" And what in the end might Khalid discover for us or for himself, at least, in his explorations of the Spirit-World? What Colony of the chosen sons of the young and puissant Spirit, on some distant isle beyond the seven seas, might he found? To what far, silent, undulating shore, where "a written language is the instrument only of the lofty expressions and aspirations of the soul" might he not bring us? What Cape of Truth in the great Sea of Mystery might we not be able to circumnavigate, if only this were possible of the language of man? "Not with glass," he exclaims, "not with tear-bottles, not with purple, not with a written language, am I now concerned, but rather with what those in Purple and those who make this written language their capital, can bring within our reach of the treasures of the good, the true, and the beautiful. I would fain find a land where the soul of man, and the heart of man, and the mind of man, are as the glass of my ancestors' tear-bottles in their enduring quality and beauty. My ancestors' tear-bottles, and though buried in the earth ten thousand years, lose not a grain of their original purity and transparency, of their soft and iridescent colouring. But where is the natural colour and beauty of these human souls, buried in bunks under hatches? Or of those moving in high-lacquered salons above?... "O my Brothers of the clean and unclean species, of the scented and smelling kind, of the have and have-not classes, there is but one star in this vague dusky sky above us, for you as for myself. And that star is either the last in the eternal darkness, or the first in the rising dawn. It is either the first or the last star of night. And who shall say which it is? Not the Church, surely, nor the State; not Science, nor Sociology, nor Philosophy, nor Religion. But the human will shall influence that star and make it yield its secret and its fire. Each of you, O my Brothers, can make it light his own hut, warm his own heart, guide his own soul. Never before in the history of man did it seem as necessary as it does now that each individual should think for himself, will for himself, and aspire incessantly for the realisation of his ideals and dreams. Yes, we are to-day at a terrible and glorious turning point, and it depends upon us whether that one star in the vague and dusky sky of modern life, shall be the harbinger of Jannat or Juhannam." CHAPTER V PRIESTO-PARENTAL If we remember that the name of Khalid's cousin is Najma (Star), the significance to himself of the sign spoken of in the last Chapter, is quite evident. But what it means to others remains to be seen. His one star, however, judging from his month's experience in Baalbek, is not promising of Jannat. For many things, including parental tyranny and priestcraft and Jesuitism, will here conspire against the single blessedness of him, which is now seeking to double itself. "Where one has so many Fathers," he writes, "and all are pretending to be the guardians of his spiritual and material well-being, one ought to renounce them all at once. It was not with a purpose to rejoin my folk that I first determined to return to my native country. For, while I believe in the Family, I hate Familism, which is the curse of the human race. And I hate this spiritual Fatherhood when it puts on the garb of a priest, the three-cornered hat of a Jesuit, the hood of a monk, the gaberdine of a rabbi, or the jubbah of a sheikh. The sacredness of the Individual, not of the Family or the Church, do I proclaim. For Familism, or the propensity to keep under the same roof, as a social principle, out of fear, ignorance, cowardice, or dependence, is, I repeat, the curse of the world. Your father is he who is friendly and reverential to the higher being in you; your brothers are those who can appreciate the height and depth of your spirit, who hearken to you, and believe in you, if you have any truth to announce to them. Surely, one's value is not in his skin that you should touch him. Are there any two individuals more closely related than mother and son? And yet, when I Khalid embrace my mother, mingling my tears with hers, I feel that my soul is as distant from her own as is Baalbek from the Dog-star. And so I say, this attempt to bind together under the principle of Familism conflicting spirits, and be it in the name of love or religion or anything else more or less sacred, is in itself a very curse, and should straightway end. It will end, as far as I am concerned. And thou my Brother, whether thou be a son of the Morning or of the Noontide or of the Dusk,--whether thou be a Japanese or a Syrian or a British man--if thou art likewise circumstanced, thou shouldst do the same, not only for thine own sake, but for the sake of thy family as well." No; Khalid did not find that wholesome plant of domestic peace in his mother's Nursery. He found noxious weeds, rather, and brambles galore. And they were planted there, not by his father or mother, but by those who have a lien upon the souls of these poor people. For the priest here is no peeled, polished affair, but shaggy, scrubby, terrible, forbidding. And with a word he can open yet, for such as Khalid's folk, the gate which Peter keeps or the other on the opposite side of the Universe. Khalid must beware, therefore, how he conducts himself at home and abroad, and how, in his native town, he delivers his mind on sacred things, and profane. In New York, for instance, or in Turabu for that matter, he could say in plain forthright speech what he thought of Family, Church or State, and no one would mind him. But where these Institutions are the rottenest existing he will be minded too well, and reminded, too, of the fate of those who preceded him. The case of Habib Ish-Shidiak at Kannubin is not yet forgotten. And Habib, be it known, was only a poor Protestant neophite who took pleasure in carrying a small copy of the Bible in his hip pocket, and was just learning to roll his eyes in the pulpit and invoke the "laud." But Khalid, everybody out-protesting, is such an intractable pro_test_ant, with, neither Bible in his pocket nor pulpit at his service. And yet, with a flint on his tongue and a spark in his eyes, he will make the neophite Habib smile beside him. For the priesthood in Syria is not, as we have said, a peeled, polished, pulpy affair. And Khalid's father has been long enough in their employ to learn somewhat of their methods. Bigotry, cruelty, and tyranny at home, priestcraft and Jesuitism abroad,--these, O Khalid, you will know better by force of contact before you end. And you will begin to pine again for your iron-loined spiritual Mother. Ay, and the scelerate Jesuit will even make capital of your mass of flowing hair. For in this country, only the native priests are privileged to be shaggy and scrubby and still be without suspicion. But we will let Shakib give us a few not uninteresting details of the matter. "Not long after we had rejoined our people," he writes, "Khalid comes to me with a sorry tale. In truth, a fortnight after our arrival in Baalbek--our civility towards new comers seldom enjoys a longer lease--the town was alive with rumours and whim-whams about my friend. And whereso I went, I was not a little annoyed with the tehees and grunts which his name seemed to invoke. The women often came to his mother to inquire in particular why he grows his hair and shaves his mustaches; the men would speak to his father about the change in his accent and manners; the children teheed and tittered whenever he passed through the town-square; and all were of one mind that Khalid was a worthless fellow, who had brought nothing with him from the Paradise of the New World but his cough and his fleece. Such tattle and curiosity, however, no matter what degree of savage vulgarity they reach, are quite harmless. But I felt somewhat uneasy about him, when I heard the people asking each other, "Why does he not come to Church like honest folks?" And soon I discovered that my apprehensions were well grounded; for the questioning was noised at Khalid's door, and the fire crackled under the roof within. The father commands; the mother begs; the father objurgates, threatens, curses his son's faith; and the mother, prostrating herself before the Virgin, weeps, and prays, and beats her breast. Alas, and my Khalid? he goes out on the terrace to search in the Nursery for his favourite Plant. No, he does not find it; brambles are there and noxious weeds galore. The thorny, bitter reality he must now face, and, by reason of his lack of savoir-faire, be ultimately out-faced by it. For the upshot of the many quarrels he had with his father, the prayers and tears of the mother not availing, was nothing more or less than banishment. You will either go to Church like myself, or get out of this house: this the ultimatum of Abu-Khalid. And needless to say which alternative the son chose. "I still remember how agitated he was when he came to tell me of the fatal breach. His words, which drew tears from my eyes, I remember too. 'Homeless I am again,' said he, 'but not friendless. For besides Allah, I have you.--Oh, this straitness of the chest is going to kill me. I feel that my windpipe is getting narrower every day. At least, my father is doing his mighty best to make things so hard and strait.--Yes, I would have come now to bid you farewell, were it not that I still have in this town some important business. In the which I ask your help. You know what it is. I have often spoken to you about my cousin Najma, the one star in my sky. And now, I would know what is its significance to me. No, I can not leave Baalbek, I can not do anything, until that star unfolds the night or the dawn of my destiny. And you Shakib--' "Of course, I promised to do what I could for him. I offered him such cheer and comfort as my home could boast of, which he would not accept. He would have only my terrace roof on which to build a booth of pine boughs, and spread in it a few straw mats and cushions. But I was disappointed in my calculations; for in having him thus near me again, I had hoped to prevail upon him for his own good to temper his behaviour, to conform a little, to concede somewhat, while he is among his people. But virtually he did not put up with me. He ate outside; he spent his days I know not where; and when he did come to his booth, it was late in the night. I was informed later that one of the goatherds saw him sleeping in the ruined Temple near Ras'ul-Ain. And the muazzen who sleeps in the Mosque adjacent to the Temple of Venus gave out that one night he saw him with a woman in that very place." A woman with Khalid, and in the Temple of Venus at night? Be not too quick, O Reader, to suspect and contemn; for the Venus-worship is not reinstated in Baalbek. No tryst this, believe us, but a scene pathetic, more sacred. Not Najma this questionable companion, but one as dear to Khalid. Ay, it is his mother come to seek him here. And she begs him, in the name of the Virgin, to return home, and try to do the will of his father. She beats her breast, weeps, prostrates herself before him, beseeches, implores, cries out, 'dakhilak (I am at your mercy), come home with me.' And Khalid, taking her up by the arm, embraces her and weeps, but says not a word. As two statues in the Temple, silent as an autumn midnight, they remain thus locked in each other's arms, sobbing, mingling their sighs and tears. The mother then, 'Come, come home with me, O my child.' And Khalid, sitting on one of the steps of the Temple, replies, 'Let him move out of the house, and I will come. I will live with you, if he will keep at the Jesuits.' For Khalid begins to suspect that the Jesuits are the cause of his banishment from home, that his father's religious ferocity is fuelled and fanned by these good people. One day, before Khalid was banished, Shakib tells us, one of them, Father Farouche by name, comes to pay a visit of courtesy, and finds Khalid sitting cross-legged on a mat writing a letter. The Padre is received by Khalid's mother who takes his hand, kisses it, and offers him the seat of honour on the divan. Khalid continues writing. And after he had finished, he turns round in his cross-legged posture and greets his visitor. Which greeting is surely to be followed by a conversation of the sword-and-shield kind. "How is your health?" this from Father Farouche in miserable Arabic. "As you see: I breathe with an effort, and can hardly speak." "But the health of the body is nothing compared with the health of the soul." "I know that too well, O Reverend" (Ya Muhtaram). "And one must have recourse to the physician in both instances." "I do not believe in physicians, O Reverend." "Not even the physician of the soul?" "You said it, O Reverend." The mother of Khalid serves the coffee, and whispers to her son a word. Whereupon Khalid rises and sits on the divan near the Padre. "But one must follow the religion of one's father," the Jesuit resumes. "When one's father has a religion, yes; but when he curses the religion of his son for not being ferociously religious like himself--" "But a father must counsel and guide his children." "Let the mother do that. Hers is the purest and most disinterested spirit of the two." "Then, why not obey your mother, and--" Khalid suppresses his anger. "My mother and I can get along without the interference of our neighbours." "Yes, truly. But you will find great solace in going to Church and ceasing your doubts." Khalid rises indignant. "I only doubt the Pharisees, O Reverend, and their Church I would destroy to-day if I could." "My child--" "Here is your hat, O Reverend, and pardon me--you see, I can hardly speak, I can hardly breathe. Good day." And he walks out of the house, leaving Father Farouche to digest his ire at his ease, and to wonder, with his three-cornered hat in hand, at the savage demeanour of the son of their pious porter. "Your son," addressing the mother as he stands under the door-lintel, "is not only an infidel, but he is also crazy. And for such wretches there is an asylum here and a Juhannam hereafter." And the poor mother, her face suffused with tears, prostrates herself before the Virgin, praying, beating her breast, invoking with her tongue and hand and heart; while Farouche returns to his coop to hatch under his three-cornered hat, the famous Jesuit-egg of intrigue. That hat, which can outwit the monk's hood and the hundred fabled devils under it, that hat, with its many gargoyles, a visible symbol of the leaky conscience of the Jesuit, that hat, O Khalid, which you would have kicked out of your house, has eventually succeeded in ousting YOU, and will do its mighty best yet to send you to the Bosphorus. Indeed, to serve their purpose, these honest servitors of Jesus will even act as spies to the criminal Government of Abd'ul-Hamid. Read Shakib's account. "About a fortnight after Khalid's banishment from home," he writes, "a booklet was published in Beirut, setting forth the history of Ignatius Loyola and the purports and intents of Jesuitism. On the cover it was expressly declared that the booklet is translated from the English, and the Jesuits, who are noted for their scholarly attainments, could have discovered this for themselves without the explicit declaration. But they did not deem it necessary to make such a discovery then. It seemed rather imperative to maintain the contrary and try to prove it. Now, Khalid having received a copy of this booklet from a friend in Beirut, reads it and writes back, saying that it is not a translation but a mutilation, rather, of one of Thomas Carlyle's Latter-Day Pamphlets entitled _Jesuitism_. This letter must have reached them together with Father Farouche's report on Khalid's infidelity, just about the time the booklet was circulating in Baalbek. For in the following Number of their _Weekly Journal_ an article, stuffed and padded with execrations and anathema, is published against the book and its anonymous author. From this I quote the following, which is by no means the most erring and most poisonous of their shafts. "'Such a Pamphlet,' exclaims the scholarly Jesuit Editor, 'was never written by Thomas Carlyle, as some here, from ignorance or malice, assert. For that philosopher, of all the thinkers of his day, believed in God and in the divinity of Jesus His Son, and could never descend to these foul and filthy depths. He never soiled his pen in the putrescence of falsehood and incendiarism. The author of this blasphemous and pernicious Pamphlet, therefore, in trying to father his infidelity, his sedition, and his lies, on Carlyle, is doubly guilty of a most heinous crime. And we suspect, we know, and for the welfare of the community we hope to be able soon to point out openly, who and where this vile one is. Yes, only an atheist and anarchist is capable of such villainous mendacity, such unutterable wickedness and treachery. Now, we would especially call upon our readers in Baalbek to be watchful and vigilant, for among them is one, recently come back from America, who harbours under his bushy hair the atheism and anarchy of decadent Europe, etc, etc.' "And this is followed by secret orders from their Head Office to the Superior of their Branch in Zahleh, to go on with the work hinted in the article aforesaid. Let it not be supposed that I make this statement in jaundice or malice. For the man who was instigated to do this foul work subsequently sold the secret. And the Kaimkam, my friend, when speaking to me of the matter, referred to the article in question, and told me that Khalid was denounced to the Government by the Jesuits as an anarchist. 'And lest I be compelled,' he continued, 'to execute such orders in his case as I might receive any day, I advise you to spirit him away at once.'" But though the Jesuits have succeeded in kicking Khalid out of his home, they did not succeed, thanks to Shakib, in sending him to the Bosphorus. Meanwhile, they sit quiet, hatching another egg. CHAPTER VI FLOUNCES AND RUFFLES Now, that there is a lull in the machinations of Jesuitry, we shall turn a page or two in Shakib's account of the courting of Khalid. And apparently everything is propitious. The fates, at least, in the beginning, are not unkind. For the feud between Khalid's father and uncle shall now help to forward Khalid's love-affair. Indeed, the father of Najma, to spite his brother, opens to the banished nephew his door and blinks at the spooning which follows. And such an interminable yarn our Scribe spins out about it, that Khalid and Najma do seem the silliest lackadaisical spoonies under the sun. But what we have evolved from the narration might have for our readers some curious alien phase of interest. Here then are a few beads from Shakib's romantic string. When Najma cooks _mojadderah_ for her father, he tells us, she never fails to come to the booth of pine boughs with a platter of it. And this to Khalid was very manna. For never, while supping on this single dish, would he dream of the mensal and kitchen luxuries of the Hermitage in Bronx Park. In fact, he never envied the pork-eating Americans, the beef-eating English, or the polyphagic French. "Here is a dish of lentils fit for the gods," he would say.... When Najma goes to the spring for water, Khalid chancing to meet her, takes the jar from her shoulder, saying, "Return thou home; I will bring thee water." And straightway to the spring hies he, where the women there gathered fill his ears with tittering, questioning tattle as he is filling his jar. "I wish I were Najma," says one, as he passes by, the jar of water on his shoulder. "Would you cement his brain, if you were?" puts in another. And thus would they gibe and joke every time Khalid came to the spring with Najma's jar.... One day he comes to his uncle's house and finds his betrothed ribboning and beading some new lingerie for her rich neighbour's daughter. He sits down and helps her in the work, writing meanwhile, between the acts, an alphabetic ideology on Art and Life. But as they are beading the vests and skirts and other articles of richly laced linen underwear, Najma holds up one of these and naïvely asks, "Am I not to have some such, _ya habibi_ (O my Love)?" And Khalid, affecting like bucolic innocence, replies, "What do we need them for, my heart?" With which counter-question Najma is silenced, convinced. Finally, to show to what degree of ecstasy they had soared without searing their wings or losing a single feather thereof, the following deserves mention. In the dusk one day, Khalid visits Najma and finds her oiling and lighting the lamp. As she beholds him under the door-lintel, the lamp falls from her hands, the kerosene blazes on the floor, and the straw mat takes fire. They do not heed this--they do not see it--they are on the wings of an ecstatic embrace. And the father, chancing to arrive in the nick of time, with a curse and a cuff, saves them and his house from the conflagration. Aside from these curious and not insignificant instances, these radiations of a giddy hidden flame of heart-fire, this melting gum of spooning on the bark of the tree of love, we turn to a scene in the Temple of Venus which unfolds our future plans--our hopes and dreams. But we feel that the Reader is beginning to hanker for a few pieces of description of Najma's charms. Gentle Reader, this Work is neither a Novel, nor a Passport. And we are exceeding sorry we can not tell you anything about the colour and size of Najma's eyes; the shape and curves of her brows and lips; the tints and shades in her cheeks; and the exact length of her figure and hair. Shakib leaves us in the dark about these essentials, and we must needs likewise leave you. Our Scribe thinks he has said everything when he speaks of her as a huri. But this paradisal title among our Arabic writers and verse-makers is become worse than the Sultan's Medjidi decorations. It is bestowed alike on every drab and trollop as on the very few who really deserve it. Let us rank it, therefore, with the Medjidi decorations and pass on. But Khalid, who has seen enough of the fair, would not be attracted to Najma, enchanted by her, if she were not endowed with such of the celestial treasures as rank above the visible lines of beauty. Our Scribe speaks of the "purity and naïvete of her soul as purest sources of felicity and inspiration." Indeed, if she were not constant in love, she would not have spurned the many opportunities in the absence of Khalid; and had she not a fine discerning sense of real worth, she would not have surrendered herself to her poor ostracised cousin; and if she were not intuitively, preternaturally wise, she would not marry an enemy of the Jesuits, a bearer withal of infiltrated lungs and a shrunken windpipe. "There is a great advantage in having a sickly husband," she once said to Shakib, "it lessons a woman in the heavenly virtues of our Virgin Mother, in patient endurance and pity, in charity, magnanimity, and pure love." What, with these sublimities of character, need we know of her visible charms, or lack of them? She might deserve the title Shakib bestows upon her; she might be a real huri, for all we know? In that event, the outward charms correspond, and Khalid is a lucky dog--if some one can keep the Jesuits away. This, then, is our picture of Najma, to whom he is now relating, in the Temple of Venus, of the dangers he had passed and the felicities of the beduin life he has in view. It is evening. The moon struggles through the poplars to light the Temple for them, and the ambrosial breeze caresses their cheeks. "No," says Khalid; "we can not live here, O my Heart, after we are formally married. The curse in my breast I must not let you share, and only when I am rid of it am I actually your husband. By the life of this blessed night, by the light of these stars, I am inalterably resolved on this, and I shall abide by my resolution. We must leave Baalbek as soon as the religious formalities are done. And I wish your father would have them performed under his roof. That is as good as going to Church to be the central figures of the mummery of priests. But be this as You will. Whether in Church or at home, whether by your father or by gibbering Levites the ceremony is performed, we must hie us to the desert after it is done. I shall hire the camels and prepare the necessary set-out for the wayfare a day or two ahead. No, I must not be a burden to you, my Heart. I must be able to work for you as for myself. And Allah alone, through the ministration of his great Handmaid Nature, can cure me and enable me to share with you the joys of life. No, not before I am cured, can I give you my whole self, can I call myself your husband. Into the desert, therefore, to some oasis in its very heart, we shall ride, and there crouch our camels and establish ourselves as husbandmen. I shall even build you a little home like your own. And you will be to me an aura of health, which I shall breathe with the desert air, and the evening breeze. Yes, our love shall dwell in a palace of health, not in a hovel of disease. Meanwhile, we shall buy with what money I have a little patch of ground which we shall cultivate together. And we shall own cattle and drink camel milk. And we shall doze in the afternoon in the cool shade of the palms, and in the evening, wrapt in our cloaks, we'll sleep on the sands under the living stars. Yes, and Najma shall be the harbinger of dawn to Khalid.--Out on that little farm in the oasis of our desert, far from the world and the sanctified abominations of the world, we shall live near to Allah a life of purest joy, of true happiness. We shall never worry about the hopes of to-morrow and the gone blessings of yesterday. We shall not, while labouring, dream of rest, nor shall we give a thought to our tasks while drinking of the cup of repose: each hour shall be to us an epitome of eternity. The trials and troubles of each day shall go with the setting sun, never to rise with him again. But I am unkind to speak of this. For your glances banish care, and we shall ever be together. Ay, my Heart, and when I take up the lute in the evening, you'll sing _mulayiah_ to me, and the stars above us shall dance, and the desert breeze shall house us in its whispers of love...." And thus interminably, while Najma, understanding little of all this, sits beside him on a fallen column in the Temple and punctuates his words with assenting exclamations, with long eighs of joy and wonder. "But we are not going to live in the desert all the time, are we?" she asks. "No, my Heart. When I am cured of my illness we shall return to Baalbek, if you like." "Eigh, good. Now, I want to say--no. I shame to speak about such matters." "Speak, _ya Gazalty_ (O my Doe or Dawn or both); your words are like the scented breeze, like the ethereal moon rays, which enter into this Temple without permission. Speak, and light up this ruined Temple of thine." "How sweet are Your words, but really I can not understand them. They are like the sweetmeats my father brought with him once from Damascus. One eats and exclaims, 'How delicious!' But one never knows how they are made, and what they are made of. I wish I could speak like you, _ya habibi_. I would not shame to say then what I want." "Say what you wish. My heart is open, and your words are silvery moonbeams." "Do not blame me then. I am so simple, you know, so foolish. And I would like to know if you are going to Church on our wedding day in the clothes you have on now." "Not if you object to them, my Heart." "Eigh, good! And must I come in my ordinary Sunday dress? It is so plain; it has not a single ruffle to it." "And what are ruffles for?" "I never saw a bride in a plain gown; they all have ruffles and flounces to them. And when I look at your lovely hair--O let people say what they like! A gown without ruffles is ugly.--So, you will buy me a sky-blue silk dress, _ya habibi_ and a pink one, too, with plenty of ruffles on them? Will you not?" "Yes, my Heart, you shall have what you desire. But in the desert you can not wear these dresses. The Arabs will laugh at you. For the women there wear only plain muslin dipped in indigo." "Then, I will have but one dress of sky-blue silk for the wedding." "Certainly, my Heart. And the ruffles shall be as many and as long as you desire them." And while the many-ruffled sky-blue dress is being made, Khalid, inspired by Najma's remarks on his hair, rhapsodises on flounces and ruffles. Of this striking piece of fantasy, in which are scintillations of the great Truth, we note the following: "What can you do without your flounces? How can you live without your ruffles? Ay, how can you, without them, think, speak, or work? How can you eat, drink, walk, sleep, pray, worship, moralise, sentimentalise, or love, without them? Are you not ruffled and flounced when you first see the light, ruffled and flounced when you last see the darkness? The cradle and the tomb, are they not the first and last ruffles of Man? And between them what a panoramic display of flounces! What clean and attractive visible Edges of unclean invisible common Skirts! Look at your huge elaborate monuments, your fancy sepulchers, what are they but the ruffles of your triumphs and defeats? The marble flounces, these, of your cemeteries, your Pantheons and Westminster Abbeys. And what are your belfries and spires and chimes, your altars and reredoses and such like, but the sanctified flounces of your churches. No, these are not wholly adventitious sanctities; not empty, superfluous growths. They are incorporated into Life by Time, and they grow in importance as our Æsthetics become more inutile, as our Religions begin to exude gum and pitch for commerce, instead of bearing fruits of Faith and Love and Magnanimity. "The first church was the forest; the first dome, the welkin; the first altar, the sun. But that was, when man went forth in native buff, brother to the lion, not the ox, without ruffles and without faith. His spirit, in the course of time, was born; it grew and developed zenithward and nadirward, as the cycles rolled on. And in spiritual pride, and pride of power and wealth as well, it took to ruffling and flouncing to such an extent that at certain epochs it disappeared, dwindled into nothingness, and only the appendages remained. These were significant appendages, to be sure; not altogether adscititious. Ruffles these, indeed, endowed, as it were, with life, and growing on the dead Spirit, as the grass on the grave. "And is it not noteworthy that our life terrene at certain epochs seems to be made up wholly of these? That as the great Pine falls, the noxious weeds, the brambles and thorny bushes around it, grow quicker, lustier, luxuriating on the vital stores in the earth that were its own--is not this striking and perplexing, my rational friends? Surely, Man is neither the featherless biped of the Greek Philosopher, nor the tool-using animal of the Sage of Chelsea. For animals, too, have their tools, and man, in his visible flounces, has feathers enough to make even a peacock gape. Both my Philosophers have hit wide of the mark this time. And Man, to my way of thinking, is a flounce-wearing Spirit. Indeed, flounces alone, the invisible ones in particular, distinguish us from the beasts. For like ourselves they have their fashions in clothes; their peculiar speech; their own hidden means of intellection, and, to some extent, of imagination: but flounces they have not, they know not. These are luxuries, which Man alone enjoys. "Ah, Man,--thou son and slave of Allah, according to my Oriental Prophets of Heaven; thou exalted, apotheosised ape, according to my Occidental Prophets of Science;--how much thou canst suffer, how much thou canst endure, under what pressure and in what Juhannam depths thou canst live; but thy flounces thou canst not dispense with for a day, nor for a single one-twelfth part of a day. Even in thy suffering and pain, the agonised spirit is wrapped, bandaged, swathed in ruffles. It is assuaged with the flounces of thy lady's caresses, and the scalloped intonations of her soft and soothing voice. It is humbugged into health by the malodorous flounces of the apothecary and the medicinal ruffles of the doctor. "Ay, we live in a phantasmagoric, cycloramic economy of flounces and ruffles. The human Spirit shirks nudity as it shirks pain. Even your modern preacher of the Simple Life is at best suggesting the moderate use of ruffles.... Indeed, we can suffer anything, everything, but the naked and ugly reality. Alas, have I not listened for years to what I mistook to be the strong, pure voice of the naked Truth? And have I not discovered, to my astonishment, that the supposed scientific Nudity is but an indurated thick Crust under which the Lie lies hidden. Why strip Man of his fancy appendages, his adventitious sanctities, if you are going to give him instead only a few yards of shoddy? No, I tell you; this can not be done. Your brambles and thorn hedges will continue to grow and luxuriate, will even shut from your view the Temple in the Grove, until the great Pine rises again to stunt, and ultimately extirpate, them. "Behold, meanwhile, how the world parades in ruffles before us. What a bewildering phantasmagoria this: a very Dress Ball of the human race. See them pass: the Pope of Christendom, in his three hats and heavy trailing gowns, blessing the air of heaven; the priest, in his alb and chasuble, dispensing of the blessings of the Pope; the judge, in his wig and bombazine, endeavouring to reconcile divine justice with the law's mundane majesty; the college doctor, in cap and gown, anointing the young princes of knowledge; the buffoon, in his cap and bells, dancing to the god of laughter; mylady of the pink-tea circle, in her huffing, puffing gasoline-car, fleeing the monster of ennui; the bride and bridegroom at the altar or before the mayor putting on their already heavy-ruffled garments the sacred ruffle of law or religion; the babe brought to church by his mother and kindred to have the priest-tailor sew on his new garment the ruffle of baptism; the soldier in his gaudy uniform; the king in his ermine with a crown and sceptre appended; the Nabob of Ind in his gorgeous and multi-colored robes; and the Papuan with horns in his nostrils and rings in his ears: see them all pass. "And wilt thou still add to the bewildering variety of the pageant? Or wilt have another of the higher things of the mind? Lo, the artist this, wearing his ruffles of hair over his shoulders; and here, too, is the man of the sombrero and red flannel, which are the latest flounces of a certain set of New World poets. Directly behind them is Dame Religion with her heavy ruffled robes, her beribboned and belaced bodices, her ornaments and sacred gewgaws. And billah, she has stuffings and paddings, too. And false teeth and foul breath! Never mind. Pass on, and let her pass. But tarry thou a moment here. Behold this pyrotechnic display, these buntings and flags; hear thou this music and these shouts and cheers; on yonder stump is an orator dispensing to his fellow citizens spread-eagle rhetoric as empty as yonder drum: these are the elaborate and attractive ruffles of politics. And among the crowd are genial and honest citizens who have their own way of ruffling your temper with their coarse flounces of linsey-woolsey freedom. Wilt thou have more?" Decidedly not, we reply. For how can we even keep company with Khalid, who has become such a maniac on flounces? And was this fantastic, phantasmagoric rhapsody all inspired by Najma's simple remark on his hair? Fruitful is thy word, O woman! But being so far away now from the Hermitage in the Bronx, what has the "cherry in the cocktail" and "the olive in the oyster patty" to do with all this? Howbeit, the following deserves a place as the tail-flounce of his Fantasy. * * * * * "Your superman and superwoman," says he, with philosophic calm, "may go Adam-and-Eve like if they choose. But can they, even in that chaste and splendid nudity, dispense with ruffles and flounces? Pray, tell me, did not our first parents spoon and sentimentalise in the Paradise, before the Serpent appeared? And would they not often whisper unto each other, 'Ah, Adam, ah, Eve!' sighing likewise for sweeter things? And what about those fatal Apples, those two sour fruits of their Love?--I tell thee every new-born babe is the magnificent flesh-flounce of a shivering, trembling, nudity. And I Khalid, what am I but the visible ruffle of an invisible skirt? Verily, I am; and thou, too, my Brother. Yea, and this aquaterrestrial globe and these sidereal heavens are the divine flounces of the Vesture of Allah." CHAPTER VII THE HOWDAJ OF FALSEHOOD "Humanity is so feeble in mind," says Renan, "that the purest thing has need of the co-operation of some impure agent." And this, we think, is the gist of Khalid's rhapsody on flounces and ruffles. But how is he to reconcile the fact with the truth in his case? For a single sanctified ruffle--a line of type in the canon law--is likely to upset all his plans. Yes, a priest in alb and chasuble not only can dispense with the blessings of his Pope, but--and here is the rub--he can also withhold such blessings from Khalid. And now, do what he may, say what he might, he must either revise his creed, or behave, at least, like a Christian. Everything is ready, you say? The sky-blue, many-ruffled wedding gown; the set-out for the wayfare; the camel and donkeys; the little stock of books; the coffee utensils; the lentils and sweet oil;--all ready? Very well; but you can not set forth to-morrow, nor three weeks from to-morrow. Indeed, before the priest can give you his blessings--and what at this juncture can you do without them?--the dispensations of the ban must be performed. In other words, your case must now be laid before the community. Every Sunday, for three such to come, the intended marriage of Khalid to Najma will be published in the Church, and whoso hath any objection to make can come forth and make it. Moreover, there is that little knot of consanguinity to be considered. And your priest is good enough to come and explain this to you. Understand him well. "An alm of a few gold pieces," says he, "will remove the obstacle; the unlawfulness of your marriage resulting from consanguinity will cease on payment of five hundred piasters." All of which startles Khalid, stupefies him. He had not, heretofore, thought of such a matter. Indeed, he was totally ignorant of these forms, these prohibitions and exemptions of the Church. And the father of Najma, though assenting, remarks nevertheless that the alms demanded are much. "Why," exclaims Khalid, "I can build a house for five hundred piasters." The priest sits down cross-legged on the divan, lights the cigarette which Najma had offered with the coffee, and tries to explain. "And where have you this, O Reverend, about consanguinity, prohibition, and alms!" Khalid asks. "Why, my child, in the Canons of our Church, Catholic and Apostolic. Every one knows that a marriage between cousins can not be effected, without the sanction of the Bishop." "But can we not obtain this sanction without paying for it?" "You are not paying for it, my child; you are only contributing some alms to the Church." "You come to us, therefore, as a beggar, not as a spiritual father and guide." "That is not good speaking. You misunderstand my purpose." "And pray, tell me, what is the purpose of prohibiting a marriage between cousins; what chief good is there in such a ban?" "Much good for the community." "But I have nothing to do with the community. I'm going to live with my wife in the desert." "The good of your souls is chiefly concerned." "Ah, the good of our souls!" "And there are other reasons which can not be freely spoken of here." "You mean the restriction and prohibition of sexual knowledge between relatives. That is very well. But let us return to what concerns us properly: the good of my soul, and the spiritual well-being of the community,--what becomes of these, when I pay the prescribed alms and obtain the sanction of the Bishop?" "No harm then can come to them--they'll be secure." "Secure, you say? Are they not hazarded, sold by your Church for five hundred piasters? If my marriage to my cousin be wrong, unlawful, your Bishop in sanctioning same is guilty of perpetuating this wrong, this unlawfulness, is he not?" "But what the Church binds only the Church can loosen." "And what is the use of binding, O Reverend Father, when a little sum of money can loosen anything you bind? It seems to me that these prohibitions of the Church are only made for the purpose of collecting alms. In other words, you bind for the sake of loosening, when a good bait is on the hook, do you not? Pardon, O my Reverend Father, pardon. I can not, to save my soul and yours, reconcile these contradictions. For if Mother Church be certain that my marriage to my cousin is contrary to the Law of God, is destructive of my spiritual well-being, then let her by all means prohibit it. Let her restrain me, compel me to obey. Ay, and the police ought to interfere in case of disobedience. In her behalf, in my behalf, in the behalf of my cousin's soul and mine, the police ought to do the will of God, if the Church knows what it is, and is certain and honest about it. Compel me to stop, I conjure you, if you know I am going in the way of damnation. O my Father, what sort of a mother is she who would sell two of her children to the devil for a few hundred piasters? No, billah! no. What is unlawful by virtue of the Divine Law the wealth of all the Trust-Kings of America can not make lawful. And what is so by virtue of your Canon Law concerns not me. You may angle, you and your Church, as long as you please in the murky, muddy waters of Bind-and-Loosen, I have nothing to do with you."... * * * * * But the priests, O Khalid, have yet a little to do with you. Such arguments about the Divine Law and the Canon Law, about alms and spiritual beggars, might cut the Gordian knot with your uncle, but--and whether it be good or bad English, we say it--they cut no ice with the Church. Yes, Mother Church, under whose wings you and your cousin were born and bred, and under whose wings you and your cousin would be married, can not take off for the sweet sake of your black eyes the ruffles and flounces of twenty centuries. Think well on it, you who have so extravagantly and not unwisely delivered yourself on flounces and ruffles. But to think, when in love, were, indeed, disastrous. O Love, Love, what Camels of wisdom thou canst force to pass through the needle's eye! What miracles divine are thine! Khalid himself says that to be truly, deeply, piously in love, one must needs hate himself. How true, how inexorably true! For would he be always inviting trouble and courting affliction, would he be always bucking against the dead wall of a Democracy or a Church, if he did not sincerely hate himself--if he were not religiously, fanatically in love--in love with Najma, if not with Truth? Now, on the following Sunday, instead of publishing the intended marriage of Khalid and Najma, the parish priest places a ban upon it. And in this, ye people of Baalbek, is food enough for tattle, and cause enough for persecution. Potent are the ruffles of the Church! But why, we can almost hear the anxious Reader asking, if the camels are ready, why the deuce don't they get on and get them gone? But did we not say once that Khalid is slow, even slower than the law itself? Nevertheless, if this were a Novel, an elopement would be in order, but we must repeat, it is not. We are faithful transcribers of the truth as we find it set down in Shakib's _Histoire Intime_. True, Khalid did ask Najma to throw with him the handful of dust, to steal out of Baalbek and get married on the way, say in Damascus. But poor Najma goes over to his mother instead, and mingling their tears and prayers, they beseech the Virgin to enlighten the soul and mind of Khalid. "Yes, we must be married here, before we go to the desert," says she, "for think, O my mother, how far away we shall be from the world and the Church if anything happens to us." And they would have succeeded, the mother and cousin of Khalid, in persuading the parish priest to accept from them the prescribed alms and perform the wedding ceremony, had not the Jesuits, in the interest of the Faith and the Church, been dogging Khalid still. For if they have failed in sending him to the Bosphorus, they will succeed in sending him elsewhither. And observe how this is done. After communicating with the Papal Legate in Mt. Lebanon about that fatal Latter Day Pamphlet of Thomas Carlyle, the Adjutant-General, or Adjutant-Bird, stalks up there one night in person and lays before the Rt. Rev. Mgr. his devil's brief in Khalid's case. It has already been explained that this Pamphlet was fathered on Khalid by the Jesuits. For if they can not punish the Voice which is still pursuing them--and in their heart of hearts they must have recognised its thunder, even in a Translation--they will make the man smart for it who first mentioned Carlyle in this connection. "And besides this pernicious booklet," says the Adjutant-Bird, "the young man's heretical opinions are notorious. He was banished from home on that account. And now, after corrupting and deluding his cousin, he is going to marry her despite the ban of the Church. Something, Monseigneur, ought to be done, and quickly, to protect the community against the poison of this wretch." And Monseigneur, nodding his accord, orders his Secretary to write a note to the Patriarch, enclosing the aforesaid devil's brief, and showing the propriety, nay, the necessity of excommunicating Khalid the Baalbekian. The Adjutant-Bird, with the Legate's letter in his pocket, skips over to the Patriarch on the other hill-top below, and after a brief interview--our dear good Ancient of the Maronites must willy-nilly obey Rome--the fate of Khalid the Baalbekian is sealed. Indeed, the upshot of these Jesuitic machinations is this: on the very day when Khalid's mother and cousin are pleading before the parish priest for justice, for mercy,--offering the prescribed alms, beseeching that the ban be revoked, the marriage solemnised,--a messenger from the Bishop of the Diocese enters, kisses his Reverence's hand, and delivers an imposing envelope. The priest unseals it, unfolds the heavy foolscap sheet therein, reads it with a knitting of the brow, a shaking of the beard, and, clapping one hand upon the other, tells the poor pleaders to go home. "It is all finished. There is no more hope for you and your cousin." And he shows the Patriarchal Bull, and explains. Whereupon, Najma and Khalid's mother go out weeping, wailing, beating their breasts and cheeks, calling upon Allah to witness their sorrow and the outrageous tyranny of the priests. "What has my son done to be excommunicated? Hear it, ye people, hear it. And be just to me and my son. What has he done to deserve the anathema of the Church? What has he done?" And thus frantic, mad, she runs through the main street of the town, making wild gestures and clamours,--publishing, as it were, the Patriarchal Bull, before it was read by the priest on the following day, and tacked on the door of the Church. Of this Bull, tricked with the stock phrases of the Church of the Middle Ages, such as "anathema be he," or "banned be he," who speaks with, deals with, and so forth, we have a copy before us. But our readers will not pardon us, we fear, if further space and consideration be here given to its contents. Suffice it to say, however, that Khalid comes to church on that fatal day, takes the foolscap sheet down from the door, and, going with it to the town-square, burns it there before the multitudes. And it came to pass, when the Bull is burned in the town-square of Baalbek, in the last year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, some among the multitudes shout loud shouts of joy, and some cast stones. Then, foul, vehement speaking falleth between the friends and the enemies of him who wrought evil in the sight of the Lord; And every one thereupon brandisheth a stick or taketh up a stone and the battle ensueth. Now, the mighty troops of the Sultan of the Ottomans come forth like the Yaman wind and stand in the town-square like rocks; And the battle rageth still, and the troops who are come forth to part the fighting multitudes, having gorged themselves at the last meal, can not as much as speak their part: And it came to pass, when the clubs and spades are veiled and the battle subsideth of itself, the good people return to their respective callings and trades; But the perverse recalcitrants which remain--and Khalid the Baalbekian is among them--are taken by the aforesaid overfed troops to the City Hall and thence to the _velayet_ prison in Damascus. And here endeth our stichometrics of the Battle of the Bull. Now, Shakib may wear out his shoes this time, his tongue, too, and his purse, but to no purpose. Behold, your friend the _kaimkam_ is gloomy and impassive as a camel; what can you do? Whisper in his ear? The Padres have done that before you. Slip a purse into his pocket? They have done that, too, and overdone it long since. Yes, the City Hall of every city in the Empire is an epitome of Yildiz Kiosk. And your _kaimkams_, and _valis_, and _viziers_, have all been taught in the same Text-Book, at the same Political School, and by the same Professor. Let Khalid rest, therefore and ponder these matters in silence. For in the City Hall and during the month he passes in the prison of Damascus, we are told, he does not utter a word. His partisans in prison ask to be taught his creed, and among these are some Mohammadans: "We'll burn the priests and their church yet and follow you. By our Prophet Mohammad we will ..." Khalid makes no reply. Even Shakib, when he comes to visit him, finds him dumb as a stone, slain by adversity and disease. Nothing can be done now. The giant excommunicated, incommunicative soul, struggling in a prison of sore flesh, we must leave, alas, with his friends and partisans to pass his thirty days and nights in the second prison of stone. Now, let us return to the Jesuits, who, having worsted Khalid, or the Devil in Khalid, as they charitably put it, will also endeavour to do somewhat in the interest of his intended bride. For the Padres, in addition to their many crafts and trades, are matrimonial brokers of honourable repute. And in their meddling and making, their baiting and mating, they are as serviceable as the Column Personal of an American newspaper. Whoso is matrimonially disposed shall whisper his mind at the Confessional or drop his advertisement in the pocket of the visiting Columns of their Bride-Dealer, and he shall prosper. She as well as he shall prosper. Now, Father Farouche is commissioned to come all the way from Zahleh to visit the brother of Abu-Khalid their porter, and bespeak him in the interest of his daughter. All their faculties of persuasion shall be exerted in behalf of Najma. She must be saved at any cost. Hence they volunteer their services. And while Khalid is lingering in prison at Damascus, they avail themselves of the opportunity to further the suit of their pickle-herring candidate for Najma's love. The Reverend Farouche, therefore, holds a secret conference with her father. "No," says he, "God would never have forgiven you for giving your daughter to one utterly destitute of morality, religion, money, and health. But praise Allah! the Church has come to her rescue. She shall be saved, wrested from the hands of Iblis. Yes, Holy Church, through us, will guide her to find a god-fearing life-companion; one worthy of her charms, her virtues, her fine qualities of heart and mind. The young man we recommend is rich, respected in the community; is an official of the Government with a third-class Medjidi decoration and the title of Bey; and is free from all diseases. Moreover, he is a good Catholic. Consider these advantages. A relation this, which no father would reject, if he loves his daughter and is solicitous of her future well-being. Speak to her, therefore, and let us know soon your mind." And our Scribe, in relating of this, loses his temper.--"An Official of the Government, a Bey with a third-class Medjidi decoration from the Sultan! As if Officialdom could not boast of a single scoundrel--as if any rogue in the Empire, with a few gold coins in his purse, were not eligible to the Hamidian decorations! And a third-class decoration! Why, I have it on good authority that these Medjidi Orders were given to a certain Patriarch in a bushel to distribute among his minions...." But to our subject. Abu-Najma does not look upon it in this light. A decorated and titled son-in-law were a great honour devoutly to be wished. And some days after the first conference, the Padre Farouche comes again, bringing along his Excellency the third-class Medjidi Bey; but Najma, as they enter and salaam, goes out on the terrace roof to weep. The third time the third-class Medjidi Dodo comes alone. And Najma, as soon as she catches a glimpse of him, takes up her earthen jar and hies her to the spring. "O the hinny! I'll rope noose her (hang her) to-night," murmurs the father. But here is his Excellency with his Sultan's green button in his lapel. Abu-Najma bows low, rubs his hands well, offers a large cushion, brings a _masnad_ (leaning pillow), and blubbers out many unnecessary apologies. "This honour is great, your Excellency--overlook our shortcomings--our _beit_ (one room house) can not contain our shame--it is not becoming your Excellency's high rank--overlook--you have condescended to honour us, condescend too to be indulgent.--My daughter? yes, presently. She is gone to church, to mass, but she'll return soon." But Najma is long gone; returns not; and the third-class Dodo will call again to-morrow. Now, Abu-Najma brings out his rope, soaps it well, nooses and suspends it from the rafter in the ceiling. And when his daughter returns from the spring, he takes her by the arm, shows her the rope, and tells her laconically to choose between his Excellency and this. Poor Najma has not the courage to die, and so soon. Her cousin Khalid is in prison, is excommunicated--what can she do? Run away? The Church will follow her--punish her. There's something satanic in Khalid--the Church said so--the Church knows. Najma rolls these things in her mind, looks at her father beseechingly. Her father points to the noose. Najma falls to weeping. The noose serves well its purpose. For hereafter, when the Dodo comes decorated, SHE has to offer him the cushion, bring him the _masnad_, make for him the coffee. And eventually, as the visits accumulate, she goes with him to the dress-maker in Beirut. The bridal gown shall be of the conventional silk this time; for his Excellency is travelled, and knows and reverences the fashion. But why prolong these painful details? "Allah, in the mysterious working of his Providence," says Shakib, "preordained it thus: Khalid, having served his turn in prison, Najma begins her own; for a few days after he was set free, she was placed in bonds forged for her by the Jesuits. Now, when Khalid returned from Damascus, he came straightway to me and asked that we go to see Najma and try to prevail upon her, to persuade her to go with him, to run away. They would leave on the night-train to Hama this time, and thence set forth towards Palmyra. I myself did not know what had happened, and so I approved of his plan. But alas! as we were coming down the main Street to Najma's house, we heard the sound of tomtoms in the distance and the shrill ulluluing of women. We continued apace until we reached the by-way through which we had to pass, and lo, we find it choked by the _zeffah_ (wedding procession) of none but she and the third-class Medjidi...." * * * * * But we'll no more of this! Too tragic, too much like fiction it sounds, that here abruptly we must end this Chapter. CHAPTER VIII THE KAABA OF SOLITUDE Disappointed, distraught, diseased,--worsted by the Jesuits, excommunicated, crossed in love,--but with an eternal glint of sunshine in his breast to open and light up new paths before him, Khalid, after the fatal episode, makes away from Baalbek. He suddenly disappears. But where he lays his staff, where he spends his months of solitude, neither Shakib nor our old friend the sandomancer can say. Somewhither he still is, indeed; for though he fell in a swoon as he saw Najma on her caparisoned palfrey and the decorated Excellency coming up along side of her, he was revived soon after and persuaded to return home. But on the following morning, our Scribe tells us, coming up to the booth, he finds neither Khalid there, nor any of his few worldly belongings. We, however, have formed a theory of our own, based on certain of his writings in the K. L. MS., about his mysterious levitation; and we believe he is now somewhither whittling arrows for a coming combat. In the Lebanon mountains perhaps. But we must not dog him like the Jesuits. Rather let us reverence the privacy of man, the sacredness of his religious retreat. For no matter where he is in the flesh, we are metaphysically certain of his existence. And instead of filling up this Chapter with the bitter bickerings of life and the wickedness and machination of those in power, let us consecrate it to the divine peace and beauty of Nature. Of a number of Chapters in the Book of Khalid on this subject, we choose the one entitled, My Native Terraces, or Spring in Syria, symbolising the natural succession to Khalid's Winter of destiny. In it are signal manifestations of the triumph of the soul over the diseases and adversities and sorrows of mortal life. Indeed, here is an example of faith and power and love which we reckon sublime. * * * * * "The inhabitants of my terraces and terrace walls," we translate, "dressed in their Sunday best, are in the doorways lounging or peeping idly through their windows. And why not? It is Spring, and to these delicate, sweet little creatures, Spring is the one Sunday of the year. Have they not hugged the damp, dark earth long enough? Hidden from the wrath of Winter, have they not squatted patiently round the primitive, smokeless fire of the mystic depths? And now, the rain having partly extinguished the inner, hidden flame, they come out to bask in the sun, and drink deeply of the ambrosial air. They come, almost slain with thirst, to the Mother Fountain. They come out to worship at the shrine of the sweet-souled, God-absorbed Rabia of Attar. In their bright, glowing faces what a delectable message from the under world of romance and enchantment! Their lips are red with the kisses of love, in whose alembics, intangible, unseen, the dark and damp of the earth are translated into warmth and colour and shade. Ay, these dear little children, unfolding their soft green scrolls and reading aloud such odes on Modesty and Beauty, are as inspiring as the star-crowned night. And every chink in my terrace walls seems to breathe a message of sweetness and light and love. "Know you not the anecdote about the enchanting Goddess Rabia, as related by Attar in his _Biographies of Sufi Mystics and Saints_? Here it is. Rabia was asked if she hated the devil, and she replied, 'No.' Asked again why, she said, 'Being absorbed in love, I have no time to hate.' Now, all the inhabitants of my terraces and fields seem to echo this sublime sentiment of their Goddess. The air and sunshine, nay, the very rocks are imbued with it. See, how the fissures in the boulders yonder seem to sympathise with the gaps in the terrace walls: the cyclamen leaves in the one are salaaming the cyclamen flowers in the other. O, these terraces would have delighted the heart of the American naturalist Thoreau. He could not have desired stone walls with more gaps in them. But mind you, these are not dark, ugly, hollow, hopeless chinks. Behind every one of them lurks a mystery. Far back in the niches I can see the busts of the poets who wrote the poems which these beautiful wild flowers are reading to me. Yes, the authors are dead, and what I behold now are the flowers of their amours. These are the offspring of their embraces, the crystallised dew of their love. Yes, this one single, simple act of love brings forth an infinite variety of flowers to celebrate the death of the finite outward shape and the eternal essence of life perennial. In complete surrender lies the divineness of things eternal. This is the key-note of the Oriental mystic poets. And I incline to the belief that they of all bards have sung best the song of love. In rambling through the fields with these beautiful children of the terraces, I know not what draws me to Al-Fared, the one erotic-mystic poet of Arabia, whose interminable rhymes have a perennial charm. Perhaps such lines as these,-- 'All that is fair is fairer when she rises, All that is sweet is sweeter when she is here; And every form of beauty she surprises With one brief word she whispers in its ear: 'Thy wondrous charms, O let them not deceive thee; They are but borrowed from her for a while; Thine outward guise and loveliness would grieve thee, If in thine inmost soul she did not smile. 'All colours, forms, into each other merging, Are woven on her Loom of Unity; For she alone is One in All diverging, And she alone is absolute and free.' "Now, I will bring you to a scene most curiously suggestive. Behold that little knot of daisies pressing around the alone anemone beneath the spreading leaves of the colocasia. Here is a rout at the Countess Casiacole's, and these are the débutantes crowding around the Celebrity of the day. But would they do so if they were sensible of their own worth, if they knew that their idol, flaunting the crimson crown of popularity, had no more, and perhaps less, of the pure essence of life than any of them? But let Celebrity stand there and enjoy her hour; to-morrow the Ploughman will come. * * * * * "The sage, with its spikes of greyish blue flowers, its fibrous, velvety leaves, its strong, pungent perfume, which is not squandered or repressed, is the stoic of my native terraces. It responds generously to the personal touch, and serves the Lebanonese, rich and poor alike, with a little luxury. Ay, who of us, wandering on foreign strands, does not remember the warm foot-bath, perfumed with sage leaves, his mother used to give him before going to bed? Our dear mothers!"--And here, Khalid goes in raptures and tears about his sorry experience in Baalbek and the anguish and sorrow of his poor mother. "But while I stand," he continues, "let me be like the sage, a live-oak among shrubs, indifferent as the oak or pine to the winds and storms. And as the sun is setting, find you no solace in the thought, O Khalid, that some angel herb-gatherer will preserve the perfume in your leaves, to refresh therewith in other worlds your dear poor mother? "My native terraces are rich with faith and love, luxuriant with the life divine and the wondrous symbols thereof. And the grass here is not cut and trimmed as in the artificial gardens and the cold dull lawns of city folk, whose love for Nature is either an experiment, a sport, a business, or a fad. 'A dilettantism in Nature is barren and unworthy,' says Emerson. But of all the lovers of Nature, the children are the least dilettanteish. And every day here I see a proof of this. Behold them wading to their knees in that lusty grass, hunting the classic lotus with which to deck their olive branches for the high mass and ceremony of Palm Sunday. But alas, my lusty grass and my beautiful wild flowers do not enjoy the morning of Spring. Here, the ploughman comes, carrying his long plough and goad on his shoulder, and with him his wife lugging the yoke and his boy leading the oxen. Alas, the sun shall not set on these bright, glowing, green terraces, whose walls are very ramparts of flowers. There, the boy with his scythe is paving the way for his father's plough; the grass is mowed and given to the oxen as a bribe to do the ugly business. And all for the sake of the ugly mulberries, which are cultivated for the ugly silk-worms. Come, let us to the heath, where the hiss of the scythe and the 'ho-back' and 'oho' of the ploughman are not heard. "But let us swing from the road. Come, the hedges of Nature are not as impassable as the hedges of man. Through these scrub oaks and wild pears, between this tangle of thickets, over the clematis and blackberry bush,--and here we are under the pines, the lofty and majestic pines. How different are these natural hedges, growing in wild disorder, from the ugly cactus fences with which my neighbours choose to shut in their homes, and even their souls. But my business now is not with them. There are my friends the children again gathering the pine-needles of last summer for lighting the fire of the silk-worm nursery. And down that narrow foot-path, meandering around the boulders and disappearing among the thickets, see what big loads of brushwood are moving towards us. Beneath them my swarthy and hardy peasants are plodding up the hill asweat and athirst. When I first descended to the wadi, one such load of brushwood emerging suddenly from behind a cliff surprised and frightened me. But soon I was reminded of the moving forest in Macbeth. The man bowed beneath the load was hidden from view, and the boy directly behind was sweating under a load as big as that of his father. '_Awafy!_' (Allah give you strength), I said, greeting them. 'And increase of health to you,' they replied. I then asked the boy how far down do they have to go for their brushwood, and laying down his load on a stone to rest, he points below, saying, 'Here, near the river.' But this 'Here, near the river' is more than four hours' walk from the village.--Allah preserve you in your strength, my Brothers. And they pass along, plodding slowly under their overshadowing burdens. A hard-hearted Naturalist, who goes so deep into Nature as to be far from the vital core even as the dilettante, might not have any sympathy to throw away on such occasions. But of what good is the love of Nature that consists only in classification and dissection? I carry no note-book with me when I go down the wadi or out into the fields. I am content if I bring back a few impressions of some reassuring instance of faith, a few pictures, and an armful of wild flowers and odoriferous shrubs. Let the learned manual maker concern himself with the facts; he is content with jotting down in his note-book the names and lineage of every insect and every herb. "But Man? What is he to these scientific Naturalists? If they meet a stranger on the road, they pass him by, their eyes intent on the breviary of Nature, somewhat after the fashion of my priests, who are fond of praying in the open-air at sundown. No, I do not have to prove to my Brothers that my love of Nature is but second to my love of life. I am interested in my fellow men as in my fellow trees and flowers. 'The beauty of Nature,' Emerson again, 'must always seem unreal and mocking until the landscape has human figures, that are as good as itself.' And 'tis well, if they are but half as good. To me, the discovery of a woodman in the wadi were as pleasing as the discovery of a woodchuck or a woodswallow or a woodbine. For in the soul of the woodman is a song, I muse, as sweet as the rhythmic strains of the goldfinch, if it could be evoked. But the soul plodding up the hill under its heavy overshadowing burden, what breath has it left for song? The man bowed beneath the load, the soul bowed beneath the man! Alas, I seem to behold but moving burdens in my country. And yet, my swarthy and shrunken, but firm-fibred people plod along, content, patient, meek; and when they reach the summit of the hill with their crushing burdens, they still have breath enough to troll a favourite ditty or serenade the night. 'I come to thee, O Night, I'm at thy feet; I can not see, O Night, But thy breath is sweet.' "And so is the breath of the pines. Here, the air is surcharged with perfume. In it floats the aromatic soul of many a flower. But the perfume-soul of the pines seems to tower over all others, just as its material shape lifts its artistic head over the oak, the cercis, and the terabinth. And though tall and stately, my native pines are not forbidding. They are so pruned that the snags serve as a most convenient ladder. Such was my pleasure mounting for the green cones, the salted pinons of which are delicious. But I confess they seem to stick in the stomach as the pitch of the cones sticks on the hands. This, however, though it remains for days, works no evil; but the pinons in the stomach, and the stomach on the nerves,--that is a different question. "The only pines I have seen in the United States are those in front of Emerson's house in Concord; but compared with my native trees, they are scrubby and mean. These pine parasols under which I lay me, forgiving and forgetting, are fit for the gods. And although closely planted, they grow and flourish without much ado. I have seen spots not exceeding a few hundred square feet holding over thirty trees, and withal stout and lusty and towering. Indeed, the floor of the Tent seems too narrow at times for its crowded guests; but beneath the surface there is room for every root, and over it, the sky is broad enough for all. "Ah, the bewildering vistas through the variegated pillars, taking in a strip of sea here, a mountain peak there, have an air of enchantment from which no human formula can release a pilgrim-soul. They remind me--no; they can not remind me of anything more imposing. But when I was visiting the great Mosques of Cairo I was reminded of them. Yes, the pine forests are the great mosques of Nature. And for art-lovers, what perennial beauty of an antique art is here. These majestic pillars arched with foliage, propping a light-green ceiling, from which cones hang in pairs and in clusters, and through which curiously shaped clouds can be seen moving in a cerulean sky; and at night, instead of the clouds, the stars--the distant, twinkling, white and blue stars--what to these are the decorations in the ancient mosques? There, the baroques, the arabesques, the colourings gorgeous, are dead, at least inanimate; here, they palpitate with life. The moving, swelling, flaming, flowing life is mystically interwoven in the evergreen ceiling and the stately colonnades. Ay, even the horizon yonder, with its planets and constellations rising and setting ever, is a part of the ceiling decoration. "Here in this grand Mosque of Nature, I read my own Korân. I, Khalid, a Beduin in the desert of life, a vagabond on the highway of thought, I come to this glorious Mosque, the only place of worship open to me, to heal my broken soul in the perfumed atmosphere of its celestial vistas. The mihrabs here are not in this direction nor in that. But whereso one turns there are niches in which the living spirit of Allah is ever present. Here, then, I prostrate me and read a few Chapters of MY Holy Book. After which I resign myself to my eternal Mother and the soft western breezes lull me asleep. Yea, and even like my poor brother Moslem sleeping on his hair-mat in a dark corner of his airy Mosque, I dream my dream of contentment and resignation and love. "See the ploughman strutting home, his goad in his hand, his plough on his shoulder, as if he had done his duty. Allah be praised, the flowers in the terrace-walls are secure. That is why, I believe, my American brother Thoreau liked walls with many gaps in them. The sweet wild daughters of Spring can live therein their natural life without being molested by the scythe or the plough. Allah be praised a hundred times and one." CHAPTER IX SIGNS OF THE HERMIT Although we claim some knowledge of the Lebanon mountains, having landed there in our journey earthward, and having since then, our limbs waxing firm and strong, made many a journey through them, we could not, after developing, through many readings, Khalid's spiritual films, identify them with the vicinage which he made his Kaaba. On what hill, in what wadi, under what pines did he ruminate and extravagate, we could not from these idealised pictures ascertain. For a spiritual film is other than a photographic one. A poet's lens is endowed with a seeing eye, an insight, and a faculty to choose and compose. Hence the difficulty in tracing the footsteps of Fancy--in locating its cave, its nest, or its Kaaba. His pine-mosque we could find anywhere, at any altitude; his vineyards, too, and his glades; for our mountain scenery, its beauty alternating between the placid and the rugged--the tame terrace soil and the wild, forbidding majesty--is allwhere almost the same. But where in these rocky and cavernous recesses of the world can we to-day find the ancient Lebanon troglodyte, whom Khalid has seen, and visited in his hut, and even talked with? It is this that forces us to seek his diggings, to trace, if possible, his footsteps. In the K. L. MS., as we have once remarked and more than once hinted, we find much that is unduly inflated, truly Oriental; much that is platitudinous, ludicrous, which we have suppressed. But never could we question the Author's veracity and sincerity of purpose. Whether he crawled like a zoöphyte, soared like an eagle, or fought, like Ali, the giants of the lower world, he is genuine, and oft-times amusingly truthful. But the many questionable pages on this curious subject of the eremite, what are we to do with them? If they are imaginary, there is too much in this Book against quackery to daunt us. And yet, if Khalid has found the troglodyte, whom we thought to be an extinct species, he should have left us a few legends about it. We have visited the ancient caverns of the Lebanon troglodytes in the cliffs overhanging the river of Wadi Kadeesha, and found nothing there but blind bats, and mosses, and dreary vacuity. No, not a vestage of the fossil is there, not a skull, not a shinbone. We have also inquired in the monasteries near the Cedars, and we were frankly told that no monk to-day fancies such a life. And if he did, he would not give his brother monks the trouble of carrying his daily bread to a cave in those forbidden cliffs. And yet, Simeon Stylites, he of the Pillar, who remained for thirty years perched on the top of it, was a Syrian shepherd. But who of his descendants to-day would as much as pass one night on the top of that pillar? Curious eleemosynary phases of our monkish system, these modern times reveal. On our way from a journey to the Cedars, while engaged in the present Work, we passed through a pine forest, in which were some tangled bushes of the clematis. The muleteer stops near one of these and stoops to reach something he had seen therein. No treasure-trove, alas, as he supposed; but merely a book for which he lacerated his hands and which he cursed and handed to us, saying, "This must be the breviary of some monk." No, it was an English book, and of American origin, and of a kind quite rare in America. Indeed, here were a find and surprise as agreeable as Khalid's sweetbrier bush. Henry Thoreau's _Week_! What a miracle of chance. Whose this mutilated copy of the _Week_, we thought? Who in these mountains, having been in America, took more interest in the Dreamer of Walden Woods than in peddling and trading? We walk our mule, looking about in vague, restless surprise, as if seeking in the woods a lost companion, and lo, we reach a monarch pine on which is carved the name of--Khalid! This book, then, must be his; the name on the pine tree is surely his own; we know his hand as well as his turn of mind. But who can say if this be his Kaaba, this his pine-mosque? Might he not only have passed through these glades to other parts? Signs, indeed, are here of his feet and hands, if not of his tent-pegs. And what signifies his stay? No matter how long he might have put up here, it is but a passage, deeply considered: like Thoreau's passage through Walden woods, like Mohammad's through the desert. This leisure hour is the nipple of the soul. And fortunate they who are not artificially suckled, who know this hour no matter how brief, who get their nipple at the right time. If they do not, no pabulum ever after, will their indurated tissues assimilate. Do you wonder why the world is full of crusty souls? and why to them this infant hour, this suckling while, is so repugnant? But we must not intrude more of such remarks about mankind. Whether rightly suckled or not, we manage to live; but whether we do so marmot-like or Maronite-like, is not the question here to be considered. To pray for your bread or to burrow in the earth for it, is it not the same with most people? Given a missionary with a Bible in his hip-pocket or a peasant with a load of brushwood on his back and the same gastric coefficient, and you will have in either case a resulting expansion for six feet of coffin ground and a fraction of Allah's mercy. Our poor missionary, is it worth while to cross the seas for this? Marmot-like or Maronite-like--but soft you know! Here is our peasant with his overshadowing load of brushwood. And there is another, and another. They are carrying fuel to the lime-pit ahead of us yonder. What brow-sweat, what time, what fire, what suffering and patient toil, the lime-washing, or mere liming, of our houses and sepulchres, requires. That cone structure there, that artificial volcano, with its crackling, flaming bowels and its fuliginous, coruscating crater, must our hardy peasants feed continually for twenty days and nights. But the book and the name on the pine, we would know more of these signs, if possible. And so, we visit the labourers of the kiln. They are yödling, the while they work, and jesting and laughing. The stokers, with flaming, swollen eyes, their tawny complexion waxing a brilliant bronze, their sweat making golden furrows therein, with their pikes and pitchforks busy, are terribly magnificent to behold. Here be men who would destroy Bastilles for you, if it were nominated in the bond. And there is the monk-foreman--the kiln is of the monastery's estate--reading his breviary while the lime is in making. Indeed, these sodalities of the Lebanons are not what their vows and ascetic theologies would make them. No lean-jowled, hungry-looking devotees, living in exiguity and droning in exinanition their prayers,--not by any means. Their flesh-pots are not a few, and their table is a marvel of ascetism! And why not, if their fat estates--three-quarter of the lands here is held in mortmain by the clergy--can yield anything, from silk cocoons to lime-pits? They will clothe you in silk at least; they will lime-wash your homes and sepulchres, if they cannot lime-wash anything else. Thanks to them so long as they keep some reminiscence of business in their heads to keep the Devil out of it. The monk-foreman is reading with one eye and watching with the other. "Work," cries he, "every minute wasted is stolen from the abbey. And whoso steals, look in the pit: its fire is nothing compared with Juhannam." And the argument serves its purpose. The labourers hurry hither and thither, bringing brushwood near; the first stoker pitches to the second, the second to the third, and he feeds the flaming, smoking, coruscating volcano. "_Yallah!_" (Keep it up) exclaims the monk-foreman. "Burn the devil's creed," cries one. "Burn hell," cries another. And thus jesting in earnest, mightily working and enduring, they burn the mountains into lime, they make the very rocks yield somewhat.--Strength and blessings, brothers. After the usual inquiry of whence and whither, his monkship offers the snuff-box. "No? roll you, then, a cigarette," taking out a plush pouch containing a mixture of the choicest native roots. These, we were told, are grown on the monastery's estate. We speak of the cocoon products of the season. "Beshrew the mulberries!" exclaims the monk. "We are turning all our estates into fruit orchards and orangeries. The cultivation of the silk-worm is in itself an abomination. And while its income to-day is not as much as it was ten years ago, the expenditure has risen twofold. America is ruining our agriculture; and soon, I suppose, we have to send to China for labourers. Why, those who do not emigrate demand twice as much to-day for half the work they used to do five years ago; and those who return from America strut about like country gentlemen deploring the barrenness of their native soil." And one subject leading to another, for our monk is a glib talker, we come to the cheese-makers, the goatherds. "Even these honest rustics," says he, "are becoming sophisticated (_mafsudin_). Their cheese is no longer what it was, nor is their faith. For Civilisation, passing by their huts in some shape or other, whispers in their ears something about cleverness and adulteration. And mistaking the one for the other, they abstract the butter from the milk and leave the verdigris in the utensils. This lust of gain is one of the diseases which come from Europe and America,--it is a plague which even the goatherd cannot escape. Why, do you know, wherever the cheese-monger goes these days ptomaine poison is certain to follow." "And why does not the Government interfere?" we ask. "Because the Government," replies our monk in a dry, droll air and gesture, "does not eat cheese." And the monks, we learned, do not have to buy it. For this, as well as their butter, olive oil, and wine, is made on their own estates, under their own supervision. "Yes," he resumes, placing his breviary in his pocket and taking out the snuff-box; "not long ago one who lived in these parts--a young man from Baalbek he was, and he had his booth in the pine forest yonder--bought some cheese from one of these muleteer cheese-mongers, and after he had eaten of it fell sick. It chanced that I was passing by on my way to the abbey, when he was groaning and retching beneath that pine tree. It was the first time I saw that young man, and were I not passing by I know not what would have become of him. I helped him to the abbey, where he was ministered to by our physician, and he remained with us three days. He ate of our cheese and drank of our wine, and seemed to like both very much. And ever since, while he was here, he would come to the abbey with a basket or a tray of his own make--he occupied himself in making wicker-baskets and trays--and ask in exchange some of our cheese and olive oil. He was very intelligent, this fellow; his eyes sometimes were like the mouth of this pit, full of fire and smoke. But he was queer. The clock in him was not wound right--he was always ahead or behind time, always complaining that we monks did not reckon time as he did. Nevertheless, I liked him much, and often would I bring him some of our cookery. But he never accepted anything without giving something in exchange." Unmistakable signs. "And his black turban," continues the monk, "over his long flowing hair made him look like our hermit." (Strange coincidence!) "On your way here have you not stopped to visit the hermit? Not far from the abbey, on your right hand coming here, is the Hermitage." We remember passing a pretty cottage surrounded by a vineyard in that rocky wilderness; but who would mistake that for a troglodyte's cave? "And this young man from Baalbek," we ask, "how did he live in this forest?" "Yonder," points the monk, "he cleared and cleaned for himself a little space which he made his workshop. And up in the pines he constructed a platform, which he walled and covered with boughs. And when he was not working or walking, he would be there among the branches, either singing or asleep. I used to envy him that nest in the pines." "And did he ever go to church?" "He attended mass twice in our chapel, on Good Friday and on Easter Sunday, I think." "And did he visit the abbey often?" "Only when he wanted cheese or olive oil." (Shame, O Khalid!) "But he often repaired to the Hermitage. I went with him once to listen to his conversation with the Hermit. They often disagreed, but never quarrelled. I like that young man in spite of his oddities of thought, which savoured at times of infidelity. But he is honest, believe me; never tells a lie; and in a certain sense he is as pious as our Hermit, I think. Roll another cigarette." "Thank you. And the Hermit, what is your opinion of him?" "Well, h'm--h'm--go visit him. A good man he is, but very simple. And between us, he likes money too much. H'm, h'm, go visit him. If I were not engaged at present, I would accompany you thither." We thank our good monk and retrace our steps to the Hermitage, rolling meanwhile in our mind that awful remark about the Hermit's love of money. Blindness and Plague! even the troglodyte loves and worships thee, thou silver Demiurge! We can not believe it. The grudges of monks against each other often reach darker and more fatal depths. Alas, if the faith of the cheese-monger is become adulterated, what shall we say of the faith of our monkhood? If the salt of the earth--but not to the nunnery nor to the monkery, we go. Rather let us to the Hermitage, Reader, and with an honest heart; in earnest, not in sport. CHAPTER X THE VINEYARD IN THE KAABA This, then, is the cave of our troglodyte! Allah be praised, even the hermits of the Lebanon mountains, like the prophets of America and other electric-age species, are subject to the laws of evolution. A cottage and chapel set in a vineyard, the most beautiful we have yet seen, looms up in this rocky wilderness like an oasis in a desert. For many miles around, the vicinage presents a volcanic aspect, wild, barren, howlingly dreary. At the foot of Mt. Sanneen in the east, beyond many ravines, are villages and verdure; and from the last terrace in the vineyard one overlooks the deep chasm which can boast of a rivulet in winter. But in the summer its nakedness is appalling. The sun turns its pocket inside out, so to speak, exposing its boulders, its little windrows of sands, and its dry ditches full of dead fish spawn. And the cold, rocky horizon, rising so high and near, shuts out the sea and hides from the Hermit the glory of the sundown. But we can behold its effects on Mt. Sanneen, on the clouds above us, on the glass casements in the villages far away. The mountains in the east are mantled with etherial lilac alternating with mauve; the clouds are touched with purple and gold; the casements in the distance are scintillating with mystical carbuncles: the sun is setting in the Mediterranean,--he is waving his farewell to the hills. We reach the first gate of the Hermitage; and the odour peculiar to monks and monkeries, a mixed smell of mould and incense and burning oil, greets us as we enter into a small open space in the centre of which is a Persian lilac tree. To the right is a barbed-wire fence shutting in the vineyard; directly opposite is the door of the chapel; and near it is a wicket before which stands a withered old woman. Against the wall is a stone bench where another woman is seated. As we enter, we hear her, standing at the wicket, talking to some one behind the scene. "Yes, that is the name of my husband," says she. "Allah have mercy on his soul," sighs an exiguous voice within; "pray for him, pray for him." And the woman, taking to weeping, blubbers out, "Will thirty masses do, think your Reverence?" "Yes, that will cheer his soul," replies the oracle. The old woman thereupon enters the chapel, pays the priest or serving-monk therein, one hundred piasters for thirty masses, and goes away in tears. The next woman rises to the gate. "I am the mother of--," she says. "Ah, the mother of--," repeats the exiguous voice. "How are you? (She must be an old customer.) How is your husband? How are your children? And those in America, are they well, are they prosperous? Yes, yes, your deceased son. Well, h'm--h'm--you must come again. I can not tell you anything yet. Come again next week." And she, too, visits the chapel, counts out some money to the serving-monk, and leaves the Hermitage, drying her tears. The Reader, who must have recognised the squeaking, snuffling, exiguous voice, knows not perhaps that the Hermit, in certain moments of _inkhitaf_ (abstraction, levitation) has glimpses into the spirit-world and can tell while in this otherworldliness how the Christian souls are faring, and how many masses those in Purgatory need before they can rejoin the bosom of Father Abraham. And those who seek consolation and guidance through his occult ministrations are mostly women. But the money collected for masses, let it here be said, as well as the income of the vineyard, the Hermit touches not. The monks are the owners of the occult establishment, and they know better than he what to do with the revenue. But how far this ancient religious Medium can go in the spirit-world, and how honest he might be in his otherworldliness, let those say who have experience in spookery and table-rapping. Now, the women having done and gone, the wicket is open, and the serving-monk ushers us through the dark and stivy corridor to the rear, where a few boxes marked "Made in America"--petroleum boxes, these--are offered us as seats. Before the door of the last cell are a few potsherds in which sweet basil plants are withering from thirst. Presently, the door squeaks, and one, not drooping like the plants, comes out to greet us. This is Father Abd'ul-Messiah (Servitor of the Christ), as the Hermit is called. Here, indeed, is an up-to-date hermit, not an antique troglodyte. Lean and lathy, he is, but not hungry-looking; quick of eye and gesture; quick of step, too. He seems always on the alert, as if surrounded continually with spirits. He is young, withal, or keeps so, at least, through the grace and ministration of Allah and the Virgin. His long unkempt hair and beard are innocent of a single white line. And his health? "Through my five and twenty years of seclusion," said he, "I have not known any disease, except, now and then, in the spring season, when the sap begins to flow, I am visited by Allah with chills and fever.--No; I eat but one meal a day.--Yes; I am happy, Allah be praised, quite happy, very happy." And he lifts his eyes heavenward, and sighs and rubs his hands in joyful satisfaction. To us, this Servitor of the Christ seemed not to have passed the climacteric. But truly, as he avowed, he was entering the fifth lustrum beyond it. Such are the advantages of the ascetic life, and of such ascetics the Kingdom of Heaven. A man of sixty can carry twenty years in his pocket, and seem all honesty, and youth, and health, and happiness. We then venture a question about the sack-cloth, a trace of which was seen under his tunic sleeve. And fetching a deep sigh, he gazes on the drooping sweet basils in silence. No, he likes not to speak of these mortifications of the flesh. After some meditation he tells us, however, that the sack-cloth on the first month is annoying, torturing. "But the flesh," he continues naïvely, "is inured to it, as the pile, in the course of time, is broken and softened down." And with an honest look in his eyes, he smiled and sighs his assurance. For his Reverence always punctuates his speech with these sweet sighs of joy. The serving-monk now comes to whisper a word in his ear, and we are asked to "scent the air" a while in the vineyard. This lovely patch of terrace-ground the Hermit tills and cultivates alone. And so thoroughly the work is done that hardly a stone can be seen in the soil. And so even and regular are the terrace walls that one would think they were built with line and plummet. The vines are handsomely trimmed and trellised, and here and there, to break the monotony of the rows, a fig, an apricot, an almond, or an olive, spreads its umbrageous boughs. Indeed, it is most cheering in the wilderness, most refreshing to the senses, this lovely vineyard, the loveliest we have seen. Father Abd'ul-Messiah might be a descendant of Simeon of the Pillar for all we know; but instead of perching on the top of it, he breaks it down and builds with its stones a wall of his vineyard. Here he comes with his serving-monk, and we resume the conversation under the almond tree. "You should come in the grape season to taste of my fruits," says he. "And do you like the grape?" we ask. "Yes, but I prefer to cultivate it." "Throughout the season," the serving-monk puts in, "and though the grapes be so plentiful, he tastes them not." "No?" The Hermit is silent; for, as we have said, he is reluctant in making such confessions. Virtue, once bragged about, once you pride yourself upon it, ceases to be such. In his vineyard the Hermit is most thorough, even scientific. One would think that he believed only in work. No; he does not sprinkle the vines with holy water to keep the grubs away. Herein he has sense enough to know that only in _kabrit_ (sulphur) is the phylactery which destroys the phylloxera. "And what do you do when you are not working in your vineyard or praying?" "I have always somewhat to do, always. For to be idle is to open the door for Iblis. I might walk up and down this corridor, counting the slabs therein, and consider my time well spent." Saying which he rises and points to the sky. The purple fringes of the clouds are gone to sable; the lilac tints on the mountains are waxing grey; and the sombre twilight with his torch--the evening star had risen--is following in the wake of day; 'tis the hour of prayer. But before we leave him to his devotion, we ask to be permitted to see his cell. Ah, that is against the monastic rules. We insist. And with a h'm, h'm, and a shake of the head, he rubs his hands caressingly and opens the door. Yes, the Reader shall peep into this eight by six cell, which is littered all around with rubbish, sacred and profane. In the corner is a broken stove with a broken pipe attached,--broken to let some of the smoke into the room, we are told. "For smoke," quoth the Hermit, quoting the Doctor, "destroys the microbes--and keeps the room warm after the fire goes out." In the corner opposite the stove is a little altar with the conventional icons and gewgaws and a number of prayer books lying pell-mell around. Nearby is an old pair of shoes, in which are stuck a few candles and St. Anthony's Book of Contemplations. In the corner behind the door is a large cage, a pantry, suspended middleway between the floor and ceiling, containing a few earthen pots, an oil lamp, and a jar, covered with a cloth. Between the pantry and the altar, on a hair-mat spread on the floor, sleeps his Reverence. And his bed is not so hard as you might suppose, Reader; for, to serve your curiosity, we have been rude enough to lift up a corner of the cloth, and we found underneath a substantial mattress! On the bed is his book of accounts, which, being opened, when we entered, he hastened to close. "You keep accounts, too, Reverence?" "Indeed, so. That is a duty devolved on every one with mortal memory." Let it not be supposed, however, that he has charge of the crops. In his journal he keeps the accounts of his masses? And here be evil sufficient for the day. This, then, is the inventory of Abd'ul-Messiah's cell. And we do not think we have omitted much of importance. Yes; in the fourth corner, which we have not mentioned, are three or four petroleum cans containing provisions. From one of these he brings out a handful of dried figs, from another a pinch of incense, which he gives us as a token of his love and blessing. One thing we fain would emphasise, before we conclude our account. The money part of this eremitic business need not be harshly judged; for we must bear in mind that this honest Servitor of Christ is strong enough not to have his will in the matter. And remember, too, that the abbey's bills of expenses run high. If one of the monks, therefore, is blessed with a talent for solitude and seclusion, his brother monks shall profit by it. Indeed, we were told, that the income of the Hermitage, that is, the sum total in gold of the occult and the agricultural endeavours of Abd'ul-Messiah, is enough to defray the yearly expenditures of the monkery. Further, we have nothing to say on the subject. But Khalid has. And of his lengthy lucubration on _The Uses of Solitude_, we cull the following: "Every one's life at certain times," writes he, "is either a Temple, a Hermitage, or a Vineyard: every one, in order to flee the momentary afflictions of Destiny, takes refuge either in God, or in Solitude, or in Work. And of a truth, work is the balm of the sore mind of the world. God and Solitude are luxuries which only a few among us nowadays can afford. But he who lives in the three, though his life be that of a silk larva in its cocoon, is he not individually considered a good man? Is he not a mystic, though uncreative, centre of goodness? Surely, his influence, his Me alone considered, is living and benign, and though it is not life-giving. He is a flickering taper under a bushel; and this, _billah_, were better than the pissasphaltum-souls which bushels of quackery and pretence can not hide. But alas, that a good man by nature should be so weak as to surrender himself entirely to a lot of bad men. For the monks, my brother Hermit, being a silk worm in its cocoon, will asphyxiate the larva after its work is done, and utilise the silk. Ay, after the Larva dies, they pickle and preserve it in their chapel for the benefit of those who sought its oracles in life. Let the beef-packers of America take notice; the monks of my country are in the market with 'canned hermits!' "And this Larva, be it remembered, is not subject to decay; a saint does not decompose in the flesh like mortal sinners. One of these, I have been told, dead fifty years ago and now canonised, can be seen yet in one of the monasteries of North Lebanon, keeping well his flesh and bones together--divinely embalmed. It has been truly said that the work of a good man never dies; and these leathery hermits continue in death as in life to counsel and console the Faithful. "In the past, these Larvæ, not being cultivated for the market, continued their natural course of development and issued out of their silk prisons full fledged moths. But those who cultivate them to-day are in sore need. They have masses and indulgences to sell; they have big bills to pay. But whether left to grow their wings or not, their solitude is that of a cocoon larva, narrow, stale, unprofitable to the world. While that of a philosopher, a Thoreau, for instance, might be called Nature's filter; and one, issuing therefrom benefited in every sense, morally, physically, spiritually, can be said to have been filtered through Solitude." "The study of life at a distance is inutile; the study of it at close range is defective. The only method left, therefore, and perhaps the true one, is that of the artist at his canvas. He works at his picture an hour or two, and retires a little to study and criticise it from a distance. It is impossible to withdraw entirely from life and pretend to take an interest in it. Either like my brother Hermit in these parts, a spiritual larva in its cocoon, or like a Thoreau, who during his period of seclusion, peeped every fortnight into the village to keep up at least his practice of human speech. Else what is the use of solitude? A life of fantasy, I muse, is nearer to the heart of Nature and Truth than a life in sack-cloth and ashes.... "And yet, deeply considered, this eremitic business presents another aspect. For does not the eremite through his art of prayer and devotion, seek an ideal? Is he not a transcendentalist, at least in the German sense of the word? Is not his philosophy above all the senses, as the term implies, and common sense included? For through Mother Church, and with closed eyes, he will attain the ideal, of which my German philosopher, through the logic-mill, and with eyes open, hardly gets a glimpse. "The devout and poetic souls, and though they walk among the crowd, live most of their lives in solitude. Through Mother Sorrow, or Mother Fancy, or Mother Church, they are ever seeking the ideal, which to them is otherwise unattainable. And whether a howler of Turabu or a member of the French Academy, man, in this penumbra of faith and doubt, of superstition and imagination, is much the same. 'The higher powers in us,' says Novalis, 'which one day, as Genii, shall fulfil our will, are for the present, Muses, which refresh us on our toilsome course with sweet remembrances.' And the jinn, the fairies, the angels, the muses, are as young and vivacious to-day as they were in the Arabian and Gaelic Ages of Romance. "But whether Mother Church or Poetry or Philosophy or Music be the magic-medium, the result is much the same if the motive be not religiously sincere, sincerely religious, piously pure, lofty, and humane. Ay, my Larva-Hermit, with all his bigotry and straitness of soul, stands higher than most of your artists and poets and musicians of the present day. For a life sincerely spent between the Temple and the Vineyard, between devotion and honest labour, producing to one man of all mankind some positive good, is not to be compared with the life which oscillates continuously between egoism and vanity, quackery and cowardice, selfishness and pretence, and which never rises, do what it may, above the larva state.... "Let every one cultivate with pious sincerity some such vineyard as my Hermit's and the world will not further need reform. For through all the vapour and mist of his ascetic theology, through the tortuous chasm of his eremitic logic, through the bigotry and crass superstition of his soul, I can always see the Vineyard on the one side of his cell, and the Church on the other, and say to myself: Here be a man who is never idle; here be one who loves the leisure praised by Socrates, and hates the sluggishness which Iblis decks and titivates. And if he crawls between his Church and his Vineyard, and burrows in both for a solution of life, nay, spins in both the cocoon of his ideal, he ought not to be judged from on high. Come thou near him; descend; descend a little and see: has he not a task, and though it be of the taper-under-the-bushel kind? Has he not a faith and a sincerity which in a Worm of the Earth ought to be reckoned sublime? 'If there were sorrow in heaven,' he once said to me, 'how many there would continuously lament the time they wasted in this world?' "O my Brothers, build your Temples and have your Vineyards, even though it be in the rocky wilderness." [Illustration] BOOK THE THIRD IN KULMAKAN [Illustration] TO GOD[1] _In the religious systems of mankind, I sought thee, O God, in vain; in their machine-made dogmas and theologies, I sought thee in vain; in their churches and temples and mosques, I sought thee long, and long in vain; but in the Sacred Books of the World, what have I found? A letter of thy name, O God, I have deciphered in the Vedas, another in the Zend-Avesta, another in the Bible, another in the Korân. Ay, even in the Book of the Royal Society and in the Records of the Society for Psychical Research, have I found the diacritical signs which the infant races of this Planet Earth have not yet learned to apply to the consonants of thy name. The lisping infant races of this Earth, when will they learn to pronounce thy name entire? Who shall supply the Vowels which shall unite the Gutturals of the Sacred Books? Who shall point out the dashes which compound the opposite loadstars in the various regions of thy Heaven? On the veil of the eternal mystery are palimpsests of which every race has deciphered a consonant. And through the diacritical marks which the seers and paleologists of the future shall furnish, the various dissonances in thy name shall be reduced, for the sake of the infant races of the Earth, to perfect harmony._--KHALID. ----- [1] Arabic Symbol. CHAPTER I THE DISENTANGLEMENT OF THE ME "Why this exaggerated sense of thine importance," Khalid asks himself in the K. L. MS., "when a little ptomaine in thy cheese can poison the source of thy lofty contemplations? Why this inflated conception of thy Me, when an infusion of poppy seeds might lull it to sleep, even to stupefaction? What avails thy logic when a little of the Mandragora can melt the material universe into golden, unfolding infinities of dreams? Why take thyself so seriously when a leaf of henbane, taken by mistake in thy salad, can destroy thee? But the soul is not dependent on health or disease. The soul is the source of both health and disease. And life, therefore, is either a healthy or a diseased state of the soul. "One day, when I was rolling these questions in my mind, and working on a reed basket to present to my friend the Hermit as a farewell memento, his serving-monk brings me some dried figs in a blue kerchief and says, 'My Master greets thee and prays thee come to him.' I do so the following morning, bringing with me the finished basket, and as I enter the Hermitage court, I find him repairing a stone wall in the vineyard. As he sees me, he hastens to put on his cloak that I might not remark the sack-cloth he wore, and with a pious smile of assurance and thankfulness, welcomes and embraces me, as is his wont. We sit down in the corridor before the chapel door. The odorous vapor of what was still burning in the censer within hung above us. The holy atmosphere mantled the dread silence of the place. And the slow, insinuating smell of incense, like the fumes of gunga, weighed heavy on my eyelids and seemed to brush from my memory the cobwebs of time. A drowsiness possessed me; I felt like one awaking from a dream. I asked for the water jug, which the Hermit hastened to bring. And looking through the door of the chapel, I saw on the altar a burning cresset flickering like the planet Mercury on a December morning. How often did I light such a cresset when a boy, I mused. Yes, I was an acolyte once. I swang the censer and drank deep of the incense fumes as I chanted in Syriac the service. And I remember when I made a mistake one day in reading the Epistle of Paul, the priest, who was of an irascible humour, took me by the ear and made me spell the words I could not pronounce. And the boys in the congregation tittered gleefully. In my mortification was honey for them. Such was my pride, nevertheless, such the joy I felt, when, of all the boys that gathered round the lectern at vespers, I was called upon to read in the _sinksar_ (hagiography) the Life of the Saint of the day. "I knew then that to steal, for instance, is a sin; and yet, I emptied the box of wafers every morning after mass and shared them with the very boys who laughed at my mistakes. One day, in the purest intention, I offered one of these wafers to my donkey and he would not eat it. I felt insulted, and never after did I pilfer a wafer. Now, as I muse on these sallies of boyish waywardness I am impressed with the idea that the certainty and daring of Ignorance, or might I say Innocence, are great. Indeed, to the pure everything is pure. But strange to relate that as I sat in the corridor of the Hermitage and saw the light flickering on the altar, I hankered for a wafer, and was tempted to go into the chapel and filch one. What prevented me? Alas, knowledge makes sceptics and cowards of us all. And the pursuit of knowledge, according to my Hermit, nay, the noblest pursuit, even the serving of God, ceases to be a virtue the moment we begin to enjoy it. "'It is necessary to conquer, not only our instincts,' he continued, 'but our intellectual and our spiritual passions as well. To force our will in the obedience of a higher will, to leave behind all our mundane desires in the pursuit of the one great desire, herein lies the essence of true virtue. St. Anthony would snatch his hours of devotion from the Devil. Even prayer to him was a struggle, an effort not to feel the joy of it. Yes, we must always disobey our impulses, and resist the tyranny of our desires. When I have a strong desire to pray, I go out into the vineyard and work. When I begin to enjoy my work in the vineyard, I cease to do it well. Therefore, I take up my breviary. Do that which you must not do, when you are suffering, and you will not want to do it again, when you are happy. The other day, one who visited the Hermitage, spoke to me of you, O Khalid. He said you were what is called an anarchist. And after explaining to me what is meant by this--I never heard of such a religion before--I discovered to my surprise that I, too, am an anarchist. But there is this difference between us: I obey only God and the authority of God, and you obey your instincts and what is called the authority of reason. Yours, O Khalid, is a narrow conception of anarchy. In truth, you should try to be an anarchist like me: subordinate your personality, your will and mind and soul, to a higher will and intelligence, and resist with all your power everything else. Why do you not come to the Hermitage for a few days and make me your confessor?' "'I do not confess in private, and I can not sleep within doors.' "'You do not have to do so; the booth under the almond tree is at your disposal. Come for a spiritual exercise of one week only.' "'I have been going through such an exercise for a year, and soon I shall leave my cloister in the pines.' "'What say you? You are leaving our neighbourhood? No, no; remain here, O Khalid. Come, live with me in the Hermitage. Come back to Mother Church; return not to the wicked world. O Khalid, we must inherit the Kingdom of Allah, and we can not do so by being anarchist like the prowlers of the forest. Meditate on the insignificance and evanescence of human life.' "'But it lies within us, O my Brother, to make it significant and eternal.' "'Yes, truly, in the bosom of Mother Church. Come back to your Mother--come to the Hermitage--let us pass this life together.' "'And what will you do, if in the end you discover that I am in the right?' "Here he paused a moment, and, casting on me a benignant glance, makes this reply: 'Then, I will rejoice, rejoice,' he gasped; 'for we shall both be in the right. You will become an anarchist like me and not against the wretched authorities of the world, but against your real enemies, Instinct and Reason.' "And thus, now and then, he would salt his argument with a pinch of casuistic wit. Once he was hard set, and, to escape the alternatives of the situation, he condescended to tell me the story of his first and only love. "'In my youth,' said the Hermit, 'I was a shoemaker, and not a little fastidious as a craftsman. In fact, I am, and always have been, an extremist, a purist. I can not tolerate the cobblings of life. Either do your work skilfully, devotedly, earnestly, or do it not. So, as a shoemaker, I succeeded very well. Truth to tell, my work was as good, as neat, as elegant as that of the best craftsman in Beirut. And you know, Beirut is noted for its shoemakers. Yes, I was successful as any of them, and I counted among my customers the bishop of the diocese himself. One day, forgive me, Allah! a young girl, the daughter of a peasant neighbour, comes into the shop to order a pair of shoes. In taking the measure of her foot--but I must not linger on these details. A shoemaker can not fail to notice the shape of his customer's foot. Well, I measured, too, her ankle--ah, forgive me, Allah! "'In brief, when the shoes were finished--I spent a whole day in the finishing touches--I made her a present of them. And she, in recognition of my favor, made a plush tobacco bag, on which my name was worked in gold threads, and sent it to me, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, with her brother. Now, that is the opening chapter. I will abruptly come to the last, skipping the intermediate parts, for they are too silly, all of them. I will only say that I was as earnest, as sincere, as devoted in this affair of love as I was in my craft. Of a truth, I was mad about both. "'Now the closing chapter. One day I went to see her--we were engaged--and found she had gone to the spring for water. I follow her there and find her talking to a young man, a shoemaker like myself. No, he was but a cobbler. On the following day, going again to see her, I find this cobbler there. I remonstrate with her, but in vain. And what is worse, she had sent to him the shoes I made, to be repaired. He was patching my own work! I swallowed my ire and went back to my shop. A week later, to be brief, I went there again, and what I beheld made my body shiver. She, the wench. Forgive me, Allah! had her hands around his neck and her lips--yes, her lying lips, on his cheek! No, no; even then I did not utter a word. I could but cry in the depth of my heart. How can woman be so faithless, so treacherous--in my heart I cried. "'It was a terrible shock; and from it I lay in bed for days with chills and fever. Now, when I recovered, I was determined on pursuing a new course of life. No longer would I measure women's feet. I sold my stock, closed my shop, and entered the monastery. I heard afterwards that she married that young cobbler; emigrated with him to America; deserted him there; returned to her native village; married again, and fled with her second husband to South Africa. Allah be praised! even He appreciates the difference between a shoemaker and a cobbler; and the bad woman He gives to the bad craftsman. That is why I say, Never be a cobbler, whatever you do. "'But in the monastery--draw near, I will speak freely--in the monastery, too, there are cobblers and shoemakers. There, too, is much ungodliness, much treachery, much cobbling. Ah me, I must not speak thus. Forgive me, Allah! But I promised to tell you the whole story. Therefore, I will speak freely. After passing some years in the monastery, years of probation and grief they were, I fell sick with a virulent fever. The abbot, seeing that there was little chance of my recovery, would not send for the physician. And so, I languished for weeks, suffering from thirst and burning pains and hunger. I raved and chattered in my delirium. I betrayed myself, too, they told me. The monks my brothers, even during my suffering, made a scandal of the love affair I related. They said that I exposed my wounds and my broken heart before the Virgin, that I sinned in thought and word on my death-bed. Allah forgive them. It may be, however; for I know not what I said and what I did. But when I recovered, I was determined not to remain in the monastery, and not to return to the world. The wicked world, I disentangled myself absolutely from its poisoned meshes. I came to the Hermitage, to this place. And never, since I made my second remove until now, have I known disease, or sorrow, nor treachery, which is worse than both. Allah be praised! One's people, one's brothers, one's lovers and friends, are a hindrance and botheration. We are nothing, nothing: God is everything. God is the only reality. And in God alone is my refuge. That is my story in brief. If I did not like you, I would not have told it, and so freely. Meditate upon it, and on the insignificance and evanescence of human life. The world is a snare, and a bad snare, at that. For it can not hold us long enough in it to learn to like it. It is a cobbler's snare. The world is full of cobblers, O Khalid. Come away from it; be an ideal craftsman--be an extremist--be a purist--come live with me. Let us join our souls in devotion, and our hearts in love. Come, let us till and cultivate this vineyard together.' "And taking me by the hand, he shows me a cell furnished with a hair-mat, a _masnad_ (leaning pillow), and a chair. 'This cell,' says he, 'was occupied by the Bishop when he came here for a spiritual exercise of three weeks. It shall be yours if you come; it's the best cell in the Hermitage. Now, let us visit the chapel.' I go in with him, and as we are coming out, I ask him child-like for a wafer. He brings the box straightway, begs me to take as much as I desire, and placing his hand on my shoulder, encircles me with one of his benignant glances, saying, 'Allah illumine thy heart, O Khalid.' 'Allah hear thy prayer,' I reply. And we part in tears." Here Khalid bursts in ecstasy about the higher spiritual kingdom, and chops a little logic about the I and the not-I, the Reality and the non-Reality.--"God," says the Hermit. "Thought," says the Idealist, "that is the only Reality." And what is Thought, and what is God, and what is Matter, and what is Spirit? They are the mysterious vessels of Life, which are always being filled by Love and emptied by Logic. "The external world," says the Materialist--"Does not exist," says the Idealist. "'Tis immaterial if it does or not," says the Hermit. And what if the three are wrong? The Universe, knowable and unknowable, will it be affected a whit by it? If the German Professor's Chair of Logic and Philosophy were set up in the Hermitage, would anything be gained or lost? Let the _I_ deny the stars, and they will nevertheless roll in silence above it. Let the not-I crush this I, this "thinking reed," and the higher universal I, rising above the stars and flooding the sidereal heavens with light, will warm, remold, and regenerate the world. "I can conceive of a power," writes Khalid in that vexing Manuscript, "which can create a beautiful parti-colored sun-flower of the shattered fragments of Idealism, Materialism, and my Hermit's theology. Why not, if in the New World--" And here, of a sudden, to surprise and bewilder us, he drags in Mrs. Eddy and the Prophet Dowie yoked under the yoke of Whitman. He marks the _Key to Scripture_ with blades from _Leaves of Grass_, and such fuel as he gathers from both, he lights with an ember borrowed from the chariot to Elijah. And thus, for ten whole pages, beating continually, now in the dark of Metaphysics, now in the dusk of Science; losing himself in the tangled bushes of English Materialism, and German Mysticism, and Arabic Sufism; calling now to Berkeley, now to Hackel; meeting with Spencer here, with Al-Gazzaly there; and endeavoring to extricate himself in the end with some such efforts as "the Natural being Negativity, the Spiritual must be the opposite of that, and both united in God form the Absolute," etc., etc. But we shall not give ourselves further pain in laying before the English reader the like heavy and unwieldy lumber. Whoever relishes such stuff, and can digest it, need not apply to Khalid; for, in this case, he is but a poor third-hand caterer. Better go to the Manufacturers direct; they are within reach of every one in this Age of Machinery and Popular Editions. But there are passages here, of which Khalid can say, 'The Mortar at least is mine.' And in this Mortar he mixes and titrates with his Neighbour's Pestle some of his fantasy and insight. Of these we offer a sample: "I say with psychologists, as the organism, so is the personality. The revelation of the Me is perfect in proportion to the sound state of the Medium. But according to the Arabic proverb, the jar oozes of its contents. If these be of a putridinous mixture, therefore, no matter how sound the jar, the ooze is not going to smell of ambergris and musk. So, it all depends on the contents with which the Potter fills his jugs and pipkins, I assure you. And if the contents are good and the jar is sound, we get such excellence of soul as is rare among mortals. If the contents are excellent and the jar is cracked, the objective influence will then predominate, and putrescence, soon or late, will set in. Now, the Me in the majority of mankind comes to this world in a cracked pipkin, and it oozes out entirely as soon as it liquifies in youth. The pipkin, therefore, goes through life empty and cracked, ever sounding flat and false. While in others the Me is enclosed in a sealed straw-covered flask and can only be awakened by either evaporation or decapitation, in other words, by a spiritual revolution. And in the very few among mortals, it emerges out of the iron calyx of a flower of red-hot steel, or flows from the transparent, odoriferous bosom of a rose of light. In the first we have a Cæsar, an Alexander, a Napoleon; in the second, a Buddha, a Socrates, a Christ. "But consider that Science, in the course of psychological analysis, speaks of Christ, Napoleon, and Shakespeare, as patients. Such exalted states of the soul, such activity of the mind, such exuberance of spiritual strength, are but the results of the transformation of the Me in the subject, we are told, and this transformation has its roots in the organism. But why, I ask, should there be such a gulf between individuals, such a difference in their Mes, when a difference in the organism is a trifle in comparison? How account for the ebb and flow in the souls, or let us say, in the expression of the individualities, of Mohammad the Prophet, for instance, and Mohammad the camel-herd? And why is it in psychological states that are similar, the consciousness of the one is like a mountain peak, so to speak, and that of the other like a cave? "A soldier is severely wounded in battle and a change takes place in his nervous organism, by reason of which he loses his organic consciousness; or, to speak in the phraseology of the psychologist, he loses the sense of his own body, of his physical personality. The cause of this change is probably the wound received; but the nature of the change can be explained only by hypotheses, which are become matters of choice and taste--and sometimes of personal interest among scientists. Now, when the question is resolved by hypothesis, is not even a layman free to offer one? If I say the Glass is shattered and the Me within is sadly reflected, or in a more tragic instance the light of the Me runs out, would I not be offering thee a solution as dear and tenable as that of the professor of psychology?" CHAPTER II THE VOICE OF THE DAWN Breathless but scathless, we emerge from the mazes of metaphysics and psychology where man and the soul are ever playing hide-and-seek; and where Khalid was pleased to display a little of his killing skill in fencing. To those mazes, we promise the Reader, we shall not return again. In our present sojourn, however, it is necessary to go through the swamps and Jordans as well as the mountains and plains. Otherwise, we would not have lingered a breathing while in the lowlands of mystery. But now we know how far Khalid went in seeking health, and how deep in seeking the Me, which he would disentangle from the meshes of philosophy and anchoretism, and bring back to life, triumphant, loving, joyous, free. And how far he succeeded in this, we shall soon know. On the morning of his last day in the pines, meanwhile, we behold him in the chariot of Apollo serenading the stars. He no longer would thrust a poker down his windpipe; for he breathes as freely as the mountain bears and chirps as joyously as the swallows. And his lungs? The lungs of the pines are not as sound. And his eyes? Well, he can gaze at the rising sun without adverting the head or squinting or shedding a tear. Now, as a sign of this healthy state of body and mind, and his healthier resolve to return to the world, to live opposite his friend the Hermit on the other antipode of life, and furthermore, as a relief from the exhausting tortuosities of thought in the last Chapter, we give here a piece of description notably symbolical. * * * * * "I slept very early last night; the lights in the chapel of the abbey were still flickering, and the monks were chanting the complines. The mellow music of a drizzle seemed to respond sombrely to the melancholy echo of the choir. About midnight the rain beat heavily on the pine roof of the forest, and the thunder must have struck very near, between me and the monks. But rising very early this morning to commune for the last time with the pensive silence of dawn in the pines, I am greeted, as I peep out of my booth, by a knot of ogling stars. But where is the opaque breath of the storm, where are the clouds? None seem to hang on the horizon, and the sky is as limpid and clear as the dawn of a new life. Glorious, this interval between night and dawn. Delicious, the flavour of the forest after a storm. Intoxicating, the odours of the earth, refreshed and satisfied. Divine, the whispers of the morning air, divine! "But where is the rain, and where are the thunderbolts of last night? The forest and the atmosphere retain but the sweet and scented memories of their storming passion. Such a December morning in these mountain heights is a marvel of enduring freshness and ardour. All round one gets a vivid illusion of Spring. The soft breezes caressing the pines shake from their boughs the only evidence of last night's storm. And these are more like the dew of Summer than the lees of the copious tears of parting Autumn. A glorious morning, too glorious to be enjoyed by a solitary soul. But near the rivulet yonder stands a fox sniffing the morning air. Welcome, my friend. Welcome to my coffee, too. "I gather my mulberry sticks, kindle them with a handful of dried pine needles, roast my coffee beans, and grind them while the water boils in the pot. In half an hour I am qualified to go about my business. The cups and coffee utensils I wash and restore to the chest--and what else have I to do to-day? Pack up? Allah be praised, I have little packing to do. I would pack up, if I could, a ton of the pine air and the forest perfume, a strip of this limpid sky, and a cluster of those stars. Never at such an hour and in this season of the year did I enjoy such transporting limpidity in the atmosphere and such reassuring expansiveness on the horizon. Why, even the stars, the constellations, and the planets, are all here to enjoy this with me. Not one of them, I think, is absent. "The mountains are lost in the heavens. They are seeking, as it were, the sisters of the little flowers sleeping at their feet. The moon, resembling a crushed orange, is sinking in the Mediterranean. The outlines of earth and sky all round are vague, indistinct. Were not the sky so clear and the atmosphere so rare, thus affording the planets and the constellations to shed their modicum of light, the dusk of this hour would have deprived the scene of much of its pensive beauty of colour and shade. But there is Pegasus, Andromeda, Aldebaran, not to mention Venus and Jupiter and Saturn,--these alone can conquer the right wing of darkness. And there is Mercury, like a lighted cresset shaken by the winds, flapping his violet wings above the Northeastern horizon; and Mars, like a piece of gold held out by the trembling hand of a miser, is sinking in the blue of the sea with Neptune; the Pleiades are stepping on the trail of the blushing moon; the Balance lingers behind to weigh the destinies of the heroes who are to contend with the dawn; while Venus, peeping from her tower over Mt. Sanneen, is sending love vibrations to all. I would tell thee more if I knew. But I swear to thee I never read through the hornbook of the heavens. But if I can not name and locate more of the stars, I can tell thee this about them all: they are the embers of certainty eternally glowing in the ashes of doubt. "The Eastern horizon is yet lost in the dusk; the false dawn is spreading the figments of its illusion; the trees in the distance seem like rain-clouds; and the amorphous shadows of the monasteries on the mountain heights and hilltops all around, have not yet developed into silhouettes. Everything, except the river in the wadi below, is yet asleep. Not even the swallows are astir. Ah, but my neighbour yonder is; the light in the loophole of his hut sends a struggling ray through the mulberries, and the tintinnabulations of his daughter's loom are like so many stones thrown into this sleeping pond of silence. The loom-girl in these parts is never too early at her harness and shuttle. I know a family here whose loom and spinning wheel are never idle: the wife works at the loom in the day and her boy at the wheel; while in the night, her husband and his old mother keep up the game. And this hardly secures for them their flour and lentils the year round. But I concern not myself now with questions of economy. "There, another of my neighbours is awake; and the hinges of his door, shrieking terribly, fiendishly, startle the swallows from their sleep. And here are the muleteers, yodling, as they pass by, their 'Dhome, Dhome, Dhome, O mother, he is come; Hide me, hide me quickly, And say I am not home.' "Lo, the horizon is disentangling itself from the meshes of darkness. The dust of haze and dusk on the scalloped edges of the mountains, is blown away by the first breath of dawn. The lighter grey of the horizon is mirrored in the clearer blue of the sea. But the darkness seems to gather on the breast of the sloping hills. Conquered on the heights, it retreats into the wadi. Ay, the darkest hour is nearest the dawn. "Now the light grey is become a lavender; the outlines of earth and sky are become more distinct; the mountain peaks, the dusky veil being rent, are separating themselves from the heaven's embrace; the trees in the distance no longer seem like rain-clouds; and the silhouettes of the monasteries are casting off the cloak of night. The lavender is melting now into heliotrope, and the heliotrope is bursting here and there in pink; the stars are waning, the constellations are dying out, and the planets are following in their wake. The darkness, too, which has not yet retreated from the wadi, must soon follow; for the front guard of the dawn is near. Behold the shimmer of their steel! And see, in the dust of the retreating darkness, the ochre veins of the lime cliffs are now perceptible. And that huge pillar, which looked like the standard-bearer of Night, is transformed into a belfry; and a monk can be seen peeping through the ogive beneath it. Mt. Sanneen, its black and ochre scales thrown in relief on a coat of grey, is like a huge panther sleeping over the many-throated ravine of Kisrawan. Ah, the pink flower of dawn is bursting in golden glory, thrilling in orange and saffron, flaming with the ardency of love and hope. The dawn! The glow and glamour of the Eastern dawn!... * * * * * "The dawn of a new life, of a better, purer, healthier, higher spiritual kingdom. I would have its temples and those of the vast empire of wealth and material well-being, stand side by side. Ay, I would even rear an altar to the Soul in the temple of Materialism, and an altar to Materialism in the temple of the Soul. Each shall have its due, each shall glory in the sacred purity and strength of life; each shall develop and expand, but never at the expense of the other. I will have neither the renunciation which ends in a kind of idiocy dignified with a philosophic or a theologic name, nor the worldliness which ends in bestiality. I am a citizen of two worlds--a citizen of the Universe; I owe allegiance to two kingdoms. In my heart are those stars and that sun, and the LIGHT of those stars and that sun. "Yes, I am equally devoted both to the material and the spiritual. And when the two in me are opposed to each other, conflicting, inimical, obdurate, my attitude towards them is neither that of my friend the Hermit nor that of my European superman. I sit down, shut my eyes, compose myself, and concentrate my mind on the mobility of things. If the clouds are moving, why, I have but to sit down and let them move away. I let my No-will, in this case, dominate my will, and that serves my purpose well. To be sure, every question tormenting us would resolve itself favourably, or at least indifferently, if we did not always rush in, wildly, madly, and arrogate to ourselves such claims of authority and knowledge as would make Olympus shake with laughter. The resignation and passiveness of the spirit should always alternate equitably with the terrible strivings of the will. For the dervish who whirls himself into a foaming ecstasy of devotion and the strenuous American who works himself up to a sweating ecstasy of gain, are the two poles of the same absurdity, the two ends of one evil. Indeed, to my way of thinking, the man on the Stock Exchange and the demagogue on the stump, for instance, are brothers to the blatant corybant." CHAPTER III THE SELF ECSTATIC To graft the strenuosity of Europe and America upon the ease of the Orient, the materialism of the West upon the spirituality of the East,--this to us seems to be the principal aim of Khalid. But often in his wanderings and divagations of thought does he give us fresh proof of the truism that no two opposing elements meet and fuse without both losing their original identity. You may place the bit of contentment in the mouth of ambition, so to speak, and jog along in your sterile course between the vast wheat fields groaning under the thousand-toothed plough and the gardens of delight swooning with devotion and sensuality. But cross ambition with contentment and you get the hinny of indifference or the monster of fatalism. We do not say that indifference at certain passes of life, and certain stages, is not healthy, and fatalism not powerful; but both we believe are factors as potent in commerce and trade as pertinacity and calculation. "But is there not room in the garden of delight for a wheat field?" asks Khalid. "Can we not apply the bow to the telegraph wires of the world and make them the vehicle of music as of stock quotations? Can we not simplify life as we are simplifying the machinery of industry? Can we not consecrate its Temple to the Trinity of Devotion, Art, and Work, or Religion, Romance, and Trade?" This seems to be the gist of Khalid's gospel. This, through the labyrinths of doubt and contradiction, is the pinnacle of faith he would reach. And often in this labyrinthic gloom, where a gleam of light from some recess of thought or fancy reveals here a Hermit in his cloister, there an Artist in his studio, below a Nawab in his orgies, above a Broker on the Stock Exchange, we have paused to ask a question about these glaring contrarieties in his life and thought. And always would he make this reply: "I have frequently moved and removed between extremes; I have often worked and slept in opposing camps. So, do not expect from me anything like the consistency with which the majority of mankind solder and shape their life. Deep thought seems often, if not always, inconsistent at the first blush. The intensity and passiveness of the spirit are as natural in their attraction and repulsion as the elements, whose harmony is only patent on the surface. Consistency is superficial, narrow, one-sided. I am both ambitious, therefore, and contented. My ambition is that of the earth, the ever producing and resuscitating earth, doing the will of God, combatting the rasure of time; and my contentment is that of the majestic pines, faring alike in shade and sunshine, in calm and storm, in winter as in spring. Ambition and Contentment are the night and day of my life-journey. The day makes room for the fruits of solacement which the night brings; and the night gives a cup of the cordial of contentment to make good the promise of day to day. "Ay, while sweating in the tortuous path, I never cease to cherish the feeling in which I was nourished; the West for me means ambition, the East, contentment: my heart is ever in the one, my soul, in the other. And I care not for the freedom which does not free both; I seek not the welfare of the one without the other. But unlike my Phoenician ancestors, the spiritual with me shall not be limited by the natural; it shall go far above it, beyond or below it, saturating, sustaining, purifying what in external nature is but a symbol of the invisible. Nor is my idea of the spiritual developed in opposition to nature, and in a manner inimical to its laws and claims, as in Judaism and Christianity. "The spiritual and natural are so united, so inextricably entwined around each other, that I can not conceive of them separately, independently. And both in the abstract sense are purportless and ineffectual without Consciousness. They are blind, dumb forces, beautiful, barbaric pageants, careering without aim or design through the immensities of No-where and No-time, if they are not impregnated and nourished with Thought, that is to say, with Consciousness, vitalised and purified. You may impregnate them with philosophy, nourish them with art; they both emanate from them, and remain as skidding clouds, as shining mirages, as wandering dust, until they find their exponent in Man. "I tell thee then that Man, that is to say Consciousness, vitalised and purified, in other words Thought--that alone is real and eternal. And Man is supreme, only when he is the proper exponent of Nature, and spirit, and God: the three divine sources from which he issues, in which he is sustained, and to which he must return. Nature and the spiritual, without this embodied intelligence, this somatic being, called man or angel or ape, are as ermine on a wax figure. The human factor, the exponent intelligence, the intellective and sensuous faculties, these, my Brothers, are whole, sublime, holy, only when, in a state of continuous expansion, the harmony among themselves and the affirmative ties between them and Nature, are perfect and pure. No, the spiritual ought not and can not be free from the sensuous, even the sensual. The true life, the full life, the life, pure, robust, sublime, is that in which all the nobler and higher aspirations of the soul AND THE BODY are given free and unlimited scope, with the view of developing the divine strain in Man, and realising to some extent the romantic as well as the material hopes of the race. God, Nature, Spirit, Passion--Passion, Spirit, Nature, God--in some such panorama would I paint the life of a highly developed being. Any of these elements lacking, and the life is wanting, defective, impure. "I have no faith in men who were conceived in a perfunctory manner, on a pragmatical system, so to speak; the wife receiving her husband in bed as she would a tedious guest at an afternoon tea. Only two flames uniting produce a third; but a flame and a name, or a flame and a spunge, produce a hiff and nothing. Oh, that the children of the race are all born phoenix-like in the fire of noble and sacred passion, in the purgatory, as it were, of Love. What a race, what a race we should have. What men, what women! Yes, that is how the children of the earth should be conceived, not on a pragmatical system, in an I-don't-care-about-the-issue manner. I believe in evoking the spirit, in dreaming a little about the gods of Olympus, and a little, too, about the gods of the abysmal depths, before the bodily communion. And in earnest, O my Brother, let us do this, despite what old Socrates says about the propriety and wisdom of approaching your wife with prudence and gravity...." And thus, if we did not often halloo, Khalid, like a huntsman pursuing his game, would lose himself in the pathless, lugubrious damp of the forest. If we did not prevent him at times, holding firmly to his coat-tail, he would desperately pursue the ghost of his thoughts even on such precipitous paths to those very depths in which Socrates and Montaigne always felt at home. But he, a feverish, clamorous, obstreperous stripling of a Beduin, what chance has he in extricating his barbaric instincts from such thorny hedges of philosophy? And had he not quoted Socrates in that last paragraph, it would have been expunged. No, we are not utterly lost to the fine sense of propriety of this chaste and demure age. But no matter how etiolated and sickly the thought, it regains its colour and health when it breathes the literary air. Prudery can not but relish the tang of lubricity when flavoured with the classical. Moreover, if Socrates and Montaigne speak freely of these midnight matters, why not Khalid, if he has anything new to say, any good advice to offer. But how good and how new are his views let the Reader judge. 'Tis very well to speak "of evoking the spirit before the bodily communion," but those who can boast of a deeper experience in such matters will find in Socrates' dictum, quoted by Montaigne, the very gist of reason and wisdom. Those wise ones were as far-sighted as they were far gone. And moderation, as it was justly said once, is the respiration of the philosopher. But Khalid, though always invoking the distant luminary of transcendentalism for light, can not arrogate to himself this high title. The expansion of all the faculties, and the reduction of the demands of society and the individual to the lowest term;--this, as we understand it, is the aim of transcendentalism. And Khalid's distance from the orbit of this grand luminary seems to vary with his moods; and these vary with the librations and revolutions of the moon. Hallucinated, moonstruck Khalid, your harmonising and affinitative efforts do not always succeed. That is our opinion of the matter. And the Reader, who is no respecter of editors, might quarrel with it, for all we know. Only by standing firmly in the centre can one preserve the equilibrium of one's thoughts. But Khalid seldom speaks of equilibrium: he cares not how he fares in falling on either side of the fence, so he knows what lies behind. Howbeit, we can not conceive of how the affinity of the mind and soul with the senses, and the harmony between these and nature, are possible, if not exteriorised in that very superman whom Khalid so much dreads, and on whom he often casts a lingering glance of admiration. So there you are. We must either rise to a higher consciousness on the ruins of a lower one, of no-consciousness, rather, or go on seeming and simulating, aspiring, perspiring, and suffering, until our turn comes. Death denies no one. Meanwhile, Khalid's rhapsodies on his way back to the city, we shall heed and try to echo. * * * * * "On the high road of the universal spirit," he sings, "the world, the whole world before me, thrilling and radiating, chanting of freedom, faith, hope, health and power, and joy. Back to the City, O Khalid,--the City where Truth, and Faith, and Honesty, and Wisdom, are ever suffering, ever struggling, ever triumphing. No, it matters not with me if the spirit of intelligence and power, of freedom and culture, which must go the rounds of the earth, is always dominated by the instinct of self-interest. That must be; that is inevitable. But the instinct of self-interest, O my Brother, goes with the flesh; the body-politic dies; nations rise and fall; and the eternal Spirit, the progenitor of all ideals, passes to better or worse hands, still chastening and strengthening itself in the process. "The Orient and Occident, the male and female of the Spirit, the two great streams in which the body and soul of man are refreshed, invigorated, purified--of both I sing, in both I glory, to both I consecrate my life, for both I shall work and suffer and die. My Brothers, the most highly developed being is neither European nor Oriental; but rather he who partakes of the finer qualities of both the European genius and the Asiatic prophet. "Give me, ye mighty nations of the West, the material comforts of life; and thou, my East, let me partake of thy spiritual heritage. Give me, America, thy hand; and thou, too, Asia. Thou land of origination, where Light and Spirit first arose, disdain not the gifts which the nations of the West bring thee; and thou land of organisation and power, where Science and Freedom reign supreme, disdain not the bounties of the sunrise. "If the discoveries and attainments of Science will make the body of man cleaner, healthier, stronger, happier, the inexhaustible Oriental source of romantic and spiritual beauty will never cease to give the soul of man the restfulness and solacement it is ever craving. And remember, Europa, remember, Asia, that foreign culture is as necessary to the spirit of a nation as is foreign commerce to its industries. Elsewise, thy materialism, Europa, or thy spiritualism, Asia, no matter how trenchant and impregnable, no matter how deep the foundation, how broad the superstructure thereof, is vulgar, narrow, mean--is nothing, in a word, but parochialism. "I swear that neither religious nor industrial slavery shall forever hold the world in political servitude. No; the world shall be free of the authority, absolute, blind, tyrannical, of both the Captains of Industry and the High Priests of the Temple. And who shall help to free it? Science alone can not do it; Science and Faith must do it. "I say with thee, O Goethe, 'Light, more light!' I say with thee, O Tolstoi, 'Love, more love!' I say with thee, O Ibsen, 'Will, more will!' Light, Love, and Will--the one is as necessary as the other; the one is dangerous without the others. Light, Love, and Will, are the three eternal, vital sources of the higher, truer, purer cosmic life. "Light, Love, and Will--with corals and pearls from their seas would I crown thee, O my City. In these streams would I baptise thy children, O my City. The mind, and the heart, and the soul of man I would baptise in this mountain lake, this high Jordan of Truth, on the flourishing and odoriferous banks of Science and Religion, under the sacred _sidr_ of Reason and Faith. "Ay, in the Lakes of Light, Love, and Will, I would baptise all mankind. For in this alone is power and glory, O my European Brothers; in this alone is faith and joy, O my Brothers of Asia. "The Hudson, the Mississippi, the Amazon, the Thames, the Seine, the Rhine, the Danube, the Euphrates, the Ganges--every one of these great streams shall be such a Jordan in the future. In every one of them shall flow the confluent Rivers of Light, Love, and Will. In every one of them shall sail the barks of the higher aspirations and hopes of mankind. "I come now to be baptised, O my City. I come to slake my thirst in thy Jordan. I come to launch my little skiff, to do my little work, to pay my little debt. "In thy public-squares, O my City, I would raise monuments to Nature; in thy theatres to Poesy and Thought; in thy bazaars to Art; in thy homes, to Health; in thy temples of worship, to universal Goodwill; in thy courts, to Power and Mercy; in thy schools, to Simplicity; in thy hospitals, to Faith; and in thy public-halls to Freedom and Culture. And all these, without Light, Love, and Will, are but hollow affairs, high-sounding inanities. Without Light, Love, and Will, even thy Nabobs in the end shall curse thee; and with these, thy hammals under their burdens shall thank the heavens under which thy domes and turrets and minarets arise." CHAPTER IV ON THE OPEN HIGHWAY And Khalid, packing his few worldly belongings in one of his reed baskets, gives the rest to his neighbours, leaves his booth in the pines to the swallows, and bids the monks and his friend the Hermit farewell. The joy of the wayfaring! Now, where is the jubbah, the black jubbah of coarse wool, which we bought from one of the monks? He wraps himself in it, tightens well his shoe-strings, draws his fur cap over his ears, carries his basket on his back, takes up his staff, lights his cigarette, and resolutely sets forth. The joy of the wayfaring! We accompany him on the open highway, through the rocky wilderness, down to the fertile plains, back to the city. For the account he gives us of his journey enables us to fill up the lacuna in Shakib's _Histoire Intime_, before we can have recourse to it again. "From the cliffs 'neath which the lily blooms," he muses as he issues out of the forest and reaches the top of the mountain, "to the cliffs round which the eagles flit,--what a glorious promontory! What a contrast at this height, in this immensity, between the arid rocky haunts of the mountain bear and eagle and the spreading, vivifying verdure surrounding the haunts of man. On one side are the sylvan valleys, the thick grown ravines, the meandering rivulets, the fertile plains, the silent villages, and on the distant horizon, the sea, rising like a blue wall, standing like a stage scene; on the other, a howling immensity of boulders and prickly shrubs and plants, an arid wilderness--the haunt of the eagle, the mountain bear, and the goatherd. One step in this direction, and the entire panorama of verdant hills and valleys is lost to view. Its spreading, riant beauty is hidden behind that little cliff. I penetrate through this forest of rocks, where the brigands, I am told, lie in ambush for the caravans traveling between the valley of the Leontes and the villages of the lowland. But the brigands can not harm a dervish; my penury is my amulet--my salvation. "The horizon, as I proceed, shrinks to a distance of ten minutes' walk across. And thus, from one circle of rocks to another, I pass through ten of them before I hear again the friendly voice of the rill, and behold again the comforting countenance of the sylvan slopes. I reach a little grove of slender poplars, under the brow of a little hill, from which issues a little limpid stream and runs gurgling through the little ferns and bushes down the heath. I swing from the road and follow this gentle rill; I can not find a better companion now. But the wanton lures me to a village far from the road on the other side of the gorge. Now, I must either retrace my steps to get to it by a long detour, or cross the gorge, descending to the deep bottom and ascending in a tangled and tortuous path to reach the main road on the breast of the opposite escarpment. Here is a short-cut which is long and weary. It lures me as the stream; it cheats me with a name. And when I am again on the open road, I look back with a sigh of relief on the dangers I had passed. I can forgive the luring rill, which still smiles to me innocently from afar, but not the deluding, ensnaring ravine. The muleteer who saw me struggling through the tangled bushes up the pathless, hopeless steep, assures me that my mother is a pious woman, else I would have slipped and gone into an hundred pieces among the rocks below. 'Her prayers have saved thee,' quoth he; 'thank thy God.' "And walking together a pace, he points to the dizzy precipice around which I climbed and adds: 'Thou seest that rock? I hallooed to thee when thou wert creeping around it, but thou didst not hear me. From that same rock a woodman fell last week, and, falling, looked like a potted bird. He must have died before he reached the ground. His bones are scattered among those rocks. Thank thy God and thy mother. Her prayers have saved thee.' "My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its régime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of archæologists. Let the Pères Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me naïvely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the façade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the archæologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Archæology for archæology's sake is pardonable; archæology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and archæology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of the District. Entering the gate, near which is a chapel consecrated to Our Lady of that name, where litigants, when they can not prove their claims, are made to swear to them, we pass through a court between rows of Persian lilac trees, into a dark, stivy arcade on both sides of which are dark, stivy cells used as stables. Reaching the citadel proper, we mount a high stairway to the loft occupied by the mudir. This, too, is partitioned, but with cotton sheeting, into various apartments. "The zabtie, in zouave uniform, at the door, would have me wait standing in the corridor outside; for his Excellency is at dinner. And Excellency, as affable as his zabtie, hearing the parley without, growls behind the scene and orders me gruffly to go to the court. 'This is not the place to make a complaint,' he adds. But the stranger at thy door, O gracious Excellency, complains not against any one in this world; and if he did, assure thee, he would not complain to the authorities of this world. This, or some such plainness of distemper, the zouave communicates to his superior behind the cotton sheeting, who presently comes out, his anger somewhat abated, and, taking me for a monk--my jubbah is responsible for the deception--invites me to the sitting-room in the enormous loophole of the citadel. He himself was beginning to complain of the litigants who pester him at his home, and apologise for his ill humour, when suddenly, disabused on seeing my trousers beneath my jubbah, he subjects me to the usual cross-examination. I could not refrain from thinking that, not being of the cowled gentry, he regretted having honoured me with an apology. "But after knowing somewhat of the pilgrim stranger, especially that he had been in America, Excellency tempers the severity of his expression and evinces an agreeable curiosity. He would know many things of that distant country; especially about a Gold-Mining Syndicate, or Gold-Mining Fake, in which he invested a few hundred pounds of his fortune. And I make reply, 'I know nothing about Gold Mines and Syndicates, Excellency: but methinks if there be gold in such schemes, the grubbing, grabbing Americans would not let it come to Syria.' 'Indeed, so,' he murmurs, musing; 'indeed, so.' And clapping for the serving-zabtie--the mudirs and kaiemkams of the Lebanon make these zabties, whose duty is to serve papers, serve, too, in their homes--he orders for me a cup of coffee. And further complaining to me, he curses America for robbing the country of its men and labourers.--'We can no more find tenants for our estates, despite the fact that they get more of the income than we do. The shreek (partner), or tenant, is rightly called so. For the owner of an estate that yields fifty pounds, for instance, barely gets half of it; while the shreek, he who tills and cultivates the land, gets away with the other half, sniffing and grumbling withal. Of a truth, land-tenants are not so well-off anywhere. And if the land but yields a considerable portion, any one with a few grains of the energy of those Americans, would prefer to be a shreek than a real-estate owner.' Thus, his Excellency, complaining of the times, regretting his losses, cursing America and its Gold Mines; and having done, drops the narghilah tube from his hand and dozes on the divan. "I muse meanwhile on Time, who sees in a citadel of the ancient Phoenicians, after many thousand years, that same propensity for gold, that same instinct for trade. The Phoenicians worked gold mines in Thrace, and the Syrians, their descendants, are working gold mines in America. But are we as daring, as independent, as honest? I am not certain, however, if those Phoenicians had anything to do with bubbles. My friend Sanchuniathon writes nothing on the subject. History records not a single instance of a gold-mine bubble in Thrace, or a silver ditto in Africa. Apart from this, have we, the descendants of those honest Phoenicians, any of their inventive skill and bold initiative? They taught other nations the art of ship-building; we can not as much as learn from other nations the art of building a gig. They transmitted to the people of the West a knowledge of mathematics, weights, and measures; we can not as much as weigh or measure the little good Europe is transmitting to us. They always fought bravely against their conquerors, always gave evidence of their love of independence; and we dare not raise a finger or whisper a word against the red Tyrant by whom we are degraded and enslaved. We are content in paying tribute to a criminal Government for pressing upon our necks the yoke and fettering hopelessly our minds and souls--and my brave Phoenicians, ah, how bravely they thought and fought. What daring deeds they accomplished! what mysteries of art and science they unveiled! "On these shores they hammered at the door of invention, and, entering, showed the world how glass is made; how colours are extracted from pigments; how to measure, and count, and communicate human thought. The swarthy sons of the eternal billows, how shy they were of the mountains, how enamoured of the sea! For the mountains, it was truly said, divide nations, and the seas connect them. And my Phoenicians, mind you, were for connection always. Everywhere, they lived on the shores, and ever were they ready to set sail. "In this mammoth loophole, measuring about ten yards in length,--this the thickness of the wall--I muse of another people skilled in the art of building. But between the helots who built the pyramids and the freemen who built this massive citadel, what a contrast! The Egyptian mind could only invent fables; the Phoenician was the vehicle of commerce and the useful arts. The Egyptians would protect their dead from the tyranny of Time; the Phoenicians would protect themselves, the living, from the invading enemy: those based their lives on the vagaries of the future; these built it on the solid rock of the present...." * * * * * But we have had enough of Khalid's gush about the Phoenicians, and we confess we can not further walk with him on this journey. So, we leave his Excellency the mudir snoring on the divan, groaning under the incubus of the Gold Mine Fake, bemoaning his losses in America; pass the zabtie in zouave uniform, who is likewise snoring on the door-step; and, hurrying down the stairway and out through the stivy arcade, we say farewell to Our Lady of the Gate, and get into one of the carriages which ply the shore between Junie and Jbail. We reach Junie about sundown, and Allah be praised! Even this toy of a train brings us, in thirty minutes, to Beirut. ----- [1] Khalid would speak here of poached eggs, we believe. And the Americans, to be fair, are not so totally ignorant of the art of frying. They have lard--much worse than water--in which they cook, or poach, or fry--but the change in the name does not change the taste. So, we let Khalid's stricture on fried eggs and boiled cabbage stand.--EDITOR. CHAPTER V UNION AND PROGRESS Had not Khalid in his retirement touched his philosophic raptures with a little local colouring, had he not given an account of his tramping tour in the Lebanons, the hiatus in Shakib's _Histoire Intime_ could not have been bridged. It would have remained, much to our vexation and sorrow, somewhat like the ravine in which Khalid almost lost his life. But now we return, after a year's absence, to our Scribe, who at this time in Baalbek is soldering and hammering out rhymes in praise of Niazi and Enver, Abd'ul-Hamid and the Dastur (Constitution). "When Khalid, after his cousin's marriage, suddenly disappeared from Baalbek," writes he, "I felt that something had struck me violently on the brow, and everything around me was dark. I could not withhold my tears: I wept like a child, even like Khalid's mother. I remember he would often speak of suicide in those days. And on the evening of that fatal day we spent many hours discussing the question. 'Why is not one free to kill himself,' he finally asked, 'if one is free to become a Jesuit?' But I did not believe he was in earnest. Alas, he was. For on the morning of the following day, I went up to his tent on the roof and found nothing of Khalid's belongings but a pamphlet on the subject, 'Is Suicide a Sin?' and right under the title the monosyllable LA (no) and his signature. The frightfulness of his intention stood like a spectre before me. I clapped one hand upon the other and wept. I made inquiries in the city and in the neighbouring places, but to no purpose. Oh, that dreadful, dismal day, when everywhither I went something seemed to whisper in my heart, 'Khalid is no more.' It was the first time in my life that I felt the pangs of separation, the sting of death and sorrow. The days and months passed, heartlessly confirming my conjecture, my belief. "One evening, when the last glimmer of hope passed away, I sat down and composed a threnody in his memory. And I sent it to one of the newspapers of Beirut, in the hope that Khalid, if he still lived, might chance to see it. It was published and quoted by other journals here and in Egypt, who, in their eulogies, spoke of Khalid as the young Baalbekian philosopher and poet. One of these newspapers, whose editor is a dear friend of mine, and of comely ancient virtue, did not mention, from a subtle sense of tender regard for my feelings, the fact that Khalid committed suicide. 'He died,' the Notice said, 'of a sudden and violent defluxion of rheums,[1] which baffled the physician and resisted his skill and physic.' Another journal, whose editor's religion is of the Jesuitical pattern, spoke of him as a miserable God-abandoned wretch who was not entitled to the right of Christian burial; and fulminated at its contemporaries for eulogising the youthful infidel and moaning his death, thus spreading and justifying his evil example. "And so, the days passed, and the months, and Khalid was still dead. In the summer of this year, when the Constitution was proclaimed, and the country was rioting in the saturnalia of Freedom and Equality, my sorrow was keener, deeper than ever. Not I alone, but the cities and the deserts of Syria and Arabia, missed my loving friend. How gloriously he would have filled the tribune of the day, I sadly mused.... O Khalid, I can never forgive this crime of thine against the sacred rites of Friendship. Such heartlessness, such inexorable cruelty, I have never before observed in thee. No matter how much thou hast profited by thy retirement to the mountains, no matter how much thy solitude hath given thee of health and power and wisdom, thy cruel remissness can not altogether be drowned in my rejoicing. To forget those who love thee above everything else in the world,--thy mother, thy cousin, thine affectionate brother--" And our Scribe goes on, blubbering like a good Syrian his complaint and joy, gushing now in verse, now in what is worse, in rhymed prose, until he reaches the point which is to us of import. Khalid, in the winter of the first year of the Dastur (Constitution) writes to him many letters from Beirut, of which he gives us not less than fifty! And of these, the following, if not the most piquant and interesting, are the most indispensable to our History. Letter I (As numbered in the Original) My loving Brother Shakib: To whom, if not to you, before all, should I send the first word of peace, the first sign of the resurrection? To my mother? To my cousin Najma? Well, yes. But if I write to them, my letters will be brought to you to be read and answered. So I write now direct, hoping that you will convey to them these tidings of joy. 'Tis more than a year now since I slinked out of Baalbek, leaving you in the dark about me. Surely, I deserve the chastisement of your bitterest thoughts. But what could I do? Such is the rigour of the sort of life I lived that any communication with the outside world, especially with friends and lovers, would have marred it. So, I had to be silent as the pines in which I put up, until I became as healthy as the swallows, my companions there. When we meet, I shall recount to you the many curious incidents of my solitude and my journey in the sacred hills of Lebanon. To these auspicious mountains, my Brother, I am indebted for the health and joy and wisdom that are now mine; and yours, too, if you consider. Strange, is it not, that throughout my journey, and I have passed in many villages, nothing heard I of this great political upheaval in the Empire. Probably the people of the Lebanons cherish not the Revolution. There is so much in common, I find, between them and the Celtic races, who always in such instances have been more royalists than the king. And I think Mt. Lebanon is going to be the Vendée of the Turks. I have been in Beirut but a few days. And truly, I could not believe my eyes, when in the Place de la Concorde (I hope the Turks are not going to follow in the steps of the French Revolutionists in all things), I could not believe my eyes, when, in this muddy Square, on the holy Stump of Liberty, I beheld my old friend the Spouter dispensing to the turbaned and tarboushed crowd, among which were cameleers and muleteers with their camels and mules, of the blessing of that triple political abracadabra of the France of more than a century passed. Liberty, Fraternity, Equality!--it's a shame that the show has been running for six months now and I did not know it. I begin by applauding the Spouters of Concord Square, the donkey that I am. But how, with my cursed impulsiveness, can I always keep on the sidewalk of reason? I, who have suckled of the milk of freedom and broke the bottle, too, on my Nurse's head, I am not to blame, if from sheer joy, I cheer those who are crowning her on a dung-hill with wreaths of stable straw. It's better, billah, than breaking the bottle on her head, is it not? And so, let the Spouters spout. And let the sheikh and the priest and the rabbi embrace on that very Stump and make up. Live the Era of Concord and peace and love! Live the Dastur! Hurrah for the Union and Progress Heroes! Come down to Beirut and do some shouting with your fellow citizens. Letter V No; I do not approve of your idea of associating with that young Mohammedan editor. You know what is said about the tiger and its spots. Besides, I had another offer from a Christian oldtimer; but you might as well ask me to become a Jesuit as to became a Journalist. I wrote last week a political article, in which I criticised Majesty's Address to the Parliament, and mauled those oleaginous, palavering, mealy-mouthed Representatives, who would not dare point out the lies in it. They hear the Chief Clerk read of "the efforts made by the Government during the past thirty years in the interest of education," and applaud; while at the Royal Banquet they jostle and hustle each other to kiss the edge of Majesty's frock-coat. The abject slaves! The article was much quoted and commented upon; I was flouted by many, defended by a few, these asked: "Was the Government of Abd'ul-Hamid, committing all its crimes in the interest of education, were we being trained by the Censorship and the Bosphorus Terror for the Dastur?" "But the person of Majesty, the sacredness of the Khalifate," cried the others. And a certain one, in the course of his attack, denies the existence of Khalid, who died, said he, a year ago. And what matters it if a dead man can stir a whole city and blow into the nostrils of its walking spectres a breath of life? I spoke last night in one of the music halls and gave the Mohammedans a piece of my mind. The poor Christians!--they feared the Government in the old régime; they cower before the boatmen in this. For the boatmen of Beirut have not lost their prestige and power. They are a sort of commune and are yet supreme. Yes, they are always riding the whirlwind and directing the storm. And who dares say a word against them? Every one of them, in his swagger and bluster, is an Abd'ul-Hamid. Alas, everything is yet in a chaotic state. The boatman's shriek can silence the Press and make the Spouters tremble. I am to lecture in the Public Hall of one of the Colleges here on the "Moral Revolution." Believe me, I would not utter a word or write a line if I were not impelled to it. And just as soon as some one comes to the front to champion in this land spiritual and moral freedom, I'll go "way back and sit down." For why should I then give myself the trouble? And the applause of the multitude, mind you, brings me not a single olive. Letter XXII I had made up my mind to go to Cairo, and I was coming up to say farewell to you and mother. For I like not Beirut, where one in winter must go about in top-boots, and in a dust-coat in summer. I wonder what Rousseau, who called Paris the city of mud, would have said of this? Besides, a city ruled by boatmen is not a city for gentlemen to live in. So, I made up my mind to get out of it, and quickly. But yesterday morning, before I had taken my coffee, some one knocked at my door. I open, and lo, a policeman in shabby uniform, makes inquiry about Khalid. What have I done, I thought, to deserve this visit? And before I had time to imagine the worst, he delivers a card from the Deputy to Syria of the Union and Progress Society of Salonique. I am desired in this to come at my earliest convenience to the Club to meet this gentleman. There, I am received by an Army Officer and a certain Ahmed Bey. And after the coffee and the formalities of civility are over, I am asked to accompany them on a tour to the principal cities of upper Syria--to Damascus, Homs, Hama, and Aleppo. The young Army Officer is to speechify in Turkish, I, in Arabic, and Ahmed Bey, who is as oleaginous as a Turk could be, will take up, I think, the collection. Seeing in this a chance to spread the Idea among our people, I accept, and in a fortnight we shall be in Damascus. You must come there, for I am burning to meet and embrace you. Letter XXV Whom do you think I met yesterday? Why, nothing gave me greater pleasure ever since I have been here than this: I was crossing the Square on my way to the Club, when some one plucking at my jubbah angrily greets me. I look back, and behold our dear old Im-Hanna, who has just returned from New York. She stood there waving her hand wildly and rating me for not returning her salaam. "You know no one any more, O Khalid," she said plaintively; "I call to you three times and you look not, hear not. No matter, O Khalid." Thereupon, she embraces me as fondly as my mother. "And why," she inquired, "do you wear this black jubbah? Are you now a monk? Were it not for that long hair and that cap of yours, I would not have known you. Let me see, isn't that the cap I bought you in New York?" And she takes it off my head to examine it. "Yes, that's it. How good of you to keep it. Well, how are you now? Do you cough any more? Are you still crazy about books? I don't think so, for you have rosy cheeks now." And sobbing for joy, she embraces me again and again. She is neatly dressed, wears a silk fiché, and is as alert as ever. In the afternoon, I visit her at the Hotel, and she asks me to accompany her to the Bank, where she cashes three bills of exchange for three hundred pounds each! I ask her what she is going to do with all this money, and she tells me that she is going to build a little home for her grandson and send him to the College of the Americans here. "And is there like America in all the world?" she exclaims. "Ah, my heart for America!" And on asking her why she did not remain there: "Fear not; just as soon as I build my house and place my son in the College I am going back to New York. What, O Khalid, will you return with me?" She then takes some gold pieces in her hand, and lowering her voice: "May be you need some money; take, take these." Dear old Im-Hanna, I would not refuse her favour, and I would not accept one such. What was I to do? Coming through the Jewellers' bazaar I hit upon an idea, and with the money she slipped into my pocket, I bought a gold watch in one of the stores and charged her to present it to her grandson. "Say it is from his brother, your other grandson Khalid." She protests, scolds, and finally takes the watch, saying, "Well, nothing is changed in you: still the same crazy Khalid." To-morrow she is coming to see my room, and to cook for me a dish of _mojadderah_! Ah, the old days in the cellar! In the thirtieth Letter, one of considerable length, dated March, is an exceedingly titillating divagation on the _gulma_ (oustraation of animals), called forth, we are told, "by the rut of the d----d cats in the yard." Poor Khalid can not sleep. One night he jumps out of bed and chases them away with his skillet, saying, "Why don't I make such a row, ye wantons?" They come again the following night, and Khalid on the following morning moves to a Hotel which, by good or ill chance, is adjacent to the lupanars of the city. His window opens on another yard in which other cats, alas!--of the human species this time--are caterwauling, harrowing the soul of him and the night. He makes a second remove, but finds himself disturbed this time by the rut of a certain roebuck within. Nature, O Khalid, will not be cheated, no more than she will be abused, without retaliating soon or late. True, you got out of many ruts heretofore; but this you can not get out of except you go deeper into it. Your anecdotes from Ad-Damiry and your quotations from Montaigne shall not help you. And your allusions to March-cats and March-Khalids are too pitiful to be humorous. Indeed, were not the tang of lubricity in this Letter too strong, we would have given in full the confession it contains. We now come to the last of this Series, in which Khalid speaks of a certain American lady, a Mrs. Goodfree, or Gotfry, who is a votary of Ebbas Effendi, the Pope of Babism at Heifa. Mrs. Gotfry may not be a Babist in the strict sense of the word; but she is a votary and worshipper of the Bab. To her the personal element in a creed is of more importance than the ism. Hence, her pilgrimage every year to Heifa. She comes with presents and gold; and Ebbas Effendi, who is not impervious to the influence of other gods than his own, permits her into the sanctuary, where she shares with him the light of divine revelation and returns to the States, as the Priestess of the Cult, to bless and console the Faithful. Khalid was dining with Ahmed Bey at the Grand Hotel--but here is a portion of the Letter. By a devilish mischance she occupied the seat opposite to mine. And in this trap of Iblis was decoy enough for a poor mouse like me. It is an age since I beheld such an Oriental gem in an American setting; or such a strange Southern beauty in an exotic frame. For one would think her from the South, or further down from Mexico. Nay, of Andalusian, and consequently of Arabian, origin she must be. Her hair and her eyes are of the richest jet; her glance, voluptuous, mysterious; her complexion, neither white nor olive, but partakes of both,--a gauze-like shade of heliotrope, as it were, over a pink and straw surface, if you can imagine that; and her expression, a play between devotion and diabolism--now a question mark to love, now an exclamation to sorrow, and at times a dash between both. By what mysterious medium of romance and adventure did America produce such a beauty, I can not tell. Perhaps she, too, can not. If you saw her, O Shakib, you'd do nothing for months but dedicate odes to her eyes,--to the deep, dark infinity of their luring, devouring beauty,--which seem to drop honey and poison from every arched hair of their fulsome lashes. Withal,--another devilish mischance,--she was dressed in black and wore a white silk ruffle, like myself. And her age? Well, she can not have passed her sixth lustrum. And really, as the Novelist would say in his Novel, she looks ten years younger.... To say we were attracted to each other were presumptuous: but _I was_ taken.... Near her sat a Syrian gentleman of my acquaintance, with whom she was conversing when we entered. That is the lady whose beauty, when she was sitting, I described to you: but when she got up to leave the table,--alas, and _ay me_, and all the other expressions of regret and sorrow. That such a beautiful face should be denied a corresponding beauty of figure. And what is more pitiable about her, she is lame in the right leg. Poor dear Misfortune, I wish it were in my power to add an inch of my limb to hers. And Khalid goes on limping, drooling, alassing, to the end. After dinner he is introduced to his "poor dear Misfortune" by his Syrian friend. But being with Ahmed Bey he can not remain this evening. On the following day, however, he is invited to lunch; and on the terrace facing the sea, they pass the afternoon discussing various subjects. Mrs. Gotfry is surprised how a Syrian of Khalid's mind can not see the beauties of Babism, or Buhaism, as it is now called, and the lofty spirituality of the Bab. But she forgives him his lack of faith, gives him her card, and invites him to her home, if he ever returns to the United States. Now, maugre the fact that, in a postscript to this Letter, Khalid closes with these words, "And what have I to do with priests and priestesses?" we can not but harbour a suspicion that his "Union and Progress" tour is bound to have more than a political significance. By ill or good hap those words are beginning to assume a double meaning; and maugre all efforts to the contrary, the days must soon unfold the twofold tendency and result of the "Union and Progress" ideas of Khalid. ----- [1] In some parts of Syria, as in Arabia, almost every ill and affection is attributed to the rheums, or called so. Rheumatism, for instance, is explained by the Arab quack as a defluxion of rheums, failing to discharge through the upper orifices, progress downward, and settling in the muscles and joints, produce the affection. And might there not be more truth in that than the diagnosis of him who is a Membre de la Faculté de Medicine de France?--EDITOR. CHAPTER VI REVOLUTIONS WITHIN AND WITHOUT "Even Carlyle can be longwinded and short-sighted on occasions. 'Once in destroying the False,' says he, 'there was a certain inspiration.' And always there is, to be sure, my Master. For the world is not Europe, and the final decision on Who Is and What Is To Rule, was not delivered by the French Revolution. The Orient, the land of origination and prophecy, must yet solve for itself this eternal problem of the Old and New, the False and True. And whether by Revolutions, Speculations, or Constitutions, ancient Revelation will be purged and restored to its original pristine purity: the superannuated lumber that accumulated around it during centuries of apathy, fatalism, and sloth, must go: the dust and mould and cobwebs of the Temple will be swept away. Indeed, 'a war must be eternally waged on evils eternally renewed.' The genius of destruction has done its work, you say, O my esteemed Master? and there is nothing more to destroy? The gods might say this of other worlds than ours. In Europe, as in Asia, there is to be considered and remembered: if this mass of things we call humanity and civilisation were as healthy as the eternal powers would have them, the healthiest of the race would not be constantly studying and dissecting our social and political ills. "In a certain sense, we are healthier to-day than the Europeans; but our health is that of the slave and not the master: it is of more benefit to others than it is to ourselves. We are doomed to be the drudges of neurasthenic, psychopathic, egoistic masters, if we do not open our minds to the light of science and truth. 'Every age has its Book,' says the Prophet. But every book, if it aspires to be a guide to life, must contain of the eternal truth what was in the one that preceded it. We can not afford to let aught of this die. Leave the principal original altar in the Temple, and destroy all the others. Light on that altar the torch of science, which the better mind and cleaner hand of Europe are transmitting to us, and place your foot upon its false and unspeakable divinities. The gods of wealth, of egoism, of alcohol, of fornication, we must not acknowledge; nay, we must resist unto death their malign influence and power. But alas, what are we doing to-day? Instead of looking up to the pure and lofty souls of Europe for guidance, we welter in the mud with the lowest and most degenerate. We are beginning to know and appreciate English whiskey, but not English freedom; we know the French grisettes, but not the French sages; we guzzle German beer, but of German wisdom we taste not a drop. "O my Brothers, let us cease rejoicing in the Dastur; for at heart we know no freedom, nor truth, nor order. We elect our representatives to Parliament, but not unlike the Europeans; we borrow from France what the deeper and higher mind of France no longer believes; we imitate England in what England has long since discarded; but our Books of Revelation, which made France and Germany and England what they are, and in which is the divine essence of truth and right and freedom, we do not rightly understand. A thousand falsehoods are cluttered around the truth to conceal it from us. I call you back, O my Brothers, to the good old virtues of our ancestors. Without these the Revolution will miscarry and our Dastur will not be worth a date-stone. Our ancestors,--they never bowed their proud neck to tyranny, whether represented in an autocrat or in a body of autocrats; they never betrayed their friends; they never soiled their fingers with the coin of usury; they never sacrificed their manhood to fashion; they never endangered in the cafés and lupanars their health and reason. The Mosque and the Church, notwithstanding the ignorance and bigotry they foster, are still better than lunatic asylums. And Europe can not have enough of these to-day. "Continence, purity of heart, fidelity, simplicity, a sense of true manhood, magnanimity of spirit, a healthiness of body and mind,--these are the beautiful ancient virtues. These are the supreme truths of the Books of Revelation: in these consists the lofty spirituality of the Orient. But through what thick, obscene growths we must pass to-day, through what cactus hedges and thistle-fields we must penetrate, before we rise again to those heights. "'There can be no Revolution without a Reformation,' says a German philosopher. And truly so. For the fetters which bind us can not be shaken off, before the conscience is emancipated. A political revolution must always be preceded by a spiritual one, that it might have some enduring effect. Otherwise, things will revert to their previous state of rottenness as sure as Allah lives. But mind you, I do not say, Cut down the hedges; mow the thistle-fields; uproot the obscene plants; no: I only ask you to go through them, and out of them, to return no more. Sell your little estate there, if you have one; sell it at any price: give it away and let the dead bury their dead. Cease to work in those thorny fields, and God and nature will do the rest. "I am for a reformation by emigration. And quietly, peacefully, this can be done. Nor fire, nor sword bring I: only this I say: Will and do; resolve and act upon your resolution. The emigration of the mind before the revolution of the state, my Brothers. The soul must be free, and the mind, before one has a right to be a member of a free Government, before one can justly enjoy his rights and perform his duties as a subject. But a voting slave, O my Brothers, is the pitifulest spectacle under the sun. And remember that neither the Dastur, nor the Unionists, nor the Press, can give you this spiritual freedom, if you do not awake and emigrate. Come up to the highlands: here is a patrimony for each of you; here are vineyards to cultivate. Leave the thistle-fields and marshes behind; regret nothing. Come out of the superstitions of the sheikhs and ulema; of the barren mazes of the sufis; of the deadly swamps of theolougues and priests: emigrate! Every one of us should be a Niazi in this moral struggle, an Enver in this spiritual revolution. A little will-power, a little heroism, added to those virtues I have named, the solid virtues of our ancestors, and the Orient will no longer be an object of scorn and gain to commercial Europe. We shall then stand on an equal footing with the Europeans. Ay, with the legacy of science which we shall learn to invest, and with our spirituality divested of its cobwebs, and purified, we shall stand even higher than the Americans and Europeans."-- On the following day Damascus was simmering with excitement--Damascus, the stronghold of the ulema--the learned fanatics--whom Khalid has lightly pinched. But they scarcely felt it; they could not believe it. Now, the gentry of Islam, the sheikhs and ulema, would hear this lack-beard dervish, as he was called. But they disdain to stand with the rabble in the Midan or congregate with the _Mutafarnejin_ (Europeanised) in the public Halls. Nowhere but at the Mosque, therefore, can they hear what this Khalid has to say. This was accordingly decided upon, and, being approved by all parties concerned,--the Mufti, the Vali, the Deputies of the Holy Society and the speaker,--a day was set for the great address at the great Mosque of Omaiyah. Meanwhile, the blatant Officer, the wheedling Politician, and the lack-beard Dervish, are feasted by the personages and functionaries of Damascus. The Vali, the Mufti, Abdallah Pasha,--he who owns more than two score villages and has more than five thousand braves at his beck and call,--these, and others of less standing, vie with each other in honouring the distinguished visitors. And after the banqueting, while Ahmed Bey retires to a private room with his host to discuss the political situation, Khalid, to escape the torturing curiosity of the bores and quidnuncs of the evening, goes out to the open court, and under an orange tree, around the gurgling fountain, breathes again of quietude and peace. Nay, breathes deeply of the heavy perfume of the white jasmines of his country, while musing of the scarlet salvias of a distant land. And what if the salvia, as by a miracle, blossoms on the jasmine? What if the former stifles the latter? Indeed, one can escape boredom, but not love. One can flee the quidnuncs of the salon, but not the questioning perplexity of one's heart. A truce now to ambiguities. 'Tis high time that we give a brief account of what took place after Khalid took leave of Mrs. Gotfry. Many "devilish mischances" have since then conspired against Khalid's peace of mind. For when they were leaving Beirut, only a few minutes before the train started, Mrs. Gotfry, who was also going to Damascus, steps into the same carriage, which he and his companions occupied: mischance first. Arriving in Damascus they both stay at the same Hotel: mischance second. At table this time he occupies the seat next to hers, and once, rising simultaneously, their limbs touch: mischance third. And the last and worst, when he retires to his room, he finds that her own is in the same side-hall opposite to his. Now, who could have ordered it thus, of all the earthly powers? And who can say what so many mischances might not produce? True, a thousand thistles do not make a rose; but with destiny this logic does not hold. For every new mischance makes us forget the one preceding; and the last and worst is bound to be the harbinger of good fortune. Yes, every people, we imagine, has its aphorisms on the subject: Distress is the key of relief, says the Arabic proverb; The strait leads to the plain, says the Chinese; The darkest hour is nearest the dawn, says the English. But we must not make any stipulations with time, or trust in aphorisms. We do not know what Mrs. Gotfry's ideas are on the subject. Nor can we say how she felt in the face of these strange coincidences. In her religious heart, might there not be some shadow of an ancient superstition, some mystical, instinctive strain, in which the preternatural is resolved? That is a question which neither our Scribe nor his Master will help us to answer. And we, having been faithful so far in the discharge of our editorial duty, can not at this juncture afford to fabricate. We know, however, that the Priestess of Buhaism and the beardless, long-haired Dervish have many a conversation together: in the train, in the Hotel, in the parks and groves of Damascus, they tap their hearts and minds, and drink of each other's wine of thought and fancy. "I first mistook you for a Mohammedan," she said to him once; and he assured her that she was not mistaken. "Then, you are not a Christian?" "I am a Christian, too." And he relates of the Buha when he was on trial in Rhodes. "Of what religion are you," asks the Judge. "I am neither a Camel-driver nor a Carpenter," replies the Buha, alluding thereby to Mohammad and Christ. "If you ask me the same question," Khalid continues--"but I see you are uncomfortable." And he takes up the cushion which had fallen behind the divan, and places it under her arm. He then lights a cigarette and holds it up to her inquiringly. Yes? He, therefore, lights another for himself, and continues. "If you ask me the same question that was asked the Buha, I would not hesitate in saying that I am both a Camel-driver and Carpenter. I might also be a Buhaist in a certain sense. I renounce falsehood, whatsoever be the guise it assumes; and I embrace truth, wheresoever I find it. Indeed, every religion is good and true, if it serves the high purpose of its founder. And they are false, all of them, when they serve the low purpose of their high priests. Take the lowest of the Arab tribes, for instance, and you will find in their truculent spirit a strain of faith sublime, though it is only evinced at times. The Beduins, rovers and raveners, manslayers and thieves, are in their house of moe-hair the kindest hosts, the noblest and most generous of men. They receive the wayfarer, though he be an enemy, and he eats and drinks and sleeps with them under the same root, in the assurance of Allah. If a religion makes a savage so good, so kind, it has well served its purpose. As for me, I admire the grand passion in both the Camel-driver and the Carpenter: the barbaric grandeur, the magnanimity and fidelity of the Arab as well as the sublime spirituality, the divine beauty, of the Nazarene, I deeply reverence. And in one sense, the one is the complement of the other: the two combined are _my_ ideal of a Divinity." And now we descend from the chariot of the empyrean where we are riding with gods and apostles, and enter into one drawn by mortal coursers. We go out for a drive, and alight from the carriage in the poplar grove, to meander in its shades, along its streams. But digressing from one path into another, we enter unaware the eternal vista of love. There, on a boulder washed by the murmuring current, in the shade of the silver-tufted poplars, Khalid and Mrs. Gotfry sit down for a rest. "Everything in life must always resolve itself into love," said Khalid, as he stood on the rock holding out his hand to his friend. "Love is the divine solvent. Love is the splendour of God." Mrs. Gotfry paused at the last words. She was startled by this image. Love, the splendour of God? Why, the Bab, the Buha, is the splendour of God. Buha mean splendour. The Buha, therefore, is love. Love is the new religion. It is the old religion, the eternal religion, the only religion. How came he by this, this young Syrian? Would he rival the Buha? Rise above him? They are of kindred races--their ancestors, too, may be mine. Love the splendour of God--God the splendour of Love. Have I been all along fooling myself? Did I not know my own heart? These, and more such, passed through Mrs. Gotfry's mind, as shuttles through a loom, while Khalid was helping her up to her seat on the boulder, which is washed by the murmuring current. "If life were such a rock under our feet," said he, pressing his lips upon her hand, "the divine currents around it will melt it, soon or late, into love." They light cigarettes. A fresh breeze is blowing from the city. It is following them with the perfume of its gardens. The falling leaves are whispering in the grove to the swaying boughs. The narcissus is nodding to the myrtle across the way. And the bulbuls are pouring their golden splendour of song. Khalid speaks. "Beauty either detains, repels, or enchants. The first is purely external, linear; the second is an imitation of the first, its artistic artificial ideal, so to speak; and the third"--He is silent. His eyes, gazing into hers, take up the cue. Mrs. Gotfry turns from him exhausted. She looks into the water. "See the rose-beds in the stream; see the lovely pebbles dancing around them." "I can see everything in your eyes, which are like limpid lakes shaded with weeping-willows. I can even hear bulbuls singing in your brows.--Turn not from me your eyes. They reflect the pearls of your soul and the flowers of your body, even as those crystal waters reflect the pebbles and rose-beds beneath." "Did you not say that love is the splendour of God?" "Yes." "Then, why look for it in my eyes?" "And why look for it in the heart of the heavens, in the depths of the sea--in the infinities of everything that is beautiful and terrible--in the breath of that little flower, in the song of the bulbul, in the whispers of your silken lashes, in--" "Shut your eyes, Khalid; be more spiritual." "With my eyes open I see but one face; with my eyes closed I see a million faces: they are all yours. And they are loving, and sweet, and kind. But I am content with one, with the carnate symbol of them, with you, and though you be cold and cruel. The divine splendour is here, and here and here--" "Why, your ardour is exhausting." * * * * * But on their way back to the Hotel, Khalid gives her this from Swedenborg: "'Do you love me' means 'do you see the same truth that I see?'" There is no use. Khalid is impossible. CHAPTER VII A DREAM OF EMPIRE "I'm not starving for pleasure," Khalid once said to Shakib; "nor for the light free love of an exquisite caprice. Those little flowers that bloom and wither in the blush of dawn are for the little butterflies. The love that endures, give me that. And it must be of the deepest divine strain,--as deep and divine as maternal love. Man is of Eternity, not of Time; and love, the highest attribute of man, must be likewise. With me it must endure throughout all worlds and immensities; else I would not raise a finger for it. Pleasure, Shakib, is for the child within us; sexual joy, for the animal; love, for the god. That is why I say when you set your seal to the contract, be sure it is of the kind which all the gods of all the future worlds will raise to their lips in reverence." But Khalid's child-spirit, not to say childishness, is not, as he would have us believe, a thing of the past. Nor are the animal and the god within him always agreed as to what is and what is not a love divine and eternal. In New York, to be sure, he often brushed his wings against those flowerets that "bloom and wither in the blush of dawn." And he was not a little pleased to find that the dust which gathers on the wings adds a charm to the colouring of life. But how false and trivial it was, after all. The gold dust and the dust of the road, could they withstand a drop of rain? A love dust-deep, as it were, close to the earth; too mean and pitiful to be carried by the storm over terrible abysses to glorious heights. A love, in a word, without pain, that is to say impure. In Baalbek, on the other hand, he drank deep of the pain, but not of the joy, of love. He and his cousin Najma had just lit in the shrine of Venus the candles of the altar of the Virgin, when a villainous hand that of Jesuitry, issuing from the darkness, clapped over them the snuffer and carried his Happiness off. Here was a love divine, the promised bliss of which was snatched away from him. And now in Damascus, he feels, for the first time, the exquisite pain and joy of a love which he can not yet fathom; a love, which like the storm, is carrying him over terrible abysses to unknown heights. The bitter sting of a Nay he never felt so keenly before. The sleep-stifling torture and joy of suspense he did not fully experience until now. But if he can not sleep, he will work. He has but a few days to prepare his address. He can not be too careful of what he says, and how he says it. To speak at the great Mosque of Omaiyah is a great privilege. A word uttered there will reach the furthermost parts of the Mohammedan world. Moreover, all the ulema and all the heavy-turbaned fanatics will be there. But he can not even work. On the table before him is a pile of newspapers from all parts of Syria and Egypt--even from India--and all simmering, as it were, with Khalid's name, and Khalidism, and Khalid scandals. He is hailed by some, assailed by others; glorified and vilified in tawdry rhyme and ponderous prose by Christians and Mohammedans alike. "Our new Muhdi," wrote an Egyptian wit (one of those pallid prosers we once met in the hasheesh dens, no doubt), "our new Muhdi has added to his hareem an American beauty with an Oriental leg." What he meant by this only the hasheesh smokers know. "An instrument in the hands of some American speculators, who would build sky-scrapers on the ruins of our mosques," wrote another. "A lever with which England is undermining Al-Islam," cried a voice in India. "A base one in the service of some European coalition, who, under the pretext of preaching the spiritualities, is undoing the work of the Revolution. The gibbet is for ordinary traitors; for him the stake," etc., etc. On the other hand, he is hailed as the expected one,--the true leader, the real emancipator,--"who has in him the soul of the East and the mind of the West, the builder of a great Asiatic Empire." Of course, the foolish Damascene editor who wrote this had to flee the country the following day. But Khalid's eyes lingered on that line. He read it and reread it over and over again--forward and backward, too. He juggled, so to speak, with its words. How often people put us, though unwittingly, on the path we are seeking, he thought. How often does a chance word uttered by a stranger reveal to us our deepest aims and purposes. Before him was ink and paper. He took up the pen. But after scrawling and scribbling for ten minutes, the sheet was filled with circles and arabesques, and the one single word Dowla (Empire). He could not think: he could only dream. The soul of the East--The mind of the West--the builder of a great Empire. The triumph of the Idea, the realisation of a great dream: the rise of a great race who has fallen on evil days; the renaissance of Arabia; the reclaiming of her land; the resuscitation of her glory;--and why not? especially if backed with American millions and the love of a great woman. He is enraptured. He can neither sleep nor think: he can but dream. He puts on his jubbah, refills his cigarette box, and walks out of his room. He paces up and down the hall, crowning his dream with wreaths of smoke. But the dim lights seemed to be ogling each other and smiling, as he passed. The clocks seemed to be casting pebbles at him. The silence horrified him. He pauses before a door. He knocks--knocks again. The occupant of that room was not yet asleep. In fact, she, too, could not sleep. The clock in the hall outside had just struck one, and she was yet reading. After inquiring who it was that knocked, she puts on a kimono and opens the door. She is surprised. "Anything the matter with you?" "No; but I can not sleep." "That is amusing. And do you take me for a soporific? If you think you can sleep here, stretch yourself on the couch and try." Saying which, she laughed and hurried back to her bed. "I did not come to sleep." "What then? How lovely of you to wake me up so early.--No, no; don't apologise. For truly, I too, could not sleep. You see, I was still reading. Sit on the couch there and talk to me.--Of course, you may smoke.--No, I prefer to sit in bed." Khalid lights another cigarette and sits down. On the table before him are some antique colour prints which Mrs. Gotfry had bought in the Bazaar. These one can only get in Damascus. And--strange coincidence!--they represented some of the heroes of Arabia--Antar, Ali, Saladin, Harûn ar-Rashid--done in gorgeous colouring, and in that deliciously ludicrous angular style which is neither Arabic nor Egyptian, but a combination perhaps of both. Khalid reads the poetry under each of them and translates it into English. Mrs. Gotfry is charmed. Khalid is lost in thought. He lays the picture of Saladin on the table, lights another cigarette, looks intently upon his friend, his face beaming with his dream. "Jamilah." It was the first time he called her by her first name--an Arabic name which, as a Bahaist she had adopted. And she was neither surprised nor displeased. "We need another Saladin to-day,--a Saladin of the Idea, who will wage a crusade, not against Christianity or Mohammedanism, but against those Tataric usurpers who are now toadying to both." "Whom do you mean?" "I mean the Turks. They were given a last chance to rise; they tried and failed. They can not rise. They are demoralised; they have no stamina, no character; no inborn love for truth and art; no instinctive or acquired sense of right and justice. Whiskey and debauch and high-sounding inanities about fraternity and equality can not regenerate an Empire. The Turk must go: he will go. But out in those deserts is a race which is always young, a race that never withers; a strong, healthy, keen-eyed, quick-witted race; a fighting, fanatical race; a race that gave Europe a civilisation, that gave the world a religion; a race with a past as glorious as Rome's; and with a future, too, if we had an Ali or a Saladin. But He who made those heroes will make others like them, better, too. He may have made one already, and that one may be wandering now in the desert. Now think what can be done in Arabia, think what the Arabs can accomplish, if American arms and an up-to-date Korân are spread broadcast among them. With my words and your love and influence, with our powers united, we can build an Arab Empire, we can resuscitate the Arab Empire of the past. Abd'ul-Wahhab, you know, is the Luther of Arabia; and Wahhabism is not dead. It is only slumbering in Nejd. We will wake it; arm it; infuse into it the living spirit of the Idea. We will begin by building a plant for the manufacture of arms on the shore of the Euphrates, and a University in Yaman. The Turk must go--at least out of Arabia. And the Turk in Europe, Europe will look after. No; the Arab will never be virtually conquered. Nominally, maybe. And I doubt if any of the European Powers can do it. Why? Chiefly because Arabia has a Prophet. She produced one and she will produce more. Cannons can destroy Empires; but only the living voice, the inspired voice can build them." Mrs. Gotfry is silent. In Khalid's vagaries is a big idea, which she can not wholly grasp. And she is moreover devoted to another cause--the light of the world--the splendour of God--Buhaism. But why not spread it in Arabia as in America? She will talk to Ebbas Effendi about Khalid. He is young, eloquent, rising to power. And with her love, and influence superadded, what might he not do? what might he not accomplish? These ideas flashed through her mind, while Khalid was pacing up and down the room, which was already filled with smoke. She is absorbed in thought. Khalid comes near her bed, bends over her, and buries his face in her wealth of black hair. Mrs. Gotfry is startled as from a dream. "I can not see all that you see." "Then you do not love me." "Why do you say that? Here, now go sit down. Oh, I am suffocating. The smoke is so thick in the room I can scarcely see you. And it is so late.--No, no. Give me time to think on the subject. Now, come." And Mrs. Gotfry opens the door and the window to let out Khalid and his smoke. "Go, Khalid, and try to sleep. And if you can not sleep, try to write. And if you can not write, read. And if you can neither read nor write nor sleep, why, then, put on your shoes and go out for a walk. Good night. There. Good night. But don't forget, we must visit Sheikh Taleb to-morrow." The astute Mrs. Gotfry might have added, And if you do not feel like walking, take a dip in the River Barada. But in her words, to be sure, were a douche cold enough for Khalid. Now, to be just and comprehensive in our History we must record here that she, too, did not, and could not sleep that night. The thought that Khalid would make a good apostle of Buhaism and incidentally a good companion, insinuated itself between the lines on every page of the book she was trying to read. On the following day they visit Sheikh Taleb, who is introduced to us by Shakib in these words: "A Muslem, like Socrates, who educates not by lesson, but by going about his business. He seldom deigns to write; and yet, his words are quoted by every writer of the day, and on every subject sacred and profane. His good is truly magnetic. He is a man who lives after his own mind and in his own robes; an Arab who prays after no Imam, but directly to Allah and his Apostle; a scholar who has more dryasdust knowledge on his finger ends than all the ulema of Cairo and Damascus; a philosopher who would not give an orange peel for the opinion of the world; an ascetic who flees celebrity as he would the plague; a sage who does not disdain to be a pedagogue; an eccentric withal to amuse even a Diogenes:--this is the noted Sheikh Taleb of Damascus, whom Mrs. Gotfry once met at Ebbas Effendy's in Akka, and whom she was desirous of meeting again. When we first went to visit him, this charming lady and Khalid and I, we had to knock at the door until his neighbour peered from one of the windows above and told us that the Sheikh is asleep, and that if we would see him, we must come in the evening. I learned afterwards that he, reversing the habitual practice of mankind, works at night and sleeps during the day. "We return in the evening. And the Sheikh, with a lamp in his hand, peers through a small square opening in the door to see who is knocking. He knew neither Khalid nor myself; but Mrs. Gotfry--'Eigh!' he mused. And as he beheld her face in the lamplight he exclaimed 'Marhaba (welcome)! Marhaba!' and hastened to unbolt the door. We are shown through a dark, narrow hall, into a small court, up to his study. Which is a three-walled room--a sort of stage--opening on the court, and innocent of a divan or a settle or a chair. While he and Mrs. Gotfry were exchanging greetings in Persian, I was wondering why in Damascus, the city of seven rivers and of poetry and song, should there be a court guilty like this one of a dry and dilapidated fountain. I learned afterwards, however, that the Sheikh can not tolerate the noise of the water; and so, suffering from thirst and neglect, the fountain goes to ruin. "On the stage, which is the study, is a clutter of old books and pamphlets; in the corner is the usual straw mat, a cushion, and a sort of stool on which are ink and paper. This he clears, places the cushion upon it, and offers to Mrs. Gotfry; he himself sits down on the mat; and we are invited to arrange for ourselves some books. Indeed, the Sheikh is right; most of these tomes are good for nothing else. "Mrs. Gotfry introduces us. "'Ah, but thou art young and short of stature,' said he to Khalid; 'that is ominous. Verily, there is danger in thy path.' "'But he will embrace Buhaism,' put in Mrs. Gotfry. "'That might save him. Buhaism is the old torch, relighted after many centuries, by Allah.' "Meanwhile Khalid was thinking of second-hand Jerry of the second-hand book-shop of New York. The Sheikh reminded him of his old friend. "And I was holding in my hand a book on which I chanced while arranging my seat. It was Debrett's Baronetage, Knightage, and Companionage. How did such a book find its way into the Sheikh's rubbish, I wondered. But birds of a feather, thought I. "'That book was sent to me,' said he, 'by a merchant friend, who found it in the Bazaar. They send me all kinds of books, these simple of heart. They think I can read in all languages and discourse on all subjects. Allah forgive them.' "And when I tell him, in reply to his inquiry, that the book treats of Titles, Orders, and Degrees of Precedence, he utters a sharp whew, and with a quick gesture of weariness and disgust, tells me to take it. 'I have my head full of our own ansab (pedigrees),' he adds, 'and I have no more respect for a green turban (the colour of the Muslem nobility) than I have for this one,' pointing to his, which is white. "Mrs. Gotfry then asks the Sheikh what he thinks of Wahhabism. "'It is Islam in its pristine purity; it is the Islam of the first great Khalifs. "Mohammed is dead; but Allah lives," said Abu Bekr to the people on the death of the Prophet. And Wahhabism is a direct telegraph wire between mortal man and his God. "'But why should these Wahhabis of Nejd be the most fanatical, when their doctrines are the most pure?' asked Khalid. "'In thy question is the answer to it. They are fanatical _because_ of their purity of doctrine, and withal because they live in Nejd. If there were a Wahhabi sect in Barr'ush-Sham (Syria), it would not be thus, assure thee.' "And expressing his liking for Khalid, he advises him to be careful of his utterances in Damascus, if he believes in self-preservation. 'I am old,' he continues; 'and the ulema do not think my flesh is good for sacrifice. But thou art young, and plump--a tender yearling--ah, be careful sheikh Khalid. Then, I do not talk to the people direct. I talk to them through holy men and dervishes. The people do not believe in a philosopher; but the holy man, and though he attack the most sacred precepts of the Faith, they will believe. And Damascus is the very hive of turbans, green and otherwise. So guard thee, my child.' "Mrs. Gotfry then asks for a minute's privacy with the Sheikh. And before he withdraws with her to the court, he searches through a heap of mouldy tomes, draws from beneath them a few yellow pamphlets on the Comparative Study of the Semetic Alphabets and on The Rights of the Khalifate--such is the scope of his learning--and dusting these on his knee, presents them to us, saying, 'Judge us not severely.' "This does not mean that he cares much if we do or not. But in our country, in the Orient, even a Diogenes does not disdain to handle the coin of affability. We are always meekly asked, even by the most supercilious, to overlook shortcomings, and condone. "I could not in passing out, however, overlook the string of orange peels which hung on a pole in the court. Nor am I sensible of an indecorum if I give out that the Sheikh lives on oranges, and preserves the peels for kindling the fire. And this, his only article of food, he buys at wholesale, like his robes and undergarments. For he never changes or washes anything. A robe is worn continually, worn out in the run, and discarded. He no more believes in the efficacy of soap than in the efficacy of a good reputation. 'The good opinion of men,' he says, 'does not wash our hearts and minds. And if these be clean, all's clean.' "That is why, I think, he struck once with his staff a journalist for inserting in his paper a laudatory notice on the Sheikh's system of living and thinking and speaking of him as 'a deep ocean of learning and wisdom.' Even in travelling he carries nothing with him but his staff, that he might the quicker flee, or put to flight, the vulgar curious. He puts on a few extra robes, when he is going on a journey, and in time, becoming threadbare, sheds them off as the serpent its skin...." * * * * * And we pity our Scribe if he ever goes back to Damascus after this, and the good Sheikh chances upon him. CHAPTER VIII ADUMBRATIONS "In the morning of the eventful day," it is set forth in the _Histoire Intime_, "I was in Khalid's room writing a letter, when Ahmed Bey comes in to confer with him. They remain together for some while during which I could hear Khalid growl and Ahmed Bey gently whispering, 'But the Dastur, the Unionists, Mother Society,'--this being the burden of his song. When he leaves, Khalid, with a scowl on his brow, paces up and down the room, saying, 'They would treat me like a school boy; they would have me speak by rule, and according to their own dictation. They even espy my words and actions as if I were an enemy of the Constitution. No; let them find another. The servile spouters in the land are as plenty as summer flies. After I deliver my address to-day, Shakib, we will take the first train for Baalbek. I want to see my mother. No, billah! I can not go any further with these Turks. Why, read this.' And he hands me the memorandum, or outline of the speech given to him by Ahmed Bey." And this, we learn, is a litany of praises, beginning with Abd'ul-Hamid and ending with the ulema of Damascus; which litany the Society Deputies would place in the mouth of Khalid for the good of all concerned. Ay, for his good, too, if he but knew. If he but looked behind him, he would have yielded a whit, this Khalid. The deep chasm between him and the Deputy, however, justifies the conduct of each on his side: the lack of gumption in the one and the lack of depth in the other render impossible any sort of understanding between them. While we recommend, therefore, the prudence of the oleaginous Ahmed, we can not with justice condemn the perversity of our fretful Khalid. For he who makes loud boast of spiritual freedom, is, nevertheless, a slave of the Idea. And slavery in some shape or shade will clutch at the heart of the most powerful and most developed of mortals. Poor Khalid! if Truth commands thee to destroy the memorandum of Ahmed Bey, Wisdom suggests that thou destroy, too, thine address. And Wisdom in the person of Sheikh Taleb now knocks at thy door. The Sheikh is come to admonish Khalid, not to return his visit. For at this hour of the day he should have been a-bed; but his esteem for Mrs. Gotfry, billah, his love, too, for her friend Khalid, and his desire to avert a possible danger, banish sleep from his eyes. "My spirit is perturbed about thee," thus further, "and I can not feel at ease until I have given my friendly counsel. Thou art free to follow it or not to follow it. But for the sake of this beard Sheikh Khalid, do not speak at the Mosque to-day. I know the people of this City: they are ignorant, obtuse, fanatical, blind. 'God hath sealed up their hearts and their hearing.' They will not hear thee; they can not understand thee. I know them better than thou: I have lived amongst them for forty years. And what talk have we wasted. They will not hear; they can not see. It's a dog's tail, Sheikh Khalid. And what Allah hath twisted, man can not straighten. So, let it be. Let them wallow in their ignorance. Or, if thou wilt help them, talk not to them direct. Use the medium of the holy man, like myself. This is my advice to thee. For thine own sake and for the sake of that good woman, thy friend and mine, I give it. Now, I can go and sleep. Salaam." And the grey beard of Sheikh Taleb and his sharp blue eyes were animated, as he spoke, agitated like his spirit. What he has heard abroad and what he suspects, are shadowed forth in his friendly counsel. Let Khalid reflect upon it. Our Scribe, at least, is persuaded that Sheikh Taleb spoke as a friend. And he, too, suspects that something is brewing abroad. He would have Khalid hearken, therefore, to the Sheikh. But Khalid in silence ponders the matter. And at table, even Mrs. Gotfry can not induce him to speak. She has just returned from the bazaar; she could hardly make her way through the choked arcade leading to the Mosque; the crowd is immense and tumultuous; and a company of the Dragoons is gone forth to open the way and maintain order. "But I don't think they are going to succeed," she added. Silently, impassively, Khalid hears this. And after going through the second course, eating as if he were dreaming, he gets up and leaves the table. Mrs. Gotfry, somewhat concerned, orders her last course, takes her thimble-full of coffee at a gulp, and, leaving likewise, hurries upstairs and calls Khalid, who was pacing up and down the hall, into her room. "What is the matter with you?" "Nothing, nothing," murmured Khalid absent-mindedly. "That's not true. Everything belies your words. Why, your actions, your expression, your silence oppresses me. I know what is disturbing you. And I would prevail upon you, if I could, to give up this afternoon's business. Don't go; don't speak. I have a premonition that things are not going to end well. Why, even my dragoman says that the Mohammedan mob is intent upon some evil business. Be advised. And since you are going to break with your associates, why not do so now. The quicker the better. Come, make up your mind. And we'll not wait for the morning train. We'll leave for Baalbek in a special carriage this afternoon. What say you?" Just then the brass band in front of the Hotel struck up the Dastur march in honour of the Sheikhs who come to escort the Unionist Deputies and the speaker to the Mosque. "I have made up my mind. I have given my word." And being called, Mrs. Gotfry, though loath to let him go, presses his hand and wishes him good speed. And here we are in the carriage on the right of the green-turbaned Sheikh. We look disdainfully on the troops, the brass band, and the crowd of nondescripts that are leading the procession. We cross the bridge, pass the Town-Hall, and, winding a narrow street groaning with an electric tramway, we come to the grand arcade in which the multitudes on both sides are pressed against the walls and into the stalls by the bullying Dragoons. We drive through until we reach the arch, where some Khalif of the Omayiahs used to take the air. And descending from the carriage, we walk a few paces between two rows of book-shops, and here we are in the court of the grand Mosque Omayiah. We elbow our way through the pressing, distressing multitudes, following Ahmed Bey into the Mosque, while the Army Officer mounts a platform in the court and dispenses to the crowd there of his Turkish blatherskite. We stand in the Mosque near the heavy tapestried square which is said to be the sarcophagus of St. John. Already a Sheikh is in the pulpit preaching on the excellences of liberty, chopping out definitions of equality, and quoting from Al-Hadith to prove that all men are Allah's children and that the most favoured in Allah's sight is he who is most loving to his brother man. He then winds up with an encomium on the heroes of the day, curses vehemently the reactionaries and those who curse them not (the Mosque resounds with "Curse the reactionists, curse them all!"), tramples beneath his heel every spy and informer of the New Era, invokes the great Allah and his Apostle to watch over the patriots and friends of the Ottoman nation, to visit with grievous punishment its enemies, and--descends. The silence of expectation ensues. The Mosque is crowded; and the press of turbans is such that if a pea were dropt from above it would not reach the floor. From the pulpit the great Mohammedan audience, with its red fezes, its green and white turbans, seemed to Khalid like a verdant field overgrown with daisies and poppies. "It is the beginning of Arabia's Spring, the resuscitation of the glory of Islam," and so forth; thus opening with a flourish of flattery like the spouting tricksters whom he so harshly judges. And what shall we say of him? It were not fair quickly to condemn, to cry him down at the start. Perhaps he was thus inspired by the august assembly; perhaps he quailed and thought it wise to follow thus far the advice of his friends. "It was neither this nor that," say our Scribe. "For as he stood in the tribune, the picture of the field of daisies and poppies suggested the picture of Spring. A speaker is not always responsible for the frolics of his fancy. Indeed, an audience of some five thousand souls, all intent upon this opaque, mysterious Entity in the tribune, is bound to reach the very heart of it; for think what five thousand rays focussed on a sensitive plate can do." Thus our Scribe, apologetically. But after the first contact and the vibrations of enthusiasm and flattery that followed, Khalid regains his equilibrium and reason, and strikes into his favourite theme. He begins by arraigning the utilitarian spirit of Europe, the rank materialism which is invading our very temples of worship. God, Truth, Virtue, with them, is no longer esteemed for its own worth, but for what it can yield of the necessities and luxuries of life. And with these cynical materialistic abominations they would be supreme even in the East; they would extinguish with their dominating spirit of trade every noble virtue of the soul. And yet, they make presumption of introducing civilisation by benevolent assimilation, rather dissimulation. For even an Englishman in our country, for instance, is unlike himself in his own. The American, too, who is loud-lunged about democracy and shirt-sleeve diplomacy, wheedles and truckles as good as the wiliest of our pashas. And further he exclaims: "Not to Christian Europe as represented by the State, therefore, or by the industrial powers of wealth, or by the alluring charms of decadence in art and literature, or by missionary and educational institutions, would I have you turn for light and guidance. No: from these plagues of civilisation protect us, Allah! No: let us have nothing to do with that practical Christianity which is become a sort of divine key to Colonisation; a mint, as it were, which continually replenishes the treasuries of Christendom. Let us have nothing to do with their propagandas for the propagation of supreme Fakes. No, no. Not this Europe, O my Brothers, should we take for our model or emulate: not the Europe which is being dereligionised by Material Science; disorganised by Communion and Anarchy; befuddled by Alcoholism; enervated by Debauch. To another Europe indeed, would I direct you--a Europe, high, noble, healthy, pure, and withal progressive. To the deep and inexhaustible sources of genius there, of reason and wisdom and truth, would I have you advert the mind. The divine idealism of German philosophy, the lofty purity of true French art, the strength and sterling worth of English freedom,--these we should try to emulate; these we should introduce into the gorgeous besottedness of Oriental life, and literature, and religion...." And thus, until he reaches the heart of his subject; while the field of daisies and poppies before him gently sways as under a soft morning breeze; nods, as it were, its approbation. "Truly," he continues, "religion is purely a work of the heart,--the human heart, and the heart of the world as well. For have not the three monotheistic religions been born in this very heart of the world, in Arabia, Syria, and Palestine? And are not our Books of Revelation the truest guides of life hitherto known to man? How then are we to keep this Heart pure, to free it, in other words, from the plagues I have named? And how, on the other hand, are we to strengthen it, to quicken its sluggish blood? In a word, how are we to attain to the pinnacle of health, and religion, and freedom,--of power, and love, and light? By political revolutions, and insurrections, and Dasturs? By blindly adopting the triple political tradition of France, which after many years of terror and bloodshed, only gave Europe a new Yoke, a new Tyranny, a new grinding Machine? No, my Brothers; not by political nomenclature, not by political revolutions alone, shall the nations be emancipated." Whereupon Ahmed Bey begins to knit his brows; Shakib shakes his head, biting his nether lip; and here and there in the audience is heard a murmur about retrogression and reaction. Khalid proceeds with his allegory of the Muleteer and the Pack-Mule. "See, the panel of the Mule is changed; the load, too; and a few short-cuts are made in the rocky winding road of statecraft and tyranny. Ah, the stolid, patient, drudging Mule always exults in a new Panel, which, indeed, seems necessary every decade, or so. For the old one, when, from a sense of economy, or from negligence or stupidity, is kept on for a length of time, makes the back sore, and the Mule becomes kickish and resty. Hence, the plasters of conservative homeopathists, the operations suggested by political leeches, the radical cures of social quacks, and such like. But the Mule continues to kick against the pricks; and the wise Muleteer, these days, when he has not the price of a new Panel, or knows not how to make one, sells him to the first bidder. And the new owner thereupon washes the sores and wounds, applies to them a salve of the patent kind, buys his Mule a new Panel, and makes him do the work. That is what I understand by a political revolution.... And are the Ottoman people free to-day? Who in all Syria and Arabia dare openly criticise the new Owner of the Mule? "Ours in a sense is a theocratic Government. And only by reforming the religion on which it is based, is political reform in any way possible and enduring." And here he argues that the so-called Reformation of Islam, of which Jelal ud-Dïn el-Afghani and Mohammed Abdu are the protagonists, is false. It is based on theological juggling and traditional sophisms. Their Al-Gazzali, whom they so much prize and quote, is like the St. Augustine of the Christians: each of these theologians finds in his own Book of Revelation a divine criterion for measuring and judging all human knowledge. No; a scientific truth can not be measured by a Korânic epigram: the Korân, a divine guide to life; a work of the heart should not attempt to judge a work of the mind or should be judged by it. "But I would brush the cobwebs of interpretation and sophism from this Work of the heart," he cries; "every spider's web in the Mosque, I would sweep away. The garments of your religion, I would have you clean, O my Brothers. Ay, even the threadbare adventitious wrappages, I would throw away. From the religiosity and cant of to-day I call you back to the religion pure of the heart...." But the Field of poppies and daisies begins to sway as under a gale. It is swelling violently, tumultuously. "I would free al-Islam," he continues, "from its degrading customs, its stupefying traditions, its enslaving superstitions, its imbruting cants." Here several voices in the audience order the speaker to stop. "Innovation! Infidelity!" they cry. "The yearly pestiferous consequences of the Haji"--But Khalid no longer can be heard. On all sides zealotry raises and shakes a protesting hand; on all sides it shrieks, objurgating, threatening. Here it asks, "We would like to know if the speaker be a Wahhabi." From another part of the Mosque comes the reply: "Ay, he is a Wahhabi." And the voice of the speaker thundering above the storm: "Only in Wahhabism pure and simple is the reformation of al-Islam possible."... Finis. Zealotry is set by the ear; the hornet's nest is stirred. Your field of poppies and daisies, O Khalid, is miraculously transformed into a pit of furious grey spectres and howling red spirits. And still you wait in the tribune until the storm subside? Fool, fool! Art now in a civilised assembly? Hast thou no eyes to see, no ears to hear? "Reactionist! Infidel! Innovator! Wahhabi! Slay him! Kill him!"--Are these likely to subside the while thou wait? By the tomb of St. John there, get thee down, and quickly. Bravo, Shakib!--He rushes to the tribune, drags him down by the jubbah, and, with the help of another friend, hustles him out of the Mosque. But the thirst for blood pursues them. And Khalid receives in the court outside a stiletto-thrust in the back and a slash in the forehead above the brow down to the ear. Which, indeed, we consider a part of his good fortune. Like the muleteer of his Lebanon tour, we attribute his escape with two wounds to the prayers of his good mother. For he is now in the carriage with Shakib, the blood streaming down his back and over his face. With difficulty the driver makes his way through the crowds, issues out of the arcade, and--crack the whip! Quickly to the Hotel. The multitudes behind us, both inside and outside the Mosque, are violently divided; for the real reactionists of Damascus, those who are hostile to the Constitution and the statochratic Government, are always watching for an opportunity to give the match to the dry sedges of sedition. And so, the liberals, who are also the friends of Khalid, and the fanatical mobs of the ulema, will have it out among themselves. They call each other reactionists, plotters, conspirators; and thereupon the bludgeons and poniards are brandished; the pistols here and there are fired; the Dragoons hasten to the scene of battle--but we are not writing now the History of the Ottoman Revolution. We leave them to have it out among themselves as best they can, and accompany our Khalid to the Hotel. Here the good Mrs. Gotfry washes the blood from his face, and Shakib, after helping him to bed, hastens to call the surgeon, who, having come straightway, sews and dresses the wounds and assures us that they are not dangerous. In the evening a number of Sheikhs of an enlightened and generous strain, come to inquire about him. They tell us that one of the assailants of Khalid, a noted brigand, and ten of the reactionists, are now in prison. The Society Deputies, however, do not seem much concerned about their wounded friend. Yes, they are concerned, but in another direction and on weightier matters. For the telegraph wires on the following day were kept busy. And in the afternoon of the second day after the event, the man who helped Shakib to save Khalid from the mob, comes to save Khalid's life. The Superintendent of the Telegraph himself is here to inform us that Khalid was accused to the Military Tribunal as a reactionist, and a cablegram, in which he is summoned there, is just received. "Had I delivered this to the Vali," he continues, "you would have been now in the hands of the police, and to-morrow on your way to Constantinople. But I shall not deliver it until you are safe out of the City. And you must fly or abscond to-day, because I can not delay the message until to-morrow." Now Khalid and Shakib and Mrs. Gotfry take counsel together. The one train for Baalbek leaves in the morning; the carriage road is ruined from disuse; and only on horseback can we fly. So, Mrs. Gotfry orders her dragoman to hire horses for three,--nay, for four, since we must have an extra guide with us,--and a muleteer for the baggage. And here Shakib interposes a suggestion: "They must not come to the Hotel. Be with them on the road, near the first bridge, about the first hour of night." At the office of the Hotel the dragoman leaves word that they are leaving for a friend's house on account of their patient. And after dinner Mrs. Gotfry and Khalid set forth afoot, accompanied by Shakib. In five minutes they reach the first bridge; the dragoman and the guide, with their horses and lanterns, are there waiting. Shakib helps Khalid to his horse and bids them farewell. He will leave for Baalbek by the first train, and be there ahead of them. * * * * * And now, Reader, were we really romancing, we should here dilate of the lovely ride in the lovely moonlight on the lovely road to Baalbek. But truth to tell, the road is damnable, the welkin starless, the night pitch-black, and our poor Dreamer is suffering from his wounds. CHAPTER IX THE STONING AND FLIGHT "And whence the subtle thrill of joy in suffering for the Truth," asks Khalid. "Whence the light that flows from the wounds of martyrs? Whence the rapture that triumphs over their pain? In the thick of night, through the alcoves of the mountains, over their barren peaks, down through the wadi of oblivion, silently they pass. And they dream. They dream of appearance in disappearance; of triumph in surrender; of sunrises in the sunset. "A mighty tidal wave leaves high upon the beach a mark which later on becomes the general level of the ocean. And so do the great thinkers of the world,--the poets and seers, the wise and strong and self-denying, the proclaimers of the Religion of Man. And I am but a scrub-oak in this forest of giants, my Brothers. A scrub-oak which you might cut down, but not uproot. Lop off my branches; apply the axe to my trunk; make of my timber charcoal for the censers of your temples of worship; but the roots of me are deep, deep in the soil, beyond the reach of mortal hands. They are even spreading under your tottering palaces and temples.... "I dream of the awakening of the East; of puissant Orient nations rising to glorify the Idea, to build temples to the Universal Spirit--to Art, and Love, and Truth, and Faith. What if I am lost in the alcoves of the hills, if I vanish forever in the night? The sun that sets must rise. It is rising and lighting up the dark and distant continents even when setting. Think of that, ye who gloat over the sinking of my mortal self. "No; an idea is never too early annunciated. The good seed will grow among the rocks, and though the heavens withhold from it the sunshine and rain. It is because I will it, nay, because a higher Will than mine wills it, that the spirit of Khalid shall yet flow among your pilgrim caravans, through the fertile deserts of Arabia, down to the fountain-head of Faith, to Mecca and Medina," et cetera. This, perhaps the last of the rhapsodies of Khalid's, the Reader considering the circumstances under which it was written, will no doubt condone. Further, however, in the K. L. MS. we can not now proceed. Certainly the Author is not wanting in the sort of courage which is loud-lunged behind the writing table; his sufficiency of spirit is remarkable, unutterable. But we would he knew that the strong do not exult in their strength, nor the wise in their wisdom. For to fly and philosophize were one thing, and to philosophize in prison were another. Khalid this time does not follow closely in the way of the Masters. But he would have done so, if we can believe Shakib in this, had not Mrs. Gotfry persuaded him to the contrary. He would have stood in the Turkish Areopagus at Constantinople, defended himself somewhat Socratic before his judges, and hung out his tung on a rickety gibbet in the neighborhood of St. Sophia. But Mrs. Gotfry spoiled his great chance. She cheated him of the glory of dying for a noble cause. "The Turks are not worth the sacrifice," Shakib heard her say, when Khalid ejaculated somewhat about martyrdom. And when she offered to accompany him, the flight did not seem shameful in his eyes. Nay, it became necessary; and under the circumstances it was, indeed, cowardice not to fly. For is it not as noble to surrender one's self to Love as to the Turks or any other earthly despotism? Gladly, heroically, he adventures forth, therefore, and philosophizes on the way about the light that flows from the wounds of persecution. But we regret that this celestial stream is not unmixed; it is accompanied by blood and pus; by distention and fever, and other inward and outward sores. In this grievous state, somewhat like Don Quixote after the Battle of the Mill, our Khalid enters Baalbek. If the reader likes the comparison between the two Knights at this juncture, he must work it out for himself. We can not be so uncharitable as that; especially that our Knight is a compatriot, and is now, after our weary journeyings together, become our friend.--Our poor grievous friend who must submit again to the surgeon's knife. Mrs. Gotfry would not let him go to his mother, for she herself would nurse him. So, the doctor is called to the Hotel. And after opening, disinfecting, and dressing the wounds, he orders his patient to keep in bed for some days. They will then visit the ruins and resume their journeying to Egypt. Khalid no longer would live in Syria,--in a country forever doomed to be under the Turkish yoke, faring, nay, misfaring alike in the New Era as in the Old. Now, his mother, tottering with age and sorrow, comes to the Hotel, and begs him in a flood of tears to come home; for his father is now with the Jesuits of Beirut and seldom comes to Baalbek. And his cousin Najma, with a babe on her arm and a tale of woe in her eyes, comes also to invite her cousin Khalid to her house. She is alone; her father died some months ago; her husband, after the dethronement of Abd'ul-Hamid, being implicated in the reaction-movement, fled the country; and his relatives, to add to her affliction, would deprive her of her child. She is alone; and sick in the lungs. She coughs, too, the same sharp, dry, malignant cough that once plagued Khalid. Ay, the same disease which he buried in the pine forest of Mt. Lebanon, he beholds the ghost of it now, more terrible and heart-rending than anything he has yet seen or experienced. The disease which he conquered is come back in the person of his cousin Najma to conquer him. And who can assure Khalid that it did not steal into her breast along with his kisses? And yet, he is not the only one in Baalbek who returned from America with phthisis. O, but that thought is horrifying. Impossible--he can not believe it. But whether it be from you or from another, O Khalid, there is the ghost of it beckoning to you. Look at it. Are those the cheeks, those the eyes, this the body which a year ago was a model of rural charm and beauty and health? Is this the compensation of love? Is there anything like it dreamt of in your philosophy? There she is, who once in the ruined Temple of Venus mixed the pomegranate flower of her cheeks with the saffron of thy sickly lips. Wasted and dejected broken in body and spirit, she sits by your bedside nursing her baby and coughing all the while. And that fixed expression of sadness, so habitual among the Arab women who carry their punks and their children on their backs and go a-begging, it seems as if it were an hundred autumns old, this sadness. But right there, only a year ago, the crimson poppies dallied with the laughing breeze; the melting rubies dilated of health and joy. And now, deploring, imploring, she asks: "Will you not come to me, O Khalid? Will you not let me nurse you? Come; and your mother, too, will live with us. I am so lonesome, so miserable. And at night the boys cast stones at my door. My husband's relatives put them to it because I would not give them the child. And they circulate all kinds of calumnies about me too." Khalid promises to come, and assures her that she will not long remain alone. "And Allah willing," he adds, "you will recover and be happy again." She rises to go, when Mrs. Gotfry enters the room. Khalid introduces his cousin as his dead bride. "What do you mean?" she inquires. He promises to explain. Meanwhile, she goes to her room, brings some sweetmeats in a round box inlaid with mother-of-pearl for Khalid's guests. And taking the babe in her arms, she fondles and kisses it, and gives its mother some advice about suckling. "Not whenever the child cries, but only at stated times," she repeats. So much about Khalid's mother and cousin. A few days after, when he is able to leave his room, he goes to see them. His cousin Najma he would take with him to Cairo. He would not leave her behind, a prey to the cruelty of loneliness and disease. He tells her this. She is overjoyed. She is ready to go whenever he says. To-morrow? Please Allah, yes. But-- Please Allah, ill-luck is following. For on his way back to the Hotel, a knot of boys, lying in wait in one of the side streets, cast stones at him. He looks back, and a missile whizzes above his head, another hits him in the forehead almost undoing the doctor's work. Alas, that wound! Will it ever heal? Khalid takes shelter in one of the shops; a cameleer rates the boys and chases them away. The stoning was repeated the following day, and the cause of it, Shakib tells us, is patent. For when it became known in Baalbek that Khalid, the excommunicated one, is living in the Hotel, and with an American woman! the old prejudices against him were aroused, the old enemies were astirring. The priests held up their hands in horror; the women wagged their long tongues in the puddle of scandal; and the most fanatical shrieked out, execrating, vituperating, threatening even the respectable Shakib, who persists in befriending this muleteer's son. Excommunicated, he now comes with this Americaniyah (American woman) to corrupt the community. Horrible! We will even go farther than this boy's play of stoning. We present petitions to the kaiemkam demanding the expulsion of this Khalid from the Hotel, from the City. From other quarters, however, come heavier charges against Khalid. The Government of Damascus has not been idle ever since the seditious lack-beard Sheikh disappeared. The telegraph wires, in all the principal cities of Syria, are vibrating with inquiries about him, with orders for his arrest. One such the kaiemkam of Baalbek had just received when the petition of the "Guardians of the Morals of the Community" was presented to him. To this, the kaiemkam, in a perfunctory manner, applies his seal, and assures his petitioners that it will promptly be turned over to the proper official. But Turk as Turks go, he "places it under the cushion," when they leave. Which expression, translated into English means, he quashes it. Now, by good chance, this is the same kaiemkam who sent Khalid a year ago to prison, maugre the efforts and importunities and other inducements of Shakib. And this time, he will do him and his friend a good turn. He was thinking of the many misfortunes of this Khalid, and nursing a little pity for him, when Shakib entered to offer a written complaint against a few of the more noted instigators of the assailants of his friend. His Excellency puts this in his pocket and withdraws with Shakib into another room. A few minutes after, Shakib was hurrying to the Hotel to confer with his brother Khalid and Mrs. Gotfry. "I saw the Order with these very eyes," said Shakib, almost poking his two forefingers into them. "The kaiemkam showed it to me." Hence, the secret preparations inside the Hotel and out of it for a second remove, for a final flight. Shakib packs up; Najma is all ready. And Khalid cuts his hair, doffs his jubbah, and appears again in the ordinary attire of civilised mortals. For how else can he get out of Beirut and the telegraph wires throughout Syria are flowing with orders for his arrest? In a hat and frock-coat, therefore (furnished by Shakib), he enters into the carriage with Mrs. Gotfry about two hours after midnight; and, with their whole retinue, make for Riak, and thence by train for Beirut. Here Shakib obtains passports for himself and Najma, and together with Mrs. Gotfry and her dragoman, they board in the afternoon the Austrian Liner for Port-Said; while, in the evening, walking at the side of one of the boatmen, Khalid, passportless, stealthily passes through the port, and rejoins his friends. CHAPTER X THE DESERT We remember seeing once a lithographic print representing a Christmas legend of the Middle Ages, in which a detachment of the Heavenly Host--big, ugly, wild-looking angels--are pursuing, with sword and pike, a group of terror-stricken little devils. The idea in the picture produced such an impression that one wished to see the helpless, pitiful imps in heaven and the armed winged furies, their pursuers, in the other place. Now, as we go through the many pages of Shakib's, in which he dilates of the mischances, the persecutions, and the flights of Khalid, and of which we have given an abstract, very brief but comprehensive, in the preceding Chapters, we are struck with the similarity in one sense between his Dastur-legend, so to speak, and that of the Middle Ages to which we have alluded. The devils in both pictures are distressing, pitiful; while the winged persecutors are horribly muscular, and withal atrociously armed. Indeed, this legend of the Turkish angels of Fraternity and Equality, pursuing the Turkish little devils of reaction, so called, is most killing. But we can not see how the descendants of Yakut and Seljuk Khan, whether pursuers or pursued, whether Dastur winged furies they be, or Hamidian devils, are going to hold their own in face of the fell Dragon which soon or late must overtake them. That heavy, slow-going, slow-thinking Monster--and it makes little difference whether he comes from the North or from the West--will wait until the contending parties exhaust their strength and then--but this is not our subject. We would that this pursuing business cease on all sides, and that everybody of all parties concerned pursue rather, and destroy, the big strong devil within them. Thus sayeth the preacher. And thus, for once, we, too. For does not every one of these furious angels of Equality, whether in Constantinople, in Berlin, in Paris, in London, or in New York, sit on his wings and reveal his horns when he rises to power? We are tired of wings that are really nothing but horns, misshaped and misplaced. Look at our French-swearing, whiskey-drinking Tataric angels of the Dastur! Indeed, we rejoice that our poor little Devil is now beyond the reach of their dripping steel and rickety second-hand gibbets. And yet, not very far; for if the British Government consent or blink, Khalid and many real reactionists whom Cairo harbours, would have to seek an asylum elsewhere. And the third flight might not be as successful as the others. But none such is necessary. On the sands of the Libyan desert, not far from Cairo and within wind of Helwan, they pitch their tents. And Mrs. Gotfry is staying at Al-Hayat, which is a stone's throw from their evening fire. She would have Khalid live there too, but he refuses. He will live with his cousin and Shakib for a while. He is captivated, we are told, by that little cherub of a babe. But this does not prevent him from visiting his friend the Buhaist Priestess every day and dining often with her at the Hotel. She, too, not infrequently comes to the camp. Indeed, finding the solitude agreeable she has a tent pitched near theirs. And as a relief from the noise and bustle of tourists and the fatiguing formalities of Hotel life, she repairs thither for a few days every week. Now, in this austere delicacy of the desert, where allwhere is the softness of pure sand, Khalid is perfectly happy. Never did he seem so careless, our Scribe asserts, and so jovial and child-like in his joys. Far from the noise and strife of politics, far from the bewildering tangle of thought, far from the vain hopes and dreams and ambitions of life, he lives each day as if it were the last of the world. Here are joys manifold for a weary and persecuted spirit: the joy of having your dearest friend and comrade with you; the joy of nursing and helping to restore to health and happiness the woman dearest to your heart; the joy of a Love budding in beauty and profusion; and--this, the rarest and sublimest for Khalid--the joy of worshipping at the cradle--of fondling, caressing, and bringing up one of the brightest, sweetest, loveliest of babes. Najib is his name--it were cruel to neutralise such a prodigy--and he is just learning to walk and lisp. Khalid teaches him the first step and the first monosyllable, receiving in return the first kiss which his infant lips could voice. With what joy Najib makes his first ten steps! With what zest would he practise on the soft sands, laughing as he falls, and rising to try again. And thus, does he quickly, wonderfully develop, unfolding in the little circle of his caressers--in his mother's lap, in Shakib's arms, on Khalid's back, on Mrs. Gotfry's knee--the irresistible charm of his precocious spirit. In two months of desert life, Najib could run on the sands and sit down when tired to rest; in two months he could imitate in voice and gesture whatever he heard or saw: the donkey's bray, and with a tilt of the head like him; the cry of the cock; the shrill whistle of the train; and the howling of donkey boys. His keen sense of discrimination in sounds is incredible. And one day, seeing a Mohammedan spreading his rug to pray, he begins to kneel and kiss the ground in imitation of him. He even went into the tent and brought Khalid's jubbah to spread it on the sand likewise for that purpose. So sensitive to outside impressions is this child that he quickly responds to the least suggestion and with the least effort. Early in the morning, when the chill of night is still on the sands, he toddles into Khalid's tent cooing and warbling his joy. A walking jasmine flower, a singing ray of sunshine, Khalid calls him. And the mother, on seeing her child thus develop, begins to recuperate. In this little garden of happiness, her hope begins to blossom. But Khalid would like to know why Najib, on coming into his tent in the morning and seeing him naked, always pointed with his little finger and with questioning smile, to what protruded under the navel. The like questions Khalid puts with the ease and freedom of a child. And writes full pages about them, too, in which he only succeeds in bamboozling himself and us. For how can we account for everything a child does? Even the psychologist with his reflex-action theory does not solve the whole problem. But Khalid would like to know--and perhaps not so innocently does he dwell upon this subject as upon others--he would like to know the significance of Najib's pointed finger and smile. It may be only an accident, Khalid. "But an accident," says he, "occurring again and again in the same manner under stated conditions ceases to be such." And might not the child, who is such an early and keen observer, have previously seen his mother in native buff, and was surprised to see that appendage in you, Khalid? Even at Al-Hayat Najib is become popular. Khalid often comes here carrying him on his back. And how ready is the child to salaam everybody, and with both hands, as he stands on the veranda steps. "Surely," says Khalid, "there is a deeper understanding between man and child than between man and man. For who but a child dare act so freely among these polyglots of ceremony in this little world of frills and frocks and feathers? Who but a child dare approach without an introduction any one of these solemn-looking tourists? Here then is the divine source of the sweetest and purest joy. Here is that one touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin. For the child, and though he be of the lowest desert tribe, standing on the veranda of a fashionable Hotel, can warm and sweeten with the divine flame that is in him, the hearts of these sour-seeming, stiff-looking tourists who are from all corners of the earth. Is not this a miracle? My professor of psychology will say, 'Nay.' But what makes the heart leap in that grave and portly gentleman, who might be from Finland or Iceland, for all I know, when Najib's hand is raised to him in salutation? What makes that stately and sombre-looking dame open her arms, when Najib plucks a flower and, after smelling it, presents it to her? What makes that reticent, meditative, hard-favoured ancient, who is I believe a psychologist, what makes him so interested in observing Najib when he stands near the piano pointing anxiously to the keyboard? For the child enjoys not every kind of music: play a march or a melody and he will keep time, listing joyously from side to side and waving his hand in an arch like a maestro; play something insipid or chaotic and he will stand there impassive as a statue." And "the reticent hard-favoured ancient," who turns out to be an American professor of some ology, explains to Khalid why lively music moves children, while soft and subtle tones do not. But Khalid is not open to argument on the subject. He prefers to believe that children, especially when so keenly sensitive as his prodigy, understand as much, if not more, about music as the average operagoer of to-day. But that is not saying much. The professor furthermore, while admitting the extreme precocity of Najib's mind, tries to simplify by scientific analysis what to Khalid and other laymen seemed wonderful, almost miraculous. Here, too, Khalid botches the arguments of the learned gentleman in his effort to give us a summary of them, and tells us in the end that never after, so long as that professor was there, did he ever visit Al-Hayat. He prefers to frolic and philosophise with his prodigy on the sands. He goes on all four around the tent, carrying Najib on his back; he digs a little ditch in the sand and teaches him how to lie therein. Following the precept of the Greek philosophers, he would show him even so early how to die. And Najib lies in the sand-grave, folds his hands on his breast and closes his eyes. Rising therefrom, Khalid would teach him how to dance like a dervish, and Najib whirls and whirls until he falls again in that grave. When Mrs. Gotfry came that day, Khalid asked the child to show her how to dance and die, and Najib begins to whirl like a dervish until he falls in the grave; thereupon he folds his arms, closes his eyes, and smiles a pathetic smile. This by far is the masterpiece of all his feats. And one evening, when he was repeating this strange and weird antic, which in Khalid's strange mind might be made to symbolise something stranger than both, he saw, as he lay in the grave, a star in the sky. It was the first time he saw a star; and he jumped out of his sand-grave exulting in the discovery he had made. He runs to his mother and points the star to her.... And thus did Khalid spend his halcyon months in the desert. Here was an arcadia, perfect but brief. For his delight in infant worship, and in the new Love which was budding in beauty and profusion, and in tending his sick cousin who was recovering her health, and in the walks around the ruins in the desert with his dearest comrade and friend,--these, alas, were joys of too pure a nature to endure. AL-KHATIMAH "But I can not see all that you see." "Then you do not love me." "Back again to Swedenborg--I told you more than once that he is not my apostle." "Nor is he mine. But he has expressed a great truth, Jamïlah. Now, can you love me in the light of that truth?" "You are always asking me that same question, Khalid. You do not understand me. I do not believe in marriage. I tried it once; I will not try it again. I am married to Buhaism. And you Khalid--remember my words--you will yet be an apostle--the apostle--of Buhaism. And you will find me with you, whether you be in Arabia, in America, or in Egypt. I feel this--I know it--I am positive about it. Your star and mine are one. We are born under the same star. We are now in the same orbit, approaching the same nadir. We are ruled by our stars. I believe this, and you don't. At least, you say you don't. But you do. You don't know your own mind. The trend of the current of your life is beyond your grasp, beyond your comprehension. I know. And you must listen to me. You must follow my advice. If you can not come with me now to the States, you will await me here. I am called on a pressing business. And within three months, at the most, I shall return and find you waiting for me right here, in this desert." "I can not understand you." "You will yet." "But why not try to understand me? Can you not find in my ideas the very essence of Buhaism? Can you not come up to my height and behold there the star that you have taken for your guide? My Truth, Jamïlah, can you not see that? Love and Faith, free from all sectarianism and all earthly authority,--what is Buhaism or Mohammedanism or Christianity beside them? Moreover, I have a mission. And to love me you must believe in _me_, not in the Buha. You laugh at my dream. But one day it will be realised. A great Arab Empire in the border-land of the Orient and Occident, in this very heart of the world, this Arabia, this Egypt, this Field of the Cloth of Gold, so to speak, where the Male and Female of the Spirit shall give birth to a unifying faith, a unifying art, a unifying truth--" "Vagaries, chimeras," interrupted Mrs. Gotfry. "Buhaism is established, and it needs a great apostle. It needs you; it will have you. I will have you. Your destiny is interwoven with mine. You can not flee it, do what you may. We are ruled by our stars, Khalid. And if you do not realise this now, you will realise it to-morrow. Here, give me your hand." "I can not." "Very well, then. Good-bye--_au revoir_. In three months you will change your mind. In three months I will return to the East and find you waiting for me, even here in this desert. Think on it, and take care of yourself. _Au revoir._" In this strange, mysterious manner, after pacing for hours on the sand in the sheen of the full moon, Mrs. Gotfry says farewell to Khalid. He sits on a rock near his tent and ponders for hours. He seeks in the stars, as it were, a clue to the love of this woman, which he first thought to be unfathomable. There it is, the stars seem to say. And he looks into the sand-grave near him, where little Najib practises how to die. Yes; a fitting symbol of the life and love called modern, boasting of freedom. They dance their dervish dance, these people, even like Khalid's little Najib, and fall into their sand-graves, and fold their arms and smile: "We are in love--or we are out of it." Which is the same. No: he'll have none of this. A heart as simple as this desert sand, as deep in affection as this heaven, untainted by the uncertainties and doubts and caprices of modern life,--only in such a heart is the love that endures, the love divine and eternal. He goes into Najma's tent. The mother and her child are sound asleep. He stands between the bed and the cot contemplating the simplicity and innocence and truth, which are more eloquent in Najib's brow than aught of human speech. His little hand raised above his head seems to point to a star which could be seen through an opening in the canvas. Was it his star--the star that he saw in the sand-grave--the star that is calling to him?-- But let us resume our narration. A fortnight after Mrs. Gotfry's departure Shakib leaves the camp to live in Cairo. He is now become poet-laureate to one of the big pashas. Khalid is left alone with Najma and Najib. And one day, when they are playing a game of "donkey,"--Khalid carried Najib on his back, ran on all four around the tent, and Najma was the donkey-driver,--the child of a sudden utters a shriek and falls on the sand. He is in convulsions; and after the relaxation, lo, his right hand is palsied, his mouth awry, and his eyes a-squint. Khalid finds a young doctor at Al-Hayat, and his diagnosis of the case does not disturb the mind. It is infantile paralysis, a disease common with delicate children. And the doctor, who is of a kind and demonstrative humour, discourses at length on the disease, speaks of many worse cases of its kind he cured, and assures the mother that within a month the child will recover. For the present he can but prescribe a purgative and a massage of the arm and spine. On the third visit, he examines the child's fæces and is happy to have discovered the seat and cause of the affection. The liver is not performing its function; and given such weak nerves as the child's, a torpid liver in certain cases will produce paralysis. But Khalid is not satisfied with this. He places the doctor's prescription in his pocket, and goes down to Cairo for a specialist. He comes, this one, to disturb their peace of mind with his indecision. It is not infantile paralysis, and he can not yet say what it is. Khalid meanwhile is poring over medical books on all the diseases that children are heir to. On the fifth day the child falls again in convulsions, and the left arm, too, is paralysed. They take him down to Cairo; and Medicine, considering the disease of his mother, guesses a third time--tuberculosis of the spine, it says--and guesses wrong. Again, considering the strabismus, the obliquity of the mouth, the palsy in the arms, and the convulsions, we guess closely, but ominously. Nay, Medicine is positive this time; for a fifth and a sixth Guesser confirm the others. Here we have a case of cerebral meningitis. That is certain; that is fatal. Najib is placed under treatment. They cut his hair, his beautiful flow of dark hair; rub his scalp with chloroform; keep the hot bottles around his feet, the ice bag on his head; and give him a spoon of physic every hour. "Make no noise around the room, and admit no light into it," further advises the doctor. Thus for two weeks the child languishes in his mother's arms; and resting from the convulsions and the coma, he would fix on Khalid the hollow, icy glance of death. No; the light and intelligence might never revisit those vacant eyes. Now Shakib comes to suggest a consultation. The great English physician of Cairo, why not call _him_? It might not be meningitis, after all, and the child might be helped, might be cured. The great guesswork Celebrity is called. He examines the patient and confirms the opinion of his confrères, rather his disciples. "But the whole tissue," he continues with glib assurance, "is not affected. The area is local, and to the side of the ear that is sore. The strabismus being to the right, the affection must be to the left. And the pus accumulating behind the ear, under the bone, and pressing on the covering of the brain, produces the inflammation. Yes, pus is the cause of this." And he repeats the Arabic proverb in broken Arabic, "A drop of pus will disable a camel." Further, "Yes, the child's life can be saved by trepanning. It should have been done already, but the time's not passed. Let the surgeon come and make a little opening--no; a child can stand chloroform better than an adult. And when the pus is out he will be well." In a private consultation the disciples beg to observe that there was no evidence of pus behind the ear. "It is beneath the skullbone," the Master asserts. And so we decide upon the operation. The Eye and Ear specialist is called, and after weighing the probabilities of the case and considering that the great Celebrity had said there was pus, although there be no evidence of it, he convinces Khalid that if the child is not benefited by the operation he cannot suffer from it more than he is suffering now. The surgeon comes with his assistants. Little Najib is laid on the table; the chloroform towel is applied; the scalpels, the cotton, the basins of hot water, and other accessories, are handed over by one doctor to another. The Cutter begins. Shakib is there watching with the rest; Najma is in an adjacent room weeping; and Khalid is pacing up and down the hall, his brows moistened with the cold sweat of anguish and suspense. No pus between the scalp and the bone: the little hammer and chisel are handed to the Cutter. One, two, three,--the child utters a faint cry; the chloroform towel is applied again;--four, five, six, and the seventh stroke of the little hammer opens the skull. The Cutter then penetrates with his catheter, searches thoroughly through the brain--here--there--above--below--and finally holds the instrument up to his assistants to show them that there is--no pus! "If there be any," says he, "it is beyond the reach of surgery." The wound, therefore, is quickly washed, sewn up, and dressed, while everybody is wondering how the great Celebrity can be wrong.... Little Najib remains under the influence of anæsthetics for two days--for two days he is in a trance. And on the third, the fever mounts to the danger line and descends again--only after he had stretched his little arm and breathed his last! And Khalid and Najma and Shakib take him out to the desert and bury him in the sand, near the tent round which he used to play. There, where he stepped his first step, lisped his first syllable, smacked his first kiss, and saw for the first time a star in the heaven, he is laid; he is given to the Night, to the Eternity which Khalid does not fear. And yet, what tears, Shakib tells us, he shed over that little grave. But about the time the second calamity approaches, when Najma begins to decline and waste away from grief, when the relapse sets in and carries her in a fortnight downward to the grave of her child, Khalid's eyes are as two pieces of flint stone on a sheet of glass. His tears flow inwardly, as it were, through his cracked heart.... Like the poet Saadi, Khalid once sought to fill his lap with celestial flowers for his friends and brothers; and he gathered some; but, alas, the fragrance of them so intoxicated him that the skirt dropt from his hand.... * * * * * We are again at the Mena House, where we first met Shakib. And the reader will remember that the tears rushed to his eyes when we inquired of him about his Master and Friend. "He has disappeared some ten days ago," he then said, "and I know not whither." Therefore, ask us not, O gentle Reader, what became of him. How can _we_ know? He might have entered a higher spiritual circle or a lower; of a truth, he is not now on the outskirts of the desert: deeper to this side or to that he must have passed. And passing he continues to dream of "appearance in the disappearance; of truth in the surrender; of sunrises in the sunset." Now, fare _thee_ well in either case, Reader. And whether well or ill spent the time we have journeyed together, let us not quarrel about it. For our part, we repeat the farewell words of Sheikh Taleb of Damascus: "Judge us not severely." And if we did not study to entertain thee as other Scribes do, it is because we consider thee, dear good Reader, above such entertainment as our poor resources can furnish, _Wassalmu aleik_! IN . FREIKE . WHICH . IS . IN . MOUNT . LEBANON SYRIA . ON . THE . TWELFTH . DAY . OF JANUARY . 1910 . ANNO . CHRISTI . AND . THE FIRST . DAY . OF . MUHARRAM . 1328 . HEGIRAH THIS . BOOK . OF . KHALID . WAS . FINISHED [Illustration] Transcriber's Notes: Typographical problems have been changed and are listed below. Author's archaic and variable spelling is preserved. Author's punctuation style is preserved. Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. Transcriber Changes: "_Les dessons[** Was 'dessous']_"--and the Poet who intersperses under their heavy burdens, upsetting a tray of sweetmeats[** Was 'sweet-meats across lines] occasionally meets with a native who, failing as peddler[** Was pedler] nevertheless[** Was 'neverthelesss'] significant to remark that the City of that makes me sad.'"[** Added closing double-quote] land. See him genuflecting now, to kiss the curbstone[** Was 'curb-stone' across lines] his _Al-Mutanabby_[** As originally printed]. In relating of Khalid's waywardness Old Arabic books, printed in Bulaq,[** Added comma] generally ""No[** Added extra opening double-quote] more voyages, I trust, O thou Sindbad.' And more than one vice to demand forgetfulness[** Was 'forgetfuless']. keep at the Jesuits.'[** Removed closing double-quote] can not understand them. They are like the sweetmeats[** Was 'sweet-meats' across lines] each other, 'Ah, Adam, ah, Eve!'[** Added closing single-quote] sighing likewise we will ..." Khalid makes no reply.[** Changed ',' to '.'] the _zeffah_ (wedding procession)[** Removed extra ')'] of none but she and hermit."[** Added closing double-quote] (Strange coincidence!) "On your way here out, so to speak, exposing its boulders, its little windrows[** Was 'wind-rows' across lines] of the stars, I can tell thee this about them all:[** Original may be ';'] they Health; in thy temples of worship, to universal Goodwill;[** Was 'Good-will' across lines] on the _gulma_ (oustraation of animals)[** Added closing ')'], called forth, we regret and sorrow.[** Changed ',' to '.'] That such a beautiful face should "I am a Christian, too."[** Added closing double-quote] Meanwhile, she goes to her room, brings some sweetmeats[** Was 'sweet-meats' across lines] as a statue."[** Added closing double-quote] 
7794	----	PELLE THE CONQUEROR PART IV.--DAYBREAK. BY MARTIN ANDERSON NEXO TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH By Jessie Muir. IV. DAYBREAK I Out in the middle of the open, fertile country, where the plough was busy turning up the soil round the numerous cheerful little houses, stood a gloomy building that on every side turned bare walls toward the smiling world. No panes of glass caught the ruddy glow of the morning and evening sun and threw back its quivering reflection; three rows of barred apertures drank in all the light of day with insatiable avidity. They were always gaping greedily, and seen against the background of blue spring sky, looked like holes leading into the everlasting darkness. In its heavy gloom the mass of masonry towered above the many smiling homes, but their peaceable inhabitants did not seem to feel oppressed. They ploughed their fields right up to the bare walls, and wherever the building was visible, eyes were turned toward it with an expression that told of the feeling of security that its strong walls gave. Like a landmark the huge building towered above everything else. It might very well have been a temple raised to God's glory by a grateful humanity, so imposing was it; but if so, it must have been in by-gone ages, for no dwellings--even for the Almighty--are built nowadays in so barbaric a style, as if the one object were to keep out light and air! The massive walls were saturated with the dank darkness within, and the centuries had weathered their surface and made on it luxuriant cultures of fungus and mould, and yet they still seemed as if they could stand for an eternity. The building was no fortress, however, nor yet a temple whose dim recesses were the abode of the unknown God. If you went up to the great, heavy door, which was always closed you could read above the arch the one word _Prison_ in large letters and below it a simple Latin verse that with no little pretentiousness proclaimed: "I am the threshold to all virtue and wisdom; Justice flourishes solely for my sake." One day in the middle of spring, the little door in the prison gate opened, and a tall man stepped out and looked about him with eyes blinking at the light which fell upon his ashen-white face. His step faltered and he had to lean for support against the wall; he looked as if he were about to go back again, but he drew a deep breath and went out on to the open ground. The spring breeze made a playful assault upon him, tried to ruffle his prison-clipped, slightly gray hair, which had been curly and fair when last it had done so, and penetrated gently to his bare body like a soft, cool hand. "Welcome, Pelle!" said the sun, as it peeped into his distended pupils in which the darkness of the prison-cell still lay brooding. Not a muscle of his face moved, however; it was as though hewn out of stone. Only the pupils of his eyes contracted so violently as to be almost painful, but he continued to look earnestly before him. Whenever he saw any one, he stopped and gazed eagerly, perhaps in the hope that it was some one coming to meet him. As he turned into the King's Road some one called to him. He turned round in sudden, intense joy, but then his head dropped and he went on without answering. It was only a tramp, who was standing half out of a ditch in a field a little way off, beckoning to him. He came running over the ploughed field, crying hoarsely: "Wait a little, can't you? Here have I been waiting for company all day, so you might as well wait a little!" He was a broad-shouldered, rather puffy-looking fellow, with a flat back and the nape of his neck broad and straight and running right up into his cap without forming any projection for the back of his head, making one involuntarily think of the scaffold. The bone of his nose had sunk into his purple face, giving a bull-dog mixture of brutality and stupid curiosity to its expression. "How long have you been in?" he asked, as he joined him, breathless. There was a malicious look in his eyes. "I went in when Pontius Pilate was a little boy, so you can reckon it out for yourself," said Pelle shortly. "My goodness! That was a good spell! And what were you copped for?" "Oh, there happened to be an empty place, so they took me and put me in --so that it shouldn't stand empty, you know!" The tramp scowled at him. "You're laying it on a little too thick! You won't get any one to believe that!" he said uncertainly. Suddenly he put himself in front of Pelle, and pushed his bull-like forehead close to the other's face. "Now, I'll just tell you something, my boy!" he said. "I don't want to touch any one the first day I'm out, but you'd better take yourself and your confounded uppishness somewhere else; for I've been lying here waiting for company all day." "I didn't mean to offend any one," said Pelle absently. He looked as if he had not come back to earth, and appeared to have no intention of doing anything. "Oh, didn't you! That's fortunate for you, or I might have taken a color-print of your doleful face, however unwillingly. By the way, mother said I was to give you her love." "Are you Ferdinand?" asked Pelle, raising his head. "Oh, don't pretend!" said Ferdinand. "Being in gaol seems to have made a swell of you!" "I didn't recognize you," said Pelle earnestly, suddenly recalled to the world around him. "Oh, all right--if you say so. It must be the fault of my nose. I got it bashed in the evening after I'd buried mother. I was to give you her love, by the way." "Thank you!" said Pelle heartily. Old memories from the "Ark" filled his mind and sent his blood coursing through his veins once more. "Is it long since your mother died?" he asked sympathetically. Ferdinand nodded. "It was a good thing, however," he said, "for now there's no one I need go and have a bad conscience about. I'd made up my mind that she deserved to have things comfortable in her old age, and I was awfully careful; but all the same I was caught for a little robbery and got eight months. That was just after you got in--but of course you know that." "No! How could I know it?" "Well, I telegraphed it over to you. I was just opposite you, in Wing A, and when I'd reckoned out your cell, I bespoke the whole line one evening, and knocked a message through to you. But there was a sanctimonious parson at the corner of your passage, one of those moral folk--oh, you didn't even know that, then? Well, I'd always suspected him of not passing my message on, though a chap like that's had an awful lot of learning put into him. Then when I came out I said to myself that there must be an end to all this, for mother'd taken it very much to heart, and was failing. I managed to get into one of the streets where honest thieves live, and went about as a colporteur, and it all went very well. It would have been horribly mean if she'd died of hunger. And we had a jolly good time for six months, but then she slipped away all the same, and I can just tell you that I've never been in such low spirits as the day they put her underground in the cemetery. Well, I said to myself, there lies mother smelling the weeds from underneath, so you can just as well give it all up, for there's nothing more to trouble about now. And I went up to the office and asked for a settlement, and they cheated me of fifty subscribers, the rogues! "Of course I went to the police: I was stupid enough to do that at that time. But they're all a lot of rogues together. They thought it wouldn't do to believe a word that I said, and would have liked to put me in prison at once; but for all they poked about they couldn't find a peg to hang their hat upon. 'He's managing to hide it well this time, the sly fellow!' they said, and let me go. But there soon was something, for I settled the matter myself, and you may take your oath my employers didn't get the best of the arrangement. You see there are two kinds of people--poor people who are only honest when they let themselves be robbed, and all the others. Why the devil should one go about like a shorn sheep and not rob back! Some day of course there'll be a bust-up, and then--'three years, prisoner!' I shall be in again before long." "That depends upon yourself," said Pelle slowly. "Oh, well, of course you can do _something_; but the police are always getting sharper, and the man isn't born who won't fall into the trap sooner or later." "You should try and get some honest employment again. You've shown that you can succeed." Ferdinand whistled. "In such a paltry way as that! Many thanks for the good advice! You'd like me to look after a bloated aristocrat's geese and then sit on the steps and eat dry bread to the smell of the roast bird, would you? No, thank you! And even if I did--what then? You may be quite sure they'd keep a good watch on a fellow, if he tried an honest job, and it wouldn't be two days before the shadow was there. 'What's this about Ferdinand? I hear things are not all square with him. I'm sorry, for he's really worked well; but he'd better look out for another place.' That's what the decent ones would do; the others would simply wait until his wages were due and take something off--because he'd been in once. They could never be sure that he hadn't stolen something from them, could they? and it's best to be careful! If you make a fuss, you're called a thief to your face. I've tried it, let me tell you! And now you can try it yourself. You'll be in again as soon as ever the spring comes! The worst of it is that it gets more every time; a fellow like me may get five years for stealing five krones (five shillings). Isn't that a shame? So it's just as well to do something to make it worth while. It wouldn't matter if you could only get a good hit at it all. It's all one to me now that mother's dead. There's a child crying, but it's not for me. There isn't a soul that would shed a tear if I had to lay my head on the block. They'd come and stare, that's what they'd do--and I should get properly into the papers! "Wicked? Of course I'm wicked! Sometimes I feel like one great sore, and would like to let them hear all about it. There's no such thing as gentle hands. That's only a lie, so I owe nothing to anybody. Several times while I've been in there I've made up my mind to kill the warder, just so as to have a hit at something; for he hadn't done me any harm. But then I thought after all it was stupid. I'd no objection to kick the bucket; it would be a pleasant change anyhow to sitting in prison all one's life. But then you'd want to do something first that would make a stir. That's what I feel!" They walked on at a good pace, their faces turned in the direction of the smoky mist of the town far ahead, Ferdinand chewing his quid and spitting incessantly. His hardened, bulldog face with its bloodshot eyes was entirely without expression now that he was silent. A peasant lad came toward them, singing at the top of his voice. He must have been about twelve or fourteen years of age. "What are you so happy about, boy?" asked Ferdinand, stopping him. "I took a heifer into the town, and I got two krones (two shillings) for the job," answered the boy, smiling all over his face. "You must have been up early then," said Pelle. "Yes, I left home at three last night. But now I've earned a day's wages, and can take it easy the rest of the day!" answered the boy, throwing the two-krone piece into the air and catching it again. "Take care you don't lose it," said Ferdinand, following the coin with covetous eyes. The boy laughed merrily. "Let's see whether it's a good one. They're a fearful lot of thieves on the market in there." The boy handed him the coin. "Ah, yes, it's one of those that you can break in half and make two of," said Ferdinand, doing a few juggling tricks with it. "I suppose I may keep one?" His expression had become lively and he winked maliciously at Pelle as he stood playing with the coin so that it appeared to be two. "There you are; that's yours," he said, pressing the piece of money firmly into the boy's hand. "Take good care of it, so that you don't get a scolding from your mother." The boy opened his empty hand in wonderment. "Give me my two-krone!" he said, smiling uncertainly. "What the devil--I've given it you once!" said Ferdinand, pushing the boy aside roughly and beginning to walk on. The boy followed him and begged persistently for his money. Then he began to cry. "Give him his money!" said Pelle crossly. "It's not amusing now." "Amusing?" exclaimed Ferdinand, stopping abruptly and gazing at him in amazement. "Do you think I play for small sums? What do I care about the boy! He may take himself off; I'm not his father." Pelle looked at him a moment without comprehending; then he took a paper containing a few silver coins out of his waistcoat pocket, and handed the boy two krones. The boy stood motionless with amazement for a moment, but then, seizing the money, he darted away as quickly as he could go. Ferdinand went on, growling to himself and blinking his eyes. Suddenly he stopped and exclaimed: "I'll just tell you as a warning that if it wasn't you, and because I don't want to have this day spoiled, I'd have cracked your skull for you; for no one else would have played me that trick. Do you understand?" And he stood still again and pushed his heavy brow close to Pelle's face. Quick as thought, Pelle seized him by his collar and trousers, and threw him forcibly onto a heap of stones. "That's the second time to-day that you've threatened to crack my skull," he said in fury, pounding Ferdinand's head against the stones. For a few moments he held him down firmly, but then released him and helped him to rise. Ferdinand was crimson in the face, and stood swaying, ready to throw himself upon Pelle, while his gaze wandered round in search of a weapon. Then he hesitatingly drew the two-krone piece out of his pocket, and handed it to Pelle in sign of subjection. "You may keep it," said Pelle condescendingly. Ferdinand quickly pocketed it again, and began to brush the mud off his clothes. "The skilly in there doesn't seem to have weakened you much," he said, shaking himself good-naturedly as they went on. "You've still got a confounded hard hand. But what I can't understand is why you should be so sorry for a hobbledehoy like that. He can take care of himself without us." "Weren't you once sorry too for a little fellow when some one wanted to take his money away from him?" "Oh, that little fellow in the 'Ark' who was going to fetch the medicine for his mother? That's such a long time ago!" "You got into difficulties with the police for his sake! It was the first time you were at odds with the authorities, I think." "Well, the boy hadn't done anything; I saw that myself. So I hobbled the copper that was going to run him in. His mother was ill--and my old 'un was alive; and so I was a big idiot! You'll see you won't get far with your weak pity. Do we owe any one anything, I should like to know?" "Yes, _I_ do," said Pelle, suddenly raising his face toward the light. "But I can't say you've much to thank any one for." "What confounded nonsense!" exclaimed Ferdinand, staring at him. "Have they been good to you, did you say? When they shut you up in prison too, perhaps? You're pretending to be good, eh? You stop that! You'll have to go farther into the country with it. So you think you deserved your house-of-correction turn, while another was only suffering the blackest injustice? Nonsense! They know well enough what they're doing when they get hold of me, but they might very well have let you off. You got together fifty thousand men, but what did you all do, I should like to know? You didn't make as much disturbance as a mouse in a pair of lady's unmentionables. Well-to-do people are far more afraid of me than of you and all your fellows together. Injustice! Oh, shut up and don't slobber! You give no quarter, and you don't ask any either: that's all. And by the way, you might do me the favor to take back your two-krone. _I_ don't owe any one anything." "Well, borrow it, then," said Pelle. "You can't go to town quite without money." "Do take it, won't you?" begged Ferdinand. "It isn't so easy for you to get hold of any as for any one else, and it was a little too mean the way I got it out of you. You've been saving it up in there, a halfpenny a day, and perhaps gone without your quid, and I come and cheat you out of it! No, confound it! And you gave mother a little into the bargain; I'd almost forgotten it! Well, never mind the tin then! I know a place where there's a good stroke of business to be done." A little above Damhus Lake they turned into a side road that led northward, in order to reach the town from the Nörrebro side. Far down to the right a great cloud of smoke hung in the air. It was the atmosphere of the city. As the east wind tore off fragments of it and carried them out, Ferdinand lifted his bull-dog nose and sniffed the air. "Wouldn't I like to be sitting in the 'Cupping-Glass' before a horse-steak with onions!" he said. By this time the afternoon was well advanced. They broke sticks out of a hedge and went on steadily, following ditches and dikes as best they could. The plough was being driven over the fields, backward and forward, turning up the black earth, while crows and sea-birds fought in the fresh furrows. The ploughmen put the reins round their waist each time they came to the end of their line, threw the plough over and brought it into position for a new furrow, and while they let their horses take breath, gazed afar at the two strange spring wayfarers. There was such a foreign air about their clothes that they must be two of that kind of people that go on foot from land to land, they thought; and they called after them scraps of foreign sentences to show they knew something about them. Ah, yes! They were men who could look about them! Perhaps by to-morrow those two would be in a foreign country again, while other folk never left the place they were once in! They passed a white house standing in stately seclusion among old trees, a high hawthorn hedge screening the garden from the road. Ferdinand threw a hasty glance over the gate. The blinds were all down! He began to be restless, and a little farther on he suddenly slipped in behind a hedge and refused to go any farther. "I don't care to show myself in town empty-handed," he said. "And besides evening's the best time to go in at full speed. Let's wait here until it's dark. I can smell silver in that house we passed." "Come on now and let those fancies alone," said Pelle earnestly. "A new life begins from to-day. I'll manage to help you to get honest work!" Ferdinand broke into laughter. "Good gracious me! You help others! You haven't tried yet what it is to come home from prison! You'll find it hard enough to get anywhere yourself, my good fellow. New life, ha, ha! No; just you stay here and we'll do a little business together when it gets dark. The house doesn't look quite squint-eyed. Then this evening we can go to the 'Cupping-Glass' and have a jolly good spree, and act the home-coming American. Besides it's not right to go home without taking something for your family. Just you wait! You should see 'Laura with the Arm' dance! She's my cupboard-love, you know. She can dance blindfold upon a table full of beer-mugs without spilling a drop. There might be a little kiss for you too.--Hang it!--you don't surely imagine you'll be made welcome anywhere else, do you? I can tell you there's no one who'll stand beckoning you home.--Very well, then go to the devil, you fool, and remember me to your monthly nurse! When you're tired of family life, you can ask for me at my address, the 'Cupping-Glass'." His hoarse, hollow voice cut through the clear spring air as he shouted the last words with his hand to his mouth. Pelle went on quickly, as though anxious to leave something behind him. He had had an insane hope of being received in some kind way or other when he came out--comrades singing, perhaps, or a woman and two children standing on the white highroad, waiting for him! And there had only been Ferdinand to meet him! Well, it had been a damper, and now he shook off the disappointment and set out at a good pace. The active movement set his pulses beating. The sky had never before been so bright as it was to-day; the sun shone right into his heart. There was a smiling greeting in it all--in the wind that threw itself into his very arms, in the fresh earth and in the running water in the ditches. Welcome back again, Pelle! How wide and fair the world looks when you've spent years within four bare walls! Down in the south the clouds were like the breast of a great bright bird, one of those that come a long way every year with summer in the beat of their strong wings; and on all sides lay the open, white roads, pointing onward with bright assurances. For the fourth time he was setting out to conquer the world, and this time it was in bitter earnest. There had always before proved to be something more behind, but now he felt that what he should now set out upon would be decisive; if he was victorious now, he would conquer eternity. This time it must be either for weal or woe, and all that he possessed he was now bringing into the field. He had never before been so heavily equipped. Far off he could still make out the dome of the prison, which stood there like a huge mill over the descent to the nether world, and ground misery into crime in the name of humanity. It sucked down every one who was exposed to life's uncertainty; he had himself hung in the funnel and felt how its whirling drew him down. But Pelle had been too well equipped. Hitherto he had successfully converted everything into means of rising, and he took this in the same way. His hair was no longer fair, but, on the other hand, his mind was magically filled with a secret knowledge of the inner nature of things, for he had sat at the root of all things, and by listening had drawn it out of the solitude. He had been sitting moping in the dark mountain like Prince Fortune, while Eternity sang to him of the great wonder. The spirits of evil had carried him away into the mountains; that was all. And now they had set him free again, believing that he had become a troll like all his predecessors. But Pelle was not bewitched. He had already consumed many things in his growth, and this was added to the rest. What did a little confinement signify as compared with the slow drip, drip, of centuries? Had he not been born with a caul, upon which neither steel nor poison made any impression? He sat down on an elevation, pulled off his cap, and let the cool breeze play upon his forehead. It was full of rich promises; in its vernal wandering over the earth it had gathered up all that could improve and strengthen, and loaded him with it. Look around you, Pelle! On all sides the soil was being prepared, the plough-teams nodded up the gentle inclines and disappeared down the other side. A thin vapor rose from the soil; it was the last of the cold evaporating in the declining spring day. Some way down a few red cottages smilingly faced the sunset, and still farther on lay the town with its eternal cloud of smoke hanging over it. What would his future be like down there? And how did matters stand? Had the new made its way to the front, or would he once more have to submit to an extortioner, get only the bare necessaries of life out of his work, and see the rest disappear into some one else's pocket? A number of new factories had grown up, and now formed quite a belt about the city, with their hundreds of giant chimneys stretching up into the sky. But something must be going on, since they were not smoking. Was it a wages conflict? He was now going to lay plans for his life, build it up again upon the deep foundation that had been laid in his solitude; and yet he knew absolutely nothing of the conditions down in the town! Well, he had friends in thousands; the town was simply lying waiting to receive him with open arms, more fond of him than ever because of all he had suffered. With all his ignorance he had been able to lead them on a little way; the development had chosen him as its blind instrument, and it had been successful; but now he was going to lead them right into the land, for now he felt the burden of life within him. Hullo! if he wasn't building castles in the air just as in the old days, and forgetting all that the prison cell had taught him so bitterly! The others' good indeed! He had been busily concerned for the homes of others, and had not even succeeded in building his own! What humbug! Down there were three neglected beings who would bring accusations against him, and what was the use of his sheltering himself behind the welfare of the many? What was the good of receiving praise from tens of thousands and being called benefactor by the whole world, if those three whose welfare had been entrusted to him accused him of having failed them? He had often enough tried to stifle their accusing voices, but in there it was not possible to stifle anything into silence. Pelle still had no doubt that he was chosen to accomplish something for the masses, but it had become of such secondary importance when he recollected that he had neglected his share of that which was the duty of every one. He had mistaken small for great, and believed that when he accomplished something that no one else could do, he might in return pay less attention to ordinary every-day duties; but the fates ordained that the burden of life should be laid just where every one could help. And now he was coming back like a poor beggar, who had conquered everything except the actual, and therefore possessed nothing, and had to beg for mercy. Branded as a criminal, he must now begin at the beginning, and accomplish that which he had not been able to do in the days of his power. It would be difficult to build his home under these circumstances, and who was there to help him? Those three who could have spoken for him he had left to their own devices as punishment for an offence which in reality was his own. He had never before set out in such a poverty-stricken state. He did not even come like one who had something to forgive: his prison-cell had left him nothing. He had had time enough there to go carefully over the whole matter, and everything about Ellen that he had before been too much occupied to notice or had felt like a silent opposition to his projects, now stood out clearly, and formed itself, against his will, into the picture of a woman who never thought of herself, but only of the care of her little world and how she could sacrifice herself. He could not afford to give up any of his right here, and marshalled all his accusations against her, bringing forward laws and morals; but it all failed completely to shake the image, and only emphasized yet more the strength of her nature. She had sacrificed _everything_ for him and the children, her one desire being to see them happy. Each of his attacks only washed away a fresh layer of obstructing mire, and made the sacrifice in her action stand out more clearly. It was because she was so unsensual and chaste that she could act as she had done. Alas! she had had to pay dearly for _his_ remissness; it was the mother who, in their extreme want, gave her own body to nourish her offspring. Pelle would not yield, but fought fiercely against conviction. He had been robbed of freedom and the right to be a human being like others, and now solitude was about to take from him all that remained to sustain him. Even if everything joined together against him, he was not wrong, he _would_ not be wrong. It was he who had brought the great conflict to an end at the cost of his own--and he had found Ellen to be a prostitute! His thoughts clung to this word, and shouted it hoarsely, unceasingly--prostitute! prostitute! He did not connect it with anything, but only wanted to drown the clamor of accusations on all sides which were making him still more naked and miserable. At first letters now and then came to him, probably from old companions- in-arms, perhaps too from Ellen: he did not know, for he refused to take them. He hated Ellen because she was the stronger, hated in impotent defiance everything and everybody. Neither she nor any one else should have the satisfaction of being any comfort to him; since he had been shut up as an unclean person, he had better keep himself quite apart from them. He would make his punishment still more hard, and purposely increased his forlornness, kept out of his thoughts everything that was near and dear to him, and dragged the painful things into the foreground. Ellen had of course forgotten him for some one else, and had perhaps turned the children's thoughts from him; they would certainly be forbidden to mention the word "father." He could distinctly see them all three sitting happily round the lamp; and when some turn in the conversation threatened to lead it to the subject of himself, a coldness and stillness as of death suddenly fell upon them. He mercilessly filled his existence with icy acknowledgment on all points, and believed he revenged himself by breathing in the deadly cold. After a prolonged period of this he was attacked with frenzy, dashed himself blindly against the walls, and shouted that he wanted to get out. To quiet him he was put into a strait-waistcoat and removed to a pitch-dark cell. On the whole he was one of the so-called defiant prisoners, who meant to kick against the pricks, and he was treated accordingly. But one night when he lay groaning after a punishment, and saw the angry face of God in the darkness, he suddenly became silent. "Are you a human being?" it said, "and cannot even bear a little suffering?" Pelle was startled. He had never known that there was anything particularly human in suffering. But from that night he behaved quietly, with a listening expression, as if he heard something through the walls. "Now he's become quiet," said the gaoler, who was looking at him through the peep-hole. "It won't be long before he's an idiot!" But Pelle had only come out on the other side; he was staring bravely into the darkness to see God's face once more, but in a gentler guise. The first thing he saw was Ellen again, sitting there beautiful, exculpated, made more desirable by all his accusations. How great and fateful all petty things became here! What was the good of defending himself? She was his fate, and he would have to surrender unconditionally. He still did not comprehend her, but he had a consciousness of greater laws for life, laws that raised _her_ and made him small. She and hers passed undefiled through places where he stuck fast in the surface mire. She seemed to him to grow in here, and led his thoughts behind the surface, where they had never been before. Her unfailing mother-love was like a beating pulse that rose from the invisible and revealed hidden mystical forces--the perceptible rhythm of a great heart which beat in concealment behind everything. Her care resembled that of God Himself; she was nearer to the springs of life than he. The springs of life! Through her the expression for the first time acquired a meaning for him. It was on the whole as if she re-created him, and by occupying himself with her ever enigmatical nature, his thoughts were turned further and further inward. He suspected the presence of strong currents which bore the whole thing; and sometimes in the silence of his cell he seemed to hear his existence flowing, flowing like a broad stream, and emptying itself out there where his thoughts had never ventured to roam. What became of the days and the years with all that they had held? The ever present Ellen, who had never herself given a thought to the unseen, brought Pelle face to face with infinity. While all this was going on within him, they sang one Sunday during the prison service Grundtvig's hymn, "The former days have passed away." The hymn expressed all that he had himself vaguely thought, and touched him deeply; the verses came to him in his narrow pen like waves from a mighty ocean, which rolled ages in to the shore in monotonous power. He suddenly and strongly realized the passage of generations of human beings over the earth, and boldly grasped what he had until now only dimly suspected, namely, his own connection with them all, both those who were living then and all those who had gone before. How small his own idea of union had been when measured by this immense community of souls, and what a responsibility was connected with each one! He understood now how fatal it was to act recklessly, then break off and leave everything. In reality you could never leave anything; the very smallest thing you shirked would be waiting for you as your fate at the next milestone. And who, indeed, was able to overlook an action? You had to be lenient continually, and at last it would turn out that you had been lenient to yourself. Pelle was taking in wisdom, and his own heart confirmed it. The thought of Ellen filled his mind more and more; he had lost her, and yet he could not get beyond her. Did she still love him? This question pursued him day and night with ever increasing vehemence, until even his life seemed to depend upon it. He felt, as he gazed questioningly into his solitude, that he would be worthless if he did not win her back. New worlds grew up before him; he could dimly discern the great connection between things, and thought he could see how deep down the roots of life stretched, drawing nourishment from the very darkness in which he dwelt. But to this he received no answer. He never dreamt of writing to her. God had His own way of dealing with the soul, a way with which one did not interfere. It would have to come like all the rest, and he lulled himself with the foolish hope that Ellen would come and visit him, for he was now in the right mood to receive her. On Sundays he listened eagerly to the heavy clang of the gate. It meant visitors to the prisoners; and when the gaoler came along the corridor rattling his keys, Pelle's heart beat suffocatingly. This repeated itself Sunday after Sunday, and then he gave up hope and resigned himself to his fate. After a long time, however, fortune favored him and brought him a greeting. Pelle took no personal part in the knocking that every evening after the lights were out sounded through the immense building as if a thousand death-ticks were at work. He had enough of his own to think about, and only knocked those messages on that had to pass through his cell. One day, however, a new prisoner was placed in the cell next to his, and woke him. He was a regular frequenter of the establishment, and immediately set about proclaiming his arrival in all directions. It was Druk-Valde, "Widow" Rasmussen's idler of a sweetheart, who used to stand all the winter through in the gateway in Chapel Road, and spit over the toes of his well-polished shoes. Yes, Valde knew Pelle's family well; his sweetheart had looked after the children when Ellen, during the great conflict, began to go out to work. Ellen had been very successful, and still held her head high. She sewed uppers and had a couple of apprentices to help her, and she was really doing pretty well. She did not associate with any one, not even with her relatives, for she never left her children. Druk-Valde had to go to the wall every evening; the most insignificant detail was of the greatest importance. Pelle could see Ellen as if she were standing in the darkness before him, pale, always clad in black, always serious. She had broken with her parents; she had sacrificed everything for his sake! She even talked about him so that the children should not have forgotten him by the time he came back. "The little beggars think you're travelling," said Valde. So everything was all right! It was like sunshine in his heart to know that she was waiting faithfully for him although he had cast her off. All the ice must melt and disappear; he was a rich man in spite of everything. Did she bear his name? he asked eagerly. It would be like her--intrepid as she was--defiantly to write "Pelle" in large letters on the door- plate. Yes, of course! There was no such thing as hiding there! Lasse Frederik and his sister were big now, and little Boy Comfort was a huge fellow for his age--a regular little fatty. To see him sitting in his perambulator, when they wheeled him out on Sundays, was a sight for gods! Pelle stood in the darkness as though stunned. Boy Comfort, a little fellow sitting in a perambulator! And it was not an adopted child either; Druk-Valde so evidently took it to be his. Ellen! Ellen! He went no more to the wall. Druk-Valde knocked in vain, and his six months came to an end without Pelle noticing it. This time he made no disturbance, but shrank under a feeling of being accursed. Providence must be hostile to him, since the same blow had been aimed at him twice. In the daytime he sought relief in hard work and reading; at night he lay on his dirty, mouldy-smelling mattress and wept. He no longer tried to overthrow his conception of Ellen, for he knew it was hopeless: she still tragically overshadowed everything. She was his fate and still filled his thoughts, but not brightly; there was indeed nothing bright or great about it now, only imperative necessity. And then his work! For a man there was always work to fall back upon, when happiness failed him. Pelle set to work in earnest, and the man who was at the head of the prison shoemaking department liked to have him, for he did much more than was required of him. In his leisure hours he read diligently, and entered with zest into the prison school-work, taking up especially history and languages. The prison chaplain and the teachers took an interest in him, and procured books for him which were generally unobtainable by the prisoners. When he was thoroughly tired out he allowed his mind to seek rest in thoughts of his home. His weariness cast a conciliatory light over everything, and he would lie upon his pallet and in imagination spend happy hours with his children, including that young cuckoo who always looked at him with such a strangely mocking expression. To Ellen alone he did not get near. She had never been so beautiful as now in her unapproachableness, but she received all his assurances in mysterious silence, only gazing at him with her unfathomable eyes. He had forsaken her and the home; he knew that; but had he not also made reparation? It was _her_ child he held on his knee, and he meant to build the home up again. He had had enough of an outlaw's life, and needed a heart upon which to rest his weary head. All this was dreaming, but now he was on his way down to begin from the beginning. He did not feel very courageous; the uncertainty held so many possibilities. Were the children and Ellen well, and was she still waiting for him? And his comrades? How would his fate shape itself? * * * * * Pelle was so little accustomed to being in the fresh air that it affected him powerfully, and, much against his will, he fell asleep as he leaned back upon the bank. The longing to reach the end of his journey made him dream that he was still walking on and making his entry into the city; but he did not recognize it, everything was so changed. People were walking about in their best clothes, either going to the wood or to hear lectures. "Who is doing the work, then?" he asked of a man whom he met. "Work!" exclaimed the man in surprise. "Why, the machines, of course! We each have three hours at them in the day, but it'll soon be changed to two, for the machines are getting more and more clever. It's splendid to live and to know that there are no slaves but those inanimate machines; and for that we have to thank a man called Pelle." "Why, that's me!" exclaimed Pelle, laughing with pleasure. "You! What absurdity! Why, you're a young man, and all this happened many years ago." "It is me, all the same! Don't you see that my hair is gray and my forehead lined? I got like that in fighting for you. Don't you recognize me?" But people only laughed at him, and he had to go on. "I'll go to Ellen!" he thought, disheartened. "She'll speak up for me!" And while the thought was in his mind, he found himself in her parlor. "Sit down!" she said kindly. "My husband'll be here directly." "Why, I'm your husband!" he exclaimed, hardly able to keep back his tears; but she looked at him coldly and without recognition, and moved toward the door. "I'm Pelle!" he said, holding out his hand beseechingly. "Don't you know me?" Ellen opened her lips to cry out, and at that moment the husband appeared threateningly in the doorway. From behind him Lasse Frederik and Sister peeped out in alarm, and Pelle saw with a certain amount of satisfaction that there were only the two. The terrible thing, however, was that the man was himself, the true Pelle with the good, fair moustache, the lock of hair on his forehead and the go-ahead expression. When he discovered this, it all collapsed and he sank down in despair. Pelle awoke with a start, bathed in perspiration, and saw with thankfulness the fields and the bright atmosphere: he was at any rate still alive! He rose and walked on with heavy steps while the spring breeze cooled his brow. His road led him to Nörrebro. The sun was setting behind him; it must be about the time for leaving off work, and yet no hooter sounded from the numerous factories, no stream of begrimed human beings poured out of the side streets. In the little tea-gardens in the Frederikssund Road sat workmen's families with perambulator and provision-basket; they were dressed in their best and were enjoying the spring day. Was there after all something in his dream? If so, it would be splendid to come back! He asked people what was going on, and was told that it was the elections. "We're going to take the city to-day!" they said, laughing triumphantly. From the square he turned into the churchyard, and went down the somber avenue of poplars to Chapel Road. Opposite the end of the avenue he saw the two little windows in the second floor; and in his passionate longing he seemed to see Ellen standing there and beckoning. He ran now, and took the stairs three or four at a time. Just as he was about to pull the bell-cord, he heard strange voices within, and paused as though paralyzed. The door looked cold and as if it had nothing to do with him; and there was no door-plate. He went slowly down the stairs and asked in the greengrocer's cellar below whether a woman who sewed uppers did not live on the second floor to the left. She had been forsaken by her husband and had two children-- _three_, he corrected himself humbly; What had become of them? The deputy-landlord was a new man and could give him no information; so he went up into the house again, and asked from door to door but without any result. Poor people do not generally live long in one place. Pelle wandered about the streets at haphazard. He could think of no way of getting Ellen's address, and gave it up disheartened; in his forlorn condition he had the impression that people avoided him, and it discouraged him. His soul was sick with longing for a kind word and a caress, and there was no one to give them. No eyes brightened at seeing him out again, and he hunted in vain in house after house for some one who would sympathize with him. A sudden feeling of hatred arose in him, an evil desire to hit out at everything and go recklessly on. Twilight was coming on. Below the churchyard wall some newspaper-boys were playing "touch last" on their bicycles. They managed their machines like circus-riders, and resembled little gauchos, throwing them back and running upon the back wheel only, and bounding over obstacles. They had strapped their bags on their backs, and their blue cap-bands flapped about their ears like pennons. Pelle seated himself upon a bench, and absently followed their reckless play, while his thoughts went back to his own careless boyhood. A boy of ten or twelve took the lead in breakneck tricks, shouting and commanding; he was the chief of the band, and maintained the leadership with a high hand. His face, with its snub nose, beamed with lively impudence, and his cap rested upon two exceptionally prominent ears. The boys began to make of the stranger a target for their exuberant spirits. In dashing past him they pretended to lose control of their machine, so that it almost went over his foot; and at last the leader suddenly snatched off his cap. Pelle quietly picked it up, but when the boy came circling back with measured strokes as though pondering some fresh piece of mischief he sprang up and seized him by the collar. "Now you shall have a thrashing, you scamp!" he said, lifting him off his bicycle. "But it'll be just as well if you get it from your parents. What's your father's name?" "He hasn't got a father!" cried the other boys, flocking round them threateningly. "Let him go!" The boy opened his lips to give vent to a torrent of bad language, but stopped suddenly and gazed in terror at Pelle, struggling like a mad thing to get away. Pelle let him go in surprise, and saw him mount his bicycle and disappear howling. His companions dashed after him like a flight of swallows. "Wait a little, Lasse Frederik!" they cried. Pelle stood a little while gazing after them, and then with bent head walked slowly into Nörrebro Street. It was strange to be walking again in this street, which had played so great a part in his life. The traffic was heavier here than in other places, and the stone paving made it more so. A peculiar adamantine self-dependence was characteristic of this district where every step was weighted with the weight of labor. The shops were the same, and he also recognized several of the shopkeepers. He tried to feel at home in the crowd, and looked into people's faces, wondering whether any one would recognize him. He both wished and feared it, but they hurried past, only now and then one of them would wonder a little at his strange appearance. He himself knew most of them as well as if it had been yesterday he had had to do with those thousands, for the intermediate years had not thrust new faces in between him and the old ones. Now and again he met one of his men walking on the pavement with his wife on his arm, while others were standing on the electric tramcars as drivers and conductors. Weaklings and steady fellows--they were his army. He could name them by name and was acquainted with their family circumstances. Well, a good deal of water had run under the bridge since then! He went into a little inn for travelling artisans, and engaged a room. "It's easy to see that you've been away from this country for a day or two," said the landlord. "Have you been far?" Oh, yes, Pelle had seen something of the world. And here at home there had been a good many changes. How did the Movement get on? "Capitally! Yes, awfully well! Our party has made tremendous progress; to-day we shall take the town!" "That'll make a difference in things, I suppose?" "Oh, well, I wouldn't say that for certain. Unemployment increases every year, and it's all the same who represents the town and sits in parliament. But we've got on very well as far as prices go." "Tell me--there was a man in the Movement a few years ago called Pelle; what's become of him?" The landlord scratched his parting. "Pelle! Pelle! Yes, of course. What in the world was there about him? Didn't he make false coins, or rob a till? If I remember right, he ended by going to prison. Well, well, there are bad characters in every movement." A couple of workmen, who were sitting at a table eating fried liver, joined in the conversation. "He came a good deal to the front five or six years ago," said one of them with his mouth full. "But there wasn't much in him; he had too much imagination." "He had the gift of the gab, anyhow," said the other. "I still distinctly remember him at the great lock-out. He could make you think you were no end of a fine fellow, he could! Well, that's all past and gone! Your health, comrade!" Pelle rose quietly and went out. He was forgotten; nobody remembered anything about him, in spite of all that he had fought for and suffered. Much must have passed over their heads since then, and him they had simply forgotten. He did not know what to do with himself, more homeless here in this street, which should have been his own, than in any other place. It was black with people, but he was not carried with the stream; he resembled something that has been washed up to one side and left lying. They were all in their best clothes. The workmen came in crowds on their way either from or to the polling-booths, and some were collected and accompanied thither by eager comrades. One man would shout to another across the road through his hollowed hand: "Hi, Petersen! I suppose you've voted?" Everywhere there was excitement and good humor: the city was to be taken! Pelle went with the stream over Queen Louise's Bridge and farther into the city. Here the feeling was different, opinions were divided, people exchanged sharp words. Outside the newspaper-offices stood dense crowds impeding the wheel-traffic as they waited patiently for the results that were shown in the windows. Every time a contested district came in, a wave of movement passed through the crowd, followed by a mighty roar if a victory was recorded. All was comparatively quiet; people stood outside the offices of the papers that bore the color of their party. Only the quarrelsome men gathered about their opponents and had their hats bashed in. Within the offices the members of the staff were passing busily backward and forward, hanging up the results and correcting them. All the _cafés_ and restaurants were full of customers. The telephone rang incessantly, and messengers kept coming with lists from the telegram bureaus; men fought over the results in front of the great blackboard and chances were discussed at the tables and much political nonsense was talked. Pelle had never seen the city so excited, not even during the great lock-out. Class faced class with clenched fists, the workmen even more eager than the upper class: they had become out-and-out politicians. He could see that the Movement had shifted its center of gravity over this. What was necessary was to gain seats; to-day they expected to get the upper hand in the city and a firm footing out in the country. Several of the old leaders were already in parliament and brought forward their practical experience in the debate; their aim now was nothing less than to usurp the political power. This was bold enough: they must have been successful, after all. He still possessed his old quickness of hearing as regards the general feeling, and perceived a change in the public tone. It had become broader, more democratic. Even the upper classes submitted to the ballot now, and condescended to fight for a majority of votes. Pelle could see no place for himself, however, in this conflict. "Hi, you there! I suppose you've voted?" men shouted to him as they passed. Voted! He had not even the right to vote! In the battle that was now being fought, their old leader was not even allowed to take part as an ordinary soldier. Out of the road! They marched in small bands on their way to the polling-booths or the Assembly Rooms, taking up the whole pavement, and Pelle readily moved out of their way. This time he did not come like a king's son for whom the whole world stood waiting. He was of the scum of the earth, neither more nor less, one who had been thrown aside and forgotten. If he succeeded in recalling himself to their remembrance, it would only be the bringing up of the story of a criminal. There was the house where the Stolpes lived. Perhaps they knew where Ellen was. But what did it matter to him? He had not forgotten Lasse Frederik's terror-stricken face. And there was the corner house where Morten had managed the business. Ah, it was long since their ways had parted! Morten had in reality always envied him; he had not been able to bear his tremendous success. Now he would be able to crow over him! Anger and bitterness filled his heart, and his head was confused, and his thoughts, bred of malice, were like clumsy faultfinders. For years the need of associating with human beings had been accumulating within him; and now the whole thing gave way like an avalanche. He could easily pick a quarrel with some one, just to make himself less a matter of indifference to the rest of the world. Why shouldn't he go to the "Cupping-Glass"? He would be expected there at any rate. Outside Griffenfeldt Street there was a crowd. A number of people had gathered round a coal-heaver, who was belaboring a lamp-post with the toes of his wooden shoes, at the same time using abusive language. He had run against it and had a bruise on his forehead. People were amusing themselves at his expense. As the light from the lamp fell upon the coal-blackened face of the drunken man, Pelle recognized him. It was Merry Jacob. He pushed his way angrily through the crowd and took him by the shoulder. "What's the matter with you, Jacob? Have you become a drunkard?" he said hotly. "How's that?" "It's got no business to get in the way of an organized workman," Jacob said indistinctly, kicking the air to the great delight of the onlookers, who encouraged him to continue. "I'm a member of my organization, and don't owe anything; you can see for yourselves!" He pulled out of his breast-pocket a little book in a black leather cover, and turned over its pages. "Just look for yourselves! Member's subscription paid, isn't it? Strike subscription paid, isn't it? Shown on entrance, isn't it? Just you shut up! Take it and pass it round; we must have our papers in order. You're supporting the election fund, I suppose? Go up and vote, confound you! The man who won't give his mite is a poor pal. Who says thief? There's no one here that steals. I'm an honest, organized--" He suddenly began to weep, and the saliva dropped from the corners of his mouth onto his coat, while he made fearful grimaces. Pelle managed to get him into a courtyard, and washed his wound at the pump. The cold water made him shiver, and his head lolled weakly. "Such a snotty blackleg!" he murmured. "I'll get the chairman to give him a doing in the paper." Suddenly he recognized Pelle. He started, and consciousness struggled to obtain control over his dulled senses. "Why, is that you, master?" he asked shamefacedly, seizing Pelle's hand. "So you've come back! I suppose you think me a beast, but what can I do?" "Just come along!" said Pelle sharply, anxious to get away from the crowd of spectators. They went down Meinung Street, Jacob staggering along in silence, and looking askance at his former leader. He walked a little awkwardly, but it came from his work; the meeting with Pelle had made him almost sober. "I'm sure you think I'm a beast," he said again at last in a pitiful voice. "But you see there's no one to keep me straight." "It's the fault of the brandy," said Pelle shortly. "Well, you may be right, but a fellow needs a kind word now and then, and you have to take it where you can get it. Your pals look down upon you and chuck you out of their set." "What's the matter, then?" asked Pelle. "What's the matter? Six times five's the matter, because I wouldn't let my old father starve during the lockout. We had a jolly good time then. I was a good son! Didn't mind the fat purses of the bigwigs and a little bread and water--and the devil and his standpipe! But now they're singing another tune: That man! Why, he's been punished for theft! End of him. No one asks why; they've become big men, you see. In olden days I was always called Merry Jacob, and the fellows liked to be in my shift. Do you know what they call me now? Thieving Jacob. Well, they don't say it right out, for if they did, some one 'ud crack their heads for them; but that is my name. Well, I say to myself, perhaps you saw everything topsy-turvy in those days; perhaps, after all, you're nothing but a thief. And then I have to drink to become an honest man again." "And get in rages with the lamp-posts! Don't you think you'd do better to hit out at those who wrong you?" Jacob was silent and hung his head; the once strong, bold fellow had become like a dog that any one might kick. If it were so dreadful to bear six times five among one's own people, what could Pelle say? "How is your brother?" he asked, in order to divert Jacob's thoughts to something brighter. "He was a splendid fellow." "He hung himself," answered Jacob gloomily. "He couldn't stand it any longer. We broke into a house together, so as to be equal about it; and the grocer owed the old man money--he'd worked for it--and they meant to cheat him out of it. So the two old things were starving, and had no fire either; and we got them what they'd a right to, and it was so splendidly done too. But afterward when there was a row at the works, agitation and election fuss and all that kind of thing, they just went and left him and me out. We weren't the right sort, you see; we hadn't the right to vote. He couldn't get even with the business in any other way than by putting a rope over the lamp-hook in the ceiling. I've looked at the matter myself all round, you see, but I can't make anything of it." He walked on a little without speaking, and then said: "Would you hit out properly now? There's need of a kind word." Pelle did not answer; it was all too sad. He did not even hear the question. "It was chiefly what you said that made me believe in a better time coming," Jacob continued persistently, "or perhaps my brother and me would have done differently and things might have gone better with both of us. Well, I suppose you believed it yourself, but what do you think now? Do you still believe in that about the better time? For I should like to be an honest man again." Of course Pelle still believed in it. "For there aren't many who'd give a brass farthing for that story now; but if _you_ say so--I've got faith in you all the same. Others wouldn't have the brains to think of anything for themselves, and it was like the cork going off, so to speak, for us poor people when you went away; everything went flat. If anything happens, it doesn't do for a poor devil to look on; and every time any one wants to complain, he gets a voting-paper pushed into his hand and they say: Go and vote and things will be altered! But confound it, that can't rouse a fellow who's not learnt anything from the time he was small. They'd taken a lot of trouble about me now--whitewashing me so that I could use my right to vote; but they can't make me so that no one looks down on me. And so I say, Thank you for nothing! But if you still believe in it, so will I, for I've got faith in you. Here's my hand on it!" Jacob was the same simple, good-hearted fellow that he had been in former days when he lived in the attic in the "Ark." There might very well have been a little more evil in him. But his words warmed Pelle's heart. Here was some one who needed him, and who still believed in him although he had been maimed in the fight. He was the first of the disabled ones, and Pelle was prepared to meet with more and to hear their accusations. Many of them would turn against him now that he was powerless, but he would have to put up with that. He felt as though he had the strength for it now. Pelle went into the street again, letting his feet carry him where they would, while he thought of the past and the future. They had been so certain that a new age would dawn upon them at once! The new, great truth had been so self-evident that it seemed as if all the old conditions must fall before it as at a magic word; and now the everyday reality had worn the gloss off it. As far as he could see, nothing particular had happened, and what was there to happen? That was not the way to overturn systems. From Merry Jacob's opinion he could draw his own, but he was no longer despondent, he did not mind what happened. He would have had no objection to challenge the opinion of his old comrades at once, and find out how he stood. He had passed through several side streets when he suddenly found himself in front of a large, well-lighted building with a broad flight of steps, up which people were flocking. It was one of the working-men's halls, and festivities were being held in it to celebrate the elections. Pelle went, by force of habit, with the stream. He remained at the back of the hall, and used his eyes as though he had just dropped down from some other planet; strange feelings welled up within him when he found himself once more among the people. For a moment he felt a vehement desire to cry: Here I am! and stretch out his arms to them all; but he quickly controlled it, and his face regained its stony composure. This then was his army from the conflict. They were decidedly better clothed than on the day when he led them in triumph into the city as its true citizens; they carried their heads higher too, did not get behind one another, but claimed room for themselves. They had more to eat, he could see, for their faces shone more; and their eyes had become indolent in expression, and no longer looked hungrily out into uncertainty but moved quietly and unhesitatingly from place to place. They were prepared for another long march, and perhaps it was as well; great things did not happen in the twinkling of an eye. He was aroused from his thoughts by discovering that the people nearest to him were turning and gazing at him. The number of faces looking round at him increased, and the words, "Pelle is here!" passed in a murmur through the crowd. Hundreds of eyes were directed toward him questioningly and searchingly, some of them in evident expectation of something unusual happening at once. The movement became general--a wave that carried him resistlessly to the front of the hall and up onto the platform. A great roar like the breaking of surf arose on all sides of him and stupefied his sensitive brain in which silence sat always putting together a fine new world about which no one else knew. Suddenly everything was still, so still that the solitude was again audible to his ear. Pelle spoke quietly and with confidence. His words were a greeting to them from a world they as yet did not know, the great solitude through which man must move alone--without loud-voiced companions to encourage him--and listen until he hears his own heart beat within it. He sits in a cell again, like the first original germ of life, alone and forsaken; and over him a spider skilfully spins its web. At first he is angry with the busy insect, and tears down the web; but the insect begins again patiently. And this suddenly becomes a consolatory lesson to him never to give up; he becomes fond of the little vigilant creature that makes its web as skilfully as if it had a great responsibility, and he asks himself whether it is at all conscious of his existence. Is it sorry for him in his forsaken condition, since it does not move to another place, but patiently builds its web up again, finer and finer, as if it had only been torn down because it was not made well enough? He bitterly regrets his conduct, and would give much for a sign that the little insect is not angry with him, for no one can afford to offend another; the smallest creature is of vital importance to you. In the loneliness of the prison cell you learn solidarity. And one day when he is sitting reading, the spider, in its busy efforts to carry its thread past him, drops down and uses his shoulder as a temporary attachment. Never before has such confidence been shown him notwithstanding everything; the little insect knew how a hardened criminal should be taken. It taught him that he had both a heart and a soul to take care of. A greeting to his comrades from the great silence that was waiting to speak to them one by one. He spoke from the depths of his soul, and saw surprise in their faces. What in the world did he want? Did he want them all to go to prison only because he himself had been there? Was that all that was left of the old Pelle--Lightning, as he was then called? He was certainly rather weak in the legs; there wasn't much of _his_ eloquence left! They quickly lost interest and began to talk together in undertones; there came only a little desultory applause here and there from the corners. Pelle felt the disappointment and indifference, and smiled. He no longer had need of storms of approbation; he listened for it now within himself. This much he had learned by standing up there, namely, that he had not done with the men below; he was, in fact, only just beginning with them. His work had been swept away: well then he would build up a new one that was better. He had sat in his prison-cell and learned long- suffering. He took a seat below the platform among the leaders of the meeting, and felt that he was really a stranger there. It was out of compassion they had drawn him into the meeting; he read in their eyes that the work that had been done was done without him, and that he came at an inopportune moment. Would they have to reckon with him, the hare-brained fellow, now again, or did he mean to emigrate? Alas, he did not give much impetus to the Movement! but if they only knew how much wisdom he had gained in his solitude! He did not talk, but looked on absently, trying to listen through the noise for something lasting. They laughed and drank and made speeches-- for him too; but all this was so unnecessary! They had gained confidence, they spoke quite openly, there was a certain emancipation in their general behavior; taken as a whole, they made a good impression. But the miracle? the incomprehensible? He missed a little anxiety behind the prosperity, the deep, silent pondering that would show that they had gazed into a new world. Did they not hear the undertone at all, since they were making such a noise--the unceasing, soft rhythm that was in his own ears continually and contained the whole thing? The stillness of the cell had made his hearing acute; the boisterous laughter, which expressed their pleasure in life, caused him suffering. Beside a large blackboard on the platform stood one of the leaders, writing up the victories of the day, amid the rejoicing of the crowd. Pelle slipped out unnoticed, and was standing on the steps, breathing in the quiet night air, when a young man came up to him and held out his hand. It was his brother-in-law, Frederik Stolpe. "I just wanted to wish you welcome back," he said, "and to thank you for what you said in there." "How is Ellen?" Pelle asked in a low voice. "She's only pretty well. She lives at 20, Victoria Street, and takes in washing. I think she would be glad to see you." He looked searchingly at Pelle. "If you like, I can easily arrange for you to meet at my place." "Thank you!" Pelle answered, "but I'll go out to her early to-morrow morning." He no longer needed to go by circuitous routes. II Pelle was awakened by a distant sound resembling thunder, that came nearer and nearer out of the night and kept close to the prison. He lay still and listened shudderingly in the hope of hearing the reassuring step of the watchman passing his door, while fancies chased one another in his heavy head like riderless horses. The hollow, threatening sound grew ever louder and clearer, until it suddenly shattered the stillness of the night with a thunderous roar, which seemed to bring everything crashing down. It was as though a great gulf had opened and swallowed everything. In one panic-stricken bound he was at the window, his heart beating tumultuously; but the next moment he was ashamed of his mistake. It had been the same terrifying Doomsday that he had dreaded in the days of his childhood, when the lightning zig-zagged among the rocks at home; and yet it was nothing but the noise of the first farm-carts as they passed from the highroad onto the stone paving of the town. It was the solitude brooding in his imagination, making it start in fear at every sound. But that would wear off. He stretched himself and shook off the nightmare. Free! No gaoler was coming like a bad spirit to shatter the night's happy dream of freedom. He _was_ free! His pallet had not to be hooked up to the wall at a certain hour; he could lie as long as he wanted to, the whole day, if he liked. But now he had more important things to do; life was waiting. He hastily put on his clothes. In the street the lamplighter was lighting every other lamp. An endless procession of carts was pouring in from the country to supply the town. Pelle threw open the window and looked out over the wakening city while he dressed himself. He was accustomed to sleep in a silence that was only broken by the soft squeaking of the mice under the heat-grating; and the night-noises of the city--the rumble of the electric trams, the shouts of night-wanderers--all these unwonted sounds that pierced the darkness so startlingly, had filled, his sleep with feverish dreams and caused a series of ugly, deformed visions to pass through his brain. He now felt quite rested, however, and greeted the city with awakened pleasure. Yes, he had slept more than sufficiently; the noise called him and he must go down and give a helping hand to keep it going. For years he had done nothing but hoard; now he would set to work again with strength and courage. As soon as he was dressed he went out. It was too early to visit Ellen, but he could not bear to stay in any longer. It was early morning. The first tram-car came in, filled with workmen, some even hanging on to the steps both of the motor-wagon and the two cars following it. And there was the first peasant with milk: they were not even up yet in the ice-dairy! Every quarter of an hour trams came in with workmen, and the market-carts continued to drive in from the country laden with vegetables, corn or pigs' carcasses. The street was like a feeding-tube through which nourishment was continually being drawn into the city. On the top of swaying loads of straw sat Zealand peasants nodding. They had come all the way from the Frederikssund quarter, and had been driving all night. Here and there came a drover with a few animals intended for the cattle-market. The animals did not like the town, and constantly became restive, hitching themselves round lamp-posts or getting across the tram-lines. The newspaper-women trudged from street- door to street-door with their aprons laden with morning papers, and he heard them toiling up the stairs as though their feet were weighted with lead. And beneath all this could be heard the endless tramp-tramp of workmen hastening to their work. There was a peculiarly familiar sound in those footsteps, which suddenly reminded him that he no longer belonged to their party, but had marked out his own way for good and evil. Why was he not still a small, impersonal fraction of this great stream which day after day mechanically followed the same round in the mill? Solitude had made his view of mankind a new and wondering one; he now, in every strange face he met, involuntarily sought for a little of that which makes each individual a world in himself. But these men were all alike, he thought; they came hurrying out of the darkness of the side streets, and were not fully awake and steady on their feet until they joined the throng, but then they did walk capitally. He recognized the firm beat again: he had himself taught it to them. Daylight came stealing in over Vesterbro, gray and heavy with spring moisture and the city smoke. That part of the town was not quite awake yet; the step sounding in the main street was that of the belated night- wanderer. He turned down Victoria Street, looking about him in surprise; he had never been here before. He read the door-plates: Artists' Bureau, Artisan Heim, Lodging for Artists, Masseur & Chiropodist, Costumes for Hire. Most of the announcements were in foreign languages. There was also a Gymnasium for Equilibrists and a Conservatorium for Singing and Music, Dancing and Deportment. Nor did there seem to be a scarcity of pawnbrokers and dealers in second-hand goods. How had Ellen drifted into this strange atmosphere of perfumes and old clothes and foreign countries? Behind the windows in the low rooms he saw wonderful dresses thrown over chair-backs--burnouses and red fezes; and a little dark figure with a long pigtail and bare feet in yellow slippers, glided noiselessly past him in the old-fashioned, palatial doorway of No. 20. He mounted the stairs with a beating heart. The steps were worn and groaned ominously when trodden on. The door of the flat stood ajar, and he heard the sound of sweeping in the front room, while farther in a child was talking to itself or its doll. He had to stand a little while on the landing to take breath and to regain his composure. Ellen was sweeping under the sofa with quick movements. She rose and gazed at him in bewilderment; the broom fell from her hand and she swayed to and fro. Pelle caught her, and she leaned inert and helpless against him, and remained thus for a considerable time, pale and with closed eyes. When at last he turned her inanimate face toward him and kissed, it, she burst into tears. He spoke gently and reassuringly to her as to a child. She kept her eyes closed, as she had always done when anything overwhelmed her. She lay back on his arm, and he felt her body tremble at the sound of his voice. Her tears seemed to soften her, and from the yielding of her body now he could see how stiffly she must have held herself, and was filled with joy. It had all been for his sake, and with a tremendous effort of her will she had defied fate until he came. She now placed it all at his feet and lay prostrate. How tired she must be! But now she and the children should have a good time; he would live for her now! He had laid her on the sofa and sat bending over her and telling her quietly how he had repented and longed for her. She made no answer, but held his hand in a convulsive grasp, now and then opening her eyes and stealing a glance at him. Suddenly she discovered how worn and lined his face was, and as she passed her hand over it as if to soften the features, she broke into a storm of weeping. "You have suffered so, Pelle!" she exclaimed vehemently, passing her trembling fingers through his iron-gray hair. "I can feel by your poor head how badly they've treated you. And I wasn't even with you! If I could only do something really nice to make you look happy!" She drew his head down onto her bosom and stroked it as a mother might her child's, and Pelle's face changed as would a child's when taken to its mother's breast. It was as though the well of life flowed through him, the hardness of his expression disappeared, and life and warmth took its place. "I didn't think you'd come back to us," said Ellen. "Ever since Lasse Frederik met you yesterday I've been expecting you to come." Pelle suddenly noticed how exhausted she looked. "Haven't you been to bed all night?" he asked. She smilingly shook her head. "I had to take care that the street-door wasn't locked. Whenever any one came home, I ran down and unlocked it again. You mustn't be angry with the boy for being afraid of you just at first. He was sorry for it afterward, and ran about the town all the evening trying to find you." A clear child's voice was calling from the bedroom more and more persistently: "Man! Good-morning, man!" It was Sister, sitting up in Ellen's bed and playing with a feather that she had pulled out of the corner of the down-quilt. She readily allowed herself to be kissed, and sat there with pouting mouth and the funniest little wrinkled nose. "You're man!" she said insinuatingly. "Yes, that's true enough," answered Pelle, laughing: "but what man?" "Man!" she repeated, nodding gravely. Sister shared Ellen's bed now. At the foot of the big bed stood her own little cot, which had also been Lasse Frederik's, and in it lay----. Well, Pelle turned to the other side of the room, where Lasse Frederik lay snoring in a small bed, with one arm beneath his head. He had kicked off the quilt, and lay on his stomach in a deep sleep, with his limbs extended carelessly. The little fellow was well built, thought Pelle. "Now, lazy-bones, you'd better be thinking of getting up!" cried Pelle, pulling him by the leg. The boy turned slowly. When he saw his father, he instantly became wide awake, and raised his arm above his head as though to ward off a blow. "There's no box on the ears in the air, my boy," said Pelle, laughing. "The game only begins to-day!" Lasse Frederik continued to hold his arm in the same position, and lay gazing indifferently out into the front room, as if he had no idea to what his father was referring; but his face was scarlet. "Don't you even say good-morning to your father?" said Ellen, whereupon he sullenly extended his hand and then turned his face to the wall. He was vexed at his behavior of the day before, and perhaps expected a blowing-up. On a nail above his head hung his blouse and cap. "Is Lasse Frederik a milk-boy?" asked Pelle. "Yes," said Ellen, "and he's very good at it. The drivers praise him." "Isn't he going to get up then, and go? I've met several milk-carts." "No, for we're on strike just now," murmured the boy without turning round. Pelle became quite interested. "What fellows you are! So you're on strike, are you? What's it for--is it wages?" The boy had to explain, and gradually turned his face round, but did not look at his father. Ellen stood in the doorway and listened to them smilingly. She looked frail. "Lasse Frederik's the leader," she said gently. "And he's lying here instead of being out on the watch for blacklegs?" exclaimed Pelle quite irritably. "You're a nice leader!" "Do you suppose any boy would be so mean as to be a blackleg?" said Lasse Frederik. "No, indeed! But people fetch their own milk from the carts." "Then you must get the drivers to join you." "No, we don't belong to a real union, so they won't support us." "Well then, make a union! Get up, boy, and don't lie there snoring when there's anything of this sort on! Do you imagine that anything in this world is to be got by sleeping?" The boy did not move. He did not seem to think there was any reason for taking his father very seriously; but he met a reproachful look from Ellen, and he was out of bed and dressed in a trice. While they sat in the front room, drinking their coffee, Pelle gave him a few hints as to how he should proceed in the matter. He was greatly interested, and went thoroughly into the subject; it seemed to him as though it were only yesterday that he had occupied himself with the people. How many pleasant memories of the fight crowded into his mind! And now every child knew that the meanest thing on earth was to become a blackleg! How he had fought to make even intelligent fellow-workmen understand this! It was quite comical to think that the strike--which filled the workmen with horror the first time he had employed it--was now a thing that children made use of. Time passed with a fleet foot out here in the day; and if you wanted to keep pace you must look sharp! When the boy had gone, Ellen came to Pelle and stroked his hair. "Welcome home!" she said softly, and kissed his furrowed brow. He pressed her hand. "Thank you for having a home for me," he answered, looking into her eyes; "for if you hadn't, I think I should have gone to the dogs." "The boy has had his share in that, you know! He's worked well, or it might have gone badly with me many a time. You mustn't be angry with him, Pelle, even if he is a little sullen to you. You must remember how much he's gone through with the other boys. Sometimes he's come home quite disheartened." "Because of me?" asked Pelle in a low voice. "Yes, for he couldn't bear them to say anything about you. At one time he was always fighting, but now I think he's taught them to leave him alone; for he never gave in. But it may have left its marks on him." She lingered by him; there was something she wanted to say to him, but she had a difficulty in beginning. "What is it?" he asked, in order to help her, his heart beating rapidly. He would have liked to get over this without speech. She drew him gently into the bedroom and up to the little cot. "You haven't looked at Boy Comfort," she said. He bent in embarrassment over the little boy who lay and gazed at him with large, serious eyes. "You must give me a little time," he said. "It's little Marie's boy," said Ellen, with a peculiar intonation. He stood up quickly, and looked in bewilderment at her. It was a little while before he comprehended. "Where is Marie?" he asked with difficulty. "She's dead, Pelle," answered Ellen, and came to his aid by holding out her hand to him. "She died when the child was born." A gray shadow passed across Pelle's face. III The house in which Pelle and his wife lived--the "Palace," the inhabitants of the street called it--was an old, tumble-down, three- storied building with a mansard roof. Up the middle of the façade ran the remains of some fluted pilasters through the two upper stories, making a handsome frame to the small windows. The name "Palace" had not been given to the house entirely without reason; the old woman who kept the ironmonger's shop in the back building could remember that in her childhood it had been a general's country-house, and stood quite by itself. At that time the shore reached to where Isted Street now runs, and the fruit-gardens went right into Council House Square. Two ancient, worm-eaten apple-trees, relics of that period, were still standing squeezed in among the back buildings. Since then the town had pushed the fruit-gardens a couple of miles farther back, and in the course of time side streets had been added to the bright neighborhood of Vesterbro--narrow, poor-men's streets, which sprang up round the scattered country-houses, and shut out the light; and poor people, artistes and street girls ousted the owners and turned the luxuriant summer resort into a motley district where booted poverty and shoeless intelligence met. The "Palace" was the last relic of a vanished age. The remains of its former grandeur were still to be seen in the smoke-blackened stucco and deep windows of the attics; but the large rooms had been broken up into sets of one or two rooms for people of small means, half the wide landing being boarded off for coal-cellars. From Pelle's little two-roomed flat, a door and a couple of steps led down into a large room which occupied the entire upper floor of the side building, and was not unlike the ruins of a former banqueting-hall. The heavy, smoke-blackened ceiling went right up under the span roof and had once been decorated; but most of the plaster had now fallen down, and the beams threatened to follow it. The huge room had been utilized, in the course of time, both as a brewery and as a warehouse; but it still bore the stamp of its former splendor. The children of the property at any rate thought it was grand, and picked out the last remains of panelling for kindling-wood, and would sit calling to one another for hours from the high ledges above the brick pillars, upon which there had once stood busts of famous men. Now and again a party of Russian or Polish emigrants hired the room and took possession of it for a few nights. They slept side by side upon the bare floor, each using his bundle for a pillow; and in the morning they would knock at the door of Ellen's room, and ask by gestures to be allowed to come to the water-tap. At first she was afraid of them and barricaded the door with her wardrobe cupboard; but the thought of Pelle in prison made her sympathetic and helpful. They were poor, needy beings, whom misery and misfortune had driven from their homes. They could not speak the language and knew nothing about the world; but they seemed, like birds of passage, to find their way by instinct. In their blind flight it was at the "Palace" that they happened to alight for rest. With this exception the great room lay unused. It went up through two stories, and could have been made into several small flats; but the owner of the property--an old peasant from Glostrup--was so miserly that he could not find it in his heart to spend money on it, notwithstanding the great advantage it would be to him. _Ellen_ had no objection to this! She dried her customers' washing there, and escaped all the coal- dust and dirt of the yard. Chance, which so often takes the place of Providence in the case of poor people, had landed her and her children here when things had gone wrong with them in Chapel Road. Ellen had at last, after hard toil, got her boot-sewing into good working order and had two pupils to help her, when a long strike came and spoiled it all for her. She struggled against it as well as she could, but one day they came and carried her bits of furniture down into the street. It was the old story: Pelle had heard it several times before. There she stood with the children, mounting guard over her belongings until it grew dark. It was pouring with rain, and they did not know what to do. People stopped as they hurried by, asked a few questions and passed on; one or two advised her to apply to the committee for housing the homeless. This, however, both Ellen and Lasse Frederik were too proud to do. They took the little ones down to the mangling-woman in the cellar, and themselves remained on guard over their things, in the dull hope that something would happen, a hope of which experience never quite deprives the poor. After they had stood there a long time something really did happen. Out of Nörrebro Street came two men dashing along at a tremendous pace with a four-wheeled cart of the kind employed by the poor of Copenhagen when they move--preferably by night--from one place to another. One of the men was at the pole of the cart, while the other pushed behind and, when the pace was at its height, flung himself upon his stomach on the cart, putting on the brake with the toes of his boots upon the road so as to twist the cart into the gutter. Upon the empty cart sat a middle-aged woman, singing, with her feet dangling over the side; she was big and wore an enormous hat with large nodding flowers, of the kind designed to attract the male sex. The party zig-zagged, shouting and singing, from one side of the street to the other, and each time the lady shrieked. "_There's_ a removing cart!" said Lasse Frederik, and as he spoke the vehicle pulled up in the gutter just in front of them. "What are you doing, Thorvald?" said one of the men; then, staring straight into Ellen's face, "Have you hurt your eye?" The woman had jumped down from the cart. "Oh, get out of the way, you ass!" she said, pushing him aside. "Can't you see they've been turned out? Is it your husband that's chucked you out?" she asked, bending sympathetically over Ellen. "No, the landlord's turned us out!" said Lasse Frederik. "What a funny little figure! And you've got nowhere to sleep to-night? Here, Christian, take and load these things on the cart, and then they can stand under the gateway at home for the night. They'll be quite spoilt by the rain here." "Yes," answered Christian, "the chair-legs have actually begun to take root!" The two men were in a boisterous humor. "Now you can just come along with me," said the woman, when the things were piled upon the cart, "and I'll find you a place to sleep in. And then to-morrow Providence'll perhaps be at home himself!" "She's a street-woman," whispered Lasse Frederik again and again, pulling Ellen's dress; but Ellen did not care now, if only she could avoid having to accept poor relief. She no longer held her head so high. It was "Queen Theresa" herself they had met, and in a sense this meeting had made their fortune. She helped Ellen to find her little flat, and got her washing to do for the girls of the neighborhood. It was not very much, though the girls of Vesterbro went in for fine clothes as far as they could; but it afforded her at any rate a livelihood. * * * * * Pelle did not like Ellen going on with all this dirty work; he wanted to be the one to provide for the family. Ellen moreover had had her turn, and she looked tired and as if she needed to live a more comfortable life. It was as though she fell away now that he was there and able once more to assume the responsibility; but she would not hear of giving up the washing. "It's never worth while to throw away the dirty water until you've got the clean!" she said. Every morning he set out furnished with a brand-new trades-union book, and went from workshop to workshop. Times were bad for his branch of trade; many of his old fellow-workmen had been forced to take up other occupations--he met them again as conductors, lamplighters, etc.; machinery had made them unnecessary, they said. It was the effect of the great lock-out; it had killed the little independent businesses that had formerly worked with one or two men, and put wind into the sails of large industries. The few who could manage it had procured machines and become manufacturers; the rest were crowded out and sat in out-of-the- way basements doing repairs. To set to work again, on the old conditions was what had been farthest from Pelle's thoughts; and he now went about and offered to become an apprentice again in order to serve his new master, the machinery, and was ready to be utilized to the utmost. But the manufacturers had no use for him; they still remembered him too well. "You've been too long away from the work," said one and another of them meaningly. Well, that was only tit for tat; but he felt bitterly how even his past rose up against him. He had fought and sacrificed everything to improve the conditions in his branch; and the machines were the discouraging answer that the development gave to him and his fellows. He was not alone in his vain search in this bright springtime. A number of other branches had had the same fate as his own. Every new day that dawned brought him into a stream of men who seemed to be condemned to wear out the pavement in their hopeless search for work--people who had been pushed out by the machines and could not get in again. "There must be something wrong with them," Pelle thought while he stood and listened to always the same story of how they had suddenly been dropped, and saw the rest of the train steaming away. It must have been their own fault that they were not coupled on to a new one; perhaps they were lazy or drunkards. But after a time he saw good, tried men standing in the row, and offering their powers morning after morning without result; and he began to realize with a chill fear that times were changing. He would certainly have managed to make both ends meet if there had been anything to be got. The prices were all right; their only defect was that they were not eatable. Altogether it seemed as if a change for the worse had overtaken the artisan; and to make it still more serious the large businesses stood in the way of his establishing himself and becoming independent. There was not even a back door left open now! Pelle might just as well put that out of his head first as last; to become a master now required capital and credit. The best thing that the future held was an endless and aimless tramp to and from the factory. At one stroke he was planted in the middle of the old question again; all the circumstances passed before him, and it was useless to close his eyes. He was willing enough to mind his own affairs and did not seek for anything; but the one thing was a consequence of the other, and whether he wished it or not, it united in a general view of the conditions. The union had stood the test outwardly. The workmen were well organized and had vindicated their right to negotiate; their corporations could no longer be disregarded. Wages were also to some extent higher, and the feeling for the home had grown in the workmen themselves, many of them having removed from their basements into new two- or three-roomed flats, and bought good furniture. They demanded more from life, but everything had become dearer, and they still lived from hand to mouth. He could see that the social development had not kept pace with the mechanical; the machines wedged themselves quietly but inexorably in between the workmen and the work, and threw more and more men out of employment. The hours of labor were not greatly shortened. Society did not seem to care to protect the workers, but it interested itself more in disabled workmen than before, and provision for the poor was well organized. Pelle could not discover _any_ law that had a regulating effect, but found a whole number of laws that plastered up the existing conditions. A great deal of help was given, always just on the borders of starvation; and more and more men had to apply for it. It did not rob them of their rights as citizens, but made them a kind of politically _kept_ proletariat. It was thus that the world of adventure which Pelle had helped to conquer appeared now when he returned and looked at it with new eyes. The world had not been created anew, and the Movement did not seem to have produced anything strong and humanly supporting. It seemed as if the workmen would quietly allow themselves to be left out of the game, if only they received money for doing nothing! What had become of their former pride? They must have acquired the morals of citizens, since they willingly agreed to accept a pension for rights surrendered. They were not deficient in power; they could make the whole world wither and die without shedding a drop of blood, only by holding together. It was a sense of responsibility that they lacked; they had lost the fundamental idea of the Movement. Pelle looked at the question from all sides while he trudged up and down in his vain search. The prospect obtruded itself upon him, and there were forces at work, both within and without, trying to push him into the Movement and into the front rank among the leaders, but he repelled the idea: he was going to work for his home now. He managed to obtain some repairs for the neighbors, and also helped Ellen to hang up clothes and turn the mangle. One must pocket one's pride and be glad _she_ had something. She was glad of his help, but did not want any one to see him doing this woman's work. "It's not work for a man," she said, looking at him with eyes which said how pleased she was to have his company. They liked being together, enjoyed it in their own quiet way without many words. Much had happened, but neither Pelle nor Ellen were in a hurry. Neither of them had a facility in speaking, but they found their way to an understanding through the pauses, and drew nearer to one another in the silences. Each knew what the other had suffered without requiring to have it told: time had been at work on them both. There was no storm in their new companionship. The days passed quietly, made sad by the years that had gone by. In Ellen's mind was neither jubilation nor reproach. She was cautious with regard to him--almost as shy as the first time they met; behind all her goodness and care lay the same touch of maidenly reserve as at that time. She received his caresses silently, she herself giving chiefly by being something for him. He noticed how every little homely action she did for him grew out of her like a motherly caress and took him into her heart. He was grateful for it, but it was not that of which he stood most in need. When they sat together in the twilight and the children played upon the floor, she was generally silent, stealing glances at him now and then; but as soon as he noticed these, the depth of her expression vanished. Was she again searching for his inner being as she had done in their earliest time together? It was as though she were calling to something within him, but would not reveal herself. It was thus that mother might sit and gaze searchingly into her child's future. Did she not love him then? She had given him all that she possessed, borne him children, and had faithfully waited for him when all the rest of the world had cast him off; and yet he was not sure that she had ever loved him. Pelle had never met with love in the form of something unmanageable; the Movement had absorbed the surplus of his youth. But now he had been born anew together with the spring, and felt it suddenly as an inward power. He and Ellen would begin now, for now she was everything! Life had taught him seriousness, and it was well. He was horrified at the thoughtless way in which he had taken Ellen and made her a mother without first making her a bride. Her woman's heart must be immeasurably large since she had not gone to pieces in consequence, but still stood as unmoved as ever, waiting for him to win her. She had got through it by being a mother. Would he ever win her? Was she really waiting still, or was she contented with things as they were? His love for her was so strong that everything about her was transfigured, and he was happy in the knowledge that she was his fate. Merely a ribbon or a worn check cotton apron--any little thing that belonged to her--acquired a wonderfully warm hue, and filled his mind with sweetness. A glance or a touch made him dizzy with happiness, and his heart went out to her in waves of ardent longing. It awoke no response; she smiled gently and pressed his hand. She was fond of him and refused him nothing, but he nevertheless felt that she kept her innermost self hidden from him. When he tried to see in, he found it closed by a barrier of kindness. IV Pelle was like a man returning home after years of exile, and trying to bring himself into personal relations with everything; the act of oblivion was in force only up to the threshold; the real thing he had to see to himself. The land he had tilled was in other hands, he no longer had any right to it; but it was he who had planted, and he must know how it had been tended and how it had thriven. The great advance had taken on a political character. The Movement had in the meantime let the demand of the poorest of the people for bread drop, and thrown them over as one would throw over ballast in order to rise more quickly. The institutions themselves would be won, and then they would of course come back to the starting-point and begin again quite differently. It might be rather convenient to turn out those who most hindered the advance, but would it lead to victory? It was upon them indeed that everything turned! Pelle had thoroughly learned the lesson, that he who thinks he will outwit others is outwitted himself. He had no faith in those who would climb the fence where it was lowest. The new tactics dated from the victorious result of the great conflict. He had himself led the crowds in triumph through the capital, and if he had not been taken he would probably now be sitting in parliament as one of the labor members and symbolizing his promotion to citizenship. But now he was out of it all, and had to choose his attitude toward the existing state of things; he had belonged to the world of outcasts and had stood face to face with the irreconcilable. He was not sure that the poor man was to be raised by an extension of the existing social ethics. He himself was still an outlaw, and would probably never be anything else. It was hard to stoop to enter the doorway through which you had once been thrown out, and it was hard to get in. He did not intend to take any steps toward gaining admission to the company of respectable men; he was strong enough to stand alone now. Perhaps Ellen expected something in that way as reparation for all the wrong she had suffered. She must have patience! Pelle had promised himself that he would make her and the children happy, and he persuaded himself that this would be best attained by following his own impulses. He was not exactly happy. Pecuniarily things were in a bad way, and notwithstanding all his planning, the future continued to look uncertain. He needed to be the man, the breadwinner, so that Ellen could come to him for safety and shelter, take her food with an untroubled mind from his hand, and yield herself to him unresistingly. He was not their god; that was where the defect lay. This was noticeable at any rate in Lasse Frederik. There was good stuff in the boy, although it had a tang of the street. He was an energetic fellow, bright and pushing, keenly alert with regard to everything in the way of business. Pelle saw in him the image of himself, and was only proud of him; but the boy did not look upon him with unconditional reliance in return. He was quick and willing, but nothing more; his attitude was one of trial, as if he wanted to see how things would turn out before he recognized the paternal relationship. Pelle suffered under this impalpable distrust, which classed him with the "new fathers" of certain children; and he had a feeling that was at the same time painful and ridiculous, that he was on trial. In olden days the matter might have been settled by a good thrashing, but now things had to be arranged so that they would be lasting; he could no longer buy cheaply. When helping Lasse Frederik in organizing the milk- boys, he pocketed his pride and introduced features from the great conflict in order to show that he was good for something too. He could see from the boy's expression that he did not believe much of it, and intended to investigate the matter more closely. It wounded his sensitive mind and drove him into himself. One day, however, when he was sitting at his work, Lasse Frederik rushed in. "Father, tell me what you did to get the men that were locked into the factory out!" he cried breathlessly. "You wouldn't believe it if I did," said Pelle reproachfully. "Yes, I would; for they called you the 'Lightning!'" exclaimed the boy in tones of admiration. "And they had to put you in prison so as to get rid of you. The milk-driver told me all about it!" From that day they were friends. At one stroke Pelle had become the hero of the boy's existence. He had shaved off his beard, had blackened his face, and had gone right into the camp of his opponents, and nothing could have been finer. He positively had to defend himself from being turned into a regular robber-captain with a wide-awake hat and top- boots! Lasse Frederik had a lively imagination! Pelle had needed this victory. He must have his own people safely at his back first of all, and then have a thorough settlement of the past. But this was not easy, for little Boy Comfort staggered about everywhere, warped himself toward him from one piece of furniture to another with his serious eyes fixed steadily upon him, and crawled the last part of the way. Whenever he was set down, he instantly steered for Pelle; he would come crawling in right from the kitchen, and would not stop until he stood on his feet by Pelle's leg, looking up at him. "See how fond he is of you already!" said Ellen tenderly, as she put him down in the middle of the floor to try him. "Take him up!" Pelle obeyed mechanically; he had no personal feeling for this child; it was indeed no child, but the accusation of a grown-up person that came crawling toward him. And there stood Ellen with as tender an expression as if it were her own baby! Pelle could not understand how it was that she did not despise him; he was ashamed whenever he thought of his struggle to reconcile himself to this "little cuckoo." It was a good thing he had said so little! His inability to be as naturally kind to the child as she was tormented him; and when, on Saturday evening, she had bathed Boy Comfort and then sat with him on her lap, putting on his clean clothes, Pelle was overwhelmed with self-accusation. He had thoughtlessly trodden little Marie of the "Ark" underfoot, and she whom he had cast off when she most needed him, in return passed her beneficent hand over his wrong-doing. As though she were aware of his gloomy thoughts, she went to him and placed the warm, naked child in his arms, saying with a gentle smile: "Isn't he a darling?" Her heart was so large that he was almost afraid; she really took more interest in this child than in her own. "I'm his mother, of course!" she said naturally. "You don't suppose he can do without a real mother, do you?" Marie's fate lay like a shadow over Pelle's mind. He had to talk to Ellen about it in order to try to dispel it, but she did not see the fateful connection; she looked upon it as something that had to be. "You were so hunted and persecuted," she said quietly, "and you had no one to look to. So it had to happen like that. Marie told me all about it. It was no one's fault that she was not strong enough to bear children. The doctor said there was a defect in her frame; she had an internal deformity." Alas! Ellen did not know how much a human being should be able to help, and she herself took much more upon her than she need. There was, nevertheless, something soothing in these sober facts, although they told him nothing about the real thing. It is impossible to bear for long the burden of the irreparable, and Pelle was glad that Ellen dwelt so constantly and naturally on Marie's fate; it brought it within the range of ordinary things for him too. Marie had come to her when she could no longer hide her condition, and Ellen had taken her in and kept her until she went to the lying-in hospital. Marie knew quite well that she was going to die--she could feel it, as it were--and would sit and talk about it while she helped Ellen with her boot-sewing. She arranged everything as sensibly as an experienced mother. "How old-fashioned she was, and yet so child-like!" Ellen would exclaim with emotion. Pelle could not help thinking of his life in the "Ark" when little Marie kept house for him and her two brothers--a careful housekeeper of eleven years! She was deformed and yet had abundant possibilities within her; she resembled poverty itself. Infected by his young strength, she had shot up and unfolded into a fair maiden, at whom the young dandies turned to look when she went along the street to make her purchases. He had been anxious about her, alone and unprotected as she was; and yet it was he himself who had become the plunderer of the poor, defenceless girl. Why had he not carried his cross alone, instead of accepting the love of a being who gave herself to him in gratitude for his gift to her of the joy of life? Why had he been obliged, in a difficult moment, to take his gift back? Boy Comfort she had called her boy in her innocent goodness of heart, in order that Pelle should be really fond of him; but it was a dearly-bought Comfort that cost the life of another! For Pelle the child was almost an accusation. There was much to settle up and some things that could not be arranged! Pelle sometimes found it burdensome enough to be responsible for himself. About this time Morten was often in his thoughts. "Morten has disappointed me at any rate," he thought; "he could not bear my prosperity!" This was a point on which Pelle had right upon his side! Morten must come to him if they were to have anything more to do with one another. Pelle bore no malice, but it was reasonable and just that the one who was on the top should first hold out his hand. In this way he thought he had obtained rest from that question in any case, but it returned. He had taken the responsibility upon himself now, and was going to begin by sacrificing his only friend on a question of etiquette! He would have to go to him and hold out a hand of reconciliation! This at last seemed to be a noble thought! But Pelle was not allowed to feel satisfied with himself in this either. He was a prey to the same tormenting unrest that he had suffered in his cell, when he stole away from his work and sat reading secretly--he felt as if there were always an eye at the peephole, which saw everything that he did. He would have to go into the question once more. That unselfish Morten envious? It was true he had not celebrated Pelle's victory with a flourish of trumpets, but had preferred to be his conscience! That was really at the bottom of it. He had intoxicated himself in the noise, and wanted to find something with which to drown Morten's quiet warning voice, and the accusation was not far to seek-- _envy!_ It was he himself, in fact, who had been the one to disappoint. One day he hunted him up. Morten's dwelling was not difficult to find out; he had acquired a name as an author, and was often mentioned in the papers in connection with the lower classes. He lived on the South Boulevard, up in an attic as usual, with a view over Kalvebod Strand and Amager. "Why, is that you?" he said, taking Pelle's hands in his and gazing into his stern, furrowed face until the tears filled his eyes. "I say, how you have changed!" he whispered half tearfully, and led him into his room. "I suppose I have," Pelle answered gloomily. "I've had good reason to, anyhow. And how have you been? Are you married?" "No, I'm as solitary as ever. The one I want still doesn't care about me, and the others _I_ don't want. I thought you'd thrown me over too, but you've come after all." "I had too much prosperity, and that makes you self-important." "Oh, well, it does. But in prison--why did you send my letters back? It was almost too hard." Pelle looked up in astonishment. "It would never have occurred to the prisoner that he could hurt anybody, so you do me an injustice there," he said. "It was myself I wanted to punish!" "You've been ill then, Pelle!" "Yes, ill! You should only know what one gets like when they stifle your right to be a human being and shut you in between four bare walls. At one time I hated blindly the whole world; my brain reeled with trying to find out a really crushing revenge, and when I couldn't hit others I helped to carry out the punishment upon myself. There was always a satisfaction in feeling that the more I suffered, the greater devils did it make the others appear. And I really did get a hit at them; they hated with all their hearts having to give me a transfer." "Wasn't there any one there who could speak a comforting word--the chaplain, the teachers?" Pelle smiled a bitter smile. "Oh, yes, the lash! The jailer couldn't keep me under discipline; I was what they call a difficult prisoner. It wasn't that I didn't want to, but I had quite lost my balance. You might just as well expect a man to walk steadily when everything is whirling round him. They saw, I suppose, that I couldn't come right by myself, so one day they tied me to a post, pulled my shirt up over my head and gave me a thrashing. It sounds strange, but that did it; the manner of procedure was so brutal that everything in me was struck dumb. When such a thing as _that_ could happen, there was nothing more to protest against. They put a wet sheet round me and I was lifted onto my pallet, so that was all right. For a week I had to lie on my face and couldn't move for the pain; the slightest movement made me growl like an animal. The strokes had gone right through me and could be counted on my chest; and there I lay like a lump of lead, struck down to the earth in open- mouthed astonishment. 'This is what they do to human beings!' I groaned inwardly; 'this is what they do to human beings!' I could no longer comprehend anything." Pelle's face had become ashen gray; all the blood had left it, and the bones stood out sharply as in a dead face. He gulped two or three times to obtain control over his voice. "I wonder if you understand what it means to get a thrashing!" he said hoarsely. "Fire's nothing; I'd rather be burnt alive than have it again. The fellow doesn't beat; he's not the least angry; nobody's angry with you; they're all so seriously grieved on your account. He places the strokes carefully down over your back as if he were weighing out food, almost as if he were fondling you. But your lungs gasp at each stroke and your heart beats wildly; it's as if a thousand pincers were tearing all your fibers and nerves apart at once. My very entrails contracted in terror, and seemed ready to escape through my throat every time the lash fell. My lungs still burn when I think of it, and my heart will suddenly contract as if it would send the blood out through my throat. Do you know what the devilish part of corporal punishment is? It's not the bodily pain that they inflict upon the culprit; it's his inner man they thrash--his soul. While I lay there brooding over my mutilated spirit, left to lick my wounds like a wounded animal, I realized that I had been in an encounter with the evil conscience of Society, the victim of their hatred of those who suffer." "Do you remember what gave occasion to the punishment?" Morten asked, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "It was some little thing or other--I think I called out. The solitude and the terrible silence got upon my nerves, and I suppose I shouted to make a little life in the horrible emptiness. I don't remember very clearly, but I think that was my crime." "You'd have been the better anyhow for a kind word from a friend." Morten was still thinking of his despised letters. "Yes, but the atmosphere of a cell is not suited for friendly relations with the outside world. You get to hate all who are at liberty--those who mean well by you too--and you chop off even the little bit of branch you're sitting on. Perhaps I should never have got into touch with life again if it hadn't been for the mice in my cell. I used to put crumbs of bread down the grating for them, and when I lay there half dead and brooding, they ran squeaking over my hand. It was a caress anyhow, even if it wasn't from fellow-men." Morten lived in a small two-roomed flat in the attics. While they sat talking, a sound came now and then from the other room, and each time a nervous look came into Morten's face, and he glanced in annoyance at the closed door. Gradually he became quite restless and his attention was fixed on these sounds. Pelle wondered at it, but asked no questions. Suddenly there came the sound of a chair being overturned. Morten rose quickly and went in, shutting the door carefully behind him. Pelle heard low voices--Morten's admonishing, and a thin, refractory, girlish voice. "He's got a girl hidden in there," thought Pelle. "I'd better be off." He rose and looked out of the large attic window. How everything had changed since he first came to the capital and looked out over it from Morten's old lodging! In those days he had had dreams of conquering it, and had carried out his plan too; and now he could begin from the beginning! An entirely new city lay spread out beneath him. Where he had once run about among wharves and coal-bunkers, there now stood a row of palatial buildings with a fine boulevard. And everything outside was new; a large working-men's district had sprung up where there had once been timber-yards or water. Below him engines were drawing rows of trucks filled with ballast across the site for the new goods-station yard; and on the opposite side of the harbor a new residential and business quarter had grown up on the Iceland Quay. And behind it all lay the water and the green land of Amager. Morten had had the sense to select a high branch for himself like the nightingales. He had got together a good number of books again, and on his writing- table stood photographs of well-known men with autograph inscriptions. To all appearances he seemed to make his way in the world of books. Pelle took down some of Morten's own works, and turned over their leaves with interest. He seemed to hear Morten's earnest voice behind the printed words. He would begin to read him now! Morten came in. "You're not going, are you?" he asked, drawing his hand across his forehead. "Do stay a little while and we'll have a good talk. You can't think how I've missed you!" He looked tired. "I'm looking forward tremendously to reading your books," said Pelle enthusiastically. "What a lot you've written! You haven't given that up." "Perhaps solitude's taught you too to like books," said Morten, looking at him. "If so, you've made some good friends in there, Pelle. All that there isn't worth much; it's only preliminary work. It's a new world ours, you must remember." "I don't think _The Working Man_ cares much about you." "No, not much," answered Morten slowly. "They say you only write in the upper-class papers." "If I didn't I should starve. _They_ don't grudge me my food, at any rate! Our own press still has no use for skirmishers, but only for men who march to order!" "And it's very difficult for you to subordinate yourself to any one," said Pelle, smiling. "I have a responsibility to those above me," answered Morten proudly. "If I give the blind man eyes to see into the future, I can't let myself be led by him. Now and then _The Working Man_ gets hold of one of my contributions to the upper-class press: that's all the connection I have with my own side. My food I have to get from the other side of the boundary, and lay my eggs there: they're pretty hard conditions. You can't think how often I've worried over not being able to speak to my own people except in roundabout ways. Well, it doesn't matter! I can afford to wait. There's no way of avoiding the son of my father, and in the meantime I'm doing work among the upper classes. I bring the misery into the life of the happily-situated, and disturb their quiet enjoyment. The upper classes must be prepared for the revolution too." "Can they stand your representations?" asked Pelle, in surprise. "Yes, the upper classes are just as tolerant as the common people were before they rose: it's an outcome of culture. Sometimes they're almost too tolerant; you can't quite vouch for their words. When there's something they don't like, they always get out of it by looking at it from an artistic point of view." "How do you mean?" "As a display, as if you were acting for their entertainment. 'It's splendidly done,' they say, when you've laid bare a little of the boundless misery. 'It's quite Russian. Of course it's not real at all, at any rate not here at home.' But you always make a mark on some one or other, and little by little the food after all becomes bitter to their taste, I think. Perhaps some day I shall be lucky enough to write in such a way about the poor that no one can leave them out. But you yourself--what's your attitude toward matters? Are you disappointed?" "Yes, to some extent. In prison, in my great need, I left the fulfilment of the time of prosperity to you others. All the same, a great change has taken place." "And you're pleased with it?" "Everything has become dearer," said Pelle slowly, "and unemployment seems on the way to become permanent." Morten nodded. "That's the answer capital gives," he said. "It multiplies every rise in wages by two, and puts it back on the workmen again. The poor man can't stand very many victories of that kind." "Almost the worst thing about it is the development of snobbery. It seems to me that our good working classes are being split up into two-- the higher professions, which will be taken up into the upper classes; and the proletariat, which will be left behind. The whole thing has been planned on too small a scale for it to get very far." "You've been out and seen something of the world, Pelle," said Morten significantly. "You must teach others now." "I don't understand myself," answered Pelle evasively, "and I've been in prison. But what about you?" "I'm no good as a rallier; you've seen that yourself. They don't care about me. I'm too far in advance of the great body of them, and have no actual connection--you know I'm really terribly lonely! Perhaps, though, I'm destined to reach the heights before you others, and if I do I'll try to light a beacon up there for you." Morten sat silent for a little while, and then suddenly lifted his head. "But you _must_, Pelle!" he said. "You say you're not the right man, but there's simply no one but you. Have you forgotten that you fired the Movement, that you were its simple faith? They one and all believed in you blindly like children, and were capable of nothing when you gave up. Why, it's not you, but the others--the whole Movement-- who've been imprisoned! How glad I am that you've come back full of the strength gained there! You were smaller than you are now, Pelle, and even then something happened; now you may be successful even in great things." Pelle sat and listened in the deepening twilight, wondering with a pleased embarrassment. It was Morten who was nominating him--the severe, incorruptible Morten, who had always before been after him like his evil conscience. "No, I'm going to be careful now," he said, "and it's your own fault, Morten. You've gone and pricked my soul, and I'm awake now; I shan't go at anything blindly again. I have a feeling that what we two are joining in is the greatest thing the world has ever seen. It reaches further into the future than I can see, and so I'm working on myself. I study the books now--I got into the way of that in prison--and I must try to get a view out over the world. Something strange too has happened to me: I understand now what you meant when you said that man was holy! I'm no longer satisfied with being a small part of the whole, but think I must try to become a whole world by myself. It sounds foolish, but I feel as if I were in one of the scales and the rest of the world in the other; and until I can send the other scale up, I can't think of putting myself at the head of the multitude." Evening had closed in before they were aware of it. The electric light from the railway-station yard threw its gleam upon the ceiling of the attic room and was reflected thence onto the two men who sat leaning forward in the half-darkness, talking quietly. Neither of them noticed that the door to the other room had opened, and a tall, thin girl stood on the threshold gazing at them with dilated pupils. She was in her chemise only, and it had slipped from one thin shoulder; and her feet were bare. The chemise reached only to her knees, leaving exposed a pair of sadly emaciated legs. A wheezing sound accompanied her breathing. Pelle had raised his head to say something, but was silent at sight of the lean, white figure, which stood looking at him with great eyes that seemed to draw the darkness into them. The meeting with Morten had put him into an expectant frame of mind. He still had the call sounding in his ears, and gazed in amazement at the ghostly apparition. The delicate lines, spoiled by want, the expression of childlike terror of the dark-- all this twofold picture of wanness stamped with the stamp of death, and of an unfulfilled promise of beauty--was it not the ghost of poverty, of wrong and oppression, a tortured apparition sent to admonish him? Was his brain failing? Were the horrible visions of the darkness of his cell returning? "Morten!" he whispered, touching his arm. Morten sprang up. "Why, Johanna! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" he exclaimed reproachfully. He tried to make the girl go back into the other room, and to close the door; but she pushed past him out into the room. "I _will_ see him!" she cried excitedly. "If you don't let me, I shall run away! He's hidden my clothes," she said to Pelle, gazing at him with her sunken eyes. "But I can easily run away in my chemise. I don't care!" Her voice was rough and coarse from the damp air of the back yards. "Now go back to bed, Johanna!" said Morten more gently. "Remember what the doctor said. You'll catch cold and it'll all be wasted." "What do I care!" she answered, breaking into a coarse laugh. "You needn't waste anything on me; I've had no children by you." She was trembling with cold, but remained obstinately standing, and answered Morten's remonstrances with a torrent of abusive epithets. At last he gave it up and sat down wearily. The two men sat and looked at her in silence. The child was evidently uncomfortable at the cessation of resistance, and became confused beneath their silent gaze. She tossed her head and looked defiantly from the one to the other, her eyes glowing with an unnatural brightness. Suddenly she sank upon the floor and began to cry. "_This_ won't do," said Pelle gravely. "I can't manage her," answered Morten hopelessly, "but you are strong enough." Pelle stooped and took her up in his arms. She kicked and bit him. "She's got a fit," he said to Morten. "We must take her out to the pump." She instantly became quiet and let him carry her to bed. The fever was raging in her, and he noticed how her body was racked with every breath she drew; it sounded like a leaky pump. When Morten, with a few kind words, covered her up, she began to weep convulsively, but turned her face to the wall and stuffed the quilt into her mouth in order to hide it. She gradually became quieter and at last fell asleep; and the two men stole out of the room and closed the door after them. Morten looked tired out, for he was still not strong. "I've let myself in for something that I'm not equal to," he said despondently. "Who is the poor child?" asked Pelle softly. "I don't know. She came to me this spring, almost dead drunk and in a fearful state; and the next day she regretted it and went off, but I got hold of her again. She's one of those poor creatures who have no other home than the big timber-yards, and there she's made a living by going from one to another of the bigger lads. I can get nothing out of her, but I've found out in other ways that she's lived among timber-stacks and in cellars for at least two years. The boys enticed dissolute men out there and sold her, taking most of the money themselves and giving her spirits to encourage her. From what I can make out there are whole organized bands which supply the dissolute men of the city with boys and girls. It makes one sick to think of it! The child must be an orphan, but won't, as I said, tell me anything. Once or twice I've heard her talk in her sleep of her grandmother; but when I've referred to it, she sulks and won't speak." "Does she drink?" asked Pelle. Morten nodded. "I've had some bad times with her on that account," he said. "She shows incredible ingenuity when it's a case of getting hold of liquor. At first she couldn't eat hot food at all, she was in such a state. She's altogether fearfully shattered in soul and body, and causes me much trouble." "Why don't you get her into some home?" "Our public institutions for the care of children are not calculated to foster life in a down-trodden plant, and you'll not succeed with Johanna by punishment and treatment like any ordinary child. At times she's quite abnormally defiant and unmanageable, and makes me altogether despair; and then when I'm not looking, she lies and cries over herself. There's much good in her in spite of everything, but she can't let it come out. I've tried getting her into a private family, where I knew they would be kind to her; but not many days had passed before they came and said she'd run away. For a couple of weeks she wandered about, and then came back again to me. Late one evening when I came home, I found her sitting wet and shivering in the dark corner outside my door. I was quite touched, but she was angry because I saw her, and bit and kicked as she did just now. I had to carry her in by force. Her unhappy circumstances have thrown her quite off her balance, and I at any rate can't make her out. So that's how matters stand. I sleep on the sofa in here, but of course a bachelor's quarters are not exactly arranged for this. There's a lot of gossip too among the other lodgers." "Does that trouble you?" asked Pelle in surprise. "No, but the child, you see--she's terribly alive to that sort of thing. And then she doesn't comprehend the circumstances herself. She's only about eleven or twelve, and yet she's already accustomed to pay for every kindness with her weak body. Can't you imagine how dreadful it is to look into her wondering eyes? The doctor says she's been injured internally and is probably tuberculous too; he thinks she'll never get right. And her soul! What an abyss for a child! For even one child to have such a fate is too much, and how many there are in the hell in which we live!" They were both silent for a little while, and then Morten rose. "You mustn't mind if I ask you to go," he said, "but I must get to work; there's something I've got to finish this evening. You won't mind, will you? Come and see me again as soon as you can, and thanks for coming this time!" he said as he pressed Pelle's hand. "I'd like you to keep your eyes open," he said as he followed him to the door. "Perhaps you could help me to find out the history of the poor thing. You know a lot of poor people, and must have come in some way or other into her life, for I can see it in her. Didn't you notice how eager she was to have a look at you? Try to find out about it, will you?" Pelle promised, but it was more easily said than done. When his thoughts searched the wide world of poverty to which he had drawn so close during the great lock-out, he realized that there were hundreds of children who might have suffered Johanna's fate. V Pelle had got out his old tools and started as shoemaker to the dwellers in his street. He no longer went about seeking for employment, and to Ellen it appeared as if he had given up all hope of getting any. But he was only waiting and arming himself: he was as sanguine as ever. The promise of the inconceivable was still unfulfilled in his mind. There was no room for him up in the small flat with Ellen doing her washing there, so he took a room in the high basement, and hung up a large placard in the window, on which he wrote with shoemaker's ink, "Come to me with your shoes, and we will help one another to stand on our feet." When Lasse Frederik was not at work or at school, he was generally to be found downstairs with his father. He was a clever fellow and could give a hand in many ways. While they worked they talked about all sorts of things, and the boy related his experiences to his father. He was changing very rapidly and talked sensibly about everything. Pelle was afraid he was getting too little out of his childhood. "Aren't you going up to play with them?" he asked, when the boys of the neighborhood rushed shouting past the basement window; but Lasse Frederik shook his head. He had played at being everything, from a criminal to a king, so there was nothing more to be had in that direction. He wanted something real now, and in the meantime had dreams of going to sea. Although they all three worked, they could only just make ends meet; there was never anything over for extras. This was a sorrow to Ellen especially; Pelle did not seem to think much about it. If they only put something eatable before him, he was contented and did not mind what it was. It was Ellen's dream that they should still, by toiling early and late, be able to work themselves up into another stratum; but Pelle was angry when she worked on after the time for leaving off. He would rather they were a little poor, if only they could afford to be human beings. Ellen did not understand it, but she saw that his mind was turned in another direction; he who had hitherto always fallen asleep over books would now become so absorbed in them that he did not hear the children playing round him. She had actually to rouse him when there was anything she wanted; and she began to fear this new power which had come in place of the old. It seemed like a curse that something should always work upon him to take him beyond her. And she dared not oppose it; she had bitter experience from former times. "What are you looking for in those books?" she asked, sitting down beside him. Pelle looked up absently. His thoughts were in far-off regions where she had never been. What was he looking for? He tried to tell her, but could not explain it. "I'm looking for myself!" he said suddenly, striking boldly through everything. Ellen gazed at him, wondering and disappointed. But she tried again. This time nothing should come between them and destroy her world. She no longer directly opposed anything; she meant to _go with him_ and be where he was. "Tell me what you are doing and let me take part in it," she said. Pelle had been prepared to some extent to go into this by himself, and was glad to meet with a desire for development in her too. For the present the intellectual world resembled more or less a wilderness, and it was good to have a companion with him in traversing it. He explained to her the thoughts that occupied him, and discussed them with her; and Ellen observed wonderingly that it was all about things that did not concern their own little well-being. She took great pains to comprehend this flight away from the things that mattered most; it was like children who always wanted what they ought not to have. In the evening, when Boy Comfort and Sister had been put to bed, Pelle would take a book and read aloud. Ellen was occupied with some mending or other, and Lasse Frederik, his ears standing out from his head, hung over a chair-back with his eyes fixed upon his father. Although he did not understand the half of it, he followed it attentively until Nature asserted herself, and he fell asleep. Ellen understood this very well, for she had great difficulty herself in keeping her eyes open. They were not stories that Pelle read. Sometimes he would stop to write something down or to discuss some question or other. He would have the most extraordinary ideas, and see a connection between things that seemed to Ellen to be as far apart as the poles; she could not help thinking that he might very well have studied to be a pastor. It suited him, however; his eyes became quite black when he was explaining some subject that he was thoroughly interested in, and his lips assumed an expression that made her long to kiss them. She had to confess to herself that in any case it was a very harmless evening occupation, and was glad that what was interesting him this time kept him at home at any rate. One day Pelle became aware that she was not following him. She did not even believe in what he was doing; she had never believed in him blindly. "She's never really loved me either: that's why!" he thought despondently. Perhaps that explained why she took Boy Comfort as calmly as if he were her own child: she was not jealous! Pelle would willingly have submitted to a shower of reproaches if afterward she had given him a kiss wetted with hot tears; but Ellen was never thrown off her balance. Happy though they were, he noticed that she, to a certain extent, reckoned without him, as if he had a weakness of which it was always well to take account. Her earlier experiences had left their mark upon her. * * * * * Ellen had been making plans with regard to the old room and the two small ante-rooms at the end of it. She was tired of washing; it paid wretchedly and gave a great deal of work, and she received very little consideration. She now wanted to let lodgings to artistes. She knew of more than one woman in their street who made a nice living by taking in artistes. "If I'd only got a couple of hundred krones (10 or 11 pounds) to start it with, I'm sure I should make it pay," she said. "And then you'd have more time and quiet for reading your books," she added coaxingly. Pelle was against the plan. The better class of artistes took rooms at the artiste hotels, and the people _they_ might expect to get had not much to pay with. He had seen a good deal of them from his basement window, and had mended shoes for some of them: they were rather a soleless tribe. She said no more about it, but he could see that she was not convinced. She only dropped the subject because he was against it and it was he who would have to procure the money. He could not bear to think this; he had become cautious about deciding for others. The money might be obtained, if in no other way, by giving security in his furniture and tools. If the plan did not succeed, it would be certain ruin; but perhaps Ellen thought him a wet blanket. One day he threw down his leather apron and went out to raise the money. It was late when he came home, and Ellen was standing at the door waiting for him with a face of anxiety. "Here's the money, my dear! What'll you give me for it?" he said gaily, and counted out into her hand a hundred and eighty krones (£10) in notes. Ellen gazed in surprise at the money; she had never held so large a sum in her hands before. "Wherever did you get all that money from?" she asked at last. "Well, I've trudged all day from place to place," said Pelle cheerfully, "and at last I was directed to a man in Blaagaard Street. He gave me two hundred krones (£11) on the furniture." "But there's only one hundred and eighty (£10) here!" "Oh, well, he took off twenty krones (£1 2_s_.). The loan's to be repaid in instalments of twenty krones (£1 2_s_.) a month for fifteen months. I had to sign a statement that I had borrowed three hundred krones (£16 10_s_.), but then we shan't have to pay any interest." Ellen stared at him in amazement. "Three hundred krones, and we've only got a hundred and eighty, Pelle!" But she suddenly threw her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately. "Thank you!" she whispered. He felt quite dazed; it was not like her to be so vehement. She had plenty to do, after hiring the room, in putting it in order. The loose beams had to be fixed up, and the walls plastered and whitewashed a little. The old peasant was willing enough to let it, but he would not hear of going to any expense. Ellen at last succeeded, however, in getting him to agree to pay half the repairs on condition that she took the room for a year and payed the rent in advance. "We can get my brother Frederik to do some of the repairs on Sunday morning," she said to Pelle, "and then perhaps we shall get it done for nothing." She was altogether very energetic. There was need for it too. The rent swallowed up the hundred krones (£5 10_s_.), and then there were all the things that had to be got. She bought a quantity of cheap print, and hung it up so as to divide one side of the room into a number of small compartments each provided with a second-hand bed and hay mattress, and a washing-stand. "Artistes are not so particular," she said, "and I'm sure they'll be glad to have the room to practise in." Finally there were the two little anterooms, which were to be furnished a little better for more particular artistes. There was not nearly enough money, and some of the things had to be taken on credit. At last it was all ready to receive the guests. It looked quite smart for the amount spent on it, and Pelle could not but admire her cleverness in making a little go a long way. The only thing now left to do was to catch the birds, but here Ellen's practical sense ceased to act; she had no idea how to proceed. "We must advertise," she said, and counted up her remaining pence. Pelle laughed at her. A lot of good it would be to advertise for people who were goodness knows where on railways and steamers! "What shall we do then?" she said, looking anxiously to him for help. After all, he was the man for it all. Well, first of all there must be a German placard down on the street- door, and then they must make the rooms known. Pelle had studied both German and English in the prison, and he made up the placard himself. He had cards printed, and left them in the artistes' tavern at the corner of Vesterbro Street, went there himself two or three times after midnight when the artistes gathered there when their work was finished, and stationed himself at the stage-entrances of the music-halls. He soon came to look upon it as a task to be performed, like everything with which he occupied himself; and this _should_ succeed! Ellen looked on wondering and helpless. She had all at once grown frightened, and followed each of his movements with anxious attention. Soon, however, things began to move. The girls whose washing Ellen had done took an interest in the undertaking, and sent lodgers to her; and Lasse Frederik, who had the run of the circus stables, often returned with some Russian groom or other who did a turn as a rustic dancer or a Cossack horseman. Sometimes there lived with her people from the other side of the world where they walk with their heads down--fakirs and magicians from India and Japan, snake-charmers from Tetuan, people with shaven heads or a long black pigtail, with oblique, sorrowful eyes, loose hips and skin that resembled the greenish leather that Pelle used for ladies' boots. Sister was afraid of them, but it was the time of his life to Lasse Frederik. There were fat Tyrolese girls, who came three by three; they jodeled at the music-halls, and looked dreadful all day, much to Ellen's despair. Now and then a whole company would come, and then trapezes and rings creaked in the great room, Spanish dancers went through their steps, and jugglers practised new feats. They were all people who should preferably not be seen off the stage. Ellen often went to the circus and music-halls now, but could never quite believe that the performers were the same men and women who went about at home looking like scarecrows. Most of them required nothing except that the lodging should be cheap; they boarded themselves, and goodness knows what they lived on. Some of them simply lighted a fire on a sheet of iron on the floor and made a mixture of rice or something of the sort. They could not eat Danish food, Pelle said. Sometimes they went away without paying, and occasionally took something with them; and they often broke things. There was no fortune to be made out of them, but in the meantime Ellen was satisfied as long as she could keep it going, so that it paid the rent and instalments on the loan and left her a little for her trouble. It was her intention to weed out the more worthless subjects, and raise the whole tone of the business when it had got into good order. "You really might refuse the worst work now, and save yourself a little," she said to Pelle when he was sitting over some worn-out factory shoes that had neither sole nor upper. Most boots and shoes had done service somewhere else before they reached this neighborhood; and when they came to Pelle there was not much left of them. "Say no to it!" said Ellen. "It's far too hardly earned for you! And we shall get on now without having to take everything." In the kindness of her heart she wanted him to be able to read his books, since he had a weakness for them. Her intention was good, but Pelle had no thought of becoming an aesthetic idler, who let his wife keep him while he posed as a learned man. There were enough of them in the neighborhood, and the inhabitants looked up to them; but they were not interesting. They were more or less another form of drunkard. To Pelle books were a new power, grown slowly out of his sojourn in prison. He had sat there alone with his work, thrown on himself for occupation, and he had examined himself in every detail. It was like having companionship when he brought to light anything new and strange in himself; and one day he chanced upon the mistiness of his own being, and discovered that it consisted of experience that others had gone through before him. The Bible, which always lay on the prisoner's table for company, helped him; its words had the sound of a well-known voice that reminded him strongly of Father Lasse's in his childhood. From the Bible he went on further and discovered that the serious books were men who sat in solitude like himself, and spoke out. Was solitude so dreadful then when you had such company? Pelle was no longer able to comprehend his own fear of it. As a child he had been a creature in the widest sense, and found companionship in everything; he could converse with trees, animals, and stones. Those fibers had withered, and no longer conveyed nourishment; but then he became one with the masses, and thought and felt exactly as they did. That was crumbling away too now; he was being isolated distinctly, bit by bit, and he was interested in discovering a plan in it. He had made Nature subject to him even as a child, and had afterward won the masses! It was solitude now that had to be taken, and he himself was going about in the midst of it, large and wonderful! It was already leaving indelible traces in his mind, although he had seen nothing of it yet. He felt strangely excited, very much as he had felt when, in his childhood, he arrived in Bornholm with his father and could see nothing, but heard the movement of thronging life behind the mist. A new and unknown world, full of wonders and throbbing with anticipation, would meet him in there. Pelle's action was not due to his own volition. He might as well try to lift himself up by his hair as determine that now he would be a human being by himself. It was an awakening of new powers. He no longer let sunshine and rain pass unnoticed over his head. A strange thing happened to him--he looked wonderingly at everything that he had formerly passed by as commonplace, and saw it all in a new, brilliant light. He had to go all over it from the beginning, look at every detail. How wonderfully everything was connected, sorrow and joy and apparent trifles, to make him, Pelle, who had ruled over hundreds of thousands and yet had to go to prison in order to feel himself rich! Something had been ignited in him that could never be extinguished, a sacred fire to which everything must bear fuel, whether it would or not. He could not be conquered now; he drew strength from infinity itself. The bare cell--three paces one way and six the other--with its tiny window and the mysterious peephole in the door which was like a watchful eye upon one always, how much it had held! It had always been the lot of the poor man to create worlds out of the void, beautiful mirages which suddenly broke and threw him back even poorer and more desolate. But this lasted. All the threads of life seemed to be joined together in the bare cell. It was like the dark, underground place in large buildings where the machinery is kept that admits and excludes light and heat to the whole block. There he discovered how rich and varied life is. Pelle went about in a peculiarly elevated frame of mind. He felt that something greater and finer than himself had taken up its abode within him and would grow on to perfection there. It was a new being that yet was himself; it remained there and drew nourishment from everything that he did. He went about circumspectly and quietly, with an introspective expression as though he were weighing everything: there was so much that was not permissible because it might injure _it_! There were always two of them now--Pelle and this wonderful, invisible ego, which lay securely and weightily within him like a living thing, with its roots in the darkness. Pelle's relations to books were deeply grounded: he had to find out what the world meant now. He was a little distrustful of works of fiction; you got at their subject-matter too easily, and that could not be right. They were made up, too! He needed real stuff, facts. There were great spaces in his brain that longed to be filled with a tangible knowledge of things. His favorite reading was historical works, especially social history; and at present he read everything that came in his way, raw and unsweetened; it would have to sort itself out. It was a longing that had never been satisfied, and now seemed insatiable. He minded his work punctiliously, however. He had made it a principle never to touch a book as long as any work lay waiting unfinished on the floor. In prison he had dreamt of a reasonable working-day of--for instance--eight hours, so that he would have time and strength to occupy himself with intellectual matters; but now he took it off his night's sleep instead. This was at any rate a field out of which they need not try to keep him; he would have his share in the knowledge of the times. He felt it was a weapon. The poor man had long enough retired willingly into the corner for want of enlightenment, and whenever he put out his head he was laughed back again. Why did he not simply wrest the prerogative from the upper classes? It cost only toil, and in that coin he was accustomed to pay! He was scarcely deficient in ability; as far as Pelle could see at present, almost all the pioneers of the new state of things came from the lower classes. He discovered with pleasure that his inward searching did not carry him away from the world, for far in there he came out again into the light-- the light itself! He followed the secret laws for his own inward being, and found himself once more deep in the question of the welfare of the multitude. His practical sense required this confirmation of the conditions. There were also outward results. Even now history could no longer be used to light him and his ideas home; he knew too much. And his vision grew from day to day, and embraced an ever-widening horizon. Some day he would simply take the magic word from the trolls and wake the giant with it! He worked hard and was as a rule full of confidence. When the last of the artistes came home from their _café_, he was often sitting working by the light of his shoemaker's lamp. They would stop before the open basement window and have a chat with him in their broken Danish. His domestic circumstances were somewhat straitened; the instalments in repayment of the loan, and the debt on the furniture still swallowed all that they were able to scrape together, and Pelle had no prospect of getting better work. But work is the bearer of faith, and he felt sure that a way would open out if only he kept on with it unweariedly. He took Ellen's unspoken mistrust of his projects quietly. He felt himself to be greater than she in this; she could not reach up to the level of his head! VI Pelle was awake as early as four o'clock, although he had gone to bed late. He slept lightly at this time, when the summer night lay lightly upon his eyelids. He stole out into the kitchen and washed himself under the tap, and then went down to his work. The gray spirit of the night was still visible down in the street, but a tinge of red was appearing above the roofs. "The sun's rising now over the country," he thought, recalling the mornings of his childhood, the fields with their sheen of silvery dew, and the sun suddenly coming and changing them into thousands of sparkling diamond drops. Ah, if one could once more run bare-footed, if a little shrinkingly, out into the dewy grass, and shout a greeting to the dawning day: "Get up, Sun! Pelle is here already!" The night-watchman came slowly past the open window on his way home. "Up already?" he exclaimed in a voice hoarse with the night air, as he nodded down to Pelle. "Well, it's the early bird that catches the worm! You'll be rich one of these days, shoemaker!" Pelle laughed; he _was_ rich! He thought of his wife and children while he worked. It was nice to think of them sleeping so securely while he sat here at work; it emphasized the fact that he was their bread-winner. With every blow of his hammer the home grew, so he hammered away cheerfully. They were poor, but that was nothing in comparison with the fact that if he were taken away now, things would go to pieces. He was the children's Providence; it was always "Father's going to," or "Father said so." In their eyes he was infallible. Ellen too began to come to him with her troubles; she no longer kept them to herself, but recognized that he had the broader back. It was all so undeserved--as if good spirits were working for him. Shameful though it was that the wife should work to help to keep the family, he had not been able to exempt her from it. And what had he done for the children? It was not easy to build everything up at once from a bare foundation, and he was sometimes tempted to leave something alone so as to accomplish the rest the more quickly. As it was now, he was really nothing! Neither the old Pelle nor the new, but something indeterminate, in process of formation, something that was greatly in need of indulgence! A removing van full of furniture on its way to a new dwelling. He often enough had occasion to feel this from outside; both old enemies and old friends looked upon him as a man who had gone very much down in the world. Their look said: "Is that really all that remains of that stalwart fellow we once knew?" His own people, on the other hand, were lenient in their judgment. "Father hasn't got time," Sister would say in explanation to herself when she was playing about down in his work-room --"but he will have some day!" And then she would picture to herself all the delightful things that would happen then. It affected Pelle strangely; he would try to get through this as quickly as possible. It was a dark and pathless continent into which he had ventured, but he was now beginning to find his way in it. There were ridges of hills that constantly repeated themselves, and a mountain-top here and there that was reached every time he emerged from the thicket. It was good to travel there. Perhaps it was the land he and the others had looked for. When he had got through, he would show it to them. Pelle had a good memory, and remembered all that he read. He could quote much of it verbatim, and in the morning, before the street had wakened, he used to go through it all in his mind while he worked. It surprised him to find how little history concerned itself with his people; it was only in quite recent times that they had been included. Well, that did not trouble him! The Movement _was_ really something new, and not one of history's everlasting repetitions. He now wanted to see its idea in print, and one day found him sitting with a strange solemnity in the library with Marx and Henry George in front of him. Pelle knew something about this subject too, but this was nevertheless like drawing up a net from the deep; a brilliant world of wonders came up with it. There were incontrovertible logical proofs that he had a right apprehension, though it had been arrived at blindly. The land of fortune was big enough for all; the greater the number that entered it, the larger did it become. He felt a desire to hit out again and strike a fresh blow for happiness! Suddenly an avalanche seemed to fall from the top to the bottom of the house, a brief, all-pervading storm that brought him back to his home. It was only Lasse Frederik ushering in the day; he took a flight at each leap, called a greeting down to his father, and dashed off to his work, buttoning the last button of his braces as he ran. A little later Ellen came down with coffee. "Why didn't you call me when you got up?" she said sulkily. "It's not good to sit working so long without having had something to eat." Pelle laughed and kissed her good-morning. "Fine ladies don't get up until long after their husbands," he said teasingly. But Ellen would not be put off with a jest. A proper wife would be up before her husband and have something ready for him. "I _will_ have you call me!" she said decidedly, her cheeks very red. It suited her to get roused now and then. While he drank his coffee, she sat and talked to him about her affairs, and they discussed the plans for the day, after which she went upstairs to help the children to dress. Later in the morning Pelle laid aside his work, dressed himself and went out to deliver it. While he was out he would go into the Library and look up something in the large dictionaries. The street lived its own quiet life here close up to the greater thoroughfares--the same life day after day. The fat second-hand dealer from Jutland was standing as usual at his door, smoking his wooden pipe. "Good-morning, shoemaker!" he cried. A yellow, oblique-eyed oriental in slippers and long black caftan was balancing himself carelessly on the steps of the basement milk-shop with a bowl of cream in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. Above on the pavement two boys were playing hopscotch, just below the large red lamp which all night long advertised its "corn-operator" right up to the main thoroughfare. Two girls in cycling costume came out of a gateway with their machines; they were going to the woods. "Good-day, Pelle! How is Ellen's business getting on?" they asked familiarly. They were girls for whom she had washed. Pelle was fond of this busy part of the town where new shops with large plate-glass windows stood side by side with low-roofed cottages where retail business was carried on behind ordinary windows with wallflowers and dahlias in them as they might be in any provincial town. A string was stretched above the flower-pots, with a paper of safety-pins or a bundle of shoelaces hanging from it. There were poor people enough here, but life did not run in such hard grooves as out at Nörrebro. People took existence more easily; he thought them less honorable, but also less self-righteous. They seemed to be endowed with a more cheerful temperament, did not go so steadily and methodically to and from their fixed work, but, on the other hand, had several ways of making a living. There was everywhere a feeling of breaking up, which corresponded well with Pelle's own condition; the uncertainty of life enveloped everything in a peculiarly tense atmosphere. Poverty did not come marching in close columns of workmen; its clothing was plentiful and varied; it might appear in the last woollen material from the big houses of old Copenhagen, or in gold-rimmed spectacles and high hat. Pelle thought he knew all the trades, but here there were hundreds of businesses that could not be organized; every day he discovered new and remarkable trades. He remembered how difficult it had been to organize out here; life was too incalculable. There was room here for everything; next door to one another lived people whom the Movement had not yet gathered in, and people who had been pushed up out of it in obstinate defiance. There was room here for him too; the shadow he had dreaded did not follow him. The people had seen too much of life to interfere in one another's affairs; respectable citizenship had not been able to take possession of the poor man. There was something of the "Ark" about this part of the town, only not its hopelessness; on the contrary, all possibilities were to be found here. The poor man had conquered this ground from the rich citizens, and it seemed as if the development had got its direction from them. Here it was the proletariat whose varied nature forced its way upward, and leavened--so to speak--the whole. In the long side streets, which were full of second-hand dealers and pawnbrokers, existence had not resolved itself into its various constituents. Girls and gamblers were next-door neighbors to old, peaceable townsfolk, who lived soberly on the interest of their money, and went to church every Sunday with their hymn-books in their hands. The ironmonger had gold watches and antique articles among the lumber in his cellar. Pelle went along Vesterbro Street. The summer holidays were just over, and the pavement on the Figaro side was crowded with sunburnt people-- business-men, students and college girls--who were conspicuous in the throng by their high spirits. They had just returned to town, and still had the scent of fresh breeze and shore about them: it was almost as good as a walk in the country. And if he wanted to go farther out into the world, he could do that too; there were figures enough in the Vesterbro neighborhood to arrest his fancy and carry him forth. It was like a quay on which people from all parts of the world had agreed to meet--artists, seamen and international agents. Strange women came sailing through the crowd, large, exotic, like hot-house fruits; Pelle recognized them from the picture of the second-hand dealer's daughter in the "Ark," and knew that they belonged to the international nursing corps. They wore striped costumes, and their thick, fair hair emitted a perfume of foreign lands, of many ports and routes, like the interior of steamers; and their strong, placid faces were big with massage. They floated majestically down the current like full-rigged vessels. In their wake followed some energetic little beings who also belonged to the show, and had decked themselves out to look like children, with puffed sleeves, short skirts, and hair tied up with ribbons. Feeble old men, whom the sun had enticed out, stood in silent wonder, following the lovely children with their eyes. Pelle felt a peculiar pleasure in being carried along with this stream which flowed like life itself, broad and calm. The world was greater than he had thought, and he took no side for or against anything, but merely wondered over its variety. * * * * * He came home from the library at two, with a large volume of statistics under his arm. Ellen received him with red eyes. "Have your lodgers been making things unpleasant for you again?" he asked, looking into her face. She turned her head away. "Did you get the money for your work?" she asked instead of answering. "No, the man wasn't in the shop himself. They're coming here to pay." "Then we haven't got a farthing, and I've got no dinner for you!" She tried to smile as she spoke, but her heavy eyelids quivered. "Is that all?" said Pelle, putting his arm round her. "Why didn't you make me some porridge? I should have liked a good plateful of that." "I have made it, but you'll get hardly anything else, and that's no food for a man." He took her round the waist with both hands, lifted her up and put her carefully down upon the kitchen table. "That's porridge, my dear!" he said merrily. "I can hardly walk, I'm so strong!" But there was no smile to be coaxed out of Ellen; something had happened that she did not want to tell him. At last he got out of her that the two musical clowns had gone off without paying. They had spoiled her good bed-clothes by lying in them with their clothes on, and had made them so filthy that nothing could be done with them. She was unwilling to tell Pelle, because he had once advised her against it; but all at once she gave in completely. "You mustn't laugh at me!" she sobbed, hiding her face on his shoulder. Pelle attempted to comfort her, but it was not so easily done. It was not the one misfortune but the whole fiasco that had upset her so; she had promised herself so much from her great plan. "It isn't all lost yet," he said to comfort her. "We'll just keep on and you'll see it'll be all right." Ellen was not to be hoodwinked, however. "You know you don't mean it," she said angrily. "You only say it because of me! And the second-hand dealer sent up word this morning that if he didn't soon get the rest of his money, he'd take all the furniture back again." "Then let him take it, and that'll be an end of the matter." "But then we shall lose all that we've paid!" she exclaimed quickly, drying her eyes. Pelle shrugged his shoulders. "That can't be helped." "Wouldn't it be better to get the things sold little by little? We only owe a third on them." "We can't do that; it's punishable. We've got a contract for the hire of the furniture, and as long as we owe a farthing on it, it's his. But we're well and strong all of us; what does it matter?" "That's true enough," answered Ellen, trying to smile, "but the stronger we are, the more food we need." A girl came running up with a pair of boots that were to be soled as quickly as possible. They were "Queen Theresa's," and she was going to wear them in the evening. "That'll bring us in a few pence!" said Ellen, brightening. "I'll help you to get them done quickly." They seated themselves one on each side of the counter, and set to work. It reminded them of the early days of their married life. Now and then they stopped to laugh, when Ellen had forgotten some knack. In an hour and a half the boots were ready, and Pelle went himself with them to make sure of the money. "You'll most likely find her in the tavern," said Ellen. "The artistes generally have their dinner at this hour, and she's probably there." It was a busy time in the artistes' restaurant. At the small tables sat bony, close-cropped men of a peculiar rubicund type, having dinner with some girl or other from the neighborhood. They were acrobats, clowns, and wrestlers, people of a homogeneous type, dressed in loud checks, with enormous cuffs and boots with almost armor-plated toes. They chewed well and looked up stupidly at the call of the girls; they wore a hard, brutal mask for a face, and big diamond rings on their fingers. Some of them had such a powerful lower jaw that they looked as if they had developed it for the purpose of taking blows in a boxing-match. In the adjoining room some elegant young men were playing billiards while they secretly kept an eye on what was going on at the tables. They had curls on their forehead, and patent leather shoes. "Queen Theresa" was not there, so Pelle went to Dannebrog Street, where she lived, but found she was not at home. He had to hand in the boots to a neighbor, and go back empty-handed. Well, it was no more than might have been expected. When you needed a thing most, chance played with you as a cat played with a mouse. Pelle was not nearly so cheerful as he appeared to be when he faced Ellen. The reality was beginning to affect him. He went out to Morten, but without any faith in the result; Morten had many uses for what he earned. "You've just come at the right moment!" said Morten, waving two notes in the air. "I've just had twenty krones (a guinea) sent me from _The Working Man_, and we can divide them. It's the first money I've got from that quarter, so of course I've spat upon it three times." "Then they've found their way to you, after all!" exclaimed Pelle joyfully. Morten laughed. "I got tired of seeing my work repeated in their paper," he said, "when they'll have nothing to do with me up there; and I went up to them and drew their attention to the paragraph about piracy. You should have seen their expression! Goodness knows it's not pleasant to have to earn your bread on wretchedness, so to speak, but it's still more painful when afterward you have to beg for your hard-earned pence. You mustn't think I should do it either under other circumstances; I'd sooner starve; but at any rate I won't be sweated, by my own side! It's a long time since you were here." "I've been so busy. How's Johanna?" The last words were spoken in a whisper. "Not well just now; she's keeping her bed. She's always asking after you." "I've been very busy lately, and unfortunately I can't find out anything about her. Is she just as cross?" "When she's in a bad temper she lets me understand that she could easily help to put us on the right track if she wanted to. I think it amuses her to see us fooled." "A child can't be so knowing!" "Don't be so sure of that! Remember she's not a child; her experiences have been too terrible. I have an idea that she hates me and only meditates on the mischief she can do me. You can't imagine how spiteful she can be; it's as though the exhalations from down there had turned to poison in her. If any one comes here that she notices I like, she reviles them as soon as they're gone, says some poisonous thing about them in order to wound me. You're the only one she spares, so I think there must be some secret link between you. Try to press her on the subject once more." They went in to her. As the door opened she slipped hastily down beneath the clothes--she had been listening at the door--and pretended to be asleep. Morten went back to his work and closed the door after him. "Well, Johanna," said Pelle, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "I've got a message for you. Can you guess who it's from?" "From grandmother!" she exclaimed, sitting up eagerly; but the next moment she was ashamed at having been outwitted, and crept down under the clothes, where she lay with compressed lips, and stole distrustful glances at Pelle. There was something in the glance and the carriage of her head that awakened dormant memories in him, but he could not fix them. "No, not grandmother," he said. "By-the-bye, where is she now? I should like to speak to her. Couldn't you go out to her with me when you get well?" She looked at him with sparkling eyes and a mocking expression. "Don't you wish you may get it!" she answered. "Tell me where she lives, Johanna," Pelle went on, taking her thin hand in his, "there's a good girl!" "Oh, yes, at night!" Pelle frowned. "You must be very heartless, when you can leave your old grandmother and not even like others to help her. I'm certain she's in want somewhere or other." Johanna looked at him angrily. "I whipped her too," she exclaimed malignantly, and then burst into a laugh at Pelle's expression. "No, I didn't really," she said reassuringly. "I only took away her stick and hid her spectacles so that she couldn't go out and fetch the cream. So she was obliged to send me, and I drank up all the cream and put water in the can. She couldn't see it, so she scolded the milk people because they cheated." "You're making all this up, I think," said Pelle uncertainly. "I picked the crumb out of the loaf too, and let her eat the crust," Johanna continued with a nod. "Now stop that," said Pelle, stroking her damp forehead. "I know quite well that I've offended you." She pushed away his hand angrily. "Do you know what I wish?" she said suddenly. "I wish you were my father." "Would you like me to be?" "Yes, for when you became quite poor and ill, I'd treat you just as well as I've treated grandmother." She laughed a harsh laugh. "I'm certain you've only been kind to grandmother," said Pelle gravely. She looked hard at him to see whether he meant this too, and then turned her face to the wall. He could see from the curve of her body that she was struggling to keep back her tears, and he tried to turn her round to him; but she stiffened herself. "I won't live with grandmother!" she whispered emphatically, "I won't!" "And yet you're fond of her!" "No, I'm not! I can't bear her! She told the woman next door that I was only in the way! It was that confounded child's fault that she couldn't get into the Home, she said; I heard her myself! And yet I went about and begged all the food for her. But then I left her!" She jerked the sentences out in a voice that was quite hoarse, and crumpled the sheet up in her hands. "But do tell me where she is!" said Pelle earnestly. "I promise you you shan't go to her if you don't want to." The child kept a stubborn silence. She did not believe in promises. "Well, then, I must go to the police to find her, but I don't want to do that." "No, because you've been in prison!" she exclaimed, with a short laugh. A pained expression passed over Pelle's face. "Do you think that's so funny?" he said, winking his eyes fast. "I'm sure grandmother didn't laugh at it." Johanna turned half round. "No, she cried!" she said. "There was no one to give us food then, and so she cried." It began to dawn upon him who she was. "What became of you two that day on the common? We were going to have dinner together," he said. "When you were taken up? Oh, we couldn't find you, so we just went home." Her face was now quite uncovered, and she lay looking at him with her large gray eyes. It was Hanne's look; behind it was the same wondering over life, but here was added to it a terrible knowledge. Suddenly her face changed; she discovered that she had been outwitted, and glared at him. "Is it true that you and mother were once sweethearts?" she suddenly asked mischievously. Pelle's face flushed. The question had taken him by surprise. "I'll tell you everything about your mother if you'll tell me what you know," he said, looking straight at her. "What is it you want to know?" she asked in a cross-questioning tone. "Are you going to write about me in the papers?" "My dear child, we must find your grandmother! She may be starving." "I think she's at the 'Generality,'" said the child quietly. "I went there on Thursday when the old things had leave to go out and beg for a little coffee; and one day I saw her." "Didn't you go up to her then?" "No; I was tired of listening to her lamentations!" Johanna was no longer stiff and defiant. She lay with her face turned away and answered--a little sullenly--Pelle's questions, while she played nervously with his fingers. Her brief answers made up for him one connected, sad story. Widow Johnsen was not worth much when once the "Ark" was burnt down. She felt old and helpless everywhere else, and when Pelle went to prison, she collapsed entirely. She and the little girl suffered want, and when Johanna felt herself in the way, she ran away to a place where she could be comfortable. Her grandmother had also been in her way. She had her mother's whimsical, dreamy nature, and now she gave up everything and ran away to meet the wonderful. An older playfellow seduced her and took her out to the boys of the timber-yard. There she was left to take care of herself, often slept out in the open, and stole now and then, but soon learned to earn money for herself. When it became cold she went as scullery-maid to the inns or maid-of-all-work to the women in Dannebrog Street. Strange to say, she always eluded the police. At first there were two or three times when she started to return to her grandmother, but went no farther than the stairs; she was afraid of being punished, and could not endure the thought of having to listen to the old lady's complaints. Later on she became accustomed to her new way of living, and no longer felt any desire to leave it, probably because she had begun to take strong drink. Now and again, however, she stole in to the Home and caught a glimpse of her grandmother. She could not explain why she did it, and firmly maintained that she could not endure her. The old woman's unreasonable complaint that she was an encumbrance to her had eaten deeply into the child's mind. During the last year she had been a waitress for some time at a sailors' tavern down in Nyhavn with an innkeeper Elleby, the confidence-man who had fleeced Pelle on his first arrival in the city. It was Elleby's custom to adopt young girls so as to evade the law and have women-servants for his sailors; and they generally died in the course of a year or two: he always wore a crape band round his sleeve. Johanna was also to have been adopted, but ran away in time. She slowly confessed it all to Pelle, coarse and horrible as it was, with the instinctive confidence that the inhabitants of the "Ark" had placed in him, and which had been inherited by her from her mother and grandmother. What an abyss of horrors! And he had been thinking that there was no hurry, that life was richer than that! But the children, the children! Were they to wait too, while he surveyed the varied forms of existence--wait and go to ruin? Was there on the whole any need of knowledge and comprehensiveness of survey in order to fight for juster conditions? Was anything necessary beyond the state of being good? While he sat and read books, children were perhaps being trodden down by thousands. Did this also belong to life and require caution? For the first time he doubted himself. "Now you must lie down and go to sleep," he said gently, and stroked her forehead. It was burning hot and throbbed, and alarmed he felt her pulse. Her hand dropped into his, thin and worn, and her pulse was irregular. Alas, Hanne's fever was raging within her! She held his hand tight when he rose to go. "Were you and mother sweethearts, then?" she asked in a whisper, with a look of expectation in the bright eyes that she fixed upon him. And suddenly he understood the reiterated question and all her strange compliance with his wishes. For a moment he looked waveringly into her expectant eyes. Then he nodded slowly. "Yes, Johanna; you're my little daughter!" he said, bending down over her. Her pale face was lighted with a faint smile, and she shyly touched his stubbly chin and then turned over to go to sleep. In a few words Pelle told Morten the child's previous history--Madam Johnsen and her husband's vain fight to get on, his horrible death in the sewer, how Hanne had grown up as the beautiful princess of the "Ark"--Hanne who meant to have happiness, and had instead this poor child! "You've never told me anything about Hanne," said Morten, looking at him. "No," said Pelle slowly. "She was always so strangely unreal to me, like an all too beautiful dream. Do you know she danced herself to death! But you must pretend to the child that I'm her father." Morten nodded. "You might go out to the Home for me, and hear about the old lady. It's a pity she should have to spend her old age there!" He looked round the room. "You can't have her here, however," said Pelle. "It might perhaps be arranged. She and the child belong to one another." Pelle first went home to Ellen with the money and then out to the Home. Madam Johnsen was in the infirmary, and could not live many days. It was a little while before she recognized Pelle, and she seemed to have forgotten the past. It made no impression whatever on her when he told her that her grandchild had been found. She lay most of the time, talking unintelligibly; she thought she still had to get money for the rent and for food for herself and the child. The troubles of old age had made an indelible impression upon her. "She gets no pleasure out of lying here and being comfortable," said an old woman who lay in the next bed to hers. "She's always trying and trying to get things, and when she's free of that, she goes to Jutland." At the sound of the last word, Madam Johnsen fixed her eyes upon Pelle. "I should so like to see Jutland again before I die," she said. "Ever since I came over here in my young days, I've always meant to use the first money I had over on an excursion home; but I never managed it. Hanne's child had to live too, and they eat a lot at her age." And so she was back in her troubles again. The nurse came and told Pelle that he must go now, and he rose and bent over the old woman to say farewell, strangely moved at the thought that she had done so much for him, and now scarcely knew him. She felt for his hand and held it in both hers like a blind person trying to recognize, and she looked at him with her expressionless eyes that were already dimmed by approaching death. "You still have a good hand," she said slowly, with the far-sounding voice of old age. "Hanne should have taken you, and then things would have been very different.'" VII People wondered, at the library, over the grave, silent working-man who took hold of books as if they were bricks. They liked him and helped him to find what he wanted. Among the staff there was an old librarian who often came and asked Pelle if there were anything he could help him with. He was a little wizened man with gold spectacles and thin white hair and beard that gave a smiling expression to his pale face. He had spent his time among the stacks of books during the greater part of his life; the dust of the books had attacked his chest, and every minute his dry cough sounded through the room. Librarian Brun was a bachelor and was said to be very rich. He was not particularly neat or careful in his dress, but there was something unspoiled about his person that made one think he could never have been subjected to the world's rough handling. In his writings he was a fanatical worshipper of the ego, and held up the law of conscience as the only one to which men should be subject. Personally he was reserved and shy, but something drew him to Pelle, who, he knew, had once been the soul in the raising of the masses; and he followed with wonder and curiosity the development of the new working-man. Now and then he brought one of his essays to Pelle and asked him to read it. It often treated of the nature of personality, took as its starting-point the ego of some philosopher or other, or of such and such a religion, and attempted to get at the questions of the day. They conversed in whispers on the subject. The old, easily-approached philosopher, who was read by very few, cherished an unrequited affection for the general public, and listened eagerly to what a working-man might be able to make out of his ideas. Quiet and almost timid though his manner was, his views were strong, and he did not flinch from the thought of employing violent measures; but his attitude toward the raising of the lower classes was sceptical. "They don't know how to read," he said. "The common people never touch a real book." He had lived so long among books that he thought the truths of life were hidden away in them. They gradually became well acquainted with one another. Brun was the last descendant of an old, decayed family, which had been rich for many generations. He despised money, and did not consider it to be one of the valuable things of life. Never having known want, he had few pretensions, and often denied himself to help others. It was said that he lived in a very Spartan fashion, and used a large proportion of his income for the relief of the poor. On many points he agreed with the lower classes, not only theoretically but purely organically; and Pelle saw, to his amazement, that the dissolution of existing conditions could also take place from the upper grades of society. Perhaps the future was preparing itself at both extremities! One day Brun carefully led the conversation on to Pelle's private affairs: he seemed to know something about them. "Isn't there anything you want to start?" he asked. "I should be so glad if you would allow me to help you." Pelle was not yet clear as to what was to be done about the future. "At present," he said, "the whole thing is just a chaos to me." "But you must live! Will you do me the favor of taking a loan from me at any rate, while you're looking about you? Money is necessary to make one capable and free," he continued, when Pelle refused it. "It's a pity, but so it is. You don't _take_ what you want anyhow, so you must either get the money in the way that offers, or do without." "Then I'll do without," said Pelle. "It seems to me that's what you and yours have always done, and have you ever succeeded in heaping coals of fire on the head of society by it? You set too high a value upon money; the common people have too great respect for the property of others. And upon my word it's true! The good old poor man could scarcely find it in his heart to put anything into his own miserable mouth; his wife was to have all the good pieces. So he is mourned as lost to our side; he was so easy to get wealth by. His progeny still go about with a good deal of it." "Money makes you dependent," Pelle objected. "Not always," answered Brun, laughing. "In my world people borrow and take on credit without a thought: the greater the debt, the better it is; they never treat a man worse than when they owe him money. On that point we are very much more emancipated than you are, indeed that's where the dividing line goes between the upper classes and the common people. This fear of becoming indebted to any one, and carefulness to do two services in return for one, is all very nice and profitable in your own world; but it's what you'll be run down by in your relations to us. We don't know it at all; how otherwise would those people get on who have to let themselves be helped from their cradle to their grave, and live exclusively upon services received?" Pelle looked at him in bewilderment. "Poor people have nothing but their sense of honor, and so they watch over it," he said. "And you've really never halted at this sense of honor that works so splendidly in our favor?" asked Brun in surprise. "Just examine the existing morals, and you'll discover that they must have been invented by us--for your use. Yes, you're surprised to hear me say that, but then I'm a degenerate upper-class man, one of those who fall outside the established order of things. I saw your amazement at my not having patted you on the shoulder and said: 'Poor but proud! Go on being so, young man!' But you mustn't draw too far-reaching conclusions from that; as I told you, I'm not that sort. Now mayn't I give you a helping hand?" No, Pelle was quite determined he should not. Something had been shattered within him, and the knowledge made him restive. "You're an obstinate plebeian," said Brun, half vexed. On his way home Pelle thought it all over. Of course he had always been quite aware that the whole thing resembled a gentleman's carriage, in which he and others like him had to be the horses; the laws and general arrangement were the reins and harness, which made them draw the carriage well. The only thing was that it was always denied from the other side; he was toiling at history and statistics in order to furnish incontrovertible proof of this. But here was some one who sat in the carriage himself, and gave evidence to the effect that it was right enough; and this was not a book, but a living man with whom he stood face to face. It gave an immense support to his belief. There was need enough for it too, for at home things were going badly. The letting of rooms was at a standstill, and Ellen was selling the furniture as fast as she could. "It's all the same to me what the law is!" was her reply to Pelle's warnings. "There surely can be no sense in our having to make the furniture-dealer a present of all we've paid upon it, just because he has a scrap of paper against us. When the furniture's sold, he shall have the rest of what we owe him." He did not get the whole, however, for in the first place they had to live. The remainder of the debt hung like a threat over them; if he discovered that the furniture was sold, it might end badly for them. "Remember I've been in prison before," said Pelle. "They surely can't punish you for what I've done?" said Ellen, looking at him in terror. "Pelle, Pelle, what have I done! Why didn't I do what you told me!" For a time she collapsed, but then suddenly rose energetically, saying: "Then we must get it paid at once. It's surely possible to find twenty krones (a guinea)!" And hastening up to their flat, she quickly returned in her hat and jacket. "What are you going to do?" asked Pelle in amazement. "What am I going to do? I'm going to 'Queen Theresa.' She _can_ get it! Don't be afraid!" she said, bending down and kissing him. She soon returned with the money. "I may pay it back by _washing_," she said cheerfully. So that matter was settled, and they would have been glad if the loan had been the same. It scarcely moved, however; the instalments ate themselves up in some wonderful way. Two or three times they had had to ask for a postponement, and each time the usurer added the amount of the instalment to the sum still owing; he called it punishment interest. Pelle read seldom; he felt no wish to do so. He was out early and late looking for a job. He fetched and took back furniture in the town for the second-hand dealer, and did anything else that came to hand. One evening Ellen came up with a newspaper cutting that "Queen Theresa" had sent her, an advertisement of a good, well-paid situation for a trustworthy man, who had been trained as a shoemaker. "It's this morning's," said Ellen anxiously, "so I only hope it isn't too late. You must go out there at once." She took out Pelle's Sunday clothes quickly, and helped him to make himself tidy. It was for a boot-factory in Borger Street. Pelle took the tram in order to get there quickly, but he had no great hopes of getting the place. The manufacturer was one of his most bitter opponents among the employers at the time when he was organizing the trade--a young master-shoemaker who had had the good sense to follow the development and take the leap over to manufacturer. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he said. "Well, well, old differences shan't stand between us if we can come to an agreement in other ways. What I want is a man who'll look a little after everything, a kind of right- hand man who can take something off my shoulders in a general way, and superintend the whole thing when I'm travelling. I think you'll do capitally for that, for you've got influence with the men; and I'd like things to go nicely and smoothly with them, without giving in to them too much, you understand. One may just as well do things pleasantly; it doesn't cost an atom more, according to my experience, and now one belongs to the party one's self." "Do you?" said Pelle, hardly able to believe his ears. "Yes! Why shouldn't an employer be a fellow-partisan? There's nothing to be afraid of when once you've peeped in behind the scenes; and it has its advantages, of course. In ten years' time every sensible man will be a social democrat." "That's not at all unlikely," said Pelle, laughing. "No, is it! So one evening I said to my wife: 'I say, you know it won't do soon to own that you don't belong to the party; in other countries millionaires and counts and barons already belong to it.' She didn't quite like it, but now she's quite satisfied. They're quite nice people, as she said herself. There are even persons of rank among them. Well, it wasn't conviction that drove me at first, but now I agree because what they say's very sensible. And upon my word it's the only party that can thrash the anarchists properly, don't you think so? In my opinion all should unite in fighting against them, and that'll be the end of it, I suppose. I've reflected a good deal upon politics and have come to the conclusion that we employers behaved like asses from the beginning. We oughtn't to have struggled against the Movement; it only drove it to extremes. Just see how well-behaved it's become since we began to take off our hats to it! You _become_ what you're _treated_ as, let me tell you. You wouldn't have acted so harshly if we others had been a little kinder to you. Don't you allow that? You're exactly like every one else: you want to have good food and nice clothes--be considered respectable people. So it was wise to cut off the lower end; you can't rise when you've too much lumber as ballast. Fellows who pull up paving- stones and knock you down are no company for me. You must have patience and wait until the turn comes to your party to come in for a share: those are my politics. Well, what do you think about the job?" "I don't understand the machines," said Pelle. "You'll soon get into that! But it's not that that matters, if only you know how to treat the workmen, and that of course you do. I'll pay you thirty-five krones (£2) a week--that's a good weekly wage--and in return you'll have an eye to my advantage of course. One doesn't join the party to be bled--you understand what I mean? Then you get a free house--in the front building of course--so as to be a kind of vice-landlord for the back building here; there are three stairs with one-roomed flats. I can't be bothered having anything to do with that; there's so much nonsense about the mob. They do damage and don't pay if they can help it, and when you're a little firm with them they fly to the papers and write spiteful letters. Of course I don't run much risk of that, but all the same I like things to go smoothly, partly because I aspire to become a member of the management. So you get eighteen hundred krones (£100) a year and a flat at four hundred (£22), which makes two thousand two hundred krones (£l22)--a good wage, though perhaps I oughtn't to say so myself; but good pay makes good work. Well, is it a bargain?" Pelle wanted to have till the next day to think it over. "What do you want to think over? One ought never to think over things too much; our age requires action. As I said before, an expert knowledge is not the main thing; it's your authority that I chiefly want. In other words, you'll be my confidential man. Well, well, then you'll give me your answer to-morrow." Pelle went slowly homeward. He did not know why he had asked time to think it over; the matter was settled. If you wanted to make a home, you must take the consequences of it and not sneak away the first time a prospect offered of making it a little comfortable for your wife and children. So now he was the dog set to watch his companions. He went down the King's New Market and into the fashionable quarter. It was bright and gay here, with the arc-lamps hanging like a row of light- birds above the asphalt, now and then beating their wings to keep themselves poised. They seemed to sweep down the darkness of night, and great shadows flickered through the street and disappeared. In the narrow side streets darkness lay, and insistent sounds forced their way out of it--a girl's laugh, the crying of a lonely child, the ceaseless bickering of a cowed woman. But people strolled, quietly conversing, along the pavement in couples and heard nothing. They had got out their winter coats, and were luxuriating in the first cold weather. Music sounded from the large _cafés_, which were filled to overflowing. People were sitting close together in small select companies, and looked gay and happy. On the tables round which they sat, stood the wine-cooler with the champagne bottle pointing obliquely upward as though it were going to shoot down heaven itself to them. How secure they appeared to feel! Had they no suspicion that they were sitting upon a thin crust, with the hell of poverty right beneath them? Or was that perhaps why they were enjoying themselves--to-day your turn, to-morrow mine? Perhaps they had become reconciled to the idea, and took what they could get without listening too carefully to the hoarse protests of the back streets! Under one of the electric lamp-posts on the Town Hall Square a man was standing selling papers. He held one out to Pelle, saying: "A halfpenny if you can afford it, if not you can have it for nothing!" He was pale, with dark shadows under his eyes, and he had a dark beard. He looked as if he were suffering from some internal complaint which was slowly consuming him. Pelle looked at him, and saw to his surprise that it was Peter Dreyer, his comrade of long ago! "Do you go about selling newspapers?" he exclaimed in astonishment, holding out his hand. Peter Dreyer quietly returned his greeting. He had the same heavy, introspective look that he had had when Pelle met him in the garret in Jager Street, but looked even more perplexed. "Yes, I've become a newspaper man," he said, "but only after working hours. It's a little paper that I write and print myself. It may perhaps do you good to read it." "What's it about?" "About you and me." "It's anarchistic, I suppose?" said Pelle, looking at the title of the paper. "You were so strange last time I met you." "Well, you can read it. A halfpenny if you can afford it, if not gratis!" he cried, holding out a copy to the passers-by. A policeman was standing a little way off observing him. He gradually drew nearer. "I see you're under observation!" said Pelle, drawing his attention to the policeman. "I'm used to that. Once or twice they've seized my inoffensive little paper." "Then it can't have been altogether inoffensive?" said Pelle, smiling. "I only advise people to think for themselves." "That advice may be dangerous enough too, if it's followed." "Oh, yes. The mean thing is that the police pursue me financially. As soon as I've got work with any master, a policeman appears and advises him to discharge me. It's their usual tactics! They aim at the stomach, for that's where they themselves have their heart." "Then it must be very hard for you to get on," said Pelle sympathetically. "Oh, I get along somehow. Now and then they put me in prison for no lawful reason, and when a certain time has passed they let me out again --the one with just as little reason as the other. They've lost their heads. It doesn't say much for machinery that's exclusively kept going to look after us. I've a feeling that they'd like to put me out of the way, if it could be done; but the country's not large enough to let any one disappear in. But I'm not going to play the hunted animal any longer. Although I despise our laws, which are only a mask for brute force, I'm very careful to be on the right side; and if they use violence against me again, I'll not submit to it." "The conditions are so unequal," said Pelle, looking seriously at him. "No one need put up with more than he himself likes. But there's something wanting in us here at home--our own extreme consequence, self- respect; and so they treat us as ignominiously as they please." They went on together. On the pavement outside one of the large _cafés_ stood an anaemic woman with a child upon her arm, offering for sale some miserable stalks which were supposed to represent flowers. Peter Dreyer pointed silently from her to the people in the _café_. His face was distorted. "I've no objection to people enjoying life," said Pelle; "on the contrary, I'm glad to see that there are some who are happy. I hate the system, but not the people, you see, unless it were those who grudge us all anything, and are only really happy in the thought that others are in want." "And do you believe there's any one in there who seriously doesn't grudge others anything? Do you believe any of them would say: 'I'm fortunate enough to earn twenty-five thousand krones (£1,400) a year and am not allowed to use more than five thousand (£300), so the rest belongs to the poor'? No, they're sitting there abusing the poor man while they drink up the surplus of his existence. The men abuse the workmen, and their wives the servant girls. Just go in among the tables and listen! The poor are bestial, unreliable, ungrateful in spite of everything that is done for them; they are themselves to blame for their misery. It gives a spice to the feast to some of them, others dull their uneasy conscience with it. And yet all they eat and drink has been made by the poor man; even the choicest dainties have passed through his dirty hands and have a piquant flavor of sweat and hunger. They look upon it as a matter of course that it should be so; they are not even surprised that nothing is ever done in gratitude for kind treatment-- something to disagree with them, a little poison, for instance. Just think! There are millions of poor people daily occupied in making dainties for the rich man, and it never occurs to any of them to revenge themselves, they are so good-natured. Capital literally sleeps with its head in our lap, and abuses us in its sleep; and yet we don't cut its throat!" At Victoria Street they stopped. The policeman had followed them and stopped on the other side of the street when they stopped. Pelle drew the other's attention to the fact. Peter looked across carelessly. "He's like an English bloodhound," he said quietly--"a ferocious mouth and no brain! What vexes me most is that we ourselves produce the dogs that are to hunt us; but we shall soon begin to agitate among the military." He said good-night and turned toward Enghave Road, where he lived. Ellen met Pelle at the top of the street. "How did you get on?" she asked eagerly. "Did you get the place?" He quietly explained matters to her. She had put her arm round him. "You great big man," she said, looking up at him with a happy face. "If you only knew how proud I am of you! Why, we're rich now, Pelle--thirty-five krones (2 Pounds) a week! Aren't you glad yourself?" "Yes, I'm glad that you and the children will be a little comfortable for once." "Yes, but you yourself--you don't seem to be very delighted, and yet it's a good place you're getting." "It won't be an easy place for me, but I must make the best of it," he answered. "I don't see why not. You're to be on the side of the manufacturer, but that's always the way with that kind of position; and he's got a right too to have his interests looked after." When they got in Ellen brought him his supper, which had been standing on the stove to keep warm. Now and then she looked at him in wonder; there was something about him to-day that she did not understand. He had on the whole become a little peculiar in his views about things in the prison, and it was not to be wondered at. She went to him and stroked his hair. "You'll be satisfied on your own account too, soon," she said. "It's fortunate for us that he can't be bothered to look after things himself." "He's taken up with politics," answered Pelle absently. "At present he's thinking of getting into the Town Council by the help of the working- men's votes." "Then it's very wise of him to take you," Ellen exclaimed vivaciously. "You understand these matters and can help him. If we save, we may perhaps have so much over that we could buy the business from him some day." She looked happy, and treated him to a little petting, now in one way and now in another. Her joy increased her beauty, and when he looked at her it was impossible for him to regret anything. She had sacrificed everything for him, and he could do nothing without considering her. He must see her perfectly happy once more, let it cost what it might, for he owed her everything. How beautiful she was in her unaffectedness! She still had a fondness for dressing in black, and with her dark hair about her pale face, she resembled one of those Sisters who have suffered much and do everything out of compassion. It struck him that he had never heard her really laugh; she only smiled. He had not awakened the strongest feeling in her yet, he had not succeeded in making her happy; and therefore, though she had shared his bed and board, she had kept the most beautiful part to herself, like an unapproachable virgin. But now her cheeks glowed with happy expectation, and her eyes rested upon him eagerly; he no longer represented for her the everyday dullness, he was the fairy-story that might take her by surprise when the need was greatest. He felt he could hardly pay too dearly for this change. Women were not made for adversity and solitude; they were flowers that only opened fully when happiness kissed them. Ellen might shift the responsibility over onto his shoulders. The next day he dressed himself carefully to go out and make the final agreement with the manufacturer. Ellen helped him to button his collar, and brushed his coat, talking, as she did so, with the lightheartedness of a bird, of the future. "What are we going to do now? We must try and get rid of this flat and move out to that end of the town," she said, "or else you'll have too far to walk." "I forgot to tell you that we shall live out there," said Pelle. "He has three stairs with one-roomed apartments, and we're to be the vice- landlord of them. He can't manage the tenants himself." Pelle had not forgotten it, but had not been able to bring himself to tell her that he was to be watch-dog. Ellen looked at him in petrified astonishment. "Does that go with the post?" she gasped. Pelle nodded. "You mustn't do it!" she cried, suddenly seizing him by the arms. "Do you hear, Pelle? You mustn't do it!" She was greatly disturbed and gazed beseechingly at him. "I don't understand you at all." He looked at her in bewilderment and murmured something in self-defence. "Don't you see that he only wants to make use of you?" she continued excitedly. "It's a Judas post he's offered you, but we won't earn our bread by turning poor people into the street. I've seen my own bits of furniture lying in the gutter. Oh, if you'd gone there!" She gazed shudderingly straight before her. "I can't understand what you can have been thinking about--you who are generally so sensible," she said when she had once more calmed down, looking reproachfully at him; but the next instant she understood it all, and sank down weeping. "Oh, Pelle, Pelle!" she exclaimed, and hid her face. VIII Pelle read no more and no longer went to the library. He had enough to do to keep things going. There was no question now of trying to get a place; winter was at the door, and the army of the unemployed grew larger every day. He stayed at home, worked when there was anything to do, and for the rest minded the children for Ellen while she washed. He talked to Lasse Frederik as he would to a comrade, but it was nice to have to look after the little ones too. They were grateful for it, and he discovered that it gave him much pleasure. Boy Comfort he was very fond of now, his only sorrow being that the boy could not talk yet. His dumbness was always a silent accusation. "Why don't you bring books home?" Ellen would say when she came up from the wash-house to look after them, with her arms bare and tiny drops in her hair from the steam down there. "You've plenty of time now." No, what did he want with books? They did perhaps widen his horizon a little, but what lay behind it became so very much greater again; and he himself only grew smaller by reading. It was impossible in any case to obtain any reassuring view of the whole. The world followed its own crooked course in defiance of all wisdom. There was little pleasure in absorbing knowledge about things that one could not remedy; poor people had better be dull. He and Morten had just been to Madam Johnsen's funeral. She had not succeeded in seeing Jutland. Out of a whole life of toil there had never been ten krones (10s.) over for a ticket home; and the trains ran day after day with hundreds of empty places. With chilling punctuality they whirled away from station to station. Heaven knows how many thousand empty seats the trains had run with to Jutland during the years in which the old woman longed to see her home! And if she had trudged to the railway-station and got into the train, remorseless hands would have removed her at the first station. What had she to do with Jutland? She longed to go there, it was true, but she had no money! Was it malice or heartless indifference? A more fiendish sport can at any rate hardly be imagined than this running with empty places. It was they that made the journey so terribly vivid--as though the devil himself were harnessed to the train and, panting with wantonness, dragging it along through the country to places that people were longing to see. It must be dreadful to be the guard and call the names of the stations in to those seats for the people left behind! And Sister walked about the floor so pale and thin! There was no strength in her fair hair, and when she was excited, her breath whistled in her windpipe with that painful sound that was practically inseparable from the children of the poor neighborhoods. It was always the vitiated air of the back-yards that had something to say now--depressing, like almost everything his understanding mastered. All she wanted was sunshine, and all the summer it had been poured down in open-handed generosity, only it went over the heads of poor people like everything else. It had been a splendid year for strawberries, but the large gardeners had decided to let half of them rot on their stalks in order to keep up the prices and save the money spent on picking them. And here were the children hungering for fruit, and ailing for want of it! Why? No, there was no possible answer to be given to that question. And again--everywhere the same! Whenever he thought of some social institution or other, the same melancholy spectacle presented itself--an enormous rolling stock, only meant for a few, and to a great extent running empty; and from the empty places accusing eyes gazed out, sick and sad with hunger and want and disappointed hope. If one had once seen them, it was impossible to close one's eyes to them again. Sometimes his imagination took another direction, and he found himself planning, for instance, kingdoms in which trains were used according to the need for them, and not according to the purse, where the food was eaten by those who were hungry, and the only poor people were those who grudged others things. But he pulled himself up there; it was too idiotic! A voice from the unseen had called him and his out into the day, and then nothing had happened! It had only been to fool them. Brun often came down to see him. The old librarian missed his young friend. "Why do you never come in to us now?" he asked. "What should I do there?" answered Pelle shortly. "The poor man has no use for knowledge; he's everlastingly damned." He had broken with all that and did not care either about the librarian's visits. It was best for every one to look after himself; the great were no company for such as he. He made no attempt to conceal his ill humor, but Brun took no notice. The latter had moved out into Frederiksberg Avenue in October, and dropped in almost every afternoon on his way home from the library. The children took care to be down there at that time, for he always brought something for them. Neither Pelle nor Ellen demanded much of life now. They had settled down in resignation side by side like a pair of carthorses that were accustomed to share manger and toil. It would have been a great thing now to have done with that confounded loan, so that they need not go about with their lives in their hands continually; but even that was requiring too much! All that could be scraped together went every month to the money-lender, and they were no nearer the end. On the one hundred and eighty krones (£10) that Pelle had received they had now in all paid off one hundred and twenty (£7), and yet they still owed two hundred and forty (more than £13). It was the "punishment interest" that made it mount up whenever they came only a day or two too late with the instalments or whatever it might be. In any case it was an endless screw that would go on all their life pumping out whatever they could scrape together into the money-lender's pocket. But now Pelle meant to put an end to this. He had not paid the last instalment and meant to pay no more, but let things go as they liked. "You ought to borrow of Herr Brun and pay off that money-lender," said Ellen, "or else he'll only come down on us and take our furniture." But Pelle was obstinate and would not listen to reason. The consciousness that a parasite had fastened upon him and sucked him dry in spite of all his resistance, made him angry. He would like to see them touching his things! When the money-lender came to fetch his instalment, Pelle shut the door in his face. For the rest he took everything with the calmness of resignation; but when the subject cropped up, he fired up and did not know what he said. Ellen had to keep silence and let his mood work itself out. One afternoon he sat working at the basement window. The librarian was sitting on the chair by the door, with a child on each knee, feeding them with dates. Pelle was taking no notice, but bent over his work with the expression of a madman who is afraid of being spoken to. His work did not interest him as it had formerly done, and progressed slowly; a disturbing element had entered, and whenever he could not instantly find a tool, he grew angry and threw the things about. Brun sat watching him anxiously, though apparently taken up with the children. A pitying expression would have made Pelle furious. Brun guessed that there was some money trouble, but dared not offer his assistance; every time he tried to begin a conversation Pelle repelled him with a cunning look which said: "You're seeking for an opportunity to come with your money, but you won't get it!" Something or other had gone wrong with him, but it would all come right in the end. A cab stopped outside the door, and three men stepped out and went into the house. A little while after Ellen burst into the workshop. "Pelle!" she cried, without noticing Brun, "they've come to take away our things!" She broke into a fit of weeping, and seeing their mother crying, the children began to cry too. Pelle rose and seized a hammer. "I'll soon get _them_ out!" he said between his teeth in a low tone as he moved toward the door. He did not hurry, but went with lowered head, not looking at any one. Brun seized him by the arm and stopped him. "You forget that there's something called Prison!" he said with peculiar emphasis. Pelle gazed at him in astonishment, and for a moment it looked as if he were going to strike the old man; then the hammer dropped from his hand and he broke down. IX Now and then a comrade from the good old days would come up and want Pelle to go with him to a meeting. Old fighting memories wakened within him. Perhaps it was there the whole point lay. He threw off his leather apron and went. Ellen's eyes followed him to the door, wondering that he could still wish to have anything to do with that after what _he_ had got out of it. But it was not there after all! He remembered the tremendous ferment in men's minds during the Movement, and it seemed to him that the excitement had died down. People only came forward before the elections, otherwise they went about their own business as if there had never been any rallying idea. They were all organized, but there was nothing new and strong in that fact; they were born--so to speak--in organization, and connected nothing great and elevating with it. His old associates had cooled down remarkably; they must have discovered that success was neither so romantic nor so easy as they had thought. They had no longer simply to open the gate into the land of success and stream through it; there was a long and difficult road before that. So they each arranged his own matters, and disposed of the doubtful future for small present advantages which were immediately swallowed up by the existing conditions. The Movement had not reached to the bottom. There was an accusation against himself in this fact; it had not been designed with sufficient breadth. Even at that time it had passed over the heads of the inhabitants of the "Ark," and now a large proletariat was left with their own expectations of the future. The good old class of the common people had split up into a class of petty tradesmen--who seemed to be occupied solely in establishing themselves--and this proletariat. But there was nothing new in this. One stratum moved up and revealed a new one below; it had always been thus in history. Was it then everlastingly determined that at the bottom of existence there should always be the same innumerable crowd of those who were thrust down, who bore the burden of the whole, the great hunger reserve? Was it only possible to be happy when one knew how to push the difficulties down, just as one might push the folds of a material until at last they were heaped up in one place? It was the old question over again. Formerly he had had his clear faith with which to beat down doubt, but now he could not be content with a blind hope; he required to be shown an expedient. If the Movement had failed through having been begun crookedly, the causes with which one had to do were practical causes, and it was possible to do the whole thing over again. There were also others engaged in taking the whole thing up from the bottom, and through Peter Dreyer he came into contact with young men of an entirely new type. They had emerged from the Movement, shot up surprisingly out of its sediment, and now made new ambitious claims upon life. By unknown paths they had reached the same point as he himself had done, and demanded first and foremost to be human beings. The sacredness of the ego filled them, and made them rebel at all yokes; they began from within by shaking them off, did not smoke or drink, would be slaves to nothing. They kept out of the Movement and had their own places of meeting out about the South Boulevard, where they read and discussed new social forms. They were intelligent, well-paid working-men, who persistently shared the conditions of the proletariat; fanatics who gave away their week's wages if they met a man who was poorer than themselves; hot-headed enthusiasts who awaited revolution. Several of them had been in prison for agitating against the social order. There were also country people among them--sons of the men who stood in the ditches and peat-pits out there. "The little man's children," Morten called them. These were the offspring of those who had made the Movement; that was how it should go on. By being contented they kept themselves free from the ensnaring expedients of capitalism, they despised the petty tradesman's inclination for comfort, and were always ready for action. In them the departure was at any rate a fact! They wanted to get hold of Pelle. "Come over to us!" Peter Dreyer often said. Pelle, however, was not easily enticed out; he had his home where he hid himself like a snail in its shell. He had the responsibility for this little world of five people, and he had not even succeeded in securing it. His strength and industry were not enough even to keep one little home above water; a benefactor was needed for that! It was not the time to tend jealously one's own honor when wife and children would be the sufferers; and now that it was all arranged he felt deeply grateful to the old librarian. It was nevertheless a disgraceful fact which did not encourage him to have anything to do with the affairs of others. The violent language used by the young men frightened him too. He had rebelled against the old conditions just as they had done, but he met with different experiences. From the time he could crawl he had struggled to accommodate himself to the great connection of things; even the life of the prison had not placed him outside it, but had only united him the more closely with the whole. He had no inclination to cut the knot, but demanded that it should be untied. "You're no good," said Morten and the others when they tried to rouse him, "for you can't hate." No, the cold in his mind was like the night- frost; it melted at the first sunbeam. When he looked back there were redeeming ties that held the whole together in spite of all the evil; and now the old librarian had brought him close up to the good in the other side of the cleft too. He had settled down to his shoemaking again and refused to be roused by the others' impatience; but he looked as if he had an eternity in which to unravel his affairs. Sister was often down with him and filled the workshop with her chatter. At about eight, when it began to grow light, he heard her staggering step on the stair, and she remained with him until Ellen took her up in the evening by main force to put her to bed. She dragged all the tools together and piled them up in front of Pelle on the bench so that he could hardly move, and called it helping. Then she rested, standing with her hands upon the edge of the bench and talking to him. "Sister's clever!" she said appreciatively, pointing with satisfaction to her work. "Big girl!" And if he did not answer she repeated it and did not leave off until he had praised her. "Yes, you're very clever!" he said, "but can you put the things back in their places?" The child shook her head. "Sister's tired," she declared with decision, and immediately after brought another tool and pushed it slowly up onto the heap while she kept her eyes upon his face to see whether she might do it. "Sister's helping!" she repeated in explanation; but Pelle pretended not to hear. For a time she was quiet, but then came to him with her pinafore full of old boots and shoes that she had pulled out from behind the stove. He tried to look stern, but had to bend down over his work. It made the little girl feel uncertain. She emptied her pinafore onto the platform, and sitting on her heels with her hands on her little knees, she tried to see what his expression was. It was not satisfactory, so she got up and, putting her hands on his knee, said, with an ingratiating look into his face: "You're so clever, father! You can do everything! You're the cleverest in the whole world!" And after a little pause--"We're both clever, aren't we, father?" "Oh, that's it, is it!" exclaimed Pelle. "One of us is very conceited at any rate!" "It's not me!" answered the child confidently, shaking her head. "You seem to be very happy together," said Ellen when she came down with Boy Comfort on her arm to fetch Anna. The child did not want to go up with her, and pushed round into the corner behind Pelle's chair; and Boy Comfort struggled to be put down onto the floor to play with the lasts. "Well, then," said Ellen, sitting down, "we'll all stay here together." She looked quiet and resigned; her defeat had told upon her. She no longer spoke of the future, but was glad that they had escaped from the clutches of the money-lender; the thought of it filled her with a quiet but not altogether unspoiled happiness. She no longer dreamed of anything better, but was grateful for what she possessed; and it seemed to Pelle that something had died within her together with the dissatisfaction. It was as though she had at last given everything she had; her resignation to the gray everyday life made her dull and ordinary. "She needs sunshine," he thought. And again his thoughts wandered in their search for a way out into the future--his one idea--in the same track that they had followed a hundred times before. He did not even enter it fully, but merely recognized that the problem was being worn threadbare. In his trade there was no compromise; there was only room for extortioners and extortionized, and he was not suited for either part. When he took up other possibilities, however, his thoughts returned of themselves to his work, like a roving dog that always comes back and snuffs at the same scent. There was something in him that with fatalistic obstinacy made him one with his trade, in spite of its hopelessness; he had staked everything there, and there the question should be solved. Behind the fatalism of the common people lies the recognition that there is plan and perspective in their life too; such and such a thing is so because it must be so. And this recognition Pelle had no reason to do away with. He grew confused with the continual dwelling of his thoughts on the same subject, but it seemed to possess him, was with him while he slept, and seized him as soon as he awoke. There was an old dream that persistently haunted him at this time--a forgotten youthful idea from his earliest participation in the rising, the plan for a common workshop that would make the court shoemaker superfluous. The plan had been laid aside at the time as impossible, but now he took it up again and went over it step by step. He could easily find some capable, reliable fellow-workmen who would stand by him through thick and thin with regard to work and profits; and there would be no difficulty about discipline, for during the past years the workmen had learned to subordinate themselves to their own people. Here was a way for the small man to assert himself within his trade and join the development; what one was not able to do could be done by several joining together, namely, turn the modern technics to account and divide the work into sections. He arranged it all most carefully, and went over it again and again to make sure that every detail was correct. When he slept he dreamed of his system of profit-sharing, and then it was a fact. He stood working in a bright room among comrades; there was no master and no servant, the machinery whirred, and the workmen sang and whistled while they minded it. Their hours of labor were short, and they all had happy homes waiting for them. It was hard to wake up and know the reality. Alas! all the cleverest and most industrious hands in the world had no influence in their several trades--could not so much as sew a single stitch--until capital started them. If that refused its support, they could do nothing at all, but were cut off, as it were, at once. Machinery cost money. Pelle could get the latter from Brun, the old man having often enough offered him capital to start something or other; but he already owed him money, and capital might run his undertaking down. It was at its post, and allowed no activity of that kind beside it. He was seized with uncertainty; he dared not venture the stakes. The old philosopher came almost daily. Pelle had become a part of his life, and he watched his young friend's condition with anxiety. Was it the prison life--or was it perhaps the books--that had transformed this young man, who had once gone ahead with tempestuous recklessness, into a hesitating doubter who could not come to a decision? Personality was of doubtful value when it grew at the expense of energy. It had been the old man's hope that it would have developed greater energy through being replanted in fresh, untouched soil, and he tried to rouse Pelle out of his lethargy. Pelle gave an impatient jerk. They were poking him up on all sides, wanting him to come to a decision, and he could not see his way to it. Of course he was half asleep; he knew it himself. He felt that he wanted rest; his entity was working for him out there in the uncertainty. "I don't know anything," he said, half irritated, "so what can be the use? I thought books would lead me to a place from which I could bring everything together; but now I'm all abroad. I know too much to dash on blindly, and too little to find the pivot on which the whole thing turns. It doesn't matter what I touch, it resolves itself into something _for_ and something _against_." He laughed in desperation. One day Brun brought him a book. "This book," he said with a peculiar smile, "has satisfied many who were seeking for the truth. Let's see whether it can satisfy you too!" It was Darwin's "Origin of Species." Pelle read as in a mist. The point lay here--the whole thing powerfully put into one sentence! His brain was in a ferment, he could not lay the book down, but went on reading all night, bewitched and horrified at this merciless view. When Ellen in surprise came down with his morning coffee, he had finished the book. He made no reply to her gentle reproaches, but drank the coffee in silence, put on his hat and went out into the deserted streets to cool his burning brow. It was very early and the working-men had not yet turned out; at the morning coffee-rooms the shutters were just being taken down; warmly- clad tram-men were tramping through the streets in their wooden-soled boots; slipshod, tired women ran stumbling along to their early jobs, shivering with cold and weary of life, weary before they had begun their day. Here and there a belated woman toiled along the street carrying a clothes-basket, a mother taking her baby to the crêche before she went to her work. Suddenly the feeling of rebellion came over Pelle, hot, almost suffocating him. This cruelly cold doctrine of the right of the strong, which gave him the choice between becoming brutal or going to the dogs-- this was the key to an understanding of life? It pronounced a sentence of death upon him and his fellows, upon the entire world of the poor. From this point of view, the existing conditions were the only ones possible--they were simply ideal; the sweater and the money-lender, whom he hated, were in the most harmonious agreement with the fundamental laws of life! And the terrible thing was that from this standpoint the social fabric was clearly illuminated: he could not deny it. He who best learned to accommodate himself to the existing state of things, conquered; no matter how vile the existing state of things might be. The book threw at once a dazzling light upon society, but where was his own class in this doctrine--all the poor? They were not taken into account! Society was thus in reality only those in possession, and here he had their religion, the moral support for the uncompromising utilization. It had always been difficult to understand how men could misuse others; but here it was a sacred duty to give stones for bread. The greatest oppressor was in reality nearest to life's holy, maternal heart; for he was appointed to carry on the development. The poor had no share in this doctrine. When a bad workman was in difficulties, the others did not press him until he had to go down, not even when he himself was to blame for his lack of means. The poor did not let the weak fall, but took him under their wing. They placed themselves outside the pale of the law and gave themselves no chance; the race could not be won with a wounded comrade on one's back. But in this fact there lay the admission that they did not belong to the existing order of things, but had the right to demand their own time of happiness. A new age must come, in which all that was needed in order that they might share in it--kindness of heart, solidarity--was predominant. Thus even the great union he had helped to effect pointed in the right direction. It had been the opposite of one against all-it had built upon the law of reciprocity. And the poor man was not a miserable wretch, condemned by the development to be ruined, a visionary, who, as a consequence of an empty stomach, dreamed of a Utopia. Pelle had passed his childhood in the country and gone about with the rest of creation in all kinds of weather. He had seen the small singing-birds throw themselves in whole clouds at the hawk when it had seized one of their number, and pursue it until it dropped its prey in confusion. When he caught an ant in a split straw, the other ants flocked to the straw and gnawed their comrade out: they could not be frightened away. If he touched them, they squirted their poison against his hand and went on working. Their courage amused him, the sprinklings of poison were so tiny that he could not see them; but if he quickly raised his hand to his nose, he detected a sharp acid smell. Why did they not leave their comrade in his dilemma, when there were so many of them and they were so busy? They did not even stop to have a meal until they had liberated him. The poor man must stick to the union idea; he had got hold of the right thing this time! And now all at once Pelle knew which way they ought to go. If they were outside the existing conditions and their laws, why not arrange their own world upon the laws that were theirs? Through the organizations they had been educated in self-government; it was about time that they took charge of their own existence. The young revolutionaries kept clear of the power of money by going without things, but that was not the way. Capital always preached contentment to the poor; he would go the other way, and conquer production by a great flanking movement. He was not afraid now of using the librarian's money. All doubt had been chased away. He was perfectly clear and saw in broad outlines a world- wide, peaceful revolution which was to subvert all existing values. Pelle knew that poverty is not confined to any country. He had once before brought forward an invincible idea. His system of profit-sharing must be the starting-point for a world-fight between Labor and Capital! X Two days later Pelle and the librarian went to Frederiksberg Street to look at a business that was to be disposed of. It was a small matter of half a score of workmen, with an electrical workshop in the basement and a shop above. The whole could be had by taking over the stock and machinery at a valuation. The rent was rather high, but with that exception the conditions were favorable. "I think we'll arrange that the purchase and working capital shall bear interest and be sunk like a four per cent. credit-association loan," said Brun. "It's cheap money," answered Pelle. "A good result won't say much about the circumstances when we haven't got the same conditions as other businesses." "Not so very cheap. At that price you can get as many as you want on good security; and I suppose the workman ought to be regarded as the best security in an undertaking that's built upon labor," said the old man, smiling. "There'll be a big fall in discount when you come into power, Pelle! But the bare capital costs no more now either, when there are no parasites at it; and it's just parasites that we're going to fight." Pelle had no objection to the cheap money; there were still plenty of difficulties to overcome. If they got on, it would not be long before private speculation declared war on him. They agreed that they would have nothing to do with agents and branches; the business was to rest entirely upon itself and communicate directly with the consumers. What was made in the workshop should merely cover the expenses of the shop above, the rest of the surplus being divided among the workmen. "According to what rules?" asked Brun, with a searching glance at Pelle. "Equal!" he answered without hesitation. "We won't have anything to do with agreements. We made a great mistake, when we began the Movement, in giving in to the agreement system instead of doing away with it altogether. It has increased the inequality. Every one that works has a right to live." "Do you think the capable workman will submit to sharing equally with those that are less capable?" asked Brun doubtfully. "He must learn to!" said Pelle firmly. "How could he otherwise maintain that all work is of equal value?" "Is that your own opinion?" "Most decidedly. I see no reason, for instance, for making any difference between a doctor and a sewer-cleaner. It's impossible to say which of them is of the greater use in matters of health; the point is that each shall do what he can." "Capital!" exclaimed Brun. "Capital!" The old philosopher was in the best of spirits. Pelle had considered him awkward and unpractical, and was astonished to find that his views on many points were so practical. "It's because this is something new," said the old man, rubbing his hands. "I'd done with the old before I came into the world; there was nothing that stimulated me; I was said to be degenerated. Yes, indeed! All the same, the old bookworm's going to show his ancestors that there's vigorous blood flowing in his veins too. We two have found the place from which the world can be rocked, my dear Pelle; I think we've found it! And now we'll set to work." There was enough to do indeed, but they were realities now, and Pelle had a pleasant feeling of once more having his feet upon the ground. This was something different from riding alone through space upon his own thought, always in danger of falling down; here he opened up his road, so to speak, with his hands. It had been arranged that the present owner of the business should carry it on a little longer, while Pelle made himself at home in it all, learned to understand the machinery, and took lessons in book-keeping. He was always busy, used his day and at night slept like a log. His brain was no longer in a perpetual ferment like a caldron, for sleep put out the fire beneath it. The essential thing was that they should be a party that could entirely rely upon one another, and Pelle unhesitatingly discharged those of his comrades who were not suited for work under new forms, and admitted others. The first man he applied to was Peter Dreyer. Ellen advised him not to do so. "You know he's on bad terms with the police," she said. "You may have difficulties enough without that." But Pelle needed some one beside him who was able to look at things from a new point of view, and quite understood what was essential; egoists were of no good, and this must be the very thing for a man who had grown restive at the old state of things. * * * * * Pelle had come home from his book-keeping course to have his dinner. Ellen was out with Boy Comfort, but she had left the meal ready for him. It was more convenient to eat it in the kitchen, so he sat upon the kitchen table, reading a book on the keeping of accounts while he ate. In the front room sat Lasse Frederik, learning his lessons with fingers in both ears in order to shut out the world completely. This was not so easy, however, for Sister had a loose tooth, and his fingers were itching to get at it. Every other minute he broke off his reading to offer her something or other for leave to pull it out; but the little girl always made the same answer: "No, father's going to." He then gave up setting about it honorably, and tried to take her unawares; and at last he persuaded her to let him tie a piece of cotton round the tooth and fasten it to the doorhandle. "There! Now we've only got to burn through the cotton," he said, lighting a piece of candle, "or else father'll never be able to get the tooth out. It loosens it tremendously!" He talked on about all kinds of things to divert her attention, like a conjuror, and then suddenly brought the candle close to her nose, so that she quickly drew back. "Look, here's the tooth!" he cried triumphantly, showing it to Sister, who, however, screamed at the top of her voice. Pelle heard it all, but quietly went on eating. They would have to make it up by themselves. It was not long before Lasse Frederik was applying a plaster to his exploit; he talked to her and gave her her toys to put her into good humor again. When Pelle went in, they were both lying on the floor with their heads under the bed. They had thrown the tooth right into the wall, and were shouting together: "Mouse, mouse! Give me a gold tooth Instead of a bone tooth!" "Are you going to do anything now, father?" asked Sister, running up to him. Yes, he had several things to do. "You're always so busy," she said sulkily. "Are you going to keep on all your life?" Pelle's conscience smote him. "No, I'm not very busy," he said quickly. "I can stay with you for a little. What shall we do?" Little Anna brought her large rag doll, and began to drag chairs into position. "No, that's so stupid!" said Lasse Frederik. "Tell us about the time you minded the cows, father! About the big mad bull!" And Pelle told them stories of his childhood--about the bull and Father Lasse, the farmer of Stone Farm and Uncle Kalle with his thirteen children and his happy disposition. The big farm, the country life, the stone-quarry and the sea--they all made up a fairy-story for the two children of the pavement; the boy Pelle's battle with the great oxen for the supremacy, his wonderful capture of the twenty-five-öre piece--each incident was more exciting than the one before it. Most exciting of all was the story of the giant Eric, who became an idiot from a blow. "That was in those days," said Pelle, nodding; "it wouldn't happen like that now." "What a lot you have seen!" said Ellen, who had come home while they were talking, and was sitting knitting. "I can hardly understand how you managed--a little fellow like that! How I should like to have seen you!" "Father's big!" exclaimed Sister appreciatively. Lasse Frederik was a little more reserved. It was so tiresome always to be outdone, and he would like to have found room for a parenthesis about his own exploits. "I say, there's a big load of corn in the cabman's gateway," he said, to show that he too understood country life. "That's not corn," said Pelle; "it's hay--clover hay. Don't you even know what corn's like?" "We call it corn," answered the boy confidently, "and it is corn too, for it has those tassels at the ends." "The ears, you mean! But those are on coarse grass too, and, besides, corn is descended from grass. Haven't you ever really been into the country?" "We were once going, and meant to stay a whole week, but it went wrong with mother's work. I've been right out to the Zoological Gardens, though." Pelle suddenly realized how much the children must lose by living their life in the city. "I wonder if we shouldn't think about moving out of town," he said that evening when he and Ellen were alone. "If you think so," Ellen answered. She herself had no desire to move into the country, indeed she had an instinctive horror of it as a place to live in. She did not understand it from the point of view of the children either; there were so many children who got on capitally in town, and he surely did not want them to become stupid peasants! If he thought so, however, she supposed it was right; he was generally right. Then it was certainly time they gave notice; there was not much more than a month to April removing-day. On Sundays they packed the perambulator and made excursions into the surrounding country, just as in the old days when Lasse Frederik was the only child and sat in his carriage like a little crown-prince. Now he wheeled the carriage in which Boy Comfort sat in state; and when Sister grew tired she was placed upon the apron with her legs hanging down. They went in a different direction each time, and came to places that even Lasse Frederik did not know. Close in to the back of the town lay nice old orchards, and in the midst of them a low straw-thatched building, which had evidently once been the dwelling-house on a farm. They came upon it quite by chance from a side-road, and discovered that the town was busy building barracks beyond this little idyll too, and shutting it in. When the sun shone they sat down on a bank and ate their dinner; Pelle and Lasse Frederik vied with one another in performing feats of strength on the withered grass; and Ellen hunted for winter boughs to decorate the house with. On one of their excursions they crossed a boggy piece of ground on which grew willow copse; behind it rose cultivated land. They followed the field roads with no definite aim, and chanced upon an uninhabited, somewhat dilapidated house, which stood in the middle of the rising ground with a view over Copenhagen, and surrounded by a large, overgrown garden. On an old, rotten board stood the words "To let," but nothing was said as to where application was to be made. "That's just the sort of house you'd like," said Ellen, for Pelle had stopped. "It would be nice to see the inside," he said. "I expect the key's to be got at the farm up there." Lasse Frederik ran up to the old farmhouse that lay a little farther in at the top of the hill, to ask. A little while after he came back accompanied by the farmer himself, a pale, languid, youngish man, who wore a stand-up collar and was smoking a cigar. The house belonged to the hill farm, and had been built for the parents of the present owner. The old people had had the odd idea of calling it "Daybreak," and the name was painted in large letters on the east gable. The house had stood empty since they died some years ago, and looked strangely lifeless; the window-panes were broken and looked like dead eyes, and the floors were covered with filth. "No, I don't like it!" said Ellen. Pelle showed her, however, that the house was good enough, the doors and windows fitted well, and the whole needed only to be overhauled. There were four rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor, and some rooms above, one of these being a large attic facing south. The garden was more than an acre in extent, and in the yard was an out-house fitted up for fowls and rabbits, the rent was four hundred krones (£22). Pelle and Lasse Frederik went all over it again and again, and made the most wonderful discoveries; but when Pelle heard, the price, he grew serious. "Then we may as well give it up," he said. Ellen did not answer, but on the way home she reckoned it out to herself; she could see how disappointed he was. "It'll be fifteen krones (17 s.) more a month than we now pay," she suddenly exclaimed. "But supposing we could get something out of the garden, and kept fowls! Perhaps, too, we might let the upper floor furnished." Pelle looked gratefully at her. "I'll undertake to get several hundred krones' worth out of the garden," he said. They were tired out when they got home, for after all it was a long way out. "It's far away from everything," said Ellen. "You'd have to try to buy a second-hand bicycle." Pelle suddenly understood from the tone of her voice that she herself would be lonely out there. "We'd better put it out of our thoughts," he said, "and look for a three-roomed flat in town. The other is unpractical after all." When he returned from his work the following evening, Ellen had a surprise for him. "I've been out and taken the house," she said. "It's not so far from the tram after all, and we get it for three hundred krones (£16 10s.) the first year. The man promised to put it all into good order by removing-day. Aren't you glad?" "Yes, if only you'll be happy there," said Pelle, putting his arms round her. The children were delighted. They were to live out there in the bright world into which they had peeped, as a rule, only on very festive occasions--to wander about there every day, and always eat the food they brought with them in the open air. A week later they moved out. Pelle did not think they could afford to hire men to do the removing. He borrowed a four-wheeled hand-cart--the same that had carried Ellen's furniture from Chapel Road--and in the course of Saturday evening and Sunday morning he and Lasse Frederik took out the things. "Queen Theresa" gave Ellen a helping hand with the packing. The last load was done very quickly, as they had to be out of the town before church-time. They half ran with it, Boy Comfort having been placed in a tub on the top of the load. Behind came Ellen with little Anna, and last of all fat "Queen Theresa" with some pot plants that had to be taken with special care. It was quite a procession. They were in a tremendous bustle all day. The cleaning had been very badly done and Ellen and "Queen Theresa" had to do it all over again. Well, it was only what they might have expected! When you moved you always had to clean two flats, the one you left and the one you went into. There had not been much done in the way of repairs either, but that too was what one was accustomed to. Landlords were the same all the world over. There was little use in making a fuss; they were there, and the agreement was signed. Pelle would have to see to it by degrees. By evening the house was so far in order that it could be slept in. "Now we'll stop for to-day," said Ellen. "We mustn't forget that it's Sunday." They carried chairs out into the garden and had their supper there, Pelle having laid an old door upon a barrel for a table. Every time "Queen Theresa" leaned forward with her elbows on the table, the whole thing threatened to upset, and then she screamed. She was a pastor's daughter, and her surroundings now made her melancholy. "I haven't sat like this and had supper out of doors since I ran away from home as a fifteen-year-old girl," she said, wiping her eyes. "Poor soul!" said Ellen, when they had gone with her along the road to the tram. "She's certainly gone through a good deal. She's got no one to care about her except us." "Is she really a pastor's daughter?" asked Pelle. "Women of that kind always pretend to be somebody of a better class who has been unfortunate." "Oh, yes, it's true enough. She ran away from home because she couldn't stand it. She wasn't allowed to laugh, but had to be always praying and thinking about God. Her parents have cursed her." They went for a little walk behind the farm to see the evening sky. Ellen was very talkative, and already had a thousand plans in her head. She was going to plant a great many fruit-bushes and make a kitchen- garden; and they would keep a number of fowls and rabbits. Next summer she would have early vegetables that could be sold in town. Pelle was only half attending as he walked beside her and gazed at the glowing evening sky, which, with its long fiery lines, resembled a distant prairie-fire. There was quiet happiness within him and around him. He was in a solemn mood, and felt as though, after an absence of many years, he had once more entered the land of his childhood. There was a familiar feeling in the soft pressure of the earth beneath his feet; it was like a caress that made him strong and gave him new life. Here, with his feet on the soil, he felt himself invincible. "You're so silent!" said Ellen, taking his arm so as to walk beside him upon the dike. "I feel as if you had just become my bride," he said, taking her into his arms. XI Brun came in every morning before he went to the library to see how the work was progressing; he was greatly interested in it, and began to look younger. He was always urging Pelle on, and suggesting plans for extensions. "If money's wanted, just let me know," he said. He longed to see the effect of this new system, and was always asking Pelle whether he noticed anything. When he heard that the boot and shoe manufacturers had held a meeting to decide what should be their attitude to the undertaking, he laughed and wanted to turn on more steam, quite indifferent to what it might cost. The old philosopher had become as impatient as a child; an interest had come into his old-man's existence, and he was afraid of not getting the whole of it. "It's all very well for you to take your time," he said, "but remember that I'm old and sickly into the bargain." He treated Pelle as a son, and generally said "thou" to him. Pelle held back. So much depended upon the success of this venture, and he watched it anxiously; it was as though he had been chosen to question the future. Within the Movement his undertaking was followed with attention; the working-men's papers wrote about it, but awaited results. There were opinions for and against. He wanted to give a good answer, and decided on his measures with much care; he immediately dismissed such workmen as were not suited to the plan. It made bad blood, but there was no help for that. He was busy everywhere, and where he could not go himself, Lasse Frederik went, for the boy had given up his other occupations and helped in the shop and ran errands. Ellen wanted to help too. "We can keep a servant, and then I'll learn book-keeping and keep the accounts and mind the shop." Pelle would not agree to this, however. He was not going to have her working for their maintenance any more. A woman's place was with her children! "Nowadays the women take part in all kinds of work," Ellen urged. It did not matter; he had his own opinion on the subject. It was enough that the men should do the producing. Would she have them stand on the pavement and watch the women doing the work? It was very possible it did not sound liberal-minded, but he did not care. Women were like beautiful flowers, whatever people said about their being man's equal. They wore their happiness off when they had to work for their living; he had seen enough to know that. She did not like standing and looking on while the two men were so busy, so she attacked the garden, and sowed herbs and planted cabbage in the beds that lay like thick down quilts upon the earth; and when it happened that things came up, she was happy. She had bought a gardening book, and puzzled her head about the various kinds and their treatment. Pelle came to her assistance after working hours, and everything that he handled flourished. This made Ellen a little angry. She did exactly what he did, but it was just as if the plants made a difference between them. "I've got the countryman's hand," he said, laughing. All Sunday they were busy. The whole family was in the garden, Lasse Frederik digging, Pelle pruning the espalier round the garden door, and Ellen tying it up. The children were trying to help everybody and were mostly a hindrance. One or other of them was always doing something wrong, treading on the beds or pulling up the plants. How extraordinarily stupid they were! Regular town children! They could not even understand when they were told! Pelle could not comprehend it, and sometimes nearly lost patience. One day when little Anna came to him unsuspectingly to show him a flowering branch of an apple-tree which she had broken off, he was angry and took her roughly by the arm; but when he saw the frightened expression in her face, he remembered the man with the strange eyes, who had taught him in his childhood to manage the cattle without using anything but his hands, and he was ashamed of himself. He took the little ones by the hand, went round the garden with them and told them about the trees and bushes, which were alive just like themselves, and only wanted to do all they could for the two children. The branches were their arms and legs, so they could imagine how dreadful it was to pull them off. Sister turned pale and said nothing, but Boy Comfort, who at last had decided, to open his mouth and had become quite a chatterbox, jabbered away and stuck out his little stomach like a drummer. He was a sturdy little fellow, and Ellen's eyes followed him proudly as he went round the garden. The knowledge that everything was alive had a remarkable effect upon the two children. They always went about hand in hand, and kept carefully to the paths. All round them the earth was breaking and curious things coming up out of it. The beans had a bucket turned over them to protect them, and the lettuces put up folded hands as if they were praying for fine weather. Every morning when the children made their round of the garden, new things had come up. "'Oook, 'ook!" exclaimed Boy Comfort, pointing to the beds. They stood at a safe distance and talked to one another about the new wonders, bending over with their hands upon their backs as if afraid that the new thing would snatch at their fingers. Sometimes Boy Comfort's chubby hand would come out involuntarily and want to take hold of things; but he withdrew it in alarm as if he had burnt himself, saying "Ow!" and then the two children would run as fast as they could up to the house. For them the garden was a wonder-world full of delights--and full of terrors. They soon became familiar with the plants in their own way, and entered into a kind of mystic companionship with them, met them in a friendly way and exchanged opinions--like beings from different worlds, meeting on the threshold. There was always something mysterious about their new friends, which kept them at a distance; they did not give much information about themselves. When they were asked: "Who called you?" they answered quickly: "Mother Ellen!" But if they were asked what it looked like down in the earth, they made no answer whatever. The garden continued to be an inexhaustible world to the children, no matter how much they trotted about in it. Every day they went on new journeys of discovery in under elder and thorn bushes; there were even places which they had not yet got at, and others into which they did not venture at all. They went near to them many times in the course of the day, and peeped over the gooseberry bushes into the horrible darkness that sat in there like an evil being and had no name. Out in the brilliant sunshine on the path they stood and challenged it, Sister spitting until her chin and pinafore were wet, and Boy Comfort laboriously picking up stones and throwing them in. He was so fat that he could not bend down, but had to squat on his heels whenever he wanted to pick up anything. And then suddenly they would rush away to the house in a panic of fear. It was not necessary to be a child to follow the life in the garden. A wonderful power of growing filled everything, and in the night it crackled and rustled out in the moonlight, branches stretched themselves in fresh growths, the sap broke through the old bark in the form of flowers and new "eyes." It was as though Pelle and Ellen's happy zeal had been infectious; the half-stifled fruit-trees that had not borne for many years revived and answered the gay voices by blossoming luxuriantly. It was a race between human beings and plants as to who should accomplish the most, and between the plants themselves as to which could make the best show. "The spring is lavishing its flowers and green things upon us," said Pelle. He had never seen a nest that was so beautiful as his; he had at last made a home. It was pleasant here. Virginia creeper and purple clematis covered the whole front of the house and hung down before the garden door, where Ellen liked to sit with her work, keeping an eye on the little ones playing on the grass, where she liked best to sit with Pelle on Sundays, when the Copenhagen families came wandering past on their little country excursions. They often stopped outside the hedge and exclaimed: "Oh, what a lovely home!" * * * * * The work in Pelle's workshop began, as in all other places, at six in the morning; but it stopped at four, so that those who cared about it could easily make something of the day. Pelle had reduced the working hours to nine, and dared not venture any further for the present. Some of the hands liked this arrangement, and employed the afternoon in going out with their wives and children; but others would rather have had an hour longer in bed in the morning. One day the latter came and declared that now they were in the majority and would have it changed. "I can't agree to that," answered Pelle. "Being early up is the workman's privilege, and I'm not going to give it up." "But we've taken the votes on it," they said. "This is a democratic institution, isn't it?" "I've taken no oath to the vote," Pelle answered quietly, "and in the meantime I should advise those who are dissatisfied with the conditions here to try somewhere else." There was always something like this going on, but he did not take it for more than it was worth. They had acquired consciousness of their power, but most of them had not yet discovered its aim. They used it blindly, in childish pleasure at seeing it unfold, like boys in unfurling their banner, tyrannized a little by way of a change, and took their revenge for the subjection of old times by systematically demanding the opposite to what they had. They reeled a little; the miracle of the voting-paper had gone to their heads. It was an intelligible transition; the feeling of responsibility would get hold of them in time. Another day two of the most skilful workmen came and asked to have piece-work introduced again. "We won't stand toiling to make money for our comrades," they said. "Are they idle?" asked Pelle. "No, but we work quicker." "Then they're more thorough on the whole. The one generally balances the other." "That's all very well, but it doesn't benefit us." "It benefits the consumers, and under the new conditions that's the same thing. We must maintain the principle that all who do their duty are equally good; it's in our own interests." They were satisfied for the time. They were two clever fellows, and it was only that they had not got hold of the new feature in the arrangement. In this way there was considerable trouble. The workmen were short- sighted, and saw only from their hands to their own mouths. Impatience had also something to do with it. They had shorter hours and higher wages, but had not as much to do as in other places. It was new of course, and had to answer to their dreams; but there would be no fortunes to be made out of it as Pelle was working it. He was a little more precise than was necessary when you were pressed on all sides by vulgar competition. There were, for instance, still a number of people who kept to the good old handsewn boots and shoes, and willingly paid half as much again for them. A good many small shoemakers availed themselves of this by advertising handsewn foot-wear, and then passed the measures on to a factory. It was a good business for both factory and shoemaker, but Pelle would have nothing to do with such transactions. He put his trade- mark on the sole of everything that went out of his workshop. Pelle took all this with dignified calmness. What right had he to demand perspicuity of these people? It was _his_ business to educate them to it. If only they were willing, he was satisfied. Some day he supposed he would take them so far that they would be able to take over the business jointly, or make it self-supporting; but until then they would have to fall in with his plans. Part of a great, far-off dream was nevertheless being realized in his undertaking, modest though it was at present; and if it were successful, the way to a new age for the petty tradesmen was open. And what was of still more importance, his own home was growing through this work. He had found the point where the happiness of the many lay in the lengthening of his own; he had got the right way now! Sometimes in the evening after a troublesome day he felt a little tired of the difficulties; but when he bicycled down toward the town in the early morning, while the mists of night drifted across the fields and the lark sang above his head, he was always in good spirits. Then he could follow the consequences of his labor, and see the good principles victorious and the work growing. Kindred enterprises sprang up in other parts of the town, in other towns, still farther out. In the far distance he could see that all production was in the hands of the working-men themselves. Peter Dreyer supported him like a good comrade, and took a good deal of the worry off his shoulders. He unselfishly put all his strength into it, but he did not share Pelle's belief in the enormous results that would come from it. "But, dear me, this is capitalistic too!" he said-- "socialist capitalism! Just look up to the pavement! there goes a man with no soles to his shoes, and his feet are wet, but all the same he doesn't come down here and get new shoes, for we want money for them just like all the others, and those who need our work most simply have none. That thing"--he went on, giving a kick to one of the machines-- "turns ten men into the street! There you have the whole thing!" Pelle defended his machines, but Peter would not give in. "The whole thing should have been altered first," he said angrily. "As it is, they are inventions of the devil! The machines have come a day or two too early, and point their mouths at us, like captured cannons!" "The machines make shoes for ten times as many people as we could make for with our hands," said Pelle, "and that can hardly be called a misfortune. It's only the distribution that's all wrong." Peter Dreyer shrugged his shoulders; he would not discuss the question of distribution any more. If they meant to do anything to alter it he was willing to help. There had been enough nonsense talked about it. Those who had money could buy up all that they made, while the barefooted would be no better off than before. It was a deadlock. Did he think it would revolutionize the world if every man received the entire proceeds of his work? That only meant justice in the existing conditions, so long as diamonds continued to be more valuable than bread. "I don't see that those who happen to have work should have a better right to live than those who can't get any," he said wrathfully. "Or perhaps you don't know the curse of unemployment! Look at them wandering about in thousands, summer and winter, a whole army of shadows! The community provides for them so that they can just hang together. Good heavens, that isn't helping the poor, with all respect to the honorable workman! Let him keep his vote, since it amuses him! It's an innocent pleasure. Just think if he demanded proper food instead of it!" Yes, Pelle was well enough acquainted with the great hunger reserve; he had very nearly been transferred into it himself. But here he nevertheless caught a glimpse of the bottom. There was a peaceable strength in what he was doing that might carry them on a long way. Peter Dreyer acknowledged it himself by working so faithfully with him. It was only that he would not admit it. At first they had to stand a good deal, but by degrees Pelle learned to turn things off. Peter, who was generally so good and amenable, spoke in an angry, vexed tone when the conversation touched upon social conditions; it was as though he was at the end of his patience. Though he earned a very good amount, he was badly dressed and looked as if he did not get sufficient food; his breakfast, which he ate together with the others in the workshop, generally consisted of bread and margarine, and he quenched his thirst at the water-tap. At first the others made fun of his prison fare, but he soon taught them to mind their own business: it was not safe to offend him. Part of his earnings he used for agitation, and his comrades said that he lived with a humpbacked woman and her mother. He himself admitted no one into his confidence, but grew more and more reticent. Pelle knew that he lived in one of the Vesterbro back streets, but did not know his address. When he stood silent at his work, his expression was always gloomy, sometimes terribly sad. He seemed to be always in pain. The police were always after him. Pelle had once or twice received a hint not to employ him, but firmly refused to submit to any interference in his affairs. It was then arbitrarily decided that Peter Dreyer should report himself to the authorities every week. "I won't do it!" he said. "It's quite illegal. I've only been punished for political offences, and I've been so careful that they shouldn't be able to get at me for any formal mistake, and here they're having this triumph! I won't!" He spoke quietly and without excitement, but his hands shook. Pelle tried an appeal to his unselfishness. "Do it for my sake then," he said. "If you don't they'll shut you up, and you know I can't do without you." "Would you go and report yourself then if you were told to?" Peter asked. "Yes. No one need be ashamed of submitting to superior brute force." So he went. But it cost him an enormous effort, and on that day in the week it was better to leave him alone. XII Marie's fate lay no longer like a heavy burden upon Pelle; time had taken the bitterness out of it. He could recall without self-reproach his life with her and her two brothers in the "Ark," and often wondered what had become of the latter. No one could give him any information about them. One day, during the midday rest, he went on his bicycle out to Morten with a message from Ellen. In Morten's sitting-room, a hunched-up figure was sitting with its back to the window, staring down at the floor. His clothes hung loosely upon him, and his thin hair was colorless. He slowly raised a wasted face as he looked toward the door. Pelle had already recognized him from his maimed right hand, which had only the thumb and one joint of the forefinger. He no longer hid it away, but let it lie upon his thin knee. "Why, good-day, Peter!" exclaimed Pelle in surprise, holding out his hand to take the other's left hand. Peter drew the hand out of his pocket and held it out. It was a dead, maimed lump with some small protuberances like rudiments of knuckles, that Pelle found in his hand. Peter looked into his face without moving a muscle of his own, and there was only a little gleam in his eyes when Pelle started. "What in the world are you starting for?" he said dryly. "I should think any one might have known that a fellow couldn't mind a shearing-machine with one hand. I knew it just as well as everybody else in the factory, and expected it every day; and at last I had to shut my eyes. Confound it, I often thought, won't there soon be an end to it? And then one day there it was!" Pelle shivered. "Didn't you get any accident insurance?" he asked in order to say something. "Of course I did! The whole council gathered on account of my humble self, and I was awarded three thousand krones (£170) as entirely invalided. Well, the master possessed nothing and had never insured me, so it never got beyond the paper. But anyhow it's a great advance upon the last time, isn't it? Our party has accomplished something!" He looked mockingly at Pelle. "You ought to give a cheer for paper reforms!" Peter was a messenger and a kind of secretary in a revolutionary association for young men. He had taught himself to read and sat with other young men studying anarchistic literature. The others took care of him like brothers; but it was a marvel that he had not gone to the dogs. He was nothing but skin and bone, and resembled a fanatic that is almost consumed by his own fire. His intelligence had never been much to boast of, but there were not many difficulties in the problem that life had set him. He hated with a logic that was quite convincing. The strong community had passed a sham law, which was not even liable for the obligations that it admitted that it had with regard to him. He had done with it now and belonged to the destructionists. He had come up to Morten to ask him to give a reading at the Club. "It's not because we appreciate authors--you mustn't imagine that," he said with a gloomy look. "They live upon us and enjoy a meaningless respect for it. It's only manual labor that deserves to be honored; everything else sponges on us. I'm only telling you so that you shan't come imagining something different." "Thank you," said Morten, smiling. "It's always nice to know what you're valued at. And still you think you can make use of me?" "Yes, you're one of the comparatively better ones among those who work to maintain the capitalists; but we're agreed at the Club that you're not a real proletariat writer, you're far too much elaborated. There have never been proletariat writers; and it's of no consequence either, for entertainment shouldn't be made out of misery. It's very likely you'll hear all about that up there." "That's all right. I'll be sure to come," answered Morten. "And if you'll write us a cantata for our anniversary festival--it's the day of the great Russian massacre--I'll see that it's accepted. But it mustn't be the usual hallelujah!" "I'm glad I met you," he said to Pelle with his unchanging expression of gloom. "Have you seen anything of Karl?" "No, where is he?" asked Pelle eagerly. "He's a swell now. He's got a business in Adel Street; but he won't enjoy it long." "Why not? Is there anything wrong with his affairs?" "Nothing more than that some day we'll pull the whole thing down upon all your heads. There'll soon be quite a number of us. I say, you might speak one evening in our association, and tell us something about your prison life. I think it would interest them. We don't generally have outsiders, for we speak for ourselves; but I don't think there'd be any difficulty in getting you introduced." Pelle promised. "He's a devil-may-care fellow, isn't he?" exclaimed Morten when he had shut the door on Peter, "but he's no fool. Did you notice that he never asked for anything? They never do. When they're hungry they go up to the first person they meet and say: 'Let me have something to eat!' It's all the same to them what's put into their mouths so long as it's satisfying, and they never thank gratefully. Nothing affects them. They're men who put the thief above the beggar. I don't dislike it really; there's a new tone in it. Perhaps our well-behaved ruminant's busy doing away with one stomach and making up the spare material into teeth and claws." "If only they'd come forward and do work!" said Pelle. "Strong words don't accomplish much." "How's it going with your peaceable revolution?" asked Morten with a twinkle in his eye. "Do you see any progress in the work?" "Oh, yes, it's slow but sure. Rome wasn't built in a day. I didn't think though that you were interested in it." "I think you're on the right tack, Pelle," answered Morten seriously. "But let the young ones light the fire underneath, and it'll go all the quicker. That new eventualities crop up in this country is no disadvantage; the governing body may very well be made aware that there's gunpowder under their seats. It'll immensely strengthen their sense of responsibility! Would you like to see Johanna? She's been wanting very much to see you. She's ill again unfortunately." "Ellen sent me out to propose that she should come to stay with us in the country. She thinks the child must be a great trouble to you and cannot be properly looked after here either." "It's very kind of your wife to think of it, but hasn't she enough to do already?" "Oh, Ellen can manage a great deal," said Pelle heartily. "You would be giving her a pleasure." "Then I'll say 'Thank you' for the offer," exclaimed Morten. "It'll be a great relief to me, if only she can stand the moving. It isn't that she gives me any trouble now, for we get on capitally together. Johanna is good and manageable, really a splendid character in spite of her spoiling. You won't have any difficulty with her. And I think it'll be good for her to be away from me here, and be somewhere where there's a woman to see to her--and children. She doesn't get much attention here." They went in to her and found her asleep, her pale face covered with large drops of moisture. "It's exhaustion," whispered Morten. "She's not got much strength yet." Their presence made her sleep disturbed, and she tossed from side to side and then, suddenly opening her eyes, gazed about her with an expression of wild terror. In a moment she recognized them and smiled; and raising herself a little she held out both her hands to Pelle with a charming expression of childish coquetry. "Tell me about the house out there and Boy Comfort," she said, making room for him on the edge of the bed. "It's so tiresome here, and Mr. Morten's so serious." And she threw a glance of defiance at him. "Is he?" said Pelle. "That must be because he writes books." "No, but I must keep up a little dignity," said Morten, assuming a funny, schoolmasterish expression. "This young lady's beginning to be saucy!" Johanna lay and laughed to herself, her eyes travelling from one to the other of them. "He ought to have a pair of spectacles, and then he'd be like a real one," she said. She spoke hardly above a whisper, it was all she had strength for; but her voice was mischievous. "You must come to us if he's so bad," said Pelle, "and then you can play with the children and lie in the sunshine out in the garden. You don't know how lovely it is there now? Yes, I'm really in earnest," he continued, as she still smiled. "Ellen asked me to come and say so." She suddenly became grave and looked from the one to the other; then looking down, and with her face turned away, she asked: "Will Morten be there too?" "No, Johanna, I must stay here, of course; but I'll come out to see you." "Every day?" Her face was turned to the wall, and she scratched the paper with her nails. "I shall come and see my little sweetheart just as often as I can," said Morten, stroking her hair. The red blood suffused her neck in a sudden wave, and was imperceptibly absorbed in the paleness of her skin, like a dying ember. Hanne's blood came and went in the same way for the merest trifle. Johanna had inherited her mother's bashfulness and unspeakable charm, and also her capricious temper. She lay with her back turned toward them and made no reply to their persuasions. It was not easy to say whether she even heard them, until suddenly she turned to Morten with an expression of hatred on her face. "You don't need to trouble," she said, with glowing eyes; "you can easily get rid of me!" Morten only looked at her sorrowfully, but Pelle was angry. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for taking it like that," he said. "Is that all the thanks Morten gets for what he's done? I must say you're a grateful child!" Johanna took the scolding without moving a muscle of her face, but when he ceased she quietly took his hand and laid it over her delicate, thin face, which it quite covered. There she lay peeping out at him and Morten between the large fingers, with a strangely resigned expression that was meant to be roguish. "I know it was horrid of me," she said dully, moving Pelle's middle finger backward and forward in front of her eyes so that she squinted; "but I'll do what you tell me. Elle-Pelle, Morten-Porten-I can talk the P-language!" And she laughed an embarrassed laugh. "You don't know how much better and happier you'll be when you get out to Pelle's," said Morten. "I could easily get up and do the work of the house, so that you didn't need to have a woman," she whispered, gazing at him passionately with her big eyes. "I'm well enough now." "My dear child, that's not what I mean at all! It's for your sake. Don't you understand that?" said Morten earnestly, bending over her. Johanna's gaze wandered round hopelessly, as if she had given up all thought of being understood any more. "I don't think we'll move her against her will," said Morten, as he went down with Pelle. "She is so capricious in her moods. I think, too, I should miss her, for she's a good little soul. When she's up she goes creeping about and is often quite touching in her desire to make me comfortable. And suddenly recollections of her former life awaken in her and darken her mind; she's still very mistrustful and afraid of being burdensome. But she needs the companionship of women, some one to whom she can talk confidentially. She has too much on her mind for a child." "Couldn't you both move out to us? You can have the two upstairs rooms." "That's not a bad idea," exclaimed Morten. "May I have two or three days to think it over? And my love to Ellen and the children!" XIII When the workshop closed, Pelle often went on working for an hour or two in the shop, getting the accounts straight and arranging the work for the following day in the intervals of attending to customers. A little before six he closed the shop, mounted his bicycle and hastened home with longing for the nest in his heart. Every one else seemed to feel as he did. There was a peculiar homeward current in the traffic of the streets. Cyclists overtook him in whole flocks, and raced in shoals in front of the trams, which looked as if they squirted them away from the lines as they worked their way along with incessant, deafening ringing, bounding up and down under the weight of the overfilled platforms. Crowds of men and women were on their way out, and met other crowds whose homes were in the opposite quarter. On the outskirts of the town the factory whistles were crowing like a choir of giant cocks, a single one beginning, the others all joining in. Sooty workmen poured out of the gates, with beer-bottles sticking out of coat-pockets and dinner handkerchiefs dangling from a finger. Women who had been at work or out making purchases, stood with their baskets on their arms, waiting for their husbands at the corner of the street. Little children tripping along hand in hand suddenly caught sight of a man far off in the crowd, and set off at a run to throw themselves at his legs. Sister often ran right across the fields to meet her father, and Ellen stood at the gate of "Daybreak" and waited. "Good-day, Mr. Manufacturer!" she cried as he approached. She was making up for so much now, and was glowing with health and happiness. It was no use for Pelle to protest, and declare that in his world there were only workmen; she would not give up the title. He was the one who directed the whole thing, and she did not mind about the fellowship. She was proud of him, and he might call himself an errand-boy if he liked; men must always have some crochet or other in their work, or else it would not satisfy them. The arrangement about the equal division she did not understand, but she was sure that her big, clever husband deserved to have twice as much as any of the others. She did not trouble her head about that, however; she lived her own life and was contented and happy. Pelle had feared that she would tire of the country, and apparently she did not take to it. She weeded and worked in the garden with her customary energy, and by degrees acquired a fair knowledge of the work; but it did not seem to afford her any peculiar enjoyment. It was no pleasure to her to dig her fingers into the mould. Pelle and the children throve here, and that determined her relations to the place; but she did not strike root on her own account. She could thrive anywhere in the world if only they were there; and their welfare was hers. She grew out from them, and had her own wonderful growth inward. Within her there were strange hidden forces that had nothing to do with theories or systems, but produced the warmth that bore up the whole. Pelle no longer desired to force his way in there. What did he care about logical understanding between man and woman? It was her heart with which he needed to be irradiated. He required to be understood by his friends. His great satisfaction in being with, for instance, Morten, was that in perfect unanimity they talked until they came to a stopping- place, and if they were then silent their thoughts ran on parallel lines and were side by side when they emerged once more. But even if he and Ellen started from the same point, the shortest pause would take their thoughts in different directions; he never knew where she would appear again. No matter how well he thought he knew her, she always came up just as surprisingly and unexpectedly behind him. And was it not just that he loved? Why then contend with it on the basis of the claims of a poor logic? She continued to be just as unfathomable, no matter how much of her he thought he had mastered. She became greater and greater with it, and she brought him a new, strange world--the mysterious unknown with which he had always had to strive, allowed itself to be tenderly embraced. He no longer demanded the whole of her; in his inmost soul probably every human being was lonely. He guessed that she was going through her own development in concealment, and wondered where she would appear again. It had formerly been a grief to him that she did not join the Movement; she was not interested in political questions and the suffrage. He now dimly realized that that was just her strength, and in any case he did not wish her otherwise. She seldom interfered definitely with what he did, and why should she? She exerted a silent influence upon everything he did, stamped each of his thoughts from the moment they began to shoot up. For the very reason that she did not know how to discuss, she could not be refuted; what to him was downright logic had no effect whatever upon her. He did not get his own thoughts again stale from her lips, and did not wish to either; her wonderful power over him lay in the fact that she rested so securely on her own, and answered the most crushing arguments with a smile. Pelle was beginning to doubt as to the value of superiority of intellect; it seemed to have undisputed rule over the age, but did not accomplish chiefly good. As compared with Ellen's nature, it seemed to him poor. The warmth in a kiss convinced her better than a thousand sensible reasons, and yet she seldom made a mistake. And she herself gave out warmth. They went to her, both he and the children, when there was anything wrong. She did not say much, but she warmed. She still always seemed to him like a pulse that beat, living and palpable, out from the invisible, with a strangely tranquil speech. When his head was hot and tired with adverse happenings, there was nothing more delightful than to rest it upon her bosom and listen, only half awake, to the dull, soothing murmur within like that of the earth's springs when, in his childhood, he laid his ear to the grass. The spring was beautiful, and they were much out in it; when no one could see them they walked hand-in-hand along the dikes like two young lovers. Then Pelle talked and showed her things. Look! there it grew in that way, and here in quite a different way. Was it not strange? He lived over again all his childhood's excitement in spring. Ellen listened to him, smiling; she was not astonished at anything so natural as that things grew; she was merely _transformed!_ The earth simply sent up its juices into her too. The fresh air and the work in the garden tanned her bare arms, and gave strength and beauty to her figure, while her easy circumstances freed her from care. One day a new being showed in her eyes, and looked at Pelle with the inquisitiveness of a kid. "Shall we play?" it said. Was it he or the spring that set fire to her? No matter! The pleasure was his! The sunshine entered the innermost corners of his soul, the musty corners left by the darkness of his prison-cell, and cured him completely; her freedom from care infected him, and he was entirely happy. It was Ellen who had done it all; at last she had taken upon herself to be the messenger between joy and him! She became gentler and more vigorous in disposition every day. The sun and the wind across the open country called forth something in her that had never been there before, an innocent pleasure in her own body and a physical appetite that made her teeth white and gleaming. She was radiant with delight when Pelle brought her little things to adorn herself with; she did not use them for the children now! "Look!" she said once, holding up a piece of dark velvet to her face which in the evening gave out again the warmth of the sun, as hay its scent. "You must give me a dress like this when we become rich." And her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, full of promises of abundant returns. He thought he belonged to the soil, and yet it was through her that he first really came into contact with it! There was worship of nature in the appetite with which she crunched the first radishes of the year and delighted in their juicy freshness; and when in the evening he sprang from his bicycle and took her in his arms, she herself exhaled the fresh perfume of all that had passed through the spring day--the wind and the products of the soil. He could smell in her breath the perfume of wild honey, mixed with the pollen and nectar of wild flowers; and she would close her eyes as though she herself were intoxicated with it. Their dawning affection became passionate first love out here. Ellen was always standing at the gate waiting for him. As soon as Pelle had had his supper, the children dragged him round the garden to show him what had taken place during the day. They held his hands and Ellen had to walk by herself. Pelle and she had an intense desire to be close together, but the little ones would not submit to be set aside. "He's our father!" they said; and Pelle and Ellen were like two young people that are kept cruelly apart by a remorseless fate, and they looked at one another with eyes that were heavy with expression. When the little ones had gone to bed they stole away from it all, leaving Lasse Frederik in charge of the house. He had seen an artist sitting outside the hedge and painting the smoky city in the spring light, and had procured himself a paintbox. He sat out there every evening now, daubing away busily. He did not mean to be a sailor now! They went up past the farm and on toward the evening sun, walked hand- in-hand in the dewy grass, gazing silently in front of them. The ruddy evening light colored their faces and made their eyes glow. There was a little grove of trees not far off, to which they often went so as to be quite away from the world. With their arms round one another they passed into the deep twilight, whispering together. Now and then she bent her head back for him to kiss her, when an invisible ray would strike her eye and be refracted into a rainbow-colored star, in the darkness. A high dike of turfs ran along the edge of the wood, and low over it hung hazel and young beech trees. In under the branches there were little bowers where they hid themselves; the dead leaves had drifted together in under the dike and made a soft couch. The birds above their heads gave little sleepy chirps, turned on the branch and twittered softly as though they dreamed the day's melodies over again. Sometimes the moon peeped in at them with a broad smile. The heavy night- exhalations of the leaves lulled them to sleep, and sometimes they were only wakened by the tremor that passes through everything when the sun rises. Pelle would be cold then, but Ellen's body was always warm although she had removed some of her clothing to make a pillow for their heads. She still continued to be motherly; her devotion only called forth new sides of her desire for self-sacrifice. How rich she was in her motherliness! She demanded nothing but the hard ground, and could not make herself soft enough: everything was for him. And she could make herself so incomprehensibly soft! Providence had thrown all His riches and warmth into her lap; it was no wonder that both life and happiness had made their nesting-place there. Their love increased with the sunshine, and made everything bright and good; there was no room for any darkness. Pelle met all troubles with a smile. He went about in a state of semi-stupor, and even his most serious business affairs could not efface Ellen's picture from his mind. Her breath warmed the air around him throughout the day, and made him hasten home. At table at home they had secret signs that referred to their secret world. They were living in the first love of youth with all its sweet secrecy, and smiled at one another in youthful, stealthy comprehension, as though the whole world were watching them and must learn nothing. If their feet touched under the table, their eyes met and Ellen would blush like a young girl. Her affection was so great that she could not bear it to be known, even to themselves. A red flame passed over her face, and her eyes were veiled as though she hid in them the unspeakable sweetness of her tryst from time to time. She rarely spoke and generally answered with a smile; she sang softly to herself, filled with the happiness of youth. * * * * * One afternoon when he came cycling home Ellen did not meet him as usual. He became anxious, and hurried in. The sofa was made into a bed, and Ellen was standing by it, bending over Johanna, who lay shivering with fever. Ellen raised her head and said, "Hush!" The children were sitting in a corner gazing fearfully at the sick girl, who lay with closed eyes, moaning slightly. "She came running out here this afternoon," whispered Ellen, looking strangely at him; "I can't think why. She's terribly ill! I've sent Lasse Frederik in to Morten, so that he may know she's with us." "Have you sent for the doctor?" asked Pelle, bending down over Johanna. "Yes. Lasse Frederik will tell Morten to bring his doctor with him. He must know her best. I should think they'll soon be here." A shivering fit came over Johanna. She lay working her tongue against the dry roof of her mouth, now and then uttering a number of disconnected words, and tossing to and fro upon the bed. Suddenly she raised herself in terror, her wide-open eyes fixed upon Pelle, but with no recognition in them. "Go away! I won't!" she screamed, pushing him away. His deep voice calmed her, however, and she allowed herself to be laid down once more, and then lay still with closed eyes. "Some one has been after her," said Ellen, weeping. "What can it be?" "It's the old story," Pelle whispered with emotion. "Morten says that it constantly reappears in her.--Take the children out into the garden, Ellen. I'll stay here with her." Ellen went out with the little ones, who could hardly be persuaded to come out of their corner; but it was not long before their chattering voices could be heard out on the grass. Pelle sat with his hand on Johanna's forehead, staring straight before him. He had been rudely awakened to the horror of life once more. Convulsive tremors passed through her tortured brow. It was as if he held in his hand a fluttering soul that had been trodden in the mire beneath heavy heels--a poor crushed fledgeling that could neither fly nor die. He was roused by the sound of a carriage driving quickly up to the garden gate, and went out to meet the men. The doctor was very doubtful about Johanna's condition. "I'm afraid that the fits will increase rather than decrease," he said in a whisper. "It would be better if she were sent to the hospital as soon as she's able to be moved." "Would it be better for her?" asked Ellen. "No, not exactly for her, but--she'll be a difficult patient, you know!" "Then she shall remain here," said Ellen; "she shall be well looked after." Lasse Frederik had to take his bicycle and ride to the chemist's, and immediately after the doctor drove away. They sat outside the garden door, so that they could hear any sound from the sick girl, and talked together in low tones. It was sad to see Morten; Johanna's flight from him had wounded him deeply. "I wonder why she did it?" said Pelle. "She's been strange ever since you came up and proposed that she should come out to you," said Morten sadly. "She got it into her head that she was a burden to me and that I would like to get rid of her. Two or three days ago she got up while I was out, and began working in the house--I suppose as a return for my keeping her. She's morbidly sensitive. When I distinctly forbade her she declared that she wouldn't owe me anything and meant to go away. I knew that she might very likely do it in spite of her being ill, so I stayed at home. At midday to-day I just went down to fetch milk, and when I came up she was gone. It was a good thing she came out here; I think she'd do anything when once the idea's taken her that she's a burden." "She must be very fond of you," said Ellen, looking at him. "I don't think so," answered Morten, with a sad smile. "At any rate, she's hidden it well. My impression is that she's hated me ever since the day we spoke of her coming out here.--May I stay here for the night?" "If you can put up with what we have," answered Ellen. "It won't be a luxurious bed, but it'll be something to lie down on." Morten did not want a bed, however. "I'll sit up and watch over Johanna," he said. XIV The house was thus transformed into a nursing home. It was a hard hit at their careless happiness, but they took it as it came. Neither of them demanded more of life than it was capable of. Ellen was with the sick girl day and night until the worst was over; she neglected both Pelle and the children to give all her care to Johanna. "You've got far too much to do," said Pelle anxiously. "It'll end in your being ill too. Do let us have help!" And as Ellen would not hear of it, he took the matter into his own hands, and got "Queen Theresa" to be out there during the day. In the course of a few days Morten arranged his affairs, got rid of his flat, and moved out to them. "You won't be able to run away from me, after all," he said to Johanna, who was sitting up in bed listening to the carrying upstairs of his things. "When you're well enough you shall be moved up into the big attic; and then we two shall live upstairs and be jolly again, won't we?" She made no answer, but flushed with pleasure. Ellen now received from Morten the amount he usually spent in a month on food and house-rent. She was quite disconcerted. What was she to do with all that money? It was far too much! Well, they need no longer be anxious about their rent. Johanna was soon so far recovered as to be able to get up for a little. The country air had a beneficial effect upon her nerves, and Ellen knew how to keep her in good spirits. Old Brun made her a present of a beautiful red and yellow reclining chair of basket work; and when the sun shone she was carried out onto the grass, where she lay and watched the children's play, sometimes joining in the game from her chair, and ordering them hither and thither. Boy Comfort submitted to it good- naturedly, but Sister was a little more reserved. She did not like this stranger to call Pelle "father"; and when she was in a teasing mood she would stand a little way off and repeat again and again: "He's not your father, for he's mine!" until Ellen took her away. Johanna mostly lay, however, gazing into space with an expression of the utmost weariness. For a moment her attention would be attracted by anything new, but then her eyes wandered away again. She was never well enough to walk about; even when she felt well, her legs would not support her. Brun came out to "Daybreak" every afternoon to see her. The old man was deeply affected by her sad fate, and had given up his usual holiday trip in order to keep himself acquainted with her condition. "We must do something for her," he said to the doctor, who paid a daily visit at his request. "Is there nothing that can be done?" The doctor shook his head. "She couldn't be better off anywhere than she is here," he said. They were all fond of her, and did what they could to please her. Brun always brought something with him, expensive things, such as beautiful silk blankets that she could have over her when she lay out in the garden, and a splendid coral necklace. He got her everything that he could imagine she would like. Her eyes sparkled whenever she received anything new, and she put everything on. "Now I'm a princess in all her finery," she whispered, smiling at him; but a moment after she had forgotten all about it. She was very fond of the old man, made him sit beside her, and called him "grandfather" with a mournful attempt at roguishness. She did not listen to what he told her, however, and when the little ones crept up and wanted him to come with them to play in the field, he could quite well go, for she did not notice it. Alas! nothing could reconcile her child's soul to her poor, maltreated body, neither love nor trinkets. It was as though it were weary of its covering and had soared as far out as possible, held captive by a thin thread that would easily wear through. She grew more transparent every day; it could be clearly seen now that she had the other children beside her. They ate and throve for her as well as themselves! When Ellen was not on the watch, Boy Comfort would come and eat up Johanna's invalid food, though goodness knew he wasn't starved! Johanna herself looked on calmly; it was all a matter of such indifference to her. It was an unusually fine summer, dry and sunny, and they could nearly always be in the garden. They generally gathered there toward evening; Ellen and "Queen Theresa" had finished their house work, and sat by Johanna with their sewing, Brun kept them company with his cheerful talk, and Johanna lay and dozed with her face toward the garden gate. They laughed and joked with her to keep her in good spirits. Brun had promised her a trip to the South if she would make haste to use her legs, and told her about the sun down there and the delicious grapes and oranges that she would be allowed to pick herself. She answered everything with her sad smile, as though she knew all too well what awaited her. Her thick, dark hair overshadowed more and more her pale face; it was as if night were closing over her. She seemed to be dozing slowly out of existence, with her large eyes turned toward the garden gate. Morten was often away on lecturing tours, sometimes for several days at a time. When at last he entered the gate, life flashed into her face. He was the only one who could recall her spirit to its surroundings; it was as though it only lingered on for him. She was no longer capricious with him. When she had the strength for it, she sat up and threw her arms round his neck; her tears flowed silently, and her longing found free vent. Ellen understood the child's feelings, and signed to the others to leave the two together. Morten would then sit for hours beside her, telling her all that he had been doing; she never seemed to grow weary, but lay and listened to him with shining eyes, her transparent hand resting upon his arm. Every step he took interested her; sometimes a peculiar expression came into her eyes, and she fell suspiciously upon some detail or other. Her senses were morbidly keen; the very scent of strange people about him made her sullen and suspicious. "The poor, poor child! She loves him!" said Ellen one day to Pelle, and suddenly burst into tears. "And there she lies dying!" Her own happiness made her so fully conscious of the child's condition. "But dearest Ellen!" exclaimed Pelle in protest. "Don't you think I can see? That's of course why she's always been so strange to him. How sad it is!" The child's sad fate cast a shadow over the others, but the sun rose high in the heavens and became still stronger. "Pelle," said Ellen, stroking his hair, "the light nights will soon be over!" Morten continued obstinately to believe that little Johanna would recover, but every one else could see distinctly what the end was to be. Her life oozed away with the departing summer. She became gentler and more manageable every day. The hatred in her was extinguished; she accepted all their kindness with a tired smile. Through her spoiled being there radiated a strange charm, bearing the stamp of death, which seemed to unfold itself the more as she drew nearer to the grave. Later in the autumn her nature changed. Suddenly, when Pelle or Morten approached, her eyes would fill with horror and she would open her mouth to cry out; but when she recognized them, she nestled down in their arms, crying pitifully. She could no longer go into the garden, but always kept her bed. She could not bear the noise of the children; it tortured her and carried her thoughts back to the narrow streets: they had to keep out of doors all day. Delirious attacks became more frequent, and her thin, languid voice became once more rough and hoarse. She lay fighting with boys and roughs and high hats, defended herself with nicknames and abusive epithets, and snarled at every one, until she at last gave in and asked for brandy, and lay crying softly to herself. Old Brun never dared show himself at her bedside; she took him for an old chamberlain that the street-boys had set onto her, and received him with coarse demands. This insight into the child's terrible existence among the timber-stacks affected them all. It seemed as if the malignity of life would not relax its hold on this innocent victim, but would persecute her as long as life remained, and made all their love useless. Morten stayed with her during the days in which she fought her battle with death; he sat watching her from a corner, only venturing nearer when she dozed. Ellen was the only one who had the strength to meet it. She was with Johanna night and day, and tried to make death easier for her by her unwearying care; and when the fits came over the child, she held her in her arms and sought to calm her with a mother's love. She had never been in a death-chamber before, but did not quail; and the child died upon her breast. * * * * * Johanna's death had completely paralyzed Morten. As long as he possibly could he had clung to the belief that her life might be saved; if not, it would be so unreasonably unjust; and when her hopeless condition became apparent to him, he collapsed. He did nothing, but wandered about dully, spoke to no one and ate very little. It was as though he had received a blow on the head from a heavy hand. After the funeral he and Pelle walked home together while the others drove. Pelle talked of indifferent matters in order to draw Morten's thoughts away from the child, but Morten did not listen to him. "My dear fellow, you can't go on like this," said Pelle suddenly, putting his arm through Morten's. "You've accompanied the poor child along the road as far as you could, and the living have some claim on you too." Morten raised his head. "What does it matter whether I write a few pages more or less?" he said wearily. "Your pen was given you to defend the defenceless with; you mustn't give up," said Pelle. Morten laughed bitterly. "And haven't I pleaded the cause of the children as well as I could, and been innocent enough to believe that there, at any rate, it was only necessary to open people's eyes in order to touch their hearts? And what has been gained? The addition, at the most, of one more volume to the so-called good literature. Men are practical beings; you can with the greatest ease get them to shed theater tears; they're quite fond of sitting in the stalls and weeping with the unfortunate man; but woe to him if they meet him again in the street! The warmest words that have ever been spoken to me about my descriptions of children were from an old gentleman whom I afterward found to be trying to get hold of little children." "But what are you going to do?" said Pelle, looking at him with concern. "Yes, what am I going to do--tell me that! You're right in saying I'm indifferent, but can one go on taking part in a battle that doesn't even spare the children? Do you remember my little sister Karen, who had to drown herself? How many thousand children are there not standing behind her and Johanna! They call this the children's century, and the children's blood is crying out from the earth! They're happy when they can steal away. Fancy if Johanna had lived on with her burden! The shadows of childhood stretch over the whole of life." "Yes, and so does the sunshine of childhood!" exclaimed Pelle. "That's why we mustn't fail the poor little ones. We shall need a race with warm hearts." "That's just what I've thought," said Morten sadly. "Do you know, Pelle, I _loved_ that child who came to me from the very lowest depth. She was everything to me; misery has never come so cruelly near to me before. It was a beautiful dream of mine--a foolish dream--that she would live. I was going to coax life and happiness into her again, and then I would have written a book about all that triumphs. I don't know whether you understand me--about misery that becomes health and happiness beneath the sunshine of kindness. She was that; life could hardly be brought lower! But did you notice how much beauty and delicacy there was after all buried beneath the sewer-mud in her? I had looked forward to bringing it out, freed from all want and ugliness, and showing the world how beautiful we are down here when the mud is scraped off us. Perhaps it might have induced them to act justly. That's what I dreamed, but it's a bitter lot to have the unfortunates appointed to be one's beloved. My only love is irretrievably dead, and now I cannot write about anything that triumphs. What have I to do with that?" "I think it's Victor Hugo who says that the heart is the only bird that carries its cage," said Pelle, "but your heart refuses to take it when there is most use for it." "Oh, no!" said Morten with a little more energy. "I shan't desert you; but this has been a hard blow for me. If only I had a little more of your clear faith! Well, I must be glad that I have you yourself," he added, holding out his hand to Pelle with a bright smile. The librarian came across the fields to meet them. "It's taken you two Dioseuri a long time," he said, looking at them attentively. "Ellen's waiting with the dinner." The three men walked together up the bare stubblefield toward the house. "The best of the summer's over now," said Brun, looking about with a sigh. "The wheel has turned on one more cog!" "Death isn't the worst thing that can happen to one," answered Morten, who was still in a morbid mood. "That's the sort of thing one says while one's young and prosperous--and doesn't mean seriously. To-morrow life will have taken you and your sorrow into its service again. But I have never been young until now that I've learned to know you two, so I count every fleeting hour like a miser--and envy you who can walk so quickly," he added with a smile. They walked up more slowly, and as they followed the hedge up toward the house they heard a faint whimpering in the garden. In a hole in an empty bed, which the two children had dug with their spades, sat Boy Comfort, and Sister was busy covering him with earth; it was already up to his neck. He was making no resistance, but only whimpered a little when the mould began to get near his mouth. Pelle gave the alarm and leaped the hedge, and Ellen at the same moment came running out. "You might have suffocated little brother!" she said with consternation, taking the boy in her arms. "I was only planting him," said Anna, offended at having her work destroyed. "He wanted to be, and of course he'd come up again in the spring!" The two children wanted a little brother, and had agreed that Boy Comfort should sacrifice himself. "You mustn't do such things," said Ellen quietly. "You'll get a little brother in the spring anyhow." And she looked at Pelle with a loving glance. XV Work went on steadily in the cooperative works. It made no great stir; in the Movement they had almost forgotten that it existed at all. It was a long and difficult road that Pelle had set out on, but he did not for a moment doubt that it led to the end he had in view, and he set about it seriously. Never had his respiration been so slow. At present he was gaining experience. He and Peter Dreyer had trained a staff of good workmen, who knew what was at stake, and did not allow themselves to be upset even if a foreign element entered. The business increased steadily and required new men; but Pelle had no difficulty with the new forces; the undertaking was so strong that it swallowed them and remodelled them. The manufacturers at any rate remembered his existence, and tried to injure him at every opportunity. This pleased him, for it established the fact that he was a danger to them. Through their connections they closed credit, and when this did not lead to anything, because he had Brun's fortune to back him up, they boycotted him with regard to materials by forcing the leather-merchants not to sell to him. He then had to import his materials from abroad. It gave him a little extra trouble, and now it was necessary to have everything in order, so that they should not come to a standstill for want of anything. One day an article was lacking in a new consignment, and the whole thing was about to come to a standstill. He managed to obtain it by stratagem, but he was angry. "I should like to hit those leather-merchants back," he said to Brun. "If we happen to be in want of anything, we're obliged to get it by cunning. Don't you think we might take the shop next door, and set up a leather business? It would be a blow to the others, and then we should always have what we want to use. We shouldn't get rich on it, so I think the small masters in out-of-the-way corners would be glad to have us." Brun had no objection to making a little more war to the knife. There was too little happening for his taste! The new business opened in October. Pelle would have had Peter Dreyer to be at the head of it, but he refused. "I'm sure I'm not suited for buying and selling," he said gloomily, so Pelle took one of the young workmen from the workshop into the business, and kept an eye upon it himself. It at once put a little more life into things; there was always plenty of material. They now produced much more than they were able to sell in the shop, and Pelle's leather shop made the small masters independent of private capital. Many of them sold a little factory foot-wear in addition to doing repairs, and these now took their goods from him. Out in the provinces his boots and shoes had already gained a footing in many places; it had come about naturally, in the ordinary sequence of things. The manufacturers followed them up there too, wherever they could; but the consequence was that the workmen patronized them and forced them in again to the shops of which they themselves were the customers. A battle began to rage over Pelle's boots and shoes. He knew, however, that it was only the beginning. It would soon come to a great conflict, and were his foundations sufficiently strong for that? The manufacturers were establishing a shop opposite his, where the goods were to be sold cheap in order to ruin his sales, and one day they put the prices very much down on everything, so as to extinguish him altogether. "Let them!" said Brun. "People will be able to get shoes cheap!" Pelle was troubled, however, at this fresh attack. Even if they held out, it might well exhaust their economic strength. The misfortune was that they were too isolated; they were as yet like men washed up onto an open shore; they had nothing to fall back upon. The employers had long since discovered that they were just as international as the workmen, and had adopted Pelle's old organization idea. It was not always easy, either, to get materials from abroad; he noticed the connection. Until he had got the tanners to start a cooperative business, he ran the risk of having his feet knocked away from under him at any moment. And in the first place he must have the great army of workmen on his side; that was whither everything pointed. One day he found himself once more after many years on the lecturer's platform, giving his first lecture on cooperation. It was very strange to stand once more before his own people and feel their faces turned toward him. At present they looked upon him as one who had come from abroad with new ideas, or perhaps only a new invention; but he meant to win them! Their very slowness promised well when once it was overcome. He knew them again; they were difficult to get started, but once started could hardly be stopped again. If his idea got proper hold of these men with their huge organizations and firm discipline, it would be insuperable. He entered with heart and soul into the agitation, and gave a lecture every week in a political or trade association. "Pelle, how busy you are!" said Ellen, when he came home. Her condition filled him with happiness; it was like a seal upon their new union. She had withdrawn a little more into herself, and over her face and figure there was thrown a touch of dreamy gentleness. She met him at the gate now a little helpless and remote--a young mother, to be touched with careful hands. He saw her thriving from day to day, and had a happy feeling that things were growing for him on all sides. They did not see much of Morten. He was passing through a crisis, and preferred to be by himself. He was always complaining that he could not get on with his work. Everything he began, no matter how small, stuck fast. "That's because you don't believe in it any longer," said Pelle. "He who doubts in his work cuts through the branch upon which he is himself sitting." Morten listened to him with an expression of weariness. "It's much more than that," he said, "for it's the men themselves I doubt, Pelle. I feel cold and haven't been able to find out why; but now I know. It's because men have no heart. Everything growing is dependent upon warmth, but the whole of our culture is built upon coldness, and that's why it's so cold here." "The poor people have a heart though," said Pelle. "It's that and not common sense that keeps them up. If they hadn't they'd have gone to ruin long ago--simply become animals. Why haven't they, with all their misery? Why does the very sewer give birth to bright beings?" "Yes, the poor people warm one another, but they're blue with cold all the same! And shouldn't one rather wish that they had no heart to be burdened with in a community that's frozen to the very bottom? I envy those who can look at misery from a historical point of view and comfort themselves with the future. I think myself that the good will some day conquer, but it's nevertheless fearfully unreasonable that millions shall first go joyless to the grave in the battle to overcome a folly. I'm an irreconcilable, that's what it is! My mind has arranged itself for other conditions, and therefore I suffer under those that exist. Even so ordinary a thing as to receive money causes me suffering. It's mine, but I can't help following it back in my thoughts. What want has been caused by its passing into my hands? How much distress and weeping may be associated with it? And when I pay it out again I'm always troubled to think that those who've helped me get too little--my washerwoman and the others. They can scarcely live, and the fault is mine among others! Then my thoughts set about finding out the others' wants and I get no peace; every time I put a bit of bread into my mouth, or see the stores in the shops, I can't help thinking of those who are starving. I suffer terribly through not being able to alter conditions of which the folly is so apparent. It's of no use for me to put it down to morbidness, for it's not that; it's a forestalling in myself. We must all go that way some day, if the oppressed do not rise before then and turn the point upward. You see I'm condemned to live in all the others' miseries, and my own life has not been exactly rich in sunshine. Think of my childhood, how joyless it was! I haven't your fund to draw from, Pelle, remember that!" No, there had not been much sunshine on Morten's path, and now he cowered and shivered with cold. One evening, however, he rushed into the sitting-room, waving a sheet of paper. "I've received a legacy," he cried. "Tomorrow morning I shall start for the South." "But you'll have to arrange your affairs first," said Pelle. "Arrange?" Morten laughed. "Oh, no! You're always ready to start on a journey. All my life I've been ready for a tour round the world at an hour's notice!" He walked to and fro, rubbing his hands. "Ah, now I shall drink the sunshine--let myself be baked through and through! I think it'll be good for my chest to hop over a winter." "How far are you going?" asked Ellen, with shining eyes. "To Southern Italy and Spain. I want to go to a place where the cold doesn't pull off the coats of thousands while it helps you on with your furs. And then I want to see people who haven't had a share in the blessings of mechanical culture, but upon whom the sun has shone to make up for it--sunshine-beings like little Johanna and her mother and grandmother, but who've been allowed to live. Oh, how nice it'll be to see for once poor people who aren't cold!" "Just let him get off as quickly as possible," said Ellen, when Morten had gone up to pack; "for if he once gets the poor into his mind, it'll all come to nothing. I expect I shall put a few of your socks and a little underclothing into his trunk; he's got no change. If only he'll see that his things go to the wash, and that they don't ruin them with chlorine!" "Don't you think you'd better look after him a little while he's packing?" asked Pelle. "Or else I'm afraid he'll not take what he'll really want. Morten would sometimes forget his own head." Ellen went upstairs with the things she had looked out. It was fortunate that she did so, for Morten had packed his trunk quite full of books, and laid the necessary things aside. When she took everything out and began all over again, he fidgeted about and was quite unhappy; it had been arranged so nicely, the fiction all together in one place, the proletariat writings in another; he could have put his hand in and taken out anything he wanted. But Ellen had no mercy. Everything had to be emptied onto the floor, and he had to bring every stitch of clothing he possessed and lay them on chairs, whence she selected the necessary garments. At each one that was placed in the trunk, Morten protested meekly: it really could not be worth while to take socks with him, nor yet several changes of linen; you simply bought them as you required them. Indeed? Could it not? But it was worth while lugging about a big trunk full of useless books like any colporteur, was it? Ellen was on her knees before the trunk, and was getting on with her task. Pelle came up and stood leaning against the door-jamb, looking at them. "That's right! Just give him a coating of paint that will last till he gets home again!" he said, laughing. "He may need it badly." Morten sat upon a chair looking crestfallen. "Thank goodness, I'm not married!" he said. "I really begin to be sorry for you, Pelle." It was evident that he was enjoying being looked after. "Yes, now you can see what a domestic affliction I have to bear," Pelle answered gravely. Ellen let them talk. The trunk was now cram full, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that he would not be going about like a tramp. There were only his toilet articles left now; even those he had forgotten. She drew a huge volume out of the pocket for these articles inside the lid of the trunk to make room for his washing things; but at that Morten sprang forward. "I _must_ have that with me, whatever else is left out," he said with determination. It was Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables," Morten's Bible. Ellen opened it at the title-page to see if it really was so necessary to travel about with such a monster; it was as big as a loaf. "There's no room for it," she declared, and quietly laid it on one side, "that's to say if you want things to wash yourself with; and you're sure to meet plenty of unhappy people wherever you go, for there's always enough of them everywhere." "Then perhaps Madam will not permit me to take my writing things with me?" questioned Morten, in a tone of supplication. "Oh, yes!" answered Ellen, laughing, "and you may use them too, to do something beautiful--that's to say if it's us poor people you're writing for. There's sorrow and misery enough!" "When the sun's shone properly upon me, I'll come home and write you a book about it," said Morten seriously. The following day was Sunday. Morten was up early and went out to the churchyard. He was gone a long time, and they waited breakfast for him. "He's coming now!" cried Lasse Frederik, who had been up to the hill farm for milk. "I saw him down in the field." "Then we can put the eggs on," said Ellen to Sister, who helped her a little in the kitchen. Morten was in a solemn mood. "The roses on Johanna's grave have been picked again," he said. "I can't imagine how any one can have the heart to rob the dead; they are really the poorest of us all." "I'm glad to hear you say that!" exclaimed Pelle. "A month ago you thought the dead were the only ones who were well off." "You're a rock!" said Morten, smiling and putting his hands on the other's shoulders. "If everything else were to change, we should always know where you were to be found." "Come to table!" cried Ellen, "but at once, or the surprise will be cold." She stood waiting with a covered dish in her hand. "Why, I believe you've got new-laid eggs there!" exclaimed Pelle, in astonishment. "Yes, the hens have begun to lay again the last few days. It must be in Morten's honor." "No, it's in honor of the fine weather, and because they're allowed to run about anywhere now," said Lasse Frederik. Morten laughed. "Lasse Frederik's an incorrigible realist," he said. "Life needs no adornment for him." Ellen looked well after Morten. "Now you must make a good breakfast," she said. "You can't be sure you'll get proper food out there in foreign countries." She was thinking with horror of the messes her lodgers in the "Palace" had put together. The carriage was at the door, the trunk was put up beside the driver, and Morten and Pelle got into the carriage, not before it was time either. They started at a good pace, Lasse Frederik and Sister each standing on a step all the way down to the main road. Up at the gable window Ellen stood and waved, holding Boy Comfort by the hand. "It must be strange to go away from everything," said Pelle. "Yes, it might be strange for you," answered Morten, taking a last look at Pelle's home. "But I'm not going away from anything; on the contrary, I'm going to meet things." "It'll be strange at any rate not having you walking about overhead any more, especially for Ellen and the children. But I suppose we shall hear from you?" "Oh, yes! and you'll let me hear how your business gets on, won't you?" The train started. Pelle felt his heart contract as he stood and gazed after it, feeling as though it were taking part of him with it. It had always been a dream of his to go out and see a little of the world; ever since "Garibaldi" had appeared in the little workshop at home in the provincial town he had looked forward to it. Now Morten was going, but he himself would never get away; he must be content with the "journey abroad" he had had. For a moment Pelle stood looking along the lines where the train had disappeared, with his thoughts far away in melancholy dreams; then he woke up and discovered that without intending it he had been feeling his home a clog upon his feet. And there were Ellen and the children at home watching for his coming, while he stood here and dreamed himself away from them! They would do nothing until he came, for Sunday was his day, the only day they really had him. He hurried out and jumped onto a tram. As he leaped over the ditch into the field at the tramway terminus, he caught sight of Brun a little farther along the path. The old librarian was toiling up the hill, his asthma making him pause every now and then. "He's on his way to us!" said Pelle to himself, touched at the thought; it had not struck him before how toilsome this walk over ploughed fields and along bad roads must be for the old man; and yet he did it several times in the week to come out and see them. "Well, here I am again!" said Brun. "I only hope you're not getting tired of me." "There's no danger of that!" answered Pelle, taking his arm to help him up the hill. "The children are quite silly about you!" "Yes, the children--I'm safe enough with them, and with you too, Pelle; but your wife makes me a little uncertain." "Ellen's rather reserved, but it's only her manner; she's very fond of you," said Pelle warmly. "Any one who takes the children on his knee wins Ellen's heart." "Do you really think so? I've always despised woman because she lacks personality--until I got to know your wife. She's an exceptional wife you've got, Pelle; hers is a strong nature, so strong that she makes me uncertain. Couldn't you get her to leave off calling me Mr. Brun?" "I'll tell her," said Pelle, laughing; "but I'm not sure it'll be of any use." "This _Mr. Brun_ is beginning to be an intolerable person, let me tell you; and in your house I should like to get away from him. Just imagine what it means to be burdened all your life with a gentleman like that, who doesn't stand in close relationship to anybody at all. Others are called 'Father,' 'Grandfather'--something or other human; but all conditions of life dispose of me with a 'Mr. Brun'! 'Thank you, Mr. Brun!' 'Many thanks, Mr. Brun!'" The old man had worked himself up, and made the name a caricature. "These are bad roads out here," he said suddenly, stopping to take breath. "It's incomprehensible that these fields should be allowed to lie here just outside the town--that speculation hasn't got hold of them." "I suppose it's because of the boggy ground down there," said Pelle. "They've begun to fill it in, however, at the north end, I see." Brun peered in that direction with some interest, but gave it up, shaking his head. "No, I can't see so far without glasses; that's another of the blessings bestowed by books. Yes, it is! Old people in the country only make use of spectacles when they want to look at a book, but I have to resort to them when I want to find my way about the world: that makes a great difference. It's the fault of the streets and those stupid books that I'm shortsighted; you don't get any outlook if you don't live in the country. The town shuts up all your senses, and the books take you away from life; so I'm thinking of moving out too." "Is that wise now just before the winter? It wouldn't do for you to go in and out in all kinds of weather." "Then I'll give up the library," answered Brun. "I shan't miss it much; I've spent enough of my life there. Fancy, Pelle! it occurred to me last night that I'd helped to catalogue most of the literature of the world, but haven't even seen a baby dressed! What right have people like me to have an opinion?" "I can't understand that," said Pelle. "Books have given me so much help." "Yes, because you had the real thing. If I were young, I would go out and set to work with my hands. I've missed more through never having worked with my body till I was hot and tired, than you have through not knowing the great classic writers. I'm discovering my own poverty, Pelle; and I would willingly exchange everything for a place as grandfather by a cozy fireside." The children came running across the field. "Have you got anything for us to-day?" they cried from a long distance. "Yes, but not until we get into the warmth. I daren't unbutton my coat out here because of my cough." "Well, but you walk so slowly," said Boy Comfort. "Is it because you're so old?" "Yes, that's it," answered the old man, laughing. "You must exercise a little patience." Patience, however, was a thing of which the children possessed little, and they seized hold of his coat and pulled him along. He was quite out of breath when they reached the house. Ellen looked severely at the children, but said nothing. She helped Brun off with his coat and neckerchief, and after seeing him comfortably seated in the sitting-room, went out into the kitchen. Pelle guessed there was something she wanted to say to him, and followed her. "Pelle," she said gravely, "the children are much too free with Mr. Brun. I can't think how you can let them do it." "Well, but he likes it, Ellen, or of course I should stop them. It's just what he likes. And do you know what I think he would like still better? If you would ask him to live with us." "That I'll never do!" declared Ellen decidedly. "It would look so extraordinary of me." "But if he wants a home, and likes us? He's got no friends but us." No--no, Ellen could not understand that all the same, with the little they had to offer. And Brun, who could afford to pay for all the comforts that could be had for money! "If he came, I should have to have new table-linen at any rate, and good carpets on the floors, and lots of other things." "You can have them too," said Pelle. "Of course we'll have everything as nice as we can, though Brun's quite as easily pleased as we are." That might be so, but Ellen was the mistress of the house, and there were things she could not let go. "If Mr. Brun would like to live with us, he shall be made comfortable," she said; "but it's funny he doesn't propose it himself, for he can do it much better than we can." "No, it must come from us--from _you,_ Ellen. He's a little afraid of you." "Of me?" exclaimed Ellen, in dismay. "And I who would--why, there's no one I'd sooner be kind to! Then I'll say it, Pelle, but not just now." She put up her hands to her face, which was glowing with pleasure and confusion at the thought that her little home was worth so much. Pelle went back to the sitting-room. Brun was sitting on the sofa with Boy Comfort on his knee. "He's a regular little urchin!" he said. "But he's not at all like his mother. He's got your features all through." "Ellen isn't his mother," said Pelle, in a low voice. "Oh, isn't she! It's funny that he should have those three wrinkles in his forehead like you; they're like the wave-lines in the countenance of Denmark. You both look as if you were always angry." "So we were at that time," said Pelle. "Talking of anger"--Brun went on--"I applied to the police authorities yesterday, and got them to promise to give up their persecution of Peter Dreyer, on condition that he ceases his agitation among the soldiers." "We shall never get him to agree to that; it would be the same thing as requiring him to swear away his rights as a man. He has taught himself, by a great effort, to use parliamentary expressions, and nobody'll ever get him to do more. In the matter of the Cause itself he'll never yield, and there I agree with him. If you mayn't even fight the existing conditions with spiritual weapons, there'll be an end of everything." "Yes, that's true," said Brun, "only I'm sorry for him. The police keep him in a perpetual state of inflammation. He can't have any pleasure in life." XVI Pelle was always hoping that Peter Dreyer would acquire a calmer view of life. It was his intention to start a cooperative business in the course of the spring at Aarhus too, and Peter was appointed to start it. But his spirit seemed incurable; every time he calmed down a little, conditions roused him to antagonism again. This time it was the increase of unemployment that touched him. The senseless persecution, moreover, kept him in a state of perpetual irritation. Even when he was left alone, as now, he had the feeling that they were wondering how they could get him to blunder--apparently closed their eyes in order to come down upon him with all the more force. He never knew whether he was bought or sold. The business was now so large that they had to move the actual factory into the back building, and take the whole of the basement for the repairing workshop. Peter Dreyer managed this workshop, and there was no fault to find with his management; he was energetic and vigilant. He was not capable, however, of managing work on a large scale, for his mind was in constant oscillation. In spite of his abilities he was burning to no purpose. "He might drop his agitation and take up something more useful," said Brun, one evening when he and Pelle sat discussing the matter. "Nothing's accomplished by violence anyhow! And he's only running his head against a brick wall himself!" "You didn't think so some time ago," said Pelle. It was Brun's pamphlets on the rights of the individual that had first roused Peter Dreyer's attention. "No, I know that. I once thought that the whole thing must be smashed to pieces in order that a new world might arise out of chaos. I didn't know you, and I didn't think my own class too good to be tossed aside; they were only hindering the development. But you've converted me. I was a little too quick to condemn your slowness; you have more connectedness in you than I. Our little business in there has proved to me that the common people are wise to admit their heritage from and debt to the upper class. I'm sorry to see Peter running off the track; he's one of your more talented men. Couldn't we get him out here? He could have one of my rooms. I think he needs a few more comforts." "You'd better propose it to him yourself," said Pelle. The next day Brun went into town with Pelle and proposed it, but Peter Dreyer declined with thanks. "I've no right to your comforts as long as there are twenty thousand men that have neither food nor firing," he said, dismissing the subject. "But you're an anarchist, of course," he added scornfully, "and a millionaire, from what I hear; so the unemployed have nothing to fear!" He had been disappointed on becoming personally acquainted with the old philosopher, and never disguised his ill-will. "I think you know that I _have_ already placed my fortune at the disposal of the poor," said Brun, in an offended tone, "and my manner of doing so will, I hope, some day justify itself. If I were to divide what I possess to-day among the unemployed, it would have evaporated like dew by to-morrow, so tremendous, unfortunately, is the want now." Peter Dreyer shrugged his shoulders. The more reason was there, he thought, to help. "Would you have us sacrifice our great plan of making all want unnecessary, for one meal of food to the needy?" asked Pelle. Yes, Peter saw only the want of to-day; it was such a terrible reality to him that the future must take care of itself. A change had taken place in him, and he seemed quite to have given up the development. "He sees too much," said Pelle to Brun, "and now his heart has dominated his reason. We'd better leave him alone; we shan't in any case get him to admit anything, and we only irritate him. It's impossible to live with all that he always has before his eyes, and yet keep your head clear; you must either shut your eyes and harden yourself, or let yourself be broken to pieces." Peter Dreyer's heart was the obstruction. He often had to stop in the middle of his work and gasp for breath. "I'm suffocated!" he would say. There were many like him. The ever-increasing unemployment began to spread panic in men's minds. It was no longer only the young, hot-headed men who lost patience. Out of the great compact mass of organization, in which it had hitherto been impossible to distinguish the individual beings, simple-minded men suddenly emerged and made themselves ridiculous by bearing the truth of the age upon their lips. Poor people, who understood nothing of the laws of life, nevertheless awakened, disappointed, out of the drowsiness into which the rhythm had lulled them, and stirred impatiently. Nothing happened except that one picked trade after another left them to become middle-class. The Movement had hitherto been the fixed point of departure; from it came everything that was of any importance, and the light fell from it over the day. But now suddenly a germ was developed in the simplest of them, and they put a note of interrogation after the party-cry. To everything the answer was: When the Movement is victorious, things will be otherwise. But how could they be otherwise when no change had taken place even now when they had the power? A little improvement, perhaps, but no change. It had become the regular refrain, whenever a woman gave birth to a child in secret, or a man stole, or beat his wife:--It is a consequence of the system! Up and vote, comrades! But now it was beginning to sound idiotic in their ears. They were voting, confound it, with all their might, but all the same everything was becoming dearer! Goodness knows they were law-abiding enough. They were positively perspiring with parliamentarianism, and would soon be doing nothing but getting mandates. And what then? Did any one doubt that the poor man was in the majority--an overwhelming majority? What was all this nonsense then that the majority were to gain? No, those who had the power would take good care to keep it; so they might win whatever stupid mandates they liked! Men had too much respect for the existing conditions, and so they were always being fooled by them. It was all very well with all this lawfulness, but you didn't only go gradually from the one to the other! How else was it that nothing of the new happened? The fact was that every single step toward the new was instantly swallowed up by the existing condition of things, and turned to fat on its ribs. Capital grew fat, confound it, no matter what you did with it; it was like a cat, which always falls upon its feet. Each time the workmen obtained by force a small rise in their wages, the employers multiplied it by two and put it onto the goods; that was why they were beginning to be so accommodating with regard to certain wage-demands. Those who were rather well off, capital enticed over to its side, leaving the others behind as a shabby proletariat. It might be that the Movement had done a good piece of work, but you wanted confounded good eyes to see it. Thus voices were raised. At first it was only whiners about whom nobody needed to trouble-frequenters of public-houses, who sat and grumbled in their cups; but gradually it became talk that passed from mouth to mouth; the specter of unemployment haunted every home and made men think over matters once more on their own account; no one could know when his turn would come to sweep the pavement. Pelle had no difficulty in catching the tone of all this; it was his own settlement with the advance on coming out of prison that was now about to become every one's. But now he was another man! He was no longer sure that the Movement had been so useless. It had not done anything that marked a boundary, but it had kept the apparatus going and strengthened it. It had carried the masses over a dead period, even if only by letting them go in a circle. And now the idea was ready to take them again. Perhaps it was a good thing that there had not been too great progress, or they would probably never have wakened again. They might very well starve a little longer, until they could establish themselves in their own world; fat slaves soon lost sight of liberty. Behind the discontented fussing Pelle could hear the new. It expressed itself in remarkable ways. A party of workmen--more than two hundred-- who were employed on a large excavation work, were thrown out of work by the bankruptcy of the contractor. A new contractor took over the work, but the men made it a condition for beginning work again that he should pay them the wages that were due to them, and also for the time they were unemployed. "We have no share in the cake," they said, "so you must take the risk too!" They made the one employer responsible for the other! And capriciously refused good work at a time when thousands were unemployed! Public opinion almost lost its head, and even their own press held aloof from them; but they obstinately kept to their determination, and joined the crowd of unemployed until their unreasonable demand was submitted to. Pelle heard a new tone here. For the first time the lower class made capital responsible for its sins, without any petty distinction between Tom, Dick, and Harry. There was beginning to be perspective in the feeling of solidarity. The great weariness occasioned by wandering in a spiritual desert came once more to the surface. He had experienced the same thing once before, when the Movement was raised; but oddly enough the breaking out came that time from the bottom of everything. It began with blind attacks on parliamentarianism, the suffrage, and the paroles; there was in it an unconscious rebellion against restraint and treatment in the mass. By an incomprehensible process of renewal, the mass began to resolve itself into individuals, who, in the midst of the bad times, set about an inquiry after the ego and the laws for its satisfaction. They came from the very bottom, and demanded that their shabby, ragged person should be respected. Where did they come from? It was a complete mystery! Did it not sound foolish that the poor man, after a century's life in rags and discomfort, which ended in his entire effacement in collectivism, should now make his appearance with the strongest claim of all, and demand his soul back? Pelle recognized the impatience of the young men in this commotion. It was not for nothing that Peter Dreyer was the moving spirit at the meetings of the unemployed. Peter wanted him to come and speak, and he went with him two or three times, as he wanted to find out the relation of these people to his idea; but he remained in the background and could not be persuaded to mount the platform. He had nothing to do with these confused crowds, who turned all his ideas upside down. In any case he could not give them food to-day, and he had grown out of the use of strong language. "Go up and say something nice to them! Don't you see how starved they are?" said Peter Dreyer, one evening. "They still have confidence in you from old days. But don't preach coöperation; you don't feed hungry men with music of the future." "Do you give them food then?" asked Pelle. "No, I can't do that, but I give them a vent for their grievances, and get them to rise and protest. It's something at any rate, that they no longer keep silence and submit." "And if to-morrow they get something to eat, the whole turmoil's forgotten; but they're no further on than they were. Isn't it a matter of indifference whether they suffer want today, as compared with the question whether they will do so eternally?" "If you can put the responsibility upon those poor creatures, you must be a hard-hearted brute!" said Peter angrily. Well, it was necessary now to harden one's heart, for nothing would be accomplished with sympathy only! The man with eyes that watered would not do for a driver through the darkness. It was a dull time, and men were glad when they could keep their situations. There was no question of new undertakings before the spring. But Pelle worked hard to gain adherents to his idea. He had started a discussion in the labor party press, and gave lectures. He chose the quiet trade unions, disdained all agitation eloquence, and put forward his idea with the clearness of an expert, building it up from his own experience until, without any fuss, by the mere power of the facts, it embraced the world. It was the slow ones he wanted to get hold of, those who had been the firm nucleus of the Movement through all these years, and steadfastly continued to walk in the old foot-prints, although they led nowhere. It was the picked troops from the great conflict that must first of all be called upon! He knew that if he got them to go into fire for his idea with their unyielding discipline, much would be gained. It was high time for a new idea to come and take them on; they had grown weary of this perpetual goose-step; the Movement was running away from them. But now he had come with an idea of which they would never grow weary, and which would carry them right through. No one would be able to say that he could not understand it, for it was the simple idea of the home carried out so as to include everything. Ellen had taught it to him, and if they did not know it themselves, they must go home to their wives and learn it. _They_ did not brood over the question as to which of the family paid least or ate most, but gave to each one according to his needs, and took the will for the deed. The world would be like a good, loving home, where no one oppressed the other--nothing more complicated than that. Pelle was at work early and late. Scarcely a day passed on which he did not give a lecture or write about his coöperation idea. He was frequently summoned into the provinces to speak. People wanted to see and hear the remarkable manufacturer who earned no more than his work- people. In these journeys he came to know the country, and saw that much of his idea had been anticipated out there. The peasant, who stiffened with horror at the word "socialist," put the ideas of the Movement into practice on a large scale. He had arranged matters on the coöperative system, and had knitted the country into supply associations. "We must join on there when we get our business into better order," said Pelle to Brun. "Yes, if the farmers will work with us," said Brun doubtfully. "They're conservative, you know." This was now almost revolutionary. As far as Pelle could see, there would soon be no place as big as his thumb-nail for capital to feed upon out there. The farmers went about things so quickly! Pelle came of peasant stock himself, and did not doubt that he would be able to get in touch with the country when the time came. The development was preparing on several sides; they would not break with that if they wanted to attain anything. It was like a fixed law relating to growth in existence, an inviolable divine idea running through it all. It was now leading him and his fellows into the fire, and when they advanced, no one must stay behind. No class of the community had yet advanced with so bright and great a call; they were going to put an end forever to the infamy of human genius sitting and weighing the spheres in space, but forgetting to weigh the bread justly. He was not tired of the awakening discontent with the old condition of things; it opened up the overgrown minds, and created possibility for the new. At present he had no great number of adherents; various new currents were fighting over the minds, which, in their faltering search, were drawn now to one side, now to the other. But he had a buoyant feeling of serving a world-idea, and did not lose courage. Unemployment and the awakening ego-feeling brought many to join Peter Dreyer. They rebelled against the conditions, and now saw no alternative but to break with everything. They sprang naked out of nothing, and demanded that their personality should be respected, but were unable as yet to bear its burdens; and their hopeless view of their misery threatened to stifle them. Then they made obstruction, their own broken- down condition making them want to break down the whole. They were Pelle's most troublesome opponents. Up to the present they had unfortunately been right, but now he could not comprehend their desperate impatience. He had given them an idea now, with which they could conquer the world just by preserving their coherence, and if they did not accept this, there must be something wrong with them. Taking this view of the matter, he looked upon their disintegrating agitation with composure; the healthy mind would be victorious! Peter Dreyer was at present agitating for a mass-meeting of the unemployed. He wanted the twenty thousand men, with wives and children, to take up their position on the Council House Square or Amalienborg Palace Square, and refuse to move away until the community took charge of them. "Then the authorities can choose between listening to their demands, and driving up horses and cannon," he said. Perhaps that would open up the question. "Take care then that the police don't arrest you," said Pelle, in a warning voice; "or your people will be left without a head, and you will have enticed them into a ridiculous situation which can only end in defeat." "Let them take care, the curs!" answered Peter threateningly. "I shall strike at the first hand that attempts to seize me!" "And what then? What do you gain by striking the policemen? They are only the tool, and there are plenty of them!". Peter laughed bitterly. "No," he said, "it's not the policemen, nor the assistant, nor the chief of police! It's no one! That's so convenient, no one can help it! They've always stolen a march upon us in that way; the evil always dives and disappears when you want to catch it. 'It wasn't me!' Now the workman's demanding his right, the employer finds it to his advantage to disappear, and the impersonal joint stock company appears. Oh, this confounded sneaking out of a thing! Where is one to apply? There's no one to take the blame! But something _shall_ be done now! If I hit the hand, I hit what stands behind it too; you must hit what you can see. I've got a revolver to use against the police; to carry arms against one's own people shall not be made a harmless means of livelihood unchallenged." XVII One Saturday evening Pelle came home by train from a provincial town where he had been helping to start a coöperative undertaking. It was late, but many shops were still open and sent their brilliant light out into the drizzling rain, through which the black stream of the streets flowed as fast as ever. It was the time when the working women came from the center of the city--pale typists, cashiers with the excitement of the cheap novel still in their eyes, seamstresses from the large businesses. Some hurried along looking straight before them without taking any notice of the solitary street-wanderers; they had something waiting for them--a little child perhaps. Others had nothing to hurry for, and looked weariedly about them as they walked, until perhaps they suddenly brightened up at sight of a young man in the throng. Charwomen were on their way home with their basket on their arm. They had had a long day, and dragged their heavy feet along. The street was full of women workers--a changed world! The bad times had called the women out and left the men at home. On their way home they made their purchases for Sunday. In the butchers' and provision-dealers' they stood waiting like tired horses for their turn. Shivering children stood on tiptoe with their money clasped convulsively in one hand, and their chin supported on the edge of the counter, staring greedily at the eatables, while the light was reflected from their ravenous eyes. Pelle walked quickly to reach the open country. He did not like these desolate streets on the outskirts of the city, where poverty rose like a sea-birds' nesting-place on both sides of the narrow cleft, and the darkness sighed beneath so much. When he entered an endless brick channel such as these, where one- and two-roomed flats, in seven stories extended as far as he could see, he felt his courage forsaking him. It was like passing through a huge churchyard of disappointed hopes. All these thousands of families were like so many unhappy fates; they had set out brightly and hopefully, and now they stood here, fighting with the emptiness. Pelle walked quickly out along the field road. It was pitch-dark and raining, but he knew every ditch and path by heart. Far up on the hill there shone a light which resembled a star that hung low in the sky. It must be the lamp in Brun's bedroom. He wondered at the old man being up still, for he was soon tired now that he had given up the occupation of a long lifetime, and generally went to bed early. Perhaps he had forgotten to put out the lamp. Pelle had turned his coat-collar up about his ears, and was in a comfortable frame of mind. He liked walking alone in the dark. Formerly its yawning emptiness had filled him with a panic of fear, but the prison had made his mind familiar with it. He used to look forward to these lonely night walks home across the fields. The noises of the city died away behind him, and he breathed the pure air that seemed to come straight to him out of space. All that a man cannot impart to others arose in him in these walks. In the daily struggle he often had a depressing feeling that the result depended upon pure chance. It was not easy to obtain a hearing through the thousand-voiced noise. A sensation was needed in order to attract attention, and he had presented himself with only quite an ordinary idea, and declared that without stopping a wheel it could remodel the world. No one took the trouble to oppose him, and even the manufacturers in his trade took his enterprise calmly and seemed to have given up the war against him. He had expected great opposition, and had looked forward to overcoming it, and this indifference sometimes made him doubt himself. His invincible idea would simply disappear in the motley confusion of life! But out here in the country, where night lay upon the earth like great rest, his strength returned to him. All the indifference fell away, and he saw that like the piers of a bridge, his reality lay beneath the surface. Insignificant though he appeared, he rested upon an immense foundation. The solitude around him revealed it to him and made him feel his own power. While they overlooked his enterprise he would make it so strong that they would run their head against it when they awoke. Pelle was glad he lived in the country, and it was a dream of his to move the workmen out there again some day. He disliked the town more and more, and never became quite familiar with it. It was always just as strange to go about in this humming hive, where each seemed to buzz on his own account, and yet all were subject to one great will--that of hunger. The town exerted a dull power over men's minds, it drew the poor to it with lies about happiness, and when it once had them, held them fiendishly fast. The poisonous air was like opium; the most miserable beings dream they are happy in it; and when they have once got a taste for it, they had not the strength of mind to go back to the uneventful everyday life again. There was always something dreadful behind the town's physiognomy, as though it were lying in wait to drag men into its net and fleece them. In the daytime it might be concealed by the multitudinous noises, but the darkness brought it out. Every evening before Pelle went to bed he went out to the end of the house and gazed out into the night. It was an old peasant-custom that he had inherited from Father Lasse and his father before him. His inquiring gaze sought the town where his thoughts already were. On sunny days there was only smoke and mist to be seen, but on a dark night like this there was a cheerful glow above it. The town had a peculiar power of shedding darkness round about it, and lighting white artificial light in it. It lay low, like a bog with the land sloping down to it on all sides, and all water running into it. Its luminous mist seemed to reach to the uttermost borders of the land; everything came this way. Large dragon-flies hovered over the bog in metallic splendor; gnats danced above it like careless shadows. A ceaseless hum rose from it, and below lay the depth that had fostered them, seething so that he could hear it where he stood. Sometimes the light of the town flickered up over the sky like the reflection from a gigantic forge-fire. It was like an enormous heart throbbing in panic in the darkness down there; his own caught the infection and contracted in vague terror. Cries would suddenly rise from down there, and one almost wished for them; a loud exclamation was a relief from the everlasting latent excitement. Down there beneath the walls of the city the darkness was always alive; it glided along like a heavy life-stream, flowing slowly among taverns and low music-halls and barracks, with their fateful contents of want and imprecations. Its secret doings inspired him with horror; he hated the town for its darkness which hid so much. He had stopped in front of his house, and stood gazing downward. Suddenly he heard a sound from within that made him start, and he quickly let himself in. Ellen came out into the passage looking disturbed. "Thank goodness you've come!" she exclaimed, quite forgetting to greet him. "Anna's so ill!" "Is it anything serious?" asked Pelle, hurriedly removing his coat. "It's the old story. I got a carriage from the farm to drive in for the doctor. It was dear, but Brun said I must. She's to have hot milk with Ems salts and soda water. You must warm yourself at the stove before you go up to her, but make haste! She keeps on asking for you." The sick-room was in semi-darkness, Ellen having put a red shade over the lamp, so that the light should not annoy the child. Brun was sitting on a chair by her bed, watching her intently as she lay muttering in a feverish doze. He made a sign to Pelle to walk quietly. "She's asleep!" he whispered. The old man looked unhappy. Pelle bent silently over her. She lay with closed eyes, but was not asleep. Her hot breath came in short gasps. As he was about to raise himself again, she opened her eyes and smiled at him. "What's the matter with Sister? Is she going to be ill again?" he said softly. "I thought the sun had sent that naughty bronchitis away." The child shook her head resignedly. "Listen to the cellarman!" she whispered. He was whistling as hard as he could down in her windpipe, and she listened to him with a serious expression. Then her hand stole up and she stroked her father's face as though to comfort him. Brun, however, put her hand down again immediately and covered her up close. "We very nearly lost that doll!" he said seriously. He had promised her a large doll if she would keep covered up. "Shall I still get it?" she asked in gasps, gazing at him in dismay. "Yes, of course you'll get it, and if you make haste and get well, you shall have a carriage too with india rubber tires." Here Ellen came in. "Mr. Brun," she said, "I've made your room all ready for you." She laid a quieting hand upon the child's anxious face. The librarian rose unwillingly. "That's to say Mr. Brun is to go to bed," he said half in displeasure. "Well, well, goodnight then! I rely upon your waking me if things become worse." "How good he is!" said Ellen softly. "He's been sitting here all the time to see that she kept covered up. He's made us afraid to move because she's to be kept quiet; but he can't help chattering to her himself whenever she opens her eyes." Ellen had moved Lasse Frederik's bed down into their bedroom and put up her own here so as to watch over the child. "Now you should go to bed," she said softly to Pelle. "You must be tired to death after your journey, and you can't have slept last night in the train either." He looked tired, but she could not persuade him; he meant to stay up there. "I can't sleep anyhow as things are," he whispered, "and to- morrow's Sunday." "Then lie down on my bed! It'll rest you a little." He lay down to please her, and stared up at the ceiling while he listened to the child's short, rattling respiration. He could hear that she was not asleep. She lay and played with the rattling sound, making the cellar-man speak sometimes with a deep voice, sometimes with a high one. She seemed quite familiar with this dangerous chatter, which had already cost her many hours of illness and sounded so painful to Pelle's ear. She bore her illness with the wonderful resignation that belonged to the dwellers in the back streets. She did not become unreasonable or exacting, but generally lay and entertained herself. It was as though she felt grateful for her bed; she was always in the best spirits when she was in it. The sun out here had made her very brown, but there must be something in her that it had not prevailed against. It was not so easy to move away from the bad air of the back streets. Whenever she had a fit of coughing, Pelle raised her into a sitting posture and helped her to get rid of the phlegm. She was purple in the face with coughing, and looked at him with eyes that were almost starting out of her head with the violent exertion. Then Ellen brought her the hot milk and Ems salts, and she drank it with a resigned expression and lay down again. "It's never been so bad before," whispered Ellen, "so what can be the use? Perhaps the country air isn't good for her." "It ought to be though," said Pelle, "or else she's a poor little poisoned thing." Ellen's voice rang with the possibility of their moving back again to the town for the sake of the child. To her the town air was not bad, but simply milder than out here. Through several generations she had become accustomed to it and had overcome its injurious effects; to her it seemed good as only the air of home can be. She could live anywhere, but nothing must be said against her childhood's home. Then she became eager. The child had wakened with their whispering, and lay and looked at them. "I shan't die, shall I?" she asked. They bent over her. "Now you must cover yourself up and not think about such things," said Ellen anxiously. But the child continued obstinately. "If I die, will you be as sorry about me as you were about Johanna?" she asked anxiously, with her eyes fixed upon them. Pelle nodded. It was impossible for him to speak. "Will you paint the ceiling black to show you're sorry about me? Will you, father?" she continued inexorably, looking at him. "Yes, yes!" said Ellen desperately, kissing her lips to make her stop talking. The child turned over contentedly, and in another moment she was asleep. "She's not hot now," whispered Pelle. "I think the fever's gone." His face was very grave. Death had passed its cold hand over it; he knew it was only in jest, but he could not shake off the impression it had made. They sat silent, listening to the child's breathing, which was now quiet. Ellen had put her hand into Pelle's, and every now and then she shuddered. They did not move, but simply sat and listened, while the time ran singing on. Then the cock crew below, and roused Pelle. It was three o'clock, and the child had slept for two hours. The lamp had almost burned dry, and he could scarcely see Ellen's profile in the semi-darkness. She looked tired. He rose noiselessly and kissed her forehead. "Go downstairs and go to bed," he whispered, leading her toward the door. Stealthy footsteps were heard outside. It was Brun who had been down to listen at the door. He had not been to bed at all. The lamp was burning in his sitting-room, and the table was covered with papers. He had been writing. He became very cheerful when he heard that the attack was over. "I think you ought rather to treat us to a cup of coffee," he answered, when Ellen scolded him because he was not asleep. Ellen went down and made the coffee, and they drank it in Brun's room. The doors were left ajar so that they could hear the child. "It's been a long night," said Pelle, passing his hand across his forehead. "Yes, if there are going to be more like it, we shall certainly have to move back into town," said Ellen obstinately. "It would be a better plan to begin giving her a cold bath in the morning as soon as she's well again, and try to get her hardened," said Pelle. "Do you know," said Ellen, turning to Brun, "Pelle thinks it's the bad air and the good air fighting for the child, and that's the only reason why she's worse here than in town." "So it is," said Brun gravely; "and a sick child like that gives one something to think about." XVIII The next day they were up late. Ellen did not wake until about ten, and was quite horrified; but when she got up she found the fire on and everything in order, for Lasse Frederik had seen to it all. She could start on breakfast at once. Sister was quite bright again, and Ellen moved her into the sitting-room and made up a bed on the sofa, where she sat packed in with pillows, and had her breakfast with the others. "Are you sorry Sister's getting well, old man?" asked Boy Comfort. "My name isn't 'old man.' It's 'grandfather' or else 'Mr. Brun,'" said the librarian, laughing and looking at Ellen, who blushed. "Are you sorry Sister's getting well, grandfather?" repeated the boy with a funny, pedantic literalness. "And why should I be sorry for that, you little stupid?" "Because you've got to give money!" "The doll, yes! That's true! You'll have to wait till tomorrow, Sister, because to-day's Sunday." Anna had eaten her egg and turned the shell upside down in the egg-cup so that it looked like an egg that had not been touched. She pushed it slowly toward Brun. "What's the matter now?" he exclaimed, pushing his spectacles up onto his forehead. "You haven't eaten your egg!" "I can't," she said, hanging her head. "Why, there must be something wrong with her!" said the old man, in amazement. "Such a big, fat egg too! Very well, then _I_ must eat it." And he began to crack the egg, Anna and Boy Comfort following his movements with dancing eyes and their hands over their mouths, until his spoon went through the shell and he sprang up to throw it at their heads, when their merriment burst forth. It was a joke that never suffered by repetition. While breakfast was in progress, the farmer from the hill farm came in to tell them that they must be prepared to move out, as he meant to sell the house. He was one of those farmers of common-land, whom the city had thrown off their balance. He had lived up there and had seen one farm after another grow larger and make their owners into millionaires, and was always expecting that his turn would come. He neglected the land, and even the most abundant harvest was ridiculously small in comparison with his golden dreams; so the fields were allowed to lie and produce weeds. Ellen was just as dismayed as Pelle at the thought of having to leave "Daybreak." It was their home, their nest too; all their happiness and welfare were really connected with this spot. "You can buy the house of course," said the farmer. "I've had an offer of fifteen thousand (L850) for it, and I'll let it go for that." After he had gone they sat and discussed the matter. "It's very cheap," said Brun. "In a year or two you'll have the town spreading in this direction, and then it'll be worth at least twice as much." "Yes, that may be," said Pelle; "but you've both to get the amount and make it yield interest." "There's eight thousand (L450) in the first mortgage, and the loan institution will lend half that. That'll make twelve thousand (L675). That leaves three thousand (L175), and I'm not afraid of putting that in as a third mortgage," said Brun. Pelle did not like that. "There'll be need for your money in the business," he said. "Yes, yes! But when you put the house into repair and have it re-valued, I'm certain you can get the whole fifteen thousand in the Loan Societies," said Brun. "I think it'll be to your advantage to do it." Ellen had taken pencil and paper, and was making calculations. "What percentage do you reckon for interest and paying off by instalments?" she asked. "Five," said the old man. "You do all the work of keeping it up yourselves." "Then I would venture," she said, looking dauntlessly at them. "It would be nice to own the house ourselves, don't you think so, Pelle?" "No, I think it's quite mad," Pelle answered. "We shall be saddled with a house-rent of seven hundred and fifty kroner (over £40)." Ellen was not afraid of the house-rent; the house and garden would bear that. "And in a few years we can sell the ground for building and make a lot of money." She was red with excitement. Pelle laughed. "Yes, speculation! Isn't that what the hill farmer has gone to pieces over?" Pelle had quite enough on his hands and had no desire to have property to struggle with. But Ellen became only more and more bent upon it. "Then buy it yourself!" said Pelle, laughing. "I've no desire to become a millionaire." Ellen was quite ready to do it. "But then the house'll be _mine_," she declared. "And if I make money on it, I must be allowed to spend it just as I like. It's not to go into your bottomless common cash-box!" The men laughed. "Brun and I are going for a walk," said Pelle, "so we'll go in and write a contract note for you at once." They went down the garden and followed the edge of the hill to the south. The weather was clear; it had changed to slight frost, and white rime covered the fields. Where the low sun's rays fell upon them, the rime had melted and the withered green grass appeared. "It's really pretty here," said Brun. "See how nice the town looks with its towers-- only one shouldn't live there. I was thinking of that last night when the child was lying there with her cough. The work-people really get no share of the sun, nor do those who in other respects are decently well off. And then I thought I'd like to build houses for our people on the ridge of the hill on both sides of 'Daybreak.' The people of the new age ought to live in higher and brighter situations than others. I'll tell you how I thought of doing it. I should in the meantime advance money for the plots, and the business should gradually redeem them with its surplus. That is quite as practical as dividing the surplus among the workmen, and we thereby create values for the enterprise. Talking of surplus--you've worked well, Pelle! I made an estimate of it last night and found it's already about ten thousand (£555) this year. But to return to what we were talking about--mortgage loans are generally able to, cover the building expenses, and with amortization the whole thing is unencumbered after some years have passed." "Who's to own it?" asked Pelle. He was chewing a piece of grass and putting his feet down deliberately like a farmer walking on ploughed land. "The cooperative company. It's to be so arranged that the houses can't be made over to others, nor encumbered with fresh loan. Our cooperative enterprises must avoid all form of speculation, thereby limiting the field for capital. The whole thing should be self-supporting and be able to do away with private property within its boundaries. You see it's your own idea of a community within the community that I'm building upon. At present it's not easy to find a juridical form under which the whole thing can work itself, but in the meantime you and I will manage it, and Morten if he will join us. I expect he'll come home with renewed strength." "And when is this plan to be realized? Will it be in the near future?" "This very winter, I had thought; and in this way we should also be able to do a little for the great unemployment. Thirty houses! It would be a beginning anyhow. And behind it lies the whole world, Pelle!" "Shall you make the occupation of the houses obligatory for our workmen?" "Yes, cooperation makes it an obligation. You can't be half outside and half inside! Well, what do you think of it?" "It's a strong plan," said Pelle. "We shall build our own town here on the hill." The old man's face shone with delight. "There's something in me after all, eh? There's old business-blood in my veins too. My forefathers built a world for themselves, and why should I do less than they? I ought to have been younger, Pelle!" They walked round the hill and came to the farm from the other side. "The whole piece wouldn't really be too large if we're to have room to extend ourselves," said Pelle, who was not afraid of a large outlay when it was a question of a great plan. "I was thinking the same thing," answered Bran. "How much is there here? A couple of hundred acres? There'll be room for a thousand families if each of them is to have a fair-sized piece of land." They then went in and took the whole for a quarter of a million (£14,000). "But Ellen!" exclaimed Pelle, when they were on their way home again. "How are we going to come to terms with her?" "Bless my soul! Why, it was her business we went upon! And now we've done business for ourselves! Well, I suppose she'll give in when she hears what's been done." "I'm not so sure of that," said Pelle, laughing. "Perhaps when you tackle her." "Well, did you get the house?" asked Ellen, from the house door, where she was standing to receive them. "Yes, we got much more," said Brun airily. "We bought the whole concern." "Is that a fact, Pelle?" Pelle nodded. "What about my house then?" she asked slowly. "Well, we bought that together with all the rest," said Brun. "But as far as that goes it can easily be separated from the rest, only it's rather soon to break up the cooperation before it's started." He waited a little, expecting that Ellen would say something, and when she continued silent he went on, rather shortly: "Well, then there's nothing more to be said about that? Fair play's a jewel, and to-morrow I'll make arrangements for the conveyance of the house to you for the fifteen thousand (£850). And then we must give up the whole concern, Pelle. It won't do for the man at the head of it to live on his private property; so that plan's come to nothing!" "Unless Ellen and I live in separate houses," said Pelle slyly. "I might build just the other side of the boundary, and then we could nod to one another at any rate." Ellen looked at him gravely. "I only think it's rather strange that you settle my affairs without asking me first," she said at length. "Yes, it was inconsiderate of us," answered Brun, "and we hope you'll forget all about it. You'll give up the house then?" "I'm pretty well obliged to when Pelle threatens to move out," Ellen answered with a smile. "But I'm sorry about it. I'm certain that in a short time there'd have been money to make over it." "It'll be nice, won't it, if the women are going to move into our forsaken snail-shells?" said Brun half seriously. "Ellen's always been an incorrigible capitalist," Pelle put in. "It's only that I've never had so much money that I shouldn't know what it was worth," answered Ellen, with ready wit. Old Brun laughed. "That was one for Mr. Brun!" he said. "But since you've such a desire for land-speculation, Mistress Ellen, I've got a suggestion to make. On the ground we've bought there's a piece of meadow that lies halfway in to town, by the bog. We'll give you that. It's not worth anything at present, and will have to be filled in to be of any value; but it won't be very long before the town is out there wanting more room." Ellen had no objection to that. "But then," she said, "I must be allowed to do what I like with what comes out of it." XIX The sun held out well that year. Remnants of summer continued to hang in the air right into December. Every time they had bad weather Ellen said, "Now it'll be winter, I'm sure!" But the sun put it aside once more; it went far down in the south and looked straight into the whole sitting- room, as if it were going to count the pictures. The large yellow Gloire de Dijon went on flowering, and every day Ellen brought in a large, heavy bunch of roses and red leaves. She was heavy herself, and the fresh cold nipped her nose--which was growing sharper-- and reddened her cheeks. One day she brought a large bunch to Pelle, and asked him: "How much money am I going to get to keep Christmas with?" It was true! The year was almost ended! After the new year winter began in earnest. It began with much snow and frost, and made it a difficult matter to keep in communication with the outside world, while indoors people drew all the closer to one another. Anna should really have been going to school now, but she suffered a good deal from the cold and was altogether not very strong, so Pelle and Ellen dared not expose her to the long wading through the snow, and taught her themselves. Ellen had become a little lazy about walking, and seldom went into town; the two men made the purchases for her in the evening on their way home. It was a dull time, and no work was done by artificial light, so they were home early. Ellen had changed the dinner-hour to five, so that they could all have it together. After dinner Brun generally went upstairs to work for another couple of hours. He was busy working out projects for the building on the Hill Farm land, and gave himself no rest. Pelle's wealth of ideas and energy infected him, and his plans grew and assumed ever-increasing dimensions. He gave no consideration to his weak frame, but rose early and worked all day at the affairs of the coöperative works. He seemed to be vying with Pelle's youth, and to be in constant fear that something would come up behind him and interrupt his work. The other members of the family gathered round the lamp, each with some occupation. Boy Comfort had his toy-table put up and was hammering indefatigably with his little wooden mallet upon a piece of stuff that Ellen had put between to prevent his marking the table. He was a sturdy little fellow, and the fat lay in creases round his wrists. The wrinkles on his forehead gave him a funny look when one did not recall the fact that he had cost his mother her life. He looked as if he knew it himself, he was so serious. He had leave to sit up for a little while with the others, but he went to bed at six. Lasse Frederik generally drew when he was finished with his lessons. He had a turn for it, and Pelle, wondering, saw his own gift, out of which nothing had ever come but the prison, repeated in the boy in an improved form. He showed him the way to proceed, and held the pencil once more in his own hand. His chief occupation, however, was teaching little Anna, and telling her anything that might occur to him. She was especially fond of hearing about animals, and Pelle had plenty of reminiscences of his herding-time from which to draw. "Have animals really intelligence?" asked Ellen, in surprise. "You really believe that they think about things just as we do?" It was nothing new to Sister; she talked every day to the fowls and rabbits, and knew how wise they were. "I wonder if flowers can think too," said Lasse Frederik. He was busy drawing a flower from memory, and it _would_ look like a face: hence the remark. Pelle thought they could. "No, no, Pelle!" said Ellen. "You're going too far now! It's only us people who can think." "They can feel at any rate, and that's thinking in a way, I suppose, only with the heart. They notice at once if you're fond of them; if you aren't they don't thrive." "Yes, I do believe that, for if you're fond of them you take good care of them," said the incorrigible Ellen. "I'm not so sure of that," said Pelle, looking at her teasingly. "You're very fond of your balsam, but a gardener would be sure to tell you that you treat it like a cabbage. And look how industriously it flowers all the same. They answer kind thoughts with gratitude, and that's a nice way of thinking. Intelligence isn't perhaps worth as much as we human beings imagine it to be. You yourself think with your heart, little mother." It was his pet name for her just now. After a little interlude such as this, they went on with their work. Pelle had to tell Sister all about the animals in her alphabet-book-- about the useful cow and the hare that licked the dew off the clover and leaped up under the very nose of the cowherd. In the winter it went into the garden, gnawed the bark off the young trees and ate the farmer's wife's cabbage. "Yes, I must acknowledge that," Ellen interposed, and then they all laughed, for puss had just eaten her kail. Then the child suddenly left the subject, and wanted to know whether there had always, always been a Copenhagen. Pelle came to a standstill for a moment, but by a happy inspiration dug Bishop Absalom out of his memory. He took the opportunity of telling them that the capital had a population of half a million. "Have you counted them, father?" exclaimed Sister, in perplexity, taking hold of his sleeve. "Why, of course father hasn't, you little donkey!" said Lasse Frederik. "One might be born while he was counting!" Then they were at the cock again, which both began and ended the book. He stood and crowed so proudly and never slept. He was a regular prig, but when Sister was diligent he put a one-öre piece among the leaves. But the hens laid eggs, and it was evident that they were the same as the flowers; for when you were kind to them and treated them as if they belonged to the family, they were industrious in laying, but if you built a model house for them and treated them according to all established rules, they did not even earn as much as would pay for their food. At Uncle Kalle's there was a hen that came into the room among all the children and laid its egg under the bed every single day all through the winter, when no other hens were laying. Then the farmer of Stone Farm bought it to make something by it. He gave twenty kroner (a guinea) for it and thought he had got a gold mine; but no sooner did it come to Stone Farm than it left off laying winter eggs, for there it was not one of the family, but was only a hen that they wanted to make money out of. "Mother's balsam flowers all the winter," said Sister, looking fondly at the plant. "Yes, that's because it sees how industrious we all are," said Lasse Frederik mischievously. "Will you be quiet!" said Pelle, hitting out at him. Ellen sat knitting some tiny socks. Her glance moved lingeringly from one to another of them, and she smiled indulgently at their chatter. They were just a lot of children! "Mother, may I have those for my doll?" asked Anna, taking up the finished sock. "No, little sister's to have them when she comes." "If it _is_ a girl," put in Lasse Frederik. "When's little sister coming?" "In the spring when the stork comes back to the farm; he'll bring her with him." "Pooh! The stork!" said Lasse Frederik contemptuously. "What a pack of nonsense!" Sister too was wiser than that. When the weather was fine she fetched milk from the farm, and had learned a few things there. "Now you must go to bed, my child," said Ellen, rising. "I can see you're tired." When she had helped the child into bed she came back and sat down again with her knitting. "Now I think you should leave off work for to-day," said Pelle. "Then I shouldn't be ready in time," answered Ellen, moving her knitting-needles more swiftly. "Send it to a machine-knitter. You don't even earn your bread anyhow with that handicraft; and there must be a time for work and a time for rest, or else you'd not be a human being." "Mother can make three ore (nearly a halfpenny) an hour by knitting," said Lasse Frederik, who had made a careful calculation. What did it matter? Ellen did not think she neglected anything else in doing it. "It is stupid though!" exclaimed Lasse Frederik suddenly. "Why doesn't wool grow on one's legs? Then you'd have none of the bother of shearing the wool off sheep, carding it, spinning it, and knitting stockings." "Oh, what nonsense you're talking!" said Ellen, laughing. "Well, men were hairy once," Lasse Frederik continued. "It was a great pity that they didn't go on being it!" Pelle did not think it such a pity, for it meant that they had taken over the care of themselves. Animals were born fully equipped. Even water-haters like cats and hens were born with the power of swimming; but men had to acquire whatever they had a use for. Nature did not equip them, because they had become responsible for themselves; they were the lords of creation. "But then the poor ought to be hairy all over their bodies," Ellen objected. "Why doesn't Nature take as much care of the poor as of the animals? They can't do it themselves." "Yes, but that's just what they _can_ do!" said Pelle, "for it's they who produce most things. Perhaps you think it's money that cultivates the land, or weaves materials, or drags coal out of the earth? It had to leave that alone; all the capital in the world can't so much as pick up a pin from the ground if there are no hands that it can pay to do it. If the poor were born hairy, it would simply stamp him as an inferior being. Isn't it a wonder that Nature obstinately lets the poor men's children be born just as naked as the king's, in spite of all that we've gone through of want and hardship? If you exchange the prince's and the beggar's new-born babies, no one can say which is which. It's as if Providence was never tired of holding our stamp of nobility up before us." "Do you really think then that the world can be transformed?" said Ellen, looking affectionately at him. It seemed so wonderful that this Pelle, whom she could take in her arms, occupied himself with such great matters. And Pelle looked back at her affectionately and wonderingly. She was the same to-day as on the day he first got to know her, perhaps as the day the world was created! She put nothing out on usury, but had been born with all she had. The world could indeed be transformed, but she would always remain as she was. The post brought a letter from Morten. He was staying at present in Sicily, and thought of travelling along the north coast of Africa to the south of Spain. "And I may make an excursion in to the borders of the Desert, and try what riding on a camel is like," he wrote. He was well and in good spirits. It was strange to think that he was writing with open doors, while here they were struggling with the cold. He drank wine at every meal just as you drank pale ale here at home; and he wrote that the olive and orange harvests were just over. "It must be lovely to be in such a place just for once!" said Ellen, with a sigh. "When the new conditions gain a footing, it'll no longer be among unattainable things for the working-man," Pelle answered. Brun now came down, having at last finished his work. "Ah, it's good to be at home!" he said, shaking himself; "it's a stormy night." "Here's a letter from Morten," said Pelle, handing it to him. The old man put on his spectacles. XX As soon as it was possible to get at the ground, the work of excavating for the foundations of the new workmen's houses was begun with full vigor. Brun took a great interest in the work, and watched it out in the cold from morning till evening. He wore an extra great-coat, and woollen gloves outside his fur-lined ones. Ellen had knitted him a large scarf, which he was to wrap round his mouth. She kept an eye on him from the windows, and had to fetch him in every now and then to thaw him. It was quite impossible, however, to keep him in; he was far too eager for the work to progress. When the frost stopped it, he still wandered about out there, fidgety and in low spirits. On weekdays Pelle was never at home in daylight, but on Sunday he had to go out with him and see what had been done, as soon as day dawned. The old man came and knocked at Pelle's door. "Well, Pelle!" he said. "Will you soon be out of bed?" "He must really be allowed to lie there while he has his coffee!" cried Ellen from the kitchen. Brun ran once round the house to pass the time. He was not happy until he had shown it all to Pelle and got him to approve of the alterations. This was where he had thought the road should go. And there, where the roads crossed, a little park with statuary would look nice. New ideas were always springing up. The librarian's imagination conjured up a whole town from the bare fields, with free schools and theaters and comfortable dwellings for the aged. "We must have a supply association and a school at once," he said; "and by degrees, as our numbers increase, we shall get all the rest. A poor-house and a prison are the only things I don't think we shall have any use for." They would spend the whole morning out there, walking about and laying plans. Ellen had to fetch them in when dinner-time came. She generally found them standing over some hole in earnest conversation--just an ordinary, square hole in the earth, with mud or ice at the bottom. Such holes were always dug for houses; but these two talked about them as if they were the beginning of an entirely new earth! Brun missed Pelle during the day, and watched for him quite as eagerly as Ellen when the time came for him to return from work. "I shall soon be quite jealous of him," said Ellen, as she drew Pelle into the kitchen to give him her evening greeting in private. "If he could he'd take you quite away from me." When Pelle had been giving a lecture, he generally came home after Brun had gone to rest, and in the morning when he left home the old man was not up. Brun never went to town. He laid the blame on the weather, but in reality he did not know what he would do with himself in there. But if a couple of days passed without his seeing Pelle, he became restless, lost interest in the excavating, and wandered about feebly without doing anything. Then he would suddenly put on his boots, excuse himself with some pressing errand, and set off over the fields toward the tram, while Ellen stood at the window watching him with a tender smile. She knew what was drawing him! One would have thought there were ties of blood between these two, so dependent were they on one another. "How's the old man?" was Pelle's first question on entering; and Brun could not have followed Pelle's movements with tenderer admiration in his old days if he had been his father. While Pelle was away the old man went about as if he were always looking for something. Ellen did not like his being out among the navvies in all kinds of weather. In the evening the warmth of the room affected his lungs and made him cough badly. "It'll end in a regular cold," she said. She wanted him to stay in bed for a few days and try to get rid of the cold before it took a firm hold. It was a constant subject of argument between them, but Ellen did not give in until she got her way. When once he had made this concession to the cold, it came on in earnest. The warmth of bed thawed the cold out of his body and made both eyes and nose run. "It's a good thing we got you to bed in time," said Ellen. "And now you won't be allowed up until the worst cold weather is over, even if I have to hide your clothes." She tended him like a child and made "camel tea" for him from flowers that she had gathered and dried in the summer. When once he had gone to bed he quite liked it and took delight in being waited on, discovering a need of all kinds of things, so as to receive them from Ellen's hands. "Now you're making yourself out worse than you are!" she said, laughing at him. Brun laughed too. "You see, I've never been petted before," he said. "From the time I was born, my parents hired people to look after me; that's why I'm so shrivelled up. I've had to buy everything. Well, there's a certain amount of justice in the fact that money kills affection, or else you'd both eat your cake and have it." "Yes, it's a good thing the best can't be had for money," said Ellen, tucking the clothes about his feet. He was propped up with pillows, so that he could lie there and work. He had a map of the Hill Farm land beside him, and was making plans for a systematic laying out of the ground for building. He wrote down his ideas about it in a book that was to be appended to the plans. He worked from sunrise until the middle of the day, and during that time it was all that Ellen could do to keep the children away from him; Boy Comfort was on his way up to the old man every few minutes. In the afternoon, when she had finished in the kitchen, she took the children up for an hour. They were given a picture-book and were placed at Brun's large writing-table, while Ellen seated herself by the window with her knitting and talked to the old man. From her seat she could follow the work out on the field, and had to give him a full description of how far they had got with each plot. There were always several hundred men out there standing watching the work--a shivering crowd that never diminished. They were unemployed who had heard that something was going on out here, and long before the dawn of day they were standing there in the hope of coming in for something. All day they streamed in and out, an endless chain of sad men. They resembled prisoners condemned hopelessly to tread a huge wheel; there was a broad track across the fields where they went. Brun was troubled by the thought of these thousands of men who came all this way to look for a day's work and had to go back with a refusal. "We can't take more men on than there are already," he said to Pelle, "or they'll only get in one another's way. But perhaps we could begin to carry out some of our plans for the future. Can't we begin to make roads and such like, so that these men can get something to do?" No, Pelle dared not agree to that. "In the spring we shall want capital to start the tanners with a cooperative tannery," he said. "It'll be agreed on in their Union at an early date, on the presupposition that we contribute money; and I consider it very important to get it started. Our opponents find fault with us for getting our materials from abroad. It's untenable in the long run, and must come to an end now. As it is, the factory's hanging in the air; they can cut us off from the supply of materials, and then we're done. But if we only have our own tannery, the one business can be carried out thoroughly and can't be smashed up, and then we're ready to meet a lock-out in the trade." "The hides!" interpolated Brun. "There we come to agriculture. That's already arranged coöperatively, and will certainly not be used against us. We must anyhow join in there as soon as ever we get started--buy cattle and kill, ourselves, so that besides the hides we provide ourselves with good, cheap meat." "Yes, yes, but the tannery won't swallow everything! We can afford to do some road-making." "No, we can't!" Pelle declared decisively. "Remember we've also got to think of the supply associations, or else all our work is useless; the one thing leads to the other. There's too much depending on what we're doing, and we mustn't hamper our undertaking with dead values that will drag it down. First the men and then the roads! The unemployed to-day must take care of themselves without our help." "You're a little hard, I think," said Brun, somewhat hurt at Pelle's firmness, and drumming on the quilt with his fingers. "It's not the first time that I've been blamed for it in this connection," answered Pelle gravely; "but I must put up with it." The old man held out his hand. "I beg your pardon! It wasn't my intention to find fault with you because you don't act thoughtlessly. Of course we mustn't give up the victory out of sympathy with those who fight. It was only a momentary weakness, but a weakness that might spoil everything--that I must admit! But it's not so easy to be a passive spectator of these topsy-turvy conditions. It's affirmed that the workmen prefer to receive a starvation allowance to doing any work; and judging by what they've hitherto got out of their work it's easy to understand that it's true. But during the month that the excavations here have been going on, at least a thousand unemployed have come every day ready to turn to; and we pay them for refraining from doing anything! They can at a pinch receive support, but at no price obtain work. It's as insane as it's possible to be! You feel you'd like to give the machinery a little push and set it going again." "It wants a good big push," said Pelle. "They're not trifles that are in the way." "They look absurdly small, at any rate. The workmen are not in want because they're out of work, as our social economists want us to believe; but they're out of work because they're in want. What a putting of the cart before the horse! The procession of the unemployed is a disgrace to the community; what a waste--also from a purely mercantile point of view--while the country and the nation are neglected! If a private business were conducted on such principles, it would be doomed from the very first." "If the pitiable condition arose only from a wrong grasp of things, it would be easily corrected," said Pelle; "but the people who settle the whole thing can't at any rate be charged with a lack of mercantile perception. It would be a good thing if they had the rest in as good order! Believe me, not a sparrow falls to the ground unless it is to the advantage of the money-power; if it paid, in a mercantile sense, to have country and people in perfect order, it would take good care that they were so. But it simply can't be done; the welfare of the many and the accumulation of property by the few are irreconcilable contradictions. I think there is a wonderful balance in humanity, so that at any time it can produce exactly enough to satisfy all its requirements; and when one claims too much, others let go. It's on that understanding indeed that we want to remove the others and take over the management." "Yes, yes! I didn't mean that I wanted to protect the existing state of affairs. Let those who make the venture take the responsibility. But I've been wondering whether _we_ couldn't find a way to gather up all this waste so that it should benefit the cooperative works?" "How could we? We _can't_ afford to give occupation to the unemployed." "Not for wages! But both the Movement and the community have begun to support them, and what would be more natural than that one required work of them in return? Only, remember, letting it benefit them!" "You mean that, for instance, unemployed bricklayers and carpenters should build houses for the workmen?" asked Pelle, with animation. "Yes, as an instance. But the houses should be ensured against private speculation, in the same way as those we're building, and always belong to the workmen. As _we_ can't be suspected of trying to make profits, we should be suitable people for its management, and it would help on the cooperative company. In that way the refuse of former times would fertilize the new seed." Pelle sat lost in thought, and the old man lay and looked at him in suspense. "Well, are you asleep?" he asked at last impatiently. "It's a fine idea," said Pelle, raising his head. "I think we should get the organizations on our side; they're already beginning to be interested in cooperation. When the committee sits, I'll lay your plan before them. I'm not so sure of the community, however, Brun! They have occasional use for the great hunger-reserve, so they'll go on just keeping life in it; if they hadn't, it would soon be allowed to die of hunger. I don't think they'll agree to have it employed, so to speak, against themselves." "You're an incorrigible pessimist!" said Brun a little irritably. "Yes, as regards the old state of things," answered Pelle, with a smile. Thus they would discuss the possibilities for the fixture in connection with the events of the day when Pelle sat beside the old man in the evening, both of them engrossed in the subject. Sometimes the old man felt that he ran off the lines. "It's the blood," he said despondently. "I'm not, after all, quite one of you. It's so long since one of my family worked with his hands that I've forgotten it." During this time he often touched upon his past, and every evening had something to tell about himself. It was as though he were determined to find a law that would place him by Pelle's side. Brun belonged to an old family that could be traced back several hundred years to the captain of a ship, who traded with the Tranquebar coast. The founder of the family, who was also a whaler and a pirate, lived in a house on one of the Kristianshavn canals. When his ship was at home, she lay to at the wharf just outside his street-door. The Bruns' house descended from father to son, and was gradually enlarged until it became quite a mansion. In the course of four generations it had become one of the largest trading-houses of the capital. At the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, most of the members of the family had gone over into the world of stockbrokers and bankers, and thence the changes went still further. Brun's father, the well-known Kornelius Brun, stuck to the old business, his brothers making over their share to him and entering the diplomatic service, one of them receiving a high Court appointment. Kornelius Brun felt it his duty to carry on the old business, and in order to keep on a level with his brothers as regarded rank, he married a lady of noble birth from Funen, of a very old family heavily burdened with debt. She bore him three children, all of whom--as he himself said --were failures. The first child was a deaf mute with very small intellectual powers. It fortunately died before it attained to man's estate. Number two was very intelligent and endowed with every talent, but even as a boy exhibited perverse tendencies. He was very handsome, had soft, dark hair, and a delicate, womanish complexion. His mother dressed him in velvet, and idolized him. He never did anything useful, but went about in fine company and spent large sums of money. In his fortieth year he died suddenly, a physical and moral wreck. The announcement of the death gave a stroke as the cause; but the truth was that rumors had begun to circulate of a scandal in which he was implicated together with some persons of high standing. It was at the end of the seventies, at the time when the lower class movement began to gather way. An energetic investigation was demanded from below, and it was considered inadvisable to hush the story up altogether, for fear of giving support to the assertion of the rottenness and onesidedness of the existing conditions. When an investigation became imminent, and it was evident that Brun would be offered up upon the altar of the multitude in order to shield those who stood higher, Kornelius Brun put a pistol into his son's hand--or shot him; the librarian was unable to say which. "Those were two of the fruits upon the decaying family tree," said Brun bitterly, "and it can't be denied that they were rather worm-eaten. The third was myself. I came fifteen years after my youngest brother. By that time my parents had had enough of their progeny; at any rate, I was considered from the beginning to be a hopeless failure, even before I had had an opportunity of showing anything at all. Perhaps they felt instinctively that I should take a wrong direction too. In me too the disintegrating forces predominated; I was greatly deficient, for instance, in family feeling. I remember when still quite little hearing my mother complain of my plebeian tendencies; I always kept with the servants, and took their part against my parents. My family looked more askance at me for upholding the rights of our inferiors than they had done at the idiot who tore everything to pieces, or the spendthrift who made scandals and got into debt. And I dare say with good reason! Mother gave me plenty of money to amuse myself with, probably to counteract my plebeian tendencies; but I had soon done with the pleasures and devoted myself to study. Things of the day did not interest me, but even as a boy I had a remarkable desire to look back; I devoted myself especially to history and its philosophy. Father was right when he derided me and called it going into a monastery; at an age when other young men are lovers, I could not find any woman that interested me, while almost any book tempted me to a closer acquaintance. For a long time he hoped that I would think better of it and take over the business, and when I definitely chose study, it came to a quarrel between us. 'When the business comes to an end, there's an end of the family!' he said, and sold the whole concern. He had been a widower then for several years, and had only me; but during the five years that he lived after selling the business we didn't see one another. He hated me because I didn't take it over, but what could I have done with it? I possessed none of the qualities necessary for the carrying on of business in our day, and should only have ruined the whole thing. From the time I was thirty, my time has been passed among bookshelves, and I've registered the lives and doings of others. It's only now that I've come out into the daylight and am beginning to live my own life; and now it'll soon be ended!" "It's only now that life's beginning to be worth living," said Pelle, "so you've come out just at the right time." "Ah, no!" said Brun despondently. "I'm not in the ascendant! I meet young men and my mind inclines to them; but it's like evening and morning meeting in the same glow during the light nights. I've only got my share in the new because the old must bend to it, so that the ring may be completed. You go in where I go out." "It must have been a melancholy existence to be always among books, books, without a creature that cared for you," put in Ellen. "Why didn't you marry? Surely we women aren't so terrible that there mightn't have been _one_ that you liked?" "No, you'd think not, but it's true nevertheless," answered Brun, with a smile. "The antipathy was mutual too; it's always like that. I suppose it wasn't intended that an old fellow like me should put children into the world! It's not nice, though, to be the end of something." Ellen laughed. "Yes, but you haven't always been old!" "Yes, I have really; I was born old. I'm only now beginning to feel young. And who knows?" he exclaimed with grim humor. "I may play Providence a trick and make my appearance some day with a little wife on my arm." "Brun's indulging in fancies," said Pelle, as they went down to bed. "But I suppose they'll go when he's about again." "He's not had much of a time, poor old soul!" said Ellen, going closer to Pelle. "It's a shame that there are people who get no share in all the love there is--just as great a shame as what you're working against, I think!" "Yes, but we can't put that straight!" exclaimed Pelle, laughing. XXI In the garden at "Daybreak" the snow was disappearing from day to day. First it went away nearest the house, and gave place to a little forest of snowdrops and crocuses. The hyacinths in the grass began to break through the earth, coming up like a row of knuckles that first knocked at the door. The children were always out watching the progress made. They could not understand how the delicate crocus could push straight up out of the frozen ground without freezing to death, but died when it came into the warm room. Every day they wrapped some snowdrops in paper and laid them on Brun's table--they were "snowdrop-letters"--and then hovered about in ungovernable excitement until he came in from the fields, when they met him with an air of mystery, and did all they could to entice him upstairs. Out in the fields they were nearly finished with the excavations, and were only waiting for the winter water to sink in order to cart up gravel and stone and begin the foundations; the ground was too soft as yet. Old Brun was not so active now after his confinement to bed; although there was not much the matter with him, it had weakened him. He allowed Pelle a free hand with the works, and said Yea and Amen to everything he proposed. "I can't keep it all in my head," he would say when Pelle came to suggest some alteration; "but just do as you like, my son, and it's sure to be right." There were not enough palpable happenings down there to keep his mind aglow, and he was too old to hear it grow and draw strength from that. His faith, however, merely shifted from the Cause over to Pelle; he saw him alive before him, and could lean upon his youthful vigor. He had given up his work on the plans. He could not keep at it, and contented himself with going the round of the fields two or three times a day and watching the men. The sudden flame of energy that Pelle's youth had called to life within him had died down, leaving a pathetic old man, who had been out in the cold all his life, and was now luxuriating in a few late rays of evening sun. He no longer measured himself by Pelle, and was not jealous of his taking the lead in anything, but simply admired him and kept carefully within the circle of those for whom Pelle acted providence. Ellen treated him like a big child who needed a great deal of care, and the children of course looked upon him as their equal. When he went his round of the fields, he generally had Boy Comfort by the hand; the two could both keep pace with one another and converse together. There was one thing that interested them both and kept them in great excitement. The stork was expected every day back at the Hill Farm, and when it came it would bring a baby to Mother Ellen. The expectation was not an unmixed pleasure. The stork always bit the mother in the leg when he came with a baby for her. Boy Comfort's own mother died of the bite; he was wise enough to know that now. The little fellow looked upon Ellen as his mother, and went about in a serious, almost depressed, mood. He did not talk to the other children of his anxiety, for fear they would make fun of him; but when he and the old man walked together in the fields they discussed the matter, and Brun, as the older and wiser, came to the conclusion that there was no danger. All the same, they always kept near the house so as to be at hand. One day Pelle stayed at home from work, and Ellen did not get up as usual. "I'm going to lie here and wait for the stork," she said to Boy Comfort. "Go out and watch for it." The little boy took a stick, and he and Brun tramped round the house; and when they heard Ellen cry out, they squeezed one another's hands. It was such a disturbed day, it was impossible to keep anything going straight; now a carriage drove up to the door with a fat woman in it, now it was Lasse Frederik who leaped upon his bicycle and raced down the field-path, standing on the pedals. Before Boy Comfort had any idea of it, the stork had been there, and Ellen was lying with a baby boy on her arm. He and Brun went in together to congratulate her, and they were both equally astonished. The old man had to be allowed to touch the baby's cheek. "He's still so ugly," said Ellen, with a shy smile, as she lifted the corner of the shawl from the baby's head. Then she had to be left quiet, and Brun took Boy Comfort upstairs with him. Pelle sat on the edge of the bed, holding Ellen's hand, which in a few hours had become white and thin. "Now we must send for 'Queen Theresa,'" she said. "Shan't we send for your mother too?" asked Pelle, who had often proposed that they should take the matter into their own hands, and go and see the old people. He did not like keeping up old quarrels. Ellen shook her head. "They must come of their own accord," she said decidedly. She did not mind for herself, but they had looked down upon Pelle, so it was not more than fair that they should come and make it up. "But I _have_ sent for them," said Pelle. "That was what Lasse Frederik went about. You mustn't have a baby without help from your mother." In less than a couple of hours Madam Stolpe had arrived. She was much moved, and to hide it she began turning the house inside out for clean cloths and binders, scolding all the time. A nice time, indeed, to send for anybody, when it was all over! Father Stolpe was harder. He was not one to come directly he was whistled for! But two or three evenings after the baby had arrived, Pelle ran up against him hanging about a little below the house. Well, he was waiting for mother, to take her home, and it didn't concern anybody else, he supposed. He pretended to be very determined, but it was comparatively easy to persuade him to come in; and once in, it was not long before Ellen had thawed him. She had, as usual, her own manner of procedure. "Let me tell you, father, that it's not me that sent for you, but Pelle; and if you don't give him your hand and say you've done him an injustice, we shall never be good friends again!" "Upon my word, she's the same confounded way of taking the bull by the horns that she always had!" said Stolpe, without looking at her. "Well, I suppose I may as well give in at once, and own that I've played the fool. Shall we agree to let bygones be bygones, son-in-law?" extending his hand to Pelle. When once the reconciliation was effected, Stolpe became quite cheerful. "I never dreamt I should see you so soon, least of all with a baby!" he said contentedly, stroking Ellen's face with his rough hand. "No, she's always been his darling, and father's often been tired of it," said Madam Stolpe. "But men make themselves so hard!" "Rubbish, mother!" growled Stolpe. "Women will always talk nonsense!" Time had left its mark upon them both. There had been a certain amount of unemployment in his trade, and Stolpe was getting on in years and had a difficulty in keeping up with the young men on the scaffolding. Their clothes showed that they were not so prosperous as formerly; but Stolpe was still chairman of his trade union and a highly respected man within the Movement. "And now, my boy," he said suddenly, placing his hands on Pelle's shoulders, "you must explain to me what it is you're doing this time. I hear you've begun to stir up men's feelings again." Pelle told him about his great plan for coöperative works. The old man knew indeed a good deal about it; it appeared that he had followed Pelle's movements from a distance. "That's perhaps not so out of the way," he said. "We might squeeze capital out of existence just as quietly, if we all bestirred ourselves. But you must get the Movement to join you; and it must be made clear that every one who doesn't support his own set is a black-leg." "_I have_ got a connection, but it goes rather slowly," said Pelle. "Then we must stir them up a little. I say, that queer fellow--Brun, I think you call him--doesn't he live with you?" "He isn't a queer fellow," said Pelle, laughing. "We can go up and see him." Brun and Stolpe very soon found something to talk about. They were of the same age, and had witnessed the first days of the Movement, each from his own side. Madam Stolpe came several times and pulled her husband by the coat: they ought to be going home. "Well, it's not worth while to quarrel with your own wife," said Stolpe at last; "but I shall come again. I hear you're building out here, and I should like to see what our own houses'll be like." "We've not begun yet," answered Pelle. "But come out on Sunday, and Brun and I will show it all to you." "I suppose it's masters who'll get it?" asked Stolpe. "No, we thought of letting the unemployed have the work if they could undertake it, and have a man to put at the head," said Brun. "Perhaps you could undertake it?" "Why, of course I can!" answered Stolpe, with a feeling of his own importance. "I'm the man to build houses for workmen! I was member of the party when it numbered only one man." "Yes, Stolpe's the veteran of the Movement," said Pelle. "Upon my word, it'd be awfully nice if it was me!" exclaimed Stolpe when Pelle accompanied the old couple down to the tram. "I'll get together a set of workmen that have never been equalled. And what houses we shall put up! There won't be much papier-mache there!" XXII It still sometimes happened that Pelle awoke in the night not knowing where he was. He was oppressed with a stifling anxiety, dreaming that he was in prison, and fancying he could still smell the rank, mouldy odor of the cell. He gradually came to his senses and knew where he was; the sounds of breathing around him, and the warm influence of the darkness itself, brought him back to his home. He sat up joyfully, and struck a match to get a glimpse of Ellen and the little ones. He dared not go to sleep again, for sleep would instantly take him back to the prison; so he dressed quietly and stole out to see the day awaken. It was strange with these dreams, for they turned everything upside down. In the prison he always dreamed he was free and living happily; nothing less would do there. There the day was bad and the night good, and here it was the reverse. It was as though something within one would always have everything. "That must be the soul!" he thought as he wandered eastward to meet the first gleam of day. In the country at home, the old people in his childhood believed that dreams were the soul wandering about by itself; some had seen it as a white mouse creeping out of the sleeper's mouth to gather fresh experiences for him. It was true, too, that through dreams the poor man had hitherto had everything; they carried him out of his prison. Perhaps the _roles_ were exchanged during the darkness of night. Perhaps the rich man's soul came during the night and slipped into the poor man's body to gather suffering for his master. There was spring in the air. As yet it was only perceptible to Pelle in a feeling of elation, a desire to expand and burst all boundaries. He walked with his face toward the opening day, and had a feeling of unconquerable power. Whence this feeling came he knew not, but it was there. He felt himself as something immense that was shut into a small space and would blow up the world if it were let loose. He walked on quickly. Above his head rose the first lark. Slowly the earth drew from its face the wonderful veil of rest and mystery that was night. Perhaps the feeling of strength came from his having taken possession of his spirit and commanding a view of the world. The world had no limits, but neither had his powers; the force that could throw him out of his course did not exist. In his own footfall he heard the whole future; the Movement would soon be concluded when it had taken in the fact that the whole thing must be included. There was still a little difficulty; from that side they still made it a condition for their cooperation that Pelle should demand a public recognition of his good character. Pelle laughed and raised his face to the morning breeze which came like a cold shiver before the sunrise. Outsider! Yes, there was some truth in it. He did not belong to the existing state of things; he desired no civil rights there. That he was outside was his stamp of nobility; his relations to the future were contained in that fact. He had begun the fight as one of the lowest of the people, and as such he would triumph. When he rose there should no longer be a pariah caste. As he walked along with the night behind him and his face to the light, he seemed to have just entered into youth with everything before him-- everything to look forward to! And yet he seemed to have existed since the morning of time, so thoroughly did he know the world of darkness that he left. Was not man a wonderful being, both in his power to shrink up and become nothing, and in his power to expand and fill everything? He now understood Uncle Kalle's smile on all occasions; he had armed himself with it in order that life should not draw too deep furrows in his gentle nature. The poor man had been obliged to dull himself; he would simply bleed to death if he gave himself up to stern reality. The dullness had been like a hard shell that protected the poor; and now they came with their heart quite safe in spite of everything. They could very well lead when times were good. Pelle had always a vague feeling of being chosen. Even as a child it made him look with courage in the face of a hard world, and filled his bare limbs with elasticity. Poor and naked he came into the world, apparently without a gift of any kind; and yet he came as a bright promise to the elderly, work-bowed Father Lasse. Light radiated from him, insignificant and ordinary though he was; God had given him the spark, the old man always said, and he always looked upon the boy as a little miracle of heaven. The boy Pelle wondered a little at it, but was happy in his father's pleasure. He himself knew some very different miracles at that time, for instance the calf of the fair with two heads, and the lamb with eight legs. He had his own demands to make of life's wonderful riches, and was not struck with surprise at a very ordinary, big-eared urchin such as one might see any day. And now he was just showing that Father Lasse had been right. The greatest miracles were in himself--Pelle, who resembled hundreds of millions of other workmen, and had never yet had more than just enough for his food. Man was really the most wonderful of all. Was he not himself, in all his commonplace naturalness, like a luminous spark, sprung from the huge anvil of divine thought? He could send out his inquiring thought to the uttermost borders of space, and back to the dawn of time. And this all-embracing power seemed to have proceeded from nothing, like God Himself! The mere fact that he, who made so much noise, had to go to prison in order to comprehend the great object of things, was a marvel! There must have been far-reaching plans deposited in him, since he shut himself in. When he looked out over the rising, he felt himself to be facing a world-thought with extraordinarily long sight. The common people, without knowing it, had been for centuries preparing themselves for an entry into a new world; the migration of the masses would not be stopped until they had reached their goal. A law which they did not even know themselves, and could not enter into, led them the right way; and Pelle was not afraid. At the back of his unwearied labor with the great problem of the age was the recognition that he was one of those on whom the nation laid the responsibility for the future; but he was never in doubt as to the aim, nor the means. During the great lock-out the foreseeing had feared the impossibility of leading all these crowds into the fire. And then the whole thing had opened out of itself quite naturally, from an apparently tiny cause to a steadily ordered battle all along the line. The world had never before heard a call so great as that which he and his followers brought forward! It meant nothing less than the triumph of goodness! He was not fond of using great words, but at the bottom of his heart he was convinced that everything bad originated in want and misery. Distrust and selfishness came from misusage; they were man's defence against extortion. And the extortion came from insecure conditions, from reminders of want or unconscious fear of it. Most crimes could easily be traced back to the distressing conditions, and even where the connection was not perceptible he was sure that it nevertheless existed. It was his experience that every one in reality was good: the evil in them could nearly always be traced back to something definite, while the goodness often existed in spite of everything. It would triumph altogether when the conditions became secure for everybody. He was sure that even the crimes that were due to abnormity would cease of themselves when there were no longer hidden reminders of misery in the community. It was his firm belief that he and his followers should renew the world; the common people should turn it into a paradise for the multitude, just as it had already made it a paradise for the few. It would require a great and courageous mind for this, but his army had been well tested. Those who, from time immemorial, had patiently borne the pressure of existence for others, must be well fitted to take upon themselves the leadership into the new age. Pelle at last found himself in Strand Road, and it was too late to return home. He was ravenously hungry and bought a couple of rolls at a baker's, and ate them on his way to work. * * * * * At midday Brun came into the works to sign some papers and go through accounts with Pelle. They were sitting up in the office behind the shop. Pelle read out the items and made remarks on them, while the old man gave his half attention and merely nodded. He was longing to get back to "Daybreak." "You won't mind making it as short as possible?" he said, "for I don't feel quite well." The harsh spring winds were bad for him and made his breathing difficult. The doctor had advised a couple of months in the Riviera--until the spring was over; but the old man could not make up his mind. He had not the courage to set out alone. The shop-bell rang, and Pelle went in to serve. A young sunburnt man stood on the other side of the counter and laughed. "Don't you know me?" he asked, holding out his hand to Pelle. It was Karl, the youngest of the three orphans in the "Ark." "Why, of course I know you!" answered Pelle, delighted. "I've been to Adel Street to look for you; I was told you had your business there." That had been a long time ago! Now Karl Anker was manager of a large supply association over on Funen. He had come over to order some boots and shoes from Pelle for the association. "It's only a trial," he said. "If it succeeds I'll get you a connection with the cooperative association, and that's a customer that takes something, I can tell you!" Pelle had to make haste to take down the order, as Karl had to catch a train. "It's a pity you haven't got time to see our works," said Pelle. "Do you remember little Paul from the 'Ark'? The factory-girl's child that she tied to the stove when she went to work? He's become a splendid fellow. He's my head man in the factory. He'd like to see you!" "When Karl was gone and Pelle was about to go in to Brun in the office, he caught sight of a small, somewhat deformed woman with a child, walking to and fro above the workshop windows, and taking stolen glances down. They timidly made way for people passing, and looked very frightened. Pelle called them into the shop. "Do you want to speak to Peter Dreyer?" he asked. The woman nodded. She had a refined face with large, sorrowful eyes. "If it won't disturb him," she said. Pelle called Peter Dreyer and then went into the office, where he found Brun had fallen asleep. He heard them whispering in the shop. Peter was angry, and the woman and the child cried; he could hear it in the tones of their whisper. It did not last more than a minute, and then Peter let them out. Pelle went quickly into the shop. "If it was money," he said hurriedly, "you know you've only got to tell me." "No, it was the big meeting of unemployed this afternoon. They were begging me to stop at home, silly creatures! Goodness knows what's come to them!" Peter was quite offended. "By the by--I suppose you haven't any objection to my going now? It begins in an hour's time." "I thought it had been postponed," said Pelle. "Yes, but that was only a ruse to prevent its being prohibited. We're holding it in a field out by Nörrebro. You ought to come too; it'll be a meeting that'll be remembered. We shall settle great matters to-day." Peter was nervous, and fidgeted with his clothes while he spoke. Pelle placed his hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "You'd better do what those two want," he said earnestly. "I don't know them, of course; but if their welfare's dependent on you, then they too have a claim upon you. Give up what you were going to do, and go out for a walk with those two! Everything's budding now; take them to the woods! It's better to make two people happy than a thousand unhappy." Peter looked away. "We're not going to do anything special, so what is there to make such a fuss about?" he murmured. "You _are_ going to do something to-day; I can see it in you. And if you can't carry it through, who'll have to take the consequences? Why, the women and children! You _can't_ carry it through! Our strength doesn't lie in that direction." "You go your way and let me go mine," said Peter, gently freeing himself. Two policemen were standing on the opposite pavement, talking together, while they secretly kept an eye on the shop. Pelle pointed to them. "The police don't know where the meeting's to be held, so they're keeping watch on me," said Peter, shrugging his shoulders. "I can easily put those two on the wrong track." The policemen crossed the street and separated outside the shop. One of them stood looking at the articles exhibited in the window for a little while, and then quickly entered the shop. "Is Peter Dreyer here?" he asked haughtily. "I'm he," answered Peter, withdrawing behind the counter. "But I advise you not to touch me! I can't bear the touch of a policeman's hands." "You're arrested!" said the policeman shortly, following him. Pelle laid his hand upon his arm. "You should go to work with a little gentleness," he said. But the man pushed him roughly away. "I'll have no interference from you!" he cried, blowing his whistle. Peter started, and for a moment his thoughts were at a standstill; then he leaped like a cat over the iron railing, of the workshop steps. But the other policeman was there to receive him, and he sprang once more into the shop, close up to his pursuer. He had his revolver in his hand. "I've had enough of this, confound you!" he hissed. Two shots sounded, one immediately after the other. The policeman just managed to turn round, but fell forward with his head under the counter, and Peter dropped upon the top of him. It looked as if he had tripped over the policeman's leg; but when Pelle went to help him up he saw that the blood was trickling from a hole in his temple. The policeman was dead. Peter opened his eyes with difficulty when Pelle raised his head. "Take me away!" he whispered, turning his head toward the dead man with an expression of loathing. He still kept a convulsive hold upon his revolver. Pelle took it from him, and carried him in to the sofa in the office. "Get me a little water!" said Pelle to the old librarian, who was standing trembling at the door, but the old man did not hear him. Peter made a sign that he needed nothing now. "But those two," he whispered. Pelle nodded. "And then--Pelle--comrade--" He tried to fix his dying gaze upon Pelle, but suddenly started convulsively, his knees being drawn right up to his chin. "Bloodhounds!" he groaned, his eyes converging so strongly that the pupils disappeared altogether; but then his features fell once more into their ordinary folds as his head sank back, and he was dead. The policeman came in. "Well, is he dead?" he asked maliciously. "He's made fools of us long enough!" Pelle took him by the arm and led him to the door. "He's no longer in your district," he said, as he closed the door behind him and followed the man into the shop, where the dead policeman lay upon the counter. His fellow-policeman had laid him there, locked the outer door, and pulled down the blinds. "Will you stop the work and tell the men what has happened?" said Pelle quietly to Brun. "There's something else I must see to. There'll be no more work done here to-day." "Are you going?" asked the old man anxiously. "Yes, I'm going to take Peter's meeting for him, now that he can't do it himself," answered Pelle in a low voice. They had gone down through the workshop, where the men were standing about, looking at one another. They had heard the shots, but had no idea what they meant. "Peter is dead!" said Pelle. His emotion prevented him from saying anything more. Everything seemed suddenly to rush over him, and he hastened out and jumped onto a tram-car. Out on one of the large fields behind Nörrebro a couple of thousand unemployed were gathered. The wind had risen and blew gustily from the west over the field. The men tramped backward and forward, or stood shivering in their thin clothes. The temper of the crowd was threatening. Men continued to pour out from the side streets, most of them sorry figures, with faces made older by want of work. Many of them could no longer show themselves in the town for want of clothes, and took this opportunity of joining the others. There was grumbling among them because the meeting had not begun. Men asked one another what the reason was, and no one could tell. Suppose Peter Dreyer had cheated them too, and had gone over to the corporation! Suddenly a figure appeared upon the cart that was to be used as a platform, and the men pressed forward on all sides. Who in the world was it? It was not Peter Dreyer! Pelle? What smith? Oh, him from The Great Struggle--"the Lightning"! Was he still to the fore? Yes, indeed he was! Why, he'd become a big manufacturer and a regular pillar of society. What in the world did he want here? He had plenty of cheek! Suddenly a storm of shouts and hisses broke out, mingled with a little applause. Pelle stood looking out over the crowd with an expression of terrible earnestness. Their demonstration against him did not move him; he was standing here in the stead of a dead man. He still felt Peter's heavy head on his arm. When comparative quiet was restored he raised his head. "Peter Dreyer is dead!" he said in a voice that was heard by every one. Whispers passed through the crowd, and they looked questioningly at one another as though they had not heard correctly. He saw from their expression how much would go to pieces in their lives when they believed it. "It's a lie!" suddenly cried a voice, relieving the tension. "You're hired by the police to entice us round the corner, you sly fellow!" Pelle turned pale. "Peter Dreyer is lying in the factory with a bullet through his head," he repealed inexorably. "The police were going to arrest him, and he shot both the policeman and himself!" For a moment all the life in the crowd seemed to be petrified by the pitiless truth, and he saw how they had loved Peter Dreyer. Then they began to make an uproar, shouting that they would go and speak to the police, and some even turned to go. "Silence, people!" cried Pelle in a loud voice. "Are you grown men and yet will get up a row beside the dead body of a comrade?" "What do you know about it?" answered one. "You don't know what you're talking about!" "I do know at any rate that at a place out by Vesterbro there sits a woman with a child, waiting for Peter, and he will not come. Would you have more like them? What are you thinking of, wanting to jump into the sea and drown yourselves because you're wet through? Will those you leave behind be well off? For if you think so, it's your duty to sacrifice yourselves. But don't you think rather that the community will throw you into a great common pit, and leave your widows and fatherless children to weep over you?" "It's all very well for you to talk!" some one shouted. "Yours are safe enough!" "I'm busy making yours safe for you, and you want to spoil it by stupidity! It's all very well for me to talk, you say! But if there's any one of you who dares turn his face to heaven and say he has gone through more than I have, let him come up here and take my place." He was silent and looked out over the crowd. Their wasted faces told him that they were in need of food, but still more of fresh hope. Their eyes gazed into uncertainty. A responsibility must be laid upon them--a great responsibility for such prejudiced beings--if possible, great enough to carry them on to the goal. "What is the matter with you?" he went on. "You suffer want, but you've always done that without getting anything for it; and now when there's some purpose in it, you won't go any further. We aren't just from yesterday, remember! Wasn't it us who fought the great battle to its end together? Now you scorn it and the whole Movement and say they've brought nothing; but it was then we broke through into life and won our right as men. "Before that time we have for centuries borne our blind hope safely through oppression and want. Is there any other class of society that has a marching route like ours? Forced by circumstances, we prepared for centuries of wandering in the desert and never forgot the country; the good God had given us some of His own infinite long-suffering to carry us through the toilsome time. And now, when we are at the border, you've forgotten what we were marching for, and sacrifice the whole thing if only _you_ can be changed from thin slaves to fat slaves!" "There are no slaves here!" was the threatening cry on all sides. "You're working horses, in harness and with blinkers on! Now you demand good feeding. When will the scales fall from your eyes, so that you take the responsibility upon yourselves? You think you're no end of fine fellows when you dare to bare your chest to the bayonets, but are we a match for brutality? If we were, the future would not be ours." "Are you scoffing at Peter Dreyer?" asked a sullen voice. "No, I am not. Peter Dreyer was one of those who go on in advance, and smear the stones on the road with their hearts' blood, so that the rest of us may find our way. But you've no right to compare yourselves with him. He sank under the weight of a tremendous responsibility; and what are you doing? If you want to honor Peter's memory as it deserves, go quietly home, and join the Movement again. There you have work to do that will transform the world when you all set about it. What will it matter if your strength ebbs and you suffer hunger for a little longer while you're building your own house? You were hungry too when you were building for others. "You referred to Peter Dreyer, but we are none of us great martyrs; we are everyday, ordinary men, and there's where our work lies. Haven't the thousands who have suffered and died in silence a still greater claim to be followed? They have gone down peacefully for the sake of the development, and have the strongest right to demand our belief in a peaceable development. It is just we that come from the lowest stratum who must preserve the historic development; never has any movement had so long and sad a previous history as ours! Suffering and want have taught us to accept the leadership, when the good has justice done to it; and you want to throw the whole thing overboard by an act of violence." They listened to him in silence now. He had caught their minds, but it was not knowledge they absorbed. At present they looked most like weary people who are told that they still have a long way to go. But he _would_ get them through! "Comrades!" he cried earnestly, "perhaps we who are here shall not live to see the new, but it's through us that it'll some day become reality. Providence has stopped at us, and has appointed us to fight for it. Is that not an honor? Look! we come right from the bottom of everything-- entirely naked; the old doesn't hang about our clothes, for we haven't any; we can clothe ourselves in the new. The old God, with His thousands of priests as a defence against injustice, we do not know; the moral of war we have never understood--we who have always been its victims. We believe in the Good, because we know that without the victory of goodness there will be no future. Our mind is light and can receive the light; we will lift up our little country and show that it has a mission on the earth. We who are little ourselves will show how the little ones keep up and assert themselves by the principle of goodness. We wish no harm to any one, therefore the good is on our side. Nothing can in the long run keep us down! And now go home! Your wives and children are perhaps anxious on your account." They stood for a moment as though still listening, and then dispersed in silence. When Pelle sprang down from the cart, Morten came up and held out his hand. "You are strong, Pelle!" he said quietly. "Where have you come from?" exclaimed Pelle in glad surprise. "I came by the steamer this afternoon, and went straight up to the works. Brun told me what had happened and that you were here. It must have been a threatening meeting! There was a detachment of police over there in one of the side streets. What was going on?" "They'd planned some demonstration or other, and would in that case have met with harsh treatment, I suppose," said Pelle gravely. "It was well you got them to change their minds. I've seen these demonstrations in the South, where the police and the soldiers ride over the miserable unemployed. It's a sad sight." They walked up across the fields toward "Daybreak." "To think that you're home again!" said Pelle, with childlike delight. "You never wrote a word about coming." "Well, I'd meant to stay away another couple of months. But one day I saw the birds of passage flying northward across the Mediterranean, and I began to be so homesick. It was just as well I came too, for now I can see Brun before he goes." "Oh, is he going away, after all? That's been settled very quickly. This morning he couldn't make up his mind." "It's this about Peter. The old man's fallen off very much in the last six months. But let's walk quicker! I'm longing to see Ellen and the children. How's the baby?" "He's a little fatty!" said Pelle proudly. "Nine pounds without his clothes! Isn't that splendid? He's a regular sunshine baby." XXIII It is spring once more in Denmark. It has been coming for a long time. The lark came before the frost was out of the ground, and then the starling appeared. And one day the air seemed suddenly to have become high and light so that the eye could once more see far out; there was a peculiar broad airiness in the wind--the breath of spring. It rushed along with messages of young, manly strength, and people threw back their shoulders and took deep breaths. "Ah! the south wind!" they said, and opened their minds in anticipation. There he comes riding across the sea from the south, in the middle of his youthful train. Never before has his coming been so glorious! Is he not like the sun himself? The sea glitters under golden hoofs, and the air is quivering with sunbeam-darts caught and thrown in the wild gallop over the waves. Heigh-ho! Who'll be the first to reach the Danish shore? Like a broad wind the spring advances over islands and belts, embracing the whole in arrogant strength. He sings in the children's open mouths as in a shell, and is lavish of his airy freshness. Women's teeth grow whiter with his kiss, and vie with their eyes in brightness; their cheeks glow beneath his touch, though they remain cool--like sun-ripe fruit under the morning dew. Men's brains whirl once more, and expand into an airy vault, as large as heaven itself, giddy with expectancy. From high up comes the sound of the passage birds in flight; the air is dizzy with its own infinitude. Bareheaded and with a sunny smile the spring advances like a young giant intoxicated with his own strength, stretches out his arms and wakens everything with his song. Nothing can resist him. He touches lightly the heart of the sleeping earth, calling merrily into her dull ears to awake. And deep down the roots of life begin to stir and wake, and send the sap circulating once more. Hedgehogs and field-mice emerge sleepily and begin to busy themselves in the hedges. From the darkness below old decayed matter ferments and bubbles up, and the stagnant water in the ditches begins to run toward the sea. Men stand and gaze in amazement after the open-handed giant, until they feel the growth in themselves and can afford something. All that was impossible before has suddenly become possible, and more besides. The farmer has long since had his plough in the earth, and the sower straps his basket on: the land is to be clothed again. The days lengthen and become warmer; it is delightful to watch them and know that they are going upward. One day Ellen opens wide the double doors out to the garden; it is like a release. But what a quantity of dirt the light reveals! "We shall have to be busy now, Petra Dreyer!" says Ellen. The little deformed sewing-woman smiles with her sad eyes, and the two women begin to sweep floors and wash windows. Now and then a little girl comes in from the garden complaining that she is not allowed to play with Anna's big doll. Boy Comfort is in the fields from morning to night, helping Grandfather Stolpe to build the new workmen's houses. A fine help his is! When Ellen fetches him in to meals, he is so dirty that she nearly loses all patience. "I wonder how Old Brun is!" says Ellen suddenly, in the middle of her work. "We haven't heard from him now for three days. It's quite sad to think he's so far away. I only hope they'll look after him properly." Pelle is tremendously busy, and they do not see much of him. The Movement has taken up his idea now in earnest, and he is to have the management of it all, so that he has his hands full. "Have I got a husband or not?" says Ellen, when she gets hold of him now and again. "It'll soon be better," he answers. "When once we've got the machinery properly started, it'll go by itself." Morten is the only one who has not set seriously to work on anything, and in the midst of all the bustle has an incongruous effect. "He's thinking!" says Ellen, stopping in the middle of beating a carpet. "Thank goodness we're not all authors!" Pelle would like to draw him into the business. "There's so much to write and lecture about," he says, "and you could do all that so much better than I." "Oh, no, I couldn't," says Morten. "Your work's growing in me too. I'm always thinking about it and have thought of giving a hand too, but I can't. If I ever contribute anything to your great work, it'll be in some other way." "You're doing nothing with your book about the sun either," says Pelle anxiously. "No, because whenever I set to work on it, it mixes up so strangely with your work, and I can't keep the ideas apart. At present I feel like a mole, digging blindly in the black earth under the mighty tree of life. I dig and search, and am continually coming across the thick roots of the huge thing above the surface. I can't see them, but I can hear sounds from above there, and it hurts me not to be able to follow them into their strong connection up in the light." * * * * * One Sunday morning at the end of May they were sitting out in the garden. The cradle had been moved out into the sun, and Pelle and Ellen were sitting one on either side, talking over domestic matters. Ellen had so much to tell him when she had him to herself. The child lay staring up into the sky with its dark eyes that were the image of Ellen's. He was brown and chubby; any one could see that he had been conceived in sunshine and love. Lasse Frederik was sitting by the hedge painting a picture that Pelle was not to see until it was finished. He went to the drawing-school now, and was clever. He had a good eye for figures, and poor people especially he hit off in any position. He had a light hand, and in two or three lines could give what his father had had to work at carefully. "You cheat!" Pelle often said, half resentfully. '"It won't bear looking closely at." He had to admit, however, that it was a good likeness. "Well, can't I see the picture soon?" he called across. He was very curious. "Yes, it's finished now," said Lasse Frederik, coming up with it. The picture represented a street in which stood a solitary milk-cart, and behind the cart lay a boy with bleeding head. "He fell asleep because he had to get up so early," Lasse Frederik explained; "and then when the cart started he tumbled backward." The morning emptiness of the street was well done, but the blood was too brilliantly red. "It's very unpleasant," said Ellen, with a shudder. "But it's true." Morten came home from town with a big letter which he handed to Pelle, saying: "Here's news for you from Brun." Pelle went into the house to read it undisturbed, and a little while after came out again. "Yes, important news this time," he said with some emotion. "Would you like to hear it?" he asked, sitting down. "DEAR PELLE: "I am sitting up in bed to write to you. I am poorly, and have been for some days; but I hope it is nothing serious. We all have to die some day, but I should like to start on the great voyage round the world from your home. I long to see 'Daybreak' and all of you, and I feel very lonely. If the business could do without you for a few days, I should be so glad if you would come down here. Then we could go home together, for I should not like to venture on the journey by myself. "The sun is just going down, and sends its last rays in to me. It has been gray and gloomy all day, but now the sun has broken through the clouds, and kisses the earth and me, poor old man, too, in farewell. It makes me want to say something to you, Pelle, for my day was like this before I knew you--endlessly long and gray! When you are the last member of a dying family, you have to bear the gray existence of the others too. "I have often thought how wonderful the hidden force of life is. Intercourse with you has been like a lever to me, although I knew well that I should not accomplish anything more, and had no one to come after me. I feel, nevertheless, through you, in alliance with the future. You are in the ascendant and must look upon me as something that is vanishing. But look how life makes us all live by using us each in his own way. Be strong in your faith in the future; with you lies the development. I wish with all my heart that I were an awakening proletary and stood in the dawn of day; but I am nevertheless glad because my eyes will be closed by the new in you. "I have imagined that life was tiresome and dull and far too well known. I had it arranged in my catalogues. And look how it renews itself! In my old age I have experienced its eternal youth. Formerly I had never cared about the country; in my mind it was a place where you waded either in dust or mud. The black earth appeared to me horrible rather than anything else; it was only associated in my mind with the churchyard. That shows how far I was from nature. The country was something that farmers moved about in--those big, voracious creatures, who almost seemed like a kind of animal trying to imitate man. Rational beings could not possibly live out there. That was the view in my circle, and I had myself a touch of the same complaint, although my university training of course paraphrased and veiled it all to some extent. All this about our relations to nature seemed to me very interesting aesthetically, but with more or less of a contradictory, not to say hostile, character. I could not understand how any one could see anything beautiful in a ploughed field or a dike. It was only when I got to know you that something moved within me and called me out; there was something about you like the air from out there. "Now I also understand my forefathers! Formerly they seemed to me only like thick-skinned boors, who scraped together all the money that two generations of us have lived upon without doing a pennyworth of good. They enabled us, however, to live life, I have always thought, and I considered it the only excuse for their being in the family, coarse and robust as they were. Now I see that it was they who lived, while we after them, with all our wealth, have only had a bed in life's inn. "For all this I thank you. I am glad to have become acquainted through you with men of the new age, and to be able to give my fortune back. It was made by all those who work, and gathered together by a few; my giving it back is merely a natural consequence. Others will come to do as I am doing, either of their own free will or by compulsion, until everything belongs to everybody. Then only can the conflict about human interests begin. Capitalism has created wonderful machines, but what wonderful men await us in the new age! Happy the man who could have lived to see it! "I have left all my money to you and Morten. As yet there is no institution that I could give it to, so you must administer it in the name of cooperation. You two are the best guardians of the poor, and I know you will employ it in the best manner. I place it with confidence in your hands. The will is at my lawyer's; I arranged it all before I left home. "My greetings to all at 'Daybreak'--Ellen, the children, and Morten. If the baby is christened before I get home, remember that he is to be called after me. But I am hoping that you will come." * * * * * Ellen drew a deep breath when Pelle had finished the letter. "I only hope he's not worse than he makes out," she said. "I suppose you'll go?" "Yes, I'll arrange what's necessary at the works to-morrow early, and take the morning express." "Then I must see to your things," exclaimed Ellen, and went in. Pelle and Morten went for a stroll along the edge of the hill, past the half-finished houses, whose red bricks shone in the sun. "Everything seems to turn out well for you, Pelle," said Morten suddenly. "Yes," said Pelle; "nothing has succeeded in injuring me, so I suppose what Father Lasse and the others said is right, that I was born with a caul. The ill-usage I suffered as a child taught me to be good to others, and in prison I gained liberty; what might have made me a criminal made a man of me instead. Nothing has succeeded in injuring me! So I suppose I may say that everything has turned out well." "Yes, you may, and now I've found a subject, Pelle! I'm not going to hunt about blindly in the dark; I'm going to write a great work now." "I congratulate you! What will it be about? Is it to be the work on the sun?" "Yes, both about the sun and about him who conquers. It's to be a book about you, Pelle!" "About me?" exclaimed Pelle. "Yes, about the naked Pelle with the caul! It's about time to call out the naked man into the light and look at him well, now that he's going to take over the future. You like to read about counts and barons, but now I'm going to write a story about a prince who finds the treasure and wins the princess. He's looked for her all over the world and she wasn't there, and now there's only himself left, and there he finds her, for he's taken her heart. Won't that be a good story?" "I think it's a lot of rubbish," said Pelle, laughing. "And you'll have to lay the lies on thick if you're going to make me into a prince. I don't think you'll get the workpeople to take it for a real book; it'll all be so well known and ordinary." "They'll snatch at it, and weep with delight and pride at finding themselves in it. Perhaps they'll name their children after it out of pure gratitude!" "What are you going to call it then?" asked Pelle. "I'm going to call it 'PELLE THE CONQUEROR.'" THE END 
41291	----	NEW HOMES FOR OLD * * * * * _Americanization Studies_ SCHOOLING OF THE IMMIGRANT. Frank V. Thompson, Supt. of Public Schools, Boston AMERICA VIA THE NEIGHBORHOOD. John Daniels OLD WORLD TRAITS TRANSPLANTED. Robert E. Park, Professorial Lecturer, University of Chicago Herbert A. Miller, Professor of Sociology, Oberlin College A STAKE IN THE LAND. Peter A. Speek, in charge, Slavic Section, Library of Congress IMMIGRANT HEALTH AND THE COMMUNITY. Michael M. Davis, Jr., Director, Boston Dispensary NEW HOMES FOR OLD. Sophonisba P. Breckinridge, Professor of Social Economy, University of Chicago ADJUSTING IMMIGRANT AND INDUSTRY. (In preparation) William M. Leiserson, Chairman, Labor Adjustment Boards, Rochester and New York THE IMMIGRANT PRESS AND ITS CONTROL. (In preparation) Robert E. Park, Professorial Lecturer, University of Chicago THE IMMIGRANT'S DAY IN COURT. (In preparation) Kate Holladay Claghorn, Instructor in Social Research, New York School of Social Work AMERICANS BY CHOICE. (In preparation) John P. Gavit, Vice-President, New York _Evening Post_ SUMMARY. (In preparation) Allen T. Burns, Director, Studies in Methods of Americanization _Harper & Brothers Publishers_ * * * * * [Illustration: THE COMING OF NEW AMERICAN HOME MAKERS] AMERICANIZATION STUDIES ALLEN T. BURNS, DIRECTOR NEW HOMES FOR OLD BY S. P. BRECKINRIDGE PROFESSOR OF SOCIAL ECONOMY UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO [Illustration] HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON 1921 * * * * * NEW HOMES FOR OLD Copyright, 1921, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America * * * * * PUBLISHER'S NOTE The material in this volume was gathered by the Division of Adjustment of Homes and Family Life of Studies in Methods of Americanization. Americanization in this study has been considered as the union of native and foreign born in all the most fundamental relationships and activities of our national life. For Americanization is the uniting of new with native-born Americans in fuller common understanding and appreciation to secure by means of self-government the highest welfare of all. Such Americanization should perpetuate no unchangeable political, domestic, and economic regime delivered once for all to the fathers, but a growing and broadening national life, inclusive of the best wherever found. With all our rich heritages, Americanism will develop best through a mutual giving and taking of contributions from both newer and older Americans in the interest of the commonweal. This study has followed such an understanding of Americanization. FOREWORD This volume is the result of studies in methods of Americanization prepared through funds furnished by the Carnegie Corporation of New York. It arose out of the fact that constant applications were being made to the Corporation for contributions to the work of numerous agencies engaged in various forms of social activity intended to extend among the people of the United States the knowledge of their government and the obligations to it. The trustees felt that a study which should set forth, not theories of social betterment, but a description of the methods of the various agencies engaged in such work, would be of distinct value to the cause itself and to the public. The outcome of the study is contained in eleven volumes on the following subjects: Schooling of the Immigrant; The Press; Adjustment of Homes and Family Life; Legal Protection and Correction; Health Standards and Care; Naturalization and Political Life; Industrial and Economic Amalgamation; Treatment of Immigrant Heritages; Neighborhood Agencies and Organization; Rural Developments; and Summary. The entire study has been carried out under the general direction of Mr. Allen T. Burns. Each volume appears in the name of the author who had immediate charge of the particular field it is intended to cover. Upon the invitation of the Carnegie Corporation a committee consisting of the late Theodore Roosevelt, Prof. John Graham Brooks, Dr. John M. Glenn, and Mr. John A. Voll has acted in an advisory capacity to the director. An editorial committee consisting of Dr. Talcott Williams, Dr. Raymond B. Fosdick, and Dr. Edwin F. Gay has read and criticized the manuscripts. To both of these committees the trustees of the Carnegie Corporation are much indebted. The purpose of the report is to give as clear a notion as possible of the methods of the agencies actually at work in this field and not to propose theories for dealing with the complicated questions involved. TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE Publisher's Note v Foreword vii Table of Contents ix List of Tables xiii List of Illustrations xv Introduction xvii CHAPTER I. FINDING THE NEW HOME 1 The First Adjustments 1 Homes Studied 6 Dissolving Barriers 14 II. FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS 19 Separated Families 20 Keeping Boarders 23 The Man Without a Family 27 The Single Woman 29 The Migrant Family 32 From Farming to Industry 34 The Wage-earning Mother 39 Changed Duties of a Mother 43 Paternal Authority Passing 47 III. THE CARE OF THE HOUSE 54 New Housekeeping Conditions 54 Demands of American Cookery 58 Water Supply Essential 60 Overcrowding Hampers the Housewife 62 Women Work Outside the Home 65 Housing Improvement 66 Government Building Loans 75 Instruction in Sanitation 80 IV. PROBLEMS OF SAVING 85 Present and Future Needs 85 Unfamiliarity with Money 88 Irregularity of Income 91 Reserves for Misfortunes 92 The Cost of Weddings 98 Christenings and Fête Days 103 Buying Property 105 Building and Loan Associations 109 Postal Savings Banks 111 Account Keeping 115 V. THE NEGLECTED ART OF SPENDING 117 The Company Store 119 Shopping Habits 122 Modification of Diets 130 Furniture on the Installment Plan 134 New Fashions and Old Clothes 135 Training Needed 138 Co-operation in Spending 141 VI. THE CARE OF THE CHILDREN 149 The Unpreparedness of the Immigrant Mother 150 Breakdown of Parental Authority 153 Learning to Play 157 Parents and Education 159 Following School Progress 163 The Revolt of Older Children 169 Relations of Boys and Girls 174 The Juvenile Court 181 VII. IMMIGRANT ORGANIZATIONS AND FAMILY PROBLEMS 187 Safety in Racial Affiliations 188 Local Benefit Societies 192 National Croatian Organizations 196 Care of Croatian Orphans 199 Organizations of Poles 201 Polish Women's Work 203 Lithuanian Woman's Alliance 209 Ukrainian Beginnings 215 Growth of National Organizations 218 VIII. AGENCIES OF ADJUSTMENT 222 Immigrant Protective League 223 A National Reception Committee 227 The Public School 230 The Home Teacher 236 Settlement Classes 238 Co-operation of Agencies 240 International Institutes 243 Training for Service 248 Home Economics Work 254 Government Grants in England 263 The Lesson for the United States 266 Mothers' Assistants 268 Recreational Agencies 272 IX. FAMILY CASE WORK 277 The Language Difficulty 280 Standards of Living 286 Visiting Housekeepers 289 Knowledge of Backgrounds 298 Training Facilities Needed 301 The Transient Family 304 Need for National Agency 307 APPENDIX 313 Principal Racial Organizations 313 Czech 313 Danish 314 Dutch 315 Finnish 315 German 316 Hungarian 317 Italian 318 Jewish 319 Jugoslav 324 Lithuanian 326 Polish 327 Russian 329 Slovak 330 Swedish 331 Ukrainian 331 Menus of Foreign Born 333 Bohemian 333 Croatian 335 Italian 335 Slovenian 340 INDEX 343 LIST OF TABLES TABLE PAGE I. Number and Per Cent of Families Carrying Life Insurance and Average Amount of Policy According to Nativity of Head of Family 94 II. Number and Per Cent of Immigrant Home Owners in Different Chicago Districts 107 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Coming of New American Home Makers _Frontispiece_ A Railroad Camp for Immigrant Workers in a Prosperous Suburban Community, 1920 _Facing p._ 4 An Immigrant Railway Worker Lives in this Car with His Wife, Six Children, and Three Dogs " 4 Even a Boarding House of Eighteen Boarders in Five Rooms is More Cheerful than a Labor Camp for Men Alone " 24 Almost at the End of the Journey " 32 Floor Plan of Houses in Poland _Page_ 55 This Pump Supplies Water to Four Families _Facing p._ 60 A Community Housing Plan _Page_ 73 Italians Have Their Own Financial Center and Labor Market in Boston _Facing p._ 110 It's a Long Way from This Elaborate Czecho-Slovak Costume to the Modern American Styles " 136 A Slovak Mother, Newly Arrived " 150 Immigrant Children Acquiring Individual Initiative in a Montessori Class at Hull House " 160 Who Will Welcome Them? " 192 Lithuanian Mothers Have Come to a Settlement Class " 238 A Case-work Agency Found Four Girls and Eighteen Men Boarding with This Polish Family in Four Rooms " 288 INTRODUCTION The following study is the result of effort on the part of several persons. Miss Helen R. Wright, formerly research assistant of the Chicago School of Civics and member of the staff of the Massachusetts Immigration Commission of 1914, had much to do with the planning of the inquiry, the framing of such schedules as were used, and the organization of certain portions of the information gathered. Through Miss Laura Hood, long time a resident of the Chicago Commons, it proved to be possible to obtain many intimate views with reference to the more subtle questions of family adjustment in the groups that are of special interest in such an inquiry as this. Certain questions of uniformity in method and style of presentation were determined by the editorial staff of the Study of Methods of Americanization. For the final drafting of a considerable portion of the study, especially in the earlier chapters, the members of this editorial staff are responsible, though the writer is glad to acknowledge full responsibility for all conclusions drawn or recommendations offered. SOPHONISBA P. BRECKINRIDGE. _April_ 15, 1921. NEW HOMES FOR OLD I FINDING THE NEW HOME The great westward tide of immigration has again begun to rise. Annually to the ports of entry and to the great inland centers of distribution come thousands of immigrant families, strange men and women with young children, unattached girls, and vigorous, simple lads. With few exceptions no provision by native Americans has been made for their reception in their new places of residence. Communities of kindly-intentioned persons, because of their lack of imagination and their indifference, have allowed the old, the young, the mother, and infant to come in by back ways, at any hour of day or night. Frequently they have been received only by uncomprehending or indifferent railroad officials or oversolicitous exploiters. THE FIRST ADJUSTMENTS It is not strange that in most American communities there is no habit of community hospitality. Communities are in themselves transitory and fluid. Many of the native born have as yet become only partially adjusted to their physical and social environment. At least the childhood of most of our older generation was spent under the influence of those who had either migrated or immigrated. "_Nous marchons tous._" We are all "pilgrims and strangers." Some have come sooner, and some have come later, and except for the colored people and those in territory acquired in 1848 and in 1898, all have a common memory of having come deliberately either _from_ something worse or _to_ something better. All have come from where they were into what was a far country. While the earlier arrivals are making their own adjustments, there are knocking at their gates strangers from a more distant country speaking a foreign tongue, accustomed to totally different ways of living and working. Their reception, however, need not be an impossible task. On their arrival they are formally admitted, and information as to their origin and destination must be supplied. Methods could be devised for receiving them in such a way as to make them feel at ease, and for interpreting to them the changed surroundings in which they must find a home and a job in the shortest possible time. If discomfort and confusion were the only distress into which the strange group fell, the situation might be only humiliating to our generous and hospitable spirit and could be easily remedied. But the consequences of failure to exercise hospitality at the beginning endure in lack of understanding on the part of both groups. The immigrant fails to find natural and normal ways of sharing in the life of the community, and becomes skeptical as to the sincerity of perfectly well-meaning, but uninformed, professions on the part of the older residents. Spiritual barriers as definite, if not as easily perceived, as the geographical boundaries of the "colonies" formed in the different sections of our cities, develop. This is often true in connection with the foreign-born men and tragically more true of the women. One Italian woman in Herrin, Illinois, for example, who had lived nineteen years in this country, told an investigator for this study that she had never received an American into her home as a guest, because no American had ever come in that spirit. A Russian woman had lived in Chicago for nine years and had, so far as she knew, not become acquainted with any Americans. Several instances were found in which efforts have been put forward to secure the united effort of the whole community, and yet large groups of immigrants have remained substantially unaware of these efforts and were entirely untouched by them. There are several other attitudes, too, that have perhaps blinded some to the need of provision for community hospitality. One attitude might be characterized as that of the "self-made man." Hardship may have either of two different effects. In one person it will develop sympathy, compassion, and a desire to safeguard others from similar suffering. In others it may lead to a certain callous disregard of other people--a belief that if one has been able to surmount the difficulties others should likewise be able. If not, so much the worse. This kind of harshness characterizes the attitude of some of those immigrants who have come at earlier dates toward those who have come later. [Illustration: A RAILROAD CAMP FOR IMMIGRANT WORKERS IN A PROSPEROUS SUBURBAN COMMUNITY, 1920] [Illustration: AN IMMIGRANT RAILWAY WORKER LIVES IN THIS CAR WITH HIS WIFE, SIX CHILDREN, AND THREE DOGS] It is like the occasional successful woman who is indifferent to the general disadvantages of her sex, and to the negro who makes for himself a brilliant place and argues that color is no handicap. In talking to women about bringing up their children, it was a significant fact that some of the women who had had no trouble with their own children said that where there is trouble it is the fault of the parents. The following comment, for example, was on the schedule of Mrs. D., a Polish woman who has been in this country since 1894, and has three children, aged twenty-five, twelve, and six. "If a child is not good, Mrs. D. blames his mother, who does not know how to take care of children. She thinks they are too ignorant." There is also the sense of racial, national, or class superiorities. The virtue of the Anglo-Saxon civilization is assumed; the old, as against the new immigration, is valued. There are many who crave the satisfaction of "looking down" on some one, and it makes life simpler if whole groups--"Dagoes," "Hunkies," "Polacks," what you will--can be regarded as of a different race or group, so that neither one's heartstrings nor one's conscience need be affected by their needs. The difficulty is increased by a similar tendency of immigrants to assume the superiority of their people and culture and so hold aloof from the new life. This assumption of superiority on both sides tends to hinder rather than to further mutual understanding. Clearly, if we are to build up a united and wholesome national life, such attitudes of aloofness as have persisted will have to be abandoned. If that life is to be enriched and varied--not monotonous and mechanical--the lowly and the simple, as well as the great and the mighty, must be able to make their contribution. This contribution can become possible, not as the result of any compulsory scheme, but of conditions favoring noble, generous, and sympathetic living. The family is an institution based on the affection of the parents and their self-sacrifice for the life and future of their children. Of all institutions it exemplifies the power of co-operative effort, and demands sympathetic and patient understanding. This is perhaps especially true of the foreign-born family. This discussion of the family problems of the foreign-born groups in relation to the development of a national consciousness and a national unity is based on the belief that no attempts at compulsory adjustment can in the nature of things be successful. Sometimes the interests of the common good and of the weaker groups demand for their own protection the temporary exercise of compulsion, but the real solution lies in policies grounded in social justice and guided by social intelligence. HOMES STUDIED The material in this study is of a qualitative sort. No attempt has been made to organize a statistical study. The problems of family life do not lend themselves to the statistical method except at great cost of time and money. A large body of data with reference to conditions existing during the decade just prior to the Great War, exists in the reports of several special government investigations, especially the report of the United States Immigration Commission, that of the United States Bureau of Labor relating to conditions surrounding women and child wage earners, and that of the British Board of Trade on the "Cost of Living in American Towns." The regular publications of certain government bureaus, especially the United States Children's Bureau, the Bureau of Home Economics in the United States Department of Agriculture, and the United States Bureau of Labor Statistics, were found useful. These publications have been studied so far as they discuss the problem of family life. Their contents are presented only in illustration or in confirmation of statements made. The material collected is of two kinds. First, there are facts dealing with the different agencies organized to help in solving these problems. This information was gathered largely by correspondence. Questionnaires were sent to case-work agencies dealing with family problems, which are members of the American Association for Social Work with Families and Home Service Bureaus of various Red Cross Chapters, asking their methods for attacking these difficulties and their advice as to the best methods worked out. The supervisors of Home Economics under the Federal Board for Vocational Education were asked to what extent they had included foreign-born housewives in their program and the special plans that had been worked out for them; the International Institutes of the Young Women's Christian Association were asked to describe their work with married women. The methods of certain agencies in Chicago--the United Charities, the Immigrants' Protective League, some of the settlements--were studied more carefully through interviews with their workers and through a study of individual records. Officers of the national racial organizations were interviewed about their work on family problems. In addition to these a limited number of co-operative stores in Illinois were studied. Mining communities in Illinois, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia were visited, as well as certain of the newer housing projects, such as Yorkship Village in New Jersey, Hilton Village in Virginia, Bridgeport, Connecticut, Lowell and North Billerica, Massachusetts and several towns in New Mexico. The government investigations already referred to had made certain needs of the foreign born very clear. It seemed unnecessary to go over that ground again, but it was necessary to know whether those needs still existed. An attempt was made to learn this through interviews with leaders of various national groups and by obtaining schedules from a limited number of selected families. A word should be said as to the information obtained from these sources. The leaders selected were, in the first instance, men and women whose leadership in their own group had been recognized by election to important offices in their national organizations. These men and women then frequently suggested others whose position was not so well defined to an outsider, but whose opinion was valued by members of the group. Most of the persons interviewed were able to speak English readily. They were people who were close enough to the great mass of immigrants to be familiar with their problems, their needs, their shortcomings, and their abilities, and at the same time were sufficiently removed from the problems to be able to view them objectively. Some were persons of more educational and cultural background than the majority of immigrants, some of them had been born in this country or had come when they were young children; but there were more who came to this country from the same Old-World conditions as the majority of their countrymen and had worked their way through the same hard conditions. They were probably exceptional in their native ability. No attempt was made to fill out a questionnaire from these interviews. An outline was prepared of points to be covered, but frequently no attempt was made to adhere to the outline. Rather, these persons were encouraged to talk on the family problems in which they were most interested, and to which they had given most thought--to enable us to see them as they saw them with their knowledge of the Old-World background from which their people had come. They were also asked to suggest possible ways of meeting the more pressing needs of their people. Adequate expression can never be given to the obligation under which those busy men and women who gave so generously and graciously their time and their thoughts have placed us. Our very great indebtedness to them is acknowledged, as without their aid this study in the present form would have been impossible. The demand made upon them could be justified only by the hope that the contacts thus established may prove in some slight degree profitable to them if only in giving them assurance that there are those to whom their problems are of real interest. The women from whom family schedules were obtained were slightly different, and the information sought from them was obtained in a different way. They were for the most part women who did not speak English well enough to carry on an extended conversation in it. While they were not very recent immigrants and hence were not going through the first difficulties of adjustment, most of them were women who had not yet worked their way through to the same place reached by the women with whom the more general interviews were had. They were, in general, very simple people, too absorbed with working out their problems to have had much time for reflection. We asked them to tell us of their early experiences and difficulties as they recalled them, and of their present ways of treating some of the problems. This information was taken in schedule form. Not enough schedules were obtained to be of statistical value--there were only ninety in all--but the families chosen are believed to be more or less typical. They were selected with the advice of leaders of their group or were known to our foreign-speaking investigators, who had a wide acquaintance in several groups. That is, we have tried so far as possible to see the problem with the persons, if not through the eyes of the persons whose fellow countrymen we wished to know. We do not mean to suggest that other and very important groups might not have been studied, but we tried to learn of others; and sometimes because we could not find the clew, sometimes for lack of time, it proved impossible to go farther. We feel that we have obtained an insight into the situation among the Polish in Chicago and in Rolling Prairie, Indiana; the Lithuanians, Bohemians, Slovaks, Croatians, Slovenians, nonfamily Mexicans, Russians--both family and nonfamily--and Italians in Chicago; Italians in Herrin and Freeman, Illinois, and Canonsburg and Washington, Pennsylvania; and the Ukrainians in Chicago and in Sun, West Virginia. Besides the large body of evidence with reference to these groups, we have suggestions from many interested and kindly persons of other groups. The Magyars and the Rumanians, particularly, we should have liked to know better, and we have had most suggestive interviews with certain of their leaders. We were not able, however, to follow the leads they gave, and therefore do not claim to speak for them, except to express the feeling of the need for greater understanding and appreciation. With reference to those groups discussed, it should be noted that some, such as the Polish, Bohemian, Lithuanian, Italian, are among the largest of the great foreign colonies in Chicago, the growth of a long-continued immigration. They live in the different sections of the city, in crowded tenement districts, or in more recently developed neighborhoods for whose growth they are responsible. The Croatian and Ukrainian groups are newer groups, and are therefore poorer. The Croatians are moving into houses which the Bohemians are vacating. In the Russian and Mexican groups we have the current evidence that the old problem of the nonfamily man is still with us. The Poles in Rolling Prairie, Indiana, are a prosperous farming community living in modern farmhouses with yards and orchards. There are women still alive who can tell of the earlier days, when just after their arrival they lived in one-room houses made of logs and plastered with mud. Then they helped their husbands to fell trees and clear the land. Like other pioneer women, these women have contributed to the "winning of the West." The grandmothers tell of these things. The mothers remember when, during the winter, the children went to school for a few months, they were laughed at because of their meager lunches, their queer homemade clothes, and their foreign speech. The young people now go to school at least as long as the law requires and sometimes through high school. The mining towns in Illinois and Pennsylvania need not be described. Their general features are familiar. Although extended information with reference to the life of the various groups was not obtained, mention will be made of certain facts that are of importance to this study. While the numbers are not great, it is hoped that certain methods may be worked out for approach to the problems of the groups studied, that will prove suggestive in attacking the problems of other groups not included here. No two groups are alike; but the experience with one or with several may develop the open-minded, humble, objective attitude of mind and that democratic habit of approach that will unlock the doorway into the life of the others and exhibit both the points at which community action may be desirable and the direction such action should take. DISSOLVING BARRIERS The purpose of this book is to help in the adjustment of immigrant family life in this country. The immigrant will feel America to be his own land largely to the extent that he feels his American home to be as much his home as was his native hearth. To define what makes a home is harder even than to achieve one. Perhaps more than any other human institution the home is a development, the result and component of innumerable adjustments. This growth comes about largely spontaneously, without conscious effort on the part of its members, except that of living together as happily as possible. There is among most housewives, whether native or foreign born, a certain complacency about housekeeping and bringing up children. Housekeeping is supposed to come by nature, and few women of any station in life are trained to be homemakers and mothers. The native born, in part consciously through their own choice and in part blindly moved by forces they do not understand, have been gradually moving away from the old tradition of subordination on the part of the wife and of strict and unquestioning obedience of children. In the general American atmosphere there are suggestions of a different tradition. In the old country the mother knew what standards she was to maintain and, moreover, had the backing of a homogeneous group to help her. In this country she is a stranger, neither certain of herself nor sure whether to try to maintain the standards of her home or those that seem to prevail here. As a matter of fact, these difficulties are usually surmounted, so that by the time the foreign-born housewife has lived here long enough to raise her family she has learned to care for her home as systematically and intelligently as most of her native-born neighbors, who have not had her difficulties. Sometimes they have learned from the members of the group who have been here longer; and sometimes they have learned by going into the more comfortable American homes as domestic servants. In the American domestic evolution a scientific and deliberate factor has been introduced. Students of family life have conducted inquiries into domestic practices, needs, and resources, and applied the researches of physiologists, chemists, economists, and architects. The result has been the discovery of certain standards and requirements for wholesome family life. It must be admitted that the attempt at formulation of standards for family life encounters difficulties not found in the field of education or of health, where the presence and service of the expert are fairly widely recognized. For many reasons the subject of the _minima_ of sound family life has been more recently attacked and is, in the nature of things, more difficult of analysis and especially of formal study. The impossibility, for example, of applying to many aspects of the family problem the laboratory methods of study or of examining many of the questions in a dispassionate and objective manner, must retard the scientific treatment of the subject. There are, however, some aspects of family life with reference to which there may be said to be fairly general agreement in theory if not in practice in the United States. The content of an adequate food allowance is generally agreed upon by the students of nutrition, and the cost and special features of an adequate diet for any group at any time and place can therefore be described and discussed. In the matter of laying the responsibility for support of the family on the husband and father, at least to the extent of enabling the children to enjoy seven years of school life and fourteen years free from wage-paid work and the resulting exploitation, there is wide agreement embodied in legislation. Such standards are becoming gradually adopted and incorporated into domestic life through the slow processes of suggestion, imitation, and neighborly talks already mentioned. While the slow establishment of social standards is required for a complete and adequate adjustment of family life on the basis of specialists' discoveries, many systematic and formal efforts can be made which will forward and accelerate the process. These efforts can help to remove the feeling of strangeness, perhaps the greatest obstacle in adjusting home life; they should seek to connect with the appreciations and sense of need already felt by the women who are to be influenced. There is necessity for thorough inquiry into what are the points of contact in these problems for immigrant women; what are their present customs and standards in which the specialists' knowledge can be planted with the prospect of a promising combination of seed and soil. This study indicates how great is the need of search for the possibilities of just such organic connections. Pending such further studies, this report can do two things: First, it can exhibit, so far as possible, the difficulties encountered by foreign-born families in attaining in their family relationships such satisfaction as would constitute a genuine feeling of hominess, and make the immigrant home an integral part of the domestic development in this country. Second, the report can suggest the deliberate and systematic methods which can be effective in introducing the immigrant family and specialists' standards to each other. The services of social agencies have been largely in this field, and it is hoped that they may find in this book lines for increased usefulness. Incidentally, evidence will be presented to show that, in allowing many of these difficulties to develop or to remain, the community suffers real loss, and it is hoped that in the following chapters suggestion will be found of ways by which some of these difficulties may be overcome and some of the waste resulting from their continued existence be eliminated. II FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS It is impossible to discuss the problems of adjustment of the family life of the immigrant to life in this country without taking notice of several factors that complicate the problem. There is first the disorganization in family life that is incident to the migration itself. The members of most of the families that come to this country are peasants who are almost forced to emigrate by the fact that the land they own will not support the entire family as the children grow up and establish families of their own. There was, for example, among the families visited for this study, a family from the Russian Ukraine. The man's father was a peasant farmer with six acres of land and a large family of children. The income from this small property was supplemented by hiring out as laborers on the large estates near by. As the boys grew up they left home. Two had already come to America when the father of this family left in 1910. At the time he left there were thirteen people trying to get their living from six acres of land. Another family from the same country were trying to live on the income from the farm of the man's father, who had four acres of land and five sons. SEPARATED FAMILIES In such families, and even in less extreme cases, it is evident that the cash needed for the emigration of the whole family is difficult to secure. It often happens, therefore, that the family does not emigrate as a group, but one member--usually the man--goes ahead, and sends for the rest as soon as he has earned enough to pay their passage. It is then some time, usually from two to four years and occasionally longer, before he is able to send for his family. One Ukrainian man interviewed in this study came in 1906, leaving his wife and four children in the old country. He had difficulty in finding work he could do, wandered from place to place, never staying long in one place, and it was eight years before he had saved enough to send for his family. Another man, a Slovenian, came in 1904, and was here seven years before he sent his wife money enough so she could follow him. Separations of this kind are often destructive of the old family relationships. What they mean in suffering to the wife left behind has been revealed by some of the letters of husbands and wives in a collection of letters in _The Polish Peasant_,[1] especially in the Borkowski series. These are letters written by Teofila Borkowski in Warsaw, to her husband, Wladek Borkowski, in America, between the years 1893 and 1912. During the early years the letters usually thanked him for a gift of money and referred to the time when she should join him in America. "I shall now count the days and weeks. May our Lord God grant it to happen as soon as possible, for I am terribly worried," she wrote in 1894. As time goes on the intervals between the gifts grew longer, and she writes imploring him to send money if he is able, as she is in desperate need of it. In 1896 she had been ill and in the hospital. "When I left the hospital I did not know what to do with myself, without money and almost without roof ... so I begged her and promised I would pay her when you send some money" (p. 353). And in 1897 she wrote: For God's sake what does it mean that you don't answer?... For I don't think that you could have forgotten me totally.... Answer me as soon as possible, and send me anything you can. For if I were not in need I should never annoy you, but our Lord God is the best witness how terribly hard it is for me to live. Those few rubles which you sent me a few times are only enough to pay the rent for some months.... As to board, clothes, and shoes, they are earned with such a difficulty that you have surely no idea. And I must eat every day. There are mostly days in my present situation when I have one small roll and a pot of tea for the whole day, and I must live so. And this has lasted almost five years since you left (p. 353). She is pathetically grateful when money is sent. Thus in 1899 she writes: I received your letter, with twenty rubles and three photographs, for which I send you a hearty "God reward!" I bear it always in my heart and thought and I always repeat it to everybody that you were good and generous, and you are so up to the present (p. 358). Her sufferings are not confined to financial worries and lack of a place to eat and sleep. There is apparently a loss of social prestige and a falling off of friends. The letters also show what was evidently a real affection for her husband, and that at times his silence was even worse than his failure to send money. Thus in 1905, when the money and the letters were very irregular, she writes a letter (p. 362) in which no reference is made to her economic situation. After asking if he received her last letter, she continues: It is true, dear Wladek, that you have not so much time, but my dear, write me sometimes a few words; you will cause me great comfort. For I read your letter like a prayer, because for me, dear Wladek, our Lord God is the first and you the second. Don't be angry if I bore you with my letters, but it is for me a great comfort to be able to speak with you at least through this paper. Her financial situation grows steadily worse, and in 1912 she writes that she is "already barefooted and naked." The series closes with a letter from a friend stating that she is ill and in the hospital, "not so dangerously sick, but suffering very much ... and very weak from bad nutrition and continuous sorrows." He closes: "And please write a little more affectionately. Only do it soon, for it will be the best medicine for your wife, at least for her heart" (p. 368). KEEPING BOARDERS The life of the man who has come ahead has been made the subject of special study from time to time,[2] especially with regard to the housing conditions in which he lives--as a lodger or a member of a nonfamily group of men. It has been shown in all these studies that whatever the plan worked out, he adapts himself either to a life of intimate familiarity with women and children not his own, or to a life in which children and women have little part. In connection with the present study, the living conditions of some of the Mexicans and Russians in Chicago were studied. As in the past, the men were found living in one of the following ways: as a lodger in the family group, as a boarder paying a fixed sum for room and board, or as a member of a group of men attempting to do their own housekeeping. The Mexicans studied included 207 men, of whom 197, or 95 per cent, are unmarried. The Russians included 112 men, of whom 65, or 58 per cent, had wives in Russia. It is interesting to note that 136 of the 207 Mexican men were boarding, usually with a Mexican family, 37 were lodgers, and 34 were doing co-operative housekeeping. Among the Russians, on the other hand, there were 25 doing co-operative housekeeping, and 85 living with family groups, of whom only a few paid a fixed sum for room and board, while the others paid a fixed rate for lodging and the food bill depended on the food that was consumed. [Illustration: EVEN A BOARDING HOUSE OF EIGHTEEN BOARDERS IN FIVE ROOMS IS MORE CHEERFUL THAN A LABOR CAMP FOR MEN ALONE] Four variations were found in the method of paying for food: (1) The landlady buys all the food for the group and her family on one account. The total bill is divided by the number of boarders plus the head of the family, the wife and children getting their food as partial compensation for her services. (2) Each lodger has his own account book, in which is entered only the meat purchased for him. He pays this account himself. The other food purchased is entered in the landlady's book, and divided in the same manner as before. (3) Each lodger has his own account and buys what he wants. Instead of paying for what he has bought, he pays his share of the total food bought during the week. (4) Each lodger has his own account, the family has its own, and each pays his own. Whatever expedient is adopted as a substitute for normal family life, the result is unsatisfactory. The men studied almost without exception preferred living as boarders with a family group, if possible. This preference is easily understood, as it meant less work for the men, who, in co-operative groups, had to do women's work as well as their own, and it also seemed a closer approximation to normal living. For the sake of these advantages they were willing to put up with housing conditions that were worse than those of the men who tried co-operative housekeeping. Thus 56 per cent of the Russian men in co-operative groups had the four hundred cubic feet of air per man that is required by law, and only 35 per cent of those living with family groups had this requirement. The presence of a lodger in the family, moreover, is attended with great discomfort to the family. He is given the best accommodations the house affords and the family crowds into what is left. Thus, in the family groups with whom the Russians were living, only 18 per cent of the adult members of the family had the four hundred cubic feet of air required by the city ordinance for a person over twelve, as compared with 35 per cent of the boarders or lodgers, and forty of the fifty-three children in the groups were deprived of the two hundred cubic feet of air space that is prescribed for them. The people with whom we have conferred in this study have said again and again that the lodger in a family meant restriction and deprivation for the family, and especially for the children. One Lithuanian woman who came to this country when she was two years old, says she well remembers the "utter misery" of her childhood, due to the lodgers. They were given all the beds and any other sleeping arrangements that could be contrived, and the children slept on the floor in any corner. Their sleep was often disturbed by people moving about. Sometimes they were wakened and sent to the saloon to get beer for a group of lodgers who sat up late playing cards and drinking. She remembers, too, the constant quarreling over the food bill, and thinks that is very common. The complicated system by which the accounts are kept, to which attention has already been called, makes suspicion on the part of the lodger only too easy. Several people have spoken of the unsteady character of the lodger and the practice of staying up late, drinking. One of the women interviewed said that the family life was much easier, now that it was no longer necessary to keep lodgers, for when there were lodgers in the house they always had beer, and her husband would drink with them. Other people have spoken of the women drinking with the lodgers, and it was said that anyone who read the foreign-language newspapers would see many such advertisements as: "I am left alone with my three children; my wife has gone off with a lodger. Anyone having information, please communicate with..." THE MAN WITHOUT A FAMILY Life in a men's co-operative housekeeping establishment is usually more difficult, for upon them falls the burden of maintaining cleanliness in the household, and in many cases preparing their own meals. Some of the Mexican men visited at nine o'clock in the evening were preparing food for the next day's lunch. An important consideration here is the high cost of living under such conditions. The immigrant woman may not be a skillful buyer, but the immigrant man is evidently a most extravagant one. Among the Mexicans, for example, it was found that the men living in co-operative groups paid practically as much for the food which they themselves prepared as the men living in boarding houses paid for board and room. Their food cost seven to eight dollars per man per week. These studies showed the same lack of opportunities for wholesome recreation and for meeting nice girls, as well as the same restlessness of the men as did earlier studies. This was especially noticeable among the Mexicans, who spoke with longing of their Mexican dances that lasted two days and were held almost every week-end, and of the band concerts to which they could often go. No matter how poor their furniture, most of them had one or two musical instruments which they played, and usually there was one phonograph for the group. They found these poor substitutes for group music, where they could have not only the music but the social time. In brief, these studies of nonfamily men in 1919 show that the problem of adequate housing and some form of normal social life for the men who come ahead of their families is a recurring one. The nationality of the group changes as one immigration wave succeeds another. With the change in nationality come minor changes in the needs and desires of the group, but the main problem remains the same. It should never be forgotten that the impressions these men receive during their early life in the United States form the basis of their judgment concerning American life. Moreover, the life they lead during this period of separation from their families must inevitably affect their family relationships when family life is re-established, whether it be in this country or in the country from which they come. The first national recognition of the needs of the men was evident in the plans of the United States Housing Corporation.[3] These provided for separate lodging houses for men, where each man had a room of his own, with an adequate amount of air space, and where bathing and toilet facilities were provided. Recreational needs were met by having a smoking room, reading room, and billiard room in each house, and, unless provided elsewhere in the community, bowling alleys in the basement. It has been repeatedly emphasized to us that the men would not be satisfied unless a lodging house for them were run by some one who could speak their language, knew their national tastes, and could understand their problems. The availability of houses of this type to the immigrant men in nonfamily groups would depend to a great extent on their administration, but it is apparent that such a housing plan is not impossible of attainment. THE SINGLE WOMAN It is not always the man who comes alone to this country. Often the girl comes in advance of the others and sends money back to bring over her parents and younger brothers and sisters. Attention has been called again and again to the hazards for the girl thrown on her own resources in a strange country among people she does not know, whose language she does not understand.[4] She has, in fact, the same problem to solve as the man who has come alone, but she is further hampered both by economic and social handicaps. She is probably from a country where the life of a woman has been protected and circumscribed, and to find herself in a country where the conditions and status of women are freer, makes both for confusion and complications. A false step is of more serious consequence to her than to a man, and without guidance and assistance she may sometimes take this in ignorance or thoughtlessness. Equally changed are her living conditions here. She has the same ways of living open to her that are open to the man--boarding or lodging with a family group or setting up a co-operative household with a group of girls. The girl living in the latter way does not have as many difficulties as the man in the same situation, for women are used to doing housework. Yet if men find it too difficult to be both wage earners and housekeepers, it is surely too hard for girls. If, on the other hand, the girl finds lodging with a family group, life is not much easier, for she is expected to help with the household tasks, even though she is charged as much as the man lodger, who usually is exempt from any household responsibility. The inevitable assumption that any extra tasks of housework or sewing should fall to the women may make for a disproportionately long and tedious day for the woman lodger. The compensation of having the protection and sociability of a family group may thus be outweighed by the burden of overwork. Added to this, the prevalent necessity of overcrowding the households with boarders, puts a hardship upon women that often is not felt by men. The need of providing adequate and safe lodging for the girl away from home has been felt in many places and by numerous organizations. Too often facilities have appealed only to the native born or thoroughly initiated immigrant girl. The International Institute of the Young Women's Christian Association has helped immigrants to find suitable homes. This has local branches in more than thirty cities, many of which are helping to meet the housing problems of the immigrant girls. The government, in its housing projects, provided accommodations for the single girls similar to those provided for single men. They built boarding houses for from seventy-five to a hundred and fifty girls, with separate rooms and adequate toilet and bathing facilities. Each floor had a matron's office, so placed as to overlook the entrance and access to the sleeping quarters, and there was either a reception parlor or alcove for every twenty women, or a large parlor with furniture arranged for privacy in conversation. An assembly hall was provided with movable partitions and set stage. Kitchenette, sitting room, and sewing room were provided on at least alternate floors, and the building contained an infirmary and laundry for the use of the girls.[5] Information is not at hand as to whether any of these houses were used by groups of immigrant girls. Similar houses could, however, easily be made useful for them if care were taken to put them in charge of some one who understood the problems of the foreign-born girl. More desirable still are projects undertaken by groups of foreign-born women themselves.[6] In this way the problems and tastes of the different nationality groups are taken into consideration, confidence and co-operation on the part of the girls more easily won, and an independent and ultimately self-directed plan will be realized. [Illustration: ALMOST AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY] THE MIGRANT FAMILY Even when all the family has reached this country the problems of migration have not always ended. Many families do not establish a permanent home in the first place in which they settle, but move from place to place, and in each place there is a new set of conditions to which to adjust themselves. Of the ninety families visited in Chicago for this study, information on this point was obtained from only forty-two. Nineteen of these came directly to Chicago, but twenty-three had lived in other places. Five of them had been in the Pennsylvania mining district around Pittsburgh, two had been in North Dakota on a farm, two had been in a New Jersey manufacturing town, and the others had been at widely different places in other cities--New York, Philadelphia, Galveston, Texas, Boston--in small towns in the Middle West, and on plantations in Louisiana. Some had moved several times. A Polish family, for example, had lived first in Boston, then in New York City, then somewhere in Canada, before they finally settled in Chicago. Another Ukrainian family, from Galicia, lived first in one mining town in Pennsylvania, then in another in the same state, and later moved to Chicago. The mother, who is a very intelligent woman, described her first impression of America when she, with her four children, arrived in the little mining town. She said that immigrants were living there, everything was dirty and ugly, and she was shocked by the number of drunken men and women she saw on the streets, "having not been accustomed to see them in the old country." She wished to return immediately and did not even want to unpack her belongings. For a whole year she lived amid these squalid surroundings, until her husband got work in another town where conditions seemed a little better. Sometimes these changes mean family separations, as the man again goes ahead, as he did in coming to this country. The experience of a Polish family is typical. When the family first came to this country they went to Iron Mountain, Michigan, where the father worked in the ore mines until he lost his health. Then a sister of his wife, who was living in South Chicago, invited him to visit her family, and offered to get work for him in the steel mills. He came, living with his sister-in-law, and after a few months obtained work in the mills. Then the mother and children followed him. FROM FARMING TO INDUSTRY Another fact to which attention should be called is the adjustment in family life required by contact with the modern industrial system. Some of the immigrant groups come from countries more developed in an industrial way than others, but none of the newer groups come from any country in which the factory system has become so prevalent as in the United States. In the old country the family still exercised productive functions as a unit. It had access to tillable land, and was an essential part of an industrial system that is still organically related to the stage of development of the country. It had, therefore, within itself, the sources of self-support and self-determination. The civilization of which it was a part may be a declining civilization; but the conditions of life were those to which the wife and mother were accustomed. She took them for granted, felt at home among them, and was not conscious of being overwhelmed by them. In the modern American industrial community, however, the family as a whole is generally divorced from land. It is not a unit in relation to the industrial organization, but in its productive function is usually broken up by it. For the family must live, and yet its income is dependent, not upon its size nor the volume of its needs, but upon the wage-earning capacity of the man under the prevailing system of bargaining. That the resulting income has often been wholly inadequate, even according to the modest standards set by dietetic experts and by social investigators, is testified to by an enormous body of data gathered during the decade preceding the Great War.[7] It is unnecessary to review these studies in detail, but attention may be called to the findings of the Immigration Commission. Of the foreign-born male heads of households studied, 4,506, or 34.1 per cent, earned less than four hundred dollars a year at a time when dietetic experts agreed that five hundred dollars was a minimum below which it was dangerous for families to fall. Seventy per cent earned less than six hundred dollars. These figures may be said to come from "far away and long ago," but while there has not been time for widespread inquiry, there is a considerable body of evidence indicating that the same condition prevails to-day. Wages have increased greatly during the war, but with the increase in prices there is doubt as to whether real wages have increased or decreased. Certainly the increase has been irregular and uneven, affecting the workers in some industries much more than in others. The New York State Industrial Commission made a study of the average weekly earnings of labor in the factories of the state. They found that between June, 1914, and June, 1918, wages had increased 64 per cent.[8] The United States Bureau of Labor Statistics made a study of food. Taking the year 1913 as the base, or 100, wages in 1907 were 92 and the retail prices of food, 82, and in 1918 wages were 130 and food 168. That is, the price of food increased much more rapidly than the average union wage scale between 1907 and 1918.[9] As a result of these low earnings, the wife and children in many immigrant families have been forced into the industrial field and even then the resulting incomes have often been inadequate. The Immigration Commission found that almost one third of the foreign-born families studied had a total family income of under five hundred dollars, and almost two thirds had incomes less than seven hundred and fifty dollars. Not only is the family income often inadequate and composite, but precarious and uncertain. The need for food is a regularly recurring need; the demand for labor may be seasonal, periodically interrupted, and in time of crisis wholly uncertain. Although child labor laws have been enacted in many states and by the United States Congress, they are comparatively recent. Their absence in earlier years has had its inevitable effect on many foreign born. Many of the leaders in the immigrant groups who came here when they were still children, tell of stopping school and going to work. One Lithuanian woman, who is among the more prosperous of the group in Chicago, said that she stopped school when she was twelve, and went to work in a fruit-packing concern, working ten hours a day and earning five dollars a week, which she gave to her father. Another worked as a cash girl in a downtown store at the age of thirteen. Similarly, in one of the Russian families now living in Chicago, the girls were fourteen and nine when they came to this country and settled in a New Jersey town. The older was sent to work at once, and the younger a year later. Now, after nine years in this country, neither girl can speak English. The present laws are not always efficiently enforced, and the child of the foreign born suffers especially from such failure to enforce the law. In one of the mining communities of Illinois, visited in the spring of 1919, Italian boys as young as twelve were found working in the mines. In New Mexico, children of twelve and ten, and even younger, were taken out of school each year in the spring to go with their fathers to work on other men's farms or to herd sheep. Our investigator was impressed, in Rolling Prairie, with the need of including agriculture among the occupations from which young children are prohibited as wage earners. THE WAGE-EARNING MOTHER Of the mother's work, notice must be taken. People interviewed in this study were almost unanimously of the opinion that immigrant women were adding to the family income in many cases. If the children are too young to be left alone, the father's inadequate income is supplemented by taking lodgers. Too often, however, the mother works outside the home for wages. Indeed, a number of people were of the opinion that the employment of women has increased during the war. Among the more recently arrived Bohemians, for example, it was said that mothers of small children were going to work as never before, because taking lodgers was not possible, as single men have not been coming in such large numbers since the war. The older settlers felt that they must take advantage of the relatively high wages offered women to make payments on property. Lithuanian observers say that partly because of prejudice against it, Lithuanian married women have not gone out of their homes to work until recently. With the war, the increased cost of living, the higher wages offered to women, and the appeal that was made to their patriotism, many women had gone into industry, especially to work in "the yards." Ukrainian and Slovenian women are also said to be working in large numbers, but Croatian women are still said to stay in their homes and contribute to the income by taking lodgers. In addition to this testimony, which was obtained from leaders of the national groups, there is also the information obtained from individual families. Of the ninety women from whom information was obtained in Chicago, twenty were working outside their homes and twenty-four had lodgers at the time of the study. When it is remembered that these families were those who have worked their way through the first difficulties, these figures become doubly significant. There is, for example, a Ukrainian family from the Russian Ukraine. It consists of the parents and four children between the ages of three and fifteen. Ever since the family came to the United States they have had one or more lodgers to help them pay the rent. At present they have three men paying four dollars a month each; and as the father, who had been working in the stockyards for nineteen dollars a week, was discharged two months ago, the wife has been working in a spring factory to support the family. Then there is a Polish family, composed of the parents and four children under fourteen, two of them children of the man by a former wife. The father has been in this country since 1894, but his wife has been here only since 1910. For two years after their marriage the wife worked at night, scrubbing from 6.30 to 9.30 p.m., and received twenty-four dollars a month. Then there was an interval while her children were babies, during which she did not work, but the family lived on the earnings of the father. For the last two years, however, his work has been slack, first because of a strike, and later due to an industrial depression in his trade, and the mother is again at work, this time in a tailor shop, earning ten dollars a week. The effect of the mother's work in decreasing the child's chances for life has been made clear by the studies of the Children's Bureau in Johnstown,[10] Montclair,[11] and Manchester,[12] in all of which a higher rate of infant mortality was shown for children of mothers gainfully employed. The effect of the mother's work on the family relationship and the home life of the family group is, of course, not measurable in absolute terms. The leaders of the various national groups, however, have repeatedly emphasized the fact that the absence of the women from the home has created entirely new problems in the family life. They have pointed out that while the peasant women have been accustomed to work in the fields in the old country, their work did not take them away from their homes as the work in this country does. If they were away there was usually some older woman to take care of the children. Here the work of the mother frequently results in neglect of the children and the home. In recognition of this fact attempts have been made to solve the problem. Among Slovenians it was customary, before the war made it impossible, to send the children back to the old country to their grandmothers to be cared for. One priest said he had seen women taking as many as twelve children to a single village. The Ukrainians in Chicago have talked of establishing a day nursery to look after their children, but the people are poor, and it has not been possible to raise the money. In the meantime children are not sent to the day nurseries already established, but are commonly taken to neighbors, some of whom are paid for taking care of ten or twelve children. This arrangement constitutes a violation of the city ordinance requiring day nurseries to be licensed, but is evidently a violation quite unconsciously committed by both parties to the transaction. A group of nonworking Lithuanian women heard that neglected children were reported to the settlement in the neighborhood. One of the women investigated, and found many children locked in houses for the day, with coffee and bread for lunch. One child, too small to shift for himself, was found with his day's supply of food tied around his neck. The women decided to open a nursery in charge of a Lithuanian woman who would be able to speak to the children in their own language, as few children below school age spoke English. The original plans were to accommodate ten or twelve children, but as soon as the nursery opened there were so many women wanting to leave their children there that it took as many as thirty children. The nursery was maintained for about eighteen months, and was then closed because of the difficulty of raising the necessary funds. Some such plan must be developed that takes care of the foreign-born mother's work if she is forced to supplement the family's income outside of the home. The organization of family life that has grown up parallel with the industrial system assumes her presence in the home. When misfortune makes this impossible some provision for caring for the children must be found. CHANGED DUTIES OF A MOTHER Another changed condition in the life in this country is that the family group is usually what the sociologist calls the "marriage" group, as distinguished from the "familial" group, which is generally found in the old country. The grandmothers and maiden aunts, who were part of the group in the old country, and who shared with the mother all the work of the household, are not with them in this country. The older women are seldom brought on the long journey, and the maiden aunt is either employed in the factory system, or she sets up a house of her own, so that in any event her assistance in the work of the household can no longer be relied on. It is perhaps the grandmother that is missed the more, because it was to her that the mother of a family was wont to turn for advice as well as assistance. This decrease in the number of people in the household is not compensated for by the diminution in the amount of work, which is another fact of changed conditions. For in this country the housewife no longer spins and weaves, or even, as a rule, makes the cloth into clothing. She does not work in the fields, or care for the garden or the farm animals, all of which she was expected to do in the old country. The loss of the older women in the group, however, means that what tasks are left must all be done by her. The duties of the housewife may not be as many, but the work they involve may be more. This is true, for example, in the matter of feeding the family. In Lithuania soup was the fare three times daily, and there were only a few variations in kind. Here the family soon demands meat, coffee, and other things that are different from the food she has cooked in the old country.... Occasionally the situation is further complicated by the insistence of dietetic experts that the immigrant mother cannot feed her family intelligently unless she has some knowledge of food values. In other words, the work of the housewife was easy in the old country because it was well done--if it was done in the way her mother did it--and conformed to the standards that she knew. It could thus become a matter of routine that did not involve the expenditure of nervous energy. Here, on the other hand, she must conform to standards that are constantly changing, and must learn to do things in a way her mother never dreamed of doing them. And there is the new and difficult task of planning the use of the family income, which takes on a new and unfamiliar form. In spite of all that has been taken out of the home the duties of the housewife remain manifold and various. She is responsible for the care of the house, for the selection and preparation of food, for spending the part of the income devoted to present needs, and for planning and sharing in the sacrifices thought necessary to provide against future needs. She must both bear and rear her children. The responsibilities and satisfactions of her relationship with her husband are too often last in the list of her daily preoccupations, but by no means least in importance, if one of the essentials of a home is to be maintained. The enumeration of the tasks of any wife and mother throws into relief the difficulties of the foreign-born mother. The all too frequent cases where homes are deprived of her presence emphasize how indispensable she is. All case-work agencies have had to grapple with the problem of families suffering this deprivation. It is these motherless families that make us realize how many tasks and responsibilities fall to the lot of the mother. There was a motherless Russian family, consisting of the father and six children, the oldest a girl of thirteen and the youngest a five-month-old boy. For a time the family tried to get along without asking advice of an outside agency. The baby was placed with friends, and the thirteen-year-old girl stopped school to care for the five-room flat and the other four children. In a short time the family with whom the baby was placed wanted to adopt him, and refused to keep him longer on any other condition. At this time the Immigrant's Protective League was appealed to for help in placing the baby where he would not have to be given for adoption. They found the father making a pathetic attempt to keep the home and children clean, and the oldest girl, Marya, trying hard to take her mother's place. The best plan they were able to work out for the family was institutional care for the youngest two children, nursery care outside of school hours for the next two, and the two oldest left to take care of themselves, although given lunch at the school. Marya, of course, was sent back to school, and she and her father share the housekeeping. PATERNAL AUTHORITY PASSING A third change should be taken into account. There is a marked difference between the general position of women and children in relation to the authority of the husband and father in this country and that in the old country. It is indicated in both general opinion and express statutory amendment in this country, although not in the so-called common law. The latter, in common with practice in the native lands of immigrants, provided that marriage gave the husband the right to determine where the domicile should be, the right "reasonably to discipline" wife and children, the right to claim her services and to appropriate her earnings and those of the children, the right to take any personal property (except "_paraphernalia_" and "_pin money_") she might have in full ownership, the right to manage any land she might become entitled to, and the right to enjoy the custody of the children, regardless of the maintenance of his conjugal fidelity, in the absence of such obscene and drunken conduct on his part as would be obviously demoralizing to the young child. There existed no adequate provision for enforcing the father's performance of either conjugal or parental obligations, and the result has been the development of two bodies of legislative change. One of these has granted to the wife certain rights as against the husband, on the theory that the wife retains her separate existence after marriage and should retain rights of individual action. The other body of statutes imposes on the man the duty of support, making abandonment or refusal to support punishable by fine or imprisonment, or both. The theory of this legislation is that the support of wife and children is to be a legally enforceable duty, which may rightly be laid upon the man because of his special interest and special ability. Moreover, through the establishment of the juvenile court, the community has undertaken, not only to say that support must be given, but to set a standard of "proper parental care" below which family groups are not to be allowed to sink and still remain independent and intact. By creating the juvenile probation staff, an official assistant parent is provided. In the same way, by authorizing commitment of children to institutions, the dissolution of the home that falls persistently to too low a standard is made possible. The common law, as accepted in the various states, was not entirely uniform, but it was substantially the universal family law; now the states differ widely in the body of statutory enactments developed in this field. All have some laws recognizing the claims of children to have their home conditions scrutinized--though they may have no express juvenile-court law, all recognize to some extent the separate existence of the married women--though only twenty-one have given the mother substantial rights as against the father over their children, and they all recognize the parent's duty to secure the child's attendance at school, and have imposed some limitation on the parent's right to set his young child to work. In other words, in all the states the idea of the separate existence of the wife and of the interest of the community in the kind of care given the child has been embodied in legislation. These statutes have been enacted by legislatures composed largely, if not exclusively, of men, and register the general change in the community attitude toward the family group. An unlimited autocracy is gradually becoming what might now be termed a constitutional democracy. But the law of the jurisdictions from which most of the immigrant groups come, undoubtedly represents a theory of family relationship not widely different from that underlying the common law. The South Italian group, in which the right of the father to discipline wife and daughter is passed on to the son, may represent an extreme survival of the patriarchal idea; but almost all the foreign-born groups hold to the dominion of man over woman, and of parents over children. Immigrant groups evidence their realization of the changed conditions in different ways. Among the Ukrainians in Chicago, for example, it is said that, whereas in the old country the men kept complete control of the little money that came in, here they very generally turn it all over to their wives. Some of them have laughed, and said that America was the "women's country." Among other groups, notably the Jugo-Slav and the Italian, there is said to be a general attempt to keep the women repressed and in much the same position they held in the old country. Sometimes the woman perceives the difference in the situation more quickly than her husband. Then if he attempts to retain the old authorities in form and in spirit, she may submit or else she may gradually lead him to an understanding. But she may not understand and yet may rebel and carry her difficulty to the case-work agency. One of the settlements in Chicago is said to have become very unpopular with the men in its neighborhood, as it has the reputation of breaking up families, because women who have been ill treated by their husbands have gone to the settlement to complain, and have there been given help in taking their complaints to court. The Immigrant's Protective League in Chicago receives many complaints from women who have learned that their husbands have not the right to beat them or their children. One Lithuanian woman, who had been in this country six years, came to the league with the statement that her husband often threw her and their eight-year-old son out of the house in the middle of the night. Another Lithuanian woman living in one of the suburbs took her three children and came to Chicago to her sisters, because her husband abused her, called her vile names, and beat her. When the husband was interviewed he agreed not to do so again, and his family returned to him. Of course, the theory underlying even the feminist "married woman's property laws" included not only her enjoyment of rights, but her exercise of legal responsibility; but the restrained exercise of newly acquired freedom is evidence of high social and personal development. And the women in the foreign-born groups come from the country, the village, the small town. They have had little education, their days have been filled with work, so that there has been little time for reflection, they come from a simple situation in which there was little temptation to do wrong. They find here, on the other hand, a situation which is complex in the extreme, and in which there are elements that tend to make matters especially difficult for women. Attention has already been called to the confusion created by the lodger in the home and the special temptation to the woman to desert her husband for the lodger. The relative scarcity of women in the group, the presence of large numbers of men who cannot enter a legal marriage relationship because they have wives in the old country, the spiritual separation that often results from physical separation caused by the man's coming ahead to prepare a place--all these are undoubtedly factors that enter in to make difficult the wise use of her freedom. Native endowment, moral as well as physical and mental, varies among these women as among other women. Confronted with this confused and difficult situation, the change from the old sanctions, the old safeguards, even the old legal obligations, is difficult. It is inevitable that a few will find themselves unequal to the task of readjusting their lives. The father of one family came to the Immigrant's Protective League in Chicago, asking help because his wife had turned him out of his home. He said that she drank and was immoral. Instead of caring for the home and the two-year-old child, she spent her time behind the bar in her brother's saloon, having "a good time" with the customers. She had deserted six weeks before, but he had found her and had had her in the Court of Domestic Relations, where he had been persuaded to take her back. He said she was still drinking and still neglecting the child. Shortly after asking the help of the league, the father ran away, taking with him the child whom the mother left alone in the house while she went to the "movies." The women who assert themselves in their new rights are in a small minority. A young Polish woman complains that the women of her group are too submissive even in this country, and "bear beatings just as their mothers did in the old country." In the great majority of foreign-born families, as in all families, the question of the legal rights of the woman is never raised. The habits and attitudes formed under the old system of law and customs are carried over into the life in the new country, and are changed so gradually and imperceptibly that no apparent friction is caused in the family group. Moreover, in many cases where the woman perceives her changed position she is able to make her husband see it too, and she herself is able to work her way through to a new understanding. It is interesting to note that the women of the foreign-born groups who have worked their way through are now bending their energies toward helping the women who have not yet started. FOOTNOTES: [1] Thomas and Znaniecki, _The Polish Peasant_, vol. ii, pp. 298-455. [2] See _Report of U. S. Immigration Commission_, vol. viii, pp. 662-664. Also _Report of Massachusetts Immigration Commission_, 1914, pp. 64-69. Also "Studies in Chicago Housing Conditions," _American Journal of Sociology_, vol. xvi, no. 2 (September, 1910), pp. 145-170. [3] United States Department of Labor, _Report of United States Housing Corporation_, vol. ii, p. 507. [4] See Annual Reports of the Immigrants' Protective League, 1909-18; Massachusetts Immigration Commission, 1914, pp. 58-64; Abbott, Grace, _The Immigrant and the Community_, pp. 55, 56, and 68 fol. [5] _Report of the United States Housing Corporation_, vol. ii, p. 508. [6] See John Daniels, _America via the Neighborhood_, chap. iii. [7] See among other studies Chapin, _The Standard of Living Among Workingmen's Families in New York City_ (Russell Sage Foundation Publication, 1909), p. 234; Byington, _Homestead, the Households of a Mill Town_ (Russell Sage Foundation Publication, 1910), p. 105; Kennedy and others, _Wages and Family Budgets in the Chicago Stock Yards District_ (University of Chicago Settlement, 1914), pp. 78-79; _Eighteenth Annual Report of the U. S. Commissioner of Labor_; U. S. Bureau of Labor, _Report on Condition of Woman and Child Wage Earners in the United States_, vol. xvi, "Family Budgets of Typical Cotton-mill Workers," pp. 142, 250; _Report of the U. S. Immigration Commission_, vol. xix, p. 223. [8] _United States Bureau of Labor Monthly Review_, July, 1919, p. 48. [9] _Ibid._, March, 1919, p. 119. [10] "Infant Mortality, Results of a Field Study in Johnstown, Pennsylvania," U. S. Children's Bureau Publication No. 9. [11] "Infant Mortality, A Study of Infant Mortality in a Suburban Community," U. S. Children's Bureau Publication No. 11. [12] "Infant Mortality, Results of a Field Study in Manchester, New Hampshire," U. S. Children's Bureau Publication No. 20. III THE CARE OF THE HOUSE The work that the housewife must do in the care of the house is the maintenance of such standards of cleanliness and order as are to prevail. It includes the daily routine tasks of bedmaking, cooking, sweeping, dusting, dishwashing, disposing of waste, and the heavier work of washing, ironing, and periodic cleanings. NEW HOUSEKEEPING CONDITIONS The foreign-born housewife finds this work particularly difficult for many reasons. In the first place, housekeeping in the country from which she came was done under such different conditions that it here becomes almost a new problem in which her experience in the old country may prove of little use. The extent to which this is true varies from group to group. To understand the problems of any particular group, careful study should be made of the living conditions and housekeeping practices in the country from which it came. Some of the women with whom we have conferred have described housekeeping as they knew it in the old country. These descriptions are suggestive of the character of the change and the difficulties involved. Mrs. P., a Polish woman from Posen, for example, said that: Houses in the village in which she lived were made of clay, with thatched roofs, clay floors, and about ten feet high. They were made in rows, for four families or two families, with one outer door opening from a hall into which the doors from all the dwellings opened. Each dwelling had one small window, and a fireplace. Water was out of doors. In the four-family house there were two chimneys. The outside door did not open into the road. [Illustration: FLOOR PLAN OF HOUSES IN POLAND] The floors were covered with sand, and new sand was put on when the room was cleaned. The fireplace had a hook from which hung the kettle, and in one corner was the oven, a little place set off by a board covered with clay. Walls were whitewashed. Mrs. P. said that the housework is much more difficult in this country, with the cleaning of woodwork, washing windows, care of curtains, carpets, and dishes, and more elaborate cooking. In the old country the family washing was done only once a month, except in cases where there were small children. Then it was done weekly; and if the family lacked sufficient clothing, the washing had to be done oftener. There the meal was one dish, from which the entire family ate; here there is a variety of food and each person has his own plate and eating utensils, so that even the dishwashing is a greater task. In coming to this country many women do not see that the windows need washing or that the woodwork should be cleaned, etc. The beds were made of boards covered with straw, not as a straw mattress. Sheets were laid over the straw to make it softer. Each person had two pillows, very large and full, so that they sleep in a "half sitting" position. Feather beds are used for warmth, and no quilts or blankets were known in the old country. Lithuanian women, likewise, have pointed out that at home most of the women worked in the fields, and that what housekeeping was done was of the simplest kind. The peasant house consisted of two rooms, one of which was used only on state occasions, a visit from the priest, a wedding, christening, or a funeral. In summer no one sleeps in the house, but all sleep out of doors in the hay; in winter, women with small children sleep inside, but the others sleep in the granary. Feather beds are, in these circumstances, a real necessity. Thus the bed that is found in this country is unknown in Lithuania, and the women naturally do not know how to care for one. They not only do not realize the need of airing it, turning the mattress, and changing the bedding, but do not even know how to make it up properly. Other processes of housekeeping--dishwashing, scrubbing, and washing--prove equally difficult, and it is said that most of the women do things in the hardest possible way, chiefly because the processes are different here and they lack the technique to do their work in the easier way. Naturally, too, when work in the fields has occupied most of their time, they lack also habits of order and routine in their household tasks. The Italian women, especially those from southern Italy and Sicily, have also spoken of their difficulties in housekeeping under new conditions. In Italy the houses, even of the relatively well-to-do peasants, were two-room affairs with earthen floors and little furniture. The women had little time to give to the care of the house, and its comfort and order were not considered important. The experience in doing the family washing is said to typify the change. In Italy washing is done once a month, or at most, once a fortnight, in the poorer families. Clothes are placed in a great vat or tub of cold water, covered with a cloth on which is sprinkled wood ashes, and allowed to stand overnight. In the morning they are taken to a stream or fountain, and washed in running water. They are dried on trees and bushes in the bright, Italian sunlight. Such methods of laundry work do not teach the women anything about washing in this country, and they are said to make difficult work of it in many cases. They learn that clothes are boiled here, but they do not know which clothes to boil and which to wash without boiling; and as a result they often boil all sorts of clothing, colored and white, together. In Italy washing is a social function; here it is a task for each individual woman. DEMANDS OF AMERICAN COOKERY Cooking in this country varies in difficulty in the different national groups. In the case of the Lithuanians and Poles, for example, the old-country cooking is simple and easily done. Among others it is a fine art, requiring much time and skill. The Italian cooking, of course, is well known, as is also the Hungarian. Among the Bohemians and Croatians, too, the housewives are proverbially good cooks and spend long hours over the preparation of food. Croatian women in this country are said to regard American cookery with scorn. They say that Croatian women do not expect to get a meal in less than two or three hours, while here all the emphasis is on foods that can be prepared in twenty or thirty minutes. It is not always easy to transplant this art of cookery, even if the women had time to practice it here as they did at home. The materials can usually be obtained, although often at a considerable expense, but the equipment with which they cook and the stoves on which they cook are entirely different. The Italian women, for example, cannot bake their bread in the ovens of the stoves that they use here. Tomato paste, for example, is used in great quantities by Italian families, and is made at home by drying the tomatoes in the open air. When an attempt is made to do this in almost any large city the tomatoes get not only the sunshine, but the soot and dirt of the city. The more particular Italians here will not make tomato paste outdoors, but large numbers of Italian families continue to make it, as can be seen by a walk through any Italian district in late August or early September. In general, in the groups in which cooking was highly developed, a great deal of time was devoted to the preparation of food. If the housewife wishes to reduce her work in this country, she finds that some of the ingredients which make our cooking simpler are unknown to her. The Bohemians, for example, do not know how to use baking powder, and the same is true of the women in Lithuanian, Polish, and Russian groups, where the art of cooking is less developed. With this lack of experience in housekeeping under comparable conditions, the foreign-born housewife finds the transition to housekeeping in this country difficult at best. As a matter of fact, however, the circumstances under which she must make the change are often of the worst. She is expected to maintain standards of cleanliness and sanitary housekeeping that have developed with modern systems of plumbing and facilities for the disposal of waste that are not always to be found in the districts in which she lives. Even a skillful housewife finds housekeeping difficult in such houses as are usually occupied by recently arrived immigrants. WATER SUPPLY ESSENTIAL In the first place, there is the question of water supply. Cleanliness of house, clothing, and even of person is extremely difficult in a modern industrial community, without an adequate supply of hot and cold water within the dwelling. We are, however, very far from realizing this condition. In some cities[13] the law requires that there shall be a sink with running water in every dwelling, but in other cities even this minimum is not required. The United States Immigration Commission, for example, found that 1,413 households out of 8,651 foreign-born households studied in seven large cities, shared their water supply with other families. Conditions have improved in this respect during the last decade, but it is a great handicap to efficient housekeeping if water has to be carried any distance. Further inconvenience results if running hot water is not available, which is too often the case in the homes of the foreign born. [Illustration: THIS PUMP SUPPLIES WATER TO FOUR FAMILIES] Cleanliness is also dependent, in part, upon the facilities for the disposition of human waste, the convenient and accessible toilet connected with a sewer system. These facilities are lacking in many immigrant neighborhoods, as has been repeatedly shown in various housing investigations. For example, in a Slovak district in the Twentieth Ward, Chicago, 80 per cent of the families were using toilets located in the cellar, yard, or under the sidewalk, and in many cases sharing such toilets with other families. One yard toilet was used by five families, consisting of twenty-eight persons.[14] The danger to health, and the lack of privacy, that such toilet accommodations mean have been often emphasized. In addition, it enormously increases the work of the housewife and makes cleanliness difficult, if not impossible. There is also the question of heating and lighting the house. Whenever light is provided by the oil lamp, it must be filled and cleaned; and when heat is provided by the coal stove, it means that the housewife must keep the fires going and dispose of the inevitable dirt and ashes. In the old country the provision of fuel was part of the woman's duties; and in this country, as coal is so expensive, many women feel they must continue this function. Here this means picking up fuel wherever it can be found--in dump heaps and along the railroad tracks. A leading Bohemian politician said that he often thought, as he saw women prominent in Bohemian society, "Well, times have changed since you used to pick up coal along the railroad tracks." OVERCROWDING HAMPERS THE HOUSEWIFE The influence of overcrowding on the work of the housewife must also be considered in connection with housekeeping in immigrant households. That overcrowding exists has been pointed out again and again. Ordinances have been framed to try to prevent it, but it has persisted. In the studies of Chicago housing a large percentage of the bedrooms have always been found illegally occupied. The per cent of the rooms so occupied varied from 30 in one Italian district to 72 in the Slavic district around the steel mills. The United States Immigration Commission found, for example, that 5,305, or 35.1 per cent, of the families studied in industrial centers used all rooms but one for sleeping, and another 771 families used even the kitchen. Crowding means denial of opportunity for skillful and artistic performance of tasks. "A place for everything and everything in its place," suggests appropriate assignment of articles of use to their proper niches, corners, and shelves. One room for everything except sleeping--cooking, washing, caring for the children, catching a breath for the moment--means no repose, no calm, no opportunity for planning that order which is the law of the well-governed home. Yet there is abundant evidence that many families have had to live in just such conditions. The housework for the foreign-born housewife is often complicated by other factors. One is the practice to which reference has been already made of taking lodgers to supplement the father's wages. In discussing this subject from the point of view of the lodger, it has been pointed out that the practice with reference to the taking of boarders and lodgers varies in different places and among different groups. The amounts paid were not noted there, but they become important when considered together with the service asked of the housewife. Usually the boarder or lodger pays a fixed monthly sum--from $2 to $3.50, or, more rarely, $4 a month--for lodging, cleaning, washing, and cooking; his food is secured separately, the account being entered in a grocery book and settled at regular intervals. Sometimes the lodger does his own buying, but the more common custom is to have the housewife do it. Occasionally he does his own cooking, in which case payment for lodging secures him the right to use the stove. More rarely, as in some of the Mexican families visited in Chicago in 1919, he is a regular boarder, paying a weekly sum for room and board. Just what keeping lodgers means in adding to the duties of the housewife can be seen from the following description of the work of the Serbo-Croatian women in Johnstown, Pennsylvania:[15] The wife, without extra charge, makes up the beds, does the washing and ironing, and buys and prepares the food for all the lodgers. Usually she gets everything on credit, and the lodgers pay their respective shares biweekly. These conditions exist to some extent among other foreigners, but are not so prevalent among other nationalities in Johnstown as among the Serbo-Croatians. In a workingman's family, it is sometimes said, the woman's working day is two hours longer than the man's. But if this statement is correct in general, the augmentation stated is insufficient in these abnormal homes, where the women are required to have many meals and dinner buckets ready at irregular hours to accommodate men working on different shifts. The Serbo-Croatian women who, more than any of the others, do all this work, are big, handsome, and graceful, proud and reckless of their strength. During the progress of the investigation, in the winter months, they were frequently seen walking about the yards and courts, in bare feet, on the snow and ice-covered ground, hanging up clothes or carrying water into the house from a yard hydrant. WOMEN WORK OUTSIDE THE HOME Another factor that renders housekeeping difficult is the necessity of doing wage-paid work outside the home, to which reference has already been made. Women interviewed have repeatedly emphasized the difficulties that this practice creates in connection with the housekeeping. A recent study of children of working mothers, soon to be published by the United States Children's Bureau, carried on at the Chicago School of Civics and Philanthropy, obtained the testimony of the mothers as to the difficulties involved. This study showed that in many cases the household duties could not be performed at the proper time; 60 women, for example, of the 109 reporting on this question, said that they did not make their beds until night; 105 said their dishes were not washed after each meal, but in 41 cases were washed in the mornings, and in 56 not until night. Three washed them in the morning if they had time, and five left them for the children, after school. Many women who worked outside the home did their housekeeping without assistance from other members of the family. This meant that they had to get up early in the morning and frequently work late at night at laundry or cleaning; 49 women, for example, washed in the evening; 25 washed either Saturday, Sunday, or evenings. HOUSING IMPROVEMENT Enough has probably been said to show that the work of caring for the house under the conditions existing in most immigrant neighborhoods, is unnecessarily difficult for the foreign-born housewife. The most obvious point at which these burdens might be lightened so that the housewife could have time for other duties, would appear to be through improvement of housing. With an awakened realization of this fact, both on the part of the foreign-born woman herself and the community of which she is an inevitable part, will come the solution of these difficulties. A protest, however inarticulate or indirectly expressed by her, will find its response in a growing realization that plans for improvement must be developed. The several housing projects that have already been offered are suggestive of the problems and possibilities along this line rather than useful as hard-and-fast solutions. They not only meet the needs of the more inadequate immigrant housing conditions, but provide improvement upon most native-born conditions. In this connection interest naturally centers on the war-time housing projects of the United States government, on the experiment of the Massachusetts Homestead Commission at Lowell, and on certain enterprises carried out by so-called limited dividend companies. The first two are especially interesting, in that they recognize that supplying houses to the workers is not a function that can be wholly left to private initiative. It is not possible to discuss these projects in detail, nor is it necessary.[16] It is sufficient to consider them here with reference to the contributions they might make in helping the immigrant housewife. In the first place, they provide for a toilet and a bath in every house, and a supply of running water that is both adequate and convenient. In the matter of kitchen equipment there is an attempt to provide some of the conveniences. Both provide a sink and set wash-tubs equipped with covers. They must be set at a minimum of thirty-six inches from the floor in the United States plans. Both make provision for gas to be used for cooking, although the coal stove is accepted. The kitchens in the Massachusetts houses are also provided with kitchen cabinets, with shelves under the sink, and with a drain for the refrigerator. In other ways also consideration for the housewife is evidenced. Electricity is urged for lighting, passages through which furniture would not go are avoided, the size of the living room is adapted to the sizes of the most commonly purchased rugs, etc. Study of the Massachusetts plans reveals other interesting features, such as the care given to the location of the bathroom and the attention to the size of the doors, so that the mother at work in her kitchen can watch the children at play in other rooms. Both projects are interesting also in that they realize the necessity of a "front room" or parlor, and prescribe a minimum number of bedrooms--three in the Massachusetts, and two in the United States experiment. Both require closets in every bedroom wide enough to receive the men's garments on hangers, and rooms of such size that the bed can stand free of the wall and out of a draught. It is evident that the plans for houses in both projects provide very definite improvements in the matter of the conveniences to which the immigrant is not accustomed in the houses at present available to him. Some limitations, however, become apparent by comparing them with the recommendations of the Women's Subcommittee of the Ministry of Reconstruction Advisory Council, England. That committee emphasizes the importance of electricity for lighting, and urges "that a cheap supply of electricity for domestic purposes should be made available with the least possible delay." The American plans agree that electricity is the preferred lighting, but gas is accepted by the United States government, although not by the Massachusetts plan. There is no suggestion of developing a cheaper supply of electricity. The English women also suggest the desirability of a central heating plant as a measure that would lessen the work of the household, afford economies in fuel, and render a hot-water supply readily available. They urge, therefore, further experimentation with central heating. The American plans have no suggestions to make at this point, but accept the coal stove or the separate furnace in the higher-priced houses as the means of heating. While they provide for hot water, no suggestions are made as to how this is to be supplied. It is presumably done by a tank attached to the range, which means that hot water is not available when there is no fire in the range; that is, in summer and during the night. It should also be noted that these plans make no suggestions for co-operative use of any of the equipment of the household. There is another point at which the architects and builders failed to take sufficient notice of the problem of lightening the women's work--namely, in their attitude toward the separate family home as compared with the multiple family dwelling. The Massachusetts Commission was, by the terms of the Act creating it, limited to the provision of one or two-family houses; the United States government standards were definitely against the building occupied in whole or in part by three or more families. Tenement and apartment houses are considered generally undesirable, and will be accepted only in cities where, because of high land values, it is clearly demonstrated that single and two-family houses cannot be economically provided, or where there is insistent demand for this type of multiple housing. This judgment, however, has by no means met with universal approval. Those architects who think in terms of the woman's time and strength consider the merits of the group and of the multiple house. For example, those who planned the Black Rock Apartment House Group in Bridgeport, Connecticut, the open-stairway dwellings, the John Jay dwellings on East Seventy-seventh Street, New York City, and the Erwin, Tennessee, development, maintain that the advantages of the separate house in privacy, independence, and access to land can be secured by the multiple arrangement. Not only can economies in the use of the land be practiced, but protection and assistance for the women and children can be obtained, and there is the possibility of devices for convenient and collective performance of many tasks. It is unnecessary to review the arguments for the one or for the other. It is evident that the group house, and perhaps the multiple house, offer such inducements in the economy of space and the possibility of assigning areas of land to definite and anticipated uses, that their further adaptation to family needs must be contemplated. It is generally assumed that the family group wants the separate house. The question of interest for this study is one of the desire of the immigrant groups in this respect. Their preference should be an indispensable element in the formulation of housing standards. There is not, however, a great deal of evidence on this subject. The fact that immigrants live in the city in the congested districts may only indicate that they have had no choice in the matter. Most of the officers of certain immigrant building and loan associations interviewed for this study thought there was a preference for the single-family dwelling when it could be afforded. That also is the belief of the investigators in this study, who think that the use of multiple houses indicates not the immigrants' desires, but their acceptance of what is before them, and that the dream of almost every immigrant family is to have a house of its own, to which is attached a little garden. How far the desire for the separate house is confused with the desire for the garden would be difficult to say. It is certain, however, that in general the immigrant has known only one way to have the garden, and that was by having a separate house. There is universal agreement that especially the foreign-born family desires access to land for whose cultivation they may be responsible, and whose produce both in food and in flowers they may enjoy. Recently, however, certain architects have been interested in working out plans by which this advantage might be retained for dwellers in group or tenement houses. They have pointed out that one advantage of the group and multiple house is the setting free of spaces to be more skillfully adapted to the size and composition of the family. Attention may be called to certain devices that are urged by experienced architects in the matter of the use of land. For example, in the Morgan Park, Minnesota, development of the Illinois Steel Company, the architects have developed interesting plans in connection with their low-cost houses. These are all group houses, with a front space opening on an attractively planned street. At the rear of the house is a latticed porch--a small area graveled, but not grassed--and then the alley. Across the alley is the rear garden, which may thus be fenced in and kept separate from the house lot. [Illustration: A COMMUNITY PLAN SUBMITTED BY MILO HASTINGS IN THE AMERICAN HOUSING COMPETITION, 1919, SHOWING THE U VARIATIONS, THE BACK SERVICE STREET, THE PROVISION FOR REAR GARDENS, AND THE OPEN AREAS ON WHICH ALL THE HOUSES WILL FRONT (Reprinted by permission from the Journal of the American Institute of Architects, June, 1919)] Interesting suggestions on this point are to be found in the two articles, to which prizes were given by the American Institute of Architects in the June and July, 1919, numbers of their journal. There is much experimentation yet to be done, as the question of the separate house with its separate plot of ground is by no means a settled one. It is particularly desirable that the interest of the foreign born be enlisted, both that they may contribute to the solution of the question and that they may become acquainted with all the possibilities of access to the land which are being worked out. In spite of some defects and the need for further experimentation along the lines suggested above, there is no doubt that the projects of Massachusetts and of the Federal government mark a very real advance. The most pressing need is to construct a sufficient number of these houses so that they may be available for immigrant groups. One means of doing this is by the employer's building houses for the workers to buy or to rent. Although this has sometimes been found to help solve the housing situation, factors may enter that limit its usefulness. The industrial relationships between employer and employee may be such that subsidy for housing by employer would hinder rather than help. Where a community is largely comprised of one industry it may be very unwise for the industry to go so far toward the control of community affairs. Labor unrest in the northern iron ranges can be traced in part to such company provision of housing and sanitation. The limited dividend company, organized not for profit, and operating under the careful supervision of a governmental department, is another solution. This agency has been particularly successful in Massachusetts under the stimulus as well as under the supervision of the Massachusetts Homestead Commission, and is undoubtedly capable of further development. GOVERNMENT BUILDING LOANS Another possibility is that the local or state government advance the money and enable the worker to buy his own home. That is the plan adopted by the Massachusetts Homestead Commission in its experiment at Lowell. It is also one of the policies adopted by the Canadian government, which will loan money to provincial governments to be advanced for building houses on land owned (a) by the provincial or municipal government, (b) by the limited dividend company, (c) by the workman himself. This latter plan would probably commend itself most readily to the foreign-speaking groups. Direct loans by the local government to the worker are advocated in the careful and thorough plan worked out by Mrs. E. E. Wood.[17] One suggestion is a proposed amendment to the Postal Savings Law, authorizing loans from postal savings deposits to workers with annual incomes not in excess of twelve hundred dollars. The investigation of the application is to be in the hands of the nearest local housing board. A suggested amendment to the Farm Loan Act is that housing loans be made by the Farm Loan Board on the same terms on which farm loans are now authorized. It is interesting to note that this plan contemplates the continued activity of the building and loan associations with which the foreign born are already familiar. It suggests that the first loan be given by the government and the association be content with a second mortgage, receiving in return the greater stability that is secured from a transaction carried on under governmental supervision. According to Mrs. Wood's report, before 1915, 700,000 houses had been built or acquired in the United States through the aid of building and loan associations.[18] She thinks that the moderately paid wage earner, but not the unskilled worker, was benefited. This conclusion is disputed by officers of four building and loan associations in Chicago interviewed in connection with this study. That the associations reach the foreign-speaking groups seems to be evident from the names in the Annual Report of the auditor of the state of Illinois for 1918. The Bohemians had the largest number of societies, and the Poles were second. The Italians alone of the large national groups were unrepresented. Mrs. Wood's plan also calls for a national housing commission in the Department of Labor, to be created under congressional act, with organization and powers analogous to those exercised by the Federal Board for Vocational Education. For the use of this commission it is proposed that a fund be created by the issue of bonds, from which loans could be made to certain designated agencies for the clearance of congested areas and the increase of housing facilities. The Federal legislation is to be supplemented according to Mrs. Wood's plan by state legislation, including: 1. A restrictive housing law, a constructive housing law, and a Town Planning Act. This plan contemplates a state commission on housing and town planning through which the Federal aid for the state would be made available; to which should be intrusted the responsibility of investigating and approving or disapproving housing schemes proposed by local agencies and associations. 2. A state fund similar to the Federal fund is proposed, and definite suggestions for its use are worked out. For the local authorities, local housing and town-planning boards, probably with the county as the basis of organization, are proposed. This housing fund, composed of the Federal fund, the state fund, and in some cases local funds, is to be used to make loans to municipalities, housing organizations that are not organized for profit, limited dividend companies, co-operative associations, or even employers. The plan contemplates that the lowest paid wage earners, among whom are numbered a large per cent of the foreign born, should continue to rent; but the landlord should not be a private individual seeking to make profit from providing the workers with shelter. The plan also takes note of the plan for co-partnership ownership adopted by the United States Housing Corporation. The main features of this arrangement are: 1. Ownership vested in a local board of trustees bound to operate the property in the interest of the tenants and until the property is fully amortized in the interest of the government. 2. Formation of a tenants' association to which all residents of three months are eligible on payment of small yearly dues. This association to elect a tenants' council to act as directors of the association, to confer with the board of trustees, and to carry out such duties as trustees direct. 3. Any tenant may become a co-partner by applying for bonds to the amount of 25 per cent of the value of his dwelling, and accompanying his application with a cash subscription of one half per cent of this. 4. Tenant co-partners are given a voice in the management by the right to elect trustees, the number increasing with the amount of subscriptions to bonds. 5. Tenant co-partners granted remission of one month's rent a year. 6. Tenant co-partners leaving or desiring to discontinue as co-partners have the right to sell their bonds to trustees at par. Mr. A. C. Comey, the author of the plan, says of it:[19] Such a co-partnership scheme as this will present to workmen a unique opportunity for saving, for not only will they get as high a rate of interest as a safe investment justifies, but they will be to a large degree custodians of their own security and will thus be able to protect their investments in much the same way as actual home owners. On the other hand they will avoid most of the pitfalls of home owning, such as loss through deterioration of a neighborhood, forced sales in case of departure, and inability to realize on assets locked up in private homes. Moreover, they will tend to develop a high degree of community spirit, usually so lacking among apartment dwellers, and thus take more interest in public affairs and become better citizens generally. These are advantages which it would be especially desirable for the foreign-born groups, as many of them have experienced the pitfalls of home ownership. It is a complicated system and would have to be explained in detail to the various groups. The medium for such explanations is at hand in the foreign-language press and in the immigrant societies, and the effort that it would involve is surely worth making. It should also be noted that it is not so complicated a system as the land tenure in many of the countries from which the immigrants come. INSTRUCTION IN SANITATION The subject of housing reform as a means of easing the housewife's task was considered first, as it is useless to talk of helping her in her work until she is given some of the conveniences with which to work. It is evident, however, that that is not all that is necessary for the foreign-born housewife. She is not accustomed to the use of a house of the size contemplated by the proposed plans--the Italians, Lithuanians, Poles, Russians, Hungarians, and doubtless others have known only the one and two-room house--and there is always the possibility that, given more rooms, they may be used to take in more lodgers. Such was the case, for example, in the relatively adequate houses provided by the United States Steel Corporation at Gary. It is not necessary, however, to use the method of that corporation, and turn out of the houses persons who need instruction in the use of the house. Persuasion and instruction in the uses of the special features of the house could have been tried. It might have been possible for the rent collector or a sanitary inspector with a social point of view to establish friendly relations on their regular visits to the families. With confidence gained and tact displayed, much in the way of education could be accomplished. To construct houses so that each room can serve one and only one purpose would in part meet the difficulties. Above all, patience and a realization of the difficulties that the foreign-born housewife meets, are essential. A point on which some architects lay special stress in the structure of low-cost houses is the devotion of the entire first floor to cooking and living uses--not sleeping. That is, the living room, dining room, and kitchen are either combined or so open into each other that no temptation is offered to close off part for sleeping purposes. The bedrooms are then on the second floor, each room having only one door, and the bathroom and the storage space are slightly elevated above the second and offer no temptation to be used for purposes other than those for which they are designed. If, then, families inexperienced in the use of modern accommodations come into the community, they may perhaps be helped to an understanding of modern devices by the experience of living in houses arranged in this way. Both the rent collector, if it be a case of tenancy, and the building official, if it be a case of ownership, should not only understand the principles of sanitation and hygiene, but should understand the people they serve. To render the best service to immigrant groups, such officials must speak the language of the group and understand something of its peculiarities. They should, in fact, be public assistant housekeepers, through whose assistance the gradual and voluntary initiation of our foreign-born neighbors into community life can take place. New standards of efficiency and new amenities can be developed. Our community life might, then, be freed from the old physical dangers connected with human adjustment to physical surroundings, and take on new dignities suitable to a democratic and adequate life for the whole people. There remain the difficulties described at the beginning of the chapter, which come from the fact that the processes of the work of caring for the house are different in this country from those in the country from which the foreign-born housewives came. These difficulties are not so easy to solve as those of housing. They are undoubtedly surmounted as time goes on, but it is a gradual process. Many forces are at work. Necessity is probably the primary one. The foreign-born woman early learns to use American cooking utensils and fuel because they are all she can get. She has to feed her family with the only food the store at the corner furnishes. American furniture and furnishings soon attract her attention, and she is curious as to their purposes and uses. In part, the foreign-born housewives have learned from one another; that is, from the members of the group who have been here longer; and in part they have learned by going into the more comfortable American homes as domestic servants. Those who have done the latter are, usually, the girls who come alone or the elder daughters of the family. In some communities, such as a Bohemian community near Dallas, Texas, it is said to be well understood that the girl will learn domestic science by a kind of apprenticeship in the home of her employer. When she has learned what she thinks sufficient, she leaves to practice in her own home and to show her family how things should be done. The limitations and difficulties of domestic service for the inexperienced immigrant have been well set forth in the reports of various protective societies.[20] But the foreign-born women with whom we have conferred in this study have repeatedly emphasized the advantages that come from being shown how to do housework under the conditions in this country. Yet women of the "new" immigrant groups enter domestic service much less than those from the "old" ones. In the end, no doubt, many foreign-born housewives have learned to care for their homes and raise their families as systematically as their American neighbors, who have had fewer difficulties to contend with. It is, however, a wasteful system which leaves the instruction of the immigrant housewife to the chance instruction she can gain from fellow countrywomen who have themselves learned only imperfectly. If the community only realized what the difficulties were for the housewife from a different civilization, it would undoubtedly stretch out a friendly and helping hand to assist her over the first rough path. Whatever form this help takes, it must be offered in the spirit of friendly co-operation, and not of didactic superiority, if the desired result is to be gained. FOOTNOTES: [13] Details may be secured from the National Housing Association, 105 East Twenty-second Street, New York City. [14] Chicago Housing Studies, _American Journal of Sociology_, vol. xx, p. 154. [15] Children's Bureau Publication No. 9, "Infant Mortality, Johnstown, Pennsylvania," p. 29. [16] See Edith Elmer Wood, _The Housing of the Unskilled Wage Earner_; _Report of Massachusetts Homestead Commission_; _Reports of United States Housing Corporation_. [17] Edith Elmer Wood, _Housing of the Unskilled Wage Earner_, chap. viii. [18] Edith Elmer Wood, _Housing of the Unskilled Wage Earner_, p. 233. [19] _Survey_, June 28, 1919. [20] See _Annual Report of the Immigrants' Protective League, 1910-1911_, and Abbott, _The Immigrant and the Community_, chap. v, "The Special Problems of the Immigrant Girl." IV PROBLEMS OF SAVING There has been in the past much harsh and thoughtless criticism of the foreign-born groups, because of the extent to which they have seemed able and willing to subordinate present necessities and enjoyments to provide for certain future contingencies. PRESENT AND FUTURE NEEDS Many of those who come to this country are in debt for their passage. Others have left near relatives at home who must be helped to come over. Some have come, intending to establish themselves and to be married here. Some expect to take back a part of their earnings to better the condition of those left behind. Their coming, whether to stay permanently or to return, often does not relieve them of their obligations to the group in the old country. One of the strongest impressions that the reader gets from the letters in _The Polish Peasant_ is that of the frequency with which relatives in the old country ask for money from the one who has gone ahead. It is not only his wife and children, or aged parents, that ask for money, but all the members of the wider familial group, and sometimes even friends with no claim on the score of kinship. The purposes for which they ask money are various; in the Borek series, for example, a son of the family is asked to send money because the family is in debt and has taxes to pay; to send money for the dowry of his sister; for a forge; for a sewing machine, and for a phonograph. He is also told that if he sends money home it will not be wasted, but will be put out at interest. Other claims for money are put forward in other series, possibly the most common one being a request for a steamship ticket. The letters show clearly that it is customary to send money for fête days, "name days," or birthdays, Christmas, Easter, and other occasions. A failure to do so brings reproach coupled with a reminder that others who had gone from the village had sent money. In the Wrobelski series the family ask money from the member in this country for a new church at home. Every Sunday the priest reads aloud the names of those who have contributed. It therefore seems to the immigrant imperative that from his present earnings certain amounts shall be set aside. When the first hard times are past and the members of the immediate family are reunited, there comes the reaction to the experience of depending on the money wage. There arises the fear of disaster growing out of interruption of the income, or misfortune involving especially heavy expenditure. The United States Treasury Department in its "Thrift" campaign lays down the doctrine _save first_ and _spend afterward_.[21] This is what the members of the foreign-born groups have long been doing, and probably this policy is the only possible basis for a rational use of one's resources. Yet doing this gives rise to comment on the "low standard of life." And thrift often seems to border on miserliness. Indeed, the problem is by no means so simple as the use of the categorical imperative would indicate. The whole question of deciding between the claims of the present and of the future is a very difficult one. The economist gives us little definite help. He lays down the so-called "rule of uses" and tells the housewife so to apply her resources that the utility extracted from any unit may be at least as great as if that unit were applied elsewhere. Now the foreign-born housewife, like other housewives, has certain resources of money and time and strength, and these she wishes to distribute wisely. But she labors under many disadvantages, of which it is only fair to take notice. UNFAMILIARITY WITH MONEY In the first place, her income is in an unfamiliar form. There is first the fact that the money units are strange to her. A woman who recently came over, being called on to make an unexpected payment, handed her purse to a fellow traveler, asking that the required amount be taken out. In the second place, for many there is the difficulty growing out of the exclusive dependence upon money payments, when before there were both money and the products of the land. The fact should always be kept in mind that, to the extent to which the foreign born are from rural districts, they have the difficulty experienced by all who are forced to adjust themselves to an economy built on money, as distinguished from an economy built on kind. In the country where things are grown, there is little opportunity for acquiring a sense of money values. It is then peculiarly difficult to value in terms of the new measure those articles with which one has been especially familiar under the old economy. For example, when vegetables and fruits have been enjoyed without estimating their value, it is difficult to judge their value in money. While meat was before thought out of reach, it may be purchased at exorbitant rates under the new circumstances, because one has no idea of how much it should cost. Evidence as to this kind of difficulty is found among all groups. It takes the form, sometimes, of apparent parsimony, sometimes of reckless and wasteful buying. The Lithuanians seem, for example, to experience difficulties of this kind everywhere. The small farmer in Lithuania was accustomed to an irregular cash income at harvest time. Sometimes it carried over from one year to another, while young stock was growing. He had little need of money except for extraordinary expenses, such as those for farm machinery, or building. The local store, which was usually co-operative, carried only such imported articles as salt, sugar, spices, tea, and coffee. All other foods were produced at home or secured through neighborly exchange. All the clothing for the family was of home manufacture, even to the cloth. If a boy were sent to school in the nearest large town, his board was paid with poultry and dairy products. The tenant laborer had house rent free, a garden, a cow, a few pigs, and all the poultry he cared to raise, in addition to the yearly wage of from 125 to 150 rubles a year. Other farm laborers had board and clothing in addition to their wage of 25 rubles a year. Women received 3 rubles a year for farm labor, in addition to board and all ordinary clothing. The food provided by the farmers was coarse and monotonous, but it was plentiful and nourishing. Laborers were housed in two-room log or board houses, with thatched roofs; farm workers without families slept in the farmer's granaries and ate at a common table. To the inexperienced peasant the daily wage of $1.50 and $2 in the United States seemed ample, but it was not long after the family arrived before it was found inadequate. The situation becomes still more confusing if employment is seasonal and irregular. In Lithuania, contracts were made by the year and unemployment was unknown. Through apprehension they begin to adopt a low standard of living in order to economize, a practice now common in many Lithuanian communities in this country. They have never paid rent in their native country, so one of their first instincts is to economize at that point in the new country by taking lodgers. Among other national groups there are evidences of the same difficulties. Bohemian women, it is said, buy recklessly at first, spending money for jewelry and all sorts of things they see for sale in the neighborhood stores. Ukrainian women control the expenditure of the family income here, but in the village life in Galicia they never had much money to spend; the table was supplied from the farm, clothing was of home manufacture, furniture was seldom bought. They are, therefore, when they first come, little fitted by previous experience for wise expenditure of the family income. IRREGULARITY OF INCOME To these difficulties are added those connected with the uncertainty and irregularity of wage payments and with the length of intervals recurring between these payments. The ways in which periods of unemployment and consequent cessation of income are met are illustrated by the following experiences described by those with whom we have conferred. The story of how the mother or children have gone out to work, of how boarders have been taken into the home, savings have been spent, money has been borrowed from friends, or charity has been accepted, occurs over and over in the experience of all the national groups. A Ukrainian mother tells how she and the older children at various times have worked during the father's unemployment. A few years ago, when it lasted for two years, she was no longer strong enough to work, and they sold their home in order to keep the children in school. Another Ukrainian family has of late depended upon the earnings of the children and savings, but there have been times when they had nothing in the house but water, and could not buy food. A Polish mother borrowed money of the Jewish grocer when her savings were gone and her earnings insufficient. One Bohemian family had to draw on their savings in the building and loan association during a year of unemployment. RESERVES FOR MISFORTUNES It is easy, then, to understand how out of the most meager present income some provision for possible disasters will be attempted. The urgency of this claim of the future explains the fact that the possession of a balance at the end of the year constitutes no evidence that the income for the year has either been adequate or been regarded as adequate. The social investigator has found savings taken from the most inadequate incomes; and judgment has been sometimes passed on the "low standard of life" of the immigrant, when a moment's sympathetic consideration of the problem would have discovered the explanation in the ever-present fear of being caught unprepared. The occasions for which this provision is made are, to be sure, not all of the nature of an unexpected disaster; they are, often, the ordinary events of life. There is, first, the constant possibility of sickness and of death. After the establishment of the family group, these perhaps make the first claim on the family's savings. The fear of these events may be so great that even the well-being of the children in the present may be sacrificed. For example, a Polish widow with two children, who was being supported by the United Charities in Chicago, was found to have a bank account of $192.57 which she had saved from her allowance of $3 a week in addition to her rent. When the visitor talked with her about it, she explained that she was afraid of dying and leaving her children unprovided for, and that her husband had always told her to put away part of her income. While the need for providing for dependents is thus felt, most wage earners realize that they cannot during their own lifetime lay aside enough money to provide for their children. The most that they can do is to provide some life insurance. Even this, in most cases, must be entirely inadequate, since the premiums mean a great drain on the family's resources. In a study of 3,048 families in Chicago, the Illinois Health Insurance Commission found that 81.9 per cent of all the families carried some kind of life insurance. The average amount of the policy, however, was only $419.24. The following table shows for the various nationalities in the group the per cent carrying insurance and the average amount of the policy.[22] TABLE I NUMBER AND PER CENT OF FAMILIES CARRYING LIFE INSURANCE, AND AVERAGE AMOUNT OF POLICY ACCORDING TO NATIVITY OF HEAD OF FAMILY ================================================================= | TOTAL | PER CENT | AVERAGE NATIVITY OR RACE OF HEAD OF | NUMBER OF | WITH LIFE | AMOUNT FAMILY | FAMILIES | INSURANCE | OF POLICY -----------------------------|-----------|-----------|----------- All families | 3,048 | 81.9 | $419.24 | | | United States, colored | 274 | 93.8 | 201.48 Bohemian | 243 | 88.9 | 577.58 Polish | 522 | 88.5 | 353.48 Irish | 129 | 88.4 | 510.72 United States, white | 644 | 85.2 | 535.56 German | 240 | 85.0 | 416.49 Lithuanian | 117 | 79.5 | 170.38 Scandinavian | 232 | 75.4 | 401.58 Other | 225 | 75.1 | 410.96 Jewish | 218 | 63.8 | 465.09 Italian | 204 | 57.8 | 403.94 ================================================================= It is interesting to note that the Bohemians are among the national groups showing the largest per cent (88.9) of families having life-insurance policies. They also show the largest average policy ($577.58) of any national groups, including the native-born white. The method by which this particular provision is made is often through the fraternal order, the benefit society, and the form of commercial insurance known as industrial insurance. The fraternal orders that are used by foreign-born groups are usually societies of their own national group, such as the Polish National Alliance, the Croatian League of Illinois, the Lithuanian National Alliance. They differ from the benefit societies, such as the Czecho-Slav Workingman, the Znanie Russian Club, and the Congrega di Maria Virgine del Monte Carmelo, in that the fraternal orders are organized under the state laws governing fraternal insurance societies, are incorporated, and usually have a more than local membership. Most of the benefit societies are small local societies without national affiliation, often not observing good insurance principles and without the needed succession of young lives. These types of insurance were made the subject of special study by the Illinois Health Insurance Commission of 1919. The judgment of the Health Commission as to the value of these organizations is, that the fraternal societies, although they are democratic, co-operative, and nonprofit-seeking organizations, thus being particularly attractive to wage earners, are often not on an actuarially sound basis.[23] The benefit societies of the foreign born present an even more precarious means of providing for future needs.[24] Sooner or later they find that the dues must be increased, their membership declines, and the period of decay sets in. Industrial insurance provides a safer method than either of these, but it presents a number of other disadvantages.[25] The policies are usually small, sufficient only for burial expenses, and the rates are relatively high because of the bad risk among the wage earners, and especially because of the expense of weekly collections. Here, as everywhere, the poor who must buy in small quantities get relatively less for what they pay. It is often urged against industrial insurance that it makes no real provision for dependents, and merely pays for a somewhat elaborate funeral. It must be borne in mind that the funeral, however modest, is an expense that often places the family in debt, and that even the thriftless will try to make some provision for it. The following expense account of the funeral of a Polish man is typical of the accounts received during this inquiry, and exhibits no unusual expenditure when compared with American customs: Embalming $ 11.00 Casket 65.00 Crape and gloves 2.50 Candles 3.00 Hearse 11.00 Carriage 9.00 Grave 12.00 Outside box 6.00 Total $119.50 It is a matter of common knowledge that unscrupulous undertakers often obtain possession of the insurance policy and make the charge for the funeral equal to the whole amount. This may, in part, explain the criticism that the funerals in foreign-born families are often unnecessarily expensive. An Italian woman interviewed, the president of one benefit society and a member of four others, speaks of going to buy a casket at the time of the death of a friend during the influenza epidemic. The cheap, wooden casket cost $150. The next day, when she went with another friend to the same undertaker, the casket which had been $150 cost $175. She could not understand how such prices could be allowed, and exclaimed, "The government regulates prices of flour and sugar, and why not such things as the cost of coffins in times like these!" There may also be expenses connected with the service itself. In some churches the tolling of the bells must be paid for by the mourners, and sometimes it is the poorest who will insist that the bells be tolled the longest. In a church in South Chicago it is said that the parishioners paid for the chimes with the definite understanding that the bell-tolling at funerals should no longer be a special charge. The need of provision against sickness and death is keenly felt in every immigrant community. One of the older women, who had been frequently called into the homes in cases of sickness and death, said that in sickness there was never money for the doctor, or night clothes, or bedding, and in case of death never enough of anything. THE COST OF WEDDINGS After providing for sickness and death, a family must lay aside the sum necessary to secure an advantageous marriage for the daughter, and to meet her family's share of the wedding. Similarly, the young man anticipates marriage as a natural development in his life. It is interesting to consider the share of the cost borne by the girl's family and that borne by the young man, and to notice also certain customs connected with the wedding itself that contribute toward the expense. The customs connected with weddings which have grown up in the old country may, when transplanted, mean an expense which seems entirely out of proportion to the family's economic status, especially when American customs are added to those of the native country. An Italian woman says that weddings were, as a rule, much simpler in Italy than in the United States. There a maid of honor and "other frills," such as automobiles, flowers, and jewelry, were unknown. A large feast, usually of two days' duration, was customary, and is continued here, even in a city. A hall must be rented for the dance, and when food prices are high the cost is enormous. To avoid the expense of renting a hall which would cost $100 for six hours, a recent Italian wedding reception in Chicago was held in the butcher shop owned by a cousin of the bridegroom. The living rooms in the rear were used for the dinner, and the shop itself became the ballroom. The floor was crowded, and the children had to be turned out into the street to play, but the enjoyment of the party was evidently not at all lessened by the somewhat incongruous surroundings. The fact that there is near by not only a great settlement where a comfortable hall might have been available, but likewise a park house similarly equipped, is perhaps indicative of a failure of these institutions to meet the very needs of the neighborhood they are designed to serve. It is an Italian custom for the father of the bride and the father of the bridegroom to share the expense of the feast, although the bridegroom sometimes pays for the music and the hall, and the bride's family furnish the food. An Italian pastry dealer says that the amount spent for pastries varies from $15 to $120, and an equal amount is spent in home baking. For well-to-do families the expenditures may be much larger; for example, one family recently spent $200 for pastry alone. There is, however, a feature of the wedding feast which reduces the cost to the family. It is customary, when the party is assembled after the wedding, for the bride to be placed on a "throne," and the guests place their presents of money in her lap. Money is usually given, although useful articles for the home are sometimes included. The greater the number of guests invited perhaps the lower the net cost of the ceremony. The other principal expense of the Italian bride's family is for the bridal linen and the girl's underwear. These, of course, vary with the circumstances of the family. These articles are usually the accumulation of several years. The bridegroom pays the other costs. He buys not only the household furniture and his clothing, but the wedding ring, earrings, a gift for the bride, and some of her clothing. If the girl is poor he may even buy her underwear and the linens. It is said that these things often cost all the bridegroom's savings, and that the couple start married life with nothing saved for emergencies. The expense of the bridegroom in a recent Italian wedding in Chicago was $2,000. It is the custom for the man to buy for the bride a complete costume for two days--the wedding day and the eighth day--when the newly married couple return the calls of the wedding guests. An Italian saleslady in a store in the Italian district says that the amount usually spent on the bride's clothes is $200 or $250. The very least spent in these days is $100, and the outfit may cost as much as $500. When the family is a recently arrived one, the man usually accompanies the girl or her mother to the store and pays the bills on the spot. Among other groups as well as among the Italians it seems to be customary for the bridegroom to bear part of the expense of the wedding and of the bride's outfit. The Polish bridegroom often gives $50 to the bride, and she buys her clothes, linens, and the food for the feast. The Russian girl gives a white handkerchief to the groom, and he pays for her dress. Another item in the expenses of a wedding is the cost of photographs. It is the custom in most foreign-born groups to have large photographs, not only of the bride and groom, but of the whole wedding party. The Polish people also have another picture of the bridesmaid taken with the best man. These photographs cost as much as $30 a dozen and at a higher rate if less than a dozen are ordered. The number ordered depends on the economic condition of the family, but the minimum is six of each. The pictures of the bridal party are the largest and most expensive and are usually given only to the immediate family and the attendants. The smaller pictures of the bride and groom are given to all the friends and relatives, especially those in the old country. This is an important means of keeping up the connection with those at home. An enlarged and colored copy framed in an ornate gilt frame is usually ordered for the newly married couple, and is an added expense. The cost of automobiles is also important. The bridal party, and sometimes the guests whom it is desired to honor, are taken to the church, then to the photographer's, and then to the hall where the feast and dance are held. Sometimes as many as six automobiles are observed drawn up in front of one of the little photographers' shops in an immigrant district. Many people seem to think that the festivities among the foreign born are becoming simpler. The extravagance is perhaps again a question of the transition to a money economy. The ceremony in the old country was an occasion for great celebration, with feasting and dancing for several days, but was perhaps not expensive when the necessary articles were produced at home or received in exchange for home products. Here the immigrant family does not at first realize the real value of the money which seems so plentiful, and the old customs are not only carried out, but elaborated because of the added feeling of prosperity. In many ways the old customs are now being modified. Among the Polish, for instance, the guests used to give presents of money, practically buying a dance with the bride. The custom has been frequently abused here, as the men have divided their gifts into small parts and demanded many dances with the bride, often causing her to dance so much as to cause serious fatigue. For this reason we heard of one bride who simply "walked with the plate" instead of dancing. Another story is told of a wedding in a Polish community, at which the men threw dollars at a plate. The one who was successful in breaking the plate might dance with the bride. This Polish custom of giving money gifts offsets to a large extent the cost of the wedding. Among three Polish families visited, one whose wedding cost $200 collected $60; another spent $150 and collected $160; and a third spent $200 and collected $300. But this custom, too, tends to disappear in the second generation. A young Russian couple, for instance, were opposed to a regular collection, but the parents, who consider it the blessing to their daughter, could not resist each leaving a ten-dollar bill as they left. The young people were embarrassed, but the other guests quickly followed the suggestion, and $100 was collected. CHRISTENINGS AND FÊTE DAYS This naïve solicitation of gifts is also practiced on the occasion of the christening of the infant. An unmarried godmother may be preferred because, having no children of her own, she is more able to make handsome gifts at the time and to continue her contributions. One young Russian girl, whose marriage with the father of her unborn child was arranged by a social worker, asked the new friend to serve as godmother, and then expected an outfit for the infant in christening robes, little veils, and other articles, costing about $75. Observers interested in customs in immigrant districts say that the custom of soliciting gifts at christenings was modified during the war. Among Polish families, for example, each guest used to make a present in money to the child who was christened. During the last few years it has become more and more customary for the collection to be taken for the benefit of Polish war orphans. The amount collected is then announced in the paper and serves as a source of prestige to the family. There are also numerous fête days and religious celebrations which call for special expenditure. It is impossible to consider all these here, but attention should be called to an important event in the religious life; namely, the occasion of the first communion. The expenses for the confirmation of a boy are not great. He usually has a new suit and wears a flower in his buttonhole. He must have beads, prayer book, and, if he is Polish, a candle. One little Polish girl who made her first communion in the summer of 1919 had an outfit that cost her $30. This did not represent the entire cost, as she had several parts of the outfit given to her; her godmother made the dress, although the little girl herself furnished the material; the veil with the wreath of flowers was given her by a nun who had taken an interest in her, and the candle, which it is still customary in Polish churches to carry, was given by a cousin who is a nun. She had to buy the material for her dress, white slippers, stockings, and long white gloves, beads, flowers, and photographs. If she had herself borne all the expense, a minimum estimate of the cost would be $50. BUYING PROPERTY A third motive for saving is the desire for home ownership or for acquiring land. There is no doubt that to own a home of their own is the desire of most immigrant families. Many of them come from countries where the ownership of land carries with it a degree of social prestige that is unknown in more highly developed communities of the modern industrial civilization. Representatives of the Bohemians, Lithuanians, Poles, and Italians have all emphasized the fact that their people want to own their own homes, and bend every energy toward this end, so that the whole family often works in order that first payments may be made or later payments kept up. The Croatians, Slovaks, Hungarians, and Slovenians are also said to be buying houses, although, as they are newer groups, they have not yet done so to the same extent as the other groups. The Serbians, Rumanians, Bulgarians, and Russians in Chicago are, on the other hand, said to be planning to return in large numbers to the old homes in Europe, and hence are not interested in buying property in this country. Their feeling for the land and their desire to own their homes in the country in which they decide to settle is said to be as strong as in the other groups. The longing for home ownership was apparent in the family schedules we obtained, and in studies of housing conditions[26] in certain districts of Chicago we find additional evidence of the immigrants' desire to own their own homes, and the way in which this desire leads many to buy, even in the congested districts of the city. The following table gives the number and the percentage of home owners in eight selected districts. It will be noted that the percentage of owners varied from eight in one of the most congested Italian districts known as "Little Sicily," to twenty-four in the Lithuanian district. The strength of the desire for homes can also be measured by the sacrifices which many of the families make to enable them to acquire property. It means in some cases the sacrifice of the children's education, the crowding of the home with lodgers, or the mother's going out to work. In fact, immigrant leaders interviewed seem to think that women's entrance into industry during the war was largely due to the desire to own their own homes. After the title to the house is acquired, it is often crowded with other tenants to help finish the payments. TABLE II NUMBER AND PER CENT OF IMMIGRANT HOME OWNERS IN DIFFERENT CHICAGO DISTRICTS ================================================================ | | NUMBER | DISTRICT | TOTAL | OF | PER |FAMILIES| OWNERS | CENT --------------------------------------|--------|--------|------- Bohemians--10th Ward | 295 | 36 | 12 Polish--16th Ward | 2,785 | 355 | 13 Italian--"Lower North" Side | 1,462 | 119 | 8 Italian--19th Ward | 1,936 | 208 | 9 Polish and other Slav--South Chicago | 545 | 100 | 18 Lithuanian--4th Ward | 1,009 | 241 | 24 Slovak--20th Ward | 869 | 148 | 17 Polish, Lithuanian, other Slavic--29th| | | Ward, Stockyards District | 1,616 | 298 | 18 ================================================================ The housing studies in Chicago furnish many illustrations of this sacrifice.[27] For example, among the Lithuanians in the Fourth Ward, there was a landlord who lived in three cellar rooms so low that a person more than five feet eight inches tall could not stand upright in them. The kitchen, a fair-sized room with windows on the street--though its gray-painted wooden walls and ceiling served well to accentuate the absence of sunlight, was merely gloomy, but the other two rooms were both small and dark, with tiny lot-line windows only four square feet in area. In one of these rooms, 564 cubic feet in contents, the father and one child slept; the other, which contained only 443 cubic feet, was the bedroom of the mother and two children. One of the highly colored holy pictures common among the Lithuanians and Poles, though it hung right by the window, was an indistinguishable blur. The agency through which the purchase is made may be either the real-estate dealer of the same national group, or, more commonly, the building and loan association. The real-estate agents to whom the foreign-speaking immigrants go are like the steamship agents, the immigrant bankers, the keepers of special shops. Those who are honest and intelligent render invaluable services; those who wish to exploit have the same opportunity of doing so that is taken advantage of by the shyster lawyer, the quack doctor, the sharp dealer of any kind who speaks the language and preys upon his fellow countrymen. Reference has been made in an earlier chapter to the services rendered by the building and loan associations in enabling the foreign born to obtain homes. They also render services in providing the means for safe investment for those with only small sums to invest. BUILDING AND LOAN ASSOCIATIONS These societies are frequently organized along national lines. For example, among those listed in 1893 by the United States Commissioner of Labor[28] are the Bohemian Building and Loan, organized February 1, 1886; the Bohemian California Homestead (February 15, 1892); the Bohemian National Building Loan and Homestead (January 30, 1888); the Bohemian Workingmen's Loan and Homestead (April 20, 1890); the Ceska Koruna Homestead (May 6, 1892); the King Kazimer the Great Building and Loan (January 27, 1886); the King Mieczyslaus the First National Building Loan and Savings Bank (June 3, 1889); King Zigsmund the First Building and Loan (April 15, 1891). December 1, 1918, there were 681 such organizations in Illinois; 255 of these were in Chicago and the majority were conducted and patronized by the foreign born. The following is briefly the method by which the building and loan associations perform the two services of providing for investment and lending money on homes:[29] The stockholder or member pays a stipulated minimum sum, say one dollar, when he takes his membership, and buys a share of stock. He then continues to pay a like sum each month until the aggregate of sums paid, augmented by the profits, amounts to the maturing value of the stock, usually $200, and at this time the stockholder is entitled to the full maturing value of the share, and surrenders the same. A shareholder who desires to build a house and has secured a lot for that purpose, may borrow money from the association of which he is a member. Suppose a man who has secured his lot wishes to borrow $1,000 for the erection of a house. He must be the holder of five shares in his association, each share having as its maturing value $200. His five shares, therefore, when matured, would be worth $1,000, the amount of money which he desires to borrow.... In a building and loan association the money is put up at auction, usually in open meeting on the night or at the time of the payment of dues. Those who wish to borrow bid a premium above the regular rate of interest charged, and the one who bids the highest premium is awarded the loan. The man who wishes to build his house, therefore, and desires to borrow $1,000, must have five shares of stock in his association, must bid the highest premium, and then the $1,000 will be loaned to him. To secure this $1,000 he gives the association a mortgage on his property and pledges his five shares of stock. To cancel this debt he is constantly paying his monthly or semimonthly dues, until such time as the constant payment of dues, plus the accumulation of profits through compounded interest, matures the shares at $200 each. At this time, then, he surrenders his shares, and the debt upon his property is canceled. [Illustration: ITALIANS HAVE THEIR OWN FINANCIAL CENTER AND LABOR MARKET IN BOSTON] In some cases the sums paid are fifty or even twenty-five cents a week, and the shares may be $100 instead of $200. Among some groups shares are taken in the name of each of the children, and the investment constitutes an educational fund. There are those, however, for whom the building and loan has not provided adequate opportunity for deposit and safe investment. It is probable that the building and loan has proved most efficient for the income group $1,500-$1,800. For the group below that, home ownership is for the time impossible. As a device for saving, for both the lower and higher income groups, who come from countries familiar with similar devices, the postal savings banks are supposed to offer efficient, honest, and convenient service. POSTAL SAVINGS BANKS These banks were established under an act that went into effect June 25, 1910. Under this law, as amended May 18, 1916, persons over ten years of age may deposit any amount, providing the balance to the credit of one depositor does not exceed $1,000. Two per cent interest is paid on deposits, and there is provision for exchange of deposits for United States bonds of small denominations. The facilities thus provided were immediately taken advantage of by the foreign-born groups, and the postal savings banks became almost banks for the foreign born. That is, in September, 1916, 375,000, or 80 per cent, of the total number of depositors were persons of foreign birth, and they owned 75 per cent of the deposits. In proportion to population the deposits were in 1916 about eleven times as great as those of the native born (due allowance being made for the age of the two population groups). The Greeks, Italians, Russians, and Hungarians, all coming from countries in which there are postal savings arrangements, found it especially easy to make use of them. The department felt, however, that the facilities could be greatly extended, even among the foreign born. Therefore, circulars describing the organization, methods, and advantages were distributed. They were written in the following languages: English, Bohemian, Bulgarian, Chinese, Croatian, Danish, Finnish, French, German, Greek, Hungarian, Italian, Japanese, Lithuanian, Norwegian, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, Ruthenian, Serbian, Slovak, Slovenian, Spanish, Swedish, and Yiddish. In spite of the fact that this system is characterized not only by security, but also by certain democratic and convenient features especially serviceable to many foreign born, there are certain limitations to which Professor Kemmerer has called attention in the following statement: As a matter of fact, the interest rate paid is so low that it makes a very weak appeal to the class of people who deposit in the postal savings banks. Their motive is primarily security. The government is now realizing large profits from the postal savings system--for 1916 the estimated profit was $481,816--and this profit is coming from a class of people in the community, the thrifty poor, from whom it is bad social policy to take it. Of course it would be administratively impracticable to pay interest to depositors on average daily balances--no savings banks do that. Would it be expecting too much, however, to ask for our postal savings depositors the allowances of interest on half yearly or even quarterly balances? Moreover, is it unreasonable to ask the Board of Trustees, in view of the nomadic character of our foreign-born population which patronizes the postal savings system most, to devise a simple system of transfer by which a depositor who is changing his place of residence may transfer his postal savings account without forfeiting his accumulated but yet undue interest?[30] Not only should the postal savings bank law be amended, rendering it more flexible and more attractive, but there should also be enacted in those states in which no such legislation is yet on the statute books, laws regulating the conduct of banks, steamship companies, and all agencies receiving deposits or otherwise performing banking functions. It is clear that the foreign born, during the early years of their residence in the United States, encounter all the difficulties of others whose incomes are inadequate and precarious, and are also the easy victims of special forms of exploitation. In addition, they find themselves unfamiliar with the standards and customs connected with the great events of family life. In the matter of weddings and funerals and other ceremonial occasions there is no reason to expect them to be wiser, more economical, and farsighted than the native-born group. In the adjustment between future and present needs, foreign-born housewives need, as most housewives need, instruction in the art of spending, in the selection of food and clothing, and the variety of demands for which provision must be deliberately made in a modern industrial community. In an earlier and simpler situation provision for these needs was made without conscious effort. In this connection it is interesting to note that the "Thrift Leaflets" prepared by the United States Department of Agriculture and the Department of the Treasury for the war saving stamps thrift campaign, urged care in the use of articles and dealt with prevention of waste rather than with saving. Obviously, if goods were more carefully used, more could be saved and invested in the securities thus being indirectly urged. It is conceivable, however, that wise use may mean the purchase of better food, the selection of more satisfactory clothing, and the enjoyment of better housing, rather than investment in government or any other securities. The thrift campaigns of the United States Treasury proposed standards of saving only for those receiving an income of $1,200 or more, with the exception of unmarried persons earning as much as $780. ACCOUNT KEEPING The basis of sound saving or spending is the account book, carefully kept over an interval of time, allowing comparison between the outlay and enjoyment as experienced at different periods. Such account books are being urged by the extension departments of the state agricultural colleges in co-operation with the Departments of Agriculture. Most account books that have been so far devised are, however, quite difficult and uninteresting, even for the American housewife, demanding classifications of items which require too much time and consideration. An account book on a weekly basis, providing very simple divisions of the expenditures of the household, and giving space also for the personal expenses of the various members of the family, has been published by the Committee on Household Budgets of the American Home Economics Association.[31] These books could be easily issued in different languages and be made available for the foreign-born housewife. She, like all housewives, would be benefited by seeing what she is spending her money for. It would lead to a definite planning of her expenditures. By this means it could be suggested that things may have changed in value for her in the new country. Old wants are replaced by new ones, and a new system of saving and spending might be worked out. FOOTNOTES: [21] Haskins, _How Other People Get Ahead_, Savings Division, United States Treasury Department, p. 4. [22] _Report of the Health Insurance Commission of Illinois_, p. 223. [23] _Report of the Health Insurance Commission of the State of Illinois_, pp. 443-483. [24] _Ibid._, pp. 523-532. [25] _Ibid._, pp. 483-497. [26] Chicago Housing Conditions, _American Journal of Sociology_, vol. xvi, p. 433; vol. xvii, pp. 1, 145; vol. xviii, p. 509; vol. xx, pp. 145, 289; vol. xxi, p. 185. [27] Chicago Housing Conditions, ix, "The Lithuanians in the Fourth Ward," _American Journal of Sociology_, vol. xx, p. 296. [28] _Ninth Annual Report of the United States Commissioner of Labor on Building and Loan Associations_, p. 56. [29] _Ibid._, pp. 12-13. [30] Kemmerer, _Postal Savings Banks_, pp. 100-104. [31] _Thrift by Household Accounting and Weekly Cash Record Forms_, published by the Committee on Household Budgets, American Home Economics Association, 1211 Cathedral Street, Baltimore, Maryland. V THE NEGLECTED ART OF SPENDING Saving is the problem of _over there_, and of the future. Spending is the problem of _here_ and _now_, and in the expenditure for present needs as well as in saving for future wants the foreign-born housewife meets with special difficulties. She is handicapped by the kinds of places at which she must buy, because of language, custom, and time limitations, as well as the grade of article available. Through the complicated maze of choices open to her she must steer her way to obtain for her family the highest returns for an all too small expenditure. The art of spending, too often neglected by her native-born sisters, takes on added difficulties for the untrained immigrant woman. From the point of view of the housewife the desirable thing is that the transaction of buying her household goods and food and of selecting her house, shall be as simple as possible. It should be made easy for her to know the quantity and to judge the quality of any article she considers, so that she may the more easily compare its possible use to her with the use of other articles that might be secured for the same amount of money. It is also important that she have as definite ideas as possible as to the range of the demand for different kinds of goods, so that she may buy as few as possible of the goods on which the price of special risk is placed. In many cases she needs really expert advice. In the absence of such help she may do her buying in either of two states of mind. She may think that all merchants are cheats, there "to do her and to do her first," or she may think that she has a right to expect from the dealer frank and kindly advice. In the present state of the retail organization she may find either attitude. In shops kept by her co-nationals she will naturally have the utmost confidence. This puts the small neighborhood stores in a position of peculiar privilege, and makes it doubly easy for them to take subtle advantage of the unwary customer. Even when the dealer takes no special advantage of his customer, in following the general practice of the trade, he can create innumerable situations in which her problem is rendered more, rather than less, complicated. The indefinite package is substituted for the definite weight or measure. The "bars" of soap vary in weight and in composition. The trade _mark_ used to tell her that X made goods whose quality she knew; the trade _name_, based on incalculable sums spent in skillful advertising, tells her nothing that is of intrinsic use to her. It connects a name with a repeated suggestion that she buy. By the trading stamp, the premium, and the bargain counter the merchant tries to persuade her that she is getting more than she pays for. He appeals to the gambling instinct and introduces into a drab life something of the excitement of the roulette table. THE COMPANY STORE In mining communities and other places in which there are "company stores," there is the pressure exercised by the employer to force the employee to deal only with the company store, even when there are other stores in the neighborhood. The United States Immigration Commission had something to say on this point. It made it clear that, while there are instances of an employer giving his employees a fair deal when he becomes merchant and they purchasers, the combination of employing and merchandising functions is often perilous. Even if the employee appears to have a choice, he fears the loss of his job if he does not buy at the company store. The evils connected with so-called "truck payments" have long been recognized. They change only in form when the company check replaces the old payment in kind.[32] In some states this evil has been recognized by legislation prohibiting the combination of industrial and merchandising functions. Where such is the case, as in Pennsylvania, the statute is evaded. A separate corporation is organized by the same individuals, or a store is conducted by an individual who is a member of the mining corporation. Where there is a "store" administered in any of these ways, "company checks" may be issued between pay days. Or "store books" may be issued, the items purchased being recorded, and deducted on pay day from the wages of the employee. The Immigration Commission published a table[33] of the expenditures at such stores, the amounts deducted from the wages, and the proportion of earnings left to be collected at the end of the month, illustrating the confusing effect of these practices on the housewife whose income should be a settled and regular amount. While some of the Croatians and Magyars spent hardly a fourth or a third of their earnings at the company store, others in the same national groups collected on pay day less than a fifth or even less than a tenth of their earnings. From this balance must come the payments for rent, medical service, entertainment, school, for all things other than food, clothes, and furniture. It may be that in some cases the employee is able to secure at the company store as good articles as he can obtain elsewhere and for the same prices, but this is by no means common. In West Virginia it was found necessary to enact legislation forbidding a company which ran a store to charge its own employees higher prices than the employees of other companies were charged.[34] The Immigration Commission found not only that in some cases the stock was inferior and the prices high, but that there was a sense of compulsion that made it almost impossible to adjust income and needs. It is hardly necessary to point out that the supply of housing accommodations by the employer has the same influence as the supply of food and clothing. The power as employer may be, and often is, exerted to fix the conditions under which the family life goes on; and the tenant is deprived of the experience of selecting, of choosing, of balancing what one gives with what one gets.[35] A similar objection may be raised to payment of wages by check. In the old days, before the world went dry, one service the saloon was frequently called on to render was that of cashing checks. Either payment in "lawful money" or an opportunity to exchange at once for lawful money is the only method of paying wages that gives the housewife her full opportunity. SHOPPING HABITS The immigrant housewife is restricted by her ignorance of places and methods of marketing, and so feels the necessity of buying in the immigrant neighborhood. Among the 90 Chicago families from whom schedules were obtained, representing Bohemian, Croatian, Italian, Polish, Russian, Serbian, Slovak, Slovenian, and Ukrainian groups, 72 purchased all their food in the neighborhood stores, 2 kept their own stores, and only 16 were seeking bargains in other localities. Among these 16, 5 were going to larger business centers near their neighborhood, 4 bought in downtown department stores, 1 used a mail-order house, 1 went to a well-established "cash and carry" store, 2 bought in the wholesale markets, and only 2 took advantage of the co-operative association of their own group. The 72 families who were marketing exclusively in their own neighborhoods were patronizing for the most part stores owned by foreign-speaking people or those employing foreign-born salesmen to attract the housewives of particular groups. A Croatian woman says that when she tries to do her marketing downtown she sees many new things and would like to ask what they are used for, but she does not know how to ask. In her neighborhood store the grocer can easily explain to her. One Polish woman reads the advertisements in the papers and buys where there is a sale. She thinks that an alleged Polish co-operative is expensive and prefers the large department stores, but for the first few years she bought everything in her neighborhood where the clerks speak Polish. The prevalence of the immigrant store may be illustrated by a detailed study that was made of the Sixteenth Ward in Chicago. The population of the ward is predominantly Polish, with an intermingling of Jewish, German, and Slovak in the southern portion. In the twenty-five blocks there are 113 retail stores, 44 of which are grocery and delicatessen stores, meat markets, and bakeries. In one block there are 5 grocery and delicatessen stores, and at least 1 in every block which has any stores. Most of these shops are small and crowded, with family living rooms in the rear. For the most part, the nationality of the proprietor is that of the majority in the block, and there are only 14 proprietors of all the 113 stores who are not Polish. The difficulty with the language, however, extends beyond merely talking in the store. A Ukrainian mother, who admits being afraid to go beyond her own neighborhood, is perhaps typical of many foreign-born mothers to whom a trip to the central shopping district is a strange and terrifying adventure. There is also the question of the means with which to buy. An Italian mother says that she buys at the chain store when she has the cash, and at other times in the Italian stores where, although the prices are higher, she can run a charge account. The system of buying on credit at the local store is spoken of as practically universal in all the foreign-born groups. The purchaser carries a small blank book, in which the merchant enters in large figures merely the sum charged, with no indication of what was bought or the amount. The account is settled on pay day by the man of the family. There is, of course, every chance for inaccurate entry. It is not surprising, then, that one hears from many sources that buying food is generally extravagant. Women often do the buying. Whether or not it is the more common among foreign-born families than among native born for the children to be sent to the store, we cannot say. Since the marketing is done so largely in immigrant stores, there is perhaps not the need for an English-speaking member of the family to do the purchasing. We find among 89, 43 mothers who still do all their own buying, 32 who allow the children to do part, 4 who share the task with the father, and only 10 who never do any of the buying. In this last group of 10 families there are 7 in which the children do all the marketing and 3 in which it is done by the father. Even the skilled housekeepers have little experience in buying. At home they were used to storing vegetables in quantities; potatoes in caves, beets and cabbage by a process of fermentation, other vegetables and fruits by drying. In the United States this sort of thing is not done. There is, in the first place, no place for storage, and the initial cost of vegetables is high and quality poor, and the women know nothing of modern processes of canning. It is difficult to discover the general practice with regard to the quantity of food bought at one time, since it must necessarily vary considerably. Meat, milk, bread, perishable fruits and vegetables must usually be purchased daily. As for staple food, the thrifty housewife will buy in as large quantities as she can afford in order to save both money and time. Reference has been made, however, to the lack of storage space and the consequent necessity of buying very little at one time. Thirty-three, or two fifths, of the 81 foreign housewives who were interviewed on this subject report that they buy food in daily supplies; 1 buys twice a day and 1 for each meal. Forty, however, buy in larger quantities. Twenty-nine for the week and 11 for a month at a time. Six say that they buy whenever they have the money. It must never be forgotten that among the lower-income groups, to have more in the house is to have more eaten, and that cannot be afforded. Besides the high prices, one of the other limitations of the foreign-born neighborhood store is the low quality of the food. This may be illustrated by a description of the markets in one Lithuanian neighborhood back of the stockyards, where men are working at low-grade labor in the yards, and the women are keeping lodgers, where few speak English and not many ever go more than a few blocks from home. The typical market in this neighborhood--and there are sometimes as many as ten in a block--is a combined meat market and grocery store. Such stores are found in the poorer neighborhoods of every settlement. Stock in all these stores is the same; there is a great deal of fresh meat, apparently the poorer cuts, scraps, etc.; shelves are filled with canned fruits, canned vegetables, canned soups, and condensed milk; there is much of the bakers' "Lithuanian rye bread," and quantities of such cakes as are sold by the National Biscuit Company. No fresh vegetables are to be seen in any of these stores. The reason given by shopkeepers is that they are little used in the neighborhood and that the truck wagons supply the demand. Women who actually depend upon these stores and the truck wagons for all their supplies find them very unsatisfactory. No really fresh vegetables are to be found in either stores or wagons, they say. In commenting upon this situation, several persons have expressed a belief that the restriction of diet among Lithuanian immigrants was largely due to the fact that the markets afford so little variety, and that an effort to extend the stock in the stores would find a response in the community. These stores, however, are widely different from those found in Italian neighborhoods. Practically all the food used by the Italian families of one such neighborhood is bought in these stores. In this district the population is as dense as back of the stockyards, and the families have comparable incomes, the men being engaged in unskilled occupations and their earnings being supplemented by the earnings of women and children. The number of food stores in a block is about the same as in the other district, but the stock carried differs greatly. Here, in place of shops that carry only meat, canned goods, and potatoes, cabbages, and beets, the greengrocery stores largely predominate. There are four or five greengrocery shops to one meat market, and these stores have a surprising variety of fresh vegetables and fruits all the year. The variety of salad greens is remarkable. More Swiss chard, mustard, dandelion leaves, endive, squash blossoms and leaves, escarole, are to be seen in one little Italian store than in a half dozen American markets. Legumes are in stock in great quantity and variety--there are some little stores that do not handle greengroceries, but carry large stocks of legumes. Every store has a large case of different varieties of Italian cheese, and the variety of macaroni, spaghetti, and noodles is amazing to an American. Fish is frequently sold from stalls along the street, and on Friday fish wagons go about through the district. Sometimes meat is sold from wagons, but less to Italians than to other nationalities living in the neighborhood. Certainly one effect of the organization of these shops on the basis of nationality is to prevent the members of one group from gaining the advantage of dietetically better practices followed in other groups. The Lithuanian and Italian neighborhoods described happened to be in widely separated districts of the city, but often similar differences may be observed between two shops within the same block that serve different national groups. It is clear that the retail trade, being unstandardized, gives no help to the immigrant woman in the matter of efficient buying. There is as yet no fine art of service in this field based on careful accounting of cost and service. Obviously there is great waste in the number of stores, in the number of persons engaged in conducting them, in the needless duplication of even such meager equipment as is found in them. This waste will reflect itself in needlessly high prices which, while they mulct the buyer, bring the seller little gain. Evidently, then, little or no help is given through the system of retail trading to the foreign-born housewife in the matter of adapting the diet of her family to American or dietetic requirements. Yet food demands a large share of the income. In the latest report on the cost of living in the United States, in only 8 out of 45 cities were the food demands met by less than 40 per cent of the entire expenditure in the group whose incomes were between $900 and $1,200.[36] Those cities were: Pana, Illinois 39.4 Buffalo, New York 38.9 Wilmington, Delaware 38.9 Dover, New Jersey 38.8 Indianapolis, Indiana 37.6 Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota 37.6 Steubenville, Ohio 37.3 Fort Wayne, Indiana 35.6 The lowest proportion was in Fort Wayne, where over a third of the income was required for feeding the families in this income group. MODIFICATION OF DIET No extensive study of the dietary practices of the different groups, either here or in the old country, has been undertaken, but considerable evidence has been secured in substantiation of the fact that their old-country practices are being modified in this country. This is not being done consciously in response to dietetic requirements, but often blindly in response to what seem to be American customs or necessities. There has been some conflict of testimony with regard to the changes in the Czecho-Slovak and Croatian groups. The Italians are said by all to have made very slight changes in their diet in this country. The Lithuanians, Poles, Russians, and Ukrainians, on the other hand, are said to have made very radical changes. The modification that is spoken of most frequently and that is of gravest concern to many of their leaders, is the increased use of meat. Attention has already been called to the explanation of this in the fact that the price of meat was prohibitive at home, and that fruit, vegetables, and dairy products were enjoyed without expenditure of money. The large number of stores in which meat is offered for sale, although undoubtedly reflecting the general wishes of the group, offers constant suggestion to the individual purchaser to buy meat. The naïve belief that much meat must be eaten by men doing manual labor is said to be another factor. Excessive use of coffee is said by visiting housekeepers and others familiar with dietetic problems to be one of the most serious faults of the diet of many groups, especially the Slavic groups. It is a general custom to put the coffee pot on the stove in the morning and leave it there all day for any member of the family to help himself to coffee when he wants it. This is entirely a new habit which has been learned in America, as coffee was almost unknown in the poorer groups in the old country. One explanation that was given by a foreign-born woman was that these families were used to a diet of soup at home, and that as they gave this up in this country they felt the need of some liquid to replace it. One Polish woman who was asked if she had changed her diet in this country, replied, "Naturally, at home everyone had soup for breakfast, and here everyone has coffee and bread." Another change that was reported over and over again was the use of more cakes and sweet rolls. This seemed to be considered a peculiarly American change, as was evidenced by the families who reported that they had not changed their diet, as they didn't like the American diet of cakes. Some of them, indeed, were very scornful of what they considered the American diet, saying among other things that they could not afford to eat steak and chops every day, that they did not like sweets, that their "men" would not eat "out of a can," that they did not like fried things. Their ideas of American diet were gained in part from the food in restaurants, in part from what the children learned in cooking lessons in school, and in part from general suggestions that they have picked up. Undoubtedly misguided social workers who have tried to give advice on diet without themselves knowing much about it, are responsible for some of these ideas. In a certain mill town in Massachusetts, for example, a social worker employed by the mill discovered what she thought was the cause of the paper falling off the walls in the fact that the people boiled their food. She therefore went in and taught them to fry meat and other foodstuffs. The problem of how far the immigrant groups should be encouraged to modify their diet can be determined only after a careful study of their dietary practices. The price and quality of food available to immigrants must be ascertained. Their habits, customs, and preferences must be thoroughly understood. There can be no question, however, that help should be given them in making the modifications required by the changed environment. There have been a number of suggestions of the best way to accomplish this. Visiting housekeepers or visiting dietitians have been suggested and will be discussed later. It is highly probable that help must first be given to immigrant women in their homes before they can be persuaded to attend any classes or demonstrations outside of their homes. They must gradually be persuaded to take advantage of the help obtainable in this way. That the whole problem of diets suited to special needs of people is being considered is evidenced by the fact that it has been suggested that food be sold by units of energy value. Dr. Graham Lusk, for example, proposed at a time of great distress in New York that the Health Commissioner attempt to persuade grocers to prepare "Board of Health baskets" which would provide 10,000 calories daily for a family of five at a minimum cost.[37] The United States Commissioner of Labor indorses the idea in the following words, "There are no insuperable obstacles in the way of selling bread, beef, pork, eggs, milk, cabbage, onions, corn, sugar--by the 100 or 1,000 calories."[38] Professor Murlin has advocated that manufacturers be compelled to place on food containers the calorie content of the package. If such a plan could be worked out, the dietetic virtues and weaknesses of the different groups could serve as a basis for the special form in which foodstuffs were marketed in different areas. Any such project as applied to the foreign born is far from accomplishment. It is suggestive of a new attitude which does not continue to leave the matter of diet to chance. FURNITURE ON THE INSTALLMENT PLAN In the purchase of furniture and of clothing there is the temptation to buy on the installment plan. This plan is open to all the objections ordinarily brought against buying on credit. The buyer is tempted to overestimate his ability to pay in the future, and he may not take the same trouble to calculate the actual value of his purchase as when he pays money down. In the past the form of sale has often been such as to place him peculiarly at the mercy of the seller, who might find it more profitable to reclaim the possession of goods on which a considerable share of the price has been paid than to extend the time of payment and allow the payment to be completed. The superintendent of the Bohemian Charitable Association says, for example, that it is very common for newly married people to load themselves with debt for household furniture, and that at least two thirds of the stoves which are commonly bought on the installment plan are taken back by the dealers before payments are finished. The immigrant from the rural community may be quite unused to purchasing furniture of any sort, and may be easily persuaded to buy what he thinks is "American style." The Lithuanian peasant, for example, had little furniture at home. In the cottage of two rooms, one was used on the occasion of the visit of the priest or at the time of a wedding or funeral, and contained nothing but the shrine and the dowry chest of the daughters. The walls were decorated with paper flowers and cheap lithographs. In Lithuanian homes here one is struck by the fact that among the more prosperous the same sort of furniture is seen in all the houses. This consists of the heavy oak and leather sets of three or four large pieces usually sold on the installment plan by stores in the immigrant districts. It is not beautiful, and there is no reason to think that it is distinctly American, but the immigrant is not in a position to know that. NEW FASHIONS AND OLD CLOTHES Then there is the unsolved problem of clothing. As in the case of food, so with dress; the general effect of the organization of the department stores in the different neighborhoods can be only misleading and confusing. Many misleading devices that would no longer deceive the older residents are tried again on the newcomer. The women at first find it difficult to judge of values and prices. The local stores are there with the bargain counter and the special sale and all the other devices. The Poles and the Lithuanians with whom we have talked have dwelt especially on the helplessness of their countrywomen in the hands of the unscrupulous merchant or the shrewd clerk. Clothing presents to even the enlightened and the sophisticated a most difficult problem in domestic management. "Fashion wears out more garments than the man." The anthropologist, the physiologist, and the sociologist are all concerned to explain why the clothing worn to-day is often so unsuited to bodily needs as well as to the demands of beauty and fitness.[39] To a very real extent practices of waste prevail in the selection of clothing, and to that extent neither reason nor art finds a place in the scheme. Where an attempt at economy is made, the influence of the new science of hygiene is impeded by old ideas of durability. So that from the well-to-do of the community comes little suggestion that can be of service in directing the expenditures for clothing of any other group. [Illustration: IT'S A LONG WAY FROM THIS ELABORATE CZECHO-SLOVAK COSTUME TO THE MODERN AMERICAN STYLES] The foreign born are faced with a particularly difficult problem. They often come from places where dress served to show where one came from, and who one was. In the United States, dress serves to conceal one's origin and relationships, and there results an almost inexorable dilemma. Follow the Old-World practice, and show who you are and where you come from, and the result is that you remain alien and different and that your children will not stay with you "outside the gates." Or follow the fashion and be like others, and the meager income is dissipated before your eyes, with meager results. The Croatians have emphasized the waste of American dress and the immodest styles often worn, while the Italians have chiefly dwelt upon the friction between parents and children. In some neighborhoods Jewish agents go about offering clothing on the installment plan at prices much higher than those charged even in inefficient neighborhood shops. Shoes are particularly a source of difficulty, both those for the younger children and those for the older boy or girl who goes to work. In some neighborhoods where the older women go barefooted and are thought to do so because they wish to cling to their Old-World customs, they are simply saving, so that the children may wear "American shoes." Certainly the foreign-born woman who undertakes to manage her family's affairs in an American community is confronted by no easy task. The question arises as to what might be done to render that task less difficult. The dull of sight cannot lead the blind at a very swift pace. But certain steps might be taken to simplify the problems for all consumers, including the foreign born. In fact, whatever renders the system of retail dealing less chaotic and less wasteful will benefit all. The establishment of markets for foodstuffs at appropriate places where grower and consumer can meet, and certain costs of double cartage can be eliminated, is, for example, a recognized item in reform of the present food traffic. TRAINING NEEDED The importance of the spending function of the housewife must be brought home more clearly to great numbers of women. Too few native-born housewives realize that they have any problem to work out, or that there may be an "art of spending." None of the ninety foreign-born women interviewed had received any instruction in buying except advice from friends or from their own children. What little instruction they had received had been concerned only with cooking. Not one of these women recognized any difficulty in buying except the difficulty of speaking the language well enough to ask for things or to understand how much they cost, or of getting the wherewithal to pay. It is by the slow process of continual suggestion that both women consumers and distributing agencies will be awakened to the problem. Evidence of this awakening is already apparent. Schools and colleges, with their domestic-science and household-budgeting courses, are raising the question among an ever-widening circle of people. Banks and brokers with their special woman's department are advising and suggesting ways of spending that save. Newspapers, magazines, and clubs are discussing household problems. Organizations, public and private, have worked out ways and means of helping women budget their expenditures. So far these varied efforts have reached chiefly the American women. But no one group is isolated to-day, and as some awaken they set in motion the waves of thought and action that reach their foreign-born neighbor. Her institutions of press and bank respond with information and assistance. Inevitably better housekeepers will result. In the meantime, all possible assistance must be given. It is therefore especially important to establish contacts between agencies already responsible for developing an art in household management and the leaders among the various foreign-born groups. Provision should be made for young women from among those groups to obtain a higher education than has been commonly thought necessary by them or than has in many cases been possible from a pecuniary standpoint. Much could undoubtedly be accomplished by the establishment in connection with departments of home economics and household arts in the various colleges of funds making possible the compilation of material bearing on these particular points. Scholarships and fellowships can be made especially available to young women from among these groups who desire to pursue their education in these lines. The household arts departments of the various universities are attempting to plan a "standardized dress," the social workers are developing a list of garments,[40] and an estimate of expenditures for the use of case-work agencies in the care of dependent families,[41] the Young Women's Christian Association is carrying on a health campaign[42] directed particularly at the problem of proper shoes. In the meantime the Sunday papers carry full-page advertisements describing in specious and misleading terms the bargains in clothing to be had the following day, and the merry round continues. The tragedy works itself out both in the dissipation of the income and in the friction created between parents and children, to which reference will be made in another place. But perhaps more important is the possibility of modifying the practices of the retail trade itself. Restrictions have been placed about the trade in such legislation as has been passed against fraudulent advertising and other fraudulent practices, as well as by the so-called pure food laws of the United States and of the various states. And some influence has been exercised on the conditions under which goods are made, or under which they are sold, by the Trade Union Label League and by the Consumers' League. Neither of these organizations would, however, directly touch the life of the foreign-born housewife. CO-OPERATION IN SPENDING The question arises as to whether help is to be expected from co-operative distribution, which has had such an extraordinary history in England and been highly developed in a number of the other European countries. There is always the temptation to recall the winter evening in December, 1844, when twenty-eight weavers, of whom two were women, opened in Toad Lane, Rochdale, Lancashire, a little shop, and began to sell themselves the necessities of life. Their remarkable services in England have not been confined to their business undertakings, but have always included important educational activities. In America there have for many years been a few co-operative stores, some succeeding, some failing, most of them working out their plans independently without connection with other similar stores from whose experience they might profit. Within the last few years, however, the number of such stores has greatly increased and the need for closer union has been felt. This has resulted in the formation of the Co-operative League of America. Education in co-operative buying is its main purpose. At what appears to be the beginning of an important period in the extension of the movement in this country it is worth while to consider how far the existing co-operative stores in this country are helping the foreign-born women. Anything that assists her to lower the cost of living is beneficial. Although sound practice dictates that consumer's co-operatives sell their goods at prices current in their neighborhood, the profits to the members appear in the return of a per cent of all purchases. In proportion as the local stores are able to supply the housewife with all her goods, the saving on the purchase of her daily needs will be more appreciable. Her interest in the enterprise will make her demand both greater variety and better quality of goods. Moreover, there may be other than material gains to the foreign-born woman from her contact with a co-operative. If it is one formed by her countrymen, where her mother tongue is spoken, it may be her first and for a long time her only contact with anything outside her home. Natural timidity will readily be overcome if she can go around the corner to a store kept by people who speak her language and understand her wants. As confidence is established she may venture to other neighborhoods or centers of distribution where more advantages can be gained. But unless she gains the confidence which few immigrant women have at first, she is an alien and isolated unit in a vast, strange country. Eventually she may become a member of a co-operative store. If she does this, perhaps the most benefit to the foreign-born woman results. Her incorporation into this country may well be said to have been started when she has become an active member of an institution which is a part of American life. The benefits are those which result to any individual from participation in a going concern. Sharing responsibilities and evolving policies for a joint enterprise have educational implications that no other activity can supply. The question, then, may be raised as to the extent to which a development of the co-operative methods in the United States may be looked to as likely to become an important educational agency in intelligent spending for the foreign housewife, enabling her to develop in her task something of a technique. As to the possibility of developing co-operative societies because the ordinary trade is wasteful, it should be recalled that the retail trade in the United States, while wasteful, is probably not less, but rather more efficient than in other countries. Moreover, in the United States there are often lacking those conditions that give rise to a sense of a permanent division of interest between those who sell and those who buy. In fact, when the foreign-language store exists, there may be a tie between shopkeeper and purchaser. In communities in which there is an apparent division of interest between the foreign born and the native, or between two foreign groups, the national bond may grow into a social bond that for a time at least would serve as the basis for the collective action by one group against the other group. If the dealers then belong to the outside group, or if the dealers of the foreign-born group seem to betray their fellow countrymen, there may develop a movement strong enough to carry over into organization. Among some groups, such as the Finns, the language constitutes a permanent barrier for the adult members of the group, and with a skillful and intelligent leadership the co-operative undertakings may be expected to prosper for a very considerable period of time. The immigrants have probably twice as many successful co-operative stores as the native born. In a community like a mining town, that is almost or altogether an industrial community, with no leisure class, the pecuniary resources of all are fairly well known to all, and the temptation to spend conspicuously is therefore lacking. It will be recalled that these are the communities in which the employers have specially abused their power by forcing the employees to buy at company stores. In such communities there are always considerable numbers of competent, efficient, intelligent persons. Under a specially able leadership, a special hardship through high prices, or a condition of special exploitation, the co-operative store may be expected to develop. Then, too, a sense of identity of interest may find its basis in trade-union membership or in membership in a special trade, as was the case with the miners in a store at Staunton, Illinois, where the union managed the store for years at a profit. With the exception of these few bonds, however, there are lacking in most communities several elements present in the foreign experience that have undoubtedly contributed materially to the success of co-operative enterprises. There is, in the first place, the lack of stability caused by the rapid movement from group to group. The older people do not speak English; the children learn English and often do not want to speak the language of their parents. They want to be American and to buy as Americans buy. They therefore resent any organization that tends to emphasize their foreign origin. Also no sense of class consciousness among customers arouses antagonism against retailers. In the cities, particularly where there are large foreign colonies, the retail trade in those colonies, especially the trade in foodstuffs, is largely in the hands of fellow countrymen whose background is much the same as that of their customers. Most of the stores are small, and the proprietors, who are not skilled in modern business methods, do not make much more than a living from their stores, so that there is no great contrast in prosperity to arouse a feeling of antagonism. On the contrary, the proprietor and his family usually live in the district--often over the store--in much the same condition as the rest of the group. They are friends of all, and by their knowledge of the group can meet certain needs and appear to serve as a connecting link between the separate group and the general community. How far the desire of the more ambitious group members to open up a shop of their own acts as a deterrent to interest in co-operation would be difficult to estimate, but it seems probable that this has some weight. On the other hand, attention may be called to the fact that the retail trade, and especially the marketing of food, has been so slightly reduced to an art, it is still so empirically and wastefully carried on, that there are many possibilities of reasonable success of co-operatives. For a time, at least, this will be true if the undertaking is on a modest scale and does not seem worthy of attack by a relatively powerful group. Among the obvious wastes are those connected with the transportation (cross freights), the display and salesmanship, the marketing of novelties, and the use of the indefinite measures. Besides these there are the bad debts resulting from careless credit transactions, the waste involved in deliveries of packages, the waste of the repeated purchase of articles known to be regularly needed. Wherever any group can be led to consider the wastes involved in these methods of doing business, their good sense will make them perceive easily the folly of persisting in those ways, and the practice of this minimum of self-restraint will serve as a basis for a considerable balance, out of which dividends may accumulate. The use of the co-operative idea has, therefore, great possibilities as the basis for discussing the wastes of the present system and for deliberation as to the best or as to any possible way out. In other words, experimenting in democratic organization in obtaining the necessities of life is an important next step. As in the matter of copartnership in relation to housing, co-operative distribution may serve as a point of departure, an object lesson worthy of closer study and experimental imitation. Especially would the experience of the Women's Co-operative Guild be helpful in bringing the idea to the attention of the influential women among the various groups. The importance of doing this cannot be overestimated. For, as has been so often suggested, the wastes of retail dealing, while probably not so great here as in some other countries, are so enormous that great economies are possible from even a slight rationalizing process.[43] The development of a general consciousness of the nature and extent of these wastes would in itself serve as a corrective. Moreover, the experience of the co-operative enterprise may often be carried over into legislative policy, and in this way give to the community the benefit of the experiment tried by a group. Co-operators in England have both initiated and backed such social legislation as the Trade Boards Act, the provision for general maternity care under the Ministry of Health, and other measures. FOOTNOTES: [32] See Freund, _Police Power, Public Policy and Constitutional Rights_, secs. 319-321. [33] _Report of the United States Immigration Commission_, vol. vi, pp. 318, 319. [34] _United States Immigration Commission Reports_, vol. vi, p. 95, "General Survey of the Bituminous Coal Mining Industry." See also pp. 650, 651. [35] _United States Immigration Commission Reports_, vol. vi, pp. 544-545, on the subject of "Housing by Employers." See Wood, _The Housing of the Unskilled Wage Earner_, p. 114 ff. [36] United States Bureau of Labor Statistics _Monthly Labor Review_, May, 1917, p. 147, and June, 1919, p. 101. [37] Lusk, _The Science of Nutrition_ (Third Edition), pp. 562, 570. [38] United States Bureau of Labor Statistics _Monthly Labor Review_, vol. ix (July, 1919), p. 4. The analogy is drawn between the sale of food by calorie and the sale of coal by the British thermal unit. [39] See Thomas, _Sex and Society_, chap. vii; Veblen, _Theory of the Leisure Class_, chap. vii; Anthony, _Feminism in Germany and Scandinavia_, chaps. v and vi, "Dress Reform." [40] _The Chicago Standard Budget for Dependent Families_, p. 18. [41] _Ibid._, p. 14. [42] New York daily papers, September 18, 19, 20, 1919. Reports of International Conference of Women Physicians under Auspices of Young Women's Christian Association. [43] See, for example, King, _Lower Living Costs in Cities_. VI THE CARE OF THE CHILDREN The care of the children is the most important of the mother's duties. It cannot be thoroughly done under modern conditions unless the mother has leisure to inform herself about conditions surrounding her children at work and at play, and to keep in touch with their interests, especially as they grow older. It includes caring for their physical wants, bathing them and keeping them clean when they are little, feeding them, providing their clothing, taking care of them when they are sick; it also includes looking after their education and training, choosing the school, seeing that they get to school regularly and on time, following their work at school as it is reported on the monthly report cards, encouraging them to greater efforts when their work is unsatisfactory, praising them when they do well, and, above all, giving them the home training and discipline that they need. It is the mother who can teach the children good habits, forming, as only the home life can form, their standards of right and wrong; it means watching them at their play or seeing that they play in a place that is safe without watching. As they grow older it means a general supervision of their recreation and their companions, judging surrounding influences, having in mind the dangers that lie in the way of the unwary maiden and the perils of the impetuous boy. Times have changed since she was young, and amid a great variety of choice she must decide for her children which are harmless influences and diversions. In the case of the older girls it means the serious problems of clothes, of amusements, of earnings, of prospective mating. The mother shares many of these tasks with the father. Responsibility for discipline, decisions, and training must be joint, but the actual carrying out of these duties is the mother's. Usually the older children help with the care of the younger, but the final responsibility rests upon the mother. [Illustration: A SLOVAK MOTHER, NEWLY ARRIVED] UNPREPAREDNESS OF THE IMMIGRANT MOTHER Looking after the physical well-being of the children is primarily a matter of maintaining them in health, and hence the discussion of these problems is left to the division of this study devoted to that subject. It is sufficient here to note that it is a peculiarly difficult problem for the foreign-born mothers. Modern knowledge of child feeding and modern ideas with regard to daily bathing are of recent origin. In many of the countries from which these women come they are unknown. A Croatian lawyer, who translated some of the Children's Bureau publications, was very much interested in the one on the care of the child of pre-school age. He told the investigator that there was nothing like that in his country, and he hoped that this translation might be used to reach the women in Croatia. If this is true in matters that pertain to the physical welfare of children, it is even more marked in matters affecting their education and training. The modern idea is that the child should not be trained and disciplined to be subservient to the parent, but should be helped to develop his own personality. It is based on a greater respect for the intelligence of the child and on the idea that the early placing of the responsibility for his acts on the child himself will better train citizens for a changing world, and especially for democracy. These ideas are of comparatively recent formulation, many of them dating from the impetus given to the study of the child by modern psychology. Although of gradual growth, they have been for a long time implicit in the current practices of the most enlightened section of the community. They are understood by a relatively small part of the community. They are acted on by much larger groups, so that it is common to hear members of the generation that is passing lament the lack of discipline of the children to-day. The situation is complicated by the fact that many people who talk the most about developing the child's personality stop in practice with the removal of restraints, without attempting the more difficult task of developing his sense of responsibility. The point to note is that the native born, in part through their own conscious choice and in part blindly moved by forces they do not understand, have been gradually moving away from the old tradition of strict and unquestioning obedience such as is exacted by military authorities. With the immigrant parents the situation is very different. The countries from which they come are not republics, and hence the opportunities for training for intelligent citizenship have been lacking, especially in the lower economic groups. The idea of the government has often been rather to foster that training that makes for good soldiers. Moreover, the civilizations from which most of these people came were at the time static, so that the evils of blind obedience and rigid conformity were not present to the same extent as in our more rapidly moving civilization. Thus the tradition of absolute obedience of child to parent remained practically intact. Wherever this tradition existed the usual method of enforcement was corporal punishment, generally inflicted with a strap. It is not intended to assert that a great deal of child beating was prevalent in the old country; in most cases the child learned quickly that the penalty of disobedience was the strap, and threats became as effective as its actual use. BREAKDOWN OF PARENTAL AUTHORITY The immigrant brings with him to this country this tradition of the authority of the parent, with no thought of doing anything but maintaining it here. There are, however, forces at work in this country that tend to make this impossible. There are suggestions of a different tradition in the general atmosphere. Many immigrants absorb these suggestions unconsciously, as they absorb those of a wider freedom for women. More important, however, is the development of the child. Circumstances of his daily life force him to take the lead in many situations. This has been pointed out in a study of the delinquent child, where it is said:[44] Obviously, many things which are familiar to the child in the facts of daily intercourse in the street, or in the school, will remain unknown or unintelligible to the father and mother. It has become a commonplace that this cheap wisdom on the part of the boy or girl leads to a reversal of the usual relationship between parent and child. The child who knows English is the interpreter who makes the necessary explanations for the mother to the landlord, the grocer, the sanitary inspector, the charity visitor, and the teacher or truant officer. It is the child again who often interviews the "boss," finds the father a job, and sees him through the onerous task of "joining the union." The father and mother grow accustomed to trusting the child's version of what "they all do in America," and gradually find themselves at a great disadvantage in trying to maintain parental control. In the face of this situation the conduct of the immigrant parent generally follows along one of three very distinct lines: (a) he modifies his methods in family discipline little by little, himself unconscious of the implications, or (b) he stubbornly attempts to retain the old authority undiminished, or (c) he abandons the old system without having anything to put in its place. The first method of behavior is probably the most common; it usually leads to little difficulty within the family group if the parents' modifications are made as fast as the child becomes aware of the newer ideas. The attempt to maintain the old system in its entirety may also be accomplished without disturbance if the child is willing, and probably in most cases it is maintained without serious opposition on the part of the child. Abandoning the old system without substituting something better is probably the least frequent reaction to the situation, but it is one that is especially dangerous in immigrant groups. The native-born parent who relaxes all discipline has this advantage over the foreign born; in general he can at will demonstrate his superior knowledge, and the child looks up to him and takes his advice, while the foreign-born parent is peculiarly helpless because the child thinks that his own knowledge, demonstrably superior in some things, extends to all fields. The relative frequency of these different modes of reaction would be a difficult matter to determine. They were all evident from the facts about discipline obtained from the families visited in this study. To some extent the maintenance of the old system intact may be judged by the prevalence of corporal punishment as a method of enforcing obedience. A doctor of a Lithuanian district said that one thing he was very anxious to see disappear was the strap, which could now be seen in almost every home. Fifty-four of the eighty-seven families from whom information was obtained said that they used whipping as a method of punishment. In most of the cases there was nothing to indicate with what the child was whipped, but in five it was definitely stated that a strap was used. In very few cases was there any attempt to punish the child in private. It was usually stated that the whipping was done before all the other members of the family. Two or three families stated that they did not whip the children on the street. A significant fact was the frequently repeated assertion that the children were whipped because they were too young to understand anything else. An interesting state of transition was seen in some of the thirty-three families who had abandoned whipping but had not given up the idea of absolute obedience. It is evidenced in comments like the following: "They are not whipped. Father threatens with a strap." Or, "It [whipping] is not necessary. Father speaks, and children obey." Some families had relaxed the discipline sufficiently to be apparent to our investigators, who made such comments as "Children are making a terrible noise, but nobody seemed to mind." It has already been said that whatever the reaction, the training of the children usually takes place without visible disaster to the family group. This is especially true while the children are young. As they grow older the dangers that are inherent in such a situation become more marked. The figures on juvenile delinquency show that an unduly large proportion of juvenile offenders are children of foreign-born parents. This subject will be discussed more fully at a later point in the chapter in connection with the problem of the older boy and girl. It is important to emphasize here that the foundation for later trouble is often laid while the children are young, and hence consideration of the effect of modern ideas on discipline and training should begin with the very young child. LEARNING TO PLAY One of the needs of the growing child that is much emphasized in modern ideas of child culture is an opportunity for wholesome play. The foreign-born mother, from a rural district in Europe, where children were put to work helping the parents as soon as they could be in any way useful, frequently does not recognize this need, and hence does not even do those things within her power to secure it. From some opportunities which she and the children might enjoy together, she is cut off by lack of knowledge of English. A Bohemian woman, for example, said that she did not go with her husband and the children to the moving pictures, as she could not read the English explanations and often did not understand the pictures. Even when the need is recognized it is still a very difficult problem. In the old country, when the child was too little to work, he could play in the fields quite safe, in sight of his mother at her work. In the city, however, especially in the congested districts, which are the only ones known to immigrants when they first come, the child cannot play in his own yard, for there is nothing that can be called a yard. The alternatives are the city streets with their manifold dangers, or the public playground. From the point of view of physical safety as well as in giving a place for more wholesome play, the public playground is obviously the more desirable. The provision of playgrounds, however, is everywhere inadequate, in some places much more so than in others. In Chicago, which is probably better equipped in this respect than most cities, there are large districts that have no easy access to a playground. Many of the women that were asked where their children played said that they played on the streets, not because the parents thought it safe, but because they could not go to a playground alone and the mother had not time to take them. It was interesting, too, to learn that some of the parents who preferred the playground, and whose children played there, did not think the children should be left there alone. In one Bohemian family the grandmother took the two little boys to the playground and stayed with them as long as they stayed. In part, then, the problem of play space is a problem in housing reform. All the newer housing projects make provision for a space for this purpose, either by the individual yard or where the multiple house is used, by one playground for every three or four families. Housing reform, however, comes slowly and immediate relief could be given by the provision of many more public playgrounds. It is obvious that these must be so directed and supervised that children can be left with perfect safety. It would also be necessary to see that the foreign-speaking mothers were informed of the advantages of the playground and convinced of its safety for their children. The supervision of children's play in streets and vacant lots could be greatly extended. The establishing during certain hours of "play zones," from which traffic is excluded and in which the younger children and their mothers could be taught simple games and dances, has been found successful. PARENTS AND EDUCATION In the matter of education the state has relieved the parent of a large part of the responsibility by legislation prescribing the ages during which the child must attend school, and in some states the grade he must reach before leaving school. In spite of this there still rests with the parent the responsibility of choosing the school, getting the child to school promptly and regularly, following his progress, deciding whether he shall go beyond the time prescribed by law. The choice of the schools means for most immigrant groups, a choice between the public and the parochial school. In very large numbers of cases the parochial school is chosen. The reason for this is only in part the influence of the church, although this undoubtedly counts for a great deal. The people we have interviewed in this study have repeatedly pointed out that it is not only for religious education and training that the foreign-born parent sends his child to the parochial school, but that it is also because he wants him to learn the language of his parents, the history and traditions of the country from which he came, and to retain a respect for the experiences and associations that remain of great importance to the parents. Another reason that has often been given for sending the children to the parochial school is the lack of discipline in the public schools. This has been especially emphasized by Italians, but it has also been spoken of by members of other groups. There can be no question that the parochial school, under the tradition of authority maintained by the church, is much nearer in its idea of discipline to the ideas the immigrant brings with him from the old country, than is the public school whose system of training the immigrant parent does not understand and has not had made clear to him. [Illustration: IMMIGRANT CHILDREN ACQUIRING INDIVIDUAL INITIATIVE IN A MONTESSORI CLASS AT HULL HOUSE] The problem of the immigrant parent with regard to the education of his child is more difficult because of the change in the position of the child in this country, which he usually does not understand. At home the child was important, not as an individual, but as a member of the family group, and home decisions about the child took into account the needs of the family in the first place and only secondarily the welfare of the child.[45] This reversal of emphasis is confusing to the immigrant parents. Taken in connection with the fact that many of the immigrants are from countries where education is not compulsory, it leads them to sacrifice the welfare of the child at many points. It seems of much greater importance, for example, that the work of the household should be done than the child should get to school every day. The study of the reasons for absence in two of the immigrant neighborhoods of Chicago[46] shows the frequency with which children are kept out of school because of the needs of the family. Thus, of 1,115 children who were absent from school during a certain period 131 were out to do work at home; 81 were kept at home because of sickness in the family; 42 stayed home to interpret or run errands. One boy, for example, was kept to watch fires for a sick father while his mother "got a day's work"; another had stayed at home because his sister's baby was in convulsions and his mother had not been able to get him ready to go to school; John was staying at home because his mother had gone to see a doctor and wanted him to look after the children, who did not like to go to the day nursery; Bruno, aged twelve, was found at home helping his mother wash, but he explained that he had really stayed out to go "to tell the boss" that his father was sick; Genevieve, aged twelve, who had been absent fourteen half days and tardy twice within a month, was found alternately tending the shop and taking care of three younger children and of a sick mother, although her father was well able to hire some one to come in and help care for the family while the little girl was at school. In the rural districts the failure to understand the necessity of complying with the compulsory education law is even more marked. In the Rolling Prairie group of Polish families many of the children were not sent to school until after two families had been fined for not sending them. There was the expense for clothes and books, and the extra work for the mother. The roads were bad, the children often had no shoes, even in winter, and, above all, the parents had no understanding of why they should go. After the prosecution, however, the school law was obeyed. The parents' attitude toward the problem of keeping the child in school comes out quite naïvely in the answers given to visitors for this study. The following comments, given in the quaint but forceful English of our foreign-speaking investigators, show what is meant: Mother (a Russian woman with three children) visited school when teacher demanded her to send daughter to school when she wished her at home to help. Mother (a Polish woman with six children under fourteen) feels that children study too much and ought to help their parents more. Father (Italian) thinks there should be laws for protection of parents as well as child labor. FOLLOWING SCHOOL PROGRESS Following the child's progress at school is a difficult matter for parents who themselves have not had the benefit of education, or even for those who have been educated under a different system. It is, however, not impossible for them to do so; by means of reports in the language they can understand, by talking to the teachers or some one of the school authorities who knows about the child's work, they can keep closely enough in touch with his school record to enable them to give help at the point where it is most needed. Many of them do this in spite of the inherent difficulties and in spite of difficulties which the school itself puts in their way. An Italian father in a little Illinois mining town brought out with pride the last report of his little girl and showed the visitor that she had an average of 90 per cent. In the families studied in Chicago a few were evidently trying to keep in touch with their children's schooling. Thus of one family it is said: "Mother not only goes to school entertainments, but follows up the children's work with the teachers, consults them, and accepts their advice." This family is Bohemian, and both mother and father are well-educated leaders in progressive Bohemian circles in Chicago. In another Bohemian family the parents were also making an effort in this direction, but, being less well equipped, their difficulties were greater. The schedule says: Mother never visits school as she cannot understand English. Parents are very much concerned about their boy who brought a poor mark from school. After family consultation, daughter visited teacher, who advised them to take the boy out of Bohemian school (a nationalistic school to which he went after school hours), because he might be overworked. These are, however, exceptional cases in the families studied. Among the Bohemians and Slovaks, to be sure, a considerable proportion of the mothers visited the school occasionally or knew some of the children's teachers. Among the families of the more recent immigrants it was almost unheard of for the parents to visit the school. Of the eleven Russian families studied not one reported any visits to the school or contact with the teachers, and only two of the Ukrainian families. One of these visited only when the children did not behave. This mother said that she thought she should know more about her children's school work, but that she had felt so much in the way when she visited the school that she finally stopped going. An almost inevitable consequence of this failure to make contacts with the school is that the parents remain quite unaware of what their children are learning there. An attempt was made in our study of selected families to get the parents' opinion of the work the children were given at school, but very few parents felt they knew enough about the work to express an opinion. A few to whom reference has already been made thought the children gave too much time to study and not enough to helping their parents, one or two spoke of the lack of discipline, a few others thought the schooling must be all right as the children learned to speak English. A Ukrainian mother of two children, the oldest eight, "believes that it must be good, for the children speak English and the oldest girl can read and write." Sometimes the failure to understand what the children are doing brings unnecessary worry. A Hungarian mother, speaking of the education of her children, expressed regret that they were not taught carpentry. The visitor turned to the eleven-year-old boy and asked him if he didn't have manual training. He replied that he did, but "she doesn't understand." A careful study of the answers to the questions in our attempt to get parents' attitude toward the children's schooling shows, then, that while a few exceptional parents have been able to follow their children's schooling, the great majority of them have not. It suggests that some of them are willing and ready to do it if only some of the obstacles were removed, and that there are also a large number who do not realize the necessity of it, and for whom something more must be done. The opportunity of the school, and various devices for rendering aid at this point, that have been tried, will be discussed in a later chapter. The failure of the parents to understand not only means confusion and worry for them, but for the child lack of the help and sympathy at home that they might have. It becomes more serious as the child reaches the age when he is no longer compelled by law to attend school, and the decision as to whether or not he shall go on rests with his parents. When the parents have not known about the work he has been doing, and have no means of judging how much or how little he has learned, they are obviously in no position to make a decision about his further education. There are many forces at work to influence the immigrant parent to put the child to work at once. There is, first of all, in many cases, economic pressure. Sometimes the child's earnings are actually needed to make up the family budget for current expenditures. In some families, however, his earnings are not so much needed as desired, to help in buying property more often than for any other reason. In these cases it seems clear that the attitude toward the child as a means of contributing to the welfare or prestige of the family is a very important factor. One Polish doctor with whom we conferred emphasized this point. He said that the Polish parent expected to stop work at an early age and live on the earnings of his children. Hence he took his children out of school as soon as the law allowed, and had them start work. Another factor that undoubtedly plays an important part is the parent's own lack of education. Never having had any opportunity for more than the most elementary education, it is only natural that it should seem that a child who had spent seven years in school should be fairly well educated. This attitude is strengthened if he has succeeded without education or if the people whom he looks upon as successful have had little education. He is further confirmed in this attitude very often by his failure to realize the extent of the change in conditions and the ever-increasing complexity of the situation with which his child will have to deal. Thus he often fails to understand that an education that was quite adequate for the simple life in the old country is far from sufficient for life in this country to-day. Some of the people with whom we conferred were of the opinion that many of the parents from groups oppressed in Europe failed to realize the full significance of the freedom here. There the higher positions and the professions had been closed to them on account of race or class, and many of them were not aware that here they would be open to their children if they could give them the necessary education and training. There are, fortunately, forces at work to counteract this tendency to take the children out of school at the earliest possible moment. There is, too, among the foreign born, a very general desire to have their children do office work rather than manual labor, and an understanding that this means more than a grammar-school education. There is a certain naïve faith in the benefits of education even though they are not understood. This is particularly strong in people to whom the schools have been closed by a dominant race in Europe--the Jews from Russia, for example. And in proportion as the parents become educated so that they feel their own limitations, they appreciate education for their children and strive to give it to them. There is no doubt that all these influences are felt in the foreign-born groups, but they win out gradually against the force of the traditions by which the parent is guided in his decision to take the child out of school. The American community could hasten their action by helping the foreign-born parents to understand. There have been some attempts to enlighten the parents. The work of the Vocational Guidance Bureau in Chicago should be mentioned in this connection. When a child wants to leave school to go to work they explain to the parents the importance of keeping the child in school, and suggest means by which this can be done. This happens, however, only after the decision and plans have been made to put the child to work. The bureau has been handicapped in dealing with foreign-born parents by its lack of foreign-speaking visitors. An attempt of a different order has been made to reach the Bohemian farmers in Nebraska. A professor in the state university has for a number of years gone out to these farming communities, urging in public speeches given in Bohemian the necessity of higher education for the children, and especially for the girls. THE REVOLT OF OLDER CHILDREN The problem of the older boy and girl is by far the most difficult of the parents' problems. Reference has already been made to the fact that it is as the child grows older that the difficulties of maintaining the old system of parental authority become more apparent. It is at this time that the child sees that system is out of date, and then, if ever, he rebels against it. There is considerable evidence that the parents, on the other hand, feel the importance of maintaining their authority at that period of the child's life more than at any other. There are several reasons for this, among the more important being the fact that the child has reached an age when he can be economically helpful to the family group, and that the parents see dangers in his path. In other words, the maintenance of parental authority seems to be tied up with the control of the child's earnings and the maintenance of certain conventions regarding the association between young people of different sexes.[47] The immigrant parent very generally asserts his legal right to the entire earnings of his minor child. In fact, the child often continues the practice of giving up his wages until his marriage. Out of forty-three families studied, in which there were children of working age, thirty-five parents took the entire earnings of the children. The amount that the parent should give back to the child is not fixed by law or by custom, and it is at this point that conflict between the child and the parents is likely to arise. The parents frequently expect to continue to provide for the boy and the girl of working age as they did when they were younger, and to recognize their maturity only by giving them small sums weekly for spending money. In the case of girls even this slight concession is not made, and the girl has to ask her mother for everything she wants. In only four of the thirty-five families in which the children turned in all their earnings was an allowance of as much as $3 a week given. In the others the working child was given 25 cents, 50 cents, or 75 cents a week, usually on Sunday, or was given no fixed sum but "what he needs." In a Slovak family a girl of sixteen earning $13 a week, and one of fourteen earning $9 a week, were each given 50 cents each pay day; a boy of fifteen in a Slovenian family, earning $15 a week, received 50 cents on Sunday; two Slovak girls of eighteen and sixteen years, earning $45 and $80 a month, turned in all their earnings and got back "what they asked for." It is not surprising that a boy or girl should chafe under the system even if the resentment stopped short of open rebellion. In the families studied in which there was no evidence of friction it seems to have been avoided either by such a firm establishment of the authority of the parents while the child was young, that the child had not yet questioned it, or by wise use of the child's earnings for the benefit of the child. In several instances it was reported that they gave the child "all she asks"; one girl was being given lessons on the violin, which she specially desired. In these cases the issue did not appear to have been raised, but we have no reason for thinking the children were satisfied with the arrangement. In other families the beginnings of friction could already be seen. A Russian woman said that her two working girls, aged seventeen and fourteen, did not need money, and in the presence of the investigator refused the request of one for money for a picture show, telling her that men would pay her way. The eight parents who did not take all their children's earnings had not all changed their practices voluntarily. In some cases it was done because the children refused any longer to turn their earnings in. When the parent takes the entire earnings of the child and continues to bear the burden of support, there is probably no question on which the ideas of the child and those of the parent are so likely to conflict as on the question of clothes, especially clothes for the girl. The chaotic and unstandardized condition of the whole clothing problem has been pointed out in an earlier chapter, and attention has been called to the fact that it is one of the causes of conflict between parent and child. It is only natural that the young girl should want to look as well as possible, and it is to be expected that the girl of foreign-born parents should quickly learn at school or at work the prevailing opinion that to be well dressed is to be dressed in the latest fashion. She is also in a position to observe how quickly the fashions change, and thus early learns the unimportance of quality in modern clothing. She undoubtedly underestimates its importance because her models are not those on display at the highest-grade department stores, where the beauty of the quality occasionally redeems in slight measure the grotesqueness of form; she sees only the cheap imitations displayed in the stores in her own neighborhood. In her main contention that if she is to keep up with the fashions she need not buy clothing that will last more than one season, she is probably right. It is natural also that this method of buying should be distressing to her mother, who has been accustomed to clothes of unchanging fashions which were judged entirely by their quality. When to her normal distress at buying goods of poor quality at any price there is added an outrage to her native thrift, because the price of these tawdry fashionable goods is actually greater than for goods of better quality, it is not surprising that she and her daughter should clash on the question of what to buy. The question of shoes is said to be a special point of conflict. The girls insist on costly high-heeled, light-colored boots, while the mother sees that she could buy at less than half the price better shoes, more sensible, and of better quality. The conflict is more acute in proportion as the mother has lived an isolated life in this country and has not herself tried to keep up with American fashions. It is interesting to note that workers in the Vocational Guidance Bureau in Chicago state that this desire of the girls for expensive clothes is a leading motive in causing them to leave school to go to work. RELATIONS OF BOYS AND GIRLS The most serious of the problems in connection with the older boy and girl is that of the relations between the sexes. In the old country the situation was much more easily defined. The conventions were fixed, and had changed very little since the mother was young. In Italy, for example, daughters never went out with young men, not even after they were engaged. The same is said to be true in most of the other countries from which our immigrants have come. In Croatia, Serbia, and Bohemia it is unheard of for a young woman to go out alone with a young man. Moreover, coming as so many of these people do from small villages or rural communities, they have been used to a single-group life which is impossible in a city. As one Italian woman has expressed it, work and recreation went hand in hand in the old country. During the day there was the work of both men and women in the fields in congenial groups, and in the evenings songs and dancing in the village streets. The whole family worked and played together with other family groups. It is not intended to assert that there were no problems with young people in the old country, for undoubtedly there, as everywhere, some of the young would be wayward and indifferent to the conventions. The point is that there the mother knew what standards she was to maintain and had, moreover, the backing of a homogeneous group to help her. In this country not only is she herself a stranger, uncertain of herself, not sure whether to try to maintain the standards of her home or those that seem to prevail here, but the community of which she is a part is far from being a homogeneous group and has apparently conflicting standards. The immigrant mother, then, has to decide in the first place what standards she will try to maintain. The old standards can scarcely be maintained in a modern community where the girls go to work in factories, working side by side with men, going and coming home in the company of men. It is manifestly impossible for the mother to watch her daughter at work. In the old country this was possible as long as she stayed on the farm. And when at school and at work she is constantly thrown with men, it is impossible to regulate her social hours by the old standards and to see that they are all spent under her mother's eye. Moreover, any attempt to do so is likely to provoke resentment, as a girl naturally thinks that if she can take care of herself at work she is equally well able to do so at play. Furthermore, the character of the recreation has undergone almost as great a change as the character of the work. With the change from the country to the city, it has already been suggested that the old group life with its simple pleasures, which the whole family shared, has become impossible. If the mother then tries to see that her daughter has social life in which she herself may share, she either cuts her off from most of the normal pleasures of young people of her age, or the mother finds herself in places where she is not wanted, and where no provision has been made for her entertainment. Most immigrant parents, except those from southern Italy, recognize the impossibility of maintaining the old rules of chaperonage and guardianship of the girls. One of the Slovak women with whom we conferred said that in all her circle of acquaintance there was only one mother who was attempting to bring her daughter up by the old standards and was not allowing her to go places in the evening where the mother might not accompany her. All the others were allowing their daughters more freedom than they thought desirable, but they did not know what else to do. The Italian parents, on the other hand, try to guard their girls almost as closely as they did in Italy. It is not especially to be wondered at, for what the immigrant father or mother sees is usually the worst in American city life. If the daughter could not be trusted alone or unchaperoned in a village in which they knew most of the people and all the places of amusement, is she any more safe in a city in which, as one foreign-born mother says, "You don't know what is around the corner from you"? Moreover, realizing only the danger to the girl, and not being able in his ignorance to explain to her or to protect her in any other way, the father often resorts to beating the girl to enforce the obedience which generations have taught him is due to him. The head of the Complaint Department of the Cook County Juvenile Court in Chicago said that while cases of immorality were very rare among Italian girls, the attention of the court was called to a great many who rebelled at this attempt at seclusion and ran away from home, often contracting hasty and ill-advised marriages. While most parents of other nationalities see that the old standards cannot be maintained, there is a great deal of confusion as to what standards are to be considered right. This is illustrated by the following incident. A very intelligent Jugo-Slav woman, in discussing the problem, said that she did not know what she would do in her own family, as she hated to think of her girls adopting American standards. The matter had been brought to her attention recently by the conduct of two girls with a young Serbian officer who was visiting in this country. As he walked up one of the boulevards two girls, who were utter strangers to him, had flourished small feather dusters in his face by way of salutation. This woman was very much surprised to hear that the investigator disapproved of this; she had supposed it was just our "American freedom." As long as the mother does not understand this tradition of freedom between the sexes nor realize its limits, it is natural that she should accept her daughter's dictum that everything she wants to do is "American" and that it is hopeless for the mother to try to understand. In many of the families visited in this study it was evident that the mother had completely given up trying to understand either the conditions under which her children work or how they get their recreation. One mother, for example, said that she knew where her daughter worked when it was a well-known place, but otherwise not. Another said that her children told her where they worked, but she never remembered the names, for she knew that they would mean nothing to her. Several said they did not try to advise their children about their work, because they knew they didn't understand. One Russian mother was very much worried about the future of her two boys, aged seventeen and thirteen. The older was working as a cash boy, earning twelve dollars a week, and the younger was working outside of school hours, sewing caps. The mother said that their father had learned one trade and followed that, but that her children changed work every two or three months. She seldom asked why they changed, because she did not understand conditions in Chicago. Most of the women confessed to being equally at sea with regard to their children's amusements. Some of them accepted with resignation the fact that they could not understand, saying, as one woman did, that she thought they had too much freedom, but that young people lived very differently here. Some of the mothers, on the other hand, while thinking that young people in general had too much freedom, thought that they did not need worry about their own children, because they had been able to make companions of their daughters. A few even were found who approved of the freedom allowed to young people, but thought children should be taught "more morality." It is scarcely possible to say too much of the failure of the American community to assist the immigrant family at this point. It has neither tried to make the fathers and mothers understand modern American ways, nor has it exercised any community supervision so that the girl is in reality safe at work and at play. Furthermore, some of the agencies from whom the most help might have been expected have deliberately passed over the mother to educate the child, hastening the process by which the child becomes Americanized in advance of his parents. The Church has had its share, as may be seen from the statement of one priest who holds a responsible position in the Church in Chicago. He believes that the parents are usually too advanced in years to assimilate or utilize whatever instruction is given them. In his opinion the ignorance of the parent is responsible for many bad tendencies in the children, but the difficulty can be corrected more surely and satisfactorily by dealing directly with the children. The attitude of the public schools is illustrated by an interview with the principal of a public school in an immigrant neighborhood. He says that his contact has been only with the children. The foreign-born parents of the first generation are, in his opinion, "so incorrigibly stupid" that any attempts to educate them are a waste of time. The only possible way, he thinks, of reaching the parents is through the children. THE JUVENILE COURT We should not expect the Juvenile Court, dealing as directly as it does with problems resulting from the breakdown of family discipline, to be itself a cause of breakdown. Nevertheless, interviews with court officers show a certain lack of understanding and the use of methods which, instead of relieving the situation, only aggravate it. When the case of a delinquent girl, for instance, comes to court, the officers believe that it has usually gone too far for the court to do anything with the family. The child is often placed out in a family home, always an American family; and the probation officer supervises the child and the foster home, but pays no attention to the child's own home, where younger children may be growing up in the same way and to which, ultimately, the delinquent girl should be allowed and encouraged to return. The probation officers know very little of the old-country background of the people with which they deal, and are often not clear as to the differences in nationality. The foreign-born parent's ignorance of laws and customs, and his inability to speak English, make him appear stupid to the officer. As a result, he may be ignored as quite hopeless. In the absence of the court interpreter the child may be called upon to interpret to the parent the whole proceedings in court. While this is less common now than it was a few years ago, there is no reason to believe that the child is less used as interpreter between the probation officer and the parent at home. From the records of the court proceedings it is often quite evident to the reader that the foreign-born parent has little idea of the reasons why he or his child should have been brought to court. In one Bohemian family studied the eldest boy, aged sixteen, was in the State School for Delinquent Boys. The parents seemed utterly unaware of the serious nature of the boy's offenses and of the blot on his record. They seemed to regard the school for delinquents somewhat as more prosperous parents are wont to regard the boarding school. In fact, they expressed regret that the boy was soon to be released. Yet this boy had been in the Juvenile Court three times; the first time for truancy, and the other two for stealing. The attention of the community is usually called to the difficulties of the foreign-born parents only when a complete breakdown occurs, resulting in juvenile delinquency. This result is, however, comparatively rare. Most families work their way through without getting into a situation that calls public attention to their family affairs. There is no question, however, that there is often a lack of harmony in the home. Sometimes the child of working age leaves home, to board perhaps in the same neighborhood or to contract a hasty marriage. Occasionally there are situations in which the ordinary relations of parent and child have been completely reversed, and the children have assumed responsibility for the management of the home and the family. For instance, the Juvenile Court was asked by the neighbors to investigate conditions in a Polish family, in which a six-year-old boy was said to be neglected. The investigation showed no real neglect from the point of view of the court, but a situation that needed supervision. The mother was a widow and had, besides the six-year-old boy, two daughters aged seventeen and nineteen. Both girls were born in Austria. The father had preceded his family to the United States, and for five years the mother had worked and supported herself and the children in the old country before he was able to send for them. He seems not to have had a very good moral influence over the children, but had been dead several years. The daughters were both supporting the mother, who was doing one or two days' work a week. The daughters turned over all their earnings to the mother, but said that she was a poor manager and never had anything to show for it. They themselves had managed to buy new furniture and clothes for themselves. They said they were ashamed to go out with their mother, who remained unprogressive, would not dress as they liked, and would not manage the home as they wished. The girls told the officer that they did not take her out with them, but gave her money to go to the "movies." Yet she would do nothing but sit at home and cry. At one time the boy was accused of stealing coal from a neighbor. The oldest girl wanted her mother to investigate, but the mother would not go near any of her American neighbors. The daughter herself found out that the child had really taken the coal from a neighbor, and whipped him. Gradually the daughters, especially the older one, have assumed entire control of the family. The mother can no longer discipline even the six-year-old boy. Since the daughter has undertaken to correct him, he pays no attention at all to his mother. The probation officer has tried to restore a more normal family relationship, and has tried to help the girls to understand their mother's position. She still speaks with pride of the five years in the old country when she supported them alone, and when she was really of some use to them. The older daughter threatened for some time to leave home if her mother could not be more agreeable. When the court officer remonstrated, she said that of course she would leave her furniture, and could not be convinced that that would not entirely compensate. Later she did leave home, and took some of her furniture. The family are Catholics, but the mother no longer goes to church, and, though the girls go, the priest seems to have had no influence over them. Although the great majority of the foreign-born parents succeed in bringing up their children without the children becoming delinquent, the minority who are not successful is large enough to cause grave concern. This has been shown in all figures in juvenile delinquency. A study of delinquent children before the Cook County Juvenile Court shows that 72.8 per cent of the 14,183 children brought to the court between July 1, 1899, and June 30, 1909, had foreign-born parents.[48] A special study of 584 of these, who were delinquent boys, showed 66.9 per cent with foreign-born parents.[49] A comparison of the nativity of the parents of children in the Juvenile Court with the proportion of each group in the married population of Chicago indicates that the number of parents of delinquent children in the foreign-born group is disproportionately large. That is, the foreign born form 57 per cent of the married population of Chicago, while "at least 67 per cent of the parents of delinquent boys of the court were foreign born, and there is reason to believe that the true percentage is above 67."[50] This preponderance of children from immigrant homes must not be taken to mean that children of foreign-born parents are naturally worse than the children of American parents. It confirms the fact that immigrant parents have special difficulties in bringing up their children and are in need of special assistance. It suggests very forcibly the danger to the community in continuing to ignore their special needs. FOOTNOTES: [44] Breckinridge and Abbott, _The Delinquent Child and the Home_, p. 66. [45] See Thomas and Znaniecki, _The Polish Peasant_, vol. i. [46] Abbott and Breckinridge, _Truancy and Nonattendance in the Chicago Schools_, chap. viii, p. 129. [47] See Jane Addams, _Twenty Years at Hull House_, chap. xi. [48] Breckinridge and Abbott, _The Delinquent Child and the Home_, p. 57. [49] _Ibid._, p. 61. [50] Breckinridge and Abbott, _The Delinquent Child and the Home_, p. 62. See _U. S. Twelfth Census Population_, vol. ii, p. 314, Table XXXII. VII IMMIGRANT ORGANIZATIONS AND FAMILY PROBLEMS In the former chapters an attempt has been made to set out some of the difficulties encountered by foreign-born families who attempt to establish themselves in the United States. The discussion has dealt with the problem as though the community were one factor and the immigrant family another factor, and as though the solution to be arrived at could be discovered by bringing them into new relations to each other. This treatment is justified, in view of the fact that even a slight analysis makes it clear that certain modifications in governmental and social machinery are highly desirable. When the limitations imposed by the war on freedom of migration have been removed, the possibility of dealing more wisely and more humanely with incoming family groups must be considered. In a very real sense, during any period when the volume of immigration is considerable, the community _is_ one factor and the immigrant _is_ another factor, and a partial solution is to be found in a new treatment of the relationships between these two. But in another sense the discussion is inadequate and perhaps misleading. The relationship between the community and the immigrant is not mechanical, but organic. So soon as he is admitted, he is in fact a part of the community, and what will be done, what can be done, depends in part at least upon the extent to which that relationship is developed. The currents of the community life must flow through and both enrich and be enriched by the life of the newcomer. If these currents are obstructed, he neither shares nor contributes as he might. These channels of intercourse, however, have often been so obstructed that contacts have been denied. That segregation and separation have characterized the life of many of the groups for considerable periods of time has become a commonplace, and it has been generally known that the life of these different foreign-born groups was separate from the general life of the community, and the life of one group separate from the life of other groups. But the fact that within these separate groups was developed often a fairly rich and highly organized life has not been so widely recognized. SAFETY IN RACIAL AFFILIATIONS During the war, for example, the community became aware of the fact that within these national groups there had developed more or less powerful and efficient organizations formerly active in behalf of political interests in the old country, capable, at least, of fostering a spirit of clannishness, of perpetuating the language, customs, and ideals of an alien population in the midst of American life, and of keeping alive in this country national and racial antipathies brought from Europe. Leaders in the European struggle came to these groups and obtained pecuniary support and political adherence. Recruiting for military service among the foreign born was successfully carried on. Leaders of active societies among the different Slavic groups have stated quite freely that a spirit of unity and of nationality has been consciously fostered in America by these societies, so that, when the time came for the oppressed nation to strike for freedom in the European struggle, the representatives of the race in this country might stand solidly behind such efforts. It is impossible, after the exhibition of the generous support given among foreign-born groups during the war to the efforts of the United States, to raise the question of their loyalty; but their separateness has been far greater, their exclusion from many community efforts and activities far more complete, than the leaders among them had realized. The leaders among the foreign born do not wholly blame the leaders of the "American" group; they seem to feel that immigrants who came at an earlier date are in part to blame. These earlier arrivals knew what immigration meant, and might have been expected to help open the way for those who came afterward, but were, in fact, chiefly concerned to get ahead and to leave old associations behind. This was the opinion expressed by a Bohemian business man prominent in both local and national organizations. He also said that the reason that had in the past led to the formation and support of these organizations had ceased to exist; but now that the European struggle against oppression had ended for his people, and leaders understood how separate the life of the foreign-born groups had been, these very societies could be used to establish a variety of contacts and to develop among the foreign born a wider interest in the United States and its problems. Particularly the ability to act together learned during the war should be used to develop effective co-operation. As the organization of these societies is discussed in another volume in this series, they will not be described here, except as they affect the position of women and so exercise an influence upon the adjustment of family life.[51] Possibly the most significant fact revealed in the course of the study has been the extent to which foreign-born groups have been inaugurating and developing educational and social movements, and establishing institutions and agencies, quite independent of the Federal, state, or local agencies at work along the same general lines. On the other hand, the national educational and welfare movements carried on by the "American people" have ignored the organization and leadership in the foreign-born community. This has been the case to an amazing extent, even when the public efforts have been ostensibly based upon studies of conditions existing in cities with a population that is largely of foreign birth. When no channels of communication between the immigrant and the larger community seem to have been established, we have been concerned to inquire how such channels can be most effectively created. The barriers that through ignorance, indifference, and misunderstanding on either side have been allowed to grow up must be broken down. We have tried to follow up such avenues of communication as have opened naturally before us, after becoming acquainted with some of the leaders in the different groups. The organizations with which we have become somewhat acquainted are representative of the types found in all the main Slavic groups and among the Lithuanians, Hungarians, Rumanians, and Greeks. Suggestions applicable to them indicate a basis of co-operation with a very large proportion of our foreign-born population. A list of the principal racial organizations in the United States is included in the Appendix. Information about local branches of these organizations can usually be secured by correspondence. LOCAL BENEFIT SOCIETIES The first incentive to organization among all the groups seems to have been the precarious economic situation during the years of effort to get a foothold here. The first association of the newly arrived immigrant is one of mutual aid. "Benefit" will be found as the basis of the important foreign-born organizations, no matter what new purposes may have been taken on with the establishment and progress of the group as a whole. [Illustration: WHO WILL WELCOME THEM?] In the interviews we have had with the leaders among the groups the point has been repeatedly emphasized that Americans can never appreciate the situation of immigrants during their first ten years in this country. The strangeness, the poverty, the pressure to send money home, the inadequate, irregular income, the restriction to the low-skilled job--"there is in America, at first, nothing for an immigrant but the shovel"--the lack of knowledge of money values and ignorance of American domestic and social practices--these conditions drive the immigrants into co-operative effort. The appeal sent out by a Russian national society organized in 1912 begins with some such words as these: While we are in this country we are doing the lowest kind of work, and many accidents happen to us; if we do not belong to an organization we are without help.... The purpose of our brotherhood is to help our brethren in a strange country. Not even in associated effort can they always find security, however. One of the reasons now being given very often by immigrants seeking passage back to Europe is their feeling of uncertainty about their future here. They say that America is all right so long as a man is young and strong enough to do the hard work in the industries, but they cannot see what is in store for them as they grow older, for they cannot save enough to provide for themselves; in Europe, a little land and a cottage are assurance of the necessities for old age. There are, of course, many cases in which there is failure within the group as there is neglect without. Exploitation of immigrants by their fellow countrymen, and the evils of fraudulent banks, steamship companies, "tally-men," are well known. At the same time there is a great mass of neighborly service and of kindness of the poor to the poor, and of the stranger to the more recent comer. Benefit societies based either on neighborhood associations here or on village association in Europe, soon grow up. These are usually self-assessment societies, in which each member pays a small sum each month, often only 25 cents. Out of the funds thus raised, a sick benefit of from $3 to $5 a week is paid. On the death of a member an assessment of from 50 cents to $1 is laid on the surviving members, and the resulting sum is paid to the bereaved family, helping to meet the funeral expenses. Such societies are not incorporated, their officers are usually without business training, and they are often unstable. They include, however, a considerable proportion of the more recent immigrants, who, through fear of falling into distress and dread of charity, are influenced to keep up the membership. In addition to the money benefit, these neighborhood societies often mean friendly interest and help in nursing, in the care of the children, and in household work. As the fees are low and as provision for the sick benefit seems very important, a person often belongs to several such societies. Owing to the instability of these organizations the effort is often made to combine them and to establish them on a sound financial basis as national fraternal insurance societies. These societies substitute fraternal insurance for the sick and death benefit. As the immigrant family gains a foothold in the new community the members are likely to join a national fraternal insurance society or, in the second generation, an organization of the type of the Catholic Order of Foresters, Knights and Ladies of Security, Tribe of Ben Hur, or Woodmen of the World. The national fraternal insurance society is, among the Slavs, highly organized. Often in one national group as many as three flourishing societies will be found, with membership determined by religious or political preferences. As they exist now, these societies are all much alike, differing in the elaborateness of their organization in accordance with the period covered by the immigration of the group or with the strength of its cohesion in America. Leaders who wish to communicate directly with the great body of their co-nationals in America, do so through the channels provided by these organizations. As the group develops a feeling of confidence, the insurance function becomes less urgent. In fact, officers of the national societies predict that the societies will gradually abandon the field of insurance and develop along other lines. Many societies already admit a considerable number of uninsured persons, who join in order to share in other enterprises. It would be neither possible nor profitable to describe all the groups, but the organization of a Croatian society and the relation of women to certain societies in the Polish and Lithuanian groups will be briefly discussed. NATIONAL CROATIAN ORGANIZATIONS The strongest societies among the Croatians are the National Croatian Society of 50,000 members, and the Croatian League of Illinois of 39,000 members, sometimes called the "New Society," which in spite of its name is really a national organization. The purpose of the National Croatian Society is set forth in its constitution: ... to help people of the Croatian race residing in America, in cases of distress, sickness, and death, to educate and instruct them in the English language and in other studies to fit them for the duties of life and citizenship with our English-speaking people, to teach them and impress upon them the importance and duty of being naturalized under the laws of the United States, and of educating their children in the public schools of the country; these purposes to be carried out through the organization and establishment of a supreme assembly and subordinate assemblies of the Croatian people with schools and teachers. Those eligible to become members are: Croatians or other Slavs who speak and understand the Croatian language, of all creeds excepting Jews. All between the ages of sixteen and fifty may be admitted, provided they are neither ill nor epileptic nor disabled, are not living in concubinage, and have not been expelled from the national society. The structure of the society is quite elaborate, and the conditions of admission and of membership, the organization and conduct of the lodges, the relations among the lodges and between a lodge and the national society, are all carefully specified in the constitution and by-laws. Lodges are often organized on a sex basis, and in a community in which there is a lodge for men and a lodge for women, no one of one sex can be admitted to the lodge organized for the other. There is no special notice taken of women's interests in the structure of the national society, but there are local women's lodges, and women constitute about one tenth of the total membership. The functions of these local lodges, aside from their official relation to the national organization, as specified by the by-laws, are: ... to assist those members who do not know how to read and write (either an officer or member shall, at least once a week, teach such members reading and writing); to establish libraries for members and gradually supply the same with the best and most necessary books; to hold entertainments with a view to building up the lodge treasury and to provide for brotherly talk and enjoyment. The officers and members of some of the local lodges in Chicago have endeavored to develop and extend the social and recreational features of the lodges to meet what they believe to be one of the greatest needs of their people, but the efforts have so far met with little success. Failure has been attributed to conditions found in the community and to the altered circumstances of family life in America. It has been difficult to find suitable meeting places, as Croatian people have no halls of their own and do not feel at home in the neighborhood recreation center. Any kind of recreational activity planned is, of necessity, so different from that to which these men and women are accustomed, that it does not interest them at once. Large families of small children make it impossible for men and women to take their recreation together, or for women to leave their homes at all except for a very short time. Leaders whom we have consulted feel, however, that it is only through the development of such organizations within the group that Croatian women can be drawn into any social or recreational activities in considerable numbers; for, because they feel peculiarly strange and ill at ease when with persons who are not of Croatian origin, they lead secluded lives. The important projects of the National Croatian Society have been the raising of funds for the establishment in each large colony of a national headquarters under the name Croatian Home, and for the erection and maintenance of an invalid home. A "National Fund," into which each member pays a cent a month, is created for the "culture and enlightenment of Croatians." The orphan children of members of the society are given the preference in the distribution of any benefit paid from the national fund. CARE OF CROATIAN ORPHANS The Croatian community in the United States has been peculiarly confronted with the problem of care of orphan children. The estimated number of orphan children is large in proportion to the number of Croatian families because a very large proportion of the Croatian men work at low-grade labor in the steel industry, in which fatal accidents are common. At the last convention of several of the national societies, the representatives agreed to form a new national council especially to undertake the care of orphan children and to raise funds for this cause. The plan was formed to buy a tract of land in the vicinity of Chicago, on which an orphan home and training school were to be erected. The sum of $10,000 was devoted to the site and $100,000 to buildings. As free thinking has spread rapidly among Croatians in America, it was intended to establish a nonsectarian institution and to take children of free-thinking parents away from the Roman Catholic schools as well as to provide for children who should be later orphaned. Through contacts established in the course of this study, the leaders in this group have been led to inquire concerning American methods of child care. Attention was directed to the latest standard discussions on the subject.[52] After some consideration of the method of caring for dependent children by placing them in family homes, the Chicago Croatian committee decided to delay action on the erection of a costly institution, to take time for further study and to hold a conference with the national committee representing the other Croatian societies interested. In the meantime action has been taken to change the name of the new national organization from the "Society for the Erection of a Croatian Orphanage" to the "Society for the Care of Croatian Orphans," and the by-laws of the society are being rewritten so that the movement need not be committed to institutional care at the outset, but will be free to choose in the light of the best information at hand. Some of the leading members of the committee are convinced that placing-out should be included in their plan, but feel that it may take some time to convince the Croatian people of this wish to delay operation until the question can be freely discussed throughout the whole Croatian community in America. Plans are now being made for the national committee, representing all the societies interested, to confer with the representatives of public and private child-placing agencies. The question arises as to how relations may be established between such organizations in the separate national groups and those in the American community who are concerned with improved methods in the care of dependent children. Until provision is made that such information will be shared with members of groups like these as a matter of course, there is great loss and waste. ORGANIZATIONS OF POLES The Polish people are, no doubt, the most highly organized of the Slavic nationalities. It may be said that Chicago is their national center in the United States, and the headquarters of the three great national fraternal insurance societies, the Roman Catholic Union of America, the Polish National Alliance, and the Polish Women's Alliance. As these organizations are much alike in general plan, a description of the organization, character, and methods of work of one will give an idea of them all. While these societies have always been divided upon political issues, and while there has been at times considerable bitterness in the antagonism between them, they have been able to unite their efforts in important undertakings for the general welfare of the Poles throughout the United States. Common interest in the Polish cause during the war, too, has united them as never before, and there is every reason for the confident expectation that they will co-operate in any new projects undertaken for the benefit of the Polish community in America. The Polish National Alliance is the largest single organization. In addition to providing insurance, this society carries on, through its national organization, extended work of a social and educational character. There is, for example, among its "commissions," an Emigration Commission for aiding immigrants, which is charged with the duty of framing rules for the proper supervision of homes established for the care of newcomers. Under this Commission the Alliance has maintained immigrant aid stations in New York, Baltimore, and Boston. In New York there is a home in which immigrant girls and women arriving alone may be accommodated until relatives can be located. The Chicago office co-operates with the offices at the ports of entry in securing information about relatives of Alliance members, and in case of special necessity arranges to have immigrants destined for Chicago met at the station. As relatives are supposed to be notified of the expected arrival before the women leave New York, the Chicago office has done little in this direction. The need for such services, however, has been made clear in the Annual Reports of the Immigrants' Protective League, showing the numbers of unattended Polish girls coming to Chicago to be much larger than the number in any other national group. The Polish National Alliance has been carrying on a number of projects, both for the Polish people throughout the country and for the local community in Chicago. During the war many forms of work that had been developed for the service of Poles in the United States were laid aside for the more urgent needs of the time, and the funds of this organization were devoted to the support of the Red Cross and of other relief work. When the needs especially arising out of the war have been met and the necessity for sending relief to Poland is no longer urgent, these projects, abandoned for the time, will be taken up again. Polish immigration has for a time ceased. In the opinion of the Poles in Chicago it will be very light for years after the war, so that projects hereafter undertaken will be concerned with the welfare of the community as it has become established in the United States. POLISH WOMEN'S WORK There is a Women's Department, directed by a committee of fifteen women members. The central government frames regulations for this department "conformably to the requirements of a given moment." An illustration of its activities can be found in a movement initiated to maintain oversight of the employment of Polish girls and women. A great many Polish girls go into domestic work in private homes and in hotels and restaurants. Because girls from the rural districts in Poland find customs and living conditions here so different the societies have undertaken to study the problem. In order to investigate places of employment the women found they must represent a regularly licensed employment agency. Some delay in securing a license has held up their work, but they plan to establish in the near future a "Polish Women's Employment Agency." Many cases came to their attention showing the need of protective work and legal aid for workingwomen, so that in 1917 the "Polish Women's Protective League" was organized to provide free legal advice and aid to Polish workingwomen. The official organ of the Polish National Alliance is a weekly publication, _Zgoda_. There is a daily, the _Dziennik Zwaizkowy_, that has a semi-official status. The Women's Department is represented in the official organ by one page of ordinary newspaper size, without illustration. In the daily paper one page each week is devoted to items of especial value to women. Different material is used in the two issues, but both give considerable space to such subjects as household management, the care of children, and problems of health and hygiene. There is, in fact, a marked development among the Polish, Bohemian, Slovenian, and Lithuanian groups, of a definite division between the men's and the women's departments. This began first in the local lodges as they grew from mere meetings for the payment of dues into something more in the order of a center for the discussion of questions of importance in group or family life, or for action on those questions. A woman who, more than eighteen years ago, organized one of the first lodges in the Polish National Alliance said that in the lodges of mixed membership women were supposed to have the same rights and privileges as men. As a matter of fact, she said that they had no voice in matters in which they felt their interest as women were especially concerned; the women were always in the minority, and there were very few who would even voice an opinion in the presence of men. The older women in the community came, therefore, to feel that there were many problems of vital interest and importance for the immigrant woman upon which action would never be taken in the lodge meeting, in which there was a mixed membership. They believed, too, that the meetings of the local lodge might become a real source of help to the newly arrived immigrant women. The women's lodge was therefore formed, and to the first meetings came women who still wore the handkerchiefs over their heads. Some of the more prosperous members protested that they did not want such women as these in the lodge, but the leaders insisted that their purpose in organizing women's lodges had been to reach through them just such women. The leaders felt that women who knew little of American life and customs would gradually acquire that knowledge by coming into the lodge. A lodge of this kind under the leadership of progressive women of the older immigration has become a center in which are discussed many of the questions the women have to face for the first time. The plan in the Polish National Alliance is to have lodges so organized that women from Russian Poland may be in one, those from Galicia in another, or to organize lodges on the basis of the neighborhood association in the United States. It is hoped that by such a plan as this the more backward women may be drawn into some of the social activities of the Polish community. Although English has not been the language of the meetings, women have been encouraged to learn English as soon as possible after their arrival. The older women urge the younger women to acquire the language. They have learned the importance of a knowledge of the language to the mother of boys and girls who are growing up in surroundings of which the mother knows little, and where custom and convention are so different from those to which she was accustomed. With the multiplication of women's lodges came the demand on the part of the women for representation in the national organization. As a result, the Women's Auxiliary has been given an official place, and women have been elected to the national board of directors. Polish women have felt that the welfare of the group as a whole is largely dependent upon the fitness of the women to meet the new situation. They have recognized the fact that, because of the national attitude toward women, Polish women of the class represented by the bulk of the immigration are very backward. They have therefore sought to inaugurate a campaign for the education of women on a national scale. Another interesting development has been the growth of national organizations for women alone. One of the earliest and best known of these is the Polish Women's Alliance, an example of organized effort of women to deal with their own problems on a national scale. The leaders in this enterprise were women who, through their own experiences as immigrants, and through contact with those who came later, had come to realize both the nature of the problems women were called upon to meet and the different position of women in America. One of the women who had been active in inaugurating the movement spoke of the extreme difficulty of such work in the Polish community because of the prejudice against women's taking part in anything outside of their homes. Some of the more advanced women thought that the welfare of the whole Polish community was retarded by the ignorance and indifference and prejudices of the women which kept them clinging to Old-World methods and customs entirely unsuited to the new conditions. They hoped that by building a clubhouse for women, with library and reading rooms, a large hall for assemblies, and small rooms for clubs and classes, they might gradually interest the women in something outside their homes. No one thought it possible, however, for women to organize in this way, much less to carry on a national movement and to build a clubhouse, as they have succeeded in doing. Some leading women felt that education must come, if at all, through the women's own efforts, and that the education involved in work for the organization more nearly than any other experience touched the needs of these women, in that it drew them out of their older habits and encouraged them to take the initiative and so to gain the self-confidence they lacked. The organization was at first possible only because of the benefit features through which the support could be gained of men and women who had no interest or confidence in such educational projects as attempt to interest the women in clean streets, satisfactory disposal of garbage, and improved housing conditions. This movement does not represent hostility to the great joint organization. Most of the women interested in developing the movement have been members of the Polish National Alliance; but they have thought that to give the women a sense of confidence it was necessary to have a women's organization, quite independent of the men's. And there have developed then the three relationships between men and women: (1) the Women's Department as one of the divisions of work in the Alliance; (2) the Women's Auxiliary to the men's society, and (3) the National Women's Organization, in which men are not members. LITHUANIAN WOMAN'S ALLIANCE The idea of the separate woman's organization finds an interesting illustration in the Lithuanian Woman's Alliance. This national society, independent of any other organization, was organized in 1915 in Chicago. Only Lithuanian Catholic women who are in good standing in the Church are admitted. The society has now grown, until there are over five thousand members in different Lithuanian communities throughout the United States. The society was organized for the education of Lithuanian women in America. Those interested in the organization recognized that it would be very difficult to obtain support for such a movement among women of the type they most wished to interest unless it had the indorsement of the Catholic Church. There are two departments, an educational (_Absvieta_) and a benefit (_Pasalpa_). It was recognized by the leaders that little appeal could be made to women for an educational enterprise, for the majority of women are too ignorant and indifferent; but like the Polish women they knew that "benefit" would appeal to every immigrant woman, for all belong to at least one friendly insurance society. The poorer women and the more recent immigrants are associated in the little parish self-assessment societies, in which each pays a small monthly fee, usually twenty-five cents. Membership in a substantial fraternal insurance society costs more than they can afford to pay. The Lithuanian Woman's Alliance provides insurance for 35 cents a month. The benefit department provides for the payment of a death benefit of $150, and $5 per week will be paid upon request to any member who is sick more than two weeks. In each case in which benefit is granted, two visitors are appointed to make arrangements for hospital care if necessary, and to render any other needed assistance. The idea back of this organization has been to help immigrant women to adjust themselves to the new circumstances of life in America; the method chosen has been through education along general and very practical lines, beginning at the point where the women themselves have come to recognize their needs. The fact that few of these women can read even in their own language makes it very difficult to reach them. At present, however, the task seems less difficult than ever before. The fact that fewer lodgers are taken, that in some cases the higher wages have lessened the pecuniary problems--even the fact that women have been drawn outside the home to work--these facts, together with the activities of women in war work, have served to give them a sense of identity with the American community; so that there is now a greater demand for English lessons than ever before. Many women now realize the necessity of speaking the English language, and women who read in Lithuanian are eager to learn to read English so that they "may know what is in the attractive-looking magazines they see on the news stands." The educational department is open to all women, whether they wish to avail themselves of the benefit or not, but the benefit department is open only upon condition that members also take part in the educational movement. Dues in the educational department alone are ten cents a month. The educational program is to be carried on through the local lodge and the official organ, _Woman's Field_, issued monthly by the central committee. The magazine, aside from such space as is needed for official notices, is devoted to educational material. A typical number includes articles on questions of general interest to women everywhere. Emphasis is laid on the necessity for women's learning English and assuming the duties of citizenship. One page each month devoted to questions of general hygiene and the care of children is edited by a Lithuanian woman physician. A page or section is given to instruction in the preparation of food, as the Lithuanians realize that one of the gravest problems for their people here has been that of diet. Space is given to articles about Lithuania, "so that the young people may know that they need not be ashamed of their country." The educational work planned for the local lodge includes instruction along many lines. Classes are held two evenings a week in the parish halls. The work of one of the more active lodges gives an idea of the scope of the undertaking. This chapter numbers over fifty members. Regular monthly meetings for the payment of dues and transaction of business are held on Sunday afternoon in the parish hall. After the business is finished there is a social hour. Weekday classes have been held on two evenings each week; on one, English and sewing classes are held; on the other, cooking and housekeeping classes. Women who have had greater advantages in Europe as well as in the United States give their services as teachers. All courses are planned for women who have had very little opportunity in either country; the president of one of the lodges said, in explaining their program, "You know Lithuanian women are not high up like American women--they do not know how to keep house or cook or take care of babies." On one evening in the week the whole time is devoted to housekeeping. The church hall has been equipped with a gas stove, a set of cooking utensils, dining-room table, linen, dishes, and silver. Lessons are given in the preparation and serving of a meal. Some attention is given to food values, but the object is mainly to show women how to prepare wholesome food as economically as possible. Processes of canning, preserving, and drying fruits and vegetables are demonstrated, as they are wholly new to most of the women. The women are also shown how to scrub, wash dishes, and care for clothing. Reference might also be made to a local society organized by Lithuanian women about twelve years ago on a mutual-benefit basis, for educational purposes, which were stated in the constitution to be: ... to provide sick and death benefit; to organize Lithuanian women for a better and larger education; to provide evening and day classes in reading, writing, sewing, sanitary housekeeping, and the care of children; to provide lectures, books, and programs to interest women in health and education; to encourage friendship among Lithuanian women, and provide social life; to provide scholarships for students seeking higher education; to encourage writers; to encourage women to read the newspapers in Lithuanian and English. These women, who have all been in the United States for a considerable period, and know the needs of the newcomers, have fitted up a housekeeping center in the public park center in their neighborhood. They have a kitchen and dining-room equipment consisting of a stove, a set of cooking utensils, and a dining table with service. Here cooking classes are held once a week, the lessons given by the women who are skilled in cookery. The attempt is made to create an interest in food values, in proper cooking, and in wise spending. In housekeeping lessons, washing, scrubbing, washing windows, and even dishwashing and the setting of the table are taught. Classes in English have been organized, but these women have suffered as others have suffered from a lack of teachers skilled in teaching this kind of a group, and from a lack of classroom material suited to their needs. The Polish and the Lithuanian societies illustrate the organized effort of women in those groups in which the group life is highly developed, in which a number of women have become conscious of separate needs and undertake to assist in the development of others of their sex. UKRAINIAN BEGINNINGS Among the Ukrainian women the beginnings of this process can be observed, but in this case there is common effort on the part of the most progressive men and women in behalf of the more backward women. We are told that the Ukrainian women have much greater authority and responsibility in the United States than in the Ukraine, so that some men say that here "the laws are made for women." They spend the money, discipline the children, and direct the household life. Many of the women have been poorly fitted, by their inferior status at home, for their new duties, and the Ukrainian Women's Alliance was organized in 1917 by both men and women in an attempt to meet this situation. This organization, too, is based on the benefit idea, which all the women can understand, but plans are already laid for a comprehensive educational program to be carried out not only through educational centers in the local lodges, but through a magazine of national circulation. This is a complete innovation, as there has never before existed among the Ukrainians a woman's association, nor has any attention been paid to their interests in Ukrainian publications. The organ of the Alliance had in October, 1919, put out four issues, and met with so cordial a response that its next number was double the size of the first numbers and the sales at news stands were sufficient to cover the cost of these first numbers. The contents of one number indicate the purposes sought by its publication. Of the articles, one describes the organization of the Alliance, one discusses the relation of the institution of the home to the community, with special stress laid on the responsibilities of the mother in the home, one explains the woman-suffrage movement and urges the importance of woman's place in government. There is a department devoted to diet, food values, and recipes, and one devoted to hygiene, with special emphasis on child care. In some of the other national groups the number of men is still so far in excess of the number of women that the energies of the group seem to have been absorbed in dealing with the problems of the men or of getting a foothold as a group. ITALIAN WOMEN UNORGANIZED This does not apply to the Italian community. While benefit societies among the Italians are very numerous, there has until recently been little movement toward a national organization similar to those among the Poles and Lithuanians. The deep division in dialect, custom, and feeling between people from different sections of Italy accounts for the number of societies as well as for the lack of affiliation among them. Three of the largest societies in Chicago, in which membership is largely Sicilian, are now affiliated, but no effort has been discovered to make use of the organization as a basis for domestic educational enterprise. Women are admitted to many of the societies on the same terms as men, but rarely attend meetings. There are many small self-assessment societies for women alone, but they have no social or educational feature; members seldom meet, and dues are often sent in by children. The idea of using their own organizations as a means of carrying on educational work among women is a novel one in the Italian community, but it is being recognized as a possible method of attacking the great need for education in maternal and infant welfare, in the care of small children, and in sanitary housekeeping. The Italian physicians, for example, realize that the women need instruction, and the Italian Medical Association, in May, 1919, planned a series of lectures for mothers, in Italian, on these subjects, but found that there were great difficulties in reaching the mothers with such material. It is therefore very important that every device be tried for reaching the more intelligent women, who with the helpful neighborliness that exists in all the neighborhoods would share with their less-informed sisters the benefits of their aroused interests. GROWTH OF NATIONAL ORGANIZATIONS It is clear, then, that highly organized societies established primarily for mutual insurance often undertake educational and social projects which tend to overshadow their original purpose as the economic position of the members of the national group becomes more stable. Leaders who are inaugurating national educational movements in the less well-established groups are consciously using the benefit feature because of its universal appeal, and employing the general methods and machinery of the fraternal insurance organization. Modification of the official machinery is the inevitable result of the change in purpose. We find, for instance, that the local lodge, originally only a meeting for the payment of dues, becomes a center for discussion of problems of concern to the local community or to the national group, and often the field in which the educational program planned by the national society is carried out. The official organ, designed to carry official communication and news, tends to subordinate this function to the educational and cultural features. To a certain extent it becomes a national educational journal. It is to be noted that with the separation of men's and women's lodges and the growth of the influence of women in the national policy of the society, the section of the official organ devoted to the interests of women is extended. The very real problem of the immigrant woman in adjusting herself and the family life to the new conditions here, is given greater consideration. As these organizations have been so efficiently developed, and as the leaders in the different groups hope for a united group where before there has been a separate and segregated one, it seemed worth while to consult the representatives of the different groups in some detail with reference to the method of using educational material dealing with family adjustment. The subject of child care seemed the most obviously pertinent and interesting, and a section of the United States Children's Bureau Study on the Pre-School Child was submitted for their consideration with the question as to its adaptation to the needs of the various groups. All to whose attention it was called agreed that it was material of the highest importance, and that if translated it would prove of greatest interest. A translation was therefore presented to these representatives for their consideration. Again, all agreed that the only questions were the extent to which the material would have to be explained in terms of foodstuffs and methods of care familiar to the women in the different groups. All agreed that the material should be given to the women in small doses graphically presented. The installment plan should be the rule. All agreed that illustrations would greatly add to the interest and the ease with which the lesson would be understood. And all agreed that a very effective way of arousing and maintaining interest would be to call in to conference representatives of the different important agencies, the Church, the school, the midwife, the doctor, to obtain common consideration of the material with reference to its more exact adaptation to the needs of the particular group. Several editors agreed that much of the material could be used without such conference if it were only skillfully translated--which is a difficult and costly process. The Foreign Language Information Service of the National Red Cross has begun this work, and finds a hearty reception for its translations of such material. But the editors likewise thought that such conferences as have been described would have very great effect in securing co-operation in the use of the material. It is clear that the same general method could be applied to the use of other similar material bearing on problems of family adjustment, or on the other aspects of adjustment; but in the field of family adjustment there is available a great body of information and suggestion organized by the expert members of the various Federal bureau staffs for the purpose of accomplishing just the end we have under consideration. This is true not only of the work done by the United States government, but by the state and city governments as well. The development and maintenance of an agency which could make available to foreign-speaking groups through their own organizations the material already awaiting use, would correspond with the hopes and the intentions of leaders among the various groups, facilitate their work, and make possible a fine and a fruitful co-operation among elements that have in the past been separate, if not hostile. FOOTNOTES: [51] See John Daniels, _America via the Neighborhood_. [52] Such as the Russell Sage Foundation Studies: Slingerland's _Child Placing in Families_; Hart's _Preventive Treatment of Neglected Children_, and Ralph's _Elements of Record Keeping for Child-helping Organizations_. VIII AGENCIES OF ADJUSTMENT In the first six chapters an attempt has been made to set out certain difficulties with which foreign-born family groups are confronted on arrival. It has become clear that certain services skillfully rendered might prevent a great deal of needless suffering, discomfort, and waste, and also greatly facilitate the adjustment of the family to the new surroundings. The services that would be appropriate to the needs of all housewives might be classed under (1) the exercise of hospitality; (2) supplying information and opportunities for instruction; (3) assistance in the performance of household tasks. Suggestions that these services might prove useful are not based wholly on theory, and attention may at this point be directed to the work of certain agencies which have attempted to do these various things. The suggestion has been frequently made that the immigrant should be the object of certain protective care during the journey across the ocean and on arrival.[53] The proposal here is that the community would gain enormously through the creation of devices for the exercise of a community hospitality. This should include the receiving and distributing of new arrivals in such a way as to assure their being put into touch, not only with their relatives and friends, but with the community resources which could be of special service as well. Attention has been called to the efforts put forth by organizations among the foreign-speaking groups. The possibility of their more efficient and wider activity should be always kept in mind. But the work of the Immigrants' Protective League of Chicago, in behalf of unaccompanied women and girls, illustrates both the nature of the task and the way in which the development of such services requires a familiarity with the governmental organizations and a capacity for utilizing official agencies not to be found among the groups most needing help. IMMIGRANTS' PROTECTIVE LEAGUE The work of this society has been referred to a number of times, and its methods and special objects should perhaps be briefly summarized. Its organization in 1907 grew out of a desire to assist the immigrant girls coming into Chicago, with special reference to their industrial relations. The objects described in the charter of incorporation are, however, much wider than this. They were: ... to apply the civic, social, and philanthropic resources of the city to the needs of foreigners in Chicago, to protect them from exploitation, to co-operate with the Federal, state, and local authorities, and with similar organizations in other localities, and to protect the right of asylum in all proper cases. (By-Laws, Art. II.) The services of the organization have been taken advantage of by members of all the national groups in Chicago, and these services have included meeting immigrant trains and distributing arriving immigrants to their destination in the city, prosecuting the agencies from which the immigrant suffered especial exploitation, visiting immigrant girls, securing appropriate legislation, and in general making known to the community the special needs of the newly arrived immigrants. The League has from the beginning made use of the services of foreign-speaking visitors, and the volume and success of its work has varied with the number of these visitors, the extent to which they represented groups in need of special aid, and their skill as social workers. At the time of the publication of the last report, the following languages besides English were spoken by these visitors: German, Bohemian, Italian, Lettish, Lithuanian, Magyar, Polish, Russian, Slovak, and Yiddish. Many aspects of its work do not bear on this discussion, but the following brief passages from the annual reports indicate the way in which the work in behalf of unaccompanied girls developed. During the past year and a half the League has received from the various ports of arrival the names and addresses of the girls and women destined for Chicago. All of these newly arrived girls and women have been visited by representatives of the League able to speak the language of the immigrant. Four, and part of the time five, women speaking the Slavic languages--German, French, Italian, and Greek--have been employed for this work. In these visits information has been accumulated in regard to the journey to Chicago, the depot situation, the past industrial experience of the girls, their occupation in Chicago, wages, hours of work, their living conditions, the price they pay for board, and whether they are contributing to the support of some one at home. On this basis the League's work for girls has been planned. (_Annual Report, 1909-10_, p. 13.) In these visits many girls needing assistance are found. The most difficult ones to help are those for whom the visitor sees a danger which the girl is unable to anticipate. Often a girl is a pioneer, who comes in advance of her family, and the friend or acquaintance whom she knows in Chicago undertakes to help her in finding her first job and a place to live, and then leaves her to solve the future for herself. If she should be out of work or in trouble she has no one whom she can ask for advice or help. In cases of this sort all that the visitor can do is to establish a connection which will make the girl feel that she has some one she can turn to in case of trouble or unemployment. (_Annual Report, 1909-10_, p. 15.) Sometimes the League's visitor can do little more than offer the encouragement which the girl so much needs during the first few years in America. Usually she tries to persuade the girl to attend the nearest night school; sometimes she helps her in finding work, or a proper boarding place; sometimes, when the immigrant is educated, she has to quite sternly insist that any kind of work must be accepted until English has been learned. Some girls are discovered only after it is too late to prevent a tragedy. In the cases of two girls, one Polish and the other Bohemian, who had been betrayed by the uncles who had brought them to this country, the results were especially discouraging because the efforts to punish the men failed and one of the girls who had suffered so much from the uncle whom she thought she could trust was deported. (_Annual Report for the Year Ending January 1, 1914_, p. 11.) It is clear that such a plan involved the distribution of information from the ports of entry to the places of destination,[54] and the development of instrumentalities through which the immigrant on arrival at his destination can be placed in contact with those from whom help of the kind needed could be expected. A nation-wide network of agencies for such hospitality, with headquarters at the ports of entry, is seen to be necessary from the descriptions of the services to be rendered. The development of such machinery by the Federal Immigration Service, as at present organized, may be unthinkable; but with a change in personnel and with a wider understanding of the nature of the problem, the apparently impossible might be realized. In the meantime, the service need not wholly wait on this remote possibility. There are agencies, both public and private, which with enlarged resources might undertake a considerable portion of this task and develop more completely both the methods of approach and a body of persons skilled in this particular kind of service. Such work as that done on a small scale by the Immigrants' Protective League is especially instructive. The resources of that organization for all its tasks have been limited, so that visitors have been only to a slight extent specialized, except in the matter of language. But with enlarged resources, so that a larger number and better trained visitors might be employed, this gracious and important hospitality might be widely exercised. A NATIONAL RECEPTION COMMITTEE As this visiting developed among the different groups, several results could be anticipated. Just as the needs of the unaccompanied girls have been learned in this way, the needs of the families in the different groups could become more exactly understood, and devices for meeting those needs more efficiently worked out. It would perhaps be possible to urge the woman to learn English when she is first confronted with the strangeness of her situation, and before she slips into the makeshifts by which she later is apparently able to get on without learning English. Instruction in English might be made to appear the path of least resistance, if it were made attractive and available to the immigrant housewife at a sufficiently early moment. These visitors might preferably be English-speaking members of the foreign-speaking groups. If there were a sufficient staff, they might also render many similar services to other women in the foreign-born groups. They could persuade those who have not yet learned English to come into English classes; they could organize groups for instruction in cooking, child care, house and neighborhood sanitation; and gradually accumulate both additional knowledge as to the need and experience in meeting it. A point to be emphasized in connection with this service is that it is not related in any way to the problem of dependency, but is directed wholly toward meeting the difficulties growing out of the strangeness of the newcomer to the immediate situation. By developing a method for lessening the difficulties connected with the migration of any group from one section to another differing in industrial or social organization, light would be thrown on analogous problems such as the movements among the negroes from the South to the North during the war, or of the mountain people to the cotton-mill villages at an earlier date. Another point to be emphasized is that while the method of approach and of immediate service can be developed independently, and while the amount of discomfort and genuine distress that can be prevented is very great--as is shown in the experience of families whom such organizations as now attempt work along this line have aided--the opportunity for swift and efficient adjustment will be dependent on the development of a body of educational technique. It has been made clear that there are certain kinds of information that should be given to the newcomers, with reference, for example, to the change in the legal relationships within the family group, the new responsibilities of the husband and father, and the rights of wife and children to support. Attention has been called to the need of giving instruction regarding sanitary and hygienic practices, with reference to the new money values, and to the new conditions under which articles of household use are to be obtained, to the requirements in food and clothing, particularly for the children, in the new locality as compared with that from which the family comes. And, as has been suggested, above all there is always the question of teaching English. Sometimes the necessary facts can be conveyed briefly and immediately. Sometimes patient individual instruction will be necessary. Sometimes group or class instruction will be the proper device. It is highly important, then, that these various forms of instruction be developed into a technique. Courses of instruction to be given according to these different methods to those for whom a particular method is appropriate must be organized, and a body of teachers developed. The question then arises as to the extent to which this task has been undertaken and the agencies that have undertaken it. As to the first great body of material, it may be said to have been ignored. Only when one is summoned to the Juvenile Court of Domestic Relations, or when one learns of another's being summoned, is the body of family law called to the attention of the group. In English, in cooking, and child care, some agencies have attempted instruction. They are the public school, organizations like the Immigrants' Protective League, the State Immigration Commission, the social settlement, recreation centers of various kinds, the Young Women's Christian Association in its International Institutes. The possibilities in the work of these agencies are numerous. THE PUBLIC SCHOOL The public school touches the foreign-born family at two points: First, in the compulsory education of the children, and second, in the opportunities that it offers to the adult members of the family to learn English, to fit themselves for citizenship, and to adjust their lives to the new community. The adaptation of the public schools to these tasks belongs properly to another section of this study.[55] In so far, however, as the school contributes through its attitude toward the parent to a breakdown in family discipline, and in so far as it tries or does not try to instruct the foreign-born housewife in the art of housekeeping, it is concerned with problems that are primarily family problems. It may be of interest, then, to cite certain evidence obtained from foreign-born leaders and typical foreign-born families as to the relationship existing between the schools and foreign-born parents, the methods used by the schools in the education of foreign-born women, and their apparent success or failure. Reference has already been made to the place that the school sometimes plays in the breakdown of family discipline, because of ignorance on the part of the teachers concerning the social and domestic attitudes prevailing among the foreign-born groups. The school has, in fact, been able to take so little account of the mother that so long as things run fairly smoothly she is usually unable to realize that she has any place at all in the scheme. Again and again, to the question as to whether she visits the school where her children go, comes the answer, "Oh no, my children never have any trouble in school." As long as they are not in trouble she is not called into consultation. She may even be made to feel quite unwelcome if she is bold enough to visit the schoolroom, so she very soon comes to the conclusion that the education of her children is really none of her business. Sometimes the teacher thoughtlessly contributes to the belittling of the parent in the eyes of the child. An Italian man tells the story of a woman he knew who whipped her boy for truancy and then went to consult the teacher. But instead of a serious and sympathetic talk, the teacher in the child's presence upbraided the mother for punishing the child. The child of foreign-born parents, as well as the native-born child, often learns in the public school to despise what is other than American in dress, customs, language, and political institutions, and both are thus influenced to despise the foreign-born parent who continues in the old way. There is, of course, often a failure on the part of the teacher to uphold the dignity and authority of the parents in the native-born group, and the need of bridging the gap between school authorities and parents has been recognized by the organization of the Parent-Teachers' organization as well as of the Patrons' Department of the National Education Association. It may be that at a later date, when certain general fundamental questions of co-operation have been dealt with, devices for meeting the difficulties of special groups of parents will be developed. On the subject of courses of instruction attention has been called to the many points at which the foreign-born housewife needs instruction and assistance in familiarizing herself with the new conditions under which she lives. When there exists such a universal and widely felt need which could be filled by giving instruction in a field in which the material is organized and available, the opportunity of the school is apparent. Not only courses in English, in the art of cooking, in the principles of selection and preservation of food, but those describing the peculiarities of the modern industrial urban community as contrasted with the simple rural community, could be planned, methods of instruction could be developed, and regular curricula could be organized. There are, to be sure, certain inherent difficulties to be met in the instruction of housewives. The old saying, "Man's work is from sun to sun, but woman's work is never done," has been so long accepted as the expression of the inevitable that it is difficult to persuade anyone, most of all the housewife herself, that she can manage to give an hour or two a day to learning something new. Her time seems never her own, with tasks morning, afternoon, and night. Nor is it only a question of overwork. Undoubtedly careful planning is uncommon, and the tradition that woman's place is in the home has its effect. In fact, there is a vicious circle; she cannot study because her housekeeping is too arduous, but it is so partly because she does not take time to learn better ways of doing her work. There is, moreover, among most housewives, whether native or foreign born, a certain complacency about housekeeping and bringing up children. Housekeeping is supposed to come by nature, and few women of any station in life are trained to be homemakers and mothers. If they take any training it is generally designed to fit them to earn a living only until they are married. They do not realize how useful certain orderly instruction might be. Moreover, instruction for foreign-born housewives must include the subjects needed for homemaking as well as English. Having survived the first hard adjustments it is difficult to persuade the foreign-born mother that she has any need for speaking English when housekeeping is all that is expected of her. The situation is often complicated, too, by her age at immigration and her lack of education in the old country, which make her particularly ill-fitted for ordinary classroom instruction. Besides these difficulties there are certain prejudices to be met. The middle-aged woman does not wish to study English in classes with her children of working age or others of their age. She dreads the implication of this association. Many of the foreign-born mothers also have a hesitancy about going into classes with men, as they feel a mental inferiority, and many prefer not to be in classes with students from other national groups. The most frequent criticism by immigrant leaders interviewed is the inelasticity of the public-school methods. The classes are usually held three or four nights a week, and no housewife should be expected to leave home as often as that. The groups are composed of both men and women and of all nationalities, disregarding well-known prejudices that have already been mentioned. A more fundamental criticism than these has reference to the failure to adopt or devise new methods of instruction for persons who cannot read or write in their own language, and who have arrived at a period in their lives when learning is extremely difficult. The classes are often conducted in English by day-school teachers, who are accustomed to teaching children and who are entirely unfamiliar with the background of the immigrant woman and her special problems. There are reports also of the unwillingness of the school authorities to relax formal requirements, with reference to the minimum number for whom a class will be organized. Often it is necessary to "nurse the class." In Chicago sixteen women have in the past been deprived of a class because the Board of Education refused at the time to open the schools to groups of less than twenty. THE HOME TEACHER The home teacher in California is an interesting educational device, of which much is to be expected. The Home Teacher Act, passed by the state legislature April 10, 1915,[56] permits boards of school trustees or city boards of education to employ one "home teacher" for every five hundred or more units of average daily attendance. The home teacher is to work in the homes of the pupils, instructing children and adults in matters relating to school attendance and preparation therefor, also in sanitation, in the English language, in household duties, such as purchase, preparation, and use of food and clothing, and in the fundamental principles of the American system of government and the rights and duties of citizenship. She is required to possess the following qualifications: 1. A regular teacher's certificate under the State Education Law. 2. Experience in teaching and in social work. 3. Good health. 4. Ability to speak the language of the largest group in the district. 5. Complete loyalty to the principal of the school. 6. Tact and patience for a delicate task. 7. Ingenuity in adapting all circumstances to the main purpose. 8. An incapacity for discouragement. 9. Comprehension of the reasons and objects of the work. 10. Finally, above all and through all, a sympathetic attitude toward the people, which involves some knowledge of the countries and conditions from which they came, and what "America" has meant to them.[57] Her salary is paid from the city or from district special school funds. The law authorizing the use of home teachers was enacted largely through the efforts of the State Commission of Immigration and Housing, and was from the first intended to be used for the benefit of foreign-born families. The first experiments were financed by the Commission of Immigration and Housing and by private organizations, such as the Daughters of the American Revolution, the Council of Jewish Women, and the Young Women's Christian Association. According to the latest report[58] there are twenty official home teachers at work in eight cities of the state. The Commission says of the purpose of this plan: The interpretation of the need in California departs from that conceived elsewhere. There have been so-called home teachers in a dozen cities, of several Eastern states, for a number of years, but their purpose is to do follow-up work for absent, irregular, subnormal, or incorrigible children, and they are more properly visiting teachers. The home teacher, as we conceive her purpose, seeks not primarily the special child--though that will often open the door to her and afford her a quick opportunity for friendly help--but _the home_ as such, and especially the mother who makes it. This discrimination as to aim and purpose cannot be too much emphasized, or too consistently maintained, for the care of abnormal children, important as it is, can by no means take the place of the endeavor to Americanize the _families_ of the community.[59] SETTLEMENT CLASSES The social settlements are in many cases situated in congested city districts, and they have always dealt very directly with the family groups in their neighborhood. Settlements have, in fact, probably more than any other social agency, tried to become acquainted with the Old-World background of their neighbors in order to establish friendly relationships. The settlement ideal has included the preservation of the dignity and self-esteem of the immigrant, while attempting to modify his habits when necessary and giving him some preparation for citizenship. [Illustration: LITHUANIAN MOTHERS HAVE COME TO A SETTLEMENT CLASS] Classes in English and Civics, mothers' clubs, and housekeeping classes have been part of the contribution of the settlement to the adjustment of family life. Seventeen settlements in Chicago, for example, have conducted during the last year 36 clubs and classes of this kind for non-English-speaking women. Among these there are 9 English classes, 8 sewing classes, 10 cooking classes, and 9 mothers' clubs, with varied programs. These classes have been conducted with a flexibility that is often lacking in the public-school classes. They are usually held in the daytime at the hour most convenient for the group concerned, and by combining social features with instruction the interest of the women is maintained longer than would otherwise be possible. Sometimes the classes are conducted in a foreign language, but they are generally taught in English, occasionally with the assistance of an interpreter. The classes are usually small, so that considerable personal attention is possible. The season during which it seems possible to hold such classes lasts from September or October until June, and it seems necessary to expend considerable effort each year in order to reorganize them. Trained domestic-science teachers are used for most of the cooking and sewing classes. The English teachers and mothers' club leaders are, however, usually residents in the settlement or other volunteers with little training or experience in teaching adults. They often find it quite difficult to hold the group together. Very valuable work is done, however, especially in the cooking classes. Many such classes were organized to teach conservation cooking; for instance, in an Italian class, the women were taught the use of substitutes for wheat that could be used in macaroni; in another the cooking teacher took Italian recipes and tried to reproduce their flavors with American products which are cheaper and more available than the Italian articles. What is gained in flexibility may, of course, be counterbalanced by a loss of unity. The settlement teaching lacks, on the whole, a unity and organization that the public school should be better able to provide. CO-OPERATION OF AGENCIES Sometimes co-operation among several agencies may be advantageous in meeting the various difficulties presented by the task of teaching adult foreign-born women. Such co-operation was developed between the Immigrants' Protective League of Chicago, the public schools, the Chicago Woman's Club and the Women's Division of the Illinois Council of Defense. The Board of Education of Chicago, in 1917, passed a resolution to the effect that whenever twenty or more adults desired instruction in any subject which would increase their value in citizenship, the school would be opened and a trained teacher provided. The Immigrants' Protective League then undertook to organize groups who would take advantage of this opportunity and to keep the groups interested after they had been organized. The Chicago Woman's Club and the Council of National Defense undertook to supply kindergarten teachers to care for the children whose mothers were in the class, and the Visiting Nurse Association supplied nurses to examine the children, to advise mothers with reference to their care, and to make home visits when the condition of the children rendered this necessary. The League visitors made very definite efforts to organize campaigns for acquainting the housewives of various neighborhoods with the opportunity thus provided, and for persuading the women to "come out." The services of the foreign-born visitors have been particularly valuable in the work of organization. These visitors certainly put forth valiant efforts in behalf of the plan. The Lithuanian and Italian visitors, for example, made in three instances 40, 96, and 125 calls before a class was organized, and even then less than twenty enrolled for each class. They have found it necessary to make visits in the homes of women whom they hoped to draw out, and have also used posters, printed invitations, and advertisements in foreign-language newspapers. Nor have their efforts ceased when the class was organized. Often misunderstandings occur, the attendance begins to dwindle, and great efforts must be made to discover the cause and to bring back the members. The classes organized in this way have usually been small, composed of housewives of a single national group. Considerable individual attention is given the members of the class, and the foreign-speaking visitors attend the classes so that they may interpret when necessary. The plan has been carried out, of course, on an extremely restricted stage. The efforts have been limited almost entirely to English and cooking classes, and instruction in other phases of household management has been quite incidental. The teachers supplied by the Board of Education have not, of course, always possessed social experience and training. The classes are sometimes short lived. In the case of a Lithuanian cooking class, to which the teacher came too late to give the lesson, or too weary to give the lesson, it was necessary to reorganize the group. Where the teachers change, the group will dwindle, and the efforts of the visitor will have been substantially wasted. The subject matter is often poorly adapted to the needs and desires of the foreign housewife. A new domestic-science teacher, for instance, gave to a group of Lithuanian women seven consecutive lessons on pies, cakes, and cookies, in spite of the organizer's request for lessons on "plain cooking." At times, as has been pointed out, the teacher is wholly ignorant as to the habits and tastes of the immigrant. There is, sometimes, an ill-advised attempt to substitute American dishes for foreign dishes instead of modifying or supplementing the well-established and perfectly sound dietetic practices of the foreign-born group. The Lithuanian visitor of the Immigrants' Protective League, in speaking of the difficulties she had encountered in keeping together the classes she organized for the public school, says she has often been able to get together a group of women who want lessons in English and in cooking. The plan has been to give cooking lessons in English. The women have come, perhaps, three or four times. The first lesson would teach the making of biscuits; perhaps the second dumplings; the third sweet rolls. The teacher would be very busy with her cooking and talk very little. Then the women would not come back. They did not want to learn to make biscuits, about which they cared nothing; they were busy women and were aware that they were not getting what they wanted or needed. INTERNATIONAL INSTITUTES Another specialized agency for work with the foreign-born groups is the International Institute of the Young Women's Christian Association. This association has attempted in a short period of time to develop over a wide area this form of service, so that between the spring of 1913 and March, 1919, there had been established 31 of these organizations, most of them in industrial centers in different parts of the United States. In general, their work, as outlined in the After-War Program of the association, includes (1) a foreign-language information office, (2) home visiting for newly arrived women and girls, (3) case work in connection with legal difficulties, sickness, and emergencies, and (4) work with groups, including organized classes and informal gatherings. The last are to be especially designed for women and girls unable or unwilling to attend night schools, and there is to be a persistent urging upon the public school of the importance of socialized methods in work for women. The use of foreign-language visitors is considered to be one of the most important features of these undertakings. Although few of the institutes have been able to secure enough workers to reach all the language groups in the community, provision can usually be made for the most numerous groups. Among the 18 replies to questionnaires sent to these institutes only 4 show less than 3 languages spoken by visitors, 10 have as many as 4 or more, and 4 have 8 or 9 languages. These 18 institutes employ 76 foreign-language visitors. Forty-six of these are themselves foreign born. These visitors represent a great variety in training and experience, but the institute secretaries think that on the whole they are more valuable than native-born visitors would be even if these native-born visitors were more highly trained. The training of these particular visitors, while varied and often apparently inadequate, is on the whole surprisingly good. Fifteen of the 46 have had some college training; 3 have had kindergarten training, and 4 nurses' training. Eight have had previous case-work experience; 4 have lived in settlements. Eight have taken training courses given by the association, varying from a few weeks to several months at the national headquarters. A number have had religious training of one kind or another, 2 in a school for deaconesses, 12 as prospective missionaries, and 1 in a theological seminary. The 18 International Institutes report the establishment of 134 clubs or classes in which married women are members, having an enrollment of 894 foreign-born married women. The subject most generally taught is English. Among 134 clubs and classes, 101 are organized exclusively for the teaching of English, and 7 others combine English with cooking or sewing. Some attempt is made to teach housekeeping in classes. Ten of these are organized for cooking or sewing, 7 for English and cooking or sewing, and there are 13 mothers' clubs with subjects of such general interest as health, the care of children, and home nursing. In addition to the organized clubs and classes, most of the institutes have given lectures in foreign languages to larger groups of women subjects such as "Women and the War," "Liberty Bonds," "Thrift," "Food Conservation," "Personal and Social Hygiene," "The Buying of Materials," and "What the English Language Can Do for You." Most classes are composed of a single national group, but classes are reported in which there are Polish and Ruthenian, Slovak and Polish, Greek and Lithuanian, Armenian and French, and Portuguese, Magyar and Slovak, and "mixed" nationalities. English is used in practically all classes which are primarily for the teaching of English. Fourteen of the institutes, however, have foreign-speaking workers to interpret whenever the women do not understand the teacher. In answer to the question as to the success of the institute in connecting married women with classes in public evening schools, three reply that they have had no success because the public schools do not use foreign-speaking workers and the women cannot understand the teachers who speak only English. The institutes conduct vigorous campaigns to acquaint the mothers with their work, using posters, printed invitations, announcements at schools, notices in foreign papers, and particularly home visits by foreign-speaking workers. With regard to home visiting it appears that there has not yet been time to work out a program for the teaching of improved standards of housekeeping, personal hygiene, and proper diet. The institutes, however, lend their foreign-speaking visitors as interpreters to other agencies organized for particular phases of work in the home, such as Visiting Nurse associations, Infant Welfare societies, Anti-Tuberculosis societies, and Charity Organization societies. A very real effort is often made to reconcile foreign-born mothers and Americanized daughters. Those responsible for some of the institutes realize very keenly the significance of the problem, and impress upon the children they meet their great interest in the Old-World background of the parents, their appreciation of the mother's being able to speak another language besides English, their pleasure in old-country dances, costumes, and songs. They try in every way possible to maintain the respect of the daughter for her foreign-born mother. In home visits they try also to explain to the mother the freedom granted to American girls, the purpose of the clubs for girls, and the need for learning English themselves to lessen their dependence upon the children. TRAINING FOR SERVICE It is obvious that the efficiency of the work of these various organizations can rise no higher than the level of efficiency and training of the workers available for such service. It is, therefore, most important that the materials necessary for the rendering of these services be made available at the earliest possible moment. Such materials include compilations of data with reference to the different groups, courses of study developed so as to meet the needs and educational possibilities of the women, devices such as pictures, slides, charts, films, for getting and holding attention of persons unused to study, often weary and overstrained and lacking confidence in their own power to learn. It is also clear from the experiences of these various agencies that, while giving this instruction is essentially an educational problem, it is for the time so intimately connected with the whole question of understanding the needs of the housewife in the different foreign-born groups, of developing a method of approach and of organization, and of trying out methods of instruction as well as experimenting with different bodies of material, that for some time to come experimentation and research should be fostered at many points. There should, for example, be accumulated a much larger body of knowledge than is now available with reference to the agencies existing among the foreign-born groups in the various communities from whom co-operation could be expected; there should be a much more exact body of fact as to the needs of the various groups of women; at the earliest possible moment the material available with reference to these household problems, child care, hygiene and sanitation, distribution of family income, should be put into form available for use by the home teacher, the class teacher, the extension workers, and the woman's club organization. In the Appendix are some menus of four immigrant groups, which illustrate the kind of material which would be useful. By stipends and scholarships promising younger members from among the foreign-born groups should be encouraged to qualify as home teachers and as classroom and extension instructors in these fields. This would often mean giving opportunity for further general education as preliminary to the professional training, for many young persons admirably adapted to the work come from families too poor to afford the necessary time at school. Scholarships providing for an adequate preparation available to members of the larger groups in any community, would give a very great incentive to interest in the problem and to further understanding of its importance on the part of the whole group. In addition to scholarships enabling young persons to take courses of considerable length, there might be stipends enabling older women of judgment and experience to qualify for certain forms of service by shorter courses. Those who can speak enough English could take advantage of certain short courses already offered by the schools of social work. Others who do not speak English could be enabled to learn enough English and at the same time to learn to carry on certain forms of service under direction. As has been suggested, lack of resources in face of an enormous volume of educational work is one factor in this lack of teachers trained to meet the needs of women in the foreign-born groups and of material adapted to their class or home instruction. The question, then, has been raised as to whether the supply both of teachers and of material could be increased and whether, if these resources were available, they would be utilized by the great national administrative agencies to which reference has been made. The following plan has been approved as thoroughly practicable by leading officers and members of the American Home Economics Association, including several heads of departments of home economics in the state colleges, by other educators interested in the field of home economics, as well as by representatives of the States Relations Service, the Bureau of Home Economics Department in the United States Department of Agriculture, the Federal Board of Vocational Education, and the Home Economics Division of the United States Bureau of Education. The unanimous judgment of those consulted is that if such a plan could be carried out for the space of three years, the Federal service would be vivified and enriched and the educational institutions enabled to develop training methods from which a continuous supply of teachers and teaching material could be expected. OUTLINE OF PLAN I. Creation of committee composed of officers of American Home Economics Association, representatives from the United States Department of Agriculture, Bureau of Home Economics, the States Relations Service, the Home Economics Division of the United States Bureau of Education, the heads of departments of home economics in the state colleges, the technical schools and teacher-training schools, Federal Board for Vocational Education. II. Increasing supply of teachers and teaching material. 1. Provision for assembling material in food, household management, including expenditures, and child care, particularly, and adapting this material to the needs of the members of the different foreign-born groups, by supplying salaries for two persons experienced in teaching, who would devote themselves to the preparation of classroom material, leaflets, charts, etc.--$2,400 $4,800 2. The granting of stipends to graduate students who would work at institutions approved by the committee and who would do practice teaching with such groups. In the assignment both of the stipends and of the institutional patronage, the interests of both urban and rural women would be taken into account by supplying scholarships for ten graduate students to teach under supervision and to assemble material under direction, these to be awarded by the committee with due regard to needs of rural and urban women--$750 $7,500 3. Securing the services of several highly skilled home-economics teachers, under whose supervision the practice teaching, and the preparation of these students would be carried on, and developing through advice teaching centers for the use of such material wherever possible, by supplying salaries for four persons to supervise and direct teaching--$4,000 $16,000 4. Securing teachers who are experienced housewives, who with short courses might assume certain teaching functions, supplying stipends, $75 a month for four months ($300) for fifty women who, selected under rules drawn up by the committee, would take short training courses, to be organized under the direction of individuals or departments or institutions approved by the committee $15,000 III. There would, of course, be necessary a director of the work, who could be either one of the salaried teachers chosen as leader or an executive secretary. In any case clerical expenses and the costs of certain items incident to the instruction would be required. The experiment should be assured for a term of three years. The problem can be dealt with adequately only by state-wide and nation-wide agencies, and should as soon as possible be taken over by nonsectarian educational agencies. But the public-school system is at present wholly without the equipment necessary for the performance of these functions. It is not only not national; it is in many states not even state-wide in its supervision and standards. In Illinois, for example, the school district is the unit, and until a board was created in 1919 to deal with the problems of vocational training, the control exercised by the state was negligible. The situation in an Illinois mining town illustrates the waste resulting from treating these questions as local questions. The town referred to is a mining town, lying partly in one and partly in another county. The only public school available is in one county, and it is said to be overcrowded. The road from a settlement in the other county to the school is said to be impassable all winter or in bad weather. It leads over a mine switch that is dangerous as well. The parents complained that the small children could not go so far, that there were no play facilities, that the location was secluded, so that it was dangerous for girls, that the term was too short, and that the attendance of the children seems unimportant to the school authorities. As the community was almost altogether Italian, the parents would have preferred a woman teacher for the girls over ten or twelve years of age. A more intelligent and a more incisive indictment of an educational situation than this criticism expressed by the Italian families in this remote mining community could hardly have been drawn. It is inevitable that similar dark spots should continue, so long as no central agency is responsible for the maintenance of a minimum opportunity everywhere. Of course it is not to be expected that those jurisdictions that so neglect the children will care for the adult. Many states have the central agency that could take over the work. And there exist Federal agencies able with enlarged resources to adapt their work to meet many of these needs. The United States Children's Bureau has published bulletins in simple form containing such information as every woman should have concerning the care of mothers and young children. Only the lack of resources has kept that bureau from undertaking to bring these facts to the knowledge of all mothers, including the foreign born.[60] HOME ECONOMICS WORK In the so-called States Relations Service of the Department of Agriculture, established under the Smith-Lever Act,[61] and in the Federal Board for Vocational Education, there are agencies which, if developed, can establish national standards in these fields and do work of national scope. These acts constitute, in fact, so important a step in the direction of nationalization of these problems that items in the statutes creating them may be of interest here. The first of these Acts provides for co-operative effort on the part of the United States Department of Agriculture and the state agricultural colleges. There is an agency provided to "diffuse among the people of the United States useful and practical information on subjects relating to agriculture and home economics, and to encourage the application of the same." This Act refers especially to the needs of the rural population, and the work done under it consists of instruction and practical demonstration in agriculture and home economics to persons not attending or resident in the agricultural colleges. The methods should be such as are agreed on by the Secretary of Agriculture and the officials of the state colleges benefiting under the earlier Act of 1862.[62] To carry out this co-operative effort, an appropriation was provided, beginning at $480,000--$10,000 for each state--and increasing first by $60,000 and then by $500,000 annually, until after seven years a total of $4,500,000 was reached, the increase to be distributed among the states in proportion to their rural population. By the Smith-Hughes Act of February 22, 1917, both teachers and supervisors, as well as training for teachers and supervisors in the fields of agriculture, home economics, industrial and trade subjects, were provided.[63] The Federal Board for Vocational Education consisted of the Secretaries of Agriculture, Commerce, and Labor, the United States Commissioner of Education, and three citizens appointed for terms of three years, at $5,000 a year. One of these three is to represent the agricultural interests, one the manufacturing interests, and one labor. The board was given power to make studies, among other subjects, of home management and domestic science. While instruction under the first of these Acts may be given by means of home demonstrations, it is limited under the second Act to such as can be given in schools and classes. This Act provides for co-operative effort between the Federal government and the states. The large sum of $200,000 for the support of the board, and considerable sums for certain minimum contingencies, were appropriated. Major appropriations were provided for, beginning with $500,000 for paying salaries for teachers and supervisors in agriculture, and increasing by $250,000 until the sum of $3,000,000 was reached, to be distributed in proportion to rural population among the states on condition that the states take appropriate action consenting to the Act and appropriating dollar for dollar (Section 2). A similar appropriation was provided for the teaching of trade, home economics, and industrial subjects, beginning with $500,000, increasing by $250,000 annually, until the amount of $3,000,000 was reached, this to be appropriated in proportion to the urban population in the various states. Certain minima were prescribed, and it was laid down that not more than 20 per cent of the amount allotted for salaries should go to teachers of home economics (Section 3). No part of the appropriation is to pay for buildings or for work done in private institutions (Section 11). In the same manner as in the earlier Act an initial appropriation of $500,000 was made toward meeting the cost of training teachers and supervisors in agricultural trade, home economics, and industrial subjects, these to increase by installments of $200,000 and then by $100,000, until $1,000,000 was reached, to be distributed among the states in proportion to population. Certain conditions were prescribed as to the action to be taken by the states, and the appropriation by the state of "dollar for dollar" toward the training of these persons was required. Questionnaires regarding the application of their work to the needs of foreign-born groups were sent to the State Supervisors of Home Economics functioning under these Acts, but few replies were received. In general, the replies indicate that the work has in many cases not been extended to meet the needs of foreign-born housewives. A few replies, however, are illustrative of what might be done with increased resources and effective interest on the part of the state and of the local community. From Lake Village, Arkansas, came the following graphic account of the work of the home demonstration agent: I was very much interested in having you write to me concerning the work with the Italian women in Chicot County. When I first came into the county I was entirely inexperienced as far as this kind of work goes, but in time I saw that the Italians needed help and I wanted to give them what they needed most. I became acquainted with the Catholic priest, as he was an Italian and could help me in talking and becoming acquainted with the people. The priest proved to be a very interesting man and helped me very much. In a short time I learned to speak a few words of Italian, which pleased the people very much. They seemed to feel that I was their friend, and wherever I saw a dusky face in town or country I would greet them with the words, "_Como stati_," which is to say, "How goes it?" or, "How are you?" and I would be answered with an engulfing grin and a flow of jargon, not a word of which I could understand, but with smiles and nods I would go on, having won a friend. The first work I did among the Italians was to go into their homes and look at their gardens, show them how to prune their tomato plants, dry their fruit and vegetables, can their tomatoes and beans, and bathe their babies. Not long after there were sewing and "cootie"-removing demonstrations, as well as removing head lice and care of heads and bodies taught with actual demonstrations. All of my work has been taken with the most cordial attitude, and the methods have been adopted and used. This year I hope to have more work done among them than last, on the same line and others. They now come to me when they are in trouble or in need of help, and this makes me feel that they consider this office is their friend, not a graft or money-making concern. In Akron, Ohio, a home demonstration agent, under the Department of Agriculture and the Ohio State University Home Economics Department, has been definitely attached to a public school in Akron's most foreign-born district. Her special project is home demonstration work with foreign-born women, and each lesson is a lesson in English as well. The worker hopes to have an apartment equipped as a plain but attractive home, where all this work can be done. The home supervisor in Massachusetts reports that the state-aided, evening practical arts classes have offered instruction to groups of foreign-born women in Fall River and in Lowell. In Fall River there were classes in cooking and canning for French women, and classes in home nursing for a Portuguese group. In Lowell there were classes in cooking for Polish women, and classes in cooking and dressmaking for Greek women. These classes were conducted by foreign-speaking teachers, with the help of interpreters. The work of the Syracuse Home Bureau included four projects: (1) Garden project, (2) Nutrition project, (3) Clothing project, and (4) Publicity project. The outline of the work under (2) and (3) is given below: NUTRITION PROJECT 1. _Home Demonstration Work._ In co-operation with the Associated Churches and Charities--United Jewish Charities and School Centers--the agent goes into the home, making herself a friend of the family, taking necessary supplies with her, but using whatever utensils the housewife may have. She demonstrates simple, nourishing, economical foods, teaches the proper feeding of children, etc. She also suggests food budgets and plans their use. The leader of the organizations reports that much is being accomplished with families which otherwise could not be reached. Help with clothing work is also given sometimes. 2. _Group Demonstrations._ In co-operation with the Americanization work and churches, where this seems desirable, to groups of women. 3. _Class Work in Cookery._ In co-operation with units from the Girls' Patriotic League, International Institute, and factories. 4. _Education in Food Values._ Talks have been given at various schools in regard to proper luncheons and menus submitted to assist in this work. Conferences have been held with Y. W. C. A. manager in regard to luncheon combinations. Menus for the week, with grocery order, have been submitted for the use of social workers. Aid is being given in planning the meals for undernourished children at a special school. Talks are to be given to the children. 5. _Home Bureau Day._ Friday afternoon is "at home" day for members and their friends at the Thrift Kitchen. Talks or demonstrations are given each week, and an exhibit in the window during the week corresponds with the subject. 6. _Classes for Volunteer Aids._ Classes for volunteer aids are being formed. These are to be two types. One class for experienced housewives, to deal particularly with the problem of presentation, and another class for college girls, to give them the simple principles of food values and preparation, taking up at the same time the method of presentation. It is hoped to use these aids particularly in the home demonstration work, which is already developing beyond the capacity of the trained workers. 7. _General Use of the Thrift Kitchen._ The kitchen is engaged by various church committees to do cooking in large quantities for church suppers. Various organizations use it to prepare special foods for institutions. We are encouraging the use of the kitchen by any individual or organization for any purpose. The only charge is for the gas used, besides a nominal charge of five cents for the use of the kitchen. The work is done under the supervision of one of the agents. CLOTHING PROJECT 1. _Sewing Classes._ In co-operation with units from the Girls' Patriotic League, International Institute, and factories. A sewing unit often follows a cooking unit with the same group. 2. _Sewing Demonstrations._ These are being given at some of the home demonstrations, as the need arises. 3. _Millinery Classes._ In co-operation with the Girls' Patriotic League, International Institute, and factories. 4. _Millinery Demonstrations_ are being held for mothers' clubs connected with the church, and home demonstrations are given when needed. The Rolling Prairie community mentioned above, too, benefited from a co-operative "County Project" work undertaken in 1913-14, under the supervision of Purdue University. A course given during the year in the rural schools was continued during the summer, open to all children over ten and required of graduates from the eighth grade. The County Superintendent of Schools, the County Agent under the university (States Relations Service) and County Board of Trustees (La Porte County) sent teachers into all parts of the county teaching the boys farming, stock raising, and gardening, and the girls canning, sewing, bread making, cooking vegetables, and laundry work, or if they preferred, gardening. The teacher gave an hour and a half every ten days at the home of each child. At the end of the summer there were exhibits and prizes in the shape of visits to the state fair, to the university, to Washington, or to the stock show in Chicago. The Polish children who took prizes and who went to the university (some of them had never been on a train) became enthusiastic about going to high school and college, and some are going to high school. The fact that they took prizes interested the whole group, and the experiment affected the agricultural and domestic practices of the community. The sad ending to the story is that the township trustees have never been willing to assume again the expense of the teachers' salaries, but the possibilities in the co-operative method are evident. The States Relations Service and the work of the Federal Board for Vocational Education are based on the so-called principles of the "grant in aid," which gives promise of both developing and encouraging local initiative and of obtaining "national minima" of skill and efficiency. Certainly the lack of any national body and often the lack of any state machinery with power to encourage local action and with facilities for gathering and comparing data, reduced the rate at which progress is made. For example, the device of the home teacher planned by the California Commission on Immigration and Housing, was only slowly taken over by the education authorities of California. GOVERNMENT GRANTS IN ENGLAND The experience of the English Board of Education may be noticed in this connection. Owing to the interest in national vigor aroused by the rejection of recruits during the Boer War, England took steps to provide food for the underfed school children and medical supervision of the health of the school children. This resulted in the accumulation of a great body of evidence showing the need of improvement in the conditions and household management in the homes from which these children came. Both schools for mothers and infant classes have been recognized as appropriate extensions of the work of the education authority, and the national character of the problem has been embodied in provision for the grant in aid.[64] The conditions on which grants to schools for mothers and infant classes are made, set a standard for those communities desiring help from the central authority, and furnish a basis of judgment as to the work of any local authority. Those conditions are stated as follows: A school for mothers is primarily an educational institution, providing training and instruction for the mother in the care and management of infants and little children. The imparting of such instruction may include: (_a_) Systematic classes. (_b_) Home visiting. (_c_) Infant consultations. The provision of specific medical and surgical advice and treatment (if any) should be only incidental. (_d_) The Board of Education will pay grants in respect of schools for mothers, as defined in Article II of their Regulations for the year 1914-15, subject to the following qualifications: (I) That an institution will not be recognized as a school for mothers unless collective instruction by means of systematic classes forms an integral part of its work; (II) That grant will only be paid in respect of "infant consultations," which are provided for women attending a school for mothers; (III) That grant will only be paid in respect of expenditure on "home visiting" of children registered at a school for mothers if neither the sanitary authority nor County Council undertake to arrange for such visiting; (IV) The fact that a school for mothers receives a grant or assistance from a sanitary authority (or a County Council) or its offices will not disqualify it from receiving a grant from the Board of Education. Thus the institutions included under the title "schools for mothers" have for their main object the reduction of infant sickness and mortality by means of the education of the mothers. They train the mother to keep her baby in good health through a common-sense application of the ordinary laws of hygiene. The training may be given by means of personal advice from doctor or nurse to individual mothers, by home visiting, and by means of collective teaching and systematic classes.[65] It is necessary to distinguish these "schools for mothers," which were educational, from the maternity centers maintained by the Local Government Board, intended to provide prenatal care of expectant mothers. During the year 1917-18, two hundred and eighty-six such schools for mothers received aid from the central authority. The work of representative schools, as described in the medical officer's report,[66] includes instruction in hygiene, principles of feeding, needlework, and boot repairing. In the same way the infant classes or nursery schools are to be distinguished both from day nurseries which may, if they comply with stated conditions, receive grants, and from infant consultations.[67] It is interesting to note that these items in the educational program are closely related to the plan under which _Mothercraft_ is taught to (1) the older girls in the public elementary schools, and (2) the girls between fourteen and eighteen in the secondary and continuation schools. Under the stimulus of the possible grant in aid from the central authority and of the supervision and advice of the central authority, this work is developed by the local authority. The day nursery or infant class is made to serve the purpose of training the older girl as well as of training and care of the young child. The argument here is not affected by the fact that under the recent Act providing for a Ministry of Health, these functions are surrendered by the education authority to the New Ministry of Health, as are those of the Local Government Board. Certain functions remain educational, and must develop in accordance with educational principles. Others are sanitary and call for inspection and supervision. THE LESSON FOR THE UNITED STATES It is not suggested that the development in the United States be identical with that in England. It is true that there are two specialized agencies referred to under which such work could be developed. Should a United States Department of Education or of Health be created, conceivably such functions could be assumed by either; and it is most interesting to notice that, with reference to this very problem, the method is already recognized as important and embodied in the educational program of the state of Massachusetts. Under a statute enacted in 1919,[68] the State Board of Education is authorized to co-operate with cities and towns in promoting and providing for the education of persons over twenty-one years of age "unable to speak, read, and write the English language." The subjects to be taught in the English language are the fundamental principles of government and such other subjects adapted to fit the scholars for American citizenship as receive the joint approval of the local school committee and the State Board of Education. The classes may be held not only in public-school buildings, but in industrial plants and other places approved by the local school committee and the board. In the words of the Supervisor of Americanization,[69] "this provides for ... day classes for women meeting at any place during any time in the day. The establishment of such classes is especially urged." The development of the Federal agencies will probably be most efficiently stimulated if a considerable amount of such work is attempted by local authorities and such social agencies as have been described. If not only local educational bodies, but schools for social work, organizations like the Immigrants' Protective League and the Department of Home Economics, the State Immigration Commissions, and the Young Women's Christian Association, could train efficient visitors, prepare and try out lesson sheets on the essential topics, and develop teaching methods, the different branches of the Federal service would undoubtedly be able to avail themselves of such material and of such personnel as would be supplied in this way.[70] The plan outlined earlier in the chapter for educational work for foreign-born women would be a step in this direction. MOTHERS' ASSISTANTS Attention has been called to the fact that many housewives, either because the husband's income is inadequate or because their standard of family needs is relatively high, or because there is some special family object to be attained, become wage earners and are away from their home during the hours of the working day. The devices used by these mothers for the care of the family during their absence have been described. The previous discussion has also made clear the fact that for many women of limited income who do not attempt wage earning, the task of bearing children and of caring for the home is too heavy, especially during the time when the children are coming one after the other in fairly rapid succession. The visiting nurse may help in time of illness; the midwife may come in for a few days immediately after the child is born; the man may be very handy and helpful; the older girl or boy may stay at home from school; but it is evident that some agency should be devised for rendering additional assistance to such mothers. The day nursery suggests itself, and its possibilities are easily understood; but it is an agency that has been developed in response to the demand of married women for the chance to supplement the husband's earnings, or of widows and deserted women to assume the place of breadwinner. For the kind of assistance we have in mind, some such agency as the mother's helper, proposed by the English Women's Co-operative Guild, is suggested. This proposal was developed as an item in a program for adequate maternity care, but has been extended in its application so as to include all women who are attempting to carry the burden we have described. It expresses the widening recognition that the volume of tasks expected of the housewife as mother and caretaker is greater than one woman can be expected to perform. It rests also on the conviction that such assistance is professional in character and should be standardized in skill. Experiments in this field might well be undertaken by the same agencies that attempt to receive and introduce the newly arrived groups, and as rapidly as the method becomes established the functions could be taken over by the appropriate specialized agency, whether public or private.[71] For example, the two following recommendations recently offered by official bodies in England illustrate the need to which we are calling attention. The first is taken from a memorandum prepared at the request and for the consideration of the Women's Employment Committee. HOME HELPS Closely linked with the problem of skilled midwifery, care of the working mother is the problem of arrangement for her domestic life during her disablement. In the _Home Helps Society_ a movement has been inaugurated which, if widely extended on the right lines for clearly subsidiary purposes, would prove of incalculable benefit to working mothers, and so to the general community. The scheme provides, on a contributory basis, the assistance of trained domestic helpers for women who are incapacitated, especially in illness or childbirth, from attending to the normal duties of the home. A Jewish society has been in existence for twenty years to meet the needs of poor Jewesses in the East End of London, but the general scheme came into existence under the Central Committee for Employment of Women to provide employment for women who have been thrown out of work owing to the war. Three months is considered an average period of training, but a shorter time is sanctioned in special cases. The women are trained under supervision in the homes of families and in certain approved institutions. In the Jewish society no special period of training is demanded. If a candidate is competent upon appointment she is sent out at once. In Birmingham similar help is afforded by what is known as the "nine days'" nursing scheme, and Sheffield has a provision for a municipal allowance to a mother needing such help in a special degree. North Islington Maternity Center has a local scheme for home helps, managed by a subcommittee. Encouragement has been given to these schemes by the sympathetic interest in them of the medical women acting for the London County Council as inspectors, under the Midwives' Act. Similar arrangements have been proposed in various parts of the country. The second is from the Report of the Women's Advisory Committee of the Ministry of Reconstruction on the Domestic Service Problem. SUBCOMMITTEE ON HOME HELPS After meeting several times this committee came to the conclusion that, in the light of the evidence that had been given before them, it was not advisable for them to proceed further without reference to the committee which was dealing with the question of subsidiary health and kindred services, as the question of the provision of Home Helps intimately affected that committee also. The committee on Home Helps passed the following resolution: That with a view to preventing sickness which is caused by the unavoidable neglect of children in their home, the Local Government Board should be asked to remove the restriction which at present confines the provision of Home Helps to maternity cases, and to extend the scope of the board's grant for the provision of such assistance in any home where, in the opinion of the local authority, it is necessary in the interests of the children that it should be given, and agreed that if the Subsidiary Health and Kindred Services Committee were prepared to adopt it in their report it would be undesirable to continue their own sittings. The resolution was adopted by that committee, and the Home Helps' Committee was dissolved. We are not unconscious of the great need that exists for further preventive measures in connection with health services, more especially as regards children, and we think that the question of Home Helps must first be explored in this connection. We are of the opinion, however, that as regards help with domestic work, the position of the wives of professional men with small incomes, and of the large army of men of moderate means who are engaged in commerce and industry is becoming critical, and that some form of municipal service might help to solve this most difficult problem. RECREATIONAL AGENCIES The public parks, playgrounds, and recreation centers, and the social settlements, constitute the main community provision for the social and recreational activities of immigrant groups living in the congested sections of industrial cities. Certain problems in the adaptation of the services and resources of such agencies to the needs of an immigrant neighborhood have been brought out in our consultation with representative men and women from various nationalities living in different sections of Chicago. The history of Dvorak Park may serve to indicate the nature of some of these problems. Established when the population of the district it was designed to serve was almost exclusively Bohemian, this small park was given its distinctively Bohemian name, and the district chosen was Bohemian. It became at once a popular recreation center for the neighborhood, as the facilities provided in the playground and field house were admirably suited to the needs of the people. Representative men and women who have kept in touch with the later immigrants of their nationality speak with greatest enthusiasm of the value of the park to the Bohemian community. Its services in relieving the monotony of the lives of immigrant women, and especially of mothers of large families, is noteworthy. For those to whom it is accessible it provides a type of entertainment which they really enjoy. It is said, in fact, that women who begin going to the park take a new interest in life. The moving pictures are especially popular. The director, a man thoroughly familiar with the lives of the families of the settlement, has sought to adapt the service of the park to their needs. Special entertainments for women with little children are given in the afternoon while older children are in school, and mothers are encouraged to bring the babies. Mothers who have begun going to the park themselves feel greater security in allowing the older boys and girls to go to the evening entertainments and dances because they learn that there is trustworthy supervision. During the last few years, however, there has been a great change in the character of the neighborhood surrounding Dvorak Park. Bohemians have moved away, and their places have been taken by Serbo-Croatians. The newcomers have found churches, schools, and public halls established by the Bohemian people, and the impression has gone out that the public park also is a national recreation center for Bohemians. No criticism of the management of the park has been made by leaders among the Croatians, who believe the director has earnestly sought to meet the requirements of the two groups impartially, frequently asking the advice and co-operation of well-known Croatian men and women. They do feel that it is unfortunate that the popular idea that the place is intended for Bohemians only is too deep to be easily eradicated. In Chicago some of the older immigrant groups have made provisions for their recreational needs by building national halls, auditoriums, and theaters; and in groups representing later immigration, funds are being raised for the same purpose. In many instances it is admitted that the public recreation centers in the immediate vicinity of the settlement afford adequate space and facilities for the requirements of the group. The reasons given for failure to take advantage of such opportunities or for duplicating such splendid community resources are varied. When analyzed, they are on the whole indicative of shortcomings in park management, which might be overcome if park supervision could be made a real community function. In a Polish district, for instance, the people in the vicinity of one of the most completely equipped parks in the city have come to regard it with suspicion as the source of a type of Americanization propaganda too suggestive of the Prussians they have sought to escape. In a Lithuanian district, officers of societies which make use of clubrooms in the recreation centers say they prefer the rooms to any they can rent in the vicinity, but they often feel in the way and that their use of the building entails more work than attendants are willing to give. The Lithuanians, too, speak of feeling out of place in the parks. There has been little evidence that in any section of the city people of foreign birth feel that as community centers these parks are in a sense their own. The social settlement, which shares with public recreation centers the functions of providing for the social life and recreation of immigrant communities, is confronted by many of the same problems, often rendered the more difficult from the fact that it is usually regarded as even more alien to the life of the group than the park, and its purposes are less understood. Members of Polish, Lithuanian, Italian, and Ukrainian groups, who have expressed their own appreciation of the aims of the social settlement, and the highest personal regard for settlement residents whom they have known, believe that the "American" settlement can never reach the masses of people most in need of the type of service it offers. Repression under autocratic government in Europe and exploitation in America have made them suspicious, and they are apt to avoid whatever they cannot understand. It is believed that these types of service, undertaken with a more thorough knowledge of the point of view of the immigrant and with the indorsement and co-operation of recognized leaders of the groups to be served, would much more nearly meet the needs of the people least able to adjust themselves to the new situations. FOOTNOTES: [53] See Abbott, _The Immigrant and the Community_, chap. i; _Report of the Massachusetts Immigration Commission_, 1914; _Reports of the Immigrants' Protective League of Chicago_. [54] As is contemplated in the Act creating the New York Bureau of Immigration and Industry. See Birdseye, Cummin's and Gilbert's _Consolidated Laws of New York Supplement, 1913_, vol. ii, p. 1589, sec. 153; and _Laws of 1915_, chap. 674, sec. 7, vol. iii, p. 2271. [55] See Frank V. Thompson, _Schooling of the Immigrant_. [56] _Statutes of California, 1915_, chap. xxxvii. The home teacher should not be confused with the visiting teacher; a device in social case work. [57] _A Manual for Home Teachers_ (published by the State Commission of Immigration and Housing), 1919, p. 13. [58] _Ibid._, p. 19. [59] _A Manual for Home Teachers_, 1919, p. 8. [60] See also Report of the Children's Bureau on "Children's Year" and "Back to School Drive." [61] 38 U. S. Statutes at Large, p. 372 (May 8, 1914). [62] The so-called "Land Grant" colleges (1862). 12 U. S. Statutes at Large, p. 503. [63] 39 Statutes at Large, p. 929. [64] See Report of the Chief Medical Officer of the Board of Education for 1910 (Cd. 4986). See also Education (Provision of Meals Act, 1906), L. R. 6, Ed. 7, chap. lvii, widened in 1914 to include holidays as well as school days, and enlarging the discretion of the authorities as to the purpose. See also L. R. 7, Ed. 7, chap. xliii, an Act to make provision for the better administration by the central and local authorities ... of the enactments relating to education. [65] Reports of Commissioners of Education, 1914-16, pp. 29-31. [66] _Annual Report of the Board of Education_, 1917, pp. 12-13. [67] _Annual Report of the Board of Education_, 1917, pp. 10-12. [68] Acts of 1919, chap. 295. [69] Mr. John J. Mahoney, see _Americanization Letter, No. 1_, September 11, 1919, Department of University Extension, Massachusetts Board of Education. [70] See _First Annual Report of the Massachusetts Bureau of Immigration_, p. 38. [71] _Memorandum on Subsidiary Health and Kindred Services for Women_, prepared by Miss A. M. Anderson, C. B. E., p. 5. IX FAMILY CASE WORK The discussion up to this point has dealt with the family which has not fallen into distress. It has been confined to problems of adjustment. But there are numerous families which fall into distress and need the services of the social case-work agency. Because of limitations of space and because the principles applying to their care and treatment apply to other kinds of service, the following discussion will treat only of agencies concerned with the care of immigrant families in need of material aid. Of the 8,529 families cared for by the Cook County agent, 6,226 were from the foreign groups, and of the 569 under care by the Cook County Juvenile Court in its Funds to Parents' Department, 386 were foreign born.[72] Attention is called, however, to the fact that the special application to the care of foreign-born families of the principles supposed to guide the conduct of good agencies in their care of any family calls for the elaboration of much more skillful devices and for much more extensive and closely knit organization than has yet been developed. This chapter deals only with these special applications of general case-work principles. The principles of care in any case of need are: (1) That such care shall be based on adequate understanding of the immediate individual problem; (2) that it shall be adapted to the special need; (3) that it shall look toward the restoration of the family to its normal status; and (4) that treatment, whether in the form of relief or service, shall be accompanied by friendly and educational supervision and co-operation. These are no simple tasks when the family is English speaking, native born, and when no particular difficulties arise from difference in language and in general domestic and social habits. With the non-English-speaking family, the agency is faced with difficulties at each of these points. There is first the problem of getting at the facts as to the nature and extent of the distress and the occasion of the family breakdown. In addition to the foreign-born families who actually need material assistance there are many who, because they are laying aside part of their income either to meet past debts or future needs, are living below the standard prevailing in their community. This family needs to be urged to spend more rather than to save. Unless the agency coming in contact with it digs below the apparent poverty and finds the real income, it will be tempted to give pecuniary aid rather than the personal service the family is in need of. Its service must not result in increased dependency. Special care in applying this principle of all good case work needs to be exercised in the case of the foreign-born family. Moving from one continent to another, with almost every element in the situation changed, makes the adjustment of the family to normal and healthy standards a delicate and important one. We have been told, for example, by thoughtful members of the Italian group, that in their judgment their fellow-countrymen are often led, through unwise alms-giving, not only to pretend to be poorer than they are, but to live in conditions of squalor detrimental to their well-being. In fact, in order to understand that normal state from which the family departs when its members become applicants for aid from a case-work agency, the representatives of the agency must have at command facts with reference to the standards and practices prevailing in the particular community from which the family under consideration comes. Only then can the need of the family be estimated with any degree of exactness. When the facts are learned and the nature and extent of the need are understood, there is the question of resources available for treatment and the question of methods to be used in building and maintaining the family life and in fostering the process of adjustment between its life and that of the community as a whole. To be able fully to utilize resources, to forecast the effect of certain kinds of care, it is surely desirable for the agency to know the life of the national group into which the family has come, the resources to which the family itself has access, and the ways in which others of the group expect care to be given. THE LANGUAGE DIFFICULTY The social case-work agency is faced, then, with several quite different and quite difficult problems in equipment. There is first the question of overcoming the language difficulty. The use of the foreign-speaking trained visitor would probably be regarded as the best way of doing this. The supply is so inadequate that the choice has been generally between a person speaking the language and a person knowing something of methods of case work. And unless the visitor is a fairly competent case worker she would probably better be used as an interpreter and not be given responsibility or allowed to make decisions. The use of an interpreter gives rise to many difficulties.[73] Because these difficulties are so universal and so important to the full use of the opportunities lying before the case-work agency, an attempt was made to obtain information as to the practice and as to the desires of a number of case workers. Case-work agencies, the district superintendents and visiting housekeepers in the United Charities, the Jewish Aid, the Juvenile Court in Chicago, relief societies in other cities, and the Red Cross chapters throughout the country, were consulted. Six of the ten districts of the United Charities had foreign-speaking visitors. There were 14 in all--3 Italian, 8 Polish, 2 Bohemian, and 1 Hungarian. Nine of these speak other languages besides their own. All the Jewish Aid Society visitors speak Yiddish. The Funds to Parents' Department of the Juvenile Court has no foreign-born workers, but the Probation Department has 3--Polish, Italian, and Bohemian. The five Red Cross chapters answering the questionnaire--New York, Brooklyn, Rochester, Buffalo, and Philadelphia--all employ foreign-speaking visitors--11 Italian, 8 Polish, 8 Yiddish, and 2 Russian. Sixty-one of the members of the American Association for Family Welfare Work replied to questions about their methods of work and the devices they had found successful. Twenty-eight of these were not doing work with foreign born or were not doing work along the line indicated. The other 33 described their work and their difficulties, and made suggestions. Twenty-two of the thirty-three agencies did not make use of the foreign-language visitor, although Fall River in the case of the French, and Topeka in the case of the Mexicans, overcame the language barrier by the fact that their secretaries spoke the language of their largest foreign-born group. Three others did not have foreign-born visitors on their staff, but reported that they had foreign-born volunteers. It is interesting to note that among the 22 cities without foreign-language visitors there are 9 cities with over 100,000 inhabitants, and all but 2 of them have large immigrant populations. The other 13 cities on the list are all places of less than 100,000 inhabitants, and it is probable that the case-work agencies in most of them do not have more than one worker. The case-work agencies in some cities with large foreign-born populations come in contact with many of the foreign-born families in distress, but not in sufficiently large numbers to take the entire time of a visitor. In other cities, however, a large part of the work is with foreign-speaking families. In Stamford, Connecticut, for example, 70 per cent of the families cared for are foreign born, and 44 per cent are Italian. In Paterson, New Jersey, 120 of the 840 families were Italian. Eleven case-work agencies did employ foreign-born or foreign-speaking visitors. Eight of these were in cities of over 100,000 population--New York City, Philadelphia, Boston, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee, Cambridge, and Grand Rapids. The other three were in smaller places; Waterbury, with a population of 73,000, El Paso with 39,000, and Kenosha with 21,000. While these 11 agencies do employ foreign-speaking workers, it appears in every case that they either do not have workers of all the groups with which they work, or do not have enough foreign-language workers to do all the work with the foreign-speaking groups. New York City, for instance, has 5 workers who speak Italian, of whom only 1 is an Italian and served in the course of a year over 1,000 Italian families. Philadelphia has only 1 foreign-speaking worker, who speaks Italian and some Polish. It reports the number of families as 526 Italian, 229 Polish, 69 Russian, and 43 other Slav. There is, however, a decided difference of opinion as to the value of the visitor from the foreign-born group. All the agencies testify to the difficulty of getting workers with the same education and training demanded of the English-speaking visitor. One of the district superintendents of the United Charities of Chicago, who in despair of her work with interpreters began to use foreign-born visitors, speaks of success with exceptional individuals, but says: For the most part the foreign workers we have had have gained a certain facility in handling the general run of cases, but there is a discouraging lack of initiative or daring in their efforts. They seem to go just so far. It has seemed hard, too, to strike the happy medium in their attitude toward their own people; they seem either blindly sympathetic or peculiarly indifferent. In part I feel that this is an impression they give as a result of their lack of power of self-expression, and lack of confidence in themselves--this would undoubtedly be remedied by further education. As a result of my efforts with about ten foreign workers I have traveled a complete circle in my way of thinking. I have come back to the conclusion that we cannot get satisfactory results if we accept very much less in the way of scholastic training or life experience, than is required of other workers. Most of the agencies that have tried foreign-speaking visitors feel that in spite of these disadvantages it is a gain to the agency to have such visitors on the staff. This is especially true with those agencies that have or have had visitors with educational equipment that is comparable with that of most of their English-speaking visitors. One agency, for example, has only one foreign-born visitor, a Russian who speaks several languages and had a teacher's-training course in Russia. The superintendent reports her "gratifyingly successful in her work with foreign families." The Charity Organization Society in another city is divided in opinion about the foreign-born visitor. During the panic of 1914-15 they had a Russian man who had had a good technical education at the University of St. Petersburg, and two years in a medical school in this country. The assistant case supervisor of that organization reports that he not only accomplished a great deal with the unemployed men in the district, but also helped the district workers to understand the Russian, Slavic, Lithuanian, and Bohemian families in the district, and "demonstrated what the possibilities might be if we could have foreign-speaking people with requisite training and the proper spirit to work intensively with the families." On the other hand, the superintendent of this organization, who was not with them in 1915, says that their experience with foreign-born case workers has not been successful, and suggests as an alternative the instruction of American case workers in foreign languages. The New York society agrees that better results are obtained by having native-born case workers learn the language of the group with which they are to work. They have found it possible to have native-born workers learn Italian, and have found them better workers than any Italians they have employed who were people of less background and training. STANDARDS OF LIVING Secondly, there is the problem of building up in the family asking and receiving aid, domestic standards appropriate to the life in the community. This raises, first, the question of the responsibility of the case-work agency for the adjustment of the family life to such standards in household management and in child care as might be formulated on the basis of expert knowledge of community needs; secondly, the question as to ways in which such adjustment may be accomplished if the agency feels under an obligation to undertake it. A number of the thirty-three case-work agencies which discussed this subject indicated that they thought this task one that should not be assumed by the case-work agency. Four agencies said they were doing nothing in this direction, though one of these was looking forward to the employment of a visiting housekeeper. One agency said that there was no difference in this respect between the care of native born and foreign born, and that all families were given such instruction as occasion demanded. Seven agencies met the problem by co-operating with some of the public-health nursing organizations, especially the baby clinics, and one of the agencies said that the nurses were doing all the educational work possible. Four other agencies supplied milk and co-operated with the public-health organizations of the community and also with visiting housekeepers in the service of settlements. Two supplied milk where it seemed necessary, and three co-operated with agencies teaching food conservation. One of these supplied interpreters, organized classes, and helped the agent of the County Council of Defense to make contact with women in their homes. Another co-operated with a class of college students who were making a dietary study. The third had its own organization, which taught the use of substitutes and their preparation, in war time. Its work differed from that of others in that it was not organized for war-emergency purposes and was under the control of the case-work agency. Several agencies mentioned the fact that their visitors gave advice as the case required, and it is probable that this is done in other cities also. Such advice, of course, would not necessarily conform to the standards formulated by home economics experts, but rather to the common-sense standards of the community at large, or rather that circle of the community from which the majority of charity visitors come. The difficulties inherent in such a situation were recognized by the secretary of one society, who wrote, "Our staff has made an effort to become somewhat familiar with dietetics, but is having difficulty with foreign families because of failures thoroughly to understand their customs and the values of the food to which they are accustomed." Other agencies are not so definite in their view of the problem. Thus one reports that they are not successful in their work on the diet problem because "the Italians, Polish, and Lithuanians prefer their own food and methods of preparing it." Another says, "They seem to know their own tastes and _will_ do their own way mostly." In Chicago some of the superintendents explain their difficulties in raising housekeeping standards by characterizing the women as "stubborn," "indifferent," "inert," "obstinate," "lazy," "difficult but responsible," "easy but shiftless, and not performing what they undertake." It is only fair to state that these were usually given as contributing causes of difficulties. Most of the superintendents saw clearly that the main difficulties were in the circumstances under which the people had to live, and the defects in their own organization, which was handicapped by lack of funds and workers. [Illustration: A CASE-WORK AGENCY FOUND FOUR GIRLS AND EIGHTEEN MEN BOARDING WITH THIS POLISH FAMILY IN FOUR ROOMS] There is little that need be said about the work of these agencies as to other phases of the problem of housekeeping. Only one does anything to help the women buy more intelligently, except in the way of such spasmodic efforts as are made by visitors who have only their own practical experience to guide them. Similarly, little is done to teach buying or making of clothing except that in some instances women are urged to join classes in sewing. One agency speaks of teaching the planning of expenditure by the use of a budget. Most of the agencies that leave the problem of diet to the public-health nurse leave to her also the problem of cleanliness, personal hygiene, and sanitation. The majority of the agencies report, however, that their visitors are continually trying to inculcate higher standards. One agency says it is the stock subject of conversation at every visit. No agency reports any attempt to reach the women in a more systematic way than by "preaching." One agency only, that in Topeka, Kansas, reports anything that shows a realization of the peculiar problems of the foreign-born woman in this subject. In Topeka, American methods of laundry are taught to Mexican women in the office of the Associated Charities. VISITING HOUSEKEEPERS On the other hand, there are twelve agencies that approach the problem, or at least attempt to approach the problem of household management from a scientific standpoint, so that the work done shall be a serious attempt to adjust the standards of the foreign-born women to the standards formulated by the home economics experts for families "under care." There are several methods used in this work. The first and most common is the employment of visiting housekeepers by the case-work agency; another is that of referring families to another agency especially organized to give instruction in the household arts, such as the Visiting Housekeepers' Association in Detroit; a third is the one used in New York City, that of a Department of Home Economics within the organization, and still another, used in Boston, is a Dietetic Bureau. The cities in which there are visiting housekeepers in connection with the case-work agency are Chicago, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Worcester, Fall River, Cambridge, Stamford, and Springfield, Illinois. In Brooklyn the visiting housekeepers are not employed by the case-work agencies, but are student volunteers from Pratt Institute. The visiting housekeeper in Springfield has worked almost exclusively with English-speaking families, and the one in Worcester "has had at different times foreign-speaking families." In other words, in two cities with large foreign-speaking populations the visiting housekeepers only occasionally helped immigrant families to adjust their standards and methods of housekeeping to the new conditions found in this country. The work that is expected of a visiting housekeeper has been frequently described. As it demands the combined qualifications of a case worker and a skilled worker in home economics, an attempt was made to learn the education and training of the various workers in the field. Information was available in only a few cases, but these cases seem to point to the fact that the visiting housekeeper is usually trained for one phase of her work only--either as a case worker or as a home economics expert. In either case she can be expected to give the type of service her position demands only in the field in which her interest and training lie. Interviews with the five visiting housekeepers employed by the two largest relief agencies in Chicago in general bear out the impressions obtained from the statements of the agencies in other cities. None of those in Chicago speaks the language of the people with whom she works, though one agency is now training a young Italian girl to be a visiting housekeeper. Most of the visiting housekeepers claimed very slight knowledge of what the diet of the family was in the old country, although they had considerable knowledge as to what was customarily eaten here. They had made very little study of the habits and tastes of their group; and although they were agreed that in most families the diet was inadequate, they had apparently not looked far for the cause. Ignorance of food values and ways of preparing food seemed to them the chief reason; poverty, racial prejudice, and laziness might be secondary features. Since the visiting housekeepers deal almost entirely with dependent families under the care of a relief agency, their work in helping the women provide for the clothing needs of the family is quite largely concerned with making over old clothing. In the effort to raise the standards of cleanliness and sanitation the visiting housekeepers meet with great difficulty. One thinks the greatest difficulty is indifference on the part of the housewife and a lack of anything to which the visitor can appeal; another thinks that her greatest difficulties are that the mothers are usually overworked, that frequently they are kept worn out by having one child after another in close succession, and sometimes a woman has had to contend with a drunken husband. These cases she finds especially difficult to deal with. Some of them lay stress on the economic factor and point to the fact that most of these families are deprived of the conveniences which would make housekeeping a comparatively simple task. As one of the visiting housekeepers has said: With modern equipment, steam heat, electric utensils, and new and sanitary apartments, it is not a difficult task to keep the quarters fresh and clean, but in rickety, shadowy apartment buildings or houses where the floors are worn and rough, with no hot-water service, and too often without even gas for lighting, we can at once recognize the trials and handicaps which confront the housewife in the poorer districts.[74] The visiting housekeepers interviewed saw many discouraging features of their work. All stated that improvement came very slowly. One worker stated that she had worked three years in her district and she had some families under care all the time, but that she was just beginning to see the results of her efforts. Others pointed out that their constant supervision was essential, that as soon as they relaxed their efforts at all the families dropped back to their old habits. There was, however, general agreement that in time, by much expenditure of effort, constant visiting, teaching, and exhorting, they did help some families to a better standard of living. It was impossible to get an estimate from most of them as to how many families they thought they had helped, but the worker in one district said that for the three years it would not be more than five or six. Two workers who estimated the number of families with which they could work at one time, put the number at between twenty and twenty-five, and both thought that they could do much better with twenty than with twenty-five. They did not know with how many families they were working at present, but thought they were not trying to do intensive work with many more than that number. The explanation of failure may be that not enough care was taken to make the Old-World habits of cooking and diet the starting point of instruction in the use of American foods, utensils, and diets. Such procedure would be based on sound pedagogy in starting from the known and familiar and leading to the new and unaccustomed. However, it may be true that even after sound methods have been given a thorough trial, arduous effort still will fail to bring desired results. Case-work agencies, however efficient, may not be fitted to raise the standards of living in the homes of immigrant dependent families. It may be taken care of by other community forces and only be effected in the way that the independent family's standards are changed and improved. The task for the case worker is to help the family make the natural connections with their neighborhood and community, which are the most effective means for creating and sustaining social standards. Certain limitations to the present work of the visiting housekeeper appear in the above discussion. These are, the lack of persons with combined training in case work, home economics, and knowledge of immigrant backgrounds, the limited number of families with whom intensive work can be done, especially if the visiting housekeeper tries to do all the work with the families she visits, the hardship to the family in the duplication of visitors if the visiting housekeeper tries to render only specialized services to a larger number of families. Attempts have been made to overcome these limitations while still retaining the visiting housekeeper. In Cleveland the visiting housekeepers do all the work with the families assigned to them, as well as instruct the other visitors in the elementary principles of home economics and give advice on individual families, as occasion requires. Their work has been materially lightened by the adoption of a standardized budget prepared under the direction of a well-known expert in home economics. The superintendent of the Cleveland organization expressed himself as well satisfied with the work of the visiting housekeepers. It should be noted that one of the visiting housekeepers in that city not only is a skilled case worker with good training in home economics, but also is of foreign-born parentage and speaks most of the Slavic languages. In other cities, however, notably New York and Boston, case-work agencies have given up the employment of the visiting housekeepers. In New York there is a Home Economics Bureau and in Boston a Dietetic Bureau. The organization of the two bureaus differs, but the underlying principle is the same. Both are organizations of home economics experts, who give advice to the regular case workers both as to general principles and as to individual problems. They also make studies from time to time of problems in national groups. As its name would indicate, the scope of the New York organization is wider. It takes up problems of clothing and other phases of household management as well as of food. The advantages claimed for this plan are that the home economics experts can devote their time exclusively to their own field. The visitors are thus enabled to advise the individual families with more effect than can the specialized worker. The question as to the best way of rendering to the family under care this combination of services is by no means yet decided, and it is evident that further experiment in the various methods is necessary. They are, in fact, not mutually exclusive, and perhaps combinations of various kinds of the skill of the home economics expert, of the skilled social worker, and a generalized helper, may yet be developed. A third task to which some agencies address themselves is that of providing educational opportunities for the immigrant family. This effort often consists first of inducing the mother herself to enter a class, and, second, of securing the attendance of the children at the public school rather than at the non-English-teaching parochial school. The difficulties in the way of securing the mothers' attendance at a class have already been described. It need only be pointed out here that the case worker who has won the mother's confidence may often persuade her to go when the stranger will fail. Where a regular allowance is given and support for a considerable period is contemplated, it has been treated as something in the nature of a scholarship or educational stipend and conditioned on the mother's fulfilling definite requirements in the way of better qualifying herself to use the allowance. The subject of establishing connections between the members of the families and such educational opportunity has been somewhat confused by the fact that the case-work agency often depends upon the settlement to supply certain recreational facilities for the children in the families, and there is a temptation to use the settlement club or class rather than the school for the mother. With reference to having the children attend the public school or the school in which all instruction is given in English, it would be less than frank to ignore the difficulty often occasioned in the past by the nationalistic and separatist Church. The society may be faced with a real dilemma here, since it desires the co-operation of the Church and is loath to weaken any ties that may help in maintaining right family life. And so, when the Church conducts the school in which the mother tongue is used, and in which English is either inadequately taught or not taught at all, the relief agency may be practically forced into a policy involving the neglect of English in the case of both mother and children. KNOWLEDGE OF BACKGROUNDS These have been some of the fundamental difficulties in the relationship between the case-work agency and the immigrant family. The knowledge of the Old-World background and the impressions made by the experience of emigrating that should illumine all the work of the agency, are generally lacking to the case worker. Of course there are brilliant exceptions. One district superintendent of the Boston Associated Charities, for example, whose work lies in the midst of a Sicilian neighborhood, will have no visitors who are unwilling to learn the language and to inform themselves thoroughly concerning the history and the habits of the neighbors. Her office has been equipped so that it takes on somewhat the appearance of a living room. It is made attractive with growing plants; an Italian and an American flag are conspicuous when one enters the room; a picture of Garibaldi and photographs of Italian scenes are on the wall. Books on Italy are to be found in the office, and with the aid of an Italian postal guide the superintendent has made a card index of the home towns from which her families come. From one town in Sicily of seventeen thousand inhabitants, 108 families have come to the district office. Such an index is acquired slowly and must be used with great discretion. It is of assistance to one who understands how to use it, but it may suggest hopeless blunders to workers unfamiliar with the group. In making plans for the care of families, leading Italians, such as physicians of excellent standing, with a practice in the district, a member of the Harvard faculty who has unusual interest in his less fortunate fellow countrymen, and others who have special knowledge along certain lines, are consulted. One of the workers connected with the Vocational Guidance Bureau in Chicago has been trying an interesting experiment in the same direction of establishing contacts with the group among which she works. Many of the children who come to the Bureau for jobs are Polish children. She is, therefore, taking lessons in the Polish language from an editor of one of the Polish papers in the city, and through his interest has secured board and room in a home for working girls that is run by one of the Polish sisterhoods. In a month's time she has learned a vocabulary of some hundred and fifty Polish words, and has gained an insight into the Polish attitudes toward some of their problems that she considers invaluable. She found the Polish people with whom she consulted as to the best means of learning the language very much interested and anxious to be helpful in any way in their power. It is, in fact, clear that by the interpreter, or the foreign-speaking visitor, or the American visitor who learns the foreign tongue, the language difficulty must be overcome. In the case of the foreign-born visitor it should be noted that workers coming from among the various groups encounter difficulties not encountered by the American visitor. They seem to the members of their group to enjoy very real power, and they are often expected to grant favors and to exert influence. A Polish visitor in the office of a relief society in Chicago finds it very difficult to explain to her friends why they do not always receive from her fellow workers what they ask. In another neighborhood three Italian sisters, better educated than their neighbors, have become visitors. One works for the Catholic, one for the nonsectarian, charitable agency, and one for the social-service department of the public hospital. They seem to have a real "corner" on the aid given to applicants from their groups. TRAINING FACILITIES NEEDED It is clear, then, that before case-work agencies can be adequately equipped to perform these services, the supply of visitors trained as has been suggested will have to be increased, and certain bodies of material with reference to the various national groups will have to be organized and made available in convenient form, both for use in courses in colleges and schools of social work and in the offices of the societies. One way in which an effort might be directed toward bringing about an increase in the supply of trained visitors would be the establishment of scholarships and fellowships in schools of civics and of social work, by which able persons from among the different national groups might be encouraged to take advantage of such opportunities as those institutions provide. This procedure has been elaborated in Chapter VIII in connection with service to nondependent families. Special funds might also be provided in connection either with the various agencies or with schools of social work, which would render possible the collection and organization of such facts as would be valuable in understanding the problems presented by families from any special group. This body of fact would, of course, increase as sound, sympathetic, and thorough work was developed. Such studies would include information about the communities from which different groups come, as, for instance, the practice and influences prevailing in different villages in southern Italy, in Sicily, in northern Italy. The religious, national, and village festivals differ in almost every place. A native of Villa Rosa now receiving care from a public-health agency in Chicago has carefully pointed out to a visitor the differences between the festivals of Palermo and Villa Rosa. The different ways of preparing for and meeting the great events of family life, such as death, marriage, birth, are of vital importance. Most important are the food practices, and the attitudes toward the care and discipline of children. A similar point has been developed in Chapter VIII and it need not be stressed. The fact is that while really sound and thorough case work cannot be done without such information, few agencies have such information, and all devices for accumulating it should be made use of. The gathering of this body of information and its application require considerable time. In the meantime, while differences of opinion among the existing agencies on such questions as the use of the foreign or the native-born visitor who speaks the foreign language, the visiting housekeeper, or the specialized bureau, are being worked out, specialized agencies for dealing with the problems of the immigrant family should be developed. Such agencies as the Immigrants' Protective League could prove of very great service in discovering promising visitors, in accumulating experience as to the nature of those problems, and in furnishing opportunities to professional students for practice work under supervision. Further, there is the question of the resources within the group and the ways in which they can be taken advantage of. Reference has been made to the problem of securing and retaining the co-operation of the national Church. There are often national charitable societies. The case worker should be able to explain the methods and purposes of her society to these immigrant societies; but often there is a complete failure to interpret, and the two agencies go their separate ways, sometimes after the demoralization of the family both try to serve. A few years ago a group of foreign-born men, prominent in business and politics in Chicago, organized a charitable association within their own national group. They felt that the United Charities did not understand their people and were not meeting their needs. These men had no understanding of accepted case-work principles, and the superintendent of the society herself says that she does not use scientific methods and does not co-operate with the United Charities. She doubts whether her organization is doing much good, but she sees that the lack of understanding of the traditions and habits of the people on the part of the United Charities cripples their work among her people. THE TRANSIENT FAMILY The case-work agency as now organized might be equipped with trained foreign-speaking visitors and with visiting housekeepers or dietetic experts who know their neighborhoods, and the needs of the situation would still be far from fully met. It was pointed out in the first chapter that many immigrant families have to change their place of residence, often more than once, before they settle in a permanent home. The nature of their hardships and the slender margin of their resources have been pointed out. Special misfortune may therefore befall them at any point in the experimental period of their journey, as well as after they have reached their final and permanent place of residence. The important moment in social treatment, as probably in any undertaking, is in the initial stages. "The first step costs." This brings us to the enormously important fact that distress outside the relatively small number of larger communities in which there are skilled case-work agencies, either public or private, will probably mean contact either with the poor-law official under the Pauper Act, if it is a question of relief,--or with some official of the county prosecuting machinery or of the inferior courts, if it is a question of discipline. The case of an Italian woman may serve to illustrate the contact with both these groups of officials. Mrs. C. was married in 1902 in a Sicilian village, at about sixteen years of age. In October, 1906, the husband came to the United States. In November, 1907, she and her one surviving baby, a girl of two, followed, going to the mining town in western Pennsylvania where he was working. There they lived until March, 1913, occupying most of the time a house owned by the company for which he worked. About 1913 she moved with her children to a near-by city, where, on June 3, 1914, she was arrested for assault, and the next day for selling liquor without a license and selling liquor to minors. After some delay she pleaded guilty and was sentenced to pay the costs of the prosecution ($76.42), and released on parole. She then seems to have moved to a mining town in Illinois, and there lived with Mr. A. as his wife until March, 1916, when he was murdered. The union paid his funeral expenses of $186.75, and she also, as his widow, received his death benefit of $244.33. Through the summer of 1916 the Supervisor of the Poor gave her $3 every two weeks. On May 20, 1916, she applied for her first citizenship papers, and on September 1st she was awarded an allowance of $7 a month under the Mothers' Aid law, this being granted her under her maiden name, as mother of a child born in Illinois in 1915. She was helped not only by the public relief agencies, but by the priest ($11); and the Queen's Daughters, a church society of ladies, gave her the fare to Chicago, where the Italian consul gave her money to go home again. The undertaker and other kind persons gave her and the children aid. By December the union and the county agent both thought it would be well to shift the burden of her support, and gave her the fare back to Chicago. By the time she reached Chicago she was a very skillful and resourceful beggar. In Chicago she was a "nonresident," ineligible for a year to receive public relief under the Pauper Act and for three years under the Mothers' Aid law; and so she obtained from a Protestant church, from the Charities, and from an Italian Ladies' Aid Society relief of various kinds and in various amounts. The story is a long and a continuing one. Two points are especially important from the point of view of this study. One is that the burden not only of her support, but of her re-education, fell ultimately upon Chicago agencies, and the cost to them is measured as it were by the inefficiency of her casual treatment at the hands of both the courts and the less competent relief agencies along the way. The other is that such varied treatment leaves its inevitable stamp of confusion and disorganization upon the life of such a family. To find American officials getting very busy over selling liquor without a license, and at the same time ignoring adultery or murder committed in an Italian home, must surely result in confusion with reference to American standards of family relationship and to the value placed on life by American officials. NEED FOR NATIONAL AGENCY Irrespective of whether the family is of the native-born or foreign-born group, the problem of the case of those in distress should not be regarded as solely a local problem. It is indeed of national importance. Poverty, sickness, illiteracy, inefficiency, incompetence, are no longer matters of peculiar concern to a locality. The causes leading to these conditions are not local; the consequences are not local. The agency that deals efficiently with them should not be entirely local. Yet at the present time there is lacking not only a national agency and a national standard; there is often lacking a state agency and a state standard.[75] In Illinois, for example, the Pauper Act is administered in some counties by precinct officials designated by county commissioners; in other counties by the township officials.[76] The Mothers' Aid law is administered in Illinois by the juvenile court, which in all counties except Cook County (Chicago) is the county court. There is no agency responsible in any way for the standardization of the work of these officials, and niggardly doles or indiscriminate relief without either adequate investigation or adequate supervision, often characterizes the work of both.[77] Not all states are in as chaotic a condition as Illinois. A few states have developed a larger measure of central control. Massachusetts, California, and New Jersey, for example, secure a certain measure of standardization in the administration of their Mothers' Aid laws by paying part of the allowances, in case the central body approves--the State Board of Charities in Massachusetts,[78] and California,[79] and the State Board of Children's Guardians in New Jersey.[80] Pennsylvania secures this by assigning to the Governor the appointment of local boards and providing central supervision, while in other cases there may be inspection, the preparation of blanks and requiring reports. A member of the State Board of Education is supervisor of the Mothers' Aid law administration in Pennsylvania.[81] The case cited above illustrates the way in which the demoralizing effects of unskillful treatment in Pennsylvania and then in Illinois lasted into the period in which Chicago agencies tried to render efficient service. It would not be possible to develop at once a national or Federal agency for rendering aid to families in distress. Nor would such an agency be desirable if characterized by the features of the old poor law. But the development of a national agency for public assistance will undoubtedly be necessary before such problems as these can be adequately dealt with. It should be based on such inquiries as the United States Children's Bureau and other governmental departments can make as to the volume and character of the need and the best methods for dealing with that need. Undoubtedly the Grant in Aid, as proposed in the bill introduced into the Sixty-fifth Congress to encourage the development of health protection for mothers and infants, will prove the quickest path to a national standard. Careful study into the kind of legislative amendment necessary in the various states in order to reduce the chaos now existing in the exercise of these functions should also be made. The present is in many ways an unfortunate moment at which to suggest the necessity of developing such an agency. The War Risk Bureau, created to provide certain services for the families of soldiers and sailors and others in the service, through the failures and imperfections of its service, has discouraged the idea of attempting such tasks on a national scale. It should be recalled, however, that the assignment of the War Risk Bureau to the Treasury Department concerned with revenue instead of to the Children's Bureau concerned with family problems, rendered it practically inevitable that such limitations of skill would characterize its work. Neither a taxing body nor a bank should be chosen for the supervision of work with family groups. The "home service" work of the American Red Cross constituted such a national agency during the period of the war, and if the so-called "peace-time program" is successfully developed, the need urged in this chapter may be met. The efficient local private agencies suffer in the same way from the lack of a national agency and a national standard in case work. The American Association for Social Work with Families, and the National Conference of Social Work, attempt by conference and publication to spread the knowledge of social technique and to improve the work done by existing societies. But there are whole sections, even in densely populated areas, in which there exists no such agency. If, then, the benevolence and good will of the community are to be embodied in such service for foreign-born families that fall into distress as will not only relieve but upbuild the life of the family, interpret to them the standards of the community, and help them to become a part of the true American life, a national minimum of skill and information must be developed below which the agencies for such care will nowhere be allowed to fall. From the experience both of these foreign-born families and of the communities into which they finally come we learn again the doctrine laid down a hundred years ago by Robert Owen, that the care of those who suffer is a national and not solely a local concern. FOOTNOTES: [72] _Charity Service Reports, Cook County, Illinois_, Fiscal Year 1917, pp. 74, 350. [73] Richmond, _Social Diagnosis_, p. 118. [74] V. G. Kirkpatrick, "War-time Work of the Visiting Housekeeper," in the _Yearbook of the United Charities of Chicago_, 1917, p. 18. [75] _Illinois Revised Statutes_, chap. cvii. [76] _Illinois Revised Statutes_, chap. xxiii, sec. 298. [77] Abbott, E., "Experimental State in Mothers' Pension Legislation," _National Conference of Social Work_, 1917, pp. 154-164, and _U. S. Bureau of Labor Statistics Bulletin, No. 212_, p. 818. See also _Institution Quarterly of Illinois_, March, 1916, p. 97. [78] _Massachusetts General Acts, 1913_, chap. 763, sec. 3. [79] _Deering's Political Code of California_, sec. 2283 fol., p. 571. [80] _New Jersey Acts, 1915_, p. 206 fol. [81] _Laws of Pennsylvania, 1914_, p. 118; _1915_, p. 1085. APPENDIX PRINCIPAL RACIAL ORGANIZATIONS The following list of racial organizations has been generously compiled by the Bureau of Foreign Language Information Service of the American Red Cross. Only those of national scope have been included, with the exception of those starred, which, although not strictly national, have a more than local importance. It contains those organizations and societies doing benevolent, philanthropic or educational work, and, in a few instances, those primarily political or religious in character whose activities have been extended to include other work. The list was compiled in March, 1921, and, although it is reasonably inclusive, the organizations, the officers, and the addresses are constantly changing. CZECH Catholic Sokol Union Secretary: 5798 Holcomb Street. Detroit, Michigan Council of Higher Education Secretary: P. A. Korab Iowa State Bank, Iowa City, Iowa Czecho-Slavonian Fraternal Benefit Union Secretary: August R. Zicha 516 East Seventy-third Street, New York City Czechoslovak National Alliance Secretary: Ferdinand L. Musil 3734 West Twenty-sixth Street, Chicago, Illinois Czechoslovak National Council of America President: Dr. J. P. Percival 3756 West Twenty-sixth Street, Chicago, Illinois National Federation of Czech Catholics in America Secretary: John Straka 2752 South Millard Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Sisterly Benevolent Union, Supreme Lodge Secretary: Mrs. Marie Zemanova 4934 Broadway, Cleveland, Ohio Society of Taborites Secretary: Fr. Cernohorsky 3416 East Fifty-third Street, Cleveland, Ohio Sokol Gymnastic Organization of America Secretary: Thomas Vonasek 1647 South St. Louis Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Union of Czech Women Secretary: Mrs. Marie Zemanova 180 Forty-first Street, Corona, New York United Czechoslovak Legion of America Secretary: Lada T. Krizek 3742 East 140th Street, Cleveland, Ohio Western Czech Fraternal Union Secretary: L. J. Kasper 307 Twelfth Avenue East, Cedar Rapids, Iowa DANISH The Danish Brotherhood in America Supreme Secretary: Frank V. Lawson Omaha National Bank Building, Omaha, Nebraska The Danish Sisterhood in America Supreme Secretary: Mrs. Caroline Nielsen 6820 So. Carpenter Street, Chicago, Illinois DUTCH *Eendracht Maaht Macht President: G. Verschuur 65 Nassau Street, New York City Nieuw Nederland President: A. Schrikker Netherland Consulate, New York City FINNISH Finnish Apostolic Lutheran Church Office of National Secretary, care of Valvoja Calumet, Michigan Finnish Branch, Industrial Workers of the World Office of National Secretary, care of Industrialisti 22 Lake Avenue, North, Duluth, Minnesota Finnish Congregational Church of the United States Office of National Secretary, care of Astorian Sanomat Astoria, Oregon Finnish Lutheran National Church Office of National Secretary, care of Auttaja Ironwood, Michigan Finnish Lutheran Suomi Synod Church of America President: Rev. John Wargelin Hancock, Michigan Finnish National Temperance Brotherhood National Secretary: Mrs. Hilma Hamina Ishpeming, Michigan Finnish Socialist Organization of the United States National Secretary: Henry Askeli Mid City Bank Building, Chicago, Illinois Knights of Kalova National Secretary: Matti Simpanen 5305 Sixth Avenue, Brooklyn, New York Ladies of Kalova National Secretary: Miss Martha Hamalainen 266 Pleasant Street, Gardner, Massachusetts Lincoln Loyalty League of Finnish-Americans Secretary: J. H. Jasbert 1045 Marquette Building, Chicago, Illinois Swedish-Finnish Sick Benefit Society of America Secretary: John Back Box 27, North Escanaba, Michigan GERMAN American Gymnastic Union (Turners) First President: Theo. Stempfel Fletcher American Nat. Bank, Indianapolis, Indiana German Beneficial Union Supreme President: Louis Volz 1505-07 Carson Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania National Federation of German Catholic Societies President: Michael Girten 915 People's Gas Building, Chicago, Illinois North American Association of Singing Societies President: Charles G. Schmidt 2000 Central Avenue, Cincinnati, Ohio North-Eastern Association of Singing Societies President: Carl Lentz 77 Broad Street, Newark, New Jersey Order of Harugari Grand Treasurer: Henry F. Raabe 30 Vanderveer Street, Brooklyn, New York Order of the Sons of Herman Grand Secretary: Richard Schaefer New Britain, Connecticut Workmen's Sick and Death Benefit Fund Seventh Street and Third Avenue, New York City HUNGARIAN American Hungarian Reformed Society Secretary: Steve Molnar 269 Plymouth Street, Toledo, Ohio *First Hungarian Literary Society of New York Secretary: Joseph Partos 317 East Seventy-ninth Street, New York City First Hungarian Miners Sick Benefit Society of Ben Creek Secretary: Stephen Beres Box 244, Cassandram, Pennsylvania *First Hungarian Sick Benefit and Funeral Society of New Brunswick Secretary: Joseph Kopencey Box 511, New Brunswick, New Jersey *First Hungarian Sick Benefit Society of East Chicago and Vicinity Secretary: Kovacs A. David 620 Chicago Avenue, East Chicago, Indiana *Hungarian Public Association of Passaic Secretary: Julius Faludy 127 Second Avenue, Passaic, New Jersey *Hungarian Rakoczi Sick Benefit Society of Bridgeport Secretary: Steve Koteles, Jr. 626 Bostwick Avenue, Bridgeport, Connecticut *Hungarian Reformed Benefit Society of Pittsburgh and Vicinity Chairman: Andrew Hornyak 600 Hazelwood Avenue, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania *Hungarian Reformed Sick Benefit Society of Windber and Vicinity Secretary: Joseph Molnar 542 R. Road Street, Windber, Pennsylvania Kohanyi Tihamer's Hungarian Workman's Sick Benefit Society of Hungary and America Secretary: Julius Sipos Box 240, Homer City, Pennsylvania Roman and Greek Catholic First Hungarian Sick Benefit Society of Benwood Secretary: Ignac Kiss R. F. D. No. 2, Box 346, Wheeling, West Virginia Saint Laszlo Roman and Greek Catholic Hungarian Sick Benefit and Funeral Society of Johnstown and Vicinity Secretary: John Angyal 205 Third Avenue, Johnstown, Pennsylvania Saint Istvan Hungarian Workman's Sick Benefit Society of Snow Shoe Secretary: Antal Polczar Box 62, Clarence, Pennsylvania United Petofi Sandor Association Secretary: Bela K. Bekay 2196-98 West Jefferson Avenue, Detroit, Michigan Verhovay Aid Association Secretary: Stephen Gabor Room 809-811 Markle Bank Building, Hazelton, Pennsylvania Workman's Sick Benefit and Literary Society Secretary: Joseph Kertesz 350 East Eighty-first Street, New York City ITALIAN Italian War Veterans 244 East Twenty-fourth Street, New York City Order of Sons of Italy in America President: Stefano Miele 266 Lafayette Street, New York City JEWISH Alliance Israelite Universelle 150 Nassau Street, New York City Alumni Association of the Hebrew Union College Hebrew Union College, Cincinnati, Ohio American Jewish Committee 31 Union Square West, New York City American Jewish Congress 1 Madison Avenue, New York City American Jewish Relief Committee 30 East Forty-second Street, New York City American Union of Rumanian Jews 44 Seventh Street, New York City Baron de Hirsch Fund 80 Maiden Lane, New York City Bureau of Jewish Social Research 114 Fifth Avenue, New York City Central Conference of American Rabbis Temple Beth El, Detroit, Michigan Council of Jewish Women Executive Secretary: Mrs. Harry Sternberger 305 West Ninety-eighth Street, New York City Council of Reform Rabbis 1093 Sterling Place, Brooklyn, New York Council of Y. M. H. and Kindred Associations 114 Fifth Avenue, New York City Dropsie College for Hebrew and Cognate Learning Broad and York Streets, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Eastern Council of Reform Rabbis 1093 Sterling Place, Brooklyn, New York Educational League for the Higher Education of Orphans 336 Engineer's Building, Cleveland, Ohio Federation of Bessarabian Jews in America 52 St. Mark's Place, New York City Federation of Galician Jews and Bukovinian Jews in America 66 Second Avenue, New York City Federation of Jewish Farmers of America 175 East Broadway, New York City Federation of Lithuanian and Latvian Jews in America 6 Ludlow Street, New York City Federation of Oriental Jews of America 42 Seventh Street, New York City Federation of Russian and Polish Hebrews in America 1822 Lexington Avenue, New York City Federation of Ukrainian Jews in America 200 East Broadway, New York City Hadassah 55 Fifth Avenue, New York City Hai Resh Fraternity St. Joseph, Missouri Histadrut Ibrith 55 Fifth Avenue, New York City Hebrew Sheltering and Immigrant Aid Society of America 229-231 East Broadway, New York City Hebrew Technical Institute for Boys 36 Stuyvesant Street, New York City Hebrew Technical School for Girls Second Avenue and Fifteenth Street, New York City Independent Order of B'nai B'rith 1228 Tribune Building, Chicago, Illinois Independent Order of Brith Abraham 37 Seventh Avenue, New York City Independent Order Brith Sholom 510-512 South Fifth Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Independent Order Free Sons of Israel 21 West 124th Street, New York City Independent Western Star Order 1227 Blue Island Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Independent Workmen's Circle of America, Inc. 9 Cambridge, Boston, Massachusetts Industrial Removal Office 174 Second Avenue, New York City Intercollegiate Menorah Associations 600 Madison Avenue, New York City Intercollegiate Zionist Association of America 55 Fifth Avenue, New York City Jewish Academicians of America 125 East Eighty-fifth Street, New York City Jewish Agricultural and Industrial Aid Society 174 Second Avenue, New York City Jewish Agricultural Experiment Station 356 Second Avenue, New York City Jewish Central Relief Committee 51 Chambers Street, New York City Jewish Chautauqua Society 1305 Stephen Girard Building 21 South Twelfth Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Jewish Consumptive Relief Association of California 207 South Broadway, Los Angeles, California Jewish Consumptive Relief Society 510-512 Kittredge Building, Denver, Colorado Jewish National Workers Alliance of America 89 Delancey Street, New York City Jewish People's Relief Committee 175 East Broadway, New York City Jewish Publication Society of America 1201 North Broad Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Jewish Socialist Federation of America 175 East Broadway, New York City Jewish Socialist Labor Poale Zion of America and Canada 266 Grand Street, New York City Jewish Teachers Association Secretary: A. P. Schoolman 356 Second Avenue, New York City Jewish Teachers' Seminary 252 East Broadway, New York City Jewish Teachers' Training School of the Misrachi Organization 86 Orchard Street, New York City Jewish Theological Seminary of America 531 West 123d Street, New York City Jewish Welfare Board 149 Fifth Avenue, New York City Joint Distribution Committee 20 Exchange Place, New York City Kappa Nu Fraternity 2937 Schubert Avenue, Chicago, Illinois National Association of Jewish Social Workers Secretary and Treasurer: M. M. Goldstein 356 Second Avenue, New York City National Conference of Jewish Social Service 114 Fifth Avenue, New York City National Desertion Bureau Secretary: Charles Zusser 356 Second Avenue, New York City National Farm School 407 Mutual Life Building, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania National Federation of Temple Sisterhoods 62 Dutenhofer Building, Cincinnati, Ohio National Jewish Hospital for Consumptives 3800 East Colfax Avenue, Denver, Colorado National Jewish Immigration Council 18 Maiden Lane, New York City National Union of Jewish Sheltering Societies 229-231 East Broadway, New York City Order Brith Abraham 266 Grand Street, New York City Order Knights of Joseph 311-312 Society for Savings Building Cleveland, Ohio Order of Sons of Zion 55 Fifth Avenue, New York City Order of the United Hebrew Brothers 189 Second Avenue, New York City Pi Tau Pi Fraternity New Orleans, Louisiana Progressive Order of the West 406-407-408 Frisco Building Ninth and Olive Streets, St. Louis, Missouri Red Mogen David of America 201 Second Avenue, New York City Sigma Alpha Mu Fraternity 277 Broadway, New York City The Mizrachi Organization of America 86 Orchard Street, New York City The Union of Orthodox Rabbis of the United States and Canada 121 Canal Street, New York City The Workmen's Circle 175 East Broadway, New York City Union of American Hebrew Congregations Cincinnati, Ohio Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations of America 125 East Eighty-fifth Street, New York City United Order of True Sisters 317 West 139th Street, New York City United Orthodox Rabbis of America 121 Canal Street, New York City United Sons of Israel, Inc. 18 Boylston Street, Boston, Massachusetts United Synagogue of America 531 West 123d Street, New York City Women's League of the United Synagogue of America 531 West 123d Street, New York City Young Judæa 55 Fifth Avenue, New York City Z B T Fraternity 237 West Eighty-eighth Street, New York City Zionist Organization of America 55 Fifth Avenue, New York City Zionist Society of Engineers and Agriculturists 122 East Thirty-seventh Street, New York City JUGOSLAV Carniolian Slovene Catholic Union 1004 North Chicago Street, Joliet, Illinois Croatian League of Illinois 2552 Wentworth Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Croatian Union of the Pacific 560 Pacific Building, San Francisco, California Jugoslav Benevolent Society "Unity" 408 Park Street, Milwaukee, Wisconsin Jugoslav Catholic Benevolent Union Ely, Minnesota Jugoslav Republican Alliance 3637 West Twenty-sixth Street, Chicago, Illinois Loyal Serb Society Srbadia 443 West Twenty-second Street, New York City National Croatian Society 1012 Peralta Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Serbian Federation Sloboda 414 Bakewell Building, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Serbian Orthodox Federation Srbobran Sloga Twelfth and Carsons Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Slovene Benevolent Society 1064 East Sixty-second Street, Cleveland, Ohio Slovene Catholic Benevolent Association 420 Seventh Street, Calumet, Michigan Slovene Croatian Union Fifth South Borgo Block, Calumet, Michigan Slovene Free Thinkers Association 1541 West Eighteenth Street, Brooklyn, New York Slovene Workingmen's Benevolent Association 634 Main Street, Johnstown, Pennsylvania *Slovenic Benevolent Society "St. Barbara" Forest City, Pennsylvania Slovenic National Benefit Society 2657 S. Lawndale Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Southern Slav Socialistic League 3639 West Twenty-sixth Street, Chicago, Illinois The Holy Family Society 1006 North Chicago Street, Joliet, Illinois Western Slav Society 4822 Washington Street, Denver, Colorado Young National Croatian Society President: Mark Smiljanich 2857 South Ridgeway Avenue, Chicago, Illinois LITHUANIAN American-Lithuanian Catholic Press Association Secretary: Rev. V. Kulikauskas 2327 West Twenty-third Place, Chicago, Illinois Auxiliary of Lithuanian Red Cross Secretary: Rev. Petraitis 147 Montgomery Avenue, Paterson, New Jersey Knights of Lithuania Secretary: Vincas Ruk[vs]telis 3249 South Halsted Street, Chicago, Illinois Lithuanian Alliance of America Secretary: Miss P. Jurgeliute 307 West Thirtieth Street, New York City Lithuanian National Fund Secretary: J. Kru[vs]inskas 222 South Ninth Street, Brooklyn, New York Lithuanian Patriot Society Secretary: J. Sekys 101 Oak Street, Lawrence, Massachusetts Lithuanian Roman Catholic Alliance of America Secretary: J. Tumasonis 222 South Ninth Street, Brooklyn, New York Lithuanian Roman Catholic Charitable Association Secretary: John Purtokas 4441 South Washenaw Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Lithuanian Roman Catholic Federation of America Secretary: J. Valantiejus 222 South Ninth Street, Brooklyn, New York Lithuanian Roman Catholic Women's Alliance of America President: Mrs. M. Vaiciuniene 442 Leonard Street, N. W., Grand Rapids, Michigan Lithuanian Total Abstinence Association Secretary: Vincent Ba[vc]ys 41 Providence Street, Worcester, Massachusetts St. Joseph's Lith. Roman Catholic Association of Labor Secretary: A. F. Kneizis 366 West Broadway, South Boston, Massachusetts The People's University Secretary: Dr. A. L. Graiciunas 3310 South Halsted Street, Chicago, Illinois NORWEGIAN Knights of the White Cross Care of Nora Lodge 1733 North Kedvale Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Sons of Norway Secretary: L. Stavnheim New York Life Building, Minneapolis, Minnesota POLISH Association of Polish Women of the United States General Secretary: Mrs. L. H. Dziewczynska 6723 Fleet Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio Polish Alliance of New Jersey General Secretary: J. Wegrocki 84 Tyler Street, Newark, New Jersey Polish Falcons Alliance of America General Secretary: K. J. Machnikowski Cor. South Twelfth and Carson Streets, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Polish Military Alliance of the United States of America General Secretary: P. Balecki 450 Pacific Avenue, Jersey City, New Jersey *Polish National Alliance of Brooklyn General Secretary: V. G. Nowak 142 Grand Street, Brooklyn, New York Polish National Alliance of the United States of North America General Secretary: J. S. Zawilinski 1406-08 West Division Street, Chicago, Illinois Polish Roman-Catholic Alliance General Secretary: J. Grams 6924 Worley Street, Cleveland, Ohio Polish Roman-Catholic Association General Secretary: L. F. Szymanski 755 Twenty-third Street, Detroit, Michigan *Polish Roman-Catholic Benevolent Association of Bay City General Secretary: J. Lepczyk 1112 Fifteenth Street, Bay City, Michigan Polish Roman-Catholic Union 984 Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Polish Socialists Alliance of America General Secretary: R. Mazurkiewica 959 Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Polish Women's Alliance of America General Secretary: Mrs. J. Andrzejewska 1309-15 North Ashland Avenue, Chicago, Illinois Polish Union General Secretary: J. Dembiec Room 824, Miners Bank Building, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania Polish Union of America General Secretary: F. Zandrowicz 761-765 Fillmore Avenue, Buffalo, New York Human Catholic Alliance of America General Secretary: W. Gola 59 Fourth Street, Passaic, New Jersey The Polish Roman-Catholic St. Joseph Union General Secretary: A. Kazmierski 2813 Nineteenth Avenue, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania RUSSIAN League of Russian Clergy 43 Reed Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania North American Ecclesiastical Consistory Archbishop Alexander 15 East Ninety-seventh Street, New York City Russian Brotherhood Organization of U. S. A. P. O. Box 475, Olyphant, Pennsylvania Russian Collegiate Institute 219 Second Avenue, New York City Russian Independent Orthodox Brotherhoods 34 Vine Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Russian Independent Society 917 North Wood Street, Chicago, Illinois Russian National Organization P. O. Box 2066, Bridgeport, Connecticut Russian National Society 5 Columbus Circle, New York City Russian Orthodox Catholic Mutual Aid Society 84 Market Street, East, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania Russian Peasants' Union 324 East Fourteenth Street, New York City Russian Society "Nauka" 222 East Tenth Street, New York City *Union of Russian Citizens 1522 Fifth Avenue, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Women's Russian Orthodox Mutual Aid Society P. O. Box 512, Coaldale, Pennsylvania SLOVAK Catholic Slovak Sokol Secretary: Michael Kudlac 205 Madison Street, Passaic, New Jersey First Catholic Slovak Ladies' Union of the United States President: Mrs. Frantiska Jakaboin 600 South Seventh Street, Reading, Pennsylvania National Slovak Society in United States of America Secretary: Joseph Duris P. O. Box 593, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Slovak Gymnastic Union of Sokols Secretary: Frank Stas 283 Oak Street, Perth Amboy, New Jersey Slovak Protestant Union President: Jan Bibza 409 South Second Street, N. S., Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Tatran Slovak Union President: Samuel Vrablik 2519 South Ridgeway Avenue, Chicago, Illinois The First Catholic Slovak Union President: Andrej H. Dorko Marblehead, Ohio Zivena, Benefit Society of Slovak Christian Women of the United States of America President: Mrs. C. E. Vavrek 3 Stark Street, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania SWEDISH American Society of Swedish Engineers Secretary: N. V. Hansell 271 Hicks Street, Brooklyn, New York Scandinavian Fraternity of America P. O. Box 184, Spokane, Washington (Membership consists of Norwegians, Danes, and Swedes) The American Union of Swedish Singers President: Hjalmar Nilsson State Capitol, St. Paul, Minnesota The Order of Vasa President: Carl Festin 610 East Seventy-fifth Street, Chicago, Illinois *United Swedish Societies of Greater New York President: John Olin Anderson's Assembly Rooms, Sixteenth Street and Third Avenue, New York City (Consists of two delegates from each local society) UKRAINIAN Providence Association, Inc. President: Eugene Yakubovich 827 North Franklin Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania The Ukrainian Federation of the United States, Inc. President: Miroslav Sichinsky 166 Avenue A, New York City Ukrainian Mutual Aid Society, Inc. President: M. Porada 3357 West Carson Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Ukrainian National Association, Inc. President: Simon Yadlowsky 83 Grand Street, Jersey City, New Jersey Ukrainian National Committee President: V. B. Lotozky 30 East Seventh Street, New York City Ukrainian Women's Alliance President: Mrs. C. Zubrich 932 North Okley Boulevard, Chicago, Illinois Ukrainian Workingmen's Association, Inc. President: George Kraykiwsky 524 Olive Street, Scranton, Pennsylvania Union of Brotherhoods President: George Hylak 107 Grant Street, Olyphant, Pennsylvania MENUS The following menus have been obtained from housewives who were glad to share in an effort toward better understanding between foreign-born groups and agencies either of adjustment or for case work. This small body of material is illustrative of the kind of information that is easily available to the agency and that would illumine the treatment of the families under care. The menus given are those actually used by housewives of different nationalities during the periods indicated. A list of recipes will be found in another volume of this Study.[82] BOHEMIAN These menus were given by a Bohemian woman whose methods of cooking have changed very little in America. She has learned new ways of preserving vegetables and fruits, but uses those methods only when they seem to her more inexpensive than her earlier practices. In other respects the diet is said to be typical of the diet of a Bohemian family of moderate income in Moravia. BREAKFAST Oatmeal with milk. Coffee, bread with butter or jelly. There is always fruit in the house and the child of five is given bread and jelly at ten o'clock in the morning. LUNCH Usually a meatless soup is served for lunch, or a simple dish of rice or vegetables. Eggs cooked in various ways, milk, bread, butter, and jelly, and baked porridge called "kashe" made from farina, rice or millet, cooked with milk and sugar and butter, are also used at lunch. DINNER The dinner menus do not vary much. Soup made from meat stock is eaten every week day except Wednesday, when there is roast meat and no soup. On Sunday both soup and a roast are served. The meat from the soup is served with a variety of sauces and gravies. Dumplings are used often when Americans would serve potatoes. Rice and noodles are also used instead of potatoes. Such vegetables as beans, spinach, carrots, cabbage, kohl-rabi, sauerkraut, and salads are sometimes eaten with the meat instead of the sauce with dumplings. The following are typical menus: Soup. Meat with sauce and dumplings. Apple sauce or preserves. Coffee. Bread and butter. Soup. Meat with sauce and potatoes. Stewed fruit. Coffee with homemade raised tarts. Soup. Meat, beans, sauerkraut. Apple sauce. Coffee. Bread and butter. CROATIAN The following menus represent the diet of a Croatian family of moderate income. The family came from a village near Zara, and the influence of the Italian customs upon the food habits of the Dalmatians is indicated in the use of polenta. August 6, 1919: BREAKFAST--5 A.M. One cup of coffee with one or two slices of bread. Coffee is made very strong, the cup filled two thirds full of hot milk; the coffee and some cream added. SECOND BREAKFAST--9 A.M. A soft-boiled egg, with bread. One cup of coffee. The custom of having a second breakfast is Croatian. In this family it has been possible to keep it up in this country because the hours for a street-car conductor can be arranged to allow it. DINNER--12.30 P.M. Beef soup with dumplings. Soup meat with sauce. Mashed potatoes (browned). Bread. Coffee. SUPPER--7 P.M. Soup with rice (from same stock as was used at noon). Cabbage. Bread. Coffee. Fruit. August 7, 1919: BREAKFAST Early breakfast is always the same. The second breakfast varies little; sometimes bread and cheese or bread and meat sandwiches are eaten instead of the soft-boiled eggs. DINNER Goulash. Polenta. Lettuce salad. Coffee. SUPPER Spaghetti with tomato sauce. Celery. Bread. Coffee. ITALIAN (Sicilian) The following menus represent the diet of a Sicilian family from Palermo. They have been in America over twenty years, but their diet has changed little. There are ten persons in the family--the mother and two unmarried daughters, a married daughter, her husband and four children. The children are seven, five, and three years, and ten months. Food for the children is prepared separately. For breakfast they have cereal, milk, bread, and stewed fruit; for lunch, rice or potato, bread, milk, and the green vegetables cooked for the family if not cooked with tomato sauce. For supper the children have bread and milk. It is not common in Italian families to make so much difference in the diet for children; they are usually fed on the highly seasoned dishes the family eat, but in this family the mother prepared special food for her children, and her daughter is doing the same and planning their diet even more carefully. Summer menus: Monday, August 11, 1919: BREAKFAST Coffee or chocolate. Toast. Italian cookies. For children, bread and milk or oatmeal and milk. The coffee is made strong, but is served with hot milk--the cup half or two thirds filled with milk before coffee is poured in. Very often nothing is eaten with the coffee. LUNCHEON--Noon Cold sliced meat (left from Sunday). Tomato and lettuce salad. Bread. Fruit. DINNER Spaghetti with tomato sauce. Stuffed peppers. Bread. Fruit. Tuesday, August 12, 1919: BREAKFAST Same every morning. LUNCHEON Stew made of long, slender squash, potatoes, onions. Bread. Fruit. DINNER Broiled veal. Fried potatoes. Fresh tomatoes with French dressing. Boiled string beans. Bread. Fruit. Wednesday, August 13, 1919: LUNCHEON Boiled greens with olive oil. Fresh tomatoes. Bread. Cheese. Fruit. DINNER Macaroni with peas. Diced potatoes with tomato sauce. Breaded asparagus. Fruit. Thursday, August 14, 1919: LUNCHEON Breaded fried liver. Sauce for meat made of vinegar, sugar, chopped orange rind, and bay leaves. Boiled greens with olive oil. Bread. Fruit. DINNER Macaroni à la Milanese Sauce of finocchi, bread crumbs, anchovi. Potato cakes. Fruit. Friday, August 15, 1919: LUNCHEON Egg tamale. String beans, French dressing. Bread. Fruit. DINNER Fried fish. Fresh tomatoes. Cucumbers. Bread. Fruit. Saturday, August 16, 1919: LUNCHEON Potatoes and eggs. Greens with vinegar. Bread. Fruit. DINNER Broiled steak. Corn. Potatoes. Salad. Bread. Fruit. Sunday, August 17, 1919: BREAKFAST Coffee. Italian pastry. DINNER Homemade macaroni with tomato sauce. Veal pot roast. Corn. Eggplant. Bread. Fruit salad. The menus given are typical of the diet during the summer. A great variety of vegetables is used. Winter menus: Monday: BREAKFAST Coffee or chocolate. Bread, toast, or Italian cookies. LUNCHEON Stew of spinach, lentils, and onions. Baked apples. Bread. Coffee. DINNER Macaroni with tomato sauce. Meat (left over from Sunday). Bread. Coffee or wine. Tuesday: Breakfast is always the same. LUNCHEON Egg tamale (egg, cheese, and bacon). Baked potatoes. Bread. Fruit. DINNER Soup with macaroni. Meat with vegetables, potatoes, carrots, cabbage, onions, etc. Bread. Fruit. Wednesday: LUNCHEON Salmon, lemon juice. Spinach with olive oil. Bread. Fruit. DINNER Macaroni with navy beans. Fried eggplant, with tomato sauce and cheese. Bread. Fruit. Thursday: LUNCHEON Soft-boiled eggs. Fried green tomatoes. Bread. Baked apples. DINNER Breaded pork chops. Potatoes. Spinach. Fruit Salad. Bread. Friday: LUNCHEON Egg omelet. Chocolate. Bread. Stewed fruit. DINNER Fish with tomato sauce. Stuffed green peppers. Bread. Fruit. Saturday: LUNCHEON Broiled liver. Lettuce salad. Bread. Fruit. DINNER Lima beans with celery, onions, and tomatoes. Stuffed artichokes. Bread. Coffee. Fruit. Sunday: BREAKFAST Coffee and Italian fried cakes. DINNER Macaroni with tomato sauce and chopped meat. Pot roast. Peas. Ice cream. SUPPER Rice cooked in milk with egg. Cake. Coffee. SLOVENIAN Menus given by a Slovenian woman show the diet of a family of moderate income whose food habits have not been modified in America. Certain European customs are observed; no desserts are served, and no baking powder is used. Sweet cookies, raised with yeast, and fresh fruit, are given to children who are allowed candy, so that they may not feel deprived of sweets when they see other children eating candy at school. The older children have learned to prepare new "American" dishes at school, but these are not used at home, as the whole family prefer the Slovenian diet. BREAKFAST Coffee, bread and butter. (Breakfast is always the same.) 10 A.M. An egg, a sandwich, or a cup of milk for parents. Fruit for children. LUNCH 1. Rice cooked with mushrooms, celery, onions, and spice. In cold weather fifteen cents' worth of pork is cooked with the rice. Water with fruit juice to drink, or the water from cooked fruit. 2. Buckwheat cakes, eaten with cooked dried fruit or jelly. 3. Barley and beans cooked together. Colored beans are used, and must be tried to see whether they will cook in the same time as the barley. Olive oil, bacon or sausage, and a little garlic are added. 4. Millet (kasa) cooked in milk with sugar, then baked in the oven fifteen minutes and served with milk. 5. French toast. 6. Corn-meal mush, fried, with sauerkraut. "A good quality of corn meal is used, bought in Italian districts." Boiling water is poured very slowly into a dish of meal, and allowed to stand twenty minutes. Mush is fried in butter, eaten with sauerkraut, cooked dried fruit or honey. 7. Noodles with Parmesan cheese. 8. Noodles with baked apples. 3 P.M. Coffee, bread with butter or jelly. (Coffee is very weak for children; a great deal of milk is added.) DINNER 1. Beef soup with farina dumplings. Meat (from the soup) eaten with a relish. Potatoes. Turnips. Bread. 2. Vegetable soup. Roast meat. Vegetables. Bread. Water. FOOTNOTE: [82] Michael M. Davis, _Immigrant Health and the Community_. INDEX A Abbott, Edith, 153, 161, 186, 308 Abbott, Grace, 223 Agencies: Adjusting immigrants American, 222-276 Case work, 277-311 Immigrant, 187-221 Studied, 7-8 Agriculture: Legislation, 38, 76, 254-257 Workers, 34-35 Akron, Ohio: Home Demonstration Agent, 259 American Association for Family Welfare Work, 281 American Association for Social Work with Families, 7, 310 American Home Economics Association: Committee on Household Budgets, 115, 250-252 American Institute of Architects: Articles on Housing, 72-74 American Red Cross: Chapter Case Work, 281 Home Service, 7, 310 Americanization: Agencies and instruments American organizations, 222-276 Case-work organizations, 277-311 Immigrant organizations, 187-221 Factors, 14-18 Anderson, A. M., 270 Anthony, Katharine Susan, 136 B Baltimore, Maryland: Polish National Alliance, 202 Banks: Postal Savings, 111-115 Benefit Societies: Life and Health insurance, 94-95 Organization, 192-196, 201 Birdseye, Clarence Frank, 226 "Board of Health Baskets," 133 Boarders: Relation to family problems, 23-27, 52, 63-64 Bohemia: Customs in, 174 Bohemians: Building and loan association, 76, 109 Child care, 158, 164, 182 Cookery, 59 Dvorak Park, Chicago, 273-274 Home ownership, 105, 107 In Chicago, 11 Nebraska, 169 Life insurance, 94 Menus, 333-334 Postal Savings circular, 112 Spending habits, 90, 122, 134-135 Unemployment, 92 Boston, Massachusetts: Boston Associated Charities Office of District Superintendent, 298 Case-work agencies, 283, 295 Dietetic Bureau, 296 Polish National Alliance, 202 Breckinridge, S. P., 153, 161, 186 Bridgeport, Connecticut: Black Rock Apartment House Group, 70 Study of housing project, 8 British Board of Trade: Cost of living in American towns, 7 Brooklyn, New York: Red Cross Chapter, 281 Visiting housekeeper Pratt Institute, 290 Brooks, John Graham, viii Buffalo, New York: Cost of living, 129 Red Cross Chapter, 281 Building Loans: Government, 75-80 Building and loan association: Agency for buying homes, 109-111 In Chicago, 76 Bulgarian: Home ownership, 106 Postal Savings circular, 112 Bureau of Education: Home Economics Division, 251, 268 Bureau of Labor: List of building and loan associations, 109 Report of U. S. Housing Corporation, 29, 32 Statistics, 7, 129 Women and child wage earners, 6 Buying: Immigrant problem, 117-148 C California: Home teachers, 236-237 Mothers' Aid Laws, 308 California Commission of Immigration and Housing, 237-238 Cambridge, Massachusetts: Case-work agencies, 283 Visiting housekeepers, 290 Case Work: With immigrant families, 277-311 Case Workers: Foreign speaking, 281-286 Training, 298-304 Catholic Order of Foresters, 195 Chicago: Agencies, 8 Board of Education, 241-243 Building and loan association, 76, 110 Case work, 281, 298-299 Croatian, 197 Elementary schools, 161-162 Foreign born, 303-304 Immigrants' Protective League, 8, 46, 51, 52, 203, 223-227, 240, 303 Playgrounds, 158 Recreational, 273-276 Settlements, 50, 239-240 United Charities, 8, 281 Visiting housekeepers, 290-291 Visiting Nurses' Association, 241 Vocational Guidance Bureau, 169, 174 Women's Clubs, 240-241 Delinquent children, 185-186 Families, 93-94 Homes, 33 Housing, 62, 105-108 Italian wedding, 100 Russian women, 3 Shopping habits, 122-123 Study of races, 11-12, 50, 61 Women in industry, 40 Child Labor: Legislation, 37-38 Children: Care of, 4, 41-43, 149-186 Croatian, 198-201 Children's Bureau: Child care publications, 7, 219-221, 254 Infant mortality studies, 41, 64 Chinese: Postal savings circular, 112 Christenings, 103-104 Church: Chimes, 97 Relation to parents, 180 Classes: Cooking, 228, 233, 240-243, 259-260 Cleveland: Case-work agencies, 283 Visiting housekeepers, 290, 295 Clothing: Problem of parents, 135-141 Comey, A. C., 79 Community: Recreation agencies, 272-276 Relation to immigrant, 169, 180, 187-192, 223 Company store, 119-122 Consumers' League, 141 Cook County, Illinois: Charity Service Report, 277 Juvenile Court, 185-186, 277, 281 Cookery: American demands, 58-60 Classes, 228, 233, 240-243, 259-260 Co-operation: For immigrant education, 240-243 Co-operatives: Housekeeping, 24, 27-29 In America, 141-148 In England, 141-148 Court: Domestic relation, 53 Juvenile, 181-186, 277, 281 Croatia: Customs, 174 Croatians: Child care, 151 Cookery, 58 Home ownership, 105 In Chicago, 11 League of Illinois, 94 Menus, 334-335 Organizations, 196-201 Postal Savings circular, 112 Spending habits, 122, 130, 137 Women in industry, 40 Croatian League of Illinois, 196 Cummin, John, 226 Czecho-Slovak: Czecho-Slovak workingman, 95 Diet changes, 130 Organizations, 313-314 D Dallas, Texas: Bohemian Community, 83 Daniels, John, 32, 190 Danish: Organizations, 314-315 Postal Savings circular, 112 Day Nursery: Lithuanian, 41 Death: Provision against, 92-93, 96 Department of Agriculture: Bureau of Home Economics, 7, 251 States Relation Service, 254-262 Thrift campaign, 114 Detroit: Visiting Housekeepers' Association, 289 Diets: Modification, 130-134, 249, 333-341 Dover, New Jersey: Cost of living, 129 Dutch: Organizations, 315 E Earnings (_see_ Income) Economy: Built on money, 88 Education: Immigrant, 240-243 Women, 265-266 Parents' problem, 159-169 El Paso, Texas: Case-work agencies, 283 England: British Board of Trades, 7 Domestic Service Problem, 271-272 Government Grants Schools for mothers, 263-265 Ministry of Reconstruction, 68, 271 Rochdale, Lancashire Co-operative, 141 Women's Co-operative Guild, 269 Women's Employment Committee, 270-271 English: Postal Savings circular, 112 Erwin, Tennessee: Housing, 70 Expenditures: Budget, 139 F Fall River, Massachusetts: Case-work agencies, 281 Visiting housekeepers, 290 Immigrant schools Classes for women, 259-260 Family: Adjustment by organizations American, 222-276 Case work, 277-311 Immigrant, 187-221 Child care, 149-186 Problem, 6, 14-18 Relationships, 19-53 Farm Laborers: Unfamiliarity with money, 89-90 Farm Loan Act: Proposed Amendment to, 76 Federal Board for Vocational Education: Supervisors of Home Economics, 7 Work, 251, 256-262 Fête Days: First communion, 104-105 Finnish: Organizations, 315-316 Postal Savings circular, 112 Foreign Language Information Service, 220, 313-332 Fort Wayne, Indiana: Cost of living, 129 Fosdick, Raymond B., viii Fraternal Societies (_see_ Benefit) Sound basis of, 94-95 French: Postal Savings circular, 112 Freund, Ernst, 119 Funerals: Expense, 96-97 Furniture: Buying, 134-135 G Gay, Edwin F., viii German: Life insurance, 94 Organizations, 316-317 Postal Savings circular, 112 Gilbert, Frank Bixley, 226 Girls: Conventions for, 174-175 Delinquent, 181 Safety, 180 Work, 179 Glenn, John M., viii Grand Rapids, Michigan: Case-work agencies, 283 Greeks: Organizations, 192 Postal Savings banks Use of, 112 Group life: In old country, 175 In America, 175 H Hart, Hastings Hornell, 200 Health: Problems, 150-151 Health Insurance Commission of Illinois: Study of Chicago families' life insurance, 93-95 Homes: Ownership, 78-80, 105-111 Relation to Child care, 149-186 American organizations, 222-276 Case-work organizations, 277-311 Immigrant organizations, 187-221 Studied, 6-14 Home Economics: Work, 254-263, 289-298 Home Visitors: International Institute, Y. W. C. A., 245 Training, 248-250 Work of, 247-248 Hood, Laura, xvii Housing: Immigrant problem, 23-32, 54-84 Play space, 158 Housewives: Duties, 43-47 Instruction, 234-235 Problems Children, 149-186 Housing, 23-32, 58-84 Saving, 85-116 Spending, 117-148 Hungarians: Child care, 165 Home ownership, 105 Housekeeping problems, 80 Organization, 191, 317-318 Postal Savings banks, 112 I Illinois: Building and loan organization, 109 Child labor, 38 Council of Defense, 240-241 Co-operative stores, 8 Italians, 3, 11-12 Mining communities, 8 Mothers' Aid Law, 308 Pauper Act, 307 Public schools, 253 Illinois Steel Company: Employees' houses, 72 Immigration: "Old" and "New," 5 Stream of, 1 Immigrants: Adjustment, 1-2, 6, 193 Co-operatives, 143-145 Relation to community, 167-168, 180, 187-192, 223 Immigrant Heritages, 1-186, 247-248 Importance to case worker, 298-301 Immigrant Newspapers (_see_ Separate Races) Immigrant Organizations: Life and Health Insurance, 94-95 List of principal racial, 313-332 Relation to family problems, 187-221 Immigrants' Protective League, 230, 268 Chicago, 8, 46, 51, 52, 203, 223-227, 240, 303 Income: Children, 170-171 Inadequacy, 35-39 Irregularity, 91-92 Indianapolis, Indiana: Cost of living, 129 Industry: Women in, 39-43 Workers, 34-35 Infant mortality: Study, 41, 64 Insurance: Life Fraternal, 93-95 Industrial, 95-96 Irish: Life insurance, 94 Italians: Building and loan association, 77 Case work with, 298-299, 305-307 Child care, 163, 177-178 Family problems, 50 Home economics work in Arkansas, 258-259 Housekeeping problems, 57-58, 65, 80 In Illinois mining town, 253 Life insurance, 94 Medical Association, 218 Menus, 335-340 Organizations, 95, 217-218, 318 Postal Saving banks, 112 Saving problems, 92-93, 97, 105, 106 Spending habits, 122, 124 Clothing, 137 Diet changes, 130 Neighborhood stores, 127 Studied, 11-12 Italy: Backgrounds, 57-58, 175, 298-299, 302 Houses, 57 J Japanese: Postal Savings circular, 112 Jewish: Life insurance, 94 Organizations, 319-324 Jewish Aid Society: Case work, 281 Jugoslav: Child care, 178 Family relationships, 50 Organizations, 324-326 Juvenile Court: Case work, 277, 281 Child care, 181-186 Juvenile Delinquency: Children of foreign-born parentage, 156, 181-186 K Kemmerer, Edwin Walter, 102 Kenosha, Wisconsin: Case-work agencies, 283 King, Clyde Lyndon, 148 Kirkpatrick, V. G., 293 Knights and Ladies of Security, 195 L Lake Village, Arkansas Work with Italians, 258 Language: Barrier in case work, 280-286 Legislation, Federal: Agricultural, 76, 254, 256-257 Housing (proposed), 77 Mothers' Aid, 309 Pure Food Acts, 141 Restriction on Retail Trade, 141 Legislation, Foreign countries: Government Grants, 264-265 Legislation, State: Company stores, 120-121 Education, 159, 265-266 Home teacher, 236 Housing (proposed), 77 Mothers' Aid, 308 Pure Food Act, 141 Regulating banks, 113 Restriction on retail trade, 141 Wives' rights, 48-50 Lithuanians: Child care, 155 Family problems, 26, 39-43, 51 Home ownership, 105-106 Housekeeping problems, 56, 58-59, 80, 107 Life insurance, 94 National Alliance, 94 Organizations, 191, 209-215, 326-327 Postal Savings circular, 112 Saving problem, 89-90 Spending habits Clothing, 136 Diet changes, 130 Furniture, 135 Studied, 11 Lithuania: Employment in, 89 Lithuanian Women's Alliance: Organ, "Woman's Field," 212 Work, 209-214 Living: Cost In United States, 129 Lowering through co-operatives, 142 Standards, 286-289 Lodgers (_see_ Boarders) Lowell, Massachusetts: Classes for immigrant women, 259 Lusk, Graham, 133 M Mahoney, John J., 267 Massachusetts: Housing project--study in Lowell, 8 North Billerica, 8 Legislation Education--immigrant, 265-266 Mothers' Aid Laws, 308 Social worker in, 132 Massachusetts Bureau of Immigration, 267 Massachusetts Homestead Commission: Experiment at Lowell, 75 Limited dividend company, 75 Massachusetts Immigration Commission, 223 Men: Family Legislation controlling, 48-50 Shopping by, 124-125 Nonfamily, housing, 23-24, 27-29 Menus, 333-341 Merchants, 118-119 Mexicans: Boarders, 64 Civil status, 24 Study in Chicago, 11 Milwaukee, Wisconsin: Case-work agencies, 283 Ministry of Reconstruction: England Housing recommendations, 68 Minneapolis, Minnesota: Cost of living, 129 Money: Immigrants' unfamiliarity, 88-91 Payment in lawful, 121-122 Morgan Park, Minnesota: Illinois Steel Company houses, 72 Mothers, immigrant: Aid law, 308 Assistants, 268-270 Child care, 150-151, 164-165, 172-174, 178-180, 247 Relation to family, 39-47 N National Croatian Society: Work of, 196-199 National Conference of Social Work, 310 Nebraska: Rural community Higher education in, 169 New Hampshire: Manchester, study of infant mortality, 41 New Jersey: Mothers' Aid Laws, 308 Yorkship Village (Study of Housing), 8 New Mexico: Child labor, 38 Study of several towns, 8 New York City: Case-work agencies, 283 Visiting housekeepers, 290, 295 Home Economics Bureau, 296 John Jay Dwellings, 70 Polish National Alliance, 202 Red Cross Chapters, 281 New York State Industrial Commission: Study of earnings, 36-37 Norwegian: Organizations, 327 Postal Savings circular, 112 O Occupation: Change in, 34-35 Ohio: State University, 259 Owen, Robert, 310 P Pana, Illinois: Cost of living, 129 Parent: Problem with children, 149-186 Paterson, New Jersey: Case-work agencies, 283 Pennsylvania: Company stores, 120 Infant mortality, Johnstown, 41, 64 Italians, 12 Mining communities, 8 Mothers' Aid Laws, 308 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: Case-work agencies, 283 Red Cross Chapter, 281 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania: Case-work agencies, 283 Visiting housekeepers, 290 Playground: Inadequate provision, 158 Poland: House in, 55-56 Polish: Building and loan associations, 77 Child care, 4, 162, 163, 183-184 Commercial co-operatives, 123 Family relationships, 21-23, 33, 34, 53 Home ownership, 105, 107 Housekeeping problems, 54, 59, 80 In Chicago, 11 Rolling Prairie, Indiana, 11 In industry, 40-41 Life insurance, 94 Newspaper Dziennik Zwaizkowy, 204 Organizations, 201-209, 327-329 Postal Savings circular, 112 Recreation, 158 Saving problems, 93, 96, 102 Spending habits, 122-123 Clothing, 136 Diet changes, 130 Vocational Guidance, 299-300 Polish National Alliance: Organs, 204 Women's department, 203-207 Work, 94, 201-203 Polish Women's Alliance, 201, 207-209 Portuguese: Postal Savings circular, 112 Postal Savings banks, 111-115 Postal Saving Law (proposed) Amendment, 76, 113 Pratt Institute, 290 Punishment: Methods, 155-156 R Ralph, Georgia G., 200 Recreation: Agencies, 272-276 Benefit societies, 197 Juvenile, 157-159, 176, 177 Richmond, Mary Ellen, 281 Rochester, New York: Red Cross Chapter, 281 Rolling Prairie, Indiana: Child labor, 38-39 Co-operative county project, 261 School attendance, 162 Roman Catholic Union of America (Polish), 201 Roosevelt, Theodore, viii Rumanians: Home ownership, 106 Organization, 191 Russell Sage Foundation, 200 Russian: Child care, 163, 165, 172, 179 Family problems, 23, 38, 46-47 Home ownership, 106 Housekeeping problems, 59, 80 In Chicago, 3, 11 Organization, 95, 191, 329-330 Postal Savings banks, 112 Saving problems, 103 Spending habits, 122 Diet changes, 130 S St. Paul, Minnesota: Cost of living, 129 Sanitation: Instruction 80-84 Saving: Problem, 85-116 Scandinavian: Life insurance, 94 Schools, private: Selection by parents, 159-160 Schools, public: Elementary Parents' relationship, 159-169, 180, 253 Immigrant Relation to home, 230-238 Co-operation with agencies, 240-243 Schools: Rural Attendance, 162 Serbia: Customs, 174 Serbians: Home ownership, 106 Spending habits, 122 Serbo-Croatian: Dvorak Park, 273-274 Housekeeping problems, 64 Postal Savings circular, 112 Settlements: Relation to homes, 50, 239-240, 273-276 Sickness: Incentive for saving, 86, 92 Slingerland, R., 200 Slovaks: Child care, 164, 171, 176-177 Home ownership, 105, 107 Organizations, 330 Postal Savings circular, 112 Spending habits, 122 Studied, 11 Slovenian: Child care, 171 Family problems, 20 Home ownership, 106 Menus, 340-341 Postal Savings circular, 112 Spending habits, 122 Studied, 11 Women in industry, 40 Smith-Hughes Act, 256-257 Smith-Lever Act, 254 Social Workers: Relation to immigrant spending habits, 132, 140 Society for Care of Croatian Orphans, 201 South Chicago, Illinois: Church, 97 Spanish: Postal Savings circular, 112 Spending: Immigrant problems, 117-148 Springfield, Illinois: Case-work agencies Visiting housekeepers, 290 Staunton, Illinois: Co-operative store, 145 Stamford, Connecticut: Case-work agencies, 282-283 Visiting housekeepers, 290 State Immigration Commission, 267 Steubenville, Ohio: Cost of living, 129 Stores: Company, 67-69 Co-operative, 141-143 In Staunton, Illinois, 145 Immigrant, 122-123, 126, 144 Syracuse Home Bureau: Work Projects, 260-261 Swedish: Organizations, 331 Postal Savings circular, 112 T Teacher Training: Work with immigrant women, 248-254 Teachers: Home, in California, 236-237 Thomas, W. I., 136 Thomas and Znaniecki: Letters from Polish Peasant, 21-22, 85-86, 161 Thompson, Frank V., 231 Thrift: Government campaign, 87, 114 Topeka, Kansas: Social work agencies, 281 Trade Union Label League, 141 "Tribe of Ben Hur," 195 U Ukrainians: Alliance, 122 Child care, 165 Family problems, 20, 33 In Chicago, 11, 50 Sun, West Virginia, 12 Organizations, 331-332 Postal Savings circular, 112 Savings problems, 90-92 Spending habits, 122-123 Diet changes, 130 Women in industry, 40 Ukrainian Women's Alliance: Organ, 216 Purpose, 215-216 United Charities: Case work, 281, 283 In Chicago, 8 United States Housing Corporation: Plan for copartnership ownership, 78 United States Immigration Commission: Reports studied, 6 Company stores, 120-121 Earning, 36 Housing, 60-61 United States Steel Corporation: Houses, 80 United States Treasury Department: Thrift campaign, 87, 114 War Risk Bureau, 310 Universities: Ohio State, 259 Purdue, 261 V Veblen, Thorstein B., 136 Visiting Dietitians: Modifying diets, 133 Training, 248-252 Virginia: Hilton Village Housing project, 8 Visiting Housekeepers: Agencies, 286, 289-298 Modifying diets, 133 Voll, John A., viii W War, 35, 36, 187-188, 202-203 Waterbury, Connecticut: Case-work agencies, 283 Wedding customs, 99-100, 102-103 Dowry, 86 West Virginia: Legislation on company store, 121 Study of Mining communities, 8 Ukrainians, 12 Williams, Talcott, viii Wilmington, Delaware: Cost of living, 129 Women: Croatian, 198 Education, 234-236, 240-243, 265-266 Employment, 65 Family relationships, 47-53 Lithuanian organizations, 209 Polish organizations, 201-209 Ukrainian organizations, 215-216 Women's Co-operative Guild, 148 Wood, E. E., 67, 75-77 Woodmen of the World, 195 Worcester, Massachusetts: Case-work agencies Visiting housekeepers, 290 Wright, Helen R., xvii Y Yiddish: Postal Savings circular, 112 Y. W. C. A.: Health campaign, 140 International Institute, 7, 31, 230, 237, 243-248 THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious printer's errors were repaired. Hyphenation variants in the original were retained. Appendix: [vc] is a "c" with a caron, [vs] is an "s" with a caron. 
42672	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) THE WANDERINGS AND FORTUNES OF SOME GERMAN EMIGRANTS. BY FREDERICK GERSTÆCKER. TRANSLATED BY DAVID BLACK. LONDON: DAVID BOGUE, FLEET STREET. MDCCCXLVIII. _Now Ready, in post octavo, 6s. cloth,_ From the "Athenæum." The substance of this entertaining book--which relates the fortunes of a company of German adventurers bound for the land of promise, with the design of forming a colony there--is evidently no fiction. It is impossible to read many pages without perceiving that the author is telling what he must himself have seen, known, and suffered--so minute and circumstantial is the narrative: and as he is gifted with considerable powers of observing and describing, the reality of his work renders it extremely life-like and engaging. Any true account--and such, in the main, this undoubtedly is--of what befals the exiles from Europe in their attempts to settle in the New World, will always have a certain interest for those who remain behind. To English readers, especially, it is something new to learn how it fared with a party of German emigrants in North America. Of the fortunes of many of our own countrymen who have gone thither on the same errand we have perhaps sufficiently heard. But we are little acquainted with what the crowds that have for many years past been leaving Germany for the United States may have to say of their experience. We are glad, therefore, to meet with a writer who is evidently no stranger to this little known history; and who has not only had a personal share in the emigrant's lot and a close acquaintance with many features of that New World to which hope allures him, but a quick eye, as well, to read the characters of men and things, and a ready masculine pen to record his observations. Herr Gerstæcker seems to be a genial observer of the humours and ways of men, as well as apt in the business of daily life--with some readiness in portraying both in a simple, dramatic fashion. The tempers and oddities of the motley crew of pilgrims from Bremen are drawn with a freshness, and a truth to the special dialects and features of the different provinces and trades from which they were collected, that it would not be easy to reproduce in an English translation. The smith--the bold, burly brewer--the little tailor, half sly, half sheepish,--the flourishing man of law--the rough, simple Oldenburgher boor--and the meek, but somewhat too child-like pastor, are each and all kept in consistent life-likeness throughout the whole course of the adventure; and in many of their mishaps, and experiences, and dialogues, present themselves with that mixture of good-natured rusticity and awkward humour that seems to be native to the ordinary German mind. The book, in short, is full of pleasant reading, as well as of sagacious remark--and must take a useful place in any series of works written for the people of a country that almost vies with our own in the number of exiles whom it annually sends across the Atlantic. D. BOGUE, 86, FLEET STREET. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE SEA VOYAGE. The embarkation--First taste of salt water--Sea-sickness--Intestine dissensions--The passengers--Alsatians--The Oldenburghers and their wooden shoes--A calm--Fate of the wooden shoes--A child overboard--Capture of a shark--A storm--Effects of the storm--Death of a passenger--The storm abates--Complaints against the committee--The remonstrance--The committee's vindication--Indolence of the Oldenburghers--A stratagem--Approach to the American coast--"Ashore! Ashore!"--Negro robbers--Termination of the voyage p. 1-43 CHAPTER II. A WEEK IN NEW YORK. The "Switzer's home"--Wonders of New York--"Five hundred journeymen wanted!"--A civil countryman--The future settlement--An adventure on the Quay--"The Switzer's home"--A night's "rest"--The "striped pig"--A natural curiosity maker--The "striped pig" explained--Yankee dodges--Mr. Becher's address--The promised land--The purchase completed--A Methodist ranter--The tailor's adventure--Letters of introduction--Suspicions against Dr. Normann--Dr. Normann's "smartness"--The separation 44-83 CHAPTER III. THE PILGRIMAGE TO THE SETTLEMENT. Scenery of the Hudson--The haunted island--A night on the Hudson--Utica--A "railway hotel" repast--The Erie canal--A name for the future town--The canal bridges--The first death--The Falls of Niagara--American fences--Abandonment of luggage--Difficulties in the treasury--The subscription--Cincinnati--Adventures in Cincinnati--An old settler--The Negro barber--German-American politics--Political spouting--Daybreak on the Ohio--Normann's love suit--The Cincinnati "Museum"--First impressions of the Mississippi--Arrival at the Big Halchee--The home in the wilderness 84-133 CHAPTER IV. THE SETTLEMENT. A night in a shanty--The watchman's horn--The woodsman's hut--Death in the woods--The forest burial-place--A clearing on the Mississippi--A desolate scene--The "river" and the "town"--The floods of the Mississippi--A journey in the woods--Unpleasant forebodings--A town in the backwoods--A "camp out"--The "dead clearing"--The "lot" identified--The disappointment--Forest lodgings--Use of the axe--Deer-stalking--Perils of hunting in the backwoods--Progress of settlement--A plot and a counter-plot 131-174 CHAPTER V. EXCURSIONS HITHER AND THITHER. Plans for the future--How to "get along" in America--Philadelphia--The Quaker City--Points of the compass--Letters of introduction--Steam-voyage to New Orleans--Approach to the city--"Yellow Jack"--A New Orleans school--American school-system--Pleasant anticipations 175-194 CHAPTER VI. THE SETTLEMENT--AN UNEXPECTED VISIT. A "herd" of wild turkeys--Turkey-buzzards--A startling apparition--Dr. Normann--The doctor's accomplice--The reconciliation--Sinister speculations--Plans for abduction--"Bear-tracking" 195-210 CHAPTER VII. THE FLIGHT. Purchase of horses and cattle--Backwoods hospitality--The wolf and the sheep--"Salting" cattle--Elbow-room in the woods--"Westward Ho!"--Farming in the Backwoods--"Chicken fixings"--Rail-fence making--Mutual secrets--The deer-calf--Success of the ruse--The arrival of the cattle--Treachery discovered--Bertha's fears--The Mulatto's sudden appearance--The abduction completed--The Serpentine water-course--Narrow escape from discovery--The pursuers at fault--The last gleam of hope 211-249 CHAPTER VIII. THE MOUTH OF THE BIG HALCHEE. The shores of the Mississippi--Girdling--Settlers' errors--New mode of banking--Settlements by communities--Schwarz's plans--Wood-carrying on the "go-ahead" principle--A backwoods "river"--A Mississippi steamer captain--American hospitality--The landing--An unexpected discovery 250-268 CHAPTER IX. TREACHERY WITHIN TREACHERY. Normann's suspicions awakened--The Yankee's escape--The pursuit--The deliverance--Suspense--Bertha restored to her father--An unpleasant recognition--The mulatto's escape--Death struggle on the Mississippi--The return to the settlement 269-290 CHAPTER X. THE MIGRATION. A new home--The old bachelor--A ride through the woods--The deserted pastor--The break up of the colony--The pastor's removal--Bringing home the bride--Two households arranged--The fortunes of some of the colonists--Conclusion 291-310 THE WANDERINGS AND FORTUNES OF SOME GERMAN EMIGRANTS. CHAPTER I. THE SEA VOYAGE. The majority of the intending passengers by the new and smart bark, the "Hoffnung," Commander Wellbach, bound for New York, were assembled at Meier's, the host of the Hull Arms Tavern, in the ancient Hanse-town of Bremen, prior to their departure, to hear the laws read, which had been drawn up by a committee chosen by themselves, from among their leading men, and to subscribe these laws. They related not only to the voyage across the ocean, but also to the proceedings of the Emigrants on their arrival in their new home, and were intended, as the preamble expressed it, "to unite firmly the Emigrants in a band of friendship for the attainment of _one_ great object." The committee consisted of six members--namely, the Lutheran clergyman, or, as he is styled, the Pastor Hehrmann; Becher, an advocate; a Mr. Von Schwanthal; two brothers, merchants, named Siebert; and a gentleman named Herbold, formerly a landed proprietor. They were zealous for the general welfare, and had, by these laws, reserved equal rights and assigned equal duties to each, so far at least as was compatible with the foregone determination of buying a block of land somewhere in the United States, immediately on their arrival in New York, of occupying it, of tilling it, and of harvesting it in common; and such of the party as had never handled a plough or a spade, were as pleased as children with the thought of working hard in the New World--in the primeval forest--and pictured to themselves how well they should relish the bread to be raised by the toil of their own hands. The requisite funds for the voyage, as well as a small surplus for a beginning, had been previously handed over by each of the little community to the elder Siebert, as treasurer, who had accordingly bargained with the broker and paid for the passage; and when all the passengers had signed the laws there no longer appeared to be any obstacle to their future happiness, or, at all events, none to their future concord and good-fellowship. Scarcely had this been concluded before a clerk of the shipbroker entered the room, and announced that one Peter, the master of a river craft, would start on the following morning at seven, with the passengers and lighter part of the baggage, such as they might want to get at during the voyage, for the "Hoffnung," a new copper-fastened and fast-sailing ship, then moored at Bremerhafen, waiting for them. There remained, therefore, but one night more in their native land; even the most callous among them felt their spirits droop at the thought, and several wrung their hands in silence. "How shall we feel, then," said Pastor Hehrmann, who noticed this movement, "when the last grey strip of land disappears in the distance, when the great desert of waters surrounds us, and our native land, which is still ours, torn from us, perhaps for ever? 'Tis a serious step we are taking, and let us all recollect how necessary it is for us to hold together with heart and soul. We are to face these dangers together, we must therefore act together for the common good, and not only unite our interests, but sincerely love each other as brothers." Pastor Hehrmann was a worthy man, and meant what he said, and those who were acquainted with him knew it and honoured him. A long pause followed; at length, the elder Siebert, not without reason, reminded the Emigrants of their approaching departure, and that, no doubt, there must be many little matters to buy and to provide. This string once more touched, soon caused a universal movement and bustle; the feelings were forgotten, and the body, particularly the stomach, for which they had to provide, asserted its just claims. Two large boats received the Emigrants at the hour fixed on the ensuing morning, and all of them--including the committee and a few others of the travellers who had preferred passing the thirty-eight miles, which separated them from the ship, in the steamer which started five hours later, but was so much faster--were before long under way for the ship to which they were about to confide their property and their lives, for an uncertain and perhaps a dangerous voyage. They were a motley company these two boat-loads of human beings--men, women, children, girls, and young men, all mixed together: and, as a sharp although light wind began to curl the waves, and rocked the boats a little, many a one felt a strange sinking at the heart, and some even inquired of the watermen whether sea-sickness was ever known to break out on the Weser-boats; however, they reached unscathed the large ship which lay in the offing near Bremerhafen, whither she had been already towed out; there, all climbed on board in confused haste, the luggage followed, and a new world surrounded them. But there was not much time left for reflection; the sun had nearly run his course, and every one had yet to make arrangements for passing the night, which seemed no easy task in the narrow space which was pointed out to them. A mason, who had quitted home with a wife and three little children, asked the mate, with downcast spirit, whether they were _all_ to find quarters in that hole; the answer was, "Yes." Nor was this all; chest after chest, trunk upon trunk, were let down into a hold of about eleven yards in length by but a few yards in breadth, for the sleeping berths on either side almost filled it up, so that it appeared a puzzle to most of the travellers how the captain was to stow his living freight, if he had no more "rooms" for the purpose than this. Their surveys and conjectures were cut short for awhile, by a signal from the ship's cook, explained by the mate to mean "feeding time," which called all of them to a small kitchen, painted green, and fastened to the deck by plaited ropes and iron hooks, there to "catch hold," as the cook expressed it, of their tea and biscuit. Now, although doubtless hands were given us to "catch hold" with, yet it did not appear how they were to be applied for that purpose to the tea, all their vessels and earthenware being carefully packed up in their chests and boxes. The consequence was, that most of them had to go without tea for that evening. There was a tanner, however, on board with a large family, who quietly expressed his opinion that those who would go to America must know how to help themselves, and taking hold of a large bucket, whereon a capital "H" was painted, he got the cook, who laughingly did as he wished, to pour the tea for his whole family into the bucket. "I say, that's too strong for the children," quoth his wife, as she stared into the bucket; "you had better pour some more water into it." "But I've got none hot," pleaded the husband, who would not understand the tea's being too strong. "Well, then, take some cold," replied his better half; "why, the tea is boiling hot." The tanner with a sigh obeyed, and asked a sailor who was just hauling up a bucketful for some of it, which request the latter, so soon as he had been told what it was for, willingly granted, and with the most obliging countenance in the world, he diluted the tea for them which had been pronounced too strong. The sailor remained standing beside them. The tanner's wife, after merely touching the mixture with her lips, to see that it was not too hot, poured a spoonful down the throat of her youngest child; no sooner was it partly down, however, than he sung out lustily, struck about him with hands and feet, and spluttered out that which he had just taken in great haste. Frightened to death, the woman took a gulp of the beverage herself, fearing lest she had scalded the child; it was cool enough, but it produced nearly the same symptoms in her as it had in the child--the tea was completely--pickled. The sailor went back to his work, chuckling inwardly, first whispering to the husband, "Now, do you see, you're on salt water." Fortunately there was plenty of tea left for that evening, and the cook gave them a second allowance. But the time had now arrived for them to look after their sleeping places before it was quite dark, and all crept with their mattresses and blankets into one or other of the "berths," as the square boxes, fixed two and two, one over another, are called, in order to have some place to lay their heads for this night at all events, if not for the whole voyage. It was a scene of disorder and confusion; chests, boxes, umbrellas, hat-cases, blankets, mattresses, and cooking apparatus, and even here and there human beings stretched out upon them, laid about higgledy-piggledy, in the thickening twilight, and looked like some shapeless chaos. The water, fortunately, remained quiet, so that no danger was to be feared from the motion of the ship; but as the rays of the following morning's sun lighted up the steerage, they gave the unfortunate occupants some notion of the miseries of a sea voyage. For, some sailors letting themselves suddenly down the two hatchways, as though they had descended from the clouds, soon disturbed the tranquillity which, notwithstanding the confusion, seemed to reign below; indeed some had passed the night in such break-neck positions that they hardly dared to move when the dawn discovered their relations to external objects. However, compelled by necessity, most of them clambered on deck, and left the luggage to the sailors, who chocked and made it all fast to the uprights, with ropes and cords, so that it might not be thrown about by a rough sea. The committee, who had arrived about two hours earlier than the two boats, had taken up their quarters in the cabin, where they had arranged themselves tolerably comfortably, with the exception of the Pastor Hehrmann, who, remaining true to the resolution, "that we all are equal," would have no preference over the poorer class, and had taken possession of one of the berths close under the after hatchway, as being one of the most airy and healthy parts of the steerage. Everything was arranged on this day; each person had a permanent berth allotted to him, as also a certain allowance of butter for the week, and of beef or salt pork for the day; that done, Pastor Hehrmann read a short prayer, and as soon as supper was over, most of the passengers went to rest wearied with the exertions of the day. Towards morning a light wind arose; sufficient to determine the captain to get under weigh. The heavy anchor was weighed, and the majestic vessel slowly stretched out towards the mouth of the river. When they arrived there the breeze died away altogether, and the slack sails hung about the mast; but at ten o'clock, when the greater part of the emigrants were assembled on deck, some little black clouds arose in the south-east, spreading themselves out and covering the whole sky; the wind, with extraordinary rapidity, howled over the excited waters towards the ship, filled the sails and laid her quite on one side, and passed on over the as yet slightly curled waves. At this stage most of the travellers who were below, more particularly the female part of them, rushed out of the cabin, calling for the Captain, "for," said they, "the ship is falling over." In vain did the mate and some of the crew assure them to the contrary. "No, they had the evidence of their senses that the ship lay all on one side, and of course it must fall over, whether it would or no;" and then, alas! the consequences which they painted were so dreadful, that they filled them afresh with horror, and crying and sobbing, and no longer able to stand, they held on by the water-casks which were fastened to the deck. But a mightier soother than mate or captain either, now trod upon the scene, one that not only pacified their spirits, but within a few hours made them all as indifferent to storms and waves as though they were reposing on their respectable stable mother-earth--this was sea-sickness. Excited by the winds, the waves raised their crests higher and higher, and the ship rose and fell with them; but, the higher the waves rose the more were the hearts of the poor emigrants dejected, and they lay about the deck with chalk-coloured faces, regardless of the sprays which washed over them and wet them to the skin. Pastor Hehrmann and another, a young doctor, named Werner, who, to escape from the water which flooded the deck, had climbed into the lower cross-trees, and taken up his quarters there, were the only persons who were spared by the ruthless sea-tyrant; they kept in the open air and did not feel the least inconvenience. Things were not much better in the cabin than in the steerage; Mr. Herbold seemed to bear it better than the rest, but even he appeared pale and ill. The others were in a pitiable state, and the elder Siebert, who lay in one of the lower berths, two and two having a little cabin to themselves, at length dare not venture his head out at all; so exactly did his brother, who rested, or rather tortured himself above, seem to lie in wait for the opportunity of having a fresh attack of this dreadful and not to be suppressed sickness. Mr. Becher accounted himself as one doomed to death, and M. Von Schwanthal affirmed that as for him he existed only in his stomach. Fortunately this state of things was not of long continuance, for already on the following day the wind abated, and also the waves, although the ship continued to dance up and down merrily, and as yet but few of the sick had completely recovered. A general demand now arose for herrings and such like things, for those who began to recover and to get back their appetites could not make up their minds to the hard ship's biscuit and the salt beef and pickled pork, and lamented for something comfortable to the stomach. Here again, Pastor Hehrmann, who, more by accident than from any hope of their utility, had brought a small barrel of herrings with him, was at hand to assist them, and he divided the herrings willingly and gladly among the convalescent. The wind remained moderate, and everything promised a prosperous voyage. On the fourth day they came in sight of the French town of Calais, and the town of Dover, on the opposite English coast; sailed on the following morning past the Isle of Wight--and on the evening of the sixth day they entered the Atlantic Ocean. Scarcely recovered from sea-sickness, the little community in the steerage had by no means adapted itself with contented mind to the novelty and inconvenience of its situation; on the contrary, they already lived in discord and hatred among themselves, and their minds were becoming more and more embittered. Pastor Hehrmann, indeed, did all he could to restore peace, and was partially successful; but fresh outbreaks were constantly occurring, and the committee thought themselves called upon to interfere. A cabinet-maker, who had travelled in Russia and Poland, in Denmark and Sweden, in Prussia and Austria, as he had related a hundred times to his patient hearers, got into a quarrel with a stout brewer--had called the latter by some opprobrious epithet, and was knocked down in consequence by the brewer, who had a mind to put an end to the matter at once. The cabinet-maker was quieted, it is true, but the brewer had a harder combat before him, for nearly all the women took part with the vanquished, and such a storming and scolding as now arose had never before been heard on board the Hoffnung. Meanwhile the committee had determined to interfere, and its members betook themselves to the hatchway of the steerage, whence a confused murmur of voices met them. M. Von Schwanthal, a good, amiable man, but not of the cleverest, volunteered to allay the ferment by a short speech, and although Mr. Becher opposed this, the rest were content. M. Von Schwanthal, therefore, descended backwards a few steps of the stairs, little better than a ladder, which led below, till he thought he had got far enough to overlook the interior, and then turned round and addressed the assembly below politely, with--"Gentlemen," (Ladies would have been more appropriate,) when unfortunately his feet slipped forward, and he arrived at the feet of the breakers of the peace more speedily than he had purposed. "Good morning, M. Von Schwanthal," said the brewer, quietly, who, notwithstanding the noise and disturbance around him, sat very comfortably on his large round-topped chest, filling a pipe of tobacco. "But, my good people," cried M. Von Schwanthal, jumping quickly upon his feet--the rest of his address was unheard, a roar of laughter drowned his words, and mortified, and swearing inwardly, M. Von Schwanthal regained the deck. However, he had attained his object--peace was restored for the moment at all events, for the people now only laughed at the mishaps of their committee-man. But new squabbles arose daily, and the ill feeling extended towards the committee-men whom they had themselves elected, and who, it was suggested behind their backs, might have taken their passage in the steerage like the rest, "for in America all men are equal." Some Alsatian peasants were particularly warm in support of these opinions. Their words sounded like thunder. They swore that they would no longer be ridden over roughshod by the gentry, as they had been, but intended to give them a bit of their mind at the earliest opportunity. On the other hand, a little troop of Oldenburghers, consisting of twelve stout young fellows, lived contentedly enough; they troubled themselves about nothing, came upon deck regularly three times a day to receive their meat and drink, and laid themselves quietly down again on their mattresses in their berths to rest themselves, as they called it. The whole of these worthies wore large wooden shoes, to the great vexation of their fellow passengers; and when they lay in bed, as they did during the greater portion of the day, they placed these shoes in front of their berths, so that people had often tumbled over them in the narrow dark passage through which they had to wind their way. The Oldenburghers, notwithstanding the threats and remonstrances of the others, would not remedy the grievance, contending that they were as good as the rest, that in America all people were equal, and that nobody had any right to forbid them from placing their wooden shoes where they thought proper. Some of the women felt their position amidst these constant bickerings and squabbles to be a very unpleasant one, and amongst others, the wife and daughters of the Pastor Hehrmann, who, surrounded in the steerage by clamour, scarcely liked to leave the deck, when evening closed over them, to venture down again into the dark hold. The Captain, it is true, several times good naturedly offered them the cabin for their abode, but Pastor Hehrmann would not accept it, dreading, not without cause, lest he should thereby excite more discontent amongst his restless countrymen, already ill enough disposed towards their "genteel" committee-men. Pastor Hehrmann's daughters were respectively seventeen and nineteen years of age, and two more tender and amiable creatures never traversed the Atlantic to accompany their parents in search of a home beyond it. They were slim and well grown, and in their almost black hair and dark glowing eyes one could scarcely recognise daughters of the North. They tended their delicate mother, who had suffered seriously from sea sickness, with care and love, and did all in their power to smoothe her disagreeable position. The Hoffnung had in this manner left about a hundred German miles (nearly five hundred English miles) behind her, when one morning the wind suddenly ceased, the sea became as smooth as glass, the ship stood immovable, and the sun shone down clearly and cheerfully from the pure unclouded sky. It was such a day at sea as restores sick persons to balmy health, and causes healthy persons to forget that they are floating on a few boards over an almost bottomless abyss cut off from all human aid. The day passed in rejoicing, in singing and dancing, and it was nigh midnight before the last of the travellers betook themselves to rest, leaving the deck to the sailors of the watch. All was still, when a dark figure cautiously and noiselessly emerged from the steerage; it carried something under its arms and in its hands, approached the bulwarks and threw it over; it fell on the water with a splash; all was silent once more, and the figure disappeared through the hatchway. Two sailors sitting in the bows had been spectators of this proceeding, and endeavoured to make out what it was which the unknown person had confided to the deep; but it was too dark, and they leaned back into their former attitudes of repose to resume the yarn which one of them had been spinning, when again the same figure appeared, and again, cast something, whatever it might be, overboard. "I say, Jack," whispered one of them to the other, "what can it be that yon fellow is throwing overboard? it splashes so in the water; let us see what it is." "Oh, never mind," answered his messmate; "whatever it may be, it's nothing belonging to us, for he fetched it out of the steerage; but I think I see something floating on the water." "By Jove, and so do I," replied the other; "come along; I should like to know what it can be." The two sailors advanced, but the figure had already withdrawn itself; they could, however, distinctly make out some light objects upon the smooth sea, and were still speculating upon what it could be, when the mysterious one re-appeared for the third time, loaded as before; he paused a moment on perceiving the two sailors, but his irresolution did not last long, for stepping gently forward, he looked cautiously round for a moment, and then laughingly showed the curious spectators several pairs of wooden shoes, which he launched into the Atlantic, like the rest. "Well," said he, when the last consignment had been duly forwarded, "we're rid of them, anyhow, but don't say a word, for God's sake," he continued, seizing by the arms the two sailors, who were just about to roar out. "Hush! I beg of you. If those bumpkins were to know that it is I who played them this trick, they would be the death of me. But one of them trod so heavily on my poor corns the other day with his wooden machines, that I vowed to do it; but not a word--you promise that?" The sailors laughingly gave their word not to betray the least hint, and the little mischievous journeyman tailor, who, as a South German, had a native hatred to the Low Germans, slipped down unobserved to his rest, perfectly satisfied. Who shall describe the noise, the abuse, and the threats on the one side, or the rejoicing on the other, the following morning, when the Oldenburghers, wanting to get up to breakfast, were unable to find their wooden shoes in their accustomed places, but in lieu thereof discovered them floating round the vessel at a distance of some hundred yards. They cursed and threatened loudly, and requested the Captain, who was just coming up the companion stairs, with his hands in his pockets, and could hardly conceal his amazement, that he would let a boat be put out to fish up the lost sheep. But he replied gravely, that the weather looked much too suspicious; that a squall might spring up at a moment's notice, and therefore he could not venture to leave the ship in a small boat. "But, Captain," said one of the much-injured lads, "where is the squall to come from? The sky is all blue!" "Do you see that black cloud, down yonder, near the horizon, in the west?" asked the Captain, pointing at the same time towards that quarter. "No!" was the unanimous answer of the Oldenburghers. "You don't see it? Well, it's all one--_I_ see it! Besides, you can't tell sky from sea yet! But the cloud looks suspicious--and I wouldn't lose a boat and four hands for all the wooden shoes that were ever made!" With these words he turned upon his heel, and walked down the companion stairs again. The Oldenburghers now applied to the committee, and demanded that they should recover their property for them. But Mr. Becher, with a shrug of the shoulders, gave it as his opinion that the jurisdiction of the committee extended, it is true, to the whole of the vessel, but not for an indefinite number of yards round her into the sea; therefore, that the gentlemen must either make themselves comfortable--or else, fetch the shoes themselves. One of them was in the act of proposing, as the sea was so still, to jump in, and to collect the fugitives by swimming; while the rest were uttering maledictions on the head of the author of their troubles, and announcing how they would all thrash him, if they could but catch him, when suddenly the cry, "A shark! a shark!" was heard from the cross-trees. It was young Werner, above alluded to, who had chosen that elevated place as his favourite resort, and to whom all eyes were now turned, to learn the direction in which the sea monster was to be found. Werner pointed to the streak of light formed by the sun upon the water, and all the voyagers distinctly perceived from the deck the dorsal fin of the shark, standing six or seven inches out of the water. Although several of these voracious creatures had been already round the ship, still probably few of the travellers had seen one of them, and all pressed to the ship's side to view the fish, as it came nearer and nearer to the ship and the surrounding wooden shoes. "Well, I should like to know whether he eats wooden shoes!" said the Brewer, rubbing his hands complacently, and watching every movement of the creature. His wish seemed on the point of being fulfilled, for the fish, approaching the first sabot, described a circle round it, and all expected the immediate disappearance of the same, when a fearful cry--such a cry as can only issue from the breast of a terrified mother--was heard from the midst of the crowd which had pressed, full of curiosity, to the bulwarks, and in the same moment, a heavy body fell on the smooth surface of the waters, and sank beneath it. "My child! my child!" cried the woman, in the very act of throwing herself after the helpless being, which now re-appeared on the surface, struggling and gurgling. But those who surrounded her held her back, and gazed, in apprehension of the worst, at the swiftly-approaching shark, which now shot forward like an arrow, its attention being aroused by the splash of the object in the water. Both the daughters of Pastor Hehrmann had witnessed the child's fall; and the eldest of them, in a voice almost choked by terror, cried, "Help! help! for God's sake!" "Launch the boat!" cried the Captain. But there was some delay. A few seconds more must decide the fate of the child--for the shark was scarcely ten yards distant from him, and already seemed to scent its prey. It was then that the young man in the cross-trees glided down a rope with the activity of a sailor, and before any one could guess his purpose, or hinder him, sprang into the crystal flood beneath, right before the very jaws of the fish, and coming to the surface again, seized the child, which had just reappeared for the third time. A cry of admiration at this desperate boldness arose from sailors as well as passengers; but the shark, frightened by the loud dash, and rendered uneasy by the cries and noise on board the ship, drew back from the booty he had almost reached, and careered around the brave swimmer in narrow circles. "Strike with your hands--splash--kick--make as much noise as you can!" cried the seamen with one accord. But the Captain had caught up a rope, and threw it to the young man, who, holding the child in his left arm, seized the rope with the right one, and held himself afloat by it, while he kicked out with all his force, and splashed the water far around him. "Sling the rope round your elbow," called the Captain, "and we can haul you up." The young man did so; but all his bold and generous sacrifice seemed in vain, for the shark, who by this time had found that there was no danger to be apprehended from this quarter, shot forward once more. The sailors, indeed, hauled the rope with their utmost strength and goodwill, but their help seemed to come too late; for the monster was but a few feet off from him, and was just about to turn on its back, to snap at the body of the unhappy man, when--in that very moment--when every one in breathless and fearful dread awaited to see the worst--a heavy piece of meat fell into the sea, close to the open fangs of the shark, and was swallowed by him as quick as lightning. It is true, that this mouthful only seemed to have whetted his appetite for more, for he turned again, and made a second movement to seize the body of the bold swimmer, who was already half drawn up from his watery grave; but, suddenly the shark began to lash the water with his tail, started back several feet, and dived down. Nobody troubled himself at the moment as to the cause of this almost inexplicable salvation, for all that had hands hauled away to get the poor fellow, who was almost terrified to death, on board; and he had scarcely handed the living child to its mother, before he fell back senseless in the arms of those around him. But there was not a woman on board who would not now have pressed forward to call back the fainted one into life; and the mother of the saved child threw herself on her knees, and audibly besought the Almighty not to rob her so soon of the saviour of her only joy. Meanwhile, the attention of the travellers was distracted from the patient, whom, besides, they knew to be in good hands, towards the sea, whence a great splashing and noise resounded anew. It was the shark, which, caught by the hook which the cook had fastened in the lump of meat, and thrown to him in the nick of time, was striking and tearing in the vain endeavour to regain his lost freedom. All hands laid hold of the rope, and after a time the immense fish (for he was about fourteen feet long) floundered on the deck, striking it till the planks shook again. But he did not live long--passengers as well as sailors caught hold of whatever came to hand, and the creature, with its head shattered, soon writhed in its own blood. While the men, on the one hand, were thus busied with the destruction of the life of their adversary, the women, on the other, were tending their charge with tender care, and watching anxiously every symptom which might announce returning consciousness. There was no surgeon on board--as, indeed, there hardly ever is on board of ships destined for emigrants--but the Captain had abandoned his medicine-chest to them, and Hoffman's drops, sal volatile, and several other powerful remedies were applied to bring the colour back to the pale cheeks, and open the closed eyelids. At last a deep sigh escaped from the breast of the unconscious one; the women uttered cries of joy, and Hehrmann's elder daughter clasped her sister's hand fervently, and called her a _good, dear_ girl, while a tear glistened in her own eye. Young Werner recovered, though but slowly; and it was touching to see the woman, with the rescued child on her arm, fall down on her knees before him, and kiss his hand, so that he could hardly prevent her. Even the hardy sailors felt their hearts warm and soften at the sight. All squabbles and disputes were put an end to by this occurrence, at least for a time, and even the Oldenburghers tried to forget their wooden shoes, particularly as, towards evening, a light East wind sprang up and filled the slack sails, and removed the ship more and more from them. About midnight, however, a fresh favourable South-easter sprang up, that sent the Hoffnung pretty fast on her destination; the sails were filled, and the white spray splashed from her bows; the wind did not increase for some days, so that the sea was not much agitated, the motion of the ship gentle, and the travellers, who by degrees became accustomed to the rocking to and fro, suffered little from sea-sickness; even Mrs. Hehrmann, who had dropped the title of "pastoress" at Bremen, began to recover, and was often on deck. Young Werner, who by his boldness had made himself the favourite of the whole ship, attached himself more especially to the family of the Hehrmanns, and in particular was attentive to the women in contriving and executing a number of little comforts to better or smoothe their situation, which was by no means one of the pleasantest. Many a kind look from the elder daughter, Bertha, was his reward, and on these occasions he felt that a new and glad world opened itself before him, as though he had already, on the desert seas, found a home, which he had hoped to find in foreign distant climes. It was late one evening; the moon, that but shortly before had poured her friendly light upon the slightly curled sea, hid her disk, which was nearly at the full, behind thin clouds, that floated past her quicker and quicker, that covered her closer and closer, till at last a faint glimmer announced the spot where she tried in vain to break a passage, and to dispel the closing shadows. Werner, wrapped in his cloak, had been relating the tale of his life, a simple one, to old Hehrmann; how he had, yonder, lost all that was dear to him; how he was bound, with the rest of his fortune, to that strange country which is the hope and the silent longing of thousands, either to found a new home among strangers, or else, at all events, not to be daily reminded that he had once possessed such, and now was banished from the threshold of his paternal house, tenanted by strange people. The two girls, wrapped closely in their mantles, and leaning against their father, had listened with breathless attention, when the loud orders of the Captain, who issued his commands quickly through a speaking-trumpet, disturbed the confidential conversation, and called the attention of the friends to what was passing around them. An ominous rustling and whispering from the sea greeted the ear, and the dark waves, sprinkled as it seemed with millions of glistening stars, rolled and tumbled together more uneasily. The Captain's voice sounded louder and shorter, and the sailors climbed like cats up the shrouds, ran along the yards, and fastened the loosened and fluttering sails to them. Scarce was this dangerous work over before a distant howling was heard. With fearful rapidity it hurried nearer, and in a few minutes more the ship flew, with her jib and foresail only set, like an arrow through the heaving waves. The passengers, warned by the Captain, forsook the deck, and Pastor Hehrmann and Werner were the only ones who defied the weather, for the waves looked terrifically beautiful in their dark grandeur, when the white and glowing looking foam shot past on their crests, and dissolved itself in a thousand little sparks. At last, however, they were obliged to quit the deck, for heavy drops fell from the clouds that towered themselves closer and closer. They descended, not without casting many an inquiring and fearful look towards the threatening sky, with some reluctance into the dark between decks, whence a suffocating vapour waved against them, and where they required some minutes before they got used to the close and vitiated air, and ventured to breathe it freely. A hollow sea was running; the waves struck heavily against the sides of the ship, which quivered at each blow. Still the wind had not had time to raise the sea much, and the good ship, heeling over to leeward, which gives a vessel a more secure, and even a more quiet position than when the sea is right abaft, and the lofty structure rolls from side to side, shot forward rapidly through the dark flood, dashing the white foam before her, so that most of the travellers sank into the arms of sleep, quietly and heedlessly. And Werner, too, crept into his berth, and listened for a long time, with his ear pressed close to the ship's side, to the surging and dashing and thundering of the waves without, until his eyes also were weighed down by weariness, and he found in his dreams the happiness that he was now driving through storms and waves to seek. A wild and confused cry, the lumbering and crashing of heavy objects, and an almost stupifying acute pain in the head, awoke him. He opened his eyes in terror and wonder; but although pitchy darkness surrounded him, he could distinguish that the ship must have changed her course, and therefore now leaned over on the side he was on, for his head laid low down, while his feet were elevated. He quickly changed his position. But the fearful noise between decks continued, and, creeping out of his berth, he soon became aware of the shocking condition in which he, as well as all his fellow-passengers, was placed. In the space which separates the two rows of sleeping places, there stand beams or pillars, ten feet apart from each other, destined as well for the support of the deck, which rests upon them, as for the security of the luggage within, and to these the chests and boxes, the trunks and packages, which are to be used, or their contents consumed, by the travellers on the passage, and therefore cannot be put into the hold, are lashed with ropes; and this is always done by the sailors, in order that, in the event of a sudden squall, or of continued stormy weather, the heavy baggage may not be hurled hither and thither in the narrow space, and endanger the limbs or lives even of its closely-packed tenants. This had been, and properly, done on board the Hoffnung, and that in such wise that most of the lids and covers could be opened, and so permit the free use of their provision and clothes' stores; but one of the countrymen, not comprehending the evil consequences of its omission, had unfastened one of the ropes--notwithstanding the cautions of several of his fellow-passengers--to enable him to take something out of his chest more conveniently. The little tailor, who lay in the berth over his, probably had some indistinct vision of chests and boxes dancing about, for he tried to fasten the rope again, but not being initiated in the mystery of tying such knots, he was only partially successful. When, therefore, the ship began to rise and jerk about, when the whole weight of the luggage swung over, first to this side and then to the other, the knot was loosened, and first the little packages and boxes came tumbling down from their elevations, and at last the heavy artillery, the immense storehouses of the emigrants, followed. It is true that, with praiseworthy zeal, several of these latter jumped out of their berths so soon as they observed the danger, but such was the mad motion of the ship that they could hardly keep on their legs, much less govern these heavy bodies, and a sudden movement of the ship throwing every thing towards them, compelled them hastily to retreat to their berths, which were protected by stout planks, in order to avoid being injured or crushed by the approaching chests. Their position was a fearful one, and was rendered more so by the cries of a young lad who had been trying to reach the opening towards the deck, and had been seriously hurt by one of the chests which rolled against him; while on all sides the shrieks of women, the cries of children, and the groans and retching of the sea-sick, resounded from the berths. It was a scene of dreadful confusion, and in vain did they all call for the sailors to help them; none of them could have been of any use in the darkness, had they had leisure to attend to the unhappy passengers. It was then, when every one believed that the terror had reached its height, and could not be increased, that a cry of dread and agony pierced through the noise and tumult, and even the children and the sick stopped their lamentations to listen to that sound, and to the momentary complete silence which succeeded the tumult; but it was only for a moment that cry of fear; "A corpse, a corpse!" echoed from berth to berth, from mouth to mouth. Among the passengers on board the Hoffnung there was an old woman, a widow, and her only daughter, who had gone out at the request of her son, a cabinet-maker in New York. He, being in tolerably easy circumstances, wished to have his poor old mother, who fared poorly enough in Germany, beside him; and had sent home the means to enable her and his sister to make the voyage over, to come and live with him. The poor old woman, however, who was ailing when she came on board, and had been much shaken by the sea sickness, no doubt in the confusion and terror of that night considered the destruction of the ship inevitable, and fear hastened the catastrophe for which bodily weakness and illness had prepared the way. She died, pressed to the heart of her daughter, who convulsively embraced her; and it was the latter, feeling her mother's body at her breast grow cold, who had uttered the shriek of terror and agony. But all their prayers for help were vain; the poor young girl was alone obliged to preserve the corpse from the rolling of the ship, and there she lay for some hours with her dead mother in her arms. Day, which had been so ardently and fearfully longed for, broke at last, and with it came help in their really shocking need. Eight sailors and the second mate came below to the unfortunate people, and in danger of their lives, and not without several severe bruises, made fast the chests and boxes once more, while the ship heaved yet more madly, and rolled from side to side. The first thing to be done was to remove the corpse from between decks; but in vain did the second mate beg of the girl to part with her mother's body to him; she only clasped it more tightly and declared that she would only part with her in death. In vain did Pastor Hehrmann endeavour to persuade the poor creature, and to induce her to give way to the reasonable and pressing request of the seaman; she would not, and her wild and incoherent words led to fears of the worst for herself; it was only when, exhausted by the exertions and the horrors of the night, she fell back in a swoon, that the sailors succeeded in taking from her the stiffened corpse, which was quickly, then and there, sewed in a large piece of sail cloth for more convenient transport on deck, and in order thence to be committed to the deep. The Captain, meanwhile, had made room in the cabin for Pastor Hehrmann's family, and had the women at least, and their beds, removed thither. Mrs. Hehrmann, indeed, was more dead than alive, and she scarcely could have got through such another night of terror. The Pastor himself no longer opposed this removal, for he could not help seeing that his family, although not brought up in luxury, yet never had been exposed to similar sufferings, and could hardly have borne a life surrounded by such scenes--but he himself would not forsake the steerage. There the scene was a shocking one, and pen or pencil would be too weak to attempt its description. The corpse was carried by the sailors towards the hatchway, and there handed to those above, who laid it on a plank and bore it to the lee side of the vessel. In spite of the rolling of the ship, in spite of the constant washing of the waves across the deck, although none other of the passengers, no, not even the committee, came to his side, the worthy Pastor Hehrmann, amidst the howling of the storm and the dashing of the waves, spoke a brief service for the dead over the body of the poor old woman, for whom the wild waves, instead of the arms of an affectionate son, now waited. The corpse was then lifted on the edge of the bulwarks, which were gliding, with an arrow's speed, through the foaming waters, and scarcely two feet elevated above them, (so inclined was the ship,) and in the next minute the sea engulfed its victim. But where, in this time of need and sorrow, was the committee, who had pledged themselves to provide during the voyage for the well-being and comfort of the travellers who had confided themselves to their care? Where was this committee, when all were calling for them, and wished for their help, or at all events their sympathy? Alas, the poor committee itself lay in the most pitiable condition, sea sick to a fearful degree, up and down about the cabin. The Captain could not be blamed if he swore a little, and declared that in whatever part of his cabin he got to, he could not help treading upon some member of this "extensive" committee, who, deaf to everything beside, only sighed and groaned, and called on death to relieve him from his misery. When the Captain told them of the case of death in the steerage, M. Von Schwanthal, raising himself a little by a leg of a camp stool, dolefully exclaimed, "Alas, who could the old woman be!" and sank back again exhausted, whilst the other members said nothing, but merely shook their heads gently and significantly. Mid-day approached, and the cook's call to dinner was heard, but few followed this call; and again, scarce a third of these few executed their bold resolve, under such circumstances, of eating, as well as fetching, their dinners. The Brewer got as far as the hatchway ladder, where he remained lying, and was only aroused by a dishful of rice, which, with its bearer, a journeyman tailor, came flying down on the top of him. But he bore no malice. Misfortune had made all equal; they remained lying near each other; and one of the sailors remarked, that "that was the fattest piece of beef he had ever met with in the rice-soup." The sea was majestic to behold--the gigantic waves which were excited, rolled and lifted up themselves, shaking off, when at their greatest height, the white foam from their crests, and then plunging down again, and with their powerful shoulders pressing forward another, often a yet more gigantic mass of foaming ocean. Whole companies of large porpoises, rolled and tumbled about in the angry element, allowed themselves to be lifted up to the very summit of the waves, and then leapt, as in play, from the descending wave out into the dark blue flood, streaked and marbled with veins of white foam, constantly repeating their play anew till they disappeared behind the watery mountains, and were only visible again for a moment when the ship was raised on some gigantic wave, and could survey, as from a tower, the whole excited foaming and boiling desert of water. The storm lasted during three days; the ship with her jib only set, for they had been obliged to take in the foresail, drove to leeward, the rudder was lashed, and the sailors upon duty on deck were obliged to secure themselves by ropes from being washed overboard by the sea, which struck over the ship with fearful violence. At last, on the fourth day, the storm seemed inclined to abate. It is true that the sea ran as high as before, for the monster could not pacify itself at once; but a hope was now revived at least of more peaceable times, and that partially allayed the despair of the passengers; but it was not until the sixth day, when the sea had almost entirely abated, and the ship flew through it, leaning on one side, but no longer rocking backwards and forwards as before, when the sails could be set and the rudder managed, that the sea-sick recovered, and even some individual members of the committee made their appearance on deck, pale, and with sunken cheeks and lack-lustre eyes. Mrs. Hehrmann improved rapidly in health during the last few days: the sickness seemed to have exhausted its virulence upon her, and to have yielded to a stronger nature. Her improvement was almost visible; and she passed nearly the whole day upon deck, where, attended by her daughters, and strengthened by the more generous diet of the cabin, she appeared to absorb new life-juices from the pure sea air. The poor girl, from whom, when in an unconscious state, they had taken the dead mother, did not fare so well. Her reason had, it is true, returned; but she lay in her berth in a high fever. In the stillness of the night, her mind often wandered to her mother, and in her delirium she spoke words of comfort to her, and assured her that she would soon, very soon, see her son again. The women took the poor creature under their care, and nursed her as well as they could. But now the old grudge, which festered in the hearts of the steerage passengers towards the committee, began to ferment afresh: How much had not the committee promised, and how little, how very little had it performed! Were _they_ to bear it quietly, and without grumbling? Were they to look on, while they were neglected, and, perhaps, even laughed at behind their backs? Were they to let these fellows carry themselves so high, while _they_ suffered tortures which they had not before thought possible? No, they would argue the matter at least; no one could forbid that; for as to _acting_, unfortunately they had themselves parted with their weapons for the purpose. For, before leaving Bremen, where the separate articles of agreement were drawn up, all had by mutual contract, and by the deposit of a small fund in the hands of the treasurer, M. Siebert, sen., who was chosen by acclamation, obliged themselves, upon their arrival in their adopted country, to buy a certain number of acres of land, as many as their means would permit, in a district to be chosen by the committee, and, as already stated, to clear it and to cultivate it in common. For this purpose, there were not only agriculturists for the tillage itself, but they had also a smith, a wheelwright, brewer, tailor, shoemaker, glazier, cabinet-maker, weaver, and almost all other necessary artisans, so that, as observed by the committee, they were assured against accident, and dependent upon nobody. They had even provided themselves with tools; and although the Captain, before starting, warned them against carrying over German utensils and tools, and indeed in general, as he expressed it, "from carrying over German customs, and German iron, and little German silver," yet neither the committee nor the rest could be brought to see it in this light, and some seventy hundredweight of agricultural and other implements--such as axes, hatchets, saws, chains, ploughs, scythes, and even carts and waggons, had been got on board and brought across. The freight on board ship, it is true, was not very high, and although the captain here again called their attention to the expensive carriage to their place of settlement in America, yet all the members of the committee, with the exception of the Pastor Hehrmann, who was inclined to believe in the reasoning of the old seaman, had read too much about America, and the manners and usages there, not to be aware that tools were very dear in the interior, and even that in certain places they were not to be had; it is true that they did not exactly know whether they should alight upon these certain places; but they thought that they ought to provide for the worst, since it was possible that they might. The great mass cordially approved of this; indeed, most of the emigrants could not imagine how they could work with tools of a different construction from those to which they had been accustomed from infancy upwards, and in this particular were well satisfied with their committee. The expense of the passage and of the land journey to their ultimate destination was to be defrayed out of the deposited money, and then the residue was to be applied, so far as it would extend, in the purchase of land, and the committee undertook to subscribe such funds as might be required for any further needful expenses themselves. But the committee were especially to see that a healthy and good tract of land was selected, and that it should be conveyed and assured to them in due form as their sole property; for there was not one of the party but had heard of the frequent occurrence of frauds there, and who did not fear them; that, then, everything should be divided and allotted, according to right and justice, as well labour as property; and it was one of the chief conditions--and indeed one that was of course--that the committee were, generally, not only in their adopted country, but on the voyage out, to keep in view the interests of the members who had confided in them, to protect and to provide for them. Mr. Becher for this purpose had made an extraordinary address to the meeting, at the Hull Arms, in Bremen, with which all were particularly pleased, if for no other cause, because he addressed them invariably as "Citizens;" one expressed his opinion, before they went on board, that never before had any one made such a speech to them. They confided implicitly in the committee; but this concord received a severe shock from the complete neglect with which the poorer portion of the emigrants were treated even on board ship; sea-sickness, it is true, quieted their minds for a time; but the storm which had left the ocean, passed into the hearts of the steerage passengers, and they would not admit the propriety of the committee eating their pudding while they got only bacon and split pease. It might be borne, the Brewer considered, if they did not carry the savoury dishes from under their very noses, but that it was just as if they did it on purpose to make game of them. The steward, or cabin attendant, namely, was obliged to pass through amongst them, every time that he carried the dinner into the cabin, and the smell of the roast meat and pastry had contributed not a little to raise their bile against the committee. It happened, one morning, when Pastor Hehrmann (who otherwise always quieted the dissatisfied by his reasonable representations--remedied that which he himself considered wrong--and kept the disturbers of the peace in order,) was seated beside his family, near the wheel, and was gazing at the broad and sunny expanse, dotted here and there with a distant sail, that the revolt grew apace, and the good people did, as most others in their place would have done--they _resolved_ to revolt, if they did not actually do it. But, in order to bring their grievances before those who were to blame, they agreed to send deputies to the committee to represent to the latter the irregularity of their proceedings; to request a change; and to get the promise, which they had formerly made, renewed by them, or otherwise to demand the return of the deposits, so that each of them might again do as they liked. This last point, in particular, found many supporters, and so far all was well; but the little circumstance remained--who was to say all this to the committee? Unquestionably the tailor had the best tongue, but he was only a journeyman. One of them--it was the brewer--therefore proposed Werner, and all immediately concurred in the choice. As he was not present, they sent everywhere in search of him, to fetch him, and to communicate the resolution to him. But he was sitting up aloft, gazing dreamily, not at the wide rolling sea, not at the distant ships that steered past with their sunny sails, not at the sea-mews or the Mother Carey's chickens, that were wantoning about the Hoffnung, sometimes skimming over the surface of the splashing waters, as if the top of each wave must reach the bold creatures and drag them down--sometimes diving with the quickness of lightning into the flood, as bright as crystal, and coming to the surface again loaded with their booty; no, he gazed at the steerer, who, wheel in hand, was looking earnestly, first at the compass, then at the top-gallant sails, to see that they caught the wind fully. And who was this helmsman?--some rough strong figure, in a coarse blue jacket and Scotch bonnet--some bearded physiognomy, with dark brows and sunburnt features? No; he wore a gay-coloured light dress, a light-blue silk handkerchief, loosely slung round the white neck, dark curls, lifted by the soft south wind and fluttering round the dear rosy face--in short, it was Pastor Hehrmann's elder little daughter, Bertha--who was here learning to steer the ship from the chief mate, and indeed showed herself so teachable, that the grave man let her hold the helm herself and stood looking on, and smiling when the ship would not immediately answer the rudder, and she leaned with all her strength on the spokes; and then, when she saw her come round and follow the prescribed track, merrily shook the long flowing curls from her face; perhaps, also, at the same time, she stole a shy, pleased glance upwards--of course merely to observe the sails. Thrice already had a sailor, dispatched by the brewer, been into the top, and pressingly requested Werner to come below, before he obeyed the call; and then, discontented and grumbling at being obliged to quit his perch, slid down a rope. Hardly had he arrived in the steerage before all thronged round him, and twenty at once tried to make him comprehend a story which he could not understand from any of them--at last, he found out what was passing, and what was wanted of him. However, he briefly declined the honourable offer, as he called it, giving as his sole reason for so doing, that he did not belong to the association formed in Bremen, and consequently had no right to act as its mouthpiece; that he could not interfere with what the committee might commit or omit; and that if he were to do so, they would merely have to ask him what business it was of his, and he should be silenced. He thanked them in brief and friendly words for their confidence, and quickly climbed aloft again. Now good counsel was scarce, and they really knew not whom to choose. "Well, then," said one of the peasants at last, "I'll go myself; what need is there for fine speeches? I'll tell them my mind, and what we have agreed upon." "That's right, Schmidt," all the others echoed. "You go; you know what you're about, and you'll tell them what they ought to be told." No sooner said than done. Schmidt, accompanied by the brewer and the shoemaker, took his departure with prompt and firm step; had himself announced to the Captain by a sailor. He came to them immediately; but on hearing what they wanted, referred them to the cabin, where the whole of the committee, with the exception of Pastor Hehrmann, were quietly playing at whist. The cabin of the Hoffnung was very prettily arranged; everything was of mahogany, the tables of lighter coloured wood, and the sides surmounted by a brass edging; the little windows were hung with pink curtains, and two large massive mirrors were let into the sides, below which were soft red-coloured sofas. Poor Schmidt felt quite nervous on entering this splendid cabin, and he began to stammer a part of his speech, when the elder Siebert, who observed his embarrassment, and perhaps had some guess of what brought the people there, with a patronizing air spoke to him, and called him, "My good man." This brought old Schmidt round directly; his bile was raised, and he delivered all that he had got to say in a straightforward manner; pointed out to the several members their promises, and required their performance, or else the return of the money which was in their hands. Pastor Hehrmann, who had followed them below, endeavoured to speak to him in a friendly spirit, but Schmidt turned sulkily away, and said, "Oh, I know very well that you mean well, but still the others do as they like." "My dear Mr. Schmidt," Mr. Becher now began, "you will pardon me if I call your attention to one or two little errors in your ideas. You reproach us with being careless of your welfare; that we are luxuriating here while you are suffering; that we have every convenience in the world, as you were pleased to express yourself, while you laid in the steerage; that we looked down upon you, and intended to tread you and your honoured friends--allow me, if you please--under foot. But tell me, my dear Mr. Schmidt, how have we deserved these accusations? What have we done to arouse your anger?--let me conclude, I beg. We have taken up our abode here in the cabin, instead of in the steerage with you; but was not that for your good rather than for our own? Are there not quite people enough already in that narrow space, without us? and don't we pay _our own_ hard cash for those conveniences which we enjoy here? "You reproach us with neglecting you! you must blame the Captain for that. The rules of the ship are strict; the steerage passengers are not allowed in the cabin, and as little are the cabin passengers allowed in the steerage! Do you require greater equality? You say that we feast here while you starve. Have you not a supply of good healthy food in the steerage?--meat every day, and plenty of vegetables? coffee in the morning, tea in the evening, good butter and ship's bread, even a pudding on Sundays, with plums and syrup? Do you call that starving? or is the diet bad, eh?" The three deputies shook their heads with one accord. "Well, what more have we," the orator continued, "except what we pay dearly for? We want to tread you under foot! My dear Mr. Schmidt, _how_ have we deserved this accusation? What has happened that could make you believe such a thing? No; we respect your rights, we feel that we are all only men; men, the work of the same Creator, and made after his image, and that we are bound for one adopted country on a single and mutual object. Gentlemen, I feel myself honoured, in being your equal, to stand as an equal to such worthy men, and I believe that I may pledge myself for all my fellow committee-men to these sentiments." A low murmur of assent was the reply. Pastor Hehrmann had placed himself at the window, and was looking out at the waves. "I see," continued Mr. Becher, following up his advantage, "you feel the truth of what I have just said; but if you consider us selfish, bad men--if you think that we are capable of deceiving or taking advantage of you--if you believe that our intentions are not pure and good--well, there stands Mr. Siebert--he will cheerfully repay the sums which are in his hands, but at the same time with deep regret that you, my worthy countrymen, should have entertained distrust towards him and us." Mr. Becher ceased, and looked down in a melancholy manner. Honest Schmidt, however, who had expected pride and haughtiness, and was ready to meet them, had been by no means prepared to be spoken to and received with so much civility; and being himself an honest upright man, not readily suspicious of others, he gave Mr. Becher good-heartedly his hand, which that gentleman pressed and shook warmly, and Schmidt assured the committee that they must not take it amiss; that he was a little unpolished and rough, but meant well; and that as he and his friends saw that the committee were not proud, and intended to perform what they had promised, there existed no longer any reason why they should ask for a return of their money, and he would therefore go and tell the rest in the steerage that everything was settled, and that they had nothing to fear. The three deputies then retired, amidst mutual assurances of friendship. Mr. Becher followed them with his eye until they passed up stairs, and had disappeared above; he then turned round, and, embracing his friend Siebert, assured him, with affected tone, (imitating Schmidt's voice,) that they were all free and equal as the Almighty had created them, and that they would hold together through trouble and in death. Mr. Von Schwanthal, meanwhile, with a very long face, shuffled the cards again and again, and assured these two, who laughed heartily, that it was no joking matter; that the people were in earnest, and were not altogether wrong; that for his own part, however, he did not exactly see _how_ they were to arrange matters in America; for, after all, such a perfect equality was not easily adopted. "And _why_ not?" Pastor Hehrmann interrupted him. "If we are all animated by strong and public-spirited feelings; if we all resolve only to act in such a manner that the whole may prosper; if we lay aside all petty, personal objects; if we----" "But, my dear Mr. Pastor, we want to play whist," young Siebert interrupted him, laughing. "Let us first get to this land of promise, and all that will follow as of course." "Well, I'm content," said Mr. Von Schwanthal, sighing, and handing the cards to be cut; "I shall be very pleased if all goes well." Pastor Hehrmann returned upon deck to his family, whilst Becher, Von Schwanthal, and the two Sieberts continued their game. But Herbold walked up and down the cabin, with his hands crossed behind him, and wearing a very thoughtful countenance; and he whistled so loud that at last Becher begged him, for Heaven's sake, to leave off. In the steerage, meanwhile, all seemed to be pacified again; the fact that Mr. Becher had offered to return them their money left no doubt as to his sincerity: and as to the other points, they were content to assent to them; all they wanted was, to have their equality acknowledged, and that the committee should see that they would not "put up" with anything. The wind blew pretty favourably from the south-southwest, and the ship flew along bravely, with all sails set, through the slightly ruffled waves. They were now off the so-called Bank of Newfoundland, and were approaching nearer and nearer to the American continent: the captain even had the lead sounded, but without as yet finding bottom. A glowing heat lay upon the water, and the burning sun shone almost perpendicularly down upon the travellers, who felt more and more the continued monotony of the voyage. Although squabbles occurred daily in the steerage, yet, in general, peace was easily restored; the spirits were at rest--almost too much at rest; for a portion of the Emigrants, especially the Oldenburghers, lay so immoveably in their berths all day, that there was no getting any fresh, healthy air below. Werner remained the whole day through upon deck, for he could not, as he declared, endure the stifling atmosphere below; and almost all the women complained bitterly of the want of pure air in their sleeping places. Pastor Hehrmann first tried to rouse these "immoveables," but in vain; then came Becher, who put to them a number of cases, showing the evil consequences of so much rest, as he called it. It was in vain. Even Siebert tried his luck, with the same want of success. The good folks lay still, and asserted quietly, "That _they_ were quite comfortable--and that those who were not so, might go above; that they compelled no one to remain below, and could not understand why they should be compelled to go on deck." In fact, they remained where they were; and the Committee, at their wits' end, turned at last to the Captain--he promised a remedy. At last, one fine morning, when the sun was shining warmly and refreshingly on deck, he had the idlers asked once more to come upon deck, and as the summons was unheeded, the word of command was given down both hatchways, "All on deck!--all on deck!" This, too, was unavailing; it had been tried several times already. But, when all the well-disposed had obeyed, and women and children had left the between-decks, several sailors simultaneously descended the two hatchways, four of them, provided with pots of tar and red hot irons, and two with pans of sulphur. When the latter had ignited their brimstone, the others dipped their irons in the tar, and such a vapour immediately filled the hold, that the sailors, familiar as they were with climbing up and down, could scarce find their way into the open air, where they were received with hurrahs by the Emigrants. Meanwhile, it fared very ill with the poor "immoveables," who tried in vain to find their way to the hatchways; they could neither find them nor their way back to their berths, but were obliged to wrap their jackets round their heads, and throw themselves on the ground, there, half suffocated, to await the drawing off of the dreadful smoke. But the remedy was effectual--for on the following morning, when the voices of the two sailors were heard at the hatchways, not one passenger was missing from on deck. All had now recovered--even the poor girl had got better under the careful nursing of the women, assisted by some medicines ordered by Werner, and she met with every assistance and sympathy which she could expect, under such circumstances and in such a position. But the longed-for coast now drew nearer and nearer, and the passengers, by this time grown impatient, expected daily to see the wished-for shore rise out of the blue distance; the lead had been twice successfully cast, and the depth found announced the neighbourhood of the coast. One morning, the glad cry of "Land! land!" resounded in their ears, and before the eyes of those who were half awake could distinguish the low blue stripe, almost fading in the horizon, and stretching out towards the north-west, a charming little cutter shot towards them, with the speed of an arrow, through the waves; the flag of the United States, the stars and stripes, fluttered at the mast, and in a few minutes more the pilot, a tall, haggard-looking man, in a black dress coat, dazzling white linen, and a large gold watch-chain, sprang, with a bound, up the ship's side. With wonder, bordering upon awe, the steerage passengers gazed at the pilot, who was no sooner on board than he took upon himself the complete command of the ship, and ordered the sailors about as though he had made the whole voyage out with them. He was the first actual living American whom they had seen, and spoke real English. There remained, however, but short time for astonishment, for the wind was favourable, and the Captain announced that they should cast anchor that very evening. Hereupon every one had a variety of little matters to look after and get in order, and most of them scarcely cast another glance upon either the pilot or the land. The magnificent coast stood out more clearly and distinctly every minute; at first, the mere outline of the hills was discernible, and certain hollows and promontories--then darker and lighter spots could be distinguished--the eye was able to separate field from woodland. There a house started up--is it, perhaps, some farm, inhabited by Germans? Over yonder, there stand some single trees, and farther to the right--yes--something moves: it is a flock, there are living creatures on the shore, and the searching gaze might soon detect men--human beings--who moved backwards and forwards, and it soon even became a question of indescribable interest whether that man yonder, to the right of the projecting tree, and to the left of the red roof, wore--a hat or a cap! Every trifle was narrowly examined, and it was only when they came nearer and nearer, and new objects were constantly crowding forward into notice, that they turned their attention to the grandeur of the whole scenery. It was a delightful view. That beautiful bay, with its meadows and its woods, fields and buildings, its forts and its many ships, bathed in the magic of a new, unknown, and long-desired country. None of the Emigrants knew yet the many cares and privations which, perhaps, awaited them there. None saw in the splendid landscape spread out before them, all the want, all the sorrow, that reign among the indwellers of this, as of every other country; they saw only the beautiful sparkling shell, and concluded that the kernel must of course be good. Towards evening, the heavy anchor rolled into the deep, and a little boat, bearing several medical men, and with a yellow flag flying, came up to them. The doctors examined the state of health of the passengers, and pronounced it satisfactory. Still, the "Hoffnung" remained this night without further communication with the shore, and it was not until the following morning that a little coasting vessel, with two schooner sails, came alongside, and took the steerage passengers on board, to conduct them to the Quarantine Buildings, where their luggage was to be examined, and they themselves were to remain for twenty-four hours longer. Here, again, their concord was near being disturbed; for the committee remained on board. Werner, however, pacified them, by the assurance that it could not be helped, for that they dared not even go on shore with them--that such was the regulation; but they would now shortly set foot on land, and every distinction would cease. This consoled the people; they assisted to carry over their things to the Quarantine House, and were soon busily engaged studying the thousands of names which former emigrants had written in pencil upon the rough-hewn timbers of which the building was composed. Many a one found there the name of some old acquaintance, and hastened to incorporate his own in the general register. Pencils were in demand. But how many elegant verses, gnawed by the tooth of Time, passed into decay here in retirement! how many effusions of a pure poetical frenzy, seizing on the poor exile torn from his home to this foreign, friendless shore, disappeared, without a trace, among the mass of names! Werner copied some of them into his pocket book-- "Now we'll all sing Hallelujah, For we are in America." Another-- "For all that we've suffered I don't care one button, Now that we've plenty of fresh beef and mutton!" Although the Quarantine House was distant a few hundred yards only from the shore, (it was built like an island in the water,) yet the Emigrants had hitherto in vain asked for permission to go across. At last some boats came over, and the cheerful cry, "Ashore! ashore!" resounded from lip to lip. All, however, did not avail themselves of the permission; some would not leave their things, which stood there unprotected; others considered the fare demanded higher than suited their views; in short, there might be about fifteen, who, jumping joyously into the boat, were rowed ashore to their adopted country, whose soil they were now about to set foot on for the first time. And now, no doubt, they fell down and kissed the longed-for land, hugged the trees, shook the Americans as their new brothers heartily by the hand, embraced them, and in their turn were received by these latter equally cordially and affectionately, and as newly acquired brethren and fellow citizens, who had just been endowed with sacred Liberty! No; they inquired for the nearest tavern, where some fresh bread, cheese, and beer, were to be had, and were laughed at by the Americans on account of their speech and their costume. But they found what they were looking for, and without bestowing a single glance at the town, which they said they should see enough of by and by, they stormed into the public room of the inn with joyful haste, "in order to get the salt taste out of their mouths," as the brewer expressed it. Their entrance was characteristic. The brewer stepped up to the bar, and in a deep, sonorous voice pronounced the single word "Beer," but with such emphasis, with such feeling, with such infinite longing, that one could see at a glance what the man had suffered since he had been deprived of its enjoyment. He knew besides that the same word signified beer in English as in his own language, and, indeed, had already intimated, on board ship, his conviction that in all languages it must be called "Beer," for that it could not be expressed otherwise. Several of the passengers had zealously studied English aboard ship; the tailor had been particularly industrious in this respect, and he now determined to make a trial of his acquirements, as he naturally supposed himself to be surrounded by Englishmen, or rather by persons who spoke nothing but English. With a face of great importance, therefore, he walked up to the bar, and asked loudly, and, as he supposed, distinctly, for a "A porschen hemm," (a portion or plateful of ham.) He was taken aback very much by the simple answer of the hostess, who, in broad German, smacking a good deal of the Swabian twang, asked him, for Heaven's sake, to speak German, for she understood that much better than his English. The passengers were not a little pleased to meet with a countrywoman, who was already in America, and the evening passed with incredible swiftness, amidst full bowls, and good, strengthening, and long-missed food. Werner had remained but a short time beside them, and had gone and seated himself on the beach, gazing dreamily out upon the wide sea that had borne him thither. Long and steadfastly did his eye rest upon the proud ship whose red-and-white chequered flag fluttered in the fresh wind, resting upon the waters with sails taken in, like some wearied bird, and only slightly rocked by the gently heaving waves. Yonder structure contained all to which his heart was attached, and he felt almost impelled to swim across and climb up its side in infinite longing. He still sat there when deep night had sunk upon the misty expanse of waters, and the hull of the ship and the water on which it rested disappeared in the dull darkness; the sharp line of the masts alone stood out in relief against the lighter horizon, in which many a friendly star glanced through the driving clouds, when he thought that he heard something move in the bushes behind him--he looked round, he listened--all was quiet--only the lights shone from out the not distant houses, and human voices sounded from them over towards him. He arose; it began to grow cool; the night air was damp; he cast but another glance towards the peaceful ship, from whose cabin also a light now shone out, and turned towards the neighbouring inn, when two dark figures rushed upon him, and at the same instant a blow from a stick, narrowly missing his temples, at which it was aimed, descended upon him. "Help!" cried he, seizing one of his aggressors, who he now saw were negroes, by the throat; but a second better directed blow descended with fearful force upon his forehead, protected only by a thin cap; his senses left him, and he sank down unconscious. How long he might have lain there he knew not; when he came to himself again he found himself in the midst of his travelling companions in the Quarantine-house, and the poor girl whom he had healed, and the woman whose child he had saved, supporting his head and bathing his wounds. He gazed around in astonishment, for in fact he did not at once discover where he was, and although awake, he thought he must be dreaming, when, looking up, he saw the room in which he was, from the roof of which, consisting of rough-hewn beams, a lantern was suspended, throwing a dim, indistinct light around--and he heard the words and the murmur of voices around him. But the women had observed his waking, and their cheerful call immediately brought all the emigrants round the couch of the sufferer. A hundred questions were directed to him simultaneously, and in vain did he ask himself for an explanation of what had taken place. It was some time before the tumult was allayed, and he learnt that his cry for assistance had fortunately been heard, and, as such attacks had occasionally been made in that quarter before, it had been attended to. The scoundrels, disturbed by the men who hurried towards them, had robbed him of nothing besides his purse. His pocket-book, which he carried in a coat-pocket behind, and which contained the whole of his little stock of money, had, fortunately, thanks to their speedy assistance, escaped. With his purse, he might have lost, according to his statement, some five or six dollars. But all attempts to overtake the robbers had proved vain; under cover of the night they had reached the neighbouring woods, and were secured by them from further pursuit. Werner soon recovered, and--with a cool bandage round the wound received from the bludgeon--slept throughout the night softly and tranquilly. On the following morning a little boat carried him and two other steerage passengers to the steamboat, which was at hand, and merrily getting the steam up to start from Staaten Island for New York; but scarcely had he put foot upon its deck, before he met the eyes of Bertha, who, standing by her sister's side, had not noticed his arrival, until she caught sight of his pale face and the white handkerchief tied round his head. The blood left her cheeks, as she asked him, in a tremulous voice, what had happened; but, before he could reply, he felt the hand of Pastor Hehrmann on his shoulder, who heartily welcomed him, it is true, but also started back on seeing his pale face. Werner had to relate what had occurred, and Bertha listened with palpitating heart and half-opened lips. The remaining members of the committee now joined them, and pitied young Werner, heartily. Becher was of opinion that he had received a "striking" proof of the evil disposition of the negroes. At last, after the expiration of about half an hour, the steamer, passing rapidly through a number of small craft and vessels, went on its course towards the immense city of New York, which, with its mass of houses, surrounded by a forest of masts, spread itself out before them. The elder Siebert, who had formerly lived four years in the United States, undertook the care of their luggage, and gave directions to some carters, whose numbers he took, and then passed on, leading the way, with his travelling companions, through the, to him, familiar streets, towards Hudson-street, where they had obtained the address of a good French boarding-house; for, as Siebert assured them, there were few good German inns at New York, although their number extended to several hundreds. Their sea voyage was thus happily accomplished, and they now only awaited the arrival of the rest of their fellow passengers, which was to take place on the following day, in order to discuss and execute their plans for the further journey, as all were agreed that too long a stay in New York was to be avoided--first, on account of the loss of time, and, secondly, of the considerable expense. Mr. Siebert promised to make inquiries forthwith as to the most advantageous neighbourhood for a settlement, and to communicate the information to the committee. CHAPTER II. A WEEK IN NEW YORK. Hotly and oppressively did the sun shine down upon the mirror-like surface of Staaten Island Bay, the next day, when the boat, containing the steerage passengers of the Hoffnung, reached the Quay at New York, and threw its ropes ashore. The sailors had not had time to make fast before a complete flood of persons pressed forward from every side from which it was possible to get upon deck, and crowded every corner and gangway of the vessel. A great number of those who jumped on board to welcome the fresh-comers to their new home appeared to be actuated, not by curiosity only, but also by zeal to make themselves useful, and without looking round they seized upon boxes and chests, and seemed inclined to empty the whole vessel. "Hallo there! where are you off to with that chest," cried the brewer, seizing at the same time the above-mentioned article of luggage with both hands, and dragging it from the shoulders of a sturdy negro, who was just about to step on shore with it. The black, it is true, explained his intentions in few words, but as the brewer unfortunately could not understand a syllable of what he was saying, he merely shook his head, and carried back his chest to the remainder of his luggage. The same sort of thing occurred to all the rest, until at last the master of the boat interfered, drove the intruders back, and the few seamen on board, with the willing assistance of the Germans themselves, got the whole of the passengers' things on shore, and several of the emigrants kept watch by them. This last measure seemed a very necessary one, for, as carrion vultures surround a dying animal, so did carters, black and white, surround the piled-up boxes, impatiently waiting the moment when each of them might carry off his load. Pastor Hehrmann, the elder Siebert, and Mr. Becher, now joined them, and after a hearty shaking of hands with their fellow travellers on the so longed-for terra firma, took counsel how best to lodge them properly, since they could not well all find room together in one tavern. Many had brought with them the addresses of "good" German inns in New York, obtained through acquaintances or relations who had formerly sojourned at them, and found them comfortable. Others were directed to a so-called "German Boarding House" in Pearl Street, and a large number, including nearly all the Oldenburghers, determined to remain on the Quay, where they saw three German public-houses side by side, as well to have a view of the shipping as to save the money required for the removal of their luggage, which they at once got on their own shoulders, and carried across into the "Schweitzer's Heimat," (the Switzer's Home.) Siebert advised them not to take up their quarters at these waterside public-houses, but they had made up their minds; they listened, it is true, patiently to his representations and arguments, but still went and did as they wished. Mr. Siebert now exhorted each of them to be careful in noting accurately the number of the cart which carried his property, so that, in the event of their being separated from it, they might not lose their little all, and he then started, with a portion of his fellow travellers, towards the boarding-house, whilst several two-wheeled carts, with their baggage, accompanied them. In less than two hours the whole company was scattered; and we will now follow the Oldenburghers for a moment, who, persecuted by the jokes and jeers of the carters plying on the quay, carried their heavy chests into the inn, in front of which hung a gaudy sign, intended to represent a Swiss landscape, with the subscription "Schweitzer's Heimat." The landlord, who was a fat man, and who might have passed for a good-natured looking fellow, had it not been for a slight cast in his eye, met them at the door, and called to them, in a not-to-be-mistaken Swiss dialect, to carry their things up into the large saloon. The thing was sooner said than done--for it was no easy matter to get the colossal boxes and chests up the narrow and steep staircase. However, they succeeded at last, and found themselves in a very large roomy apartment, which might claim the title of a "saloon," and contained about twenty double beds, while beside these, in two long rows, there stood a number of boxes and bags. Immediately afterwards, their host followed, and indicated a particular corner for their luggage. "Are there more people to sleep here, then?" inquired one of the Oldenburghers, who began, perhaps, to think the thing rather uncomfortable. "Yes," replied our host, "we are a little crowded for the moment, but to-morrow many of them are going away, and if you will only make yourselves comfortable for to-night, the matter can be arranged." "And two have to sleep in one bed?" asked another. "It might happen," replied the landlord, "that we might be compelled to accommodate three in some of them; it's only for one night, and you are not spoiled--on board ship, things are worse, I know;" he laughed, and descended the steep stairs. "Yes, that's true enough--on board ship it's worse still. But upon my word, I don't see why on that account it should not be otherwise here in New York." The others comforted him with "Well, it's for one night only!" and easily pacified, they walked down to the bar-room, where a kind of barman, half sailor, half waiter, stood behind a counter covered with unwashed glasses, and filled liquors for the guests out of pitchers and bottles. Tobacco smoke and noise filled the room, and the sound of curses and laughter, of violence and hallooing, met them at their entrance. They called for a can of cider, it is true, in an unoccupied corner--but they did not feel at home or comfortable there, and determined, at last, to go and have a look at New York. Meanwhile, Mr. Siebert had led his protegées to a somewhat more decent and better house; and the brewer, the little tailor, the shoemaker, and old Schmidt, the quondam ambassador to the committee, took a room together. But the shoemaker was in despair, for one of his chests, containing all the tools of his trade, and many other things, was nowhere to be found. He had last seen it upon the shoulders of a negro, who was walking behind the cart containing the other luggage, but distracted by the gaudily-ornamented shops, he had lost sight of the black suddenly, and neither him nor the chest did he ever see again. All inquiry was in vain, and he was now convinced how much reason Mr. Siebert had to recommend particular attention to their property. The others felt themselves the more comfortable, and the little tailor declared it was worth while to travel to America, if it were only to look at the streets and the people. Soon afterwards they were summoned to dinner, and in the large room of the house they found a long table spread, at which all of them, without distinction of rank, took their seats, and were allowed to torture their teeth with some very tough beef. The dinner was not particularly good; but a glass of cider, which they got with it, consoled them, and a stroll through the town was agreed upon by all the Germans immediately after dinner. The shoemaker alone remained behind, in order to prepare a pot of his new expeditious blacking, with which he hoped to earn something, and to reimburse himself somewhat for the loss of his chest. But what splendour, exceeding anything they had imagined, met their eyes in the broad and handsome streets which they wandered through; what gold, and silver, and costly stuffs, gleamed in all the windows and shops; they could not gaze enough, and stopped continually at newly-discovered beauties with fresh astonishment. But they were particularly delighted with the number of small two-wheeled trucks, drawn about the streets by men, full of the finest pine-apples, cocoanuts, and oranges; and no sooner did the brewer learn that a pine-apple (which, in Germany, as he had heard, would cost a couple of dollars) might be bought here for as many groats, than he bargained for a whole armfull; the others were not behindhand, and they filled the vacuum which the dinner had left in their stomachs with fruit. The little tailor, on the other hand, could not get over his astonishment at the number of clothes'-shops, for in some streets every third house seemed to be a tailor's workshop; when stopping suddenly before one of these, as if petrified, he stared at a small shield, upon which there was this notice, both in English and German, "Five hundred Journeymen wanted." "Hallo!" he cried, "that's what I call a master. But by this and by that, he must pay good wages, if he can employ so many people! Hark ye, I'll go in and try." "What are you going to be at inside, then, Meier?" asked Schmidt, of the tailor; "haven't you engaged to go with us, and actually paid for your share of the new farm?" "Oh, that be hanged!" said the tailor; "if I could get work at such a master's, I should be much better off." "That don't signify," said the brewer; "your word is your word, and you must come with us! Who else is to sew all our clothes?" "Well," said the tailor, "but if brilliant prospects should present themselves to me here, the Committee would surely allow me to accept them; for to remain all one's life a poor journeyman tailor----" "All that don't matter," replied the brewer; "you've paid your deposit, and go you must! This was the object of having all the articles written down, in order that, afterwards, nobody might do as they pleased." "At all events, I'll ask the question," cried the little fellow, quickly; "a question can't hurt, and perhaps it may be of use hereafter." With these words he walked in, accompanied by the others, who were curious to see the interior of such a shop, and he was not a little astonished to find the master a German, and moreover an Israelite, who in very polite terms asked him what he wanted, and what articles he would allow him to show him? "Oh!" said the little man, rather abashed; "I'm only a tailor--and--should like to inquire after work; you have given notice outside that five hundred----" "Yes, that was three days ago," the clothes-dealer interrupted him, suddenly changing his tone altogether. "Since then, I've engaged four hundred and sixty--indeed, I should have liked to make up the five hundred, but as most of the work is already arranged, I could only pay the rest very small wages; besides, most of our summer clothing is made by sempstresses. However, you may work a week on trial. You're only just arrived, aint you?" The tailor answered in the affirmative, wondering at the same time how the man could know this. "Well, then," continued the other, "as I said, you may work a week on trial, and I'll pay your board--if we suit each other, at the end of the time, we can enter into an engagement." "We'll consider it, meanwhile," said the brewer, going away, and dragging the little tailor, who offered little resistance, after him, by his coat tails, out of the shop. "What a lot of clothes were hanging in there!" said Schmidt, when they got outside again. "I wonder where he puts his four hundred and sixty journeymen to," said the little tailor, looking up towards the house; "that must be something like a workshop!" "He's no fool," the brewer rejoined; "he wants to get you to work a week for nothing--a pretty arrangement, that!" "But it may be the custom here, you know," said the tailor. "Oh, I wish they may get it!" replied the brewer; "if that's the custom, I won't stay in America. But, hallo! if there aint the Oldenburghers coming along!" It was them, in fact, who, like their fellow-travellers, staring into every shop, came up the street, and were not a little pleased to meet with their old acquaintances so suddenly. On board ship, they had almost ceased to look at each other, from anger and hatred; but here, in a foreign country, where everything met them coldly and indifferently, and everybody seemed to be only trying if they could squeeze money out of them in some way or other, their old quarrels had vanished, and they shook hands like brothers. Of course, they continued their stroll together, and for several hours more traversed the principal streets of New York; but who shall describe their embarrassment when the setting sun reminded them of their return, and not one of them could find their way back, or had even any idea in which direction their several inns were situate. They walked in vain, with quickened pace, through the straight streets, which all cross each other at right angles, no longer admiring the gaudy show of the wares exposed for sale--at last, not even honouring them with a glance. Suddenly, they met a man who certainly must be a German: the long blue coat--the high-crowned and broad-brimmed hat--the short pipe--there could be no mistake. Schmidt accordingly walked confidently up to him, and taking off his hat, bade him good day, and inquired whether he had the honour to address a German. The man thus accosted, however, stared at him awhile, and seemed in doubt whether he should answer or not; at last, he drew a long whiff from his short pipe, stared at the Emigrants all round, one after the other, and answered, in a drawling tone--"Yes." "Oh, then, perhaps you can tell us the way to Perl, or Pirl Street?" (for they had all, by this time, noticed the meaning of the English word, "Yes.") "What number?" asked their countryman, who was sparing of words, looking this time upwards towards the roof of the houses. What number!--oh, yes, there they all were, but not one could remember it. Schmidt owned this at last, and added-- "Well, the street can't be so _very_ long; if we can only get to the one end of it--I know the house, if I see it again. Whereabouts is Pearl Street?" "There--and there--and there!" said their friendly countryman, pointing up the broad street in which they were standing, then down again, and then to the left, towards a cross street; and, puffing another long cloud from his pipe, left the Germans looking at each other. "There--and there--and there!" said the tailor, at last, after a pause. "Oh my! he must be making game of us--the street can't go all round about!" But the street did go all round about--at least, it took a large curve, and the poor devils might have stood there a long time, without knowing what to do, had not a more obliging countryman of theirs at last assisted them, and put them on their road again. The Committee, in the meanwhile, had made themselves pretty comfortable at the French tavern, in Hudson Street, whither several of the steerage passengers had followed them, and a large meeting was convened to be held there on the fourth day, in order to agree upon the next measures to be taken, and to determine what was to be done. In the interim, the elder Siebert had been busily engaged collecting more accurate information concerning the interior of the country, and the fittest place for a settlement, and had made the acquaintance of a certain Dr. Normann, who promised to lend him a helping hand, as he had already, according to his own account, been serviceable to many Germans in this particular, and they could trust him the more implicitly as he did not make a business of it, but merely did it out of friendship for his countrymen. He accordingly accompanied Siebert to several vendors of land, and appeared at last, according to his statement, to have met with a particularly good thing for the emigrants. It was a piece of land in Tennessee, situate about thirty miles west of the lively little town of Jackson, where good water, a healthy locality, first-rate soil, and the neighbourhood of a navigable river, the Big Halchee, on which several mills were already erected, promised every possible advantage for settlement. Pastor Hehrmann objected that they could not very well undertake such a long land journey, because they had so much luggage; but the provident Doctor had an answer ready to this--he assured them, that their destination being only about fifteen miles from the Mississippi, they would have to travel that short distance only by land, but that every other quarter mile of their journey might be passed by water, and _that_ either in a ship by sea to New Orleans, and thence up the Mississippi River to the mouth of the Big Halchee, which was known to every captain, or by steamer or canal-boat to the Ohio, and then down that river into the Mississippi. The latter route was determined upon unanimously by the Committee, for they would not expose themselves again to all the dangers and discomforts of a sea voyage; and the principal object of all only now remained to be fixed--viz., the price to be paid for the land. Here again there appeared to be no difficulty, for the terms were to be as follow: The piece of ground[1] consisted of fifteen acres of cleared land, but which, certainly, had not been cultivated for five years past; but Herbold thought that the soil would only be the richer for that. These fifteen acres were surrounded by a fence ten rails high, (but which, probably, would require a little repair here and there,) and further, a curing-house, a small kitchen, a stable, and a small crib for Indian corn. All these edifices were detached--together with the absolute property in one hundred and sixty acres of land covered with splendid wood, which were to be sold at an average price of four dollars per acre, or six hundred and forty dollars cash for the whole, and the purchasers were to have a formal deed of conveyance. The price seemed extraordinarily reasonable; for, although it is true that the so-called Congress-land, or the tract of country not yet occupied by individuals, and belonging to the government of the United States, is sold at the cheap price of a dollar and a quarter per acre, yet it does not consist of any portion of cleared land, nor of buildings, which undoubtedly must make a great difference. Dr. Normann affirmed besides, that it was always a good sign of the fertility of the soil of a tract of land, that people had formerly settled on it, for that the whole surrounding district was open to them, and of course they would not choose the worst. The committee comprehended these reasons completely, and determined to lay the plan before the next meeting, and make arrangements accordingly. Young Werner had meanwhile settled himself in the same inn with the Hehrmanns, although he had hitherto formed no definite resolution as to his plans for the future. His heart urged him to remain with the Society, and Dr. Normann also strongly counselled this; but his former plans had been, first of all, to wait upon several merchants in Philadelphia and Boston, and to deliver his letters of introduction, in order to be enabled, under their guidance, easily and surely to begin some new occupation, in a country where he was a stranger. It was when things were in this position, on the second evening, and whilst he with Pastor Hehrmann and other guests were sitting smoking a cigar, in the street before the inn, that he made the acquaintance of a young man, a German by birth, who, coming from Kentucky, had traversed nearly all the northern states, and now visited New York city for the first time. He had been in America from his childhood, and knew the country thoroughly; but he shook his head doubtfully when he heard, in the course of conversation, of the agreement which all the Germans had mutually entered into, to found a settlement in common. "My dear Mr. Hehrmann," said the young Kentuckian, "you must not be offended that a young man like myself should presume to offer you advice; but I have experience on my side. These settlements in common do no good, and you will live to see the result of yours. Somehow or other we Germans agree with difficulty (unless we absolutely must); and here, in America, there is no _must_ in the case. The country is too large; the prospects and openings are too many and too various, and consequently societies generally dissolve themselves quickly, and for the most part in a very unpleasant manner; and besides," he continued, stepping closer, and in a suppressed voice, "I don't quite trust this Dr. Normann; I have an impression that I have met the man before somewhere, under no very honourable circumstances, but I can't exactly remember where, and therefore will not positively affirm it. However, be that as it may, take care, and pay particular attention that you have the so-called 'deed' or instrument conveying the right of property." "But come, Mr. Werner," said he to the latter, "we'll take a walk down to the quay together; there are many things to be seen there which will interest you, and besides you don't know enough of New York yet." With these words, he took Werner's arm, and lounged down Hudson-street towards the Battery, and then to the left to the waterside, to the same spot where the steerage passengers of the Hoffnung had landed a day or two before. As they were wandering along the narrow quay which separates the houses from the water, observing the arrival and departure of the shipping, they perceived an unusual crowd of people assembled in front of one of the German taverns which stand there side by side--in fact, before that very one where the Oldenburghers had put up. They walked forward to ascertain the cause. Just as they had pressed on sufficiently to obtain a view of the entrance of the house, the door, which up to that time had been closed, was suddenly opened, and a man, who was received by the people outside with loud hurrahs, was violently ejected, and the door instantly closed behind him. A thousand different witticisms and jeers welcomed him; but he appeared neither to hear nor to see what was passing around him, but only tried to get out of the crowd. He was passing close to the two young men, when the Kentuckian laid his hand upon the man's shoulder, and exclaimed with surprise: "Müller! where do you come from? and in this blackguard hole? I thought you were quiet and contented in Indiana." "Oh, Mr. Helldorf, is that you?" replied the stranger. "Yes, bad enough to be here, and to go back thus; but the devil take this den of thieves--I've been cheated out of all that I could call mine." "But how is that possible?" asked Werner. "Possible!" said the other, laughing bitterly; "what is not possible in these German taverns in America? But come away from here; my blood boils, from merely breathing the air of the neighbourhood of this pestilent hole; come along, and I will relate to you my story, and that of thousands more, who have lost, and will lose, all they possess in the same way." The three men walked some paces in silence, side by side, when the poor German thus began:-- "It is now two years since I landed here in a French ship from Havre; I had not a single acquaintance in all America, nor did I consider that I required one, but relied on my own strength and perseverance, for I was healthy and strong, and called about fifteen dollars in ready money, and a large chest full of linen and clothes, my own: what more did I want? I went, as being near the landing-place, into this godless house. Had I only kept my eyes open, the first view must have betrayed the character of the crib to me; but, as it was, I thought I could make shift in it; paid my two dollars and a half per week for board, and tried to find work. In vain did I run about daily; the times were bad; I could not speak English, and besides I would not undertake any kind of work that I did not thoroughly understand, and thus months passed by, during which the landlord, when I returned of an evening, unsuccessful, consoled me, and obliged me to drink, at which he was always ready to give me the benefit of his company. It is true that I was not then aware that, according to an American custom, I had to pay for both glasses, as well for that which he drank as for my own; or, rather, that he chalked it up. "Ultimately, he got my last dollar, and I wanted to leave, with about fifty cents in my pocket, and go to work somewhere or other, if only for my board, but he still persuaded me to remain. He would arrange the matter, he said; something or other would turn up some of these days, and I was not to let my spirits droop; that I knew very well that I might have credit with him, and that I need have no anxiety about that. Fool that I was, I followed his advice. "Thus a fortnight more passed away, and my debt to him, for board and drink, might perhaps amount to six dollars, when, one Saturday evening, he called me aside, and declared that he could not feed me for nothing any longer, and that I must look about for a lodging elsewhere. I then informed him of my total inability to pay, which, besides, he knew very well before, and offered him some of my shirts in lieu of payment; for I told him he need not suppose that I wanted to cheat him; he declined this, on the pretence that he could not mix himself up with barter of that kind; that he wanted money, and not linen, to pay for his liquors and his provisions; and that if I were not in a position to pay money then, I had better look about and see where I could earn some, and that, meanwhile, he should retain my chest as a security. "I was quite content--for the things would have been an incumbrance to me in my wanderings--took, therefore, two shirts and a couple of pairs of socks out of my box, and wrapped them in a pocket handkerchief, and left the remainder, with the key, in his hands, with the request to have the things occasionally taken out and exposed to the air, to prevent them from rotting. "I then left this place on foot, and, with a few cents in my pocket, made my way to Indiana, where, at last, I found work; and _you_ know, Mr. Helldorf, _how_ I worked there, in order to get my living honestly. When, at last, I had earned the necessary sum, beside enough to defray the journey, I came hither to redeem my box, for, meanwhile, my shirts were worn out. This morning I arrived, and went immediately to yonder rascal. Do you suppose that he knew me again? Do you suppose that he knew anything about a chest belonging to me? Confusion!--the fellow was wearing one of my own shirts at the very moment when he denied ever having seen them. I could contain myself no longer, but knocked him down; his accomplices, however, got hold of me, and turned me out of doors; and here I am again, with, the exception of a few dollars, and of much experience, as rich, or rather as poor, as before." "But you will go to a lawyer, surely," said Werner, indignantly--"won't you? That must be the shortest way." "Do you think so?" asked the German, looking sideways at him; "you have not been long in America, if you call that the shortest way; I should have costs to pay, and trouble and delay besides, and should never see an article of my linen either--that's lost; but Heaven have mercy on that rascal, if he ever crosses my path again." "Never mind, Müller," said Helldorf, deprecatingly; "like thousands of others, you have paid dearly for your experience, and should rather feel obliged to the rogue, on that account, than otherwise; another time, keep a better look out; you know the American saying: 'No German can earn, or rather save, a cent in America until he has got rid of his last European penny.' You have now done with your European property: work hard, and you'll soon earn something again." Müller shook his head; acknowledged, however, the truth of what he heard, and, after a little reflection, shook hands with Helldorf; bowed to Werner, and went up Broadway back into the town. Young Helldorf related to his newly acquired friend many other things concerning the German inns, not only in New York, but throughout the whole United States, and which being, for the most part, established by people who are afraid of work, appear in no way to serve the convenience of travellers, but are merely money-boxes for their landlords, into which every passer-by may cast his mite, without receiving the least service, or even thanks in return. At last the two young people reached the boarding-house, in Hudson-street, and separated for the night. The Committee had undoubtedly chosen one of the best, as well as one of the most reasonable inns in New York; nevertheless, all its members were compelled to submit to the custom prevailing throughout nearly all the United States--that two people should sleep in one bed--which is only tolerable when several friends are together; and highly repulsive when one is thrown among strangers. The Committee at first refused to comply with this custom on any condition, and M. Von Schwanthal said that it was opposed to all propriety and manners; but it was of no use, the house was pretty full, and though they might perhaps have had a bed each, they would have been obliged to make room in their beds for any stranger who might chance to arrive during the night. They chose the less disagreeable alternative of being among friends, at all events, and agreed, as well as they could, about their couches. Hehrmann's family took possession of a little room to themselves. Meanwhile it fared dreadfully with the poor Oldenburghers, at the Switzer's home, where, with admirable stoicism, packed three and three in a bed, they exposed themselves to the attacks of innumerable squadrons of bugs. They had not even wherewithal to get a light, in order to see the extent of their misery. Grumbling and swearing, they lay till morning. Sleep was out of the question; and it was only towards the approach of dawn, when their tormentors withdrew, that, completely exhausted, they fell into an uneasy, unrefreshing sleep, out of which they were shortly awakened by the screeching voice of the maid, who called them to breakfast. They reproached the landlord bitterly, and assured him that it was impossible that they could endure such another night. He, too, promised a change, and gave them his word that they should sleep more quietly next night; but, to their by no means agreeable surprise, they learned how he usually kept his word. They certainly lay somewhat more quietly, for they were so wearied that the exhausted body compelled sleep, but everything else remained as before; even their position, three in a bed, was not bettered. They, therefore, came to the heroic resolution, on the ensuing morning, to shift their quarters, cost what it might; it cost, however, the amount of a week's board, which they had been obliged to pay in advance, and of which the landlord refused to return one cent; on the contrary, he abused them besides, and told them his opinion that his house was much too good for such peasant fellows as they. Notwithstanding, they carried out their determination, and aided by a carter (a German who had spoken to them in the street,) removed to the tavern of their fellow-travellers, the situation of which they had by this time discovered. But they found these latter in no enviable condition, for the fruit, of which they had partaken so heartily, had made them all ill; and the poor little tailor was so bad that, as he said himself, "he could hardly support himself on his pins." Besides this, the brewer had met with a peculiar mishap, for when the alarm of fire arose, for the first time in the night, (which hitherto had been the case twice each night) he jumped in wild haste out of bed to the window half asleep, and upset over himself the whole pot full of the shoemaker's newly-discovered and prepared blacking, and at the same time was so ill and miserable that he would not suffer any of them to come near him to clean him; even the shoemaker was not permitted to scrape off the most of it, as he expressed himself. The brewer was obstinate, and insisted on dying in the blacking. The Oldenburghers found room in this house; and if the bugs were pretty nearly as bad as at the waterside, still the whole place looked a little cleaner and more civilized, and they had to sleep only two in a bed. Besides, the sick soon recovered themselves, and as the day fixed for the consultation drew near, all who were to take part in it were well enough to give their attendance. Mr. Siebert had fixed two o'clock in the afternoon for the meeting, and the four comrades, Schmidt, the brewer, the tailor, and the shoemaker, lounged off, down Pearl-street, immediately after dinner, in order not to be too late. They had stood about before a great number of shops, now viewing the many curiously-bound books and coloured engravings, now admiring in astonishment the little shops of the money-changers, in whose windows lay long rows of bank-notes and scattered heaps of gold, and strange-looking silver coin; now staring after the gaudily-dressed negresses and mulatto women, who in their turn honoured the gaping party of "Dutchmen" with a broad grin; when the tailor suddenly called the attention of the rest to a sign opposite, which bore the picture of a small striped pig, over which was an inscription, "Entrance, 6¼ cents." "What is to be seen there, then?" said Schmidt. "Oh!" quoth the tailor, "don't you see, it's all over stripes; but it seems to me very small." "Shall we go in?" asked the Brewer; "it only costs a sechser,"[2] (six cents.) "Yes, the devil take the sechsers!" said the shoemaker, with an important shake of the head; "one of their sechsers is just as quickly spent as a sechser with us at home, and yet yonder it's only six pfennings, and here it's four-and-twenty! I won't go with you; I have too much need of my few kreutzers, for the brewer had the blacking that I hoped to earn a couple of dollars by." "But, shoemaker," said the brewer, "don't be offended, but that was--very--well, I don't know how to express myself mildly enough--but _very_ stupid of you, just when there was an alarm of fire to put your blacking in the window." "Well; but how could I tell that there was going to be a fire?" asked the other, surprised. "Well, perhaps not exactly; yet--never mind, shoemaker, that can be made up again, and the six cents can't cling to your heart now; so come along--we must have a look at this wonderful creature." With these words he stepped forward, and immediately afterwards, accompanied by his companions, walked through a small glass door covered with a green curtain, into the house. The interior of the narrow and low room which they now stepped into, by no means resembled a menagerie in other respects, for on the right hand stood a small table, like a bar-counter, covered with bottles and glasses, and several persons were seated, or lounged about the room, while, on the left-hand was fixed a square box with wire trellis-work, something like a rather massive bird-cage, and therein sat a little innocent pig, on which one might faintly recognise the wonderful stripes which passed across his body. The four Germans paid their six cents and a quarter and viewed the pig. The shoemaker, however, shaking his head, thought it very hard that one should pay so much money to see a creature like that. "And it has no stripes!" cried the tailor. "Wait awhile," said a man standing behind the table, in German, but with a strange sounding foreign accent, "it will soon have some." "Stripes!" said the brewer, surprised. "Ahem!" nodded the stranger; "but wont you have something to drink?" he continued, getting out some glasses. "What do you take, brandy, whisky, cider, wine, beer." "Beer! by all means," said the brewer. "No," declared the shoemaker, "I won't have anything to drink--six cents for such a sight as that, and six more cents for a drink! No; to stand that I must have stolen my money, and found my box again!" "The drinking costs thee no more," the barman declared. "Why do you 'thee' and 'thou'[3] me, then?" asked the shoemaker, somewhat nettled. "Thou speakest so prettily, how else shall I call thee?" The shoemaker was about to make some angry reply, but the little tailor poked him in the ribs, and said, "Don't be a fool, but let him talk in his own fashion--he says the drinking is to cost nothing." "Well, I don't care," said the shoemaker; "he might as well be a little more civil." The men had just stepped up to the table, and had their beverages handed to them, when, to their inexpressible wonder, a tall man, with a light blue dress coat, of coarse cloth, with bright buttons, chicory-coloured trowsers, and a black hat, worn rather back on his head, holding a paint-pot in the left hand, and a long brush in his right, walked in and, without changing countenance in the least, or troubling himself about those around him, went up to the box where the bristly little prodigy was kept, took his brush between his teeth while he opened the lid, and then with bold strokes of the brush, but in perfect repose of mind, began to freshen up the rubbed off stripes of the grunting quadruped. "I say," quoth the brewer, nudging the tailor, "look!--see, how he is manufacturing natural curiosities." "Oh my!" exclaimed the little man in his turn, "and we must pay six cents for _that_!" The men who were in the room laughed immoderately at the surprise of the Germans; and the barman observed to them, in perfect good faith, "There, you see, you've learnt something new again!" But the shoemaker was indignant; he pulled his hat over his brows, and immediately forsook the house, accompanied by his companions, without bestowing another look at either the people or the _lusus naturæ_. "I never--why that beats cockfighting!" cried the little tailor, when they were outside again. "I never heard of such a thing; why, those fellows have the impudence of the devil himself." "Well, we shall do well in America, if this is to be taken as an omen," laughed Schmidt, "but I wonder that the police should suffer such a trick. Couldn't one inform against the fellow?--why, it's a--regular cheat." "Yes, that would be a great deal of good," replied the tailor. "We dare not tell of it, for if we do, they'll only laugh at us, besides----But, hallo, brewer! where are you off to?" he called after him, as that worthy, who had suddenly stopped, as if in reflection, now turned and ran quickly back--"have you forgotten anything?" But he got no answer. The brewer ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, back to the drinking-shop which he had just left; but while they were yet gazing after him in wonder, he came back again, with a very cross face, and joined them. "What have you forgotten, then?" asked all of them at once. "Oh!" replied the brewer, peevishly, "I was so taken aback by that precious pig, that I left my beer only half drunk out, and now they've poured it away, and grinned at me besides for coming back for it." He fared no better with his companions; and laughing and talking over what had just occurred, stopping before every shop, they wandered slowly towards the place of meeting. Business had not yet commenced, and the passengers of the "Hoffnung" were standing about in groups in the large dining-room of the tavern; the only strangers present were Dr. Normann and young Helldorf. But the little tailor could not contain himself any longer, and although the four companions in misfortune had come to the resolution to keep their adventure secret, still he related it to Pastor Hehrmann, who, with young Werner, Dr. Normann, and Mr. Helldorf, stood at one of the windows. "My dear friend," the doctor said, in a very affable manner, by way of consolation, "you have by no means been cheated; that's a house where I am very well known, and where I often look in, for the people there keep the best of liquors." "But, my good doctor," objected Pastor Hehrmann, "if they pretend to show a natural curiosity, and take money for it, that cannot be excused by any means." "The thing has two sides," the doctor replied; "they take the money, it is true, but then they give their visitors something to drink in return. Did you not get what liquor you called for? Such was the case. Well, then, you had value for your six cents. The striped pig is only there in order to give the landlord the opportunity of selling his liquors without being compelled to pay the high tax which is levied upon all other drinking rooms. He is not forbidden--nobody can forbid him--from showing any natural wonder, or any creature indeed, were it even a common rat; and if he receives six cents for the view of his striped pig, and gives his visitors some liquor for nothing, why, he doesn't _sell_ his brandy, and consequently need not pay for a licence for so doing." "Well, that _is_ a dodge," said the tailor. "There are many other ways and means besides," the doctor continued, "to evade this law, which, strictly speaking, is by no means an unjust one, but is intended to prevent the too great increase of drinking-shops. For example, in Nassau-street, there is a man who keeps brandy and cigars--the cigars are _very_ bad; however, he charges six cents a piece for them, and gives a drink into the bargain. In Boston, not long since, chemists only were permitted to retail spirituous liquors, but that did not prevent the publicans from doing so; they procured some large bottles, had them filled with blue and red coloured water, put a few glasses, with herbs and tea and such like cheap medicaments, in their bar-rooms, and in a few days there arose, I forget now how many hundred new chemists' shops. These are little advantages which every one endeavours to get in this country. The American motto is, 'Help thyself,' the _how_ is a secondary consideration." "Fine principles those for honest people!" observed Werner. "But so it is," said the doctor; "you'll find that out soon enough. For example, you probably may have observed some clothes shops here and there, where five, or even six hundred hands are wanted." "Oh, yes," cried the tailor, quickly; "we went into one of them this morning." "Well?" asked Dr. Normann, "hadn't he already engaged four hundred and some odd?" "About four hundred and sixty," the tailor interrupted him in astonishment. "Well, then, four hundred and sixty," said the doctor, laughing. "So I suppose that, as he had nearly completed his number, he could only take you upon trial? I know--the usual pretence--not on account of the journeymen, but of the customers, who are to form a very grand idea of the shopkeeper's business; such a man has, perhaps, not more than six or seven hands at work for him in a little back room. Appearance is everything." "No! is it possible!" exclaimed Meier. "But, gentlemen," Mr. Becher now interrupted them, "suppose we now proceed to business? Dr. Normann, whom I hereby have the pleasure of introducing to all present, has been so good as to look about for a well-situated tract of land for us, and this meeting has been called to confer on the acceptance or rejection of this offer." All held their peace, and surrounded Mr. Becher in attentive silence. He thus continued:-- "The land which Dr. Normann has recommended to us, lies in Tennessee, somewhat more than 200 German miles (1000 English) farther to the west; however, with the exception of some few miles, the entire distance may be passed by water. We obtain there, for the purpose of a beginning, 160 acres of good land, covered with wood, and, supplied with some, although inadequate, buildings. But, where timber is to be had in superfluity, and there are so many active and strong hands which can be put in motion, I should say, according to my view of the case, that the want of buildings is but a small drawback. Of these 160 acres, fifteen are completely cleared, rendered arable, and fenced in, and although they have been but little cropped, yet have been lying fallow again during five years past, and therefore, in this respect, are very promising. "In addition, the price asked for the whole, through the kind intercession of Doctor Normann, is reduced to four dollars per acre, although the owners, in the first instance, are said to have asked six dollars, which, therefore, would amount to 640 dollars for the whole, and might not only be defrayed out of the funds in hand, but would leave a balance of some 220 dollars wherewith to defray at least a portion of the travelling expenses. "If we accept the proposal, in the first place we not only save much expense, which a protracted stay in New York would make inevitable, but we lay the foundation in common of a sure provision for the future, for, according to the doctor's statement, there are a great number of Germans living in Tennessee, of whom hundreds are only waiting for the opportunity of joining some regular German colony; and I should think that we possess both the will and the means to found a sound and orderly one." Mr. Becher ceased, and complete silence reigned for a moment, which was suddenly broken by Mr. Herbold, who, with his hands in his pockets, and leaning against a table, had listened attentively to the whole proposition, and now gave vent to his thoughts in the words, "Not amiss; that might do very well." Murmurs of approbation of the scheme now resounded from every side, but a number of questions were also put from all quarters, which neither Mr. Becher nor the committee generally could answer, and which related to the climate, the produce, the game, the healthiness of the district, and the nature of the soil. At the instance of Mr. Becher, Dr. Normann now took up the word, and said:-- "It is a pleasure to me, gentlemen, to be enabled to answer the greater part of the questions which have been addressed to me in the most satisfactory manner. The climate is mild, the winters are short, and ice and snow are seldom seen, which, indeed, you may conclude from the fact that cotton is grown there, which, it is well known, requires a warm climate. The productions are cotton, maize, or Indian corn, wheat, rye, barley, oats, and all sorts of pulse; at the same time it is the finest district for peaches, and the forests are filled with wild fruits; the cattle, of which you may rear as many as you please, run about in the open air all the year round, and will not cost you one cent for fodder. "Stables or cattle sheds are not thought of, unless, indeed, you wish to keep a horse constantly ready, and confine it on that account. The soil is particularly good; just consider that tracts of country on the Mississippi have been cropped for more than a century, and have never been manured yet. As to its healthiness, why, temperate people are well everywhere, and a farmer's life is necessarily a temperate one." "But how are we to take what we may raise to market?" asked the brewer. "A small river, which is navigable during at least seven months in the year, runs past your settlement," replied the doctor. "Besides, you are a short distance only from the Mississippi, and by it are connected with the whole world." "The description is very inviting," said Pastor Hehrmann, smiling: "it almost seems to me that the worthy doctor has sketched a little paradise; but shall we not be disappointed in our expectations? Such an undertaking is an important step, and ought to be well considered from every point of view." "What grounds are there to induce me to tell you a falsehood? Have I any interest in the whole affair?" replied the doctor, confidentially and good-naturedly. "Allow me, gentlemen," Helldorf now began, "to call your attention to some circumstances which I find have hitherto not been considered. The long journey is the least matter, for you must go somewhere or other, and if you have not too much luggage, that can be got over well enough; but the cleared land has not been tilled for five years, as I hear, and you must remember that we are in America, and not in Germany." "You don't pretend to affirm that that will injure the land?" the doctor, who seemed highly dissatisfied with the young Kentuckian's presence, interrupted him. "Not in the least," the other replied; "but do you think that nothing has grown on the old field in five years, or that the bushes and young trees which have shot up can be so very easily eradicated?" "Well, but though underwood is bad enough, certainly," interposed Mr. Herbold, "still there are plenty of us, and it sha'n't take long to clear all that off again." "My good Mr. Herbold," objected Helldorf, "believe me, you and all your company could not in several years clear fifteen acres of woodland on the Mississippi, which, having been chopped, has lain waste for five years;[4] and besides, I am convinced that you must not reckon in the least on fences and buildings; for where these have been so long neglected in the bush, they will hardly be of any use." "Mr. Helldorf, I can't comprehend why you view everything from the blackest side!" remarked the doctor, somewhat offended, as it seemed. "What grounds do you give for your apprehensions?" "My own experience," the Kentuckian calmly replied; "it happened so with my own land; just where the largest trees were cut down, or only girdled and withered, so that light and air could have free access to the soil, there the young saplings and stems shot out with a rankness and rapidity of which Europeans can form no notion; and this after-growth, for the very reason that it consists mostly of roots, is a great deal more difficult to clear than the aboriginal trees, the thick shadows from the tops of which have killed the underwood beneath for ages past. But, passing over this, what title to this land can you show to the society?" It was obvious that the worthy doctor was unwilling to enter upon answers to young Helldorf's questions; but as the eyes of the whole assembly were fixed on the doctor, as though they addressed the question to him, he smilingly drew a parchment from his breast pocket, and unfolded it. It was the grant of the said 160 acres of land to a certain William Hewitt, in consideration of military services performed, and was signed by President Monroe, in 1819. Helldorf had no objection to make to this; the military grants were mostly acknowledged, but were always to be bought at a very low price, and he only stated that the improvements ought to be pretty considerable to induce the emigrants to give so much more per acre than they could buy land of the government of the United States for. The doctor made no reply, but turned to the people themselves, who, without exception, appeared so delighted with the attractive description of the place which was to be their future home, that they began to press upon the committee to conclude the bargain, and set out for the goal of all their wanderings. "But you have told us nothing about the game?" asked M. Von Schwanthal, who was a keen sportsman. "Because I did not wish to appear in your eyes as an exaggerator or embellisher; for no doubt you will consider me such when I tell you of the deer, the turkeys, bears, &c., which, you will find yonder." "And hares and partridges?" asked M. Von Schwanthal. "No one thinks of shooting them," smiled the doctor; "for Heaven's sake, who would waste a charge of powder and shot upon a miserable partridge, when he can get a deer with it? But you'll find all that out when you get there." All the emigrants appeared to have made up their minds, and they were as eager about the purchase of, and journey to, that spot of land, as though they had had their eyes upon that little point, between the Mississippi and the small town of Jackson in Tennessee, ever since they left home. They would not hear of any other state but Tennessee, and the committee closed the bargain with Dr. Normann on the same evening, paid the purchase money, and received from him the deed, which was handed over to the elder Siebert for safe custody. The latter had hung back a good deal pending the treaty, and returned very superficial answers to several questions addressed to him concerning the condition of the country (which, according to his own account, he had travelled through). However, he concluded the purchase in legal form, and took possession of the muniment of title. He paid the purchase-money out of the funds which remained in his hands, and merely called the emigrants' attention to the fact that the time was at hand when they would have to pay up their remaining contribution, so that the committee might not be fettered in acting for them according to the best of their ability. He appeared to have formed an acquaintance with Dr. Normann very quickly, and towards evening left the tavern in his company. It now only remained to determine the route which the emigrants should take to reach their new home; but all were soon agreed upon this subject, for every one was afraid of another sea-voyage, and the road by Albany, Buffalo, thence down the Ohio to Portsmouth, from which last-named place they could reach the Big Halchee by steamer, was adopted. It is true that Helldorf, who by this time had become pretty well acquainted with their situation, had recommended them to sell the greater part of their baggage, particularly the ploughs and axes, &c. which they had brought with them; but no one would listen to this, and at last the third day was fixed for their departure. From New York, they were to start in a steamer for Albany, thence by rail as far as Utica, and from Utica by canal, over Buffalo, to Portsmouth. Their society consisted of sixty-five individuals in all, including women and children, and hitherto everything promised a prosperous journey; the weather, besides, was splendid, and glad hope animated every breast. Werner, however, persuaded by Helldorf, had not joined the society, and did not intend to follow it for some time to come, as he wished, first of all, to visit Philadelphia and Baltimore. Preparations for the departure of the settlers were now in full activity, and many things which they considered they could not calculate on meeting with in the interior were bought in New York. M. Von Schwanthal, in particular, provided himself with powder and shot, and promised to find fresh meat constantly for the whole party. Next day was Sunday, and the Oldenburghers had betaken themselves to the German church betimes, to attend divine service; but the shoemaker was anxious to hear an English sermon for once, and easily persuaded the tailor and Schmidt to accompany him: the brewer remained in bed. The three, therefore, dressed in their Sunday's best, traversed the quiet and almost empty streets, until they came opposite to a church, whence the loud and thundering voice of the preacher resounded. Without long consideration they entered, and found themselves in a small but pretty well filled church, fitted up after the ordinary fashion of evangelical churches, with a high pulpit and small altar. The preacher appeared particularly inspired, and the words seemed "to flow of themselves from his mouth," as the shoemaker expressed it, not a syllable of which, however, could they understand. Pressed forward by those who arrived later than themselves, our adventurers had got promoted nearly to the centre of the church, and stood almost opposite to the priest; but the countenance of the latter became constantly wilder, his movements more violent, and the little tailor had twice already gently touched the shoemaker, and expressed a wish to retire, when suddenly a woman, who was sitting close beside them, uttered a heart-breaking sigh; Meier turned his head quickly, and saw that she began to turn up her eyes, and gasp for breath. "I say, there's a woman taken ill!" he said, in a low voice, to Schmidt, who stood just before him. "Oh, she'll get better again presently, I dare say!" said Schmidt, pacifying him. But just the same sort of sighing and groaning arose from several sides, and the stout woman near them seemed especially affected by something or other, for her sighs followed each other faster and faster, her limbs began to tremble, and everything showed that she must be dreadfully excited. All at once, a change came over the whole spirit of the fat woman; her gaze was fixed on the tailor, who tremblingly followed her every movement with his eyes; her nostrils dilated, her mouth opened, and, uttering a loud scream, she jumped up. "Oh Lord!" cried the tailor, and his knees knocked together. Schmidt looked round for the first time at the inspired one, who moved up and down, stamped with her feet, clenched her hands, and cried and rejoiced. Schmidt cast his eyes round about, but to his inexpressible surprise nobody seemed to trouble himself about the stout woman; the people did not so much as look round; and as he thought that she must be possessed by an evil spirit, at least, he pressed past the tailor, who made room for him with the greatest pleasure, and took hold of the arms of the woman, who was striking about her violently. "Break open her thumbs--break open her thumbs!" the shoemaker exclaimed; and Schmidt, poor fellow, good-naturedly tried to comply, when a dreadful cry met his ear; at the same time he felt himself suddenly seized simultaneously by the collar, by the arms, and by the shoulders, and before he could exactly comprehend what was taking place, or what was intended, he lay peacefully alongside of the shoemaker in the street. Scarce had they had time to pick themselves up and look about them, when the door opened once more, and the tailor, without his hat, made a mighty spring, clean over the pavement and gutter, into the carriage-road, where he fell nearly doubled together, but quickly gathering himself up again, and either not heeding or else not hearing the calls of his comrades, he flew along the street in wild haste, till on his turning the corner they lost sight of him. The passers-by began to take notice, so the shoemaker took hold of Schmidt's arm, and they forsook together a spot where their presence began to attract attention. It was not until they had got into the vicinity of their inn again that Schmidt stopped in surprise, and, staring at the other, said--"Well, I beg of you!--did you ever experience the like in your whole life?" "For the first time to-day!" the shoemaker replied. "But where can the little one be?" "We shall be obliged to have him advertised in the newspapers," Schmidt said; "for, with such a start as he took at the church, he'll never stop again till he drops. How he ran, to be sure!" "Yes; and what did they really turn us out for, after all?" asked the shoemaker; "perhaps it was because you went to the assistance of the fat woman?" "Ask them," growled Schmidt; "rough people, they are. Well! if they only wait till they catch me in one of their churches again!" They had, meanwhile, reached their abode, and found the two young people, Helldorf and Werner, who were sitting in the public room, conversing with the brewer. But when the shoemaker and Schmidt told them the story of their wrongs, Helldorf burst into a loud laugh, and explained to them that they had got into a congregation of Methodists, and had offended the latter not a little by laying hands upon a sister who was divinely inspired. But all felt anxious now about the little tailor, who had fled in such fearful haste, no one knew whither, when the latter unexpectedly made his appearance at the door, with haggard eyes, pale colourless cheeks, and quite chopfallen. He really looked very ill. The landlady, however, quickly filled him up a good bumper of bitters, and he recovered a little by degrees, though it was quite half an hour before he was in a condition to relate, how the fat woman, whilst Schmidt and the shoemaker were being turned out, had attacked him, and (he protested solemnly, and swore that it was true) had tried to bite him; that he recollected nothing further, except having jumped up, and fled with all the strength at his command. "But, I say, where's your hat?" asked the brewer. "That must be lying in the church still!" sighed the tailor. "Yes, but won't you go back, and fetch it?" said the brewer. "_I!_" exclaimed the tailor, astonished to the last degree; "_I_ go back into _that_ church,--to _that_ fat woman! Brewer! if the whole church were filled with hats, (of the best quality, five and a quarter dollars a piece), and I might have them _all_, I wouldn't put a foot across the threshold." It was useless to press him further; he never saw his hat more. Mrs. Hehrmann, with her daughters, had by this time recovered from the troubles and hardships of the sea-voyage, and Bertha, in particular, was as blooming as a rose; but she bowed her little head very sadly and sorrowfully when Werner, while sitting beside them and Helldorf, in the little room, on the Saturday evening, for the first time intimated that they would not continue their journey together, but that he proposed, in the first instance, to visit the neighbouring towns. "I had believed that you would have joined our settlement," she whispered, at last; "but it seems, however,----" "But, child," her mother interrupted her, "Mr. Werner, no doubt, has his own sufficient reasons, and when he has attended to his business here, perhaps may visit us in Tennessee. He knows that he will be always welcome to us." "I need not tell you, my dear madam," answered Werner, "how I appreciate your goodness, and how grateful I am for the friendly sympathy you have constantly shown me; and I hope to be able to prove it hereafter. At present, however, I am compelled to visit Philadelphia as well as Baltimore, to deliver several letters of introduction, which may, perhaps, be of service to me hereafter; it would, therefore, be imprudent in me to neglect them. But, notwithstanding, it is quite possible that I may reach the locality of your settlement soon after you, as Mr. Helldorf tells me that there is a nearer way over the hills." "Quite right," replied the latter; "and it will probably so happen; for, my dear Werner, if nothing else detain you besides the result of your letters of introduction, your time will not be much taken up. One invitation to dinner at each place where you have delivered such a letter, and you have gone through it all; it is even questionable whether he to whom you were recommended may know you on the following day." "But, Helldorf, my dear fellow----" "I know it--I have seen it happen so often. But there's nothing like a trial, and that is soon made." At that moment, a tap was heard at the door, which opened, and in walked Dr. Normann, with the most agreeable face in the world. He inquired very anxiously after the health of the Hehrmanns, and gave them such good and reasonable advice as to their future conduct, in their new and unaccustomed mode of life, related on the occasion so many experiences and events from his own life, and altogether managed to make himself so agreeable, that even Helldorf lost a portion of his former unaccountable aversion to him, and became more conversable and friendly. The doctor was particularly obliging to Werner; and, upon hearing that he was going into the interior, promised him some excellent introductions, such as must assure the best reception to him. "But of what use will they be, doctor?" asked Helldorf; "you know yourself that in this country----" "I know--perfectly aware of it!" the doctor interrupted him. "But rely upon me, you shall have introductions, to-morrow morning, from a man which will ensure you the reception of a son in his house; and yet I give you my word that, except his name, I myself know as little of the man as you do." "The doctor speaks in riddles," said Mrs. Hehrmann, smiling; "if you could do that, you would be a conjuror indeed!" "Anything but that, madam; all that is required is a little knowledge of human nature. But to-morrow I will give my proofs." "I say, Doctor, you were speaking, not long since, of an invention of yours, on account of which you were staying here," said Helldorf. "Might I ask of what kind it is?" "Haven't I told you about my invention yet?" simpered Normann. "Yes, I hope that it will make some noise; I have discovered the long-lost art of making inconsumable light. It was known to the ancients, for in long-closed-up sepulchres burning lamps have been found. I am already in communication with the President on the subject, and am going to Washington next week, on that account." "Why, doctor, this discovery must be of inestimable value!" exclaimed Werner. "A hundred thousand dollars have been offered me for it in Germany, and the same sum in France; but I am a Republican--Republican, body and soul--and my invention is not to be bought by any king! It was in Arkansas that----" "Were you ever in Arkansas?" Helldorf burst out, jumping from his chair, and gazing narrowly into the doctor's countenance. The latter appeared to change colour, but soon regained his self-possession, and, looking the young man fixedly in the face, and with a somewhat forced smile, said-- "No; you did not hear me out. It was in Arkansas that I was about to make some experiments on the subject, but at that time I was taken ill at Cincinnati, and could not undertake the journey." "I beg pardon," said Helldorf; "it was an old recollection--your face seemed so familiar to me." Again the colour left the Doctor's cheeks a little, but his features remained unmoved, and he said, smiling--"He who lives in America sees many faces, for half the population is constantly on the move; that among them there should frequently be people who resemble each other, is very natural. But," he broke off, abruptly, "I have yet some little business to transact. As to our engagement, Mr. Werner, I am ready to keep my word to-morrow morning. Call for me at half-past eight. Till then, farewell! Mrs. Hehrmann--ladies, I take my leave." When the Doctor had left them, Helldorf spoke only in monosyllables, and shortly afterwards also withdrew, accompanied by Werner. "Now I'm sure of it!" he exclaimed, as he wandered down the Sabbath-still street; "now I've got on the fellow's track. Arkansas--Arkansas!--that's the place where I have seen him!" "But he has never been there," suggested Werner. "Lies! lies!" exclaimed Helldorf. "I saw how he changed colour, for he recognised me, too, at that moment! But he wore a beard then, which disguised him, and passed by a different name. There he was Dr. Wähler--I am certain of it--and was challenged for cheating at play, and secretly shot his challenger on his way to the ground!" "That would be horrible!" said Werner. "It is him--I know him!" Helldorf declared. "Now Heaven have mercy upon the poor settlers, for there can no longer be any doubt but that the rascal has cheated them!" "But how can that be possible?" Werner objected. "You yourself pronounce the deed correct and genuine, the land must be in existence! I can't conceive----" "Time will show!" Helldorf exclaimed. "But that this is the villain, I could swear! I am only curious to know in what manner he will procure letters of introduction for you to-morrow." "Is it not possible to bring him to account, if he has been guilty of anything so dreadful?" asked Werner. "How!" replied Helldorf, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Where are the proofs?--where are the people now who then lived in yonder scene? Oh, my dear Werner, a year--a single year--makes a wonderful change here in America! However, I have not yet done with this villain, for he whom he shot was my best friend; the good Doctor may, therefore, look out for himself, if his path crosses mine! But now good night, Werner. Say not a word of what I have just confided to you, and let him give you the letters of introduction to-morrow morning; perhaps, we shall get at some explanation of the Doctor's character." Werner did not retire to rest until late, and wild dreams disturbed his slumber; he was, therefore, up early, and at the hour appointed stood at the doctor's room. He was just dressed, and met him at the door, and taking the young man's arm, confidentially, walked with him to an hotel in Chatham Street, where he inquired whether a certain Mr. Smith, from the country, was staying there? On receiving the waiter's reply in the affirmative, he told him to announce two strangers who wished to speak to Mr. Smith upon business; and, turning with a smile to Werner, who asked him once more in astonishment whether he really did not know the man, said, "You may convince yourself of that." Mr. Smith immediately asked the gentlemen up stairs, and the waiter showed them into a small, clean-looking room, where the stranger stepped forward to meet them, and politely asked them to be seated. "Mr. Smith," Dr. Normann now began, "although I am a complete stranger to you, still I have heard of your considerable tracts of land, and of the advantageous position of your proposed town. A party of Germans have arrived here, and another ship is expected to follow in a few weeks, all of whom intend to settle somewhere in the interior. This young man, Mr. Werner,"--the American bowed,--"is commissioned to look about for a suitable spot for them, and upon my advice, purposes visiting your neighbourhood. If I might request of you the favour of some introductions for my friend, which might facilitate his business, you would not only greatly oblige us, but perhaps also attract a settlement of industrious Germans into your vicinity." The expression of the American's face had brightened up more and more during these words. He now rose very politely, shook hands with both of them, and said some very obliging words to young Werner, to which the latter, abashed by such boundless impudence, and not himself sufficiently master of the English language, could only reply by a silent bow. Without wasting another word, the American went to a writing-table, and after the lapse of a very few minutes, handed over an open letter of introduction to his own family, as well as to his two brothers, who lived in the same neighbourhood, and who were therein requested to show all possible civility to the bearer, and to assist him in seeing the country, and especially in becoming acquainted with their part of it. In vain did Werner try to stammer out a few words, which were intended to inform the American that he had no part in this breach of confidence: the latter, who probably supposed that he was endeavouring to express his thanks, drowned his words in a stream of compliments. Dr. Normann took him by the arm, and, before he knew exactly what was going forward, he found himself, in a few minutes, in the street again, with the letter of introduction in his pocket-book, and the doctor's arm in his own. "Well--haven't I kept my word?" he asked, laughing, as they walked down Chatham-street towards the Post-office; "am I not a conjuror? Yes, my dear Mr. Werner, take hold of the weak points of the Americans and you may do what you like with them, but, unless you do that, they're as tough as hickory." "Doctor, I shall never make use of this letter of introduction; for I consider----" "Pooh, pooh, my good friend!" exclaimed the doctor, laughing; "wait till you've been a year or two in America, and all that will come round; then you'll become what the Americans call 'smart.' Take notice of that word; in those five letters is comprised a whole dictionary." Werner was going to reply rather bitterly, but suddenly bethinking himself of another course, he bade the other "Good morning," and leaving the doctor, who stepped into a shop near Astor House, turned back, and walked to the right, up Broadway. There he sought Helldorf, to whom he related the whole proceeding; but Helldorf only laughed, and replied, that it was just what he had expected; that the doctor was a thoroughbred sharper, and, as he feared, was not content with what he had already squeezed out of the society. "He has other views," he continued, talking half to himself, "otherwise he would have disappeared immediately after the success of his plan--the sale of the land--but we'll observe him, and Heaven have mercy upon him if he gives us a hold upon him." The next day was fixed for the departure of the society as well as of Werner; but the latter had soon completed what little arrangements he had to make, and determined to seek the Hehrmanns once more, and to pass the last few hours in New York, at all events, with them; he was, however, by no means agreeably surprised to find the doctor already there again, and to hear that the latter had determined to make the journey as far as Cincinnati (where he gave out that he had business) with them. Werner, it is true, soon forgot all lesser cares in the absorbing pain of a parting from his beloved, for it was in vain to try to conceal from himself with what earnestness his heart clung to the Pastor's little daughter; and he only pressed Helldorf's hand in silence, when the latter asked him, in a whisper, if he did not also think "that the air of Tennessee would agree particularly well with him?" In the meantime, the travellers had many things to arrange, and had their hands full of business; the committee, therefore, gratefully accepted the offer of Dr. Normann, to assist the Messrs. Siebert in the care of the freight, while Mr. Hehrmann and Becher, with the help of Werner and young Helldorf, endeavoured to procure what conveniences they could for the women. Dr. Normann, quite in American fashion, had with him only a small portmanteau, not much bigger than a knapsack, in order, he said, to have his things sent after him subsequently; but the more baggage, on the other hand, did the "allies" carry with them, and the committee began already to perceive that it would not have been so much amiss if they had paid a little more attention to what the Captain of the "Hoffnung" had told them about this. But after dragging their goods so far, they considered that they must now go through with it, and before long the last article was stowed away in the mighty steamer. The New York clocks struck five, the ship's bell rang for the third time, and the ropes and planks were drawn in; the white steam rose into the clear air in puffs, which followed each other more and more quickly--the colossus gained life, and the wheels struck and pressed with a splash the little waves behind them. The boat pushed from the shore--it strove, panting, against the descending water--struck the waves away on each side--and now, with the mighty power of her boilers and cylinders, the vessel dashed forward on her clear and mirror-like course. Helldorf tried in vain to drag Werner from the landing-place, where, pressed upon by the crowd driving hither and thither, he could hardly stand. His eyes hung upon the outlines of the boat, now becoming each minute less distinct, where but a few seconds before he thought that he had remarked the waving of a fluttering handkerchief, and only when she had disappeared round a bend in the river, did he yield his arm to his friend, and wander silently by his side, back into the city. FOOTNOTES: [1] One hundred and sixty acres of land is not more than one farmer would take; consequently, very far short of the wants of a party of sixty-five persons. Probably the author means it as another satire on the ignorance of emigrants.--TR. [2] A sechser is a small German coin, value six German pfennings, or rather more than an English halfpenny; a cent. I need hardly say, is the hundredth part of a dollar, or about a halfpenny sterling.--TR. [3] In German, "du" (thou) is used only in addressing those with whom one is on familiar terms; but "sie" (you) is always employed either in speaking to strangers, or to persons whom it is wished to treat with respect.--TR. [4] This is much exaggerated; two men can chop and clear--i. e. log and burn--fifteen acres of hard woodland in fifteen weeks; and allowing, as is the fact, that land in the condition referred to in the text would take twice as long to clear as the original wood, still that would only make it thirty weeks' work for two men. Not the work of several years for twenty or thirty men, although unused to this work.--TR. CHAPTER III. THE PILGRIMAGE TO THE SETTLEMENT. As the handsome steamer, panting, foamed up the splendid Hudson River, the Germans were never tired of viewing the wonderfully beautiful, yet grand landscape, which, in all its glitter, in all its splendour, lay spread out before them. The sun, meanwhile, cast his farewell rosy kiss upon the silver-clear stream, and the picturesque masses of rock which formed its banks, towering towards heaven, and covered with a dark-green leafy canopy, glowed in his friendly light with such magical beauty as touched the hearts even of the rough Oldenburghers, who, absorbed in one continued gaze, quite forgot to provide for the comfort of their bodies during the long night which was drawing nigh. Pastor Hehrmann, lost in deep reflection, stood on the broad fore-part of the boat; but his eye was not luxuriating in the view of the wonders of nature which surrounded him, for it gazed dreamily at the red and gold clouds which passed slowly across the deep-blue sky. He had left wife and children in the cabin, and thought himself alone in his silent meditations, when he felt the gentle pressure of a hand upon his shoulder, and at the same moment his elder daughter leaned her head, with its curled locks, upon his shoulder. "Is it not beautiful here, father?" said the dear girl, looking affectionately into his eyes; "is it not splendid on this wonderful stream? Oh! to live here, to be able to call one of those charming little country houses one's own, how delightful it would be! The people must be very good who live here." "And why, Bertha?" asked her father; "do you think that the beauty of nature alone exercises such an influence upon the human heart? Yes, you are right--it _should_ do so; but, alas, it is just in the most beautiful regions, in countries like paradise, that we too often meet with the worst of men; that the wildest passions rage; and it almost seems as if where God has poured out the greatest splendour and gorgeousness upon the earth, there the human heart has remained the only spot in which hatred and discord, wickedness and discontent, could find a harbour." "But I will not wrong the good people of this district," he continued, smiling, when he saw that his daughter looked at him rather anxiously. "I speak of the tropical countries; the population of the Hudson is good; it is descended from the honest old Dutchmen who founded the first settlements here, and although the present generation----" "Why so serious, my friends?" said Dr. Normann, who advanced towards them at this moment, and interrupted their conversation. "You admire the steep rocky shore--yes, a splendid part of the country, but inconvenient for travelling; one is often compelled to make circuits of some miles to get at the river from the land side, and that is, to say the least, inconvenient; but we are in a dangerous vicinity here, for yonder is the Haunted Island--yes, yes, the Haunted Island. Oh, you need not wonder so, it is here as on the Rhine; and if we have not the old castles, or rather ruins, why every rocky promontory, every singularly-formed cliff, every old house, has its story and its ghost." "Oh, pray tell us why it is called the Haunted Island?" "Well, then," the doctor smiled, "it's certainly a harmless story, but has cost the inhabitants of this neighbourhood many a shake of the head, particularly in earlier times. But the Yankees of the present day are a spoiled, unpoetical, and anything but romantic race; they believe in nothing which they cannot grasp with their fists, and take not the least interest in anything, were it even the spirit of their own ancestor, unless they expect to derive from it some material benefit or other; and certainly such is not the case with the 'Haunted Visit.'" "The Haunted Visit," said Bertha, her curiosity now extremely excited. "Yes," replied Normann, "and here comes your mother and sister, who, perhaps, would also like to hear of our spiritual neighbourhood." The last-named persons joined them with a friendly recognition, and the Doctor thus began his tale:-- "Long ago, when the Dutch were still in quiet possession of this country, which since _that_ time has changed its masters more than once, there lived in a little town, on the east bank of the river, a man named Van Tromp, who, as he had no occupation in particular, served happy indolence in real Turkish fashion, loafing up and down the streets as his only business, and, like some hawk in search of an unfortunate partridge, spying through the still streets after some yet more unfortunate acquaintance. No sooner did he see a victim, than in a few bounds he overtook him, and unless the fated one chose to sacrifice a button, he was obliged to endure and listen to the story which Van Tromp had in store for him, and which most likely he had already heard from his own mouth many times before. "Once upon a time, when, in this manner, he had stepped on board of a little trading cutter (which in those days, before there were any steamers, navigated the Hudson), and had there entangled the cook in a highly interesting conversation--on which occasion he related to him, for the seventeenth time, how cunningly he had managed to escape being married--he missed the departure of the little boat, and as he could not spring ashore again, he resigned himself to his fate, viz., to remain on board until, in the course of a given number of days, the vessel should return. "But here a particular and peculiar misfortune befel him; under way--namely, when wearied out with story-telling--he had stretched himself out upon deck, and had fallen asleep; the vessel tacked, the large sprit-sail swept over the deck, and Van Tromp, whom nobody thought about, was shoved overboard by the heavy boom. Some affirm that the whole vessel capsized; but probably that is a fable. Be that as it may, Van Tromp sank like a stone, and suddenly found himself--and you may conceive his surprise--at the bottom of the Hudson, among the spirits of those who, during past centuries, had perished there. "He might have been very well off here, for, according to the most authentic intelligence, they lead a very jolly life in the blue depths down below there; but his eternal propensity to tell stories, which did not forsake him in his new abode, soon drove away all good company from him. In the beginning--yes, whilst his anecdotes were yet new--they put up with it; but when the same, and still the same, were constantly repeated, and the poor drowned folks had no hope of getting rid of their tedious story-teller till the day of judgment, it was then that they resolved, in a council especially called for the purpose, to evade their otherwise immutable laws, for Van Tromp's benefit as well as their own, and to permit the former to visit the earth again; only, however, in the form of a living man, in order not to excite any unnecessary consternation among the peaceful dwellers on the Hudson. "Van Tromp was now happy, and soon made excursions through the streets of his native place again, although in a new form. But of what use was this change? Of what use were the different voice and varying clothes--_the stories remained the same_--word for word did they come back again, as though read from some ancient chronicle; and in a few days he began to be avoided. The rumour that the drowned man had come back, and in a different shape, and was wandering among them, spread like wildfire through the little town, and scarce had he time to commence one of his old anecdotes, before the auditors, with complete indifference to their buttons, and even to whole pieces of lining, sprang back in terror and fled from their spectral neighbour. "The natural consequence was, that Van Tromp became misanthropical, sought out lonesome places, talked to himself, and at last withdrew to this island, which we have just now passed, in order no longer to waste his stories upon a generation that was unworthy of them. There you have the simple story of the 'Haunted Visit,' and every farmer upon these banks here can relate his particular stories drawn from Van Tromp's life." Several other Germans, also passengers on board the steamer, now joined them, and anecdotes and legends followed each other until darkness and the damp air from the river compelled all to seek the interior of the vessel. The remainder of the society had meanwhile passed their time in a similar manner, only that the four friends--Schmidt, the shoemaker, the tailor, and the brewer--for whom the landscape had fewer attractions, spread out a due quantity of provisions between them, and were busied in doing ample justice to them. But when it suddenly became dark (which, to their surprise, it did with wonderful rapidity, for in New York they had not noticed the speedy approach of night), they found themselves in the highly disagreeable position of people who are very tired, and have no place where they can properly rest themselves. "It is very wrong," the shoemaker said, "not to give one so much as a bottle of straw. Surely one can't walk about all night." "I should like to lie down on the bare boards," said the brewer, looking about him, "but these disgusting people do nothing but spit, and in every direction too, so that one can hardly find a clean place the size of one's foot. What fellows they are! Why, sandmen among us behave themselves better." "When shall we get to Albany, do you think?" asked Schmidt of one of the engineers, who was pouring some oil on the engine out of a small can. "Nix versteh!" said the American, shaking his head; "no Dutchman!" "Well, then, you need not call names, if you don't," exclaimed the brewer, testily, in a loud voice, so that the man who was addressed turned round surprised. "Don't be a fool!" said the tailor, taking hold of the angry man's arm; "do you think you will sleep any the better for getting your hide full of blows?" "But it's true, what business had the fellow to talk about 'Doetsch?'" "Where can the Committee be?" Schmidt now asked; "and I've seen nothing of the Oldenburghers either, since we've been aboard." "Who knows where they've poked themselves to?" grunted the shoemaker, wrapping himself up more closely in an old mantle with a hundred or so of capes. "I shall seat myself in a corner and wait till daylight; I'm tired of standing about." The others followed his example; and soon, in the wide, and sparingly and weakly lighted lower deck of the great boat, groups of sleepy passengers sat or lay about in all directions, some with their heads resting upon their luggage, some alongside of a chest, and passed the night by no means conveniently, for in addition to their other discomforts, the cool river air blew in from all sides of the open boat, feeling anything but beneficial, and awakening lively longings in the hearts of the travellers for a warm bed. Day broke at last, and with it the call, "Ashore, ashore!" came to disturb them from the first slumber, into which, tired with long watching, and yielding to over-weariness, they had just sunk. The boat was going alongside the Quay at Albany, and the freight was soon after got ashore, as the Captain had to return to New York the same morning. Dr. Normann meanwhile undertook to conduct the ladies to an inn not far off, whilst the settlers (for this was the name which the society had now assumed) had enough to do to receive the freight, and get it up to the somewhat distant railway. The journey was to be continued hence, by the doctor's advice, by rail as far as Utica, and here the conviction forced itself upon the settlers that they carried too much luggage with them, for the carriage by railway was not inconsiderable, and the constant packing away, and moving backwards and forwards highly inconvenient and expensive. But the discovery was of no use: the constant consolation was, "we have brought it so far, and certainly can't leave it now that we are near the end of our journey." But the end of their journey was not reached so soon as they expected, and they had yet many inconveniences to meet before they could hope to arrive at the spot which was to be the scene of their future labours and of their domestic repose. They reached Utica that night. Here the unpacking of all their wares and utensils took place again, and all had to be got to the canal, where two boats were lying ready to start immediately for Buffalo. The unlading and removal in the night formed a very troublesome business, and the settlers would have grumbled a good deal had not Pastor Hehrmann, the younger Siebert, and Mr. Herbold, shown themselves particularly active and attentive on the occasion; but as they lent a hand everywhere, all was soon got through, and in less than an hour the horn of the master of the boat blew for departure. The brewer and the tailor had escaped work this time, and associated themselves with the remaining members of the Committee; for scarcely had they descended from the railway carriages before a very elegant hackney-coach drew up, and a young man opened the door for them. Now, although M. Von Schwanthal, Siebert senior, Mr. Becher, and Dr. Normann with Pastor Hehrmann's family, had got into two other coaches, yet the two who remained behind did not care to waste their money so thoughtlessly, and the tailor politely declined, saying-- "Much obliged, but riding don't agree with us." "It costs nothing," replied the young man, who had opened the door for them, civilly, and in good German; "it belongs to the railroad." "Nothing at all?" asked the brewer, distrustfully. "Not a cent!" the other assured him. The word was a lever that raised the little tailor like a spring into a corner of the vehicle, where, when the brewer had somewhat more slowly followed him, he comfortably rubbed his hands, and, laughing, exclaimed-- "Now it agrees with me, and if it went as far as Buffalo!" It did not go to Buffalo, however, but scarcely a hundred yards off, to a brilliantly lighted up hotel, where both of them, not a little taken aback, were ushered into a large dining-room. There was certainly no time to be lost here, and the tailor, following the example of the brewer, seated himself at one corner of the long table, at which their fellow travellers from the cabin had also just taken their places. In a moment a cup of tea was handed to them, and in like manner successively several plates with various meats and confectionary. Both, however, ate very moderately, declined a second cup of tea, and rose again from table, where they had not felt much at their ease all the time, although a mass of provisions, heaped upon a multitude of small plates, covered the board, and three very pretty young women were constantly pressing them to take first one and then another dish. "What have we to pay?" asked the brewer, at last, of one of the young women, as he could see no waiter. The pretty girl, however, only laughed and shook her head. She understood no German. "What have we to pay?" the tailor (who appeared to think that the girl must be hard of hearing) now cried, so that she started back and looked in amazement at the little thin figure. But another of the girls standing near, called out a few words in English to the first, who now smilingly advanced, and said, "Fifty cents." "Fifty cents," repeated the other, translating it into German--"fifty cents each person." "Fifty cents apiece?" asked the brewer, alarmed; and, turning to the tailor, "I say, why that's a gulden!" "Sixteen gute groschen for _one_ cup of tea!" grumbled the little man in a low tone to himself, but pulled out his meagre purse and paid it: so did the brewer, and both quickly left the brilliantly lighted house, for Meier (that was the tailor's name) anxiously remarked that they should have to pay for the lights if they stayed much longer. They stood still as soon as they got out of the door, and looked at each other, half in surprise half in grief. "Sixteen gute groschen for one cup of tea!" repeated the tailor, with pathos: "half a Spanish dollar of good hard money!" "And I'm as hungry as a lion," said the brewer; "I ate nothing on purpose, because I thought we should otherwise have too much to pay." "That's just my case," complained Meier. "Sixteen gute groschen and nothing to eat! But, I say, we must not tell about this!" "No, if you could only hold your jaw!" "Not a syllable," the little man declared. At that moment, the horn of the canal boat was heard, and several men with lanterns came towards the tavern to fetch such of the passengers as were missing, and who accordingly immediately proceeded on board. It was not, however, till the following morning that they were able to make themselves a little acquainted with surrounding objects on board the conveyance itself. The canal, bordered by two good walls, might perhaps be from twenty-five to thirty feet wide, and boats meeting each other could only pass at certain places. Along the sides were good broad roads, and three horses were harnessed to the long tow-rope of each boat, but they did not hurry themselves much, for the whip of the rider was seldom able to get them beyond a walk. The canal boat itself was clinker built, and about seventy or eighty feet long and fourteen broad; but the after and fore parts, divided into cabins, were alone used for the passengers, while the centre was solely arranged for and devoted to freight. In the first boat were the Oldenburghers, our four friends, (Schmidt, the brewer, the shoemaker, and the tailor,) several Saxon peasants with their families, the cabinet-maker, and the glazier. In the second, on the other hand, were the Committee, with the remainder of the travellers, so that the whole number of passengers were pretty equally divided. As to the passage-money, the Committee had only undertaken to defray the freight of the cargo; it was left to the travellers to pay their own fares, and to provide themselves with provisions for their journey, which of course made it optional with them either to be boarded in the boat or to supply themselves. The first boat chose the latter mode unconditionally, which resolution was influenced not a little by the tailor's relation of the imposition of the preceding evening, for Meier could not find it in his heart to keep the secret of their dreadful expense. They consequently bargained for all such articles as appeared to them necessary for a journey of several days, at the grocery stores (or shops), of which there were plenty everywhere near the canal, and which chiefly contained such things as served for the convenience of travellers; and they fared, if not so well or so conveniently as the Committee, who preferred having their board provided for them, yet much more cheaply, and that was the principal thing in their then circumstances. They felt most uncomfortable at night, when, for the sake of room, they were put into hammocks, which were suspended in rows of three, one above another, from the side. In the second night the ropes at the head of the shoemaker, who just then was dreaming uneasily about robbers and wild beasts, gave way, and his head tumbling down, while his legs remained in the air, he awoke, with such a cry, that all jumped out and came about him. It was some time before they could pacify him, and at first he stared at the tailor, who was shaking him, with such wild rolling eyes, that the latter let him go, and sprang a step backwards. The travelling in the canal-boat was very slow; the roads (as it rained during a couple of hours each night) were bad, and almost bottomless, and in many places the horses could scarcely wade through the mud; but for this one must be prepared in all travelling by canal. It is slow work, and the only chance of enjoyment which a traveller on such a _ride_ has, is to walk afoot alongside when he can. In places where the road was tolerably elevated and dry, the passengers often got out and wandered for miles beside the long ark-like box. In the meanwhile, earnest debates had arisen in the second boat, and that as to the name of the future town which they were about to found. Siebert, senior, was unhesitatingly for "Teutonia," while the junior considered "Hermannstadt" more suitable; Becher was for calling it "Roma," and Von Schwanthal was of opinion that it must be called the "Hoffnung," (Hope), as they had began their journey in the "Hoffnung." Parson Hehrmann supported the latter, and Herbold alone expressed himself very decidedly against all such German-sounding names, and required that it should be called "Concordia." As he had Dr. Normann and the ladies on his side, he carried off the victory at this extraordinary meeting by an overwhelming majority, and the town was provisionally christened "Concordia," with a reservation, of course, to take the opinions of all the settlers on the subject. Some hours might have elapsed when the boats stopped at a small town, both to change horses and to unload a great portion of the cargo--at least, of the foremost boat. Here the whole of the passengers came together once more, and the debate about the name began again. "Concordia!" exclaimed the shoemaker. "No, much obliged--that name wont suit; we are regular Germans, and I don't see why we should have such a foreign word as that. The pastor's name pleases me better, 'Hoffnung.'" "Shoemaker's-hope!" laughed the little tailor, giving him a poke in the ribs; "that would sound well." "Or Tailor's-cabbage!" grumbled the other, in return. "But," expostulated Mr. Becher, "'Concordia' means Union, and union, you know, is to reign among us." "Well, then, why not call it 'Union' at once?" asked the shoemaker, in surprise. "Why have such a far-fetched expression, which half of us don't understand?" "Can't you understand Concordia?" smiled the cabinet-maker. "No, nor you neither, however you may make believe!" "The shoemaker is right," Meier opined; "we'll christen it 'Union,'--that sounds better." "Or 'Harmony!'" suggested the cabinet-maker. "Why not 'Harmonika' at once. Would you call the town after a public-house!" exclaimed the brewer. "Well, what next, I wonder?" "My good people," said the Pastor Hehrmann, interrupting them, "no object is gained by this dispute. Besides, I don't see at all why we should puzzle our brains at present about a name, seeing that the town which is to receive it does not exist yet; the child has to be born before it can be christened." "But why not discuss an affair which hereafter will be by no means unimportant, and for which we have ample leisure just now?" said Siebert, senior. "For my part, I should wish for a ballot; everybody can write a name which he has thought of for the future town, upon a slip of paper, and let the majority decide." "Yes, that's it--we'll do that!" all exclaimed. Slips were soon distributed--every one quickly committed his favourite name to paper by circulating pencils, and threw the slips into the hat of Mr. Becher, who went round to collect them. A sheet of paper was then taken, and Mr. Von Schwanthal volunteered to act as secretary, and to write down the names as they were read over, and from these to determine which had the majority. But what names came to light then!--Oldenburgh, Merseburgh, Osterholz, Sittensen, Helgoland, Saxony, Germany, Hildburghausen, Dresden, Bremen, Happy Hope, Goldland, Germania; and, nearly towards the last--amidst universal laughter--"Anna Maria." "Concordia" had only four votes; but Pastor Hehrmann and Von Schwanthal's "Hoffnung" was successful: a great number of the others had adopted this, and "Hoffnung" was read over eleven times; consequently, as having a majority of voices, it was pronounced to be the name of the town which was to be built. "Aboard!--aboard!" the voice of the boatman now exclaimed. "All aboard! we have stayed here long enough!" The command was speedily attended to, and both boats were, before long, under way again. The weather, which hitherto had been dull and foggy, now cleared up completely, and a fresh east wind rustled through the shadowy tree-tops, and rendered the journey a highly agreeable pleasure excursion. The passengers might have passed their time very well and pleasantly upon deck, had not the bridges, which followed each other at short intervals, proved a great hindrance, for every moment the call, "Look out!" disturbed them, and immediately afterwards, the boat glided so closely under the beams that they were compelled to lie flat down upon their faces, to avoid being pushed off. "We are coming presently to a couple of very low bridges," said the man at the helm to the passengers of the foremost boat, who were bivouacked about the deck in picturesque attitudes, and were beguiling their time partly by stories, and partly by card-playing. "They are much lower than those we have passed," he continued, when he saw that his first warning was unheeded; "and besides, we have taken a great deal of the cargo out of this boat, which will therefore graze much nearer to the timbers than the hindmost boat. You had better go below." For awhile, all remained lying still; at last, however, the tailor rose, and said, "No; I can't swim, and I don't want to be shoved overboard! Come along!" Most of them followed him. The glazier alone lay where he was, saying, with a yawn, "I need not stand up--it's much pleasanter here than below, in that box!" The rest slowly retired to the interior of the boat. The shoemaker and brewer alone stood beside the helmsman, and looked back at the second boat, which followed at the distance of a hundred yards. "I say!" remarked the brewer, laughing, "wont it sound comical, when our town is built, and people say--'It's so many miles to the Hoffnung (Hope),' or, 'I live near to the Hope'? or, 'I live in the Hope, No. 7, on the third floor;' people will think it is a public house! What name did you vote for?" The brewer would, doubtless, have replied, if both he and the shoemaker had not forgotten the question; for in the same moment they saw that the helmsman stooped down, heard the loud laugh of the glazier, and just as they were turning round, were seized by the low bridge, and unmercifully shoved overboard, head foremost. But the canal was not deep, and they soon re-appeared, spluttering and blowing, and had the satisfaction, besides, of being well laughed at from the second boat, in which all pressed to the windows and to the entrance. When they got on board again, of course they were obliged to change their clothes; but they avoided coming too near the helmsman, as the tailor would have it that he had done it on purpose. The glazier had enjoyed the joke royally, but would not leave the deck, although the American at the helm assured him that the next bridge was lower still. Stretching himself comfortably, he declared that that was the best place in the whole boat--and remained. All the passengers, with the exception of this one, were employed in various ways in the interior of the boat, when suddenly the voice of the helmsman was heard. "Take care!" he cried; but with so loud, so anxious a voice, the warning seemed so earnest and urgent, that all, as if seized by something which they could not explain, remained motionless, in the attitudes they were in, and a deathlike silence ensued. But this was broken by such a fearful yell, that it made the blood even of the bravest run cold. Immediately afterwards the former stillness prevailed, and the settlers heard the steersman call to the drivers to stop the horses, while he jumped upon deck. All now rushed up, to see what could have happened, to drive even the quiet Pennsylvanian from his post. But what a horrible spectacle presented itself to their view! Pressed together, with his head shattered and his clothes torn, the glazier lay there--a corpse, and the American turned away with a shudder, when, on attempting to raise his head with his hand, he saw the brain, which pressed out of the wound. The dreadful event was explained in few words--the man had remained on deck in spite of all warnings, the bridge had struck him, and unfortunately his head was raised upon his arms, which hastened the certain death. All assembled round the body; but help had come too late; and the conductor was compelled to proceed, in order to give notice to the authorities of the next town of what had occurred, and to bury the remains there. Fortunately, the place was not far distant; and the horses, as though wishing to flee from the fearful load which they dragged after them, put all their strength and mettle to the draught. In less than an hour, the boat stopped alongside of the broad masonry quay of the canal, whence the news of the casualty quickly spread, and half the town came out to the boat. The settlers had to leave the burial of the body to some of their German countrymen resident there, as the boats would not wait so long on any condition; and paying the expenses out of the little stock of the deceased, they quitted, with anything but cheerful feelings, the spot where they had left the first of their company dead behind them. It was some time, too, before the former easy tone was resumed. The people had become dejected; for the quick putting aside of the body, the little ceremony there was made in taking it away, gave them a glimpse of the little value that _human life_ bore in their new home. Pastor Hehrmann was particularly affected by the calamity, and exhorted the young people again, in the most earnest manner, to follow the warnings of the Americans, who must, of course, be best acquainted with the dangers of their own land. The boats approached the little town of Lockport, where one of them was to take in further cargo. The captain, however, collected the passage-money before they arrived here, lest any of his passengers might step on shore, and forget to return. The fares were paid by each of the settlers, as agreed upon, out of their own pockets. Mr. Siebert, now, began to confess that they had, perhaps, brought some things which were not absolutely necessary to their progress, particularly as he now, for the first time, noticed that the German implements differed essentially from the American. His voice, however, found no echo, and the old story--"We've brought them so far with us, and can't leave them now," again silenced every objection. The boats were to remain half a day at Lockport, and the American advised the Germans to ride over and see the Falls of Niagara, from which they were not very distant, and whither the locomotive would carry them in a very short time. Pastor Hehrmann determined at once to give his family the treat of this grand view, and Mr. Becher, M. Von Schwanthal, and Dr. Normann offered to accompany them; the rest did not think it worth while to undertake a journey expressly on account of a waterfall, but determined, instead, on viewing the surrounding country, and left the boat before its arrival at the town, so as to reach there about noon. It was late before the whole company assembled again from their various expeditions. The Niagara excursionists were quite delighted with the lofty and wonderful spectacle which they had enjoyed, and the others, especially the country people, were equally astonished at the singular agricultural arrangements which they had met with. Schmidt, especially, could not contain himself, for he had met with a couple of fellow countrymen at Lockport, and had learnt a thousand different matters from them, which it cost him the greatest possible trouble to believe. "Round every little field, even if it were only half an acre, there is what they call a fence,"[5] he kept constantly repeating: "why one will have nothing else to do, all one's life, but to chop wood and split it." "I should like to know what I'm to do here," said a locksmith, who had been into one of the log-houses; "why everything is made of wood here that we make of iron. The fences may be all very well; but when it comes to hasps, and hinges, and door-locks of wood--why, there is an end of everything." "Well, thus much I can see," said the tailor, "they don't use carpets in their houses, that's certain; and as to their having wooden locks, that seems to me quite natural; I should like to see the thief that could find anything in them worth carrying away." "They've got no wheels to their ploughs," said Schmidt; "not the least vestige of a wheel." "And one is not safe of one's life in the street!" exclaimed the tailor: "a drove of cows comes along every moment; five times have I been obliged to climb up to the top of one of their high fences; every time the great brutes looked at me as though they would eat me. But--hallo! there's the horn blowing again; the boats are off; so now for Buffalo!" It was nearly evening when they resumed their journey, and consequently it was night when they reached Buffalo, on Lake Erie, and they remained on board the canal-boat until the following morning. A steamer was to leave at ten o'clock for Cleveland, across Lake Erie, and Dr. Normann advised them not to neglect the opportunity of going by her, as they would thereby continue their journey most speedily, and also most cheaply. The cargo had now to be transhipped for the fourth time, and in Cleveland yet again, to a canal-boat, as far as Portsmouth; and in Portsmouth, for the last time, to another steamer. The treasurer now clearly saw that the cash in hand would only be sufficient for the payment of the freight, and perhaps would scarcely suffice for that; he therefore proposed, either to sell a portion of their goods, or else to leave them behind, as there were daily opportunities of forwarding them to the Ohio and the Mississippi. However much a large section of the settlers might still be opposed to this measure, yet the majority saw at last that it was necessary that something should be done, which ought indeed to have been done long since, and, after lengthy debates, the Committee was authorized to sell a portion of the utensils. But however the Society might debate about the matter, it was impossible to carry it out, for if the Committee had had as many days as it had hours for the purpose of carrying into effect such a sale, it would even then have striven in vain; for, in the first place, the settlers could not agree concerning the particular articles which were to be parted with, and, in the next place, there was no buyer to be found, even at the most reasonable prices; there was only one blacksmith who came forward, and he would only pay them for certain articles valued as old iron. This was rather too much of a good thing, and the suggestion of the landlord of the tavern, where they had put up for the short time, was gratefully accepted--viz., to leave the things in an old out-building, which in winter served for a wood-shed, until they should be inquired for. According to the advice of several Germans there, they took with them, besides two carts and a wagon, which, if sold, must have been replaced hereafter at a high price, (although no more than their freight came to,) only some saws, chains, and axes, and scarcely left themselves time to get the rest on board the "Ontario" steamer which soon after rang her bell and commenced her passage to Cleveland, whereby they were compelled to leave their remaining things exposed on the water-side. The landlord, however, promised to take care of everything for them, that they need not make themselves anxious about it, and swung his cap after them besides, as long as he could see them. They reached Cleveland in the night; had to unload there, for the fifth time, and get themselves and their things into a canal-boat, which bore them through Ohio State to the Ohio River, at the little town of Portsmouth; and it was here that they got on board the steamer which was to take them to the mouth of the Big Halchee, and consequently to within about fifteen miles of their destination, the projected town of "Hoffnung." In Portsmouth, again, they only stopped so long as was necessary to remove their things on board, for when they arrived, the steamer was on the point of pushing off, and was only prevailed upon to wait for a short time by the prospect of the large number of passengers. Any bargaining for freight or passage-money was therefore out of the question, and before they were aware of it they saw themselves on the broad Ohio, gliding past its picturesquely beautiful banks. "A fine voyage this is!" growled the brewer, when he got time, at last, to seat himself, weary and tired, on the large chest which contained his clothes and linen;--"one eternal driving--one eternal lugging about. How often have I had to haul this cursed box out of one boat into another. Thank Heaven, this is the last." "I'm better off there;" laughed the tailor, "my luggage is soon got across; this little knapsack; the hat-box--the hat lies in the church--and this handkerchief, with the biscuit and sausage in it, are all my riches. But, I say, brewer, between ourselves, who is to pay our passage-money when we've got no more?" "Why, we're nearly there," replied the brewer. "Yes; but at present," said the tailor, pulling a long face, "I'm regularly stumped!" "No more money?" "Not a rap." "Well!" cried the brewer, astonished, "that's a good one; the Committee will look rather glum." "Listen," said the shoemaker, who advanced towards them at this moment, "I've got something on my mind which I should like to tell you." "Out with it," ejaculated the brewer, encouragingly. "I have no more money!" "Come to my heart, companion of my sorrow!" spouted the tailor, in the mock-heroic style, "now I'm no longer afraid; now there are two of us, the thing is getting common." "Well, I'll be hanged if I can see the comfort of that," remarked the brewer, shaking his head; "the best thing you can do is to go to the Committee and let them consider the matter." At this moment they were called by one of the Oldenburghers to the after-deck, where all the settlers were assembled, (for only Hehrmann's wife and daughters and Dr. Normann had taken cabin passages,) in order to confer on an important subject. Five other members of the society had announced themselves to the Committee as no longer possessing any money to defray their further travelling expenses, and had applied for the assistance of the community. They promised to work out every advance so soon as they should get to their destination. The tailor had his name and the shoemaker's immediately placed on the list, and the question now only remained, whether this money was to be supplied out of the funds in hand or by contributions. Mr. Siebert, senior, opposed the former proposition with might and main, and produced the accounts which he had kept of freight and transport expenses, which, notwithstanding all the bargaining, alone amounted to a hundred and sixty dollars; so that the whole finances amounted only to about sixty dollars, while they were still twelve hundred miles from their new abode. There was not much to be objected to this--the matter was too clear; but new difficulties presented themselves when it came to raising a subscription in order to pay the passage-money of their fellow-travellers. The Oldenburghers formally opposed it, and declared that they, too, possessed nothing more, and wished also to be put upon the list. Mr. Siebert had behaved rather passively and indifferently hitherto, but now he came out, and requested all present to give him their attention for a short time. When all was silent, he turned towards his fellow-travellers, and, quiet and self-possessed, thus addressed them:-- "Gentlemen, we have come to that point in which our future fortunes, our future relations to each other, must be ascertained. What was our intention when we forsook our native land? We intended to found a new home for ourselves--we intended to buy a strip of land, and to become farmers. We have got the land--but more is required for farming besides land merely. We must, as soon as we reach our destination, procure, not provisions alone, but also utensils for the tillage of the soil, for the erection of warmer and more substantial habitations; we must purchase cattle; for however easily cattle may increase in this new country, still, above all things, the stock must first exist; we must have horses to draw the ploughs which are to prepare our fields. For all this, money is required--money, _much_ money; and if we are not in a condition to raise that, why, our settlement ceases at once, even before it has begun. "All this, moreover, was well known to you before we left Bremen, and _all_ then expressed themselves ready to satisfy such requisitions as had for their object the founding and maintenance of our new colony, to the best of their ability, and with cheerfulness. Shall we now, when the string is first touched, go back from this? Or does _not_ the assistance of the members (who are necessary to the preservation of the whole) conduce to the _general_ good? Assuredly it does--and is a principal condition of the whole. But, as we have touched upon this subject now, I must go back to our earlier plan, and remind you that the period has now arrived to put it into execution. Let every one contribute, according to his ability, towards the common fund, of which an accurate account will be kept; and the amount subscribed, let it be ever so small, shall yield interest at four per cent., as pre-arranged; while, as actual occupiers of the land, the lenders' money is perfectly secured. Besides, this is a subject long since and frequently discussed; I have even the list here upon which each of you have entered how much (about) he should be able and willing to come forward with; the question, therefore, only is, whether you will perform your former engagements--whether, in fact, generally, you are minded to carry out your former plans; for now the time has come for ascertaining this. As it concerns a question, moreover, which you would probably wish to consider, I request your reply this afternoon." The meeting now adjourned, and stormy debates commenced, for the Emigrants were once more to touch their funds, and that to a more considerable extent than before, and to place their last money in the hands of the Committee whom they thereby virtually invested with absolute authority, for they made themselves entirely dependent upon them. They considered the matter backwards and forwards; the Oldenburghers spoke against it; they wanted to divide the land purchased into as many portions as there were persons who had contributed to its purchase, so that each might manage his own share on his own account; but this did not suit the others, who considered the working in common so much more beneficial and more conducive to their object. The Committee had gained an important advantage in having joined them in the 'tween decks; it appeared more natural to them; besides, the little shanties, which lay scattered all about the banks, also spoke to their hearts. Thus, they thought to themselves, must their new homes be, though of course only for the first few years. The fields adjoining looked so fruitful, the apple and peach orchards round about the dwellings looked so inviting, that they felt half inclined to put an end to the question by a hasty resolution; and when, to crown all, Pastor Hehrmann, Mr. Herbold, and Becher came among them, and exhorted them to be of good cheer, and when Mr. Becher handed over 100 dollars, and the other two 200 dollars each, before their eyes, to Siebert, senior, they could not think of considering the matter further; even the Oldenburghers felt touched; and before two o'clock of the afternoon, after a narrow inspection, there was found collected, from all members able to pay, 1932 dollars into the common purse; certainly a respectable fund to found a modest home in the woods with. The passage money of the penniless was paid out of this at once, and they undertook to repay the expenditure so soon as their funds would permit. Having got over this difficulty, the "settlers" employed themselves in examining surrounding objects a little more narrowly than hitherto they had been able to do, on account of the constant bustle. The steamer itself first claimed their whole attention; it appeared quite different from the Eastern boats in which they had travelled before. The engine stood upon deck, and two regular stories were erected, and upon the latter, whilst the helmsman's place, instead of being aft, was forward, in a small glass house between the two great chimneys. The cargo was mostly below in the hold, and the first story, arranged for cabin passengers only, was not to be approached by deck passengers; but Siebert, senior, and Pastor Hehrmann had an opportunity of seeing the whole when they paid the total amount of freight and passage money which they had collected from the individual members. Pastor Hehrmann, besides, might have remained there on account of his family, but he wished, just at that time, to avoid everything which might lead to envy or discussion. The cabin was beautifully fitted up, the long and large saloon was closely hung with pictures, and between these, large richly fringed crimson curtains concealed the sleeping berths for gentlemen, whilst an apartment in the after-part of the boat was separated by a glass-door from the rest, and distinguished as the ladies' cabin, to which was added, besides, a small black shield, with an inscription in gold letters thereon, announcing, 'no admittance.' The mode of steering the boat struck them particularly, for, as the steersman stood in front, two wire ropes issued from the little house in which the wheel was turned, right through the ship, aft to the rudder. The two long boilers were placed forward of the engine, and were there fired by the stokers. As they stopped at several small towns, they only reached Cincinnati, the largest city of Ohio State, and, indeed, of the whole of Western America, on the next day. The Captain announced to them that he should remain there until the following morning, and, therefore, that they would have ample time to look about the town, only they must be aboard by seven the next morning. The people did not need to be told this twice; they streamed ashore in shoals, and drew off in single groups through the broad and handsome streets of the town. But everywhere they met Germans; they saw their countrymen in all parts; and when they got over some canal bridges into the other part of the town, their mother tongue sounded out of every door, and out of every open window. Our party of four, whom we have so often already followed in their wanderings, again found themselves together, and determined to make a regular good use of the day, to see whatever was worth seeing and within reach, without much expense. They strolled slowly along the quay, or steam-boat landing, as it is there called, and were just passing one of the innumerable little clothes-stores, when a young and dapper little fellow, with well-curled hair, and very shining boots, dived out of the depths of the recess, approached the four men, cast a scrutinizing glance at them, and then, without more ado, seized Schmidt round the waist, and dragged him towards the entrance, whilst he, at the same time, gabbled a lot of English stuff to him, of which Schmidt did not understand one word. "Let me go," he cried, peevishly, at last; "or at all events, talk so that I may understand what you want." The young man still hung back with his German, which, he undoubtedly understood; but as he saw that his English was of no use, he begged our four fellow-travellers in very good, though rather Jewish German, just to step in and look at his goods. "We don't want anything," said Schmidt, who did not feel comfortable at being caught hold of in such a way by a stranger; "our clothes are all good." "All good!" repeated contemptuously the young Israelite--"all good? Then I should like to see what you call bad. And you go across the street in Cincinnati in that coat? you present yourself before decent people with those trousers? you wear such a hat upon your head? If I only had a garden I would change a new suit for this old one; I would, upon my honour, only to get such a scarecrow for birds as is not to be found elsewhere in the world--I give you my word of honour, I would." "Hark ye," said Schmidt, who was getting angry, "what the---- Well, I wont use bad language--though I was going to say----" "Don't be angry, my good sir; don't be angry," exclaimed the little fellow, "the clothes would be good enough if any other person wore them, but with such a handsome figure as yours, it's a thousand pities to have such a bundle of rags hanging round you. Here"--he interrupted Schmidt, who was getting angry again--"I'll sell you a whole suit for----" "Much obliged," said the latter, and made an effort to free himself from the hands of the clothes-dealer; "I don't want anything." But the thing was easier thought of than executed, for the little Israelite held fast, and overwhelmed poor Schmidt with such a heap of compliments, as to his appearance, how wrong it was of him to habit his handsome limbs in that fashion, that at last the latter did not know what to do, and was already asking the price of a pair of trousers, merely to get rid of the importunate one, when the brewer, who for some time past had found the thing going beyond the bounds of his patience, came to the rescue. With powerful grasp he seized the slender Jew, till the latter sung out lustily, and said to him-- "Hands off! Hands off, I say! Nobody is forced to buy bargains here; if we want any clothes, the tailor will make them for us; that's what he's there for." And seizing his astonished comrade by the arm, he dragged him by force out of the shop. "The devil is in the tailors here in America," said Schmidt, when he got outside. "These fellows are worse than highwaymen, who at all events wait till it gets dark before they attack you, but that fellow begins at noon-day." "And you would have bought something, sure enough," said the shoemaker, as they turned up the main street. "What was I to do? he would not let me go." "Look, here's another clothes-shop, and another Jew inside," said the tailor; "this makes the fifteenth out of thirty-three houses that we have passed; they just do swarm here." Strolling thus up the street, they came between the sixth and seventh cross streets, opposite to a German tavern, and finding a number of their fellow-countrymen there, they stopped. But these had been some time in America, and so soon as they heard that the four men were new-comers, they set up such a lamentation about bad times, and want of money, that the settlers felt quite hot and uncomfortable. It is true, that at first they would not give in to these complaints, for what Dr. Normann had told them about the country sounded quite different, but at last, staggered by the testimony of so many bystanders, doubts began to arise in their minds, and the shoemaker said,--rather faint-heartedly, however-- "If one can earn a dollar a day at work, I should think that one might live upon it." "Yes, if one could get it," replied an old Hanoverian peasant, who, rather ragged, and with pale cheeks, was sitting on a bench before the house, nodding hard with his head at the same time. "But they scarcely pay one twenty-five dollars a month during the harvest, and after that, poor devils may get on again as best they can. They offered me and my two sons six dollars a month; the two boys were obliged to accept it, but I was taken ill, and am eating up nearly all they earn." "Are they making no railroads, no canals, hereabouts? There's always plenty of money when they are going on." "Half a dollar a day, and on wet days they don't work. Payments are made monthly in paper money, and if one afterwards loses the fourth part only, one must think one's self lucky." "But handicraftsmen are well paid here, are they not?" asked the tailor. "Paid!" exclaimed another, laughing ironically, out of the open door. "I'm a tailor, and I've worked for two months past for my board." "But, my good people," said the little fellow, dolefully, "why, it must be dreadful here in America, then. What is one to do?" "It's not so bad as the people make out," interposed a farmer, who now joined them, and whose clean clothes and white fine linen bespoke a certain easiness of circumstances. "It's not so bad," he repeated, "only you must not suppose that roast pigeons fly about, crying, 'come eat me!' First learn the ways and customs, first learn the language of the country, and you'll work yourself into the whole system of the people with whom you have to mix. Only don't stop in the towns; out into the country, become countrymen, breed cattle; if you have to work for small wages at first, what matter; every man must pay his apprenticeship-fee, and don't suppose that you can escape doing that here. If for a year, or even two, things go ill with you, don't abuse the country and the people directly; no one drops from the sky a master ready-made, and good work must bide good time." "Well, that sounds reasonable," said the brewer; "there's no great lamentation about the matter, nor does he overpraise the thing; so there's some hope left, that, after awhile, we may earn something on our land." "Bought already?" said the farmer. "Yes; a whole company." "Good land?" "It's said to be very good; we haven't seen it yet." "And bought already; well, that is old-countryman like; the Americans don't do things that way; they see the land first, and then they don't always buy it exactly; they go on Congress land, which they have to pay for in a couple of years, and with their ready money buy cattle; that doubles its value in three years, and is as good as thirty-three or forty per cent. Where is your land, then?" "In Tennessee, on a small river which they call Big Halchee, or something like that; they've got such break-jaw names here." "Big Halchee?" said the farmer--"that is a creek, a brook merely; but the land there is said to be good. 'Tis unhealthy, it is true." "The deuce it is!" exclaimed the shoemaker, startled. "Dr. Normann told us it lay in the healthiest part of the State." "Well, then, it must be a long way up the Creek." "I don't know what you mean by crick," grunted the brewer; "the place is said to be fifteen miles from the Mississippi, and there are some houses upon it." "Very likely," said the farmer; "I was never up the country there. And when are you going?" "Now, directly." "Now? In August? Well then, I wish you joy of the fever," said the farmer, laughing, drank the glass of cider which he had called for, and went off up the street. The brewer meanwhile ordered some beer, growled something about nonsensical stuff, fever, fiddlestick, old women's tales, and so on, and then wandered off with his comrades higher up into the town. "Well," said the shoemaker, at last, stopping near a shoemaker's workshop--"if that isn't curious; I begin to think that all the shoemakers in Cincinnati are confectioners. Only look now at the gingerbread and sugarcandy in that window there, a whole lot of it; the few pairs of shoes only seem to be hung beside by way of ornament." "A pretty sort of ornament, indeed," grinned the tailor. "The shoemaker is right, though; honeycakes and leather must agree well together here; but perhaps it isn't a shoemaker's." "Not a shoemaker's!" bawled the other, peevishly. "I should think I ought to know a shoemaker when I see one. Don't you see him hammering away, yonder, between the honeycake and the pink child's-shoe." "Yes, sure enough," said the little man; "it must be the custom here, then; opposite yonder is another, and he has got a whole box of ready-made[6] shoes standing before his door." "Hallo! he must have been a hard-working fellow," exclaimed the shoemaker, in astonishment, on perceiving the number of shoes set up in a large box; "and upon my word all made with little wooden pegs, too--they don't appear to sew here at all." "Where shall we go to this evening?" asked the brewer. "I wish there was something to be seen here." "Another striped pig, perhaps?" suggested Schmidt. "Nonsense," growled the other. "But, I say, the Museum yonder, in that wide street where the red lantern is hanging, is said to be well worth seeing. What say you?--shall we go in? It only costs a quarter dollar." "That would be just one half of all that I am worth," said the tailor. "Well, I'll pay for you, tailor, if Schmidt will pay for the shoemaker." "Agreed," replied Schmidt. "I'm willing to stand Sam; only I should like to be shaved first, for my beard feels very prickly--but I have not seen a sign of a bason[7] anywhere, although I've been constantly looking for one." "There are some Germans; perhaps they can tell us where a barber is to be found." "Walk down here till you come to the first red-and-white painted pole, that's a barber's shop." "What! a little pole with a gilt knob at the top?" asked Schmidt. "Yes, there are five or six of them in this street." "Well, that is a curious sign for a barber," said the shoemaker; "I've been puzzling my brains all day to find out what those poles could mean." They soon arrived at one of these shops, whence the cheerful notes of a fiddle issued towards them. Schmidt went in, while the rest employed themselves outside in noticing the passers-by, and in looking into the different shop windows; but they had not waited long, before Schmidt, with his face all over lather up to his eyes, came running out again, clapped his hat on his head, and fled. The three burst into a roar of laughter, and other people also stopped to see what was the matter. But Schmidt, who perhaps was a little ashamed, quickly wiped the soap off with his handkerchief, and turned aside into a side street, whither his comrades followed him. "What, in the name of wonder, has happened to you?" asked the brewer. "Nothing," said Schmidt; "I was a jackass; but I got such a fright when I saw that tall black fellow with the razor." "The _black_ fellow?" asked the tailor. "Yes," said Schmidt. "When I went in, I sat myself down with my face to the door, and a little white boy lathered me, while at the back of the shop, behind a sort of curtain, somebody was performing beautifully on a fiddle; it went so fast, that one could not distinguish the different notes. When my face had been lathered, the playing suddenly stopped, and before I was aware of it, one of those negro fellows that run about the streets here by dozens--a big, dangerous-looking fellow, with great goggle eyes, and a shining razor in his hand--approached me. I suppose that he was going to shave me, but I was so startled that up I jumped, tore the napkin off my neck, caught up my hat, and was out of the house like lightning; they must have had a good laugh at me." "Didn't they just laugh!" said the shoemaker; "the black stepped into the doorway, and grinned till it looked as though his two rows of teeth stretched from ear to ear. But it was stupid of you, Schmidt; he wouldn't have cut your head off." "Oh, I know that well enough, only I was so taken aback at the first moment; the fellow looked so grim. What am I to do now?" "Why, go into some other barber's shop, for you must not show yourself in that one again on any account; it's as well that we leave here to-morrow morning. There's one down yonder." Schmidt followed this advice, and went through the operation this time, but declared positively, that he had again fallen into the hands of a black. When this matter had been disposed of, they wandered slowly down Main-street again, and got entrance tickets for the Museum. There we must leave them, and follow another section of the travelling companions--viz., the two Sieberts, Pastor Hehrmann, Becher, and Herbold, who had likewise walked up into the town, and had sought out a chemist and druggist named Strauss, to whom they were recommended by Dr. Normann. He received them in a very friendly manner, and in the afternoon took a walk with them. Mr. Strauss had not been long in America himself, but had lived nearly the whole time in Cincinnati, and appeared to have made himself pretty well acquainted with the state of affairs there; he did not praise the place much, and showed a disposition to remove westward. Siebert immediately tried to gain him over for their colony, but was unable to induce him to promise anything certain, although the idea of quitting Cincinnati did not seem to be a difficulty. He inquired with much interest into the plans and prospects of his countrymen, but shook his head several times very doubtfully, when the relators got into what he called their "castles in the air." He had known Dr. Normann for some years, and inquired with much interest after all that related to him. "To be candid with you," he said, at last, "I don't altogether trust that gentleman." "How so?" exclaimed Mr. Siebert, in some alarm. "Well, he has told me such stories about inventions which he pretends to have made, some of which are really ridiculous; brags so much of Republican-American sentiments, and altogether plays the part of such an extraordinarily clever and wonderfully rich man, that I have become somewhat distrustful of him, the more particularly, because, as far as regards the latter assumption, I have strong proofs to the contrary; but I may be mistaken; he may be a very honourable man, and a clever one he certainly is." Thus conversing about one thing and the other, they had wandered through most of the streets of the town, and had returned to Main-street again, when Strauss suddenly stopped before a low, wide building, with a wooden staircase, and said-- "By the bye, we were talking, this morning, about the politics of the Germans here; would you like to attend a German political meeting this evening?" "Willingly," they all said; "where is it held?" "Just here, where we are standing, in the house of a fellow-countryman, of course, who, besides, keeps very good beer. Cincinnati is, moreover, the Munich[8] of North America. But here is the place; and, as I hear, the speechifying has commenced----" They walked in, and found a pretty numerous assemblage of Germans, who were mostly sitting round a table, talking together in a very animated manner, and only ceasing when one of them, by rattling a tin can, intimated a wish to address the assembly. The election of President was at hand, and the Democrats were trying their utmost to get the Democrat Polk elected President; whilst the Whigs were noways behind hand in _their_ exertions in opposition, and to carry their candidate to the Capitol at Washington. But, instead of being satisfied with praising their own respective candidates, and placing them in the most favourable light, both parties were chiefly engaged in blackening the character of the man put forward by the opposite party, in such a dreadful manner, that if what they said were true, no respectable dog could have accepted a piece of bread at his hands. In such a meeting they now found themselves, and the settlers had already listened with great attention to the addresses of various orators, whose words were frequently interrupted by shouts of approbation, and rewarded by thunders of applause. "It must be admitted," said Becher, when, after awhile, they had walked up and down outside the house to cool themselves--"it must be admitted that they have a peculiar way of speaking here--such violent abuse of one man, whose only offence appears to be, that their opponents wish to make him President; their style would not suit my taste; however, different countries, different manners; probably the Whigs are not much better." "Worse still, if possible, worse still," said Strauss, laughing. "But could you understand all that the people inside there were saying?" "Well," replied Pastor Hehrmann, "I have listened pretty attentively, but I cannot say that I comprehended everything; some of their sentences seemed very bombastic." "Yes," Becher interrupted him; "now that you mention it, I think I could also affirm that those portions of the speeches which the people applauded most loudly, contained nothing further than very vague ideas; the good folks seem easily satisfied." "Will you believe me," smiled Strauss, "that I will go in and talk nonsense for five minutes--nonsense, pure barefaced nonsense--and that at the conclusion it shall be hailed with loud plaudits?" "Well, I don't think them quite so bad as that comes to, either," said Pastor Hehrmann, with a deprecating shake of the head; "they are actuated with the best intentions--viz., that of having the affairs of the republic, in which they live, managed as well as possible; and if they are not exactly learned men, still they probably can distinguish sense from nonsense." "Well," said Strauss, "we can make the experiment. Come in with me; only keep serious; that's all I ask of you." The meeting was powerfully excited by a speech which had just been made. Here and there violent blows of fists upon the table testified what strength their owners were capable of using should they be called upon to combat for the right cause, and all of them were talking and hallooing together. Strauss had to rattle the tin can several times; at last the excitement abated a little, and the new orator stood upon a chair. "Gentlemen,"--he now began, after casting a searching glance round the circle, and making some very long pauses, particularly in the commencement, as though he were overcome by his feelings, until at last, by degrees, he got into full swing, as Mr. Becher afterwards observed, and pursued the thread of his discourse with more animated words and gesticulations,--"It is with satisfaction--that I do myself the honour--of standing up in this place--which it would be impossible to express. I see that you are determined to remain true to your former well-tried and honourable opinions. I see the fire of courage and of patriotism beaming in your eyes. I see that you will not bow down again under that yoke which you have but recently shaken off, together with the old country, your former home." (No, no, no! from several parts of the room.)--"Gentlemen, it is not only necessary that we should show firm resolution in the exertions which we have attained by the perseverance of our dear fellow-countrymen, and with iron determination refuse to join a party which tries to frighten us by trickery and bragging; no, we must also, conscious of our worth, in the hope of real and irresistible conviction, endeavour to carry out that feeling which inflames us with holy ardour, that feeling for justice and freedom which is a birthright of Germans!" (Bravo! bravo! from all sides.)--"Gentlemen," Strauss, becoming warmer, now proceeded--"you have an internal conviction of the words of truth. Although British gold and selfish opinions may oppress a portion of this holy republic, although tyranny and oppression may threaten with chains and sharpened swords, have you ever been dismayed? Did you not return gloriously and triumphantly from the former battle?" (Hurrah for Strauss! hurrah!)--"Yes, my dear fellow-countrymen, you understand my feelings, but you also know, as I do, that a party cannot triumph in whose hearts a participation in deceit and seductive appearances has taken root, whose independence and convictions are attacked by venal brokers and agents, in which the blind fanaticism of thousands aimed at a height which, by chimerical hopes and impressions, composed of promises and deceptions, sought in vain to attain that goal which comes to meet and bless an honest heart." (Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah for Strauss! the crowd exclaimed, and the rejoicing and clattering of drinking vessels for some moments drowned every other word.) "No, no, and no, again I say," continued Strauss, as soon as the noise had abated a little. "When the heart does not with loud throbs throw itself into the arms of liberty,--when strength does not stretch out its powerful hands into one great alliance--where talent and knowledge do not work together with firm and inflexible unanimity, where, during generations, evil has not been held in contempt and good honoured--of what avail are the fine-drawn nets of the hypocrites, who appear to spread their yarns with cunning fingers? Let them spread them, let them contrive--the tricksters! let the nets become closer and closer daily, which are to conceal their guilt with an easily rent and transparent covering. Let them rejoice in their vileness--let them, with gnashing teeth, defile the throne of truth, which is firmly wound round the hearts of our party with twenty-handed arms! Let them go on patiently. But as for us, I point with luminous finger to the oriflamme of youthful Immortality--for us, I say, away, away with cunning and false shame! away with fraud, away with false appearances! We, my brothers, are German democrats, and let our motto be, 'German perseverance and German truth!'" "Hurrah!" screamed the crowd once more, in ear-piercing chorus, as Strauss descended from the chair, and several approached, and shook hands with him in a friendly manner. Pastor Hehrmann, however, had quietly gone out as soon as the speech was concluded; the rest now followed him; and Strauss, as soon as he joined them, smilingly asked them whether he had been as good as his word. "Deuce take it!" exclaimed Becher, "but that was a capital speech; and how pleased they were with it!" "That was nothing," whispered Strauss; "there were too many of the 'honourables' there, and one must not lay it on too thick with them. But the other day I was in my element; they called upon me for a speech, and I talked such stuff to them that at last I began to be ashamed myself. At the conclusion I compared _our_ president to a comet, and said, that 'as the latter the more it stretches backward the broader it becomes, so shall we in our progress grow and increase in strength, till, like a brilliant comet in the night sky of the opposite party, we shall break our way shining and flaming to the zenith of the firmament.' You should have heard the applause; and the lacemaker from down in Front-street, who has made a couple of thousand dollars or so, and therefore considers himself a wonderfully clever fellow--but who, I may observe in passing, is a dreadful Whig and a blockhead, and had only come to our meeting to hear what was going forward,--went away, saying, 'It's all very well, anybody can deal in abuse.'" "But I don't consider it right to mystify the people in such a way as to their feelings; why not speak to them in clear distinct words? why not endeavour to strengthen them in pure unadulterated truth?" "Mr. Hehrmann," said Strauss, becoming more serious, "I could answer that question by another, but we will confine ourselves to what is political. You dare not do it; no one would listen to you at last, and the people would say, 'He will only tell us what we know well enough already,' whether they know it or not. No, to be a Mentor of the people, I, for one, shall not aspire; but if they will be made fools of it's their own fault. If they would only learn to _think_ before they would _abuse_, all that would not happen; but you may convince yourself, from every individual, with a few exceptions, that what I say is correct. Thousands of my worthy fellow-countrymen, some of whom even pass for political luminaries, know and understand as little of American politics as most German reviewers know of the books which they review. They just cast a glance into them, and criticize away. "The Germans here follow the multitude, and many of our German Tom Noddys, who with puffed-up cheeks look down upon their poorer countrymen, although they themselves, but a few months before, scarcely had salt to their bread, become Whigs; because they now come in contact with rich Americans who are Whigs, and who see through these addle-heads, flatter them, and lead them by the nose so long as they want to make use of them. You cannot conceive what a contemptible animal is one of these German parvenus who has become rich. But it is getting late, and we had better go to bed; farewell, therefore, until to-morrow; I'll come round to the boat before it starts." The settlers followed the advice of the apothecary, and, wearied with the constant wandering about, retired to rest. Pastor Hehrmann, however, continued silently to walk up and down the deserted deck in deep musing, till weariness overcame him also, and he laid himself down, wrapped in his cloak, beside the little cabin of the pilot, there in the open air, to await the rising sun. The dawn was yet contending with the increasing light of the young day, and the crew, who had been busy at work cleaning the various decks, had just concluded their labours, when the door of one of the sleeping apartments in the ladies' cabin opened, and the pastor's elder daughter stepped out into the fresh morning air, to greet the first rays of the awakening day. The neighbourhood, still and pleasant, lay before her; the river murmured and splashed lightly against the sides of the boat; fishes leaped out of the water; single boats, with snow-white sails, glided quickly across the stream, and all nature rested, overspread with such a lovely charm, that the dear and good girl gently folded her hands, and with her clear eyes turned toward the equally pure sky, prayed inwardly. "Good morning, Bertha!" whispered a voice, softly; and the maiden started back, exclaiming "Oh!" with a glad voice--but she receded still farther, pale and frightened, when she saw the sharp eyes of Dr. Normann fixed upon her with a keen though friendly expression. He now climbed quickly over the paddle-box down to the gallery of the ladies' cabin, and approached the young girl, who timidly drew back, exclaiming, reproachfully--"Doctor, you must have mistaken the place." "No, my dear Bertha," said the doctor, seizing her hand, which she, half mechanically, let him do. "No, I do not mistake, but the boat will leave in a few hours, and I myself cannot leave Cincinnati, on account of business, until the expiration of some weeks. It is therefore not possible for me to part from you thus, without having first declared myself." Bertha would have withdrawn her hand, but he would not let her, but continued, more passionately, "Bertha, there is no time now to choose convenient times and places; I am on the point of losing you. You must, during the whole time you have known me, have remarked with what devotion I love you." "Sir!" said Bertha, alarmed. "Do not take away this hand from me," the doctor continued, with ardent looks; "do not reject the heart of one who is capable, nay, the whole wish of whose soul is to make you happy; do not turn your dear face away; say at least that you are not angry with me." "Leave me, sir, I beg of you," said the girl, who was now really alarmed; "I can give you no hopes to encourage feelings which I cannot reciprocate." "I have startled you, Bertha, have I not?" asked the doctor; "you are angry with me on that account." "I am not angry with you; no, do not misunderstand me; you have been so disinterestedly obliging to my parents, and to the whole company, that I cannot help giving you my whole esteem." "Oh! why that cold word--esteem?" said Normann. "Do not demand more; I cannot, I dare not, ever feel more, I----" "You love another; you love yonder young man, who----" "Sir," said the otherwise so-retiring girl, drawing herself up proudly, "I believe that I am not bound to give any account of my feelings to you." With these words, she endeavoured to go back on the gallery, in order to return into the cabin, whither the doctor dared not have followed her, but he barred her passage, and said, in a low tone, but gravely: "Bertha, I love you--love you with a passion that startles even myself. Bertha, you _must_ be mine; do not rob me of every hope; say, at least, that you may, one day." "Sir, you will oblige me to call for assistance if you do not let me go. You cannot hope to force me to love you? Farewell; _if_ we ever meet again, may this conversation be forgotten by both of us. I bear no ill-will towards you." With these words, she stepped past the doctor, who no longer sought to detain her, but looked darkly after her, and then murmuring something between his teeth, quickly regained the upper deck; without looking round, he jumped off the other side of the paddle-box in a bound or two on to the lower deck of the boat, strode over the plank, and disappeared in a few minutes more among the buildings of the town. The Captain was as good as his word, as to their early departure; it was not yet seven o'clock when his bell sounded for the first time, and soon after, the mooring ropes were got in. Strauss, who wished to take leave of his new friends, could scarcely press their hands, before the engines began to work, and in a very short time more, the boat panted, hissing and foaming, down the stream towards the father of the waters--the Mississippi. At breakfast, all the 'tween deck passengers assembled in the lower deck, but they were not a little astonished on finding that Dr. Normann had disappeared so mysteriously without taking leave. Pastor Hehrmann, it is true, might have given them some explanation, for he had been an unintentional spectator from the upper, or so-called hurricane deck, of the whole interview between his daughter and the doctor; but the latter, in hurrying off, had not observed Hehrmann, and as his daughter said nothing on the subject, the pastor determined not to allude in any way to what had taken place. "What can have become of the doctor!" exclaimed Becher, when he had been sought for everywhere, and the conviction forced itself upon them that he was not on board. "This morning I saw him running hastily into the town. I called after him, too, but he either did not, or would not hear me." "Probably," suggested the elder Siebert, "he went to look after something or other, and did not think that the boat would start so soon. Is his luggage still on board?" "If I am not much mistaken, he carried that under his arm," replied Becher, "but I will not positively affirm it." M. Von Schwanthal now gave a different turn to the conversation as well as to the thoughts of the settlers, by describing the Museum--where, on the preceding evening, he had fallen in with our four-leaved shamrock, Schmidt, the shoemaker, the tailor, and the brewer,--in such a droll manner, that all assembled round him. "They call it a Museum of Natural History," he said, laughing; "a couple of cupboards full of stuffed birds, and hideous drawn-out beasts, are the only things that belong to natural history in the place; but there are plenty of other things; for example, mammoth's bones, Indian weapons and dresses; a cuirass, picked up after the battle of Waterloo, on which, if I mistake not, the hero's blood yet sticks; a French postillion's boot--the latter was shown as something particularly curious; a piece of steam-boiler that had burst and was blown from the steamer, I don't know how many hundred yards, upon the shore; snakes in spirits-of-wine; and, above all things, a horrible room-full of relics of criminals; ropes and nightcaps of people who have been hanged; awfully distorted heads of malefactors in spirits; hands and feet cut off; knives and axes, with which deeds of murder have been done, and on which the blood may yet be seen. Pish! a shudder runs through me at the very thought of it." "And then the large dolls," said the tailor. "Yes, splendid wax-figures, representing nothing but tales of murder and robbery, and then such attitudes! One thing amused me very much; under a glass-case there stood a kind of machine, put together of iron and brass wheels: it is true it was immovable, but below was a label pasted on it, whereon was written, 'Perpetuum mobile.'" "And the last was pretty, too," said the shoemaker, who could not conceive why the Committee laughed at this; "there came in one of these negroes, and threw a whole lot of plates in the air, and danced about underneath them without letting one fall to the ground." "But how about 'Hell?'" smiled Von Schwanthal, glancing sideways at the brewer; the other three burst out into a hearty laugh. "Well," said the brewer, rather vexed, "I should like to know who would not have been startled. They've got a concern there which they call Hell, a whole room-full of devils, poor souls, snakes, and I don't know all what. On one side there was a railing, so I leant quietly against it, and was looking at a tall skeleton that stood close beside me and had frightful claws; but while I was thinking of nothing of the kind, it turned suddenly round and sprang right at me--it looked horrid." "The brewer did not make a bad jump either," Von Schwanthal continued, taking up the narrative; "but unfortunately he alighted upon the corns of an old lady, who began to abuse him soundly." "She must have been a German," said the brewer; "for though she spluttered out nothing but English gibberish, yet the first word she said was 'Rindvieh.' (brute or ox, lout,) I understood that." "That wouldn't be difficult for you," tittered the tailor. Siebert, senior, had meanwhile looked round once more after Dr. Normann, but without being able to see or hear anything of him, and the emigrants had to comfort themselves with the fact, that he had promised to visit them very shortly in their new settlement. For the moment, also, their senses were too much occupied with the present, in seeing all that was new, which glided past them, sometimes on the river, sometimes on the shore, and as the weather was warm and beautiful, they spent the greater part of the day, as of the night, on deck. Bertha, after the doctor left the boat, had given vent to her distressed feelings, in her lonely berth, by a healing flood of tears; but determined on concealing the conversation which had taken place from her parents, in order not to trouble them unnecessarily, and at breakfast she appeared collected and almost cheerful. The boat pursued its course with rushing speed down stream, and already, on the second evening, reached the mouth of the Ohio, the little town of Cairo, at the south-west angle of Illinois State. But here the passengers had the mortification to discover that they were to be removed into another boat--"the Orinoco," upon one of the largest of the Mississippi steamers, as the smaller, "Dayton," hoped to do more business on the Ohio, which just then could not be conveniently navigated by the larger vessels, by reason of the want of water. But they did not experience much inconvenience in the matter, for the little vessel laid herself close alongside of the larger one, and in less than three hours all was ended, and their position was at the same time considerably improved, as well as regards room as convenience. Now, therefore, they found themselves, for the first time, on the mighty Mississippi River; Pastor Hehrmann gazed gloomily out upon the yellow surface of its waters, which with headlong rapidity rolled themselves down in enormous breadth between its flat banks. "And I had pictured to myself such a lovely idea of this mighty Mississippi!" he murmured to himself; "and now it looks so desert and wild, so malicious and spiteful: many a thing loses its charm when it is looked at near at hand." The remaining settlers seemed less unpleasantly surprised by the grand surface of water which spread itself out before them. "That's something like a river!" said the tailor; "one almost feels as though one were going to sea again; I really should not know which way to steer to get down it." "It's a good job the pilot isn't quite so stupid," said the shoemaker, and the little one probably concurred in this view, for he simply nodded his head. But the weather did not continue so favourable as it had been. From the other side of the river, from above the close tree-tops, dark heavy masses of cloud rolled themselves on towards them, spread all over the sky, and made the neighbourhood look yet more dreary and more forbidding. Now and then single clouds discharged their loads of water, and the rain streamed down at those moments with such fearful force that the people in the boat, which rushed through it, felt quite anxious and frightened. But while they were sitting in the dry and tolerably comfortable space of the lower deck, awaiting the clearing up of the weather, the by no means agreeable cry of "wood aboard! wood aboard!" was heard through the boat, and, well or ill, _all_ had to turn out, for _all_ had engaged, when they paid less passage-money than they otherwise would have done, to help to carry the wood for the firing of the boat. A certain Republican spirit had prompted them not to shrink from a kind of work which some other passengers who travelled with them did not shun. It is true that they had not taken into account that their clothes were not suitable, and that they possessed neither the practice nor the endurance required to bear, without grumbling, a hardship which they now discovered was none of the lightest. The evening set in; it became dark, and rained as though the skies were coming down; and during several hours they had to clamber up the steep and slippery river-bank, about twenty or thirty feet in height, and get down again with three or four heavy pieces of cordwood on their shoulders, in doing which they not unfrequently slipped and fell, and sometimes hurt themselves considerably without receiving any comfort in return, except that, when after three hours' work, they went on board again, tired and worn out, with torn and soiled clothes, they were laughed at into the bargain by the crew of the "Orinoco." In return for this, and for a repetition of the same work two or three times more, they saved a dollar per man on the whole voyage. The next day was not much better; the weather remained dull and rainy, and the wood-carrying had to be done twice more; but they were now hourly approaching nearer and nearer to the object of their journey, and the captain told Siebert, senior, who spoke English, that he should land them about one in the morning at the mouth of the Big Halchee. "Do you know the place?" asked Siebert. "No, I do not; but the pilot thinks it is a little creek of that name, and lies between Randolph and the northern boundary of Tennessee." "What is the name of the town at the mouth of it, then?" "Town!--there's no town at the mouth." "No town! Well, then, some little place?" "Yes; a cordwood-chopper lives there with his family, if he has not moved away yet. Those people are always on the move." "Strange!" grumbled Siebert to himself; but the idea did not seem to please him, that only a solitary wood-cutter should occupy the mouth of their river; for he concluded, not unreasonably, that many settlers must have located themselves there, had the watercourse been of any magnitude; he said nothing about it, however. And now preparations commenced in earnest for getting ready all their cargo of valuables, in order not to be detained too long with the unloading when the boat should land. It was unpleasant, of course, that it should rain and be dark when they reached the place of their destination, but that could not be helped; all were glad to be so near the goal, and had not the least fear for the future. They were aware, no doubt, that they should have to make shift with the few buildings which they should find upon their farm, but still it was a beginning, and comforts might be obtained by and by. Night came on--the rain poured down in streams--all nature seemed in agitation; but the mighty boat hissed and hurried through the roaring storm, dashing with its paddles the yellow waves the wilder, towards the steep and loose river hanks, where they broke, so that here and there large lumps of earth were loosened and precipitated with a splash into the flood. "But we can't land in weather like this," said Von Schwanthal to Siebert, senior; "the captain will have to lie-to until to-morrow morning." "That he wont;" said Siebert, shaking his head, "we needn't reckon upon that; these captains of steamers are a rough, hardened set of fellows; no, he would put us ashore if it rained pebble-stones." "If there's only a good tavern not far from the shore we may there await better weather." "Well, I hope there may be!" sighed Siebert, and went to his box, to cord it and get it ready. Bustling activity now reigned everywhere among the passengers, but not the best of humours; the weather had put them out, and the greater part of them sat about, grumbling, agitated by uncomfortable feelings, in the corners of the 'tween decks. Midnight was past, when the bell rang for landing, while the thunder outside accompanied its sound, which echoed far out into the darkness. Not long after a firebrand was swung on the left shore, and the vessel took a sweep in order to lie-to with her stern to the stream; the captain at the same time stepped to the 'tween decks, and cried-- "Big Halchee--who's for the shore?" The sailors and stokers followed, and seized everything that came to hand, and put it ashore; but not above, at the top of the bank, but close to the river's edge, where about fifteen cords of wood were already piled up. These meanwhile were carried aboard by another portion of the workpeople, and the whole scene was a dreadfully confused and disordered one. Women complained, children cried, men swore; the rain meanwhile actually _flooded_ from the sky, and the women, as well the Hehrmanns as the other families, could only be got up the steep bank of the shore with considerable trouble, where they perceived, by the glare of a pine-torch, a solitary small and low house, the door of which was open, while in the chimney there burned a slightly glimmering fire. The owner of the house and of the cordwood accompanied them as far as the entrance, and made signs for them to enter. But Siebert, who had previously exchanged a few words with him, whispered, as the latter turned away, "Don't crowd too near the bed; the wife of our host lies there; she died about an hour since!" There was something so awfully quiet in the words, that Pastor Hehrmann looked round terrified after the American; but he went quietly down to the steamer to receive the price for his wood. There the captain, out of particular civility, had caused an old tarpaulin to be spread over the goods which had been tumbled ashore, and which covering he intended to fetch away on his upward journey: Siebert, however, quickly bought it of him for five dollars, for he now saw how necessary it would be for their use, and then followed the rest into the shanty. All could not have found space in this, even had the dread of the corpse not driven the greater part of them into the most distant part of the room; fortunately, however, there was also a so-called kitchen, or smoking-house, behind the dwelling, and here a great number of the settlers were billetted, at least for the night. Oh, how anxiously all waited the morrow. It was a fearful night; the storm roared round the house, so that the weak boarding which formed the roof clappered and tumbled, and here and there the rain poured through in streams. The mosquitoes appeared insatiable, and swarmed round the poor tortured ones in an almost unbearable manner. The little children, in particular, alarmed by the novelty of all that surrounded them, would not be quieted, and by their cries increased the strangeness, the unearthliness of their situation; and before them all, still and motionless, careless of mosquitoes, or of any other disturbance, the young woodsman sat beside the bed of his dead wife, which was hung over with a thin mosquito curtain. Silently he stared into the now bright flaming fire in the chimney, and his left hand all the night through clasped the hand of the corpse. The elder Siebert, it is true, once tried to approach him and to offer consolation, but the unhappy man merely made a sign to him to leave him alone, and stared uninterruptedly into the fire on the hearth. He was beside his wife, and seemed not to remark the presence of the many strangers. Pastor Hehrmann, seated at the head of the bed where the corpse lay, had collected his family around him, and had spread his large, wide cloak over them, to defend them as well from the annoying insects as from the single drops of rain which penetrated. But, comforting all in their unpleasant position, he concluded a simple but touching prayer, which he spoke aloud, with the words, "May the Almighty make our departure as glad and as happy as our arrival is inauspicious and melancholy." A loud hearty 'Amen' from every lip replied to this, and then deep silence reigned throughout the house of affliction. FOOTNOTES: [5] Fences, in America, are formed of poles of wood, split lengthwise, which ordinarily surround the fields in a zig-zag form, and are intended to preserve the grain from the cattle, which run about freely. In the West, where there is wood in abundance, this arrangement is universal; but in the East, and particularly in the vicinity of towns, they are beginning to raise quickset hedges, or at least to apply the wood in the most economical way, so as to make as little wood as possible surround a great space.--_Note by the Author._ Many old countrymen, upon their first arrival in America, are disgusted with the rail fences, and talk about the quickset hedges which they will have upon their land; but it all ends in talk. Wood is adopted for fences in America, as well because of its abundance as because the white and black thorns, used in quickset hedges in England, although they grow, yet do not generally thrive there; besides, the planting, filling up gaps, pruning, ditching, &c., requires much labour, and that is expensive there. Cattle, also, are so used to the bush, that they would make no difficulty of walking through a quickset hedge, unless it were many years old, and well made. Every man can swing the axe there, and most of their woods grow tall in the stem, without knots or branches, for fifty feet or so, and split readily, sometimes even without the wedge. They therefore cut trees, such as ash, oak, elm, birch, and (for the lower rails, to resist the effects of wet) cedar, into twelve or sixteen feet lengths, and then split them, either with the axe alone, or with the assistance of a mall and wedges, into rails of a convenient thickness. These are laid upon the surface of the ground in zig-zag, as mentioned by the author, each overlapping the other by six inches or so, and so on to the height of from six to twelve feet, and, in well-made fences, stakes are also driven firmly into the ground, near the places where the rails meet, one inside and one outside of the fence, at an inclination towards it, their points meeting and crossing each other at the junction of the top rails, and forming, by such crossing, a receptacle for a heavy rail or rider, as it is called, which tops it all, and serves to give the whole stability; thus all nails and iron-work, which are expensive, or wooden pegs, which would require labour, are dispensed with, and a fence is obtained, having nearly the strength of a brick wall, and capable of restraining cattle. Fences without stakes and riders are also used, especially for temporary purposes, supporting themselves by the zig-zag ground-plan and their own weight, but are liable to be invaded by a breachy ox, and are also more liable to be put out of their position. An ox is, in America, termed "breachy" when he has learned to lift the rails off with his horns, which he does by the ends one after another, like any Christian, until it is low enough for him to step over; but if properly staked and ridered he cannot do so. Such oxen are not very common, but never can be cured of the habit, and however well they may work in the yoke, have to be fattened and killed forthwith. When the two or three lower rails, and also the stakes, are of wood, capable of resisting the effect of damp, such as cedar, black ash, &c., a well-made fence will last for an indefinite number of years, but otherwise seven or eight years suffice to rot the lower rails, and to make constant patching necessary, which is almost as bad as making a new fence, for, to get at one of the lower rails, the fence has to be taken down for many lengths on each side, and never can be relaid so well. In the Canadas, and the Northwestern states of the Union, the ground, during winter, is covered with snow, for a distance of ten degrees and more south of corresponding latitudes in the Old World, and this is the season when the timber is easily got out of the bush, or of the swamps, into the clearings, either on low sleighs, or by being snagged--that is, dragged out by oxen and a logging chain.--TR. [6] It is not customary for shoemakers in Germany to keep a large stock of shoes; those in the text, of course, were not all made by the seller, but probably in New England, where there are whole towns where nothing else is done. The wooden pegs would surprise an English shoemaker as much as they did the German.--TR. [7] A brass bason is the German barber's sign--TR. [8] Munich is celebrated throughout Germany for the goodness of its beer.--TR. CHAPTER IV. THE SETTLEMENT. He who awaits the coming morning in a warm, soft bed, in a well-built house, cares little whether it rains and storms without, or whether the sun darts his first rays in a clear blue sky. Perhaps he wraps himself only the more comfortably in his covering, and turns once more for a short morning nap, when the rain beats cold and loud against the window-panes, and the wind whistles madly in chimneys and key-holes, shakes down the soot in the rocking fire-places, turns the rusty old weathercocks, scraping and creaking, backwards and forwards, and howls up and down the streets in wild unfettered play. But, on the other hand, how anxiously does the invalid on his sick bed, or the poor wanderer, who has had to pitch his roofless, unprotected encampment under the trees of the forest, amidst storm and tempest, look forward to the lingering, lingering dawn of morning! how many times does he turn his eyes on near objects, and gaze searchingly round, to see if he cannot discover a somewhat lighter reflection, a more distinct perception of the surrounding place, which may announce the breaking morning, and promise him at least light, with which he may hope for some alleviation of his torment, or some amendment of his unbearable position! How ardently, how eagerly, was this morning longed for by the settlers, who, scarcely conscious where they were, many of them just awakened from a deep sleep, had been turned out, in storm, and rain, and pitchy darkness, into the wild, rustling forest, with scarcely a roof for shelter, and who could not even reconnoitre the place where they were, which, but sparingly lighted by the embers on the hearth at first, was now shrouded in impenetrable darkness. Add to this, the consciousness of having a human corpse in the room, and of the presence of the still, motionless figure of the young man, who, so long as he sat by the bed-side of his wife, had betrayed no more sign of life than did the dead body by whose side he watched, and whose hand he probably was still, as before, holding in his own. At last, at last, the first faint glimmer of dawn broke through the cracks of the hut; the grey firmament, so far as the narrow clearing of the wood allowed it to be seen, showed itself lighter and lighter, and the wet foliage rustled and shook more loudly and violently to the morning salute of passing gusts of wind. Wild, strange, unearthly sounds were heard, at the same time, from without, so that the women started with fright, and huddled closer together, in order, united, to meet with more heart the terrors, which appeared the more awful because they could neither assign to them form or shape. With the dawn, too, the mosquitoes became unbearable; they attacked in swarms the unfortunate strangers, whose sweet blood appeared to be particularly palatable to them,[9] and no handkerchief wrapped round, no mantle, no veil, could any longer protect them from their innumerable and painful stings; for they searched about, and did not rest, until, somewhere or other on the body they found an unprotected spot, into which they might bury their insatiable little trunks. It now became lighter and lighter[10] in the little space, and every moment they recognised more distinctly the details of their anything but pleasant environs. So this was a log-house! Wind and weather found free access on all sides,[11] and even the roof, to which they could look up unimpeded by any ceiling, allowed the rain, which beat down in wild, stormy streams, to come through in large drops. As to household utensils, the dwelling scarcely contained any; at least, none which they could distinguish in the dawning light. The bed, covered with the white mosquito curtains, and supporting the corpse, beside which the young woodsman still sat, silent and motionless, and some rough seats, on which a portion of the settlers had placed themselves, were the only furniture of the forest home. The settlers had, meanwhile, passed the long melancholy hours in very various and strange groups and positions. It must doubtless have been most difficult for the members of Hehrmann's family to bear their hardships without a complaint, without a murmur; for, accustomed from childhood to the pleasant conveniences of life, and hitherto withdrawn from the discomforts to which others had been exposed during the whole voyage, they had no idea, except from the first few nights in the steerage, of such a situation or such sufferings. Quietly and uncomplainingly the tender beings clung to the husband and the father, who folded them in his arms, and tried to protect them with his cloak from cold, and wet, and mosquitoes. The rest of the Committee were equally ill lodged; but the men, by a sort of instinct, had cowered down in the chimney-corner, packed as close together as possible, in order to leave no more of their persons exposed to the attacks of the little blood-thirsty enemies which in myriads surrounded them than they were able to defend. The brewer, the shoemaker, the tailor, and Schmidt, as well as a troop of Oldenburghers, and several other groups, composed of Brunswickers and Alsatians, did precisely the same, so that afterwards, when the unpleasant part of the business was past and forgotten, and the settlers remembered the comic side of that night only, Becher was wont to say that the whole company was divided into so many heaps of rats. Suddenly there was heard without, seemingly quite close to the house, a strange, wild, unearthly noise, rather a howl than a cry--and it sounded so plaintive and awful, like the cry for help of one that was perishing, and then again like the mocking laugh of a maniac, that the trembling girls pressed closer to their father, and many an otherwise brave man, surprised and startled, looked up and listened, with loud beatings of the heart, to the constantly wilder sounds. "I say, brewer!" said the tailor, pushing him in the side, with all his strength, "what's that?" "D----n!" swore the latter, who had just dropped off into a doze, and whom the ungentle application called back again to partial wakefulness and suffering--for the two, at present, seemed inseparable--"leave me alone; what should it be!--the watchman!--don't you hear his horn?"[12] "A fine sort of watchman, that!" said Schmidt. "They don't want a watchman for these two houses--the people in the streets here are quiet enough o' nights, I'll be bound!" "Don't speak so loud!" whispered the shoemaker; "yonder still sits the American, beside his dead wife. Ugh! but 'tis awful to have a corpse in the room!" "Awful!--nonsense!" said the brewer, still half asleep--"not if she lies still!" "You be quiet, will you!" whispered, fearfully, the tailor; "if he over there hears you, he might take it ill." "How is he to understand German?" replied the other. "But whatever it may be, it's howling on the other side of the house now. A bear, I dare say!" "Oh! don't go frightening a fellow so!" exclaimed the tailor, half angry, half frightened. "It's bad enough as we are; it only wants that to make it complete. Oh, geminy! these gnats!" "There never were such gnats as these before," said Schmidt; "and I think the whole kit must have come across to us." "Oh, no! the Oldenburghers, over yonder, seem to have got a few, too," grinned the shoemaker, maliciously. "One of 'em keeps hitting himself _such_ raps on the face--his nose will be black and blue to-morrow!" "I'm getting hungry," yawningly said the brewer, who now began to wake up by degrees. "Is it raining still?" "No; it has ceased raining," said the shoemaker; "but if the little town here is no better paved than the landing-place, good luck to our shoes! there will be work! Whoever has not got bull-hide straps to keep 'em on, will lose them in the mud!" "Town!" asked the brewer, who had been round the little clearing. "Town! there's no town here, shoemaker--it must be higher up. I wish I could get something to eat!--I'm very hungry, that's a fact!" "The howling has taken away all my appetite," whimpered the tailor; "blown it completely away, as it were. However, I shouldn't mind a cup of coffee." "I should like to know where we are to get coffee from here," said Schmidt; "and if we had any, we couldn't drink it out of our hats; I see no cups." "Well, then, we could unpack some," said the tailor; "but hush! the man there is moving," he continued, in a low whisper, as the woodsman, rising from his seat, drew back the mosquito net, which had hitherto covered the corpse of his wife. On a poor-looking mattress, stuffed with moss, lay the body of the young and beautiful American; a plain white calico dress covered her limbs, and her long flowing chestnut hair clung around the pale sunken features of her noble face. The eyes were closed, and on the lids there lay two pieces of silver coin to keep them down. The right hand rested upon the heart, the left lay beside her; she seemed to have fallen asleep gently, and without pain; angelic peace was depicted on her pure and beautiful features. The young man gazed long and silently upon her, and he watched, as if in a dream, scarcely conscious that he did so, the individual mosquitoes which flew in through the now opened net, expecting a new meal. He noticed how they alighted upon the dear face of his wife, as though they expected to find blood in the dry veins of the corpse, until he himself gazed upon the creatures with stifled breath. It came over him that his Maria--his all in this world--could not be dead, and he expected to see the little blood-suckers swell as they drew in her warm life-juices; but scarcely had they bored their slight and pointed stings through the skin, and appeared to have made the first attempt, before they quickly and tremblingly, with evident signs of fear and alarm, endeavoured to free their little trunks, flew quickly away, and in confused haste sought in vain for the opening by which they had entered. With a deep sigh the unhappy man let his arm fall, and turned silently away; it was then that his eyes met those of Pastor Hehrmann, who had risen in order to offer words of consolation and of courage to the sufferer. As he was endeavouring to call to mind the little English which he knew, and was making several pauses in speaking, from lack of words to express himself; the other made a sign to him with his hand, and said, in good and pure German, but with averted face-- "I am a German, Sir; I understand your language." "A German! and alone in this neighbourhood?" asked Hehrmann, surprised; "have you been long, then, in such melancholy circumstances?" "You shall hear all that when I have buried my wife.--Will you help me?" "Such is not only my wish, but my duty also," said the clergyman, kindly. "But, my dear Sir," he continued, somewhat shyly and almost timidly, "do you live really quite alone in this spot? and is this house situate at the mouth of the Big Halchee?" "Yes," said the woodman; "the nearest house is three miles below; just such another as this, and only built for the same purpose, cordwood chopping, for sale to the passing steamers." "And there is no town hereabouts?" "No," was the short, half-whispered answer. "And further up the Big Halchee--are there no settlements there?" The man no longer seemed to hear him; his eye again hung upon the pale countenance of his wife, and he resumed his seat beside her, no longer conscious of what was passing around him. Pastor Hehrmann did not venture to disturb him again, and the men stared inactively upon the silent suffering figure without knowing what to do, afraid, on the one hand, of disturbing the mourning of the house, anxious, on the other, not to lose time, so valuable to them, in order to reach, at last, the spot which was to be their new home. It was one of the women who first plucked up resolution,--the usually so bashful and retiring Bertha. She advanced to the hearth, blew the almost extinct embers into a livelier glow,[13] piled upon the flame such logs of wood as she could find lying round the house, and fetched out some pots and pans which appeared to have been neglected for many days, in order, not only to get ready a wholesome warm meal for the settlers themselves, but for the owner of the house, who, judging from his appearance, had probably not taken any nourishment for several days past. An example only had been wanting, and greater activity now prevailed on all hands. The women got to work, and some assisted Bertha, while others carried wood and live embers over to the other house, to light a fire there also, and to prepare breakfast simultaneously at both places, for the by no means insignificant number of persons. Herbold and Becher, who were appointed to the commissariat department, meanwhile went down to the margin of the river, where their chests and other stores, for the most part, were still standing, and gave out the necessary provisions, whilst the elder Siebert, accompanied by his brother and two of the Oldenburghers, looked about the homestead for mattocks and spades, in order to dig a grave for the corpse, but nothing of the kind could be found about the place, and they were compelled to have recourse to their own tool-chest. But the mattocks were at the very bottom of the chest, and had no handles. One of the Oldenburghers fortunately recollected having seen two pickaxes inside the house, and went back to fetch them, when the eye of the young widower fell upon them, and he soon guessed for what purpose they were wanted. He quickly arose, beckoned the people to follow him, and led them about three hundred yards into the woods, where, in olden times, probably even before the Indians, a simple mound of earth, about ten or twelve feet in height, had been raised. There he begged them to begin their work. Among the settlers were three carpenters and several cabinet makers, and they proceeded to work together, to construct a coffin, rough, it is true, but still adequate to its purpose, using chiefly the planks of a boat, which they found there ashore and burst. As they were well provided with tools, in less than an hour the last and narrow house stood ready for the reception of its tenant. The young farmer, whose name, as they subsequently learnt, was Wolfgang, now returned, and the women having prepared breakfast, the rain having ceased, and a sandy place between the hut and the shore being dry, it was spread out there upon chests, and ingeniously-contrived stands. They had to press the mourner repeatedly before they could induce him to eat a few morsels, and to drink a cup of warm coffee, although, during three days past, no food had crossed his lips; he then went into the house to the corpse of his wife, and wrapped it in the sheet whereon she had been lying, and which was now to be her winding-sheet. Our four-leaved clover had meanwhile taken little part in the burial preparations, and, after their meal, were just about to stroll slowly off to look a little at the neighbourhood. But their little excursion was destined to be interrupted, for Mr. Becher, who appeared to adapt himself most readily to circumstances, however new to him, and who perceived that continued delay in this place would only tend to tire and to dispirit the emigrants, called together all the able-bodied who had hitherto been unemployed, to put together the two carts which they had brought with them, and to load them with the things which were most indispensable for the present. Schmidt, as a farmer, and a wheelwright from Brunswick territory, performed the most effective services at this task, and in a short time the conveyances were ready for departure. One trifle, certainly, was still wanting, namely, cattle to draw them, and it was not until all was finished, and ready to move on, that the good folks thought of this deficiency. It is true that neither horses nor other cattle could be seen about the place, but Mr. Becher did not doubt but that the farmer would find some; for the wood, piled up in considerable quantities on the beach, proved clearly enough that more than human strength had been required to get it all to the margin of the stream. But for the moment there appeared no prospect of being able to induce the man, who was engaged in paying the last duties to his wife, to fetch horses or oxen, whichever he might possess, and all further work had to be suspended until the conclusion of that melancholy duty. Becher himself therefore began to examine the soil and surface upon which they now found themselves, more minutely, and the four allies, with two Oldenburghers and the wheelwright, now wandered along the margin of the Mississippi and looked at the surrounding landscape, as well as at the farm which had received them on their entrance upon their new mode of life with such melancholy and unpropitious omens. The tailor went ahead upon the narrow footpath which led along the bank of the Mississippi; Becher and Schmidt followed; then came the shoemaker and the brewer, and the Oldenburghers brought up the rear. They had scarcely marched 200 yards in this order before they came to the banks of a muddy brook with a rather wide bed, but which now appeared nearly dried up, and poured its muddy water in a narrow thread only into the Mississippi. Near its mouth several immense cotton-wood and cypress trees lay, wildly thrown together, forming a kind of natural bridge, whilst some broken branches and stems stuck in the mud of the brook in all directions, and appeared sufficient of themselves to prevent navigation, even with a light boat. Nearly all the stems which projected out of the turbid water were closely covered with small soft-shelled mud-turtles, which, when they perceived the approaching men on the bank above them, quickly flapped head foremost into the water again. "A beautiful neighbourhood," said the tailor, stopping at the extreme verge of the bank, and pointing to the scene before them--"a very beautiful neighbourhood; and for this we have travelled, Heaven knows how many hundred miles, to take a summer lodging here! Well, I must say Dr. Normann shows remarkable taste; I really admire it." His companions, thus brought to a halt, also stared round them, though in silence, and the wild and dreadful desolation and loneliness of the scene probably excited no very pleasurable feelings in them, for, avoiding each other's eyes, during several minutes they gazed upon the wild boundless landscape of swamp and water. Becher, however, looked shyly, sidelong, at the men who had accompanied him, and suddenly began to whistle a waltz with all his might. The tailor turned round, surprised, towards him, and said, "Yes, a nice time for whistling!" The wide expanse spread out before them was by no means calculated to produce an agreeable impression on new comers, particularly upon such as had not been accustomed to a flat country. On their left the muddy flood of the mighty Mississippi rolled rapidly and maliciously by, whilst, from the opposite side of the little brook, beside which they were standing, a sand-bank stretched out in smooth, monotonous, evenness, farther and farther still, into the stream, until, in the grey distance, where the latter took a mighty sweep to the right, it seemed to connect itself with the opposite shore, and to absorb the enormous mass of waters. The other side of the Mississippi also presented to the view a flat landscape of deep forest and swamp, uninterrupted by a single hill. The vegetation was certainly grand, and these gigantic stems, which rose, smooth and faultless, to a height which they had never before contemplated, produced a strange, almost uneasy impression upon the wanderers; then again the wild vines and creepers which wound themselves from stem to stem, the wild and desert-looking fallen masses of wood, often half rotten, the enormous withered trunks, which here and there, as if stifled by the creeping plants, madly stretched their naked giant arms towards heaven, as if supplicating help, gave the whole such a gloomy, forbidding aspect, that the little tailor, after a minute's pause of astonishment, drew a long breath, as though he would have removed something from his heart; at last he turned round to his friends and fellow-travellers behind him, and said-- "Well, I had imagined the thing quite different from this; for if----" To the boundless astonishment of the rest, the tailor had all at once disappeared; but before they had time to advance a step, they already heard, down below, in slime and water, a crying and splashing, which proceeded from their unfortunate comrade, who now, when at last he got firm footing, cried out lustily for help; for he could not comprehend where he was, how he had got there, and whether he had reached the end of his career, or was destined to proceed further and further downwards. "Hallo, below there!" cried Becher, who soon ascertained that the tailor had received no injury, and that there was no further danger--"Hallo, there! is it a good soil? to what depth is it arable?" "Help! help!" cried the little one, who was in no humour for joking--"Help! help! I am drowning! I can't swim! I must drown!" Close to him, not three yards off, there was a young cypress tree which had fallen into the brook, and Becher now called to him to reach one of its branches until they could fetch a rope from the house and draw him up. Meier, however, seemed noways inclined to take a step towards his own safety; fear had almost deprived him of his senses, and he continued to cry, "Help! help! I'm drowning! I can't swim!" The houses were not very distant, and several of the women, who had heard the cries for help, hastened towards them, whilst the shoemaker ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, back to the landing place, to bring the necessary ropes from thence. But even then the most pressing requests and explanations were required to make the little man understand how he was to wind the rope round his body and fasten it; his whole presence of mind had forsaken him, and he considered himself lost beyond salvation. At last he so far recovered his senses as to be able to tie a knot, and by their united strength (for the mud in which he stuck was tough) he was, after long pulling, and amidst the laughter of the women, brought to light. No sooner, however, did he feel himself on terra-firma again, than he doubled himself up, and swore hard and fast that a tremendous great snake had bitten him in the foot, and that he should die a lingering, miserable death. They had a good deal of trouble to convince him of the contrary, but ultimately he felt that he was safe and sound, and turned back with the others to the laden carts, thenceforward, however, he could not be prevailed upon to come within fifty yards of the steep banks of either river or brook. The sun was tolerably high in the heavens before the remainder of the settlers returned from the burial of the young American woman; about the same time the wood cart belonging to Wolfgang arrived, drawn by two powerful oxen, beside which walked a negro boy about twelve years old, with a very long whip, who drove forward the cattle, which were in a wooden yoke, as well by blows as by words. He stared with surprise on finding so numerous and unexpected a company assembled in so quiet a spot as that generally was. The burial of his wife appeared to have restored all his former energy and power to the young German, and he was even ready to assist the strangers with council and deed, when Pastor Hehrmann had hastily made him acquainted with their immediate plan of settling not far from him, as well as with their wish to reach their destination as soon as possible. First of all he directed the negro boy to blow a horn,[14] which was in the house, to call in the other labourer, who was still at work in the woods, and then to put the oxen to the settlers' laden cart. But here a new difficulty presented itself; this was the only yoke of working oxen which the German possessed, and he informed them that their road lay through a swamp, which would be so muddy and bad to get through, after the recent rains, that but a very light load could be taken. "But would it not be possible to forward the cargo much more easily and quickly to its destination by the Big Halchee?" said Pastor Hehrmann; "a couple of stout rowers----" "Would be easily able to execute the task," interrupted Wolfgang, "if they had water enough for navigation; the Big Halchee is not navigable at present." "Is it far from here?" asked Becher. "That gentleman can tell you the precise distance," said the farmer, pointing to Meier, the story of whose misfortunes he had just heard; "he was in it." "What, is that the Big Halchee?" asked Becher and Siebert, startled. "That is the Big Halchee," repeated the farmer, nodding; "but why do you ask? had you imagined it more agreeable, or larger?" "Certainly," said Herbold, dispirited; "we heard that it was navigable, and that there was a small town at its mouth." "According to American notions," replied the young farmer, a slight smile passing over his pale features, "both assertions might be maintained. It is navigable in spring, that is to say, down stream, for you cannot make way against the current when the water is high." "But the town," asked Pastor Hehrmann, in surprise--"you don't mean to call your solitary house a town?" "If you were to travel through the United States," said Wolfgang, "you might meet with many not more considerable towns than this, and with much more sounding names; but the place here is not called a town; it was only proposed to build Halchee Town here, and some speculators planned out the streets. You may still see the trees marked out in the woods; the Mississippi rose suddenly just then, washed away the little huts which they had erected here; one of the land-dealers was drowned, too, I think, and the thing was dropped." "But are you not afraid that such a flood may reach you some time or other, and sweep you away with it?" asked Hehrmann, with signs of alarm. "Certainly, that is by no means impossible; and next year is a leap year,[15] too, when the Mississippi regularly overflows its banks, sometimes more, sometimes less, and I was thinking of removing across to Arkansas, or down to Mississippi; but now," he continued, in a low voice, while two large bright tears came into his eyes,--"now I shall remain here; if the flood should really rise--well--I have nothing more to lose." "But, tell me, my dear Mr. Wolfgang," Hehrmann asked in terror, "are all the dwellings along the river exposed to these dreadful dangers?--When that mighty stream once overflows its banks, such a mass of water must be irresistible." "Do you see these marks?" Wolfgang asked, pointing to some faint, scarce distinguishable, light spots, which might be made out about eight feet from the ground, upon the bark of the trees under which they stood. "Do you see these marks? thus high the water rose last spring; my house, it is true, lies higher than this, yet it came into our room, and it carried off about thirty cords of wood with it." "And you remained here?" "What will not one do to earn money? The steamers use much wood, and pay tolerably well; I wanted to lay by enough to buy a little farm by and by in a wholesome district; now my wife is dead, and I----But let us start; it is getting late." "But you are not going to leave your house now to accompany us?" asked Siebert, surprised; "suppose in the meanwhile----" "My other negro will remain here," Wolfgang interrupted him. "Sam, the old fellow whom you see coming yonder, is faithful and honest; I can rely upon him; besides, you would hardly reach your destination without a guide, so that there is no choice." "Oh, we might follow the road, you know," said Becher. "Yes, if there were a road thither," answered the farmer, "but to the spot which you have described to me there leads no road, and if there are really houses there, the place must be very much overgrown with second-growth brush, otherwise I must have come upon them in some of my hunting expeditions; perhaps it is the place which the hunters call the dead clearing." "Have you much game in this neighbourhood?" asked Von Schwanthal, who appeared much interested in this subject. "Pretty well," replied the farmer, "but it is difficult to get at; the woods are too close, and the game itself is shy; it requires a practised hunter to track and kill a deer." "Do you happen to know a certain Dr. Normann?" Becher now suddenly inquired, as if struck by a new idea. "Normann?" said the farmer, trying to recollect, "Normann; no, the name is strange to me--why?" "It is the name of the man who sold us this piece of land," said Pastor Hehrmann; "from all, however, that I have hitherto seen, I scarcely think that he ever set foot here, and almost dread that Mr. Helldorf's prophecies will be fulfilled." "Helldorf?" asked Wolfgang, in his turn, surprised; "Helldorf--where did you meet with him?" "In New York," said Siebert; "do you know him?" "_Do_ I know him!" replied Wolfgang; "I passed my happiest time here in America, beside him in Arkansas, and had it not been for my mad endeavour to earn a sum of money, I might have been still with my Maria at the foot of the pleasant Magazine Hill. Oh! that I had never seen the Mississippi again." "Then you consider this climate very unhealthy?" "Unhealthy!" said the German, in a low, hollow tone--"unhealthy!" he repeated, even lower still. "In the first year, my wife's sister died--that ought to have been a warning to me; in the same fall, my child; to-day we have buried my wife; and next spring, it is to be hoped, will find me by her side." "Come with us to the hills, then, where a healthier air blows," said Herbold; "you can get land from us, and----" "To the hills?" asked the German, surprised; "how far up the Big Halchee are you going, then?" "Well, the land is said to be fifteen miles from the Mississippi," said Becher; "that's a pretty good distance." "Yes," replied Wolfgang, "but then, you are still fifteen miles from the hills, and in no healthier district than this is; on the contrary, you want the air from the river, which is often fresh; a number of small lakes, too, cross the country in all directions, and evaporate, for the most part, in summer, and fill the atmosphere during four months of the year with their poisonous exhalations. Just now is the most unhealthy time." "The devil it is!" said Von Schwanthal; "the worthy doctor never said a word about that." "If he was ever in the valley of the Mississippi, he certainly must have known it," replied the farmer; "but now we'll be off; Scipio has been cracking his whip for the last quarter of an hour." The emigrants parted unwillingly from the bulk of their remaining property, which at first they could scarcely resolve to leave by the waterside, merely under the superintendence of a negro; but at last they were convinced that a theft could hardly be committed here, for such a hut was certainly not a spot in the neighbourhood at which such valuables would be looked for. The chests and boxes, therefore, which contained the most necessary articles for the moment, to commence life in the midst of the woods, were placed on the carts, and even of these another selection had to be made; then the party set itself in motion, under the guidance of the farmer, who went first, and with an axe cut down, where necessary, the underbrush and young trees which stood in their way, or called into requisition the united strength of the men, to drag aside obstructions in the shape of occasional mighty trunks of fallen, rotten or half rotten trees, and thus made way for the wagon, which fortunately was narrow across the wheels. The Germans were not a little nor agreeably surprised, when they discovered, after scarce an hour's progress, that the broad path which they had hitherto followed, was a mere track for getting out wood, and that now they had to shape their course straight through the woods--and _such_ woods. Fearful doubts now began to arise, even in the breast of Hehrmann, who had hitherto considered Dr. Normann an honest man, and it was with some anxiety that he looked forward to their entrance upon their new landed property. While walking beside Wolfgang, he entered into conversation with him, and soon learnt the story of his simple, although active life. Wolfgang hastily passed over a dark period in Arkansas, where a stranger, who was a German too, had sown hatred and discord, and stained their pleasant clearings with blood; and he related how, far away, up the Ozark mountains, he had become acquainted with his wife; had fallen in love with her, and whilst still a young girl married her; had founded a home in the midst of the wild woods, and lived happily, until, driven by the desire for ready money, which was not to be had at all there, he had quitted the healthy hill air to come down into the poisonous swamps. He concluded his story (which Mr. Hehrmann listened to with bowed head and sorrowfully throbbing heart) by saying, "Mr. Hehrmann, you now, with wife and child, come from a healthy, cool climate, in the middle of summer, into the swampy atmosphere of this river, therefore _beware_. If wife and children are dear to you, commence your American farmer's life in some other district. You have yet the choice; this whole enormous country is yet open to you; all the northern, healthy states, Missouri, Iowa, Wisconsin, even the northern hilly part of Arkansas, if you are desirous of choosing a milder climate; forsake these poison-impregnated swamps, where a German, unless already acclimatized, cannot exist, or at all events cannot remain in health; I speak from experience." "Mr. Helldorf said so too," replied the preacher, thoughtfully. "Mr. Helldorf knows the country," said Wolfgang, "he has wandered through it many a long year, and whatever he may have told you is true, you may rely upon it. As to your Dr. Normann, I certainly don't know the good man, and will therefore say no ill of him, but here in America there is such a host of land-speculators, particularly in the seaport towns, that the emigrant cannot be too cautious; I am almost afraid that you have fallen into the hands of such a one, and if so, why of course you must try to make the best of a bad bargain." "I say," remarked the shoemaker to the tailor, stumbling for the fourth time over a projecting root, and this time really hurting himself, "if I had any capital invested in this speculation, I should quietly begin to tear my hair out by the roots, but as it is, I can look on, and I must confess that I am curious to know how it will end." "Well, look after your feet, at all events," said the other, as the shoemaker tripped again. "You do nothing but stumble. No; shares are beginning to fall, so far I am of your opinion; but what matters; _I_ shall eat my way through; I've no fear of that; and if M. Von Schwanthal only shoots as much game as he has promised, and we get meat, and such meat, too, three times a day, I don't mind about this little mud excursion. Moreover, I've been on the look-out for some time past after a deer; it's strange that, in such a forest as this, the game should not be running about more plentifully. But, shoemaker, did you imagine the river on which our town was to be built, like what it really is?" "How? what is it really? it does not exist at all. Call _that_ a river!" "Well, what I mean is, did you imagine it like what it is?" "I don't exactly know," said the shoemaker, with a sly laugh at the tailor, "I have not examined it so narrowly as you have, you know; you have a _well-grounded_ acquaintance with it." "A fine subject for joking, to be sure," said the little one, indignantly; "suppose I had been drowned?" "If we creep along in this style," said Schmidt, who now joined in the conversation, "we shall certainly not come to our journey's end to-day; we don't advance a hundred yards straight forward, before some tree or other has to be cut down to make room for the wagon. Are there no foresters[16] here, I wonder?" "Yes, a nice place this for foresters," said the brewer; "foresters in _this_ wood! But if we don't soon reach some place where one may get something to drink, I shall get thirsty. What do you call all the towns, then, that are said to be in this neighbourhood? Deuce take it; where there are so many towns, there must surely be some village or other to be met with." The worthy brewer was not aware, that in the United States of North America everything, even a group of two or three houses only, is called a town. A grand name, some ancient Greek or Roman one if possible, throws sand into the eyes of foreigners, and the land speculators in the large towns often sell "lots," as they call them, to emigrants, who expect to find a lively, animated place, and instead, have to be thankful if they can meet with anybody at all there to supply them with bread to begin with. The women had meanwhile reconciled themselves to their wanderings as well as they could, and only one of them, a young girl, who was sick, and unable to walk, had been, on that account, placed upon the wagon, where, upon some spread-out mattresses between the well-secured chests, she had a sufficiently convenient, although not very quiet place, for the wagon, owing to the rough uneven road, tumbled about dreadfully. The Hehrmanns went foremost, and evidently struggled to let no melancholy humour be seen, although the tough mud which they had to wade through, and the innumerable stringy, and sometimes prickly, creeping plants, which entangled their feet, while the thorns penetrated their stockings, and tore their ancles and insteps till they bled, made walking as troublesome and unpleasant as well could be. Thus they wandered and wandered on, until the sun went down below the tree tops, for fortunately he had driven away the clouds of rain, and the heaven extended its blue tent, brightly and clearly, over the travellers; but the close oppressive heat, on the other hand, operated yet more unfavourably upon them, because no good water was to be had, wherewith to quench their burning thirst. The wished-for fresher evening air at last cooled their heated faces, although the mosquitoes, which had lain concealed during the glowing heat, now re-appeared with fresh vigour. Yet they cared less for these than for the burning rays of the sun, and wandered forward with quickened and more elastic tread. But ere long, their silent leader intimated to them that they must bivouack where they were, for that he could not trust himself to keep a straight course after dark, and besides that, to proceed further at night was not only extremely wearisome, but even dangerous. This was bearable enough in the mild summer air, and all of the party were easily and readily reconciled to it; the coverings which they had brought with them were therefore stretched out to keep the dew from the women, and soft beds of leaves were collected to make the first night in the woods as pleasant as possible; and the men also laid themselves down beside the fires which Wolfgang had lighted, whilst the provisions which they had taken with them stewed and roasted at the crackling flames. And now again, fortunately, at a great distance, at first, the awful sounds were heard which had filled the settlers with such terror on the previous evening, and they were not a little astonished to learn that those dreadful notes proceeded from owls--and very insignificant little owls, too. Von Schwanthal, somewhat later, tried to shoot one; but although several of them, attracted by the fire, approached them, and gave out their monotonous horrid song in the tree tops close above them, yet the foliage was too close to permit the eye of the marksman to perceive them in the darkness, and he discharged both barrels in the direction in which he guessed the noisy nocturnal bird to be--to the great terror of the female portion of the society, the tailor included--without, however, even interrupting the bird, much less driving it away. Fortunately, the night remained dry, although the sky became overcast again, otherwise the situation of the poor Germans, unaccustomed to such privations, would have been a melancholy one. As it was, sleep visited the closed eyelids of the wearied at intervals only, for the strange noises which surrounded them on all sides, the dreary rustling of the gigantic trees, and even occasionally the stealthy, cautious footstep of some deer or wolf, that slunk round the bivouack, and only scented its enemies when it got to the leeward side, and then fled in hasty bounds--these kept them in continual excitement. At last, morning came. The oxen, which had remained yoked during the night, were put-to once more; the quickly-prepared breakfast was despatched, and the caravan moved on again, sometimes painfully, through little muddy brooks and standing pools; sometimes going round a wild and dreary looking lake, without defined banks; sometimes forcing their way through reed-brakes, sometimes through closely-tangled creepers, until at last Hehrmann, who, according to his calculation, had traversed a distance of twenty-five, instead of fifteen miles, addressed the guide, and inquired whether he did not think that he might have lost his way, for that it was impossible they could be far from the designated spot, if they had really constantly kept the true course. "Oh, we have followed that," replied Wolfgang; "moreover, the frequent turning aside to avoid wet and impenetrable places has much prolonged our journey; but if my senses do not deceive me, we are now at the very place." "On the right road, you mean," said Siebert, senior, who had likewise approached them, and now looked about him, right and left, apparently in search of some outlet by which they might avoid a thick copse, closely overgrown with young timber, which lay right before them, and which, on account of the many creeping plants and underbrush, was impenetrable. "No; at the very spot itself!" said Wolfgang, observing the place attentively. "Do you see yonder tree, which has been felled in by-gone times?" he continued, addressing the men, who pressed round him. "The lower part is wanting--it has been used for rails; and yonder--yes, it's a fact, I am not mistaken!--yonder stood the fence. Look you, here are some single, half-rotten portions of it." "But the field!" said Becher, alarmed. "Was this thicket," replied the German, "now, it is true, a chaos of woods and underbrush. The land, for that matter, seems very good!" "But we were to find land fit for the plough!" exclaimed Herbold, advancing, in real alarm. "You don't mean to tell us that this wilderness is the fifteen-acre field!" "I have never been here before," replied Wolfgang, quietly, "and must therefore examine the place first. But if your land has not been cultivated for fifteen years, you may rely, in case this really should not be it, that it will hardly look better than that which lies before you! But we will hope for the best! Look you, a road has once led through here, this tree has formerly been blazed, although the bark has almost grown together again. It will be best to leave the wagon with the women behind us, and go round this wilderness, first of all; if we can't find the houses, we may come upon the section line--for according to your deed the land has really been surveyed--then we shall know directly where we are and what we are about." "I doubt that!" said the shoemaker, to Schmidt. "One tree looks to me just like another, here; and if I were called upon, at this moment, to say from which direction we came here, I should have to guess!" "Well, I must admit, too," said Schmidt, "that so long as the roads here are in no better condition, so long I shall not wander far from the rest--for whoever loses himself is done for!" "Come along!" said the tailor; "there's a house to be searched for!" "Where is the house, then?" asked the shoemaker, quickly. "Well, that's just what they're searching for!" grinned the tailor. "Stupid as you are, you must know that!" "Hark ye," said the shoemaker, savagely, "drop your larks--none of us are in the humour to listen to your nonsense just now! But let us go along, too; I should like to know whether our guide has found the right way!" Scipio had now to halt with his team; and, in fact, he would not have been able, without the help of the axe, to advance any further; for every road and outlet was wildly overgrown, and scarcely passable on foot, much less with a four-wheeled wagon. Following, therefore, the course of a small brook which ran in a north-easterly direction towards the Big Halchee, after a short march, keeping to the margin of the thicket, and, as Wolfgang now positively asserted, former field, they reached the Big Halchee, and also, close to its soft, friable banks, a little log hut. However, Wolfgang warned them from entering it; for the earth round about, as he observed to the by-standers, was cracked, and the little house was every hour exposed to be precipitated into the muddy bed of the stream, as, apparently, had happened to the former appendant and now vanished buildings, of which Pastor Hehrmann was then thinking. "But is it not possible," said Becher, despondingly, "that we may be at the wrong place? You might, perhaps----" "Yonder tree is the north-east corner of the section," replied Wolfgang, pointing to an oak standing at no great distance, the greater part of the rind on one side of which was peeled off, and on which some roughly-carved numbers and marks were still discernible. "Then the dwelling-house has fallen down at some earlier time?" said Siebert, junior. "There it stands!" replied the farmer. "A better dwelling than that was, in former times, you seldom meet with in this wild neighbourhood. How many buildings are specified, then?" "A dwelling-house, with chimney--a smoking-house--a kitchen--a stable--and a maize-crib," read Siebert, senior, from his pocket-book, which he had got out. "Do you not see that I was right?" said Wolfgang. "Here you have proofs of my assertion: these are the remains of the former chimney, which now certainly totters over the precipice, and may crumble and fall next night. The smoking-house must have gone before, at some earlier time; and the kitchen too, for I see nothing of them. But the stable is probably yonder heap of fallen logs; at least, there is no trace of any chimney there, and the distance of a stable from the house is also about the right one." "And the maize-crib?" asked Pastor Hehrmann. "Probably stood in the field," said Wolfgang. "Doubtless the remains might be found in yonder thicket; but it would hardly be worth while to seek for them, for such maize-cribs are easily raised, with split logs, mostly of ordinary fence-rails, and they generally rot in six or seven years." "But, in the name of goodness, what are we to do with the women? Here we have brought the unfortunate creatures into the midst of the forest, without a roof or shelter; they cannot bear it." "Oh yes, though," replied Wolfgang, with a gentle nod of the head, "they can bear much, very much, and a few nights in the open air is not the worst that could happen to them. It is fortunate, however, that I came with you myself," he continued, in a livelier strain; "you might have fared ill by yourselves, unaccustomed to the country and the climate." "How far are we from the nearest town?" asked Siebert, senior; "it would, perhaps, be best, after all, to take them there until we have erected habitations." "No," said Wolfgang, decidedly, "that is impossible; first, the place is more than thirty miles off; then, as I have heard from hunters, there are several lakes between this and it, before one gets to the hills, and besides, I don't know the exact direction. But, even if we could reach the town on a smooth, even road, I would not advise you to leave the women over there by themselves, for such little towns are for the most part inhabited by a rough, vicious people, the scum of the backwoods, and everything is so frightfully dear, that the money which is here so hardly earned is squandered on the people there. No, we will soon knock up a few sheds, which will at least keep off wind and rain for awhile; when that is done, I shall return to my own house, and send the old negro to you with a portion of your remaining things; he may stay here a couple of weeks, and put what you require into something like a regular train." "But, my dear Mr. Wolfgang, how shall we ever be able to repay your kindness?" "Make yourself easy on that score, you have done more for me; I shall never forget how kindly you buried my poor wife for me. Besides, this is no more than a neighbour's office; for you will learn, by and by, how far neighbourhood extends in the woods. However, strictly examined, I am rather selfish than otherwise; for I must have an occupation to amuse me, and after all that has occurred, of which you have only witnessed the tragical end, I should go mad, did I now remain alone and inactive upon my farm. Therefore, Courage! things will go better. If you were not here, this would be one of the last places which I should have recommended to you; but as it is, you are here, and all further delay and complaint are now useless." "But to think that we can't even use one of the houses to shelter the women!" exclaimed Herbold, stamping angrily with his foot. "Plague upon the stealthy rascal who has deceived and betrayed us under a friendly face; if I could only catch him." "Either he has deceived you," said Wolfgang, "or has been himself deceived; still, you yourselves are chiefly to blame for your misfortune--to give it its true name. You should not have bought directly, but should have first seen your bargain. Even in Germany you would not have purchased an estate without seeing it." "But, then, the low price!" pleaded Becher. "You have an answer to that here," replied Wolfgang, "if the land had been presented to you, it would still have been bought too dearly if it did not please you, and you had to undertake a long journey to it with wife and child, with bag and baggage. But it will be a warning to all of you for the future. Moreover, I recommend you to remain here no longer than is necessary to get over the first alarm, and to enable you to look round either in the neighbourhood, or the adjoining states, for a healthier district; to travel about at random with so many people wont do at all. You must first find something that will suit you. Until then, this place is good enough, and when that is done, we will migrate together, for I, too, must first get my stock of cordwood to the river side, and there sell it." "But the houses," repeated Herbold. "I should not have advised you to have entered them even had they been standing; snakes and all kinds of vermin take up their abode in such ruinous old wooden buildings. But to work! I will now give you some practical lessons in house raising." "Are you a carpenter?" asked the shoemaker. "Not exactly, but everything else that is wanted, or rather, that necessity teaches us, in the woods. But of that hereafter: you will learn all that yourselves--one single year in America, in the bush, often does wonders." "But we must make arrangements for the night," said Pastor Hehrmann; "we must not allow the women to be exposed to any accidental storm that may arise--the sky, too, is cloudy." "Do not fear, my good sir," said Wolfgang; "do you see the roof of yonder house? Although the planks[17] upon it are for the most part rotten, yet we shall probably find among them enough to erect a temporary roof for to-day and to-morrow. We shall get along by-and-by; first of all we must find the place where you think of erecting your future abode; when that is done, we will take the luggage there, unpack the wagon, bring it here, and fetch away all the boards that we can find, which are good for anything. Luckily, I have brought tools for splitting such slabs as we may want, for I guessed that the place would look pretty much as it does--and as----" "Mr. Wolfgang, you have become our guardian angel," said Pastor Hehrmann, gratefully grasping his hand. "What should we have done if we had arrived in this desert without you? the very idea is shocking; for, unfortunately, even as it is, with you, it is bad enough. But you are right; further reflections are unavailing here, and we must now prove that we not only wish to become American farmers, but that we have the strength and perseverance to carry out our resolution." Wolfgang, quite aroused from his sorrow by the need in which he saw so many of his fellow countrymen plunged, by the appeal made to his whole activity and knowledge of life in the woods, and who hoped to find alleviation, or at least temporary forgetfulness of his grief in distraction, undertook the cause of the new settlers with cheerful zeal; he soon chose a somewhat elevated spot, not far from running water, and near enough, also, to the place where the people would have to clear their first field; then worked and toiled as though he were about to found a home for himself, and to clear and till his own land. They quickly removed thither the things which they had brought with them, and pacified the women as well as they could, concerning their disappointed expectations; for to conceal the facts from them for that day would have availed nothing but to have made them anxious all night, and to have still, of necessity, learnt them on the following morning. The plan with the old planks turned out well; the greater part of them were still serviceable, only the getting them down was attended with some danger. But the tailor, on the one side, and Scipio, on the other, performed essential services on the occasion, and the former boasted not a little of the dangers to which he had been exposed, when, two nights later, the ruinous hut, with the whole piece of ground on which it stood, really followed the kitchen and the smoke house. The precaution for the encampment proved to have been necessary, for towards morning there fell a tolerably smart shower of rain, from which all the settlers were protected, and next day they proceeded with fresh energy to the erection of the shanties in which they intended to pass the winter. But now it appeared how much they all had to learn, for no one knew how to handle the axe, and in splitting the four feet long slabs, they were all, even the carpenters themselves, very awkward. Wolfgang did not allow any trouble to put him out, but worked from morning until late, and on the evening of the second day he had the satisfaction of seeing that all had a roof to their heads, and that the company was at least sheltered from storm and rain. The articles left behind, on the banks of the Mississippi, now began to be much wanted, and their friendly helper determined to return with his negro, and to send up the other black to the raising of the houses and chimneys.[18] He promised to relieve him again himself, for it would still be too quiet and lonely for him on his desolate hearth; received a few commissions to buy provisions for them of the steamers which might land there, and, after bidding a hearty farewell to all his newly-acquired, and worthily deserved friends, left the "dead clearing," as the place had really been called, on account of its desolation, by the hunters who made excursions thereabouts. The entire colony now consisted of fifty-three persons, children included; of mechanics, there were, three carpenters, two cabinet-makers; a blacksmith, a locksmith, the tailor, shoemaker, and brewer, a tanner, and a glazier's apprentice. The latter, a young lad, had only come out to New York with them in search of his father, but had ascertained from an acquaintance, whom he accidentally met there, that his parent had died, and had been buried about three weeks before. The poor boy, who was scarce fourteen years old, had now no other resource but to join the society, which kindly received him; there was very little stirring in his own way of business, it is true, at present; for glazing windows, there were wanting not only sashes for the panes, but houses for the sashes; but he soon found out that the axe played a prominent part in the woods, and determined to devote all his skill to that. Wolfgang perceived, even during the first few days, with what zeal the boy worked, when he could get hold of the American axe for a few minutes; for those which they had brought with them from Germany were not of much use, except as wedges, and when he returned to the Mississippi, he left it with the boy, in order that he might exercise himself in its use. Charles, as he was universally called by the passengers of the Hoffnung, did not require to be told this twice; from morning until evening, he stood in the woods, and hacked, and chopped, and thought himself richly rewarded, when he could hear the mighty stems fall with a loud crash.[19] The shoemaker, the tailor, and the brewer, did not participate in this passion in the least. Working in the open air was altogether disagreeable to them; to stand in the sun all day, and "hack about at that hard wood," as the tailor expressed himself, did not agree at all with their constitutions. But, as even the committee-men worked hard, and as Pastor Hehrmann, in particular, from early till late, was the first at work and the last to quit it, they were ashamed to lag behind, so did their best. Meier always doubled himself up like a clasp-knife, when he got under the shed of an evening, and during all the first week was too fatigued to eat a morsel. The shoemaker intimated, on his part, that were he in Germany, he should join the society for prevention of cruelty to animals. One only of the male portion of the colony had not yet done a stroke of work, either with the axe or otherwise; this was Von Schwanthal; for provisions were wanting, or, at least, want before long could be foreseen, and the hunter shouldered his double-barrel, and stalked into the woods. Now there was nothing unusual in this; on the contrary, it was a matter of course; every company that bivouacks in the woods--be they raftsmen, on the banks or neighbourhood of a stream, or settlers, or even trappers of beavers and otters,--have their hunters, often five or six men, who hunt in the vicinity of the camp, and regularly bring in their booty. The colony stood much in need of such a hunter, or rather, of several such, but Von Schwanthal was not the man for it; for hardly had he ventured a hundred paces into the thicket--scarcely did he find himself surrounded on all sides by heaven-aspiring trees and wild bush, before he listened attentively for the sound of the axes, as it reverberated towards him, so that he might not possibly miss the direction; and he would not have been induced to leave the neighbourhood of the people for all the game in the world. That he could not get a shot in this way may be imagined, and he came back regularly every evening, weary and hungry, in order to victual himself again for the following morning, to beat about the semicircle, with which he now began to be tolerably acquainted, once more, and afterwards to abuse the neighbourhood in which fortune had cast them, for want of game. The old negro arrived about this time, with the second load, several more axes, a barrel of flour, a barrel of beans, and a barrel of salt pork; he brought also a fowling-piece, one of the long Yankee rifles, with him. Von Schwanthal viewed this new shooting apparatus with a very incredulous smile, for the rough stock, carved out of very common wood, the old, rusty barrel itself, which certainly could not boast of a promising appearance, the large knife with a brown wooden handle, the old leather bag, with a couple of flints, two bullets, a screw-driver, and a mould; these, taken altogether, looked anything but sportsmanlike, and contrasted very unfavourably with the excellent apparatus of the German sportsman. But when the latter got up, on the ensuing morning, he heard a shot at no great distance from him, and looked about everywhere for Sam; but Sam had started before daybreak, and shortly returned, panting under the weight of a splendid young deer, which he carried upon his shoulders. This disgrace had to be wiped off. Von Schwanthal never could look any one in the face again, if that fellow scarcely got his rubbishing old gun out, before he returned laden with spoil, while _he_ had been on the look-out during four entire days, and had not brought home so much as a claw. The time for exertion had arrived; the zealous hunter hardly gave himself time to swallow his breakfast, and hurried off as fast as his feet would carry him, right into the trackless thicket. But when arrived there, his sporting ardour cooled down considerably, for he reflected upon the hopeless condition of a person who should lose his way in those swamps; but his feeling of honour got the better of this thought; his entire reputation as a sportsman was at stake; he _must_ kill something or other. He was well enough aware, though, that so close to the camp, where the game could hear the strokes of the axe, and the rasping of the saw, as well, if not better than he could himself, there was no chance; taking care, therefore, to keep the sun straight before him, he walked right on in that direction; he avoided no thicket, no fallen tree, but pressed on through the one, and climbed over the other, and soon found himself above his knees in water, in a swamp which spread itself out before him, and as far, at least, as he could see, was nowhere bounded by higher ground. What was to be done now? Should he turn back, or endeavour to force his way through that desert of swamp, and catch a dreadful cold, if he got nothing else? Suddenly, he heard something splash to his right; immediately afterwards, a couple of dry boughs snapped, and yonder--yonder, scarce thirty yards distant from him--bounded a mighty stag, in an open place in the woods, where the water, too, seemed to be but a few inches in depth. For a moment, the hunter stood as if thunderstruck, for the whole had taken place so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that he could hardly recover himself; at last, however, he mechanically raised the gun to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. But, alas! in vain did he press the trigger till he almost pressed it down--no hammer fell--no discharge followed; the stag sprang about twenty yards further, and for some seconds more stood looking at the strange object in the water. Von Schwanthal pulled and pressed, till the perspiration stood in drops upon his forehead. But in vain; the hammers descended, it is true, but the piece did not go off--not so much as a cap even exploded. It was then that he recollected the unlucky "patent safety," which he had pushed forward whilst among the creeping plants and underwood; he quickly pushed it back, but the deer was, by this time, probably tired of waiting--Heaven knows how long!--to be shot at, and fled in rapid bounds into the thicket; and the two cracking shots which were now sent after him--alas, too late--only served to add wings to his already mighty bounds. Schwanthal stood, and gazed after the stag, as he disappeared in the bush, and then down at his gun. He next seated himself upon the bough of a prostrate oak, which projected out of the water, took a screw-driver from his pocket, and very deliberately removed both of the safety-screws from the lock; wrapped them in a small piece of paper, and then went back to the nearest dry land, or rather, to that which was not covered with water, and trod them--without a syllable, without a single oath, but with such rage and determination--into the soft damp earth, that they had soon penetrated far into it; he then, giving them a last hearty farewell kick, said:--"So now, lie there till you rot--when I want you again, I'll let you know." So far so good. Now the first thing was to re-load the gun; but what was to be done then? To wade further into the mud, or to turn back, and that without having accomplished his object? No, on no condition could he do that; the attempt, at least, must be made, and, besides, the sun shone so clearly and so cheerfully that, losing one's self was out of the question; so he cautiously stepped further and further through the silent, listening woods--further still, till at last he reached a small flat ridge, which traversed the swamp from east to west, and was itself dry. If he should follow this he must leave the sun a little on his left, and it was very questionable whether he would afterwards find the right direction on his return. He determined, therefore, to remain on the watch where he was, where, of course, it was just as possible that a head of game might come right towards him, and where he would incur no danger of losing himself. With a patience that would have done honour to a saint, hour after hour he stood there, immovable, and listened attentively, often breathlessly, when here and there a dry twig fell into the water, to the slightest noise, to the gentlest sound, to the most trifling rustling of the leaves. At last, however, the declining sun warned him of his return, and, although he could not conceal from himself that the best time for the movement of game was just beginning, yet he could not prevail on himself to remain there, and perhaps afterwards lose his way in the dark, for the sun was his only guide in the wilderness. Chagrined, he slowly turned to quit the post he had hitherto kept; but--fresh horror!--whither? The sun, as he now for the first time considered, had been travelling through the sky during many long hours, and stood in a totally different quarter from that which it occupied in the morning. Should he now find his way back?--might he not turn off too much either to his right or left? The bare idea raised his hair on end. Snatching up the gun, he sprang in great haste over the narrow tongue of dry ground, and over the other side into the swamp again, in order not to lose any more valuable time, and waded, as fast as his feet would carry him, right through it, with such exertion and haste that the water often splashed right over him, and in less than a quarter of an hour's march he was completely wet through. But his fears seemed to have been verified, for he ought long since, as he firmly believed, to have reached the spot where the trees felled by the settlers were lying, and yet the swamp did not come to an end; for although Von Schwanthal saw dry land on his left, he would not on any account deviate from what he considered the right course. He now felt the water grow more shallow, and immediately afterwards found himself upon dry ground--ran over it--came to one of the innumerable little muddy brooks, which cross the country in all directions--dashed through it without pausing to consider; found himself up to his arm-pits in water--climbed as well as he could out on the other side--and, being now firmly convinced that he must have lost his way, as he knew nothing of this brook, he began to call out with all his might for help. "Mercy on us! what's the matter?" asked the little tailor, who stood close beside him without his having noticed it,--"why, you're on dry ground again." "Oh, Meier, are you here?" exclaimed Von Schwanthal, delighted; "why, there's the shoemaker, too. You haven't--surely, you haven't lost yourselves, have you?" "Lost ourselves? no, no!" laughed the little fellow; "we are too wide awake for that; I, for instance, never go further away from the rest than I can reach with my hand one of them, at all events. But what did you halloo so for?" "Oh, I--I--haven't you seen a stag come past here?" asked Von Schwanthal, taking up his cue, for he was ashamed to let the people see that he had been frightened. "I only called 'Look out!' in case any one might have been out here with a gun." "It sounded exactly like 'Help!'" said the shoemaker, grinning, and giving the tailor a sly push with the crosscut-saw, which rested on a slight oak, felled by Charles's hands, lying between them. "Have you shot nothing?--there was a report." "I--I wounded a stag," answered the sportsman; "but there was so much water on the spot, that the tracks could not be followed, I couldn't trace the blood; and, as I had no dog, why----" "Of course!" said the tailor, elevating his eyebrows and nodding his head violently--"of course! I think I shouldn't catch a stag either, without a dog--the critters run so fast." Schwanthal turned away in vexation, and, in a very bad humour, strode towards the encampment, which was no longer distant; but he suddenly began to limp, and declared, when he arrived at the first fire, where he met Mrs. Hehrmann, that he had sprained his ancle, and most likely must give up wandering about for a few days. Von Schwanthal was pretty well cured of his apparently insatiable passion for sport, and even began to help the labourers at their work; but that was the wisest thing he could have done, for he thereby escaped ridicule, and he comforted himself meanwhile with the idea that he should soon be sufficiently acquainted with the woods--at all events, in the neighbourhood--as to be exposed to no further danger of losing himself, and to be enabled to hunt in all directions. The men worked away perseveringly, without murmuring, and the women, seeing the energy and spirit with which the men bore the greatest hardships, abstained from complaining about their failed hopes and disappointed expectations; but instead thereof, as it could not be helped, they bore their privations with exemplary patience and fortitude. Hehrmann's family, especially, was foremost in setting a good example, and Bertha and her sister Louisa were the first at every kind of work. But the men stood in need of such encouragement, for their labours progressed very slowly; the negro, it is true, had arrived, and with his help many a tree lay felled and chopped; but it was not until now, when they had begun the work, that they perceived the full extent of all they had got to do. How they were to clear five acres of land, in as many years, appeared an inexplicable riddle to them all, however they might conceal their thoughts from each other. The tailor gave vent to his feelings the most candidly of all, for when Wolfgang relieved the negro again, he showed him the dreadful blisters which he had got on his hands, and confessed to him (in confidence, of course) that he never could think of passing another year in that place. But where, during all this time, was the Doctor, who, for the sake of a few hundred dollars, had sent the poor settlers, ignorant of the country, in such a shameful manner into the wilderness? As he had now obtained his end, received the money, and left the strangers to their fate, the most natural thing for him to do was to take himself off, and carry away his plunder to a place of security--and such had been his original intention; but something on which he had not reckoned, and which he had not foreseen, forbade the execution of it; for a wild uncontrollable passion took possession of his heart for the lovely daughter of the Pastor. Blinded by love, he determined to follow the colony to its destination, and partly to weather the storm of those who would discover that they had been deceived, partly to turn it off--to remain in Bertha's neighbourhood, perhaps to make her his wife--at all events, to be able to call her his. With this object he had, as a primary step, to ascertain what her feelings were towards him, and it was for this that he had approached her, on the last morning, with a confession of his love. But her cold behaviour showed him at once what he had to hope from her heart and feelings; moreover, it could not escape him how she blushed and became embarrassed at the allusion to Werner. At a glance--with the glance of a man of the world--he saw that nothing was to be accomplished there by honest wooing; but he was not the man so readily to give up a plan he had once formed. During eleven years past a sojourner in foreign lands, during the latter portion of that time in America, he had learned to surmount whatever obstacles might come in his way; and as he was not particular whether he resorted to honest or dishonest means, if he could only attain the ends he had proposed to himself, he seldom failed in carrying out his plans. But, to follow to Tennessee those very settlers who had been deceived by him, to play a part in all those unpleasant scenes which he could very well foresee, and yet not advance a step nearer to his aim, did not seem to him expedient. He determined, therefore, on remaining in Cincinnati for the present; for that Bertha must be his he had vowed, and only the more stimulated by the obstacles to the realization of his project, he now considered ways and means to carry off, by force, the girl who would not voluntarily follow him. How difficult, how impossible, almost, pursuit was on the Mississippi, when that mighty stream, with its wilderness on either shore, once divided the pursued from the pursuers, he knew but too well, and all that he now required was some trusty friend to assist him in his undertaking. Such an one he had already found in Cincinnati, on the previous evening, and while the "Dayton" was puffing and blowing down the beautiful Ohio river, Normann and Turner (the latter a gambler by profession from New Orleans, but who stayed in the North during the warm summer months) stood on the quay, and Turner said, smilingly, when the Doctor had made him acquainted with his wishes-- "Capital, Doctor--capital! And she has got a pretty sister, too, eh?" "A beautiful girl," he assured him. "Here's my hand, then; I'm your man! I could not better employ my time, till the healthy season in New Orleans commences again. Perhaps we may get both the girls." "That is hardly possible!--how are we to bring them away?" "Well, it's all one," said the profligate, laughing; "we're sure of one. Moreover, I know that part of the country as well as though I had spent all my life there. Five of us once ran all the way from Randolph up to the Halchee on foot, most of the way at night, and with about twenty stout boatmen after us. I shouldn't forget that chase, were I to live a thousand years." "And how did you get off?" "There was a small boat on the Halchee; we jumped into it. The owner would have made some difficulties, but luckily I had a loaded pistol with me,--but that has nothing to do with it. The bargain is made." "Shall we go alone?" "No; we must have some one else to row, but I know one that will do; a free nigger in the town here, whom I could lead to Perdition with us for twenty dollars a month, and an extra allowance of whisky." "Good,--such a fellow will be useful. And when shall we start? To-day?" "Halloo! not so fast. I have got a young Italian, who has been recommended to me, to pluck first; he seems immensely rich, so we will get all ready for starting; perhaps, a hasty departure may be convenient some of these days." "Well, then," said the Doctor, "I'll get together everything that is necessary, and this evening we'll meet at the old place in Sycamore-street." Normann left him, and walked along the quay, and up Main-street; but Turner remained, with his arms folded, and followed Normann's retreating figure with a contemptuous smile, and wheeled round on his heel when the other turned the corner, and disappeared in the street to the right; and with the same malicious expression he whispered to himself-- "We'll steal the girl together, my little Doctor, and if she's as pretty as you've described her, why you shall help me; but if you suppose, my short-sighted Dutchman, that she's for you, why you're confoundedly out in your reckoning, I guess!" FOOTNOTES: [9] Mosquitoes always sting an old-countryman during the first year ensuing his arrival more than they ever do afterwards, and more than they do natives.--TR. [10] There is no dawn in the latitude of the Big Halchee in August, or none worth mentioning.--TR. [11] This is not a picture of an average log-house, (which is wind and water tight, and warm,) but of a very temporary shanty; it is not consistent with the occupant's skill as a back-woodsman, or his industry, that he should have let his wife live a single week in such a hole--especially when a few shingles, and some moss and clay, would have remedied all--TR. [12] The watchmen in Germany, twenty years ago, used to (and, for aught I know, still may) carry a horn, like that of our newsmen, which they blew and announced the hours, &c.--TR. [13] The fires in the back-woods are raked together at bed-time, and covered with thin ashes, and so remain all night, smouldering, so that in the morning they only require to be fanned a little, in order to burn again, so as to ignite fresh fuel; indeed, the back log is usually a thick piece of heavy wood, which lasts a day or two.--TR. [14] The blowing of a horn is the usual signal to come home to breakfast, dinner, supper, or for any other purpose, on North-American farms.--TR. [15] This seems to be rather unaccountable; it may be the popular belief.--TR. [16] Wood is used for fuel throughout Germany, and the numerous forests are under the care of officers, called foresters, who have assistants, called huntsmen, under them; they plant, thin, manage, and cut the timber; also preserve game, kill vermin, &c.--TR. [17] Rough shanties and small log-houses are sometimes covered with planks, as in the text; but the more usual course in America is to roof houses with shingles, which are rectangular pieces of pine split (with a shingle knife) into the thickness of about a quarter of an inch, or less, and these are nailed on, overlapping each other, like tiles; they are light, weathertight, and durable, and only inferior to tiles, slate or tin, in being more liable to accidents by fire.--TR. [18] As the old chimney, even assuming it to have been of brick, would not have sufficed, the reader may perhaps ask where the bricks and mortar came from; but it is common in shanties in the woods, when these cannot be had, to form chimneys of slabs of bass-wood, and plaster them with clay. It need hardly be added that they sometimes take fire.--TR. [19] Persons who once take to chopping--i. e., felling trees--prefer it to all other work, and even feel a kind of passion for it.--TR. CHAPTER V. EXCURSIONS HITHER AND THITHER. We have almost too long neglected a principal person in our narrative, Young Werner; we left him sadly musing on the banks of the beautiful Hudson River, and must now return to him. "Well," said Helldorf, smiling, "have you nearly done looking? My friend, my friend, it almost seems to me as though the most serious thoughts in the world--thoughts of marriage--were floating in your head. Consider that your chief object in coming to America was to earn something, and that until that is done---- Well, then," he said, interrupting himself with a smile, when he saw that Werner turned his back impatiently upon him, "it's the old story, and all that I may say will not alter it. But come along, Werner, else we shall really miss our boat, and that's the most important thing to us at present." "And will you indeed accompany me, my dear Helldorf?" asked the young man. "I suppose I must," said the other, with a shrug of his shoulders; "but it's no such great sacrifice I am making. In the first place, I am heartily sick of my stay in New York, and I have in fact some business to look after in Philadelphia, which, if it does not absolutely require me to go there, yet renders my presence desirable. We will therefore lose no more time, but take our things with us at once; and, if I can. I'll accompany you on your journey as far as Cincinnati, for I'm much mistaken if you remain more than four weeks in Philadelphia." "My dear fellow, however much my heart yearns towards Tennessee--as I feel but too well that it does--yet it will be impossible for me, within that period, to conclude that which I ought to conclude in Philadelphia, or rather, to speak more correctly, to commence the formation of connexions which I ought to form there. But we shall see; perhaps you yourself may like to remain longer." "Well, we shall see, certainly," replied Helldorf. "To speak candidly, I should, in your place, have gone with them to the settlement at once." "To become a farmer?" "For no other purpose; but you are just like all the rest--you will only learn by experience. But we must really be off. Do you see the smoke yonder; that's from the Philadelphia packet-boat, and we have little enough time left to get all our things on board." The young men returned to the town arm in arm, and in another hour they stood upon the splendidly fitted-up steamer which was to conduct them to the proud Quaker city. Their journey was a short one; they went by water to the southern shore of Staaten Island Bay, removed the little baggage which they had to the railway there, and, in six hours more, they found themselves in the most beautiful, but assuredly, also, the most tedious, of North American cities. "Well, and what do you think of setting about next?" inquired Helldorf of Werner, when, towards evening, they had deposited their luggage, and were walking about Chestnut-street, the principal street of Philadelphia, which was then crowded with well-dressed people. "Why, to deliver my letters of recommendation, of course," answered the other, smiling. "I have been so urgently recommended to certain houses of business here, that I may be permitted to hope that I may receive some assistance from them in furthering my plans. Yes, Helldorf, I may confide in you--I know that I can confide in you"--continued the young man, seizing his friend's hand, and becoming more animated; "you have behaved so heartily towards me, even from the very first, that I must unreservedly unfold all my plans to you." Helldorf smiled, but pressed the right hand which was extended to him, and replied, "And may I not guess them?" "Partly, perhaps," said Werner, and his countenance coloured more deeply--"partly, no doubt--my love for Bertha--but that is not all; that is only the sunny point of my existence--the aim towards which my whole exertions, my whole soul is directed; but you shall know the means also by which I hope to attain my object, and you shall tell me whether you approve them or not." Helldorf slightly bowed, and Werner began:-- "In stating my endeavours and plans, I probably shall be merely describing those of thousands besides, who, like myself, are thrown upon these shores without means, and who wish to make their fortunes, as the phrase is. "When I embarked at Bremen almost, my only wish and intention was to travel through the States in all directions; my plans are now altered. Taking all things into consideration, I don't think that Pastor Hehrmann will agree long with the Committee whom they have chosen." Helldorf nodded his head, significantly. "He himself is poor," Werner continued, "and the time may arrive when he may stand in need of a friend; so I will set to work with zeal and earnestness,--get some situation here, which I must soon be able to do--work, speculate, devote my whole life to this one object, and then present myself, cheerfully, to the parents of my beloved, and ask them for their daughter's hand,--then I shall have deserved her." "Well said, my worthy young friend," said the Kentuckian, laying his hand upon Werner's shoulder; "but I don't see why you should make such preparation here in the East; your prospects _here_ are very uncertain." "My recommendations----" "I beg of you, for Heaven's sake, say no more about your recommendations: those----. However, I will not make your heart heavy; but, Werner, if you will follow my advice, you will go to the West as quickly as you can, and become a farmer; every month that you pass here is so much time lost, for farmer you will become, after all. You are no merchant, have never been one, and--in short, are not at all fitted for an American trader." "But I don't see why not! I understand book-keeping thoroughly." "Oh, I don't mean on account of want of knowledge; that, if necessary, could be acquired by you, and soon, too--you are too honest!" "Why, my dear Helldorf; you surely don't mean to affirm that the American merchants are dishonest?" "No, certainly not," exclaimed Helldorf; "and I should be very sorry if you should so misunderstand me; but more is required in order to be a merchant here in America than merely book-keeping and speculating on the Exchange; for this last branch of business we have a special class of men, the money-brokers as they are called, who, I may say, in passing, don't stand in very good odour. But the German is no match for the American in business, because he is too considerate. The Jews get on about the best of any here; they soon adapt themselves to the manners and customs of the country, begin in a small way, and do not let either painstaking or shame discourage them--and become rich. But in America the standard of honesty is different from that of Germany. In your country, for example, a bankrupt who should become rich by his bankruptcy would be stamped with infamy. It is quite different here; I know people who have been bankrupt three times, who possess more than a million of dollars, and a reaccounted among the most respectable men of the city wherein they live. In Little Rock, one of the richest merchants made a declaration of insolvency, and yet, at the same time, was building a couple of large brick houses." "But how was that possible?" "Oh, in that way anything is possible, and the Americans call it 'smart.'" "That's the word which Dr. Normann mentioned to me. But about the merchant?" "The doctor is acquainted with it, no doubt," said Helldorf, with a smile. "Well, the merchant in question had settled all his property upon his wife--no one could take any part of it from him; the creditors came, but had to draw off again without getting anything." "But the houses?" "Oh, his wife was having them built; _he_ had nothing, of course--he was a poor ruined man; however, everybody gave him credit again, and as soon as he had obtained his certificate, he began business afresh with more spirit than ever. I could relate hundreds of such instances of people whom I have known personally." "That certainly does not say much for their honesty, if such a proceeding is reckoned an ordinary mercantile transaction," said Werner; "but, be that as it may, trade certainly is the quickest way to acquire a little property; and, I should think, that if one were honest and upright, buyers must soon find it out, and it would carry weight." "Oh, my dear Werner, that's of little use here; the modest man remains behind, and without puffing and quackery, a poor devil can seldom get along in America, unless, as I have already observed, he turns farmer. Those are my views, but I don't wish to palm them upon you as the views of all the world; I shall even be glad, on your account, if you should not find them confirmed." "But I have no capital to begin with--at least----" "If that makes any difference at all, it's rather in your favour than otherwise," said Helldorf, smiling; "don't suppose that the people who bring over capital with them pluck roses here. 'Where there is nothing, the Emperor himself can't levy tribute,' and 'he who has no money pays no premium.' But these sort of sayings are thrown away upon emigrants; they must try it all themselves; afterwards, they get along better in every way." "But I feel a real desire within me to set to work at a business life here." "Very well, my dear Werner, then I wont dissuade you," replied Helldorf, good humouredly; "deliver your introductions to-morrow, and we'll see what may turn up. It's getting late, so let us make haste back to our inn, else we may arrive after time, or miss our supper, which is about the same thing." The two friends returned to their boarding-house, and as Werner went out rather early on the following morning, the afternoon was advanced before they met again. Werner came home very tired; he had delivered a number of letters of introduction, and had found a good many of the people, whom he had subsequently to call upon, from home, which altogether was no trifle in that immense city. However, he had been asked by _all_ to call again next day, a sure sign that the people intended not to accept the introduction merely, and then drop the matter, but that they would exert themselves a little for him. He had received an invitation to dinner for the next day from a merchant named Harvey, whom he had found a very agreeable man, and he promised himself much satisfaction from it. "Well then, our paper is going up," said Helldorf, with a smile; "well, I wish that I may prove a false prophet. We will remain together a little longer this evening, for to-morrow I must go to German-town on some business, which will detain me for three days at the most, and I hope afterwards to see you finish with Philadelphia and your future prospects." "Hardly so soon," said Werner, incredulously; "but time will show; from all that I have seen to-day, however, I think that I may fairly be sanguine." At the public dinner table, they met several other Germans, among the rest a M. Von Buchenberg, who was seated next to Werner. He had been some weeks in Philadelphia, and purposed to visit the West, in order to survey several districts of land in the interest of some company or other, which already had a high-sounding name. Von Buchenberg was not calculated, however, to give much encouragement to young Werner, for he abused the town soundly: "The devil take this _pious_ Philadelphia!" he exclaimed, indignantly; "they keep Sundays here so strictly, that one daren't so much as peel an apple, and yet all the while there they sit in their rocking-chairs, and calculate and plan, how they shall cheat each other next day. Heaven alone knows all the sects that crawl about here; there are Quakers and methodists, baptists, presbyterians, Millerites, Schulzerites, and Meierites, and Heaven knows what other names the fellows have! A shudder comes over me when I see the gang of thieves, cutting about in snuff-coloured suits." "But the quakers are very plainly dressed," said Werner, taking up their cause; "indeed, 'tis a part of their religion to attire themselves in as quiet a manner as possible." "Certainly," exclaimed Buchenberg; "but is it not strange that they should dress themselves up in a costume which everybody else has long since ceased to wear? The women, too, don't they just coquette in an alarming manner from under their black sun-bonnets of such a very pious cut! Well, then, the town itself!" continued the little man, who had just got into train, "this regularity at last becomes quite unbearable, and one dare not go abroad without a compass. If you inquire of any one in the streets which way you are to get to so-and-so, they don't answer you as reasonable people in other reasonable places would answer: 'You go down yonder, then take the first turning on the right or left as the case may be, go through that street, and then through such another street to the place you wish for;' oh lord, no!--if you ask a Philadelphian your way to ever so near a place, he says directly: 'Oh, you can't miss it; you go from here three streets south, then you turn westward till you come to the fourth, then again two streets south, and it's to the east the third house on the north side.' Now I'll appeal to anybody, isn't it enough to drive one wild?" "Why, the points of the compass are easily remembered," said Helldorf, with a smile. "It happened just the same with me," Werner declared. "Easily remembered!--how so?" said Von Buchenberg, who now got rather warm on the subject. "Suppose that it's cloudy; and besides, since when, I should like to know, have all men learned astronomy? I know that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, but therewith, Basta, the rest does not concern me. If I want to know about it, I look into the almanack. But that isn't all: the other day I was sitting at this very table, and yonder, where that gentleman now sits, there sat a Quaker; in the middle of dinner he stretches out his arm, and points down the table, saying to me, 'Friend, may I trouble thee to reach me that north-west dish.' I sat, regularly nonplussed, and stared at him, whereupon he added, by way of explanation, that one to the south of the soup.' Why, it beats all; what, am I to go outside the door, and look after the quarters of the heavens, or else have a pocket compass always ready beside my plate?" Helldorf and Werner laughed heartily, and the worthy Von Buchenberg was quite right, for the regular plan of the town in which all the streets run at right angles from north to south, and from east to west, has familiarized the inhabitants with this mode of expression. And it must be allowed that when the ear has once got accustomed to it, the most distant places may be thus admirably and accurately designated; but to the emigrant, unless indeed he happen to be a seaman, the thing sounds oddly. Next morning, Helldorf started on his little journey, and Werner ran about from one merchant to another, made calls upon calls, and was met everywhere by mere civilities, or at most by a dinner. He became heartily sick of this kind of life, and longed for the return of his absent friend, although he almost dreaded his ridicule, for everything had happened pretty much as he had foretold him. Still he was at least conscious that he had not neglected anything which he had to do, and had done everything in his power. Helldorf returned at the time appointed; but, contrary to expectation, he did not ridicule his friend, but merely excused the men (merchants for the most part) to whom the introductions had been addressed, for not having paid more attention and regard to them. "You see, my dear Werner, every year many thousand persons arrive in the United States, the majority of whom entertain the settled conviction that they cannot get along at all unless they bring their pockets full of introductions which certify on the face of them to the good people--'Hark ye, I am so and so, a respectable, decent person, and it would much oblige Mr. So and so, in Europe, if his esteemed friend in Philadelphia or New York, or whatever the place may be, would receive me in a friendly manner and aid me with word and deed; the friend in Europe would also, in return, be most happy to render any similar service.' Yes, that's all very well, but how seldom does it happen that any one requires an introduction for Germany? for America it is a matter of daily occurrence. No, the merchants in the great commercial towns are regularly inundated with such recommendations, and we must not by any means blame them, if they are not beside themselves with joy and gladness so soon as they see a stranger enter their house, poking such a letter of introduction, as a snail does his horns, before him. 'Help, thyself,' is the motto here, and whoever is thoroughly impressed with that need not fear. But, Werner, I have a proposal to make to you. I have accepted a commission in German-town, which will oblige me to go to New Orleans, will you go with me?" "How far is it to New Orleans?" asked Werner. "One can tell that you haven't been long from Germany," said Helldorf, with a smile. "_Here_ nobody asks how _far_ it is to a place, but the question is, '_How_ do you get there?' I intend to go by water. If you like, make up your mind quickly, and we'll go back to-morrow to New York, whence the packet boat 'Mobile' starts for New Orleans, and, if we have a favourable passage, we may get there in a fortnight. In New Orleans you can look about you a little; who knows what may offer itself there, and after a stay of about a week, I promise to accompany you to any little river in Tennessee which you may propose. From New Orleans we can get up there in three days." "Oh, my dear Helldorf, Philadelphia has discouraged me very much! What am I to do in Tennessee? How can I hope--how dare I ask, for Bertha's hand? How am I to support her?" "Oh, means will be devised," exclaimed Helldorf; "only you must set the right way to work, and an industrious man need not fear to strive in vain. Trust in me, my dear Werner, and I'll put you on the right track, and if you don't follow it, why it's your own fault. Do you go to New Orleans with me?" "Agreed!--here's my hand. It's true that I have a couple of introductions for that place, too; but they shan't determine me, for I'll not use them;" and, in the first impulse of vexation, he pulled the letters out of his pocket, and would have thrown them into the stream which flowed past. "Hold!" said Helldorf, seizing his hand; "we must not condemn all without distinction; such letters are like wet percussion caps, they generally miss fire; sometimes, however, one does explode, and the gun goes off. Such a bit of paper is not heavy, and, at any rate, can do no harm." Werner put back the letters into his pocket, but opined that something unforeseen must happen to induce him to make use of them. Their preparations for the journey did not occupy much time, and as a favourable wind filled their sails from New York, they passed Sandyhook on the second evening, and, steering due south, entered the open sea. With the exception of some storms, which they had to encounter in crossing the Gulf Stream, their voyage was as quick and as pleasant a one as could be expected at the season; only the heat became very oppressive as they sailed along the Gulf of Florida, past the Havannah, for the wind, which had hitherto brought some cool breezes with it, now almost ceased. It was on the sixteenth day from their departure from New York, that Werner, stretched out on the bowsprit of the ship, looked forward at the steamer which was approaching them, for the purpose of towing the ship through the labyrinth of the Mississippi Delta, about eighty miles up the broad stream, to New Orleans. She soon laid herself alongside the ship, the ropes were made fast, and, leaving the flat, reedy, and swampy shores of the outer mouth behind them, the "Porpoise" steamed away against the current. Now they glided past between mighty forests intergrown with reeds,--now these became more open--plantations became visible,--and now, as they approached nearer and nearer to the gigantic commercial city of the south, the constantly increasing civilization and culture had driven the old, venerable, primeval forest far into the background, so that its distant tops could only be discerned as a green stripe on the horizon, and, instead thereof, a boundless sea of waving sugar-canes, and tall, stiff, cotton-plants surrounded them. Night closed in too soon for the astonished spectator, and by day-break he was already awake again and on deck, to admire the panorama of New Orleans, now spread out before him in all its grandeur. If, even on his landing at New York, he had found himself surrounded by a peculiar foreign-looking kind of life, how much more was this the case here, where the tropical countries were wafting their warm luxurious breath towards him! The innumerable ships and vessels of all descriptions which bounded the shores with a forest of masts, the multitude of steamers arriving and departing, the sailing-boats shooting backwards and forwards across the river, the little fruit-boats, the crowding of wagons with goods on the shore, the movements of the cheerful, well-dressed crowd, which seemed to be thrown together there from all quarters of the globe,--all these so occupied his senses, that he scarcely noticed that the ship was landed and moored to the quay, and his attention was first called to the fact by the idlers and business-people who pressed on board. Helldorf, who had been several times before in this capital of the South, and to whom the bustling and picturesque scene was no longer a novelty, had, meanwhile, handed over the luggage belonging to them both to a drayman or carter, whose number he took, and the friends lounged slowly across the Levee,[20] up into the town. "What do you think of New Orleans?" asked Helldorf, at last, as they turned into one of the principal streets which ran parallel with the river, and Werner stopped, really astonished at all the magnificence and splendour which met his wondering eye on every side. "There certainly is something grand about such a city," said Werner; "but it's too much for me, it oppresses more than it pleases. It is beautiful to see once, but I don't think that it would please me for a continuance." "Exactly my idea," said Helldorf; "however, my friend, in a week or two it will present a different spectacle. As soon as the yellow fever comes in here, the most of the occupants (those who possess the means, that is to say,) go out, and of those who remain a large number die off like flies. I was once in New Orleans in September, and all these streets, now so crowded with people, were deserted and empty, and as silent as the grave; many were even boarded up, and on innumerable doors black crape fluttered, or boards were hung out, containing cautions from approaching too near, as the pestilence was raging within." "I suppose Germans don't remain here much, for the climate must be especially pernicious to them." "Germans usually form one half of the entire number of victims," said Helldorf; "they come here, live intemperately and dissolutely, and expect to be able to endure and to keep in health, where thousands of their countrymen perish miserably, and are buried like dogs. Oh, my friend, 'tis a melancholy chapter that, and we'll talk more about it some other time. For the present, while 'tis yet cool, we'll stroll about a little; by-and-by, it will be insufferably hot in the streets. Will you deliver your letters of recommendation here?" "No, I'll not vex myself any more," replied Werner. "But one of them is sealed," said Helldorf; "perhaps it contains private matter, and may be of much interest to the party to whom it is addressed." "I think not; the writer of it, an old uncle of mine, read the contents to me, and then sealed it in my presence; it is just an introduction like the rest, and for a quondam Doctor of Medicine too, who is said now to have turned farmer, somewhere in the southern part of Missouri; he wont be able to help me much." "Well, don't say that," replied Helldorf, with a dissentient shake of the head; "perhaps, more than all these traders and merchant gentry here, who look upon an emigrant as a piece of goods, as perishable goods merely, if they can get any benefit out of him, but entertain a holy horror of him if such be not the case, or they even fear that he may become burthensome to them. But come, we will look up an old friend of mine, who keeps school here in Poydras-street--a college friend." "And he has turned schoolmaster?" "Lord! what does one not turn to in America, if an opportunity occurs or a good prospect offers. As he writes to me, he is doing very well. This is the number of the house. I think we may as well go in at once." "But shall we not disturb him?" "Oh, they're not so particular about that here; besides, the school will probably be thinly attended in summer, and I shouldn't wonder if the holidays had already commenced. But we can soon convince ourselves." They mounted a narrow, steep staircase to the second floor, and, when arrived there, found themselves without any necessity for tapping at the door, in the middle of the school as it were. The door of the room, which was not a large one, stood open, on account of the heat; the windows likewise; and scholars and teacher sat, mostly in their shirt sleeves, in the cool draught which streamed through the house. "Helldorf!" exclaimed the schoolmaster, a handsome young man, with dark curly hair, jumping up, surprised, from the two chairs on which, half extended, he had made himself up a very comfortable seat. "Helldorf! where the deuce do you drop from?" "Do we disturb you?" asked the other. "How can you think of such a thing!" was the laughing answer. "Well, the holidays commence next Friday, and to-day is Monday, and then the vexed soul will rest!" "And where shall you go to?" "Up the river, of course!" "Why, that's just the thing--we shall travel together, at all events, a part of the journey. But stay, I must first of all introduce my friend Werner to you--a German, just arrived, who thinks of settling in the West. I trust that you'll be good friends." The two young men shook hands; and the scholars--a mixed company of French, Creole, German, and English--nudged each other, and tittered at the German, or "Dutch" as they termed it, that was spoken. There were boys and girls of all ages, and of the strangest appearance, thrown together. But one of the queerest specimens stood right before the little reading-desk, and in front of a large black board, which was hanging on the wall, and half covered with the alphabet in Roman and German characters. "Look ye, Helldorf," said young Schwarz, smiling, as he laid his hand on the shoulder of the hopeful young citizen of the world, who, with his knees somewhat turned inwards, and his hands in his pockets, stood in by no means a picturesque attitude before them, and exhibited his projecting profile staring from beneath a matted head of hair. "Here I have a prize specimen of my scholars--a juvenile Benjamin Franklin, only undeveloped; a diamond, only rather rough! He is one of those rare individuals for whose genius this low sphere is too narrow, and who may be found by dozens, armed with spoons and bits of stick, at the sugar and syrup casks on the Levee! Come, Benjamin, now mind what you're about!"--turning towards the youth, who was about twelve years of age--"don't disgrace me, but show what you have learnt. Do you know any of the letters that are written on here--eh?" Benjamin distorted his mouth into a broad grin, till it reached from ear to ear, balanced himself from the left foot to the right, began to poke, not his hands alone, but his arms also, into his pockets, and nodded his head in token of intelligence. "So, you know some of them! But, come, take your hands out of your pockets--that is not becoming!" Benjamin obeyed the command, as far as the right side was concerned, and produced five fingers which certainly appeared to confirm the master's former speech, and not only bore antediluvian traces of syrup, but also of Levee dust. "The other, too, Benjamin," said Mr. Schwarz. The left followed--rather slowly, it is true--but still it followed. However, it seemed to feel an irresistible disposition to occupy itself with something, and meanwhile, laid hold of the left foot, which was raised towards it. Helldorf smiled, and the foot fell back into its old position. "Now, tell me which of these letters you know?" asked Mr. Schwarz. Benjamin, thus driven to extremity, first drew his right sleeve carefully across under his nose, and made divers efforts, which severally miscarried, by reason of the grave look of the master, to slip the left hand into his pocket again. At last, he made a step forward, rubbed the palms of his hands once or twice violently together, not so much to their damage as of the dried syrup, grinned yet broader than before, advanced a second step, and pointed, half abashed, to the capital "H." "So, you know that letter?" Benjamin nodded his head, significantly. "You don't know any other?" A violent shaking of his head confirmed his negative answer. "And what do you call that one?" The catechumen peeped from one stranger to the other, with an embarrassed smile, rubbed the palms of his hands with unmistakable zeal on both his hips, looked first at the board, then at his toes, and then up to the master--and at last whispered-- "I do--a--n't know!" But Helldorf and Werner could stand it no longer; and the whole class joined their loud laughter in a full pealing chorus, and a weight seemed to be removed from their hearts. "Go home!" exclaimed Schwarz, who had great difficulty in keeping his countenance. "You need not come back this afternoon; but mind, let me have your lessons well learnt by to-morrow!" He had no occasion to say this twice; the command was obeyed so promptly that none of the boys stayed to put on their jackets, but each of them seized his few books under his arm, and struggled towards the stairs, in order, if possible, to be the first, but at all events, not the last, who should forsake the school-room. Even Benjamin seemed in a moment quite transformed; he squeezed a small and very much crumpled straw hat on his head, and dived, with apparent contempt of life, right into the midst of the throng that was hurrying out. In a few more seconds, the three young men were the only occupants of the room; and Helldorf, still laughing, inquired of his friend how, in the name of wonder, he had got into such a situation? "The matter is very simple," said Schwarz; "I had nothing else to do--could obtain no employment--and became schoolmaster! Thousands do the same, in America; and out of the forty-seven thousand elementary schools which the United States possess, I am quite convinced that there is not one thousand which can show masters regularly educated from youth upwards to their profession! Nothing is more easy than to pass a schoolmaster's examination; and as neither party is bound to the other, nothing is more easy than to put an end to the relation!" "But such a constant change of masters must operate very prejudicially upon the children themselves," said Werner. "Certainly it does. But the masters must have a better provision made for them, if they are to be expected not to throw up their employment as soon as anything better may offer! We are not in Germany, where a poor schoolmaster must put up with his lot, because he cannot hope to earn his bread in any other way, and where, if the attempt should fail, his return would remain closed from him for an endless time. If I were to accept a situation as dancing-master to-morrow, or were to go upon the stage, or take to performing conjuring tricks, it would be a very trifling obstacle, if, indeed, it would be one at all, to my becoming a schoolmaster again!" "Are the schools all established on the same system as this one?" asked Werner. Schwarz laughed. "Speak out what you meant to say!--established without any system at all, like this! Why we certainly cannot require better things, in summer, in New Orleans. In winter, my class is--or rather, was--three times as well attended; the lessons are regularly heard, and order prevails. But during the summer, everything slumbers--and in four weeks from this time the city, whose commercial activity now seems boundless and inexhaustible, will look like a protestant church on a week day! But we are wasting time here! We will pass the heat of the day at my house, and towards evening stroll through the town. Then it is that it shows itself in its splendour, and that one can understand the possibility of there being people who, notwithstanding the annual return of the plague-like yellow fever, yet bid defiance to the infection and to their fears, in order to live in New Orleans." Helldorf got through a good deal of his business on this day, and Werner, in the meantime, remained in Schwarz's company, where he soon discovered that he too was intending to bid adieu to town life, and--to become a farmer in the woods of the West. "As soon as I once forsake New Orleans," said he, "I shall never return to it. I have got through _one_ year safely--to remain a second would be to tempt Providence; the two hundred dollars that I have been able to save will found myself a home." "Two hundred dollars! How is it possible; why, with that you cannot buy even the most needful things." "Oh, yes," answered Schwarz, with a smile; "you don't want much in the woods; if you like to come along with me, I will give you some practical instructions in the matter. You may still profit from a schoolmaster." "And do you really believe that with two hundred dollars----" "Not you," interrupted Schwarz; "not a newly arrived emigrant; unless, indeed, he follow reasonable counsel and instruction; but with those it is possible even for him; but, in that case, he does not succeed upon the strength of his two hundred dollars alone, but makes use of the premium, also, which his advisers have paid; in my own case, that amounted to seven hundred dollars--quite a decent little fund." "And you, yourself, will settle?" "Yes; I will build my shanty, and clear a little land this fall and winter; then I can begin at once next spring." "And cattle?" "I will rear also, of course--'tis the chief source of profit." "And do you really think that, in a few years, one may earn enough to--to----" "To keep a wife," said Schwarz, with a laugh.--"Eh! that was what you were going to say?" Werner coloured up to the eyes. "Why, of course," continued Schwarz, who noticed it, with a smile. "It is only as a farmer that you have a prospect of soon being enabled to marry; it is even, to a certain extent, a necessary consequence, for a bachelor's household in the bush is rather too dull an affair. Have you got a little wife already!" "I? No, Heaven forbid!" "Halloa! don't rear on your hind legs directly!" said Schwarz; "I didn't want to inquire too minutely. But, be that as it may, we can try it, at all events--if you don't like it, why, Lord bless you, you can give it up again. One takes to something else--better luck next time." Thus the matter was disposed of for the present, and five days passed away in a constant whirl of excitement, for everything that the young German saw and heard possessed the charm of novelty, and was invested with the magic of a southern climate, so that he several times hinted to Helldorf, that he felt an almost irresistible impulse to jump on board of the first ship that started, and visit the tropics. But every one dissuaded him from undertaking such a voyage, especially at that time of the year; Helldorf especially exhorted him to abandon these ideas. "For," said he, "we are destined for a temperate climate, and although we may force ourselves into the torrid zone, still, either we perish there, or become a sort of half-and-half, nondescript being, who, any one may see, is not in his right place." At last, Helldorf and Schwarz had terminated their respective businesses, and the latter allowed himself to be persuaded first of all to land in Tennessee, and visit the German settlers there. Selecting, therefore, the fastest of the nine steamers which, on that day, started up stream, viz:--the Diana--they got their things on board, and were soon flying up the river between the really garden-like banks of the Mississippi, where plantation succeeded plantation, and wide boundless fields alternated picturesquely with buildings concealed by groves of oranges and pomegranates, until now and then the dark, morassy, and primeval forest interrupted the blooming landscape once more, and stretched its waving boughs even to the strand, to which it clung with its winding creepers, as though it would not be parted from its cradle, the old Mississippi. FOOTNOTE: [20] The Levee in New Orleans, and indeed throughout Louisiana, is the dyke or dam thrown up along the Mississippi, which hinders the stream from overflowing the adjoining lands, which, when the waters are high, are on a lower level than itself. In New Orleans, it is more especially used as a landing place for steamers and a public promenade, and in general is the scene of the greatest bustle, on account of the constant arrival and departure of ships and vessels, while dealers and hawkers increase the throng and noise. CHAPTER VI. THE UNEXPECTED VISIT. And how were the settlers getting on in the meantime? Had they reconciled themselves to their new position? Had they forgiven Dame Fortune for having cast their lot out in a woody desert? No. They, of whom one would have least expected it, namely, the women--were the most patient; the men, on the other hand, especially the Oldenburghers, grumbled dreadfully, and declared often enough that they were entitled to expect a better kind of life in return for the payment of so large a capital. 'Tis true that they could no longer reproach the Committee with pride or exclusiveness, for they lived in the midst of them, ate the same food, and laboured at the same tasks; but that, in fact, was one of their chief grievances, that they really had no reasonable pretence for complaint. Under Wolfgang's direction, and with his active help, sufficient shanties were erected to protect the whole of the settlers from wind and rain; and, indeed, to afford them as convenient a shelter as is usual in those parts. They had also begun to clear the land--that is, to fell the trees and to grub up the bushes, and the immediate necessaries of life for the present were provided for, Wolfgang having bought a sufficient quantity of flour and salt meat from a steamer which stopped at his place to take in wood, and having sent up these stores by his negro. What was it that they wanted, then? Everything! How had the ideas which they had cherished in their old home been verified? Where were those fertile plantations, where that super-abundance of produce, that easy life of which they had dreamed? Alas! it had, indeed, been but a dream! Such things look very different in reality. Those aboriginal woods which we cannot picture to ourselves grand and splendid enough, become an intolerable nuisance when we have to live in them, and to combat their gigantesque vegetation. Every one hears and reads with pleasure of the romantic life of a hunter, who passes his nights in the open air, under the greenwood; but it is anything but romantic when the rain falls through that greenwood, and wets one to the skin. Thousands of such trifles there are, to which all, especially Europeans, must first get accustomed; but that is not done in three weeks, which was the period of time that had elapsed since the passengers of the "Hoffnung" had taken possession of their land. Was it surprising, then, that they were not yet satisfied with their life, that they could not be satisfied? They were occupied for the moment in splitting rails to fence in a large cattle-yard, and Wolfgang had gone off into the hills, accompanied by Siebert, senior, and Herbold, (the former as treasurer, the latter as an adept in the business,) to purchase some horses and cows wherewith to commence cattle rearing. But, as this branch of rural economy is conducted very differently in the backwoods of the West, from the old settled States and Europe; as the cattle are not tied up in sheds, but roam freely about in the woods, and when wanted, have first to be sought for and got together, such a piece of business is not done in a day, and Wolfgang told the settlers beforehand that they were not to alarm themselves, if he and his companions should stay away a week or even a fortnight, as they probably should bring the cattle with them, and as driving them would prove very tedious. They had been gone three days, and Von Schwanthal, who, since the time when Meier met him in the woods in such a state of alarm, had pretty well abandoned his shooting, was just engaged with Pastor Hehrmann, Mr. Becher, and some of the Oldenburghers, in splitting a huge red beech, which, with combined efforts, they had felled on the previous day, when the tailor, who had been piling brush in the neighbourhood of a little thicket, suddenly came rushing towards them with good news depicted in his countenance, uttering exclamations, and making signs, while yet afar off. The men paused in their work, looking at him as he came running towards them. He arrived at last, almost out of breath, exclaiming---- "Mr. Von Schwanthal--Mr. Von Schwanthal, get your gun; there's a whole 'herd' of turkeys over yonder!" "Where?" the latter hastily asked, throwing down the axe, and jumping up in a great hurry. The old love of sport, which had only slumbered for a week or two, awoke in all its vigour. "Here, close by, where we're working--where the dead cow lies that couldn't stand the climate!" "Near the dead cow?" asked Von Schwanthal, surprised. "Yes, it's a fact, I assure you; but make haste!" exclaimed the little tailor, himself spurred on to irrepressible excitement by the sight of the game. "You seem to think that they'll wait till you come." Von Schwanthal ran quickly to the shanty, which was not far distant, put a couple of dozen of cartridges in his game-pouch, seized the gun, and followed Meier's active little form, which bounded over a fallen tree, lying in his way, with gazelle like agility, and then dived into the woods. Siebert, junior, the shoemaker, brewer, and Schmidt, with some Oldenburghers and Alsatians, who also had been in the neighbourhood, drew back when they saw the game and heard the tailor's resolve to fetch the hunter; but now they made signs from a distance that the birds were still there, and exhorted the approaching men, by all kinds of telegraphic movements, to walk carefully, so as not to scare away the delicate roast. Von Schwanthal requested his companions--for the whole company had joined the sport--for Heaven's sake to be quiet, and to remain where they where, whilst he crept forward by himself, in doing which he found the game-bag a very great incumbrance, to see if he could not get a shot right into the whole flock, (or herd, as the tailor called them,) and perhaps kill three or four at once. As said, so done; he first laid aside the cumbersome pouch, and then crept on his knees and left arm, holding the fowling-piece in the right, over stems and roots towards the designated spot. One circumstance was unfortunate: there was a very disagreeable odour there, for the body of the dead cow had already begun to pass into putrefaction. Von Schwanthal wondered, too, what in the world the turkeys could be about in such a noxious neighbourhood; but there was not much time left for reflection, he had to advance quickly, so that his booty might not escape; and, sure enough, actually, yonder, on and beside the dead animal, there sat about twenty hens, large, strong birds, some of which were looking carefully round, with their long necks, and others--strange!--were pecking at the carrion. "Thou hast never read about that in any natural history!" thought Von Schwanthal, to himself. "Turkeys and carrion!--wonderful!" But he did not waste the precious time in these hasty reflections, but slid, as fast as he could go over such rough ground, towards a thick cypress, from behind which he hoped to get a capital shot at the whole flock of turkeys. And, lo! he actually succeeded to reach the wished-for position without being observed, or, at all events, without being heeded, although he made noise enough, and some of the birds must have heard him, for they separated themselves from the rest, and looked very attentively, with heads sagely inclined on one side, in the direction where he stood, hidden by the tree. But now the favourable moment appeared to him to have arrived to make sure of his booty; without further delay, therefore, he raised the gun, levelled, and fired the charge of shot right into the midst of the flock. The turkeys took wing--rose higher and higher--then flew in circles round and round the place from whence they had been so suddenly and so roughly scared. But one of them, which had received several grains of shot, and just retained sufficient strength to raise himself to the lower bough of a neighbouring oak, settled there, flapped his wings once or twice, and then fell down again, from his elevated perch, dead. Von Schwanthal shook his head. The turkey fell very light for so heavy a bird. But his companions left him no time for reflection. "Hurrah!" exclaimed Meier, as he sprang forward, and raised up one of the slain; "hurrah! now we've got a roast!--Oh, geminy! what a stench there is here!" "But that _was_ a shot!" said the brewer. "Five at once!--and such creatures! If one could get such a shot every day, I should go shooting myself." Von Schwanthal had lifted up the one which had fallen by its naked head, and weighed it in his hand. "Remarkably light!" said he. "Why, that bird has the head of an eagle!" exclaimed Becher, who had now also joined them. "Why, that's a singular creature!" "But are they turkeys, after all?" asked Siebert, junior. "Well, what else should they be!" opined the shoemaker. "They're certainly not partridges!" "But not turkeys, for all that," said, with a laugh, Pastor Hehrmann, who had, in the meantime, examined them more narrowly. "My dear M. Von Schwanthal, I am afraid that you have shot carrion vultures for turkeys!" "Well, what next, I should like to know!" said the tailor; who, as he had been the first to give tongue, felt his dignity much hurt by this remark. "If those are not turkeys, you may call me 'Donkey!'" "Then we must set about christening you afresh," smiled Hehrmann; "for these are buzzards--and probably of that kind which are called the turkey-buzzard, from their resemblance to the turkey. Don't take hold of them, M. Von Schwanthal, you won't be able to get rid of the smell!" "Yes," declared the brewer, "they do stink--that's a fact!" "It struck me as very strange," said Von Schwanthal, shaking his head, "directly I saw the creatures seated on the carrion. But they're strikingly like turkeys!--Good Heavens!" As Von Schwanthal uttered this exclamation, he started back in surprise, and had, in fact, cause for wonder; for before him, with the most amiable smile upon his benevolent countenance, stood no other than Dr. Normann! he who, ever since the settlement had been in existence, had been abused and cursed a thousand times, by almost everybody, and to whom the Oldenburghers, in particular, had vowed death, if he should ever come within their clutches!--yes--whose fraud had even elicited abuse from the little tailor, who, although not in general maliciously disposed, yet had declared "that he would pass a hot goose over the fellow's skin, if he could catch him!" This Doctor Normann now stood before the astonished settlers, bowing and smiling, as though he had the best-founded claims to the gratitude of the emigrants; and said to those next him, with the most hearty expression of voice, whilst he held out his hand towards them-- "Well, how are you, my friends?--all well and hearty?--that's the chief thing! How d'ye do, Pastor Hehrmann?--and you, my dear M. Von Schwanthal? Ah! Mr. Meier and Mr. Schmidt--Mr. Siebert--all hearty? I am delighted--I am really delighted!" "Sir," said Hehrmann, who had collected himself first, "it cannot be concealed from you that we are all a little surprised at seeing you here, after what has occurred!" "You thought, perhaps, that I had run away from you!" said the Doctor, laughing. "No, no; on the contrary, you ran off from me. The boat started half an hour earlier than the captain had told me, and----" "To what are we to attribute the honour of this visit?" asked Pastor Hehrmann, somewhat coldly. "My dear Pastor," said Normann, advancing towards him, looking him full in the face, "I can guess the cause of your coolness--the land is not what both of us expected. But should I have returned, if I had cheated you?" "Well, hark ye," said Schmidt, who had hitherto stood by in astonishment, "we have no fault to find with the quality of the land--that's good enough; but there's not the least shadow of all the rest of what you talked about! You must excuse me, but it was all humbug!" "I really cannot understand you, Doctor!" Becher interrupted the last speaker, who was getting rather excited; "how you can dare----" "What's the use of all this palaver with the fellow!" exclaimed one of the Oldenburghers. "Devil burn him! he has sent us into the wilderness here, and now he shall see how it will fare with him, since he has been fool enough to follow us!" "Will you listen to me, or not?" cried Dr. Normann, starting back, and shoving his right hand under his waistcoat. "Will you condemn a man without having heard him?--without allowing him to defend himself!" "What is there to defend?" exclaimed the tailor. "The evil is done, and here we are in the midst of it!" "Will you give me ten minutes' quiet audience," asked the Doctor, "and not interrupt me?" "Speak on!" said Hehrmann. "Well, I'll convince you that you wrong me, if you for a moment consider me capable of deceiving you!" "To the point, if you please!" said Becher. "You shall not have long to wait," the Doctor continued. "On the very same day on which you quitted Cincinnati, I followed in another boat, the 'Buck-eye Belle,' and went to New Orleans. It is true, that I had intended to have got out at the Big-Halchee first, but the captain would not land expressly for a single passenger. In New Orleans, I of course immediately sought out the boat in which you came down here, and inquired after you; but learnt, to my horror, from the pilot, whom I knew very well, the true state of affairs, and what the land in this neighbourhood was. The pilot happened to have been hunting near this little river last year. "At first, I refused to believe what he told me; but he soon adduced such convincing proofs, that I was compelled to admit to myself that I had been imposed upon, and that you would take me for a false, deceitful person. I could not bear that; at the same time, I could not conceal from myself that mere excuses were inadequate, that I must _prove_ to you that I am an innocent and honest man. But, again, to do this it was necessary that I should recover compensation, as far as that is possible, for the damage suffered by you; and it is on that account chiefly--and not only to clear myself of suspicion--that I am come hither." "But how can you----" "Allow me, in the first place, to introduce a friend of mine, Mr. Trevor." He pointed, at the same time, behind him, and the man alluded to, whose slim form, hitherto unnoticed by anybody, was leaning against an oak, his hat pulled down rather low over his sunburnt forehead, now raised himself, and bowed politely to the people. "Mr. Trevor speaks German," continued Dr. Normann, "and has accompanied me in order to give evidence in New York (whither both of us are bound) of the state of things here--viz., as to how far and by what means you have been cheated by that rascally land-jobber. In a month's time, I hope to be enabled to send you not only the full amount of the purchase money, but a considerable sum for damages besides!" "Then the laws, or their administration, must be very different from all that I have heard!" replied Mr. Becher. "Mr. Becher," exclaimed Dr. Normann, while he placed his hand on his breast, "why should I come back to you, if I had not the intention and prospect of making good the damage which I have brought upon you? What other motive could have impelled me to a place where I knew before hand that I should (with reason) be ill received?" Pastor Hehrmann looked hard at the doctor; for a moment the thought again flashed across his mind of the declaration to his daughter, which he had accidentally overheard; but Normann, who had no idea that Hehrmann had heard a word of it, and well knew, or guessed, that Bertha would be silent on the subject of such a conversation, met the eye of the Pastor firmly, and thus (although unknown to himself) almost entirely effaced the quickly-raised and passing suspicion of the other. "And you really suppose that you will be able to make that person answerable for the fraud?" asked Becher, still incredulous. "I not only think so, but am sure of it," said Dr. Normann; "fortunately I have in my hands his undertaking in writing; there are witnesses enough to it in New York, and if I bring testimony by this gentleman what the neighbourhood here really is like, no advocate _can_ get him off from his deserved punishment." The emigrants, unacquainted with the administration of the law in the United States, really began to believe the words of the man who had enticed them thither, but who now defended himself with so ready a tongue--particularly as one circumstance told in his favour, viz., that some such object alone could have made his visit probable--for what possible benefit, thought they, could any further deceit be to him. The men, therefore, became more and more friendly and confidential, and, before he had passed an hour beside them, their acquaintance seemed nearly re-established on its old footing of friendship. The honest folks could not, and would not, believe a fellow-countryman capable of such villany, for such treachery appeared impossible to their own hearts. One thing more remained to be done; he had to be presented to the women, and their prejudices had also to be removed; Becher and Hehrmann undertook this office, and walked towards the houses with him and the strange gentleman, while Von Schwanthal with the others remained behind. The men had mechanically withdrawn themselves from the spot where the carrion was lying, to escape from the offensive smell; but although the American could only with difficulty suppress a loud laugh when he caught sight of the slaughtered buzzards, and readily guessed how these useful creatures had met with a premature death, yet Normann, on the other hand, carefully avoided seeming so much as to notice the strange game. It was not his cue to raise the slightest cloud of vexation on the brow of any one of the people, whom he had to make friends of for the present. Pastor Hehrmann presented the returned one to the women; honest and just himself, he was loth to believe any one else capable of such villany, and therefore gladly gave ear to what the doctor now told him. And, although Bertha, at least, started and turned pale at the arrival of the certainly unexpected guest, yet, on the other hand, Normann's behaviour was so hearty and frank, that all willingly absolved him, and listened and gave credence to the explanation repeated by Hehrmann. Within a few hours it seemed as if nothing unfriendly had ever occurred, as if the doctor had solely and merely acted so as to be deserving of all the settlers' warmest thanks. They now only looked forward with pleasure to the return of Siebert and Herbold, in order that they, too, might be made acquainted with the good news; and Mrs. Hehrmann, for her part, declared that it was quite a relief to her that she was no longer obliged to consider Dr. Normann guilty of such a breach of friendship and good faith. The American was also treated with attention and heartiness by the whole of the settlers, and although the so-called Pennsylvanian German, which he spoke, certainly sounded rather strange to their ears at first, and was often incomprehensible, yet they did their best to chat with him, so that he might not suffer too much ennui. But Mr. Trevor appeared to be particularly partial to the conversation of Miss Bertha, who spoke a little English, and he gave himself every possible pains to teach her the pure accent of such words as she did not pronounce or emphasize correctly. Dr. Normann, it is true, several times endeavoured to give him occupation elsewhere; but he always returned to the young lady, who appeared to be pleased with his attentions, because she thereby hoped to escape a tête-à-tête with Dr. Normann, of whom she had a complete dread, since the scene on the deck of the steamer. The doctor, in the evening, tried, as far as possible, to ascertain everything which had occurred; of course, he had to inquire into particulars, in order to be able to proceed right vigorously and effectually against that cheating land-shark.[21] At the same time, he managed to get at some general acquaintance with the state of the finances; but he could only obtain the exact particulars from Siebert senior, whose return he therefore resolved to await, before taking any decided step. On the following morning, Normann wandered with his companion backwards and forwards in the woods, under the pretence of viewing the ground, in order to convict the New York swindler, and here the following dialogue occurred between these two worthies:-- "When, the devil, do you mean to be off, Normann? What's the use of frittering away our precious time here?" "We can't get away yet," objected the doctor; "how are we to get the girls to the river quickly enough to be safe from pursuit?" "Don't talk such stuff," said the American, with a laugh; "which of the Dutchmen is to follow us through the woods without losing himself directly, so that he won't be able to find his own track again? No, by Jove, that matter would not give me the least uneasiness: I vote for carrying off the girl, as soon as we can entice her a rifle-shot's range from the shanties, and that, it is to be hoped, will be no difficult matter; I shall think of something that will raise her curiosity." "She appears to please you?" "She's a glorious girl!" "Turner, don't forget our agreement!" said Normann, with a voice of grave exhortation, for a strange uncomfortable feeling now, for the first time, crept over him: the suspicion that perhaps his accomplice might deceive him at last. "Why, of course, I recollect our agreement," laughed Turner; "but perhaps you're jealous? Ha, ha, ha! that's a good one! Do you suppose then that if _I_ had wanted a girl, I need have taken a journey of seven hundred miles down the river for her? Nonsense! It amuses me to get through the summer in this way, for in Cincinnati there is nothing more for me." "Had the Italian to pay his footing? Hang it, man, I shan't betray you, at all events!--and yet I've put the question ten times to you already in vain!" "Why do you put it at all?--it must be all one to you," growled Turner, angrily; "'tis always better not to talk too much about such things. But, I don't care. Yes, I believe that he may probably remember me awhile. But the journey down stream came very opportunely; I was only afraid that the cursed sailing boat would have overtaken us. Confound the fellows! the wind blew remarkably fresh--a few hours more, and----" "The Ohio makes too many bends," said the worthy doctor, smiling; "a sailing-boat never can overtake a steamer on it; but I really think it would be better for us to await the return of the others, who, as Pastor Hehrmann told us, are to bring horses and cattle with them. On horseback, the affair could be much more easily managed, for, after all, Turner, it would be rather too much of a good thing to carry the great girls fifteen miles through the woods." "We can take turns." "I thought we were to carry off _both_?" said the doctor, on the watch. Turner, who wished, at present to avoid everything which might arouse the doctor's suspicions, immediately answered this question in the affirmative, and exclaimed, laughing--"Well, of course, you are right--we will wait for the horses, unless a favourable opportunity should meanwhile occur to entice both girls towards the Mississippi, which certainly might be difficult." "If any body should find our boat yonder?" said the doctor, "that would be a cursed go!" "Indeed it would," said Turner, musingly; "that would be unlucky, and might be attended with yet more unlucky consequences; but I can scarcely think it likely; Scipio, you know, is beside it, and I have hid him out-and-out well. Besides, it's a German, too, they say, who lives at the mouth of the Big Halchee, and that being so, we need scarcely apprehend discovery from that quarter." "Well, well, don't think so ill of the Germans either," said Normann, warningly; "there are some among them who are not behind a thorough backwoodsman in tracking." "I'll tell you what, Normann," exclaimed Turner, abruptly, as he stood still, and looked at the rivulet, on whose banks they just then were; "I really believe that we can get the boat up here; then the affair would be child's play." "Not so safe as you suppose, Turner; the Big Halchee makes innumerable windings, and if they cut them off, they can get on faster on shore than we on water." "They must first know that we had gone by water; the Big Halchee has only risen since the day before yesterday--since the dreadful rains--and I don't think that up to that time it would have borne even a canoe. I'll tell you what, Normann, it may be a week or a fortnight before they return with the horses, and to wait till then will make the matter too tedious; besides, I haven't time to wait so long; therefore you remain here, say that I'm gone hunting, following a bear's track, if you like, and meanwhile I'll return quickly to the Mississippi. If the Halchee is navigable, why, I'll be back again by to-morrow evening, perhaps before, and then nothing more will interrupt our flight; then cunning and force must help us; if it is not navigable, why, I'll bring up the boat as far as possible, and we may still, perhaps, save ourselves some miles of our land journey." Normann willingly agreed to this plan, for it not only facilitated the execution of this shameful piece of scoundrelism, but also removed his accomplice so long from the neighbourhood of the object of their treachery. It required only a little further confederacy, and, after a brief farewell, Turner threw the rifle over his shoulder, and soon disappeared in the bush; while Normann returned slowly and musingly to the settlers. The excuse for Turner's absence was readily received by them, and Von Schwanthal only lamented that he had not heard of it soon enough to accompany him. Normann, meanwhile, who, according to his own assurance, had also lived much in the woods, and consequently was acquainted with agriculture as well as the management of cattle, gave himself every conceivable pains to teach the men as well as the women a number of little contrivances, which those only who live in the woods find out by degrees. The fever, too, had attacked several of them, although the general state of health was, on the whole, still tolerable. Normann gave them excellent instructions for this, too, and showed them several medicinal herbs growing in the woods, whose uses he taught them. He behaved himself so well, took such endless trouble, and was so civil and polite to all, that even Bertha, towards whom, alone, he observed a rather distant behaviour, began to feel herself more at ease in his society, as she could not but think that he was cured of his love for her, and only wished to do everything in his power to render those inconveniences into which the settlers had been plunged, unfortunately, by his means, as light as possible. He was particularly friendly and attentive to Louisa, Bertha's sister, and her junior by a few years, and two days thus passed with surprising rapidity. On the second evening after the conversation last detailed, the greater part of the settlers were seated close together before the principal dwelling, which, situated in the midst of several smaller dwelling-places, and subdivided by partitions, had to serve as a sleeping-place for most of them until they should have furnished the remaining houses. Several small fires, lighted in a circle, and fed with decayed wood, gave out a thick smoke, and served to keep off the otherwise too troublesome mosquitoes, and the doctor had just concluded a highly interesting story about the catching of wild horses on the western prairies, when the bushes rustled, and the American stepped towards them. He was heavily laden, and laid down the young stag which he bore on his shoulders, at Bertha's feet, but declared that he had not been able to overtake the bear whose tracks he had followed. Normann watched his looks, to guess whether the attempt had been successful or not, but the American was too wily to expose himself to the possibility of a discovery, if any one of the persons present should notice any sign, and therefore remained quite unconscious, answered Von Schwanthal's questions in the most circumstantial manner, related a number of hunting anecdotes, laughed and joked, and altogether did as though there were no such person as Dr. Normann in existence. It was not until they retired together to their sleeping-places, that he whispered lowly to the latter-- "The boat lies scarcely five hundred yards from hence, safely hid; and to-morrow they must be ours." FOOTNOTE: [21] Those persons, in the sea-port towns, who make it their business to sell fraudulently bad land to the newly arrived, are usually styled land-sharks. CHAPTER VII. THE FLIGHT. Wolfgang, Herbold, and the elder Siebert, had gone off to the hills, in order to purchase from a farmer there, whom Wolfgang knew, such horses and cattle as they stood in need of for the moment, and which, if they should sell or leave that place within a short period, might either be driven on board of a steamer and so sent to the nearest town, or even be taken with them to their new place of abode. Their journey had been anything but agreeable, for on the very first day it began to rain, and, during seventeen successive hours, it had never ceased from pouring. The swampy ground, damp at all times, became almost impassable, and besides they were frightened by tempests, which passed over their heads, with bright flashes of lightning, and loud peals of thunder, and that in such rapid succession, that the sound of one peal had not died away, before another already rendered them uneasy about their safety. Siebert was especially frightened, and although, at first, he endeavoured to conceal it, as well as he could, yet, in the course of the day, he was unable to keep up this disguise, for the thunder and lightning seemed to have no end; he therefore candidly acknowledged his fears, and affirmed that it must be a presentiment that he should be struck by lightning. Wolfgang laughed. "No, my dear Mr. Siebert, do not make yourself uneasy; the old belief, that lightning prefers to strike trees, and other high objects, is certainly well founded, and with us in the woods, here, it always lights upon a tree; indeed, I should like to know where else it is to go to; it would be quite a feat for it to pass into the earth, without striking one of them. No, I have heard of a good number of accidents, by falling trees or branches, under which men have been buried, or at least crippled, and cattle, more particularly, are often thus destroyed, but I have never yet heard of a man having been struck by lightning, at least, not in the woods. In the hills, there are a kind of natural lightning conductors, I mean the hickories or white walnut trees, although the inconstant fluid not unfrequently has its joke with some old oak. But it prefers the former tree, and I have found them split down to the very roots. But if I am not mistaken, we are approaching the hills, the rushes become thinner, and the soil is getting undulating. Now we have the prospect of surprising my friend at home this evening, and there we may rest ourselves for a day, to make up for our exertions." Wolfgang had concluded correctly; the last slope of the hills stretched to where they stood, and thenceforward their road became better, as they forsook the swampy hollows, and remained at the border of the higher land. The farm of Stevenson (the name of Wolfgang's friend) lay, according to his calculation, about five miles further off; but it was not until nearly evening that they reached the fence, and with it the boundary of a well-cultivated field of Indian corn, more than ten acres in extent, before which Herbold stood still, quite surprised and delighted. Wolfgang, however, did not leave him much time to look about him, but hurried his companions on towards the house, so as to enable them to dry themselves, and to get something warm, for he feared that the other two, not yet inured to the climate, might not escape with a mere cold, but perhaps get the fever or ague. Stevenson received them hospitably and heartily; his daughters set about making some good, strong, warm coffee for them directly, while his wife got out everything in the shape of clothes, either old or new, and ere long, the wet and hungry wanderers were seated, dry and refreshed, before a warm fire, so that even Herbold confessed that he had not felt more comfortable for many a year past. Indeed, Stevenson's family seemed to be a pattern of American domestic life;--the interior of the house, simple, it is true, and even poor, was as bright and clean as one could have wished it; the utensils shone and glittered again, and the mother with her two grown-up daughters, clad in the homespun grey of the western forests, looked like the ideal of a worthy matron, surrounded and supported by youth and beauty. The strangers soon felt happy in their neighbourhood, and it only required a few words of encouragement to make them move about with as much freedom and ease as though they were at home in their own houses. The storm which had so vexed them, and wetted them to the skin, like all other things in this world, had its bright side, too, for it had driven in the cattle towards the protecting dwellings of man, instead of wandering about the woods in all directions, as they otherwise would have been. Cows and horses stood in peaceful agreement, side by side, and licked the salt which a little fair-haired boy strewed for them, upon troughs hollowed out and fixed for the purpose, with an eagerness and enjoyment which told distinctly enough how long they had been deprived of it, and how fond they were of it. A small flock of sheep, with their leader, a stately ram, also approached, but the protector of the cows, a stout, broad-shouldered bull, did not seem particularly to relish his company, and lowered his sinewy neck towards him, and pawed the ground threateningly with his foot. The ram, on the other hand, who did not like to be looked upon as a coward before all his dames, and to forfeit the respect which he considered his due, also assumed a hostile attitude, bent down his head, and ran full tilt, carrying the war into the enemy's territory, at his hundred-fold superior adversary, so that the latter was quite taken aback, and merely awaited the attack with horns pointed down. But the ram was too wide awake to let himself into a quarrel where he undoubtedly must come off second best, and therefore, when he found himself close before the bull, he turned suddenly off to the right, bringing a couple of cows between himself and his antagonist, called his own little flock together by a peculiar bleat, and in the next moment was on his way to the woods with it; so that the deluded bull, when at last, he threw up his powerful head in defiance, to see what had become of the threatened attack, saw no enemy in his vicinity, and could only express his contempt by a loud, hollow bellow, and by a little sand which he scraped up and threw in the eyes of a couple of cows. Herbold had looked on at the whole game with much pleasure, and now turned to his friendly host with the question, whether sheep were advantageous and profitable stock in the backwoods. "No," said he, "at least I have not found them so. The stock, of course, like the rest of our cattle, have to run about wild in the woods, and although the wolves rarely venture on a young calf, yet they persecute the sheep considerably; it is, therefore, only possible to preserve a flock if one has a good ram beside it." "And do you really think that a ram can bid defiance to the wolves?" asked Herbold, surprised. "Yes; I not only think so, but am certain of it," replied Stevenson; "they place themselves in a posture of defence, go round and round the flock, and constantly threaten the wolf with their attack, of which he is particularly afraid." "But when several wolves are together, as no doubt is often the case?" "The wolf is very cowardly," continued the old farmer; "he seldom ventures on an open attack, and is fearful of resistance. I am firmly convinced that a single sheep could drive away the large black wolf of the woods--to say nothing of the little, grey, prairie wolves--if it would advance resolutely upon him, and make a feigned attack or two. But, as sheep, after all, are but sheep, why, this is not often attempted; they try to fly, and Mr. Wolf seizes them by the collar. But that is not the only thing which interferes with the raising of sheep, there are other circumstances with which we have to contend. In consequence of their running about in the woods unrestrained, their wool gets full of burrs, and it would be still worse were we to keep them in fields or fenced places, where the burrs are yet more abundant; it is therefore out of the question, to wash the sheep before shearing them. That is the reason why, although there is pasture in abundance, we keep comparatively few sheep, and even those few, we should do away with, if our wives were not obliged to use a little wool, to weave and to spin clothes for themselves and us." "Strange that wolves persecute sheep so everywhere!" said Herbold, with a sagacious shake of the head; "they are natural enemies, no doubt, and the sheep must be aware of it, and dread their worriers." "Don't suppose that," observed Stevenson; "strange to say, the thing is originally quite the reverse. I have experienced it several times myself. When I have removed to an unsettled district, which, be it said in passing, has been several times the case, I have not lost a single sheep during the first few months, sometimes even during the whole first year, and that surprised me the more as I found everywhere in the neighbourhood frequent tracks of wolves. At a subsequent period, I was once accidentally witness to the cause of their being so strangely spared, and which had already been mentioned to me by various neighbours. I was standing on the look out for an old buck that had passed that way, and from the spot where I had hid myself, could overlook a little plain below me, where my flock, then consisting of but seven ewes and a ram, was pasturing. Suddenly a wolf broke out from a neighbouring thicket, and was about to pass across the open space. But he certainly must have fallen in with the sheep for the first time then, and they must have appeared very strange to him, for just as I thought that he would select one for his breakfast, and was on that account about to step forward to hinder him, he halted, scented them, advanced timidly a step nearer, and suddenly, when one of the ewes turned round towards him, fled, with rapid bounds, into the cover of the thicket. He was afraid of the creatures which were as yet unknown to him, and it was only in the course of time, perhaps when driven by pinching hunger, that these wolves tasted the first mutton. Thenceforth, it is true, there was an end to safety; the ravenous beasts of prey soon learned how timid and inoffensive that alarming-looking animal was, and how sweet its flesh, and from that time forward did much havoc among the peaceable woolcoats." "But, as the wolf liked the taste of the flesh," said Herbold, "so also might you rear them yourselves, for the sake of the meat." "We don't like it much," Stevenson replied; "the fare of the backwoodsman is Johnny cake, or Indian corn bread, and pork, and on that he lives and thrives. We but rarely slaughter a bullock and cure the meat, for the sake of a change; for it is dry eating, and deer and turkeys generally serve the turn." "Is there much game here?" "Pretty well. He who knows where to seek for it can always find something, and need not come home empty handed, for if there are no deer to be had, he can get squirrels." "Squirrels?" asked Herbold, in astonishment. "Yes, yes, squirrels," said the farmer, smiling; "when you've been awhile in the country, you'll come to relish squirrels too; they are very good eating, especially the grey ones." "But what do you shoot the squirrels with? I see nothing but rifles here." "Well, what else should we shoot them with?" asked the other, surprised in his turn; "not with those smooth-bored shot guns, that shoot away a handful of lead into the air, besides spoiling flesh and fur? No, indeed. We have small bored rifles on purpose for such small game, and with those we can fetch down the agile leapers from out of the loftiest tree tops, where indeed your shot guns would not carry the charge at all." "Do your cattle come home regularly, then?" "Oh no; sometimes a single herd will remain away for months, and pasture ten or twelve miles from home beside other watercourses, and then we have to go after them, seek them out, and salt them." "Salt them?" exclaimed the German, astonished. "You are surprised at that," said Stevenson, with a smile; "but of course you are not yet acquainted with the management of cattle in the woods of the West. Well, I can give you at least some idea of it in a few words. "Our chief wealth, if a poor devil like myself may be permitted to talk of wealth, consists in cattle--viz., horned cattle, horses, and hogs, for as to the sheep they are a mere trifle. But how is it possible that a man should keep large flocks and herds, who perhaps scarcely grows more corn than suffices to keep his own family in bread? Stall feeding is, therefore, out of the question, if, indeed, we had sheds. The woods, on the other hand, are full of the most valuable cattle food; in spring and summer, the beautiful grass--in the fall, the pea-vine and wild oats--in winter, the sweet leaves of the reeds in the reed brakes. It would be folly, with such abundance of food, to think of growing corn for cattle, for the hogs also have more in the shape of roots and acorns than they can get through. We, therefore, rear as much live stock as we can, and trust to Providence to feed it. "But to prevent them from straying, we have a means which hardly ever fails of attaching them to the spot where they get it. I refer to salt. Horses, cows, and hogs, are all alike passionately fond of it, and to strew salt at certain periods on fixed places is almost sure to bring them back to those spots." "Don't single heads of cattle sometimes stray?" "Oh, certainly; sometimes small herds do so, and become wild, but that can't be helped; others grow up in their stead, and the loss is made up again." "Wild animals destroy many, too; do they not?" "Many!--no. The bear sometimes makes havoc among the hogs, but his hide must generally pay the damage; and if the panther occasionally tears to pieces a calf or a foal, yet after all it does not amount to much; others grow up." "According to our notions of cattle breeding it would signify a good deal if a panther should destroy a calf or a foal," said Herbold, with a laugh, "but I perceive the thing is carried on upon a larger scale here. You have many cattle?" "Pretty well," replied the farmer, "about two hundred head in all, counting cows and calves as one. But I am thinking of going westward, and want to sell them." "What, forsake your farm!" exclaimed the German, astonished. "Why? Is the land not good, or is the neighbourhood unhealthy?" "Oh, not for that; the land is capital, and we have no cause to complain much of sickness; a little ague, now and then; but that arises from the neighbourhood of the swamps, and it doesn't last long." "But why do you wish to remove, then?" "Well, I don't exactly know, but as I have heard the land hereabouts is to be surveyed----" "And that is your reason? I should have thought that would have been acceptable to you." "As you like to take it, pleasant or unpleasant; pleasant because one then gets to know whereabout to look for one's own land, and where one may, here and there, have the chance of buying good pieces to add to it; but unpleasant because I should have to pay for it now, and for the same money I could get just as good land further to the west, and much more of it, and perhaps also better cattle. Here I get at present a pretty good price for all that I have, and if a couple of years were only over one's head, and the settlements in this neighbourhood so thick as to impede a man in his free movements"---- "Good gracious!" Herbold interrupted him; "why, you haven't a single neighbour within nine miles' distance, as you yourself just now admitted." "Yet the time is not so very distant," continued Stevenson, without noticing the objection, "when we may have towns upon towns along the margin of the swamp, and I had rather go out of the way of the people; the air of towns doesn't agree with me." "Well, Heaven be praised!" said the other, laughing, "you haven't much to complain of on that score; the nearest town, as Wolfgang told me, is ten miles distant, and consists of five houses." "And I shouldn't like any nearer," said the farmer. "There is another thing which I wished to ask you; how, in the name of wonder, do you manage with the milch kine? You must place them at all events under shelter, and feed them, otherwise you can get no milk." "We can manage that much more simply," was the reply; "we drive home the calves when we find them in the woods, and the cows, of course, come with them. The cow is milked at the homestead, and afterwards driven out of the clearing. During the first night she does not like to go away, but she is driven by hunger to go at last, seeks her food, and comes home regularly to be milked, and to see her calf." "Certainly that is a convenient mode of keeping milking cows; and the calf remains all day long in a shed?" "Shed! we don't know such a word here. Whoever may happen to have a stallion may perhaps keep him in a log-house built on purpose, differing in nowise from our own ordinary dwellings, except that it has no boarded floor, nor chimney, but otherwise we don't require those kind of buildings." "Well, thus much I can see," Herbold now expressed his opinion; "there is no great art in raising cattle here; one has only to drive them out, and scarcely trouble oneself further about them." "There," said Wolfgang, who had now joined them, and had heard the last remark, "you fall into an error common with emigrants from Europe. They go from one extreme to the other, and believe that, because in their own country they have so much trouble with stall feeding, and are obliged to conduct everything with so much care, therefore that here they have nothing further to do, for instance, than to drive out a breeding sow into the woods, in order to have a drove of some hundred hogs arrive some three or four years after. No, no; one must not neglect cattle here either, but must look after it, else they get wild, and become worse than deer or rabbits." "I don't know what Wolfgang means by extremes, or what extremes are, but in other respects he has hit it exactly. One has to drive about in the woods for many a long day to get the creatures together, and when that is done they never will remain where they are wanted. But you were saying that you wanted to buy some cows and horses; if you do, you couldn't have pitched upon a better time than just the present; my best cows are here, and there is not one of the horses missing." "Certainly, we wish to buy both cattle and horses," said Siebert, who now also joined in the conversation; "that was just the cause of our coming hither; but in making our bargain we must rely implicitly upon Mr. Wolfgang and yourself, for----" "Mr. Wolfgang understands the thing thoroughly," the old American interrupted him, laughing; "we have transacted many a piece of business together. He and his wife--by-the-bye, Wolfgang, how is your wife? she suffered much from the fever lately." "It is well with her," said the young man, turning half aside; "she is dead." "Dead! dear me! and we never heard a word of it, so that we might----" "Don't press the subject," said the young man, deprecatingly; "the distance between this and the river is great, how could you hear of it? Besides, these worthy people helped me kindly with the burial. But," he continued, while he passed his hands lightly across his eyes, "I think it is better for me, and for all of us, if we let alone the melancholy past. We have business to attend to, and activity is the best preservative against sorrow." "But your wife----" said Stevenson. "Was an angel," Wolfgang interrupted him, in a low voice, "and I shall never, never forget her, so long as this poor heart beats; still, do me the favour not to wake the old sorrow. I have, Heaven knows! suffered enough already.--When are you going to clear out, Stevenson?" The old man reached him his hand in silence, grasped heartily that which was offered him, and then changed his tone, in order not to sadden his friend yet more. "It will be next year first," said he, as he drew one of his large mastiffs towards him, and patted his head; "there are always on those occasions so many things to look after, that one hardly knows where to begin or when one has done, and as I have got to cross the Mississippi, why I intend to take my time, and to get done with it all at once. To go back such a distance for something forgotten would be too tedious. How many cattle will you have--a hundred perhaps? The more you can get at first, the more advantageous for you, for the more rapidly and the more numerously does it increase, and it costs you little or nothing." "That is very true," Wolfgang now took up the discourse; "if one is minded to stay in the place, or at all events in the neighbourhood where one is; but I would by no means advise the gentlemen to do that. The soil is good, but the location is unhealthy, and it will be fortunate for them if they can stand it during the summer; next fall they must seek out a healthier climate, and much cattle would only be an incumbrance to them. Where do you go to?" "Into the Ozark Hills; but why will you not at once quit this part of the country, if you are already firmly convinced that you will not remain here long? I should go at once, for time here is money. Calculate merely the produce in cattle that you would gain by it." "You are right," Siebert now said; "but where are we to find a neighbourhood directly that would suit us, particularly as we are unacquainted with the country; and then a removal with such a number of people is easier spoken of than executed." "And how we have worked at our place already!" suggested Herbold; "how many trees have we felled!" "Well, well, that would be the least part of the business," smiled Stevenson; "there can't be so very many in three weeks; besides, all that is not lost, it has been useful to you for practice, and cannot prove otherwise than beneficial hereafter. But I quite agree with Mr. Wolfgang. If you are not unanimous among yourselves whether to stay or go, as it almost seems to me is the case, why then only take some four or five milch kine and calves, so that you may have milk for the children and the sick, at all events three or four horses besides, and no hogs, they would only be a plague to you, and let that suffice for your beginning in cattle management." Siebert and Herbold fully agreed with this, and with the assistance of Wolfgang and Stevenson selected such of the cows as appeared the best; then chose three horses, small but sturdy ponies, such as are serviceable in the woods, and, on the fourth morning after their departure from home, they had concluded everything with such good fortune, and so much more quickly than they had expected, that they were ready to think about their march back. But they first strolled, with old Stevenson, through all his fields and improvements, and Herbold especially was much astonished at a style of farming of which he had, up to that time, had no conception. The Indian corn field claimed his chief attention, for although the emigrants, on their journey by canal through Ohio, had already seen fields with rail fences, yet that had always been in the more settled districts, and the fields really looked like fields. But here everything was more in its primeval state, and although the fences had been put up durably and well, yet in the interior there stood almost as many stumps and large girdled trees as there were stalks of corn. It remained an inexplicable riddle to Herbold how any human being could plough among those stumps and roots, for such a field, containing, at least, ten German morgens, or about twenty English acres, could not be tilled with the spade; yet the furrows seemed regular and straight. The plough unquestionably had done it, and Stevenson showed them one without wheels,[22] so as to allow the ploughman to draw it out before every root, to lift it out of the way of stumps of trees, and by pressing or easing it let it go shallower or deeper. The old American explained to them the culture of the Indian corn, which was very simple, and conducted them between the rows of stalks, frequently from ten to twelve feet high, and which, with their heavy cobs, and drooping, dry, silky little bushes, or flags, presented a stately, and to the eye of the husbandman, most grateful appearance. The stalks stood, as is customary, upon little mounds or hillocks, quite four feet apart, so as to leave full play for the leaves, and pumpkins or water melons had been sown between them, and throve amazingly, especially the former, which, in some instances, had reached an extraordinary size. "What, in the name of Heaven, do you do with all these pumpkins?" asked Mr. Siebert, in astonishment, "why, there are actually enough to victual a whole colony." "Pumpkins," said Stevenson, "are, properly speaking, one of the most useful things which a farmer can sow; horses and cows eat them eagerly, hogs will let themselves be beaten to death for them, and they are one of the most healthy and nourishing articles of food for mankind which we possess here in Tennessee, or indeed throughout the whole west of America. "For mankind, too?" "Yes, certainly; but by the time that you have got your fields cleared you will have learnt that yourselves. Pumpkins, boiled down fresh, make a capital preserve, of course not so delicate as plums or peaches, and when dried they yield an excellent winter vegetable, which I, at least, prefer to any other." "And do they only grow Indian corn in this neighbourhood--no cotton, no tobacco?" asked Mr. Siebert; "the climate is assuredly mild enough." "Mild enough, certainly. In the states lying north of this, immense quantities of tobacco, and even of cotton, are raised, and consequently, those plants would thrive still better in this more southern Tennessee; but, for the culture of cotton, as well as of tobacco, a great number of hands are required, and black hands if possible; slaves, on the one hand, to get in the harvest--that is, pluck the cotton itself--on the other, to attend to the picking of the small tobacco worm. A farmer who is restricted to his own family cannot attempt to raise those sorts of things, or at least can raise sufficient only for his own use. Else it is sure to be a failure, if the crop is not a total loss." "But how is it with cereals?" "Why, those might be more practicable, and here and there they are cultivated with extraordinary success, but Indian corn is better for cattle food,[23] and we always prefer it. Another inconvenience of these smaller grains is the bread; we have no suitable mills for it, and on that account alone must content ourselves with Indian corn. In the eastern and northern states, it is of course somewhat different; there they grow wheat and oats, and I am firmly convinced that in the whole course of your journey through New York and Ohio, or Pennsylvania States, whichever way you may have come, you did not get any Indian corn bread, or set eyes upon it." Siebert and Herbold confirmed this; but Wolfgang had meanwhile busily occupied himself in tapping with his bent forefinger against several of the largest and ripest watermelons, to seek out the best of them for eating, as they could not remain much longer, but must return to their settlement. All three accordingly followed his example, and now sought, heavily laden, the shadow of the house, there to enjoy the melons at their leisure. Mrs. Stevenson had meanwhile prepared an ample and excellent dinner, such a one as is only to be met with in the woods, so that the fresh comers, who besides had not been much used to dainties latterly, acknowledged with animation that they had not made such a meal for a long time. Game, turkey, and fat pork formed the "pièces de resistance," the heavy artillery as it were, and preserved pumpkin, beans, sweet potatoes, honey, and milk the by-meats. All was prepared simply but well, and the men did justice to it. But after the meal, Wolfgang again urged their departure, and although Herbold (who began to like the place very much) would have willingly passed at least that day there, yet he gave way to the wish of their conductor. Mounting the horses, therefore, which they had bargained for, they bade a hearty farewell to the family of the worthy old Stevenson, and commenced their homeward journey, driving the cows and calves before them. Stevenson also promised shortly to look them up in their new settlement, perhaps within that very week, to make the acquaintance of his new neighbours, as he called them. But, although they were now mounted, they scarcely advanced more quickly than they had done before on foot, for to drive cows through the woods is a task which, as the Americans say, teaches even methodists to swear, and which certainly offers many difficulties to the tyro. Besides this, Mr. Siebert knew little or nothing about riding, and had trouble enough to keep his seat, owing to the many leaps which the horse was obliged to make over prostrate stems of trees or swampy spots. He had, therefore, to keep in the centre, while Wolfgang and Herbold rode on either wing, in order, not only to make the cattle move on by shouting and swinging their hats, but also to drive back, from thicket and swamp, into the prescribed track, the stragglers, which were constantly straying. We will not stop to inquire how often, while thus engaged, Siebert and Herbold were dragged from their horses by dangling creeping plants and vines, or lost their seats by sudden shying, or stumbling, or leaping of their beasts, and kissed the earth any way but gently. They progressed very slowly with their charge, and it was near sunset of the second day before they reached the neighbourhood of the settlement, and heard the strokes of the workmen's axes at regular intervals. * * * * * But it is high time that we should return to the settlement once more, where those two villains were steadily progressing towards the execution of their criminal plan. But as Normann wished to await the return of Siebert, senior, he and Turner assisted the emigrants with their work, partly to pass the time, but partly, also, in order to restore their former friendly footing more and more. The settlers had thus just concluded two new fenced inclosures, wherein the expected horses and cows were to be kept, for they could not yet make up their minds that the cattle should be allowed to run at liberty in the woods all the winter. Even Hehrmann, who, as he could not forget the last scene on board the steamer, had carefully observed Normann the first day or two, appeared to allow his suspicions to be lulled, when he noted his open and candid behaviour. One could plainly see in every one of the doctor's movements how much afflicted he was that he should have been the cause of a company of Germans--of people who were his friends--being cheated and defrauded, and how he now strained every nerve to repair, as far as lay in his power, the evil, although it had not been caused by his own act. He had, on that very day even, assured Hehrmann and Becher, that not only did he not entertain the slightest doubt, but that, indeed, he was firmly convinced, that the rascally land-jobber could be successfully brought to account. The settlers had succeeded, with the assistance of the doctor and the American, in laying "the worm," as the lower row of rails laid in zig-zag is called, and to erect the whole fence faultlessly, so that Mr. Becher, when he surveyed the successful work with self-satisfied look, observed, smilingly, that now the drovers might arrive as soon as they pleased with their beasts, and that Wolfgang would stare to see such a workmanlike performance, as he had before hazarded an opinion that probably he should have to pull the fence down again, if it were not firm enough. "Wolfgang!" said Dr. Normann, who now heard his name for the first time, inasmuch as hitherto, when the absent had been spoken of, only Siebert and Herbold had been named. "Wolfgang!--the name sounds quite German; does that gentleman belong to your association?" "He is a German settler," Becher answered, "to whom the cordwood beside the Mississippi belongs, which you probably noticed piled up." "Has he also lately come over from Germany?" asked Normann, and that with more interest than might have been expected about a stranger. "No, he formerly lived in Arkansas," was the answer, "and probably has been some years here in Tennessee." "A singular case," said Trevor (or Turner) in the Pennsylvanian dialect--"a very singular case, that a Backwoodsman should clear out eastward; an American never would have done that." Normann was silent, and cast his eyes on the ground; but an attentive observer might have noticed that within a few minutes he had changed countenance very much, and was actually quite pale. The settlers, however, were too much taken up with their new fence, to heed him, and it was only when Normann, after exchanging some words with Turner in a low tone, was preparing to leave for the houses, that Hehrmann noticed the change in his features, and exclaimed jocularly-- "There you see, Doctor, you have over-exerted yourself; this kind of work affects persons who are not accustomed to it, over much; you look deadly pale." The doctor explained it away, by attributing it to a headache, but affirmed that a short walk would do him good, and, taking Turner's arm, he walked with him towards the houses which were near at hand. "We must go," he exclaimed, as soon as they had got out of ear-shot of the labourers--"we must be off; we have not a moment to spare, for any instant may bring back those men." "What men?" asked the American, surprised. "Those who are gone to fetch the cattle and horses," said Normann, looking suspiciously round. "Well, who the devil is to understand you? first, you plague and insist upon waiting until this Liebert, or Siebert, as he is called, shall come back, and talk of nothing but riding off, so as to get away more conveniently, and now it almost seems as though you were afraid of the arrival of those whom you were so eagerly waiting for. What ails you?" "You shall learn all," replied the doctor--"I have no need to keep back a secret of that description from _you_, for a tenth part of what I know of you, would sentence you to the gallows in any Christian country. But now is not the time for story-telling--on the road--this evening--to-morrow morning--any time but now; let us, for the present, manage to persuade the girls to take a walk. But this much I can tell you, I have _well-founded reasons_ for avoiding the sight of this Wolfgang. When I relate all to you, by-and-by, this evening, you will allow that I have good grounds. Shall we be off?" "Why certainly," said Turner, laughing, "you are the principal character in this business; I have only come with you to oblige you, so that it is only proper that I should not leave you in the lurch when danger threatens you. Away, then, within the next hour if you like--indeed, the sooner the more agreeable to me, although I should have liked to have waited till dusk, because it could be accomplished then with less danger. Well, perhaps we may talk the girls over to accompany us, while it is yet light, as far as where the nigger with the boat lies hid, but then we must certainly gag them until we get to the Mississippi, otherwise their cries might attract some uncalled-for audience, and as no one goes into the woods here without a rifle, perhaps even bring a ball about our ears." "And our place of concealment?" "We shall reach it this very evening," replied Turner; "it is a famous little spot, and you will be delighted with it." "But you have never told me yet where it is," said the doctor suspiciously; "why all this secrecy?" "You'll know it soon enough. But what is to be done with the girls afterwards?" "Oh, let us drop all further plans for the present," said Normann, "we have plenty of time for that when we have nothing else to do; now for the smooth side outwards. In fact, I think we have won the confidence of the young ladies to such a degree that they will go with us without much difficulty, if we ask them to accompany us for a walk." "No fear; I know a capital lie, which seldom fails to raise the curiosity of a young lady of sensibility." "And that is----" "Hallo, there," said the American, jocularly, "does it produce its effect upon you? Well, as far as that goes, also, you must allow me to keep my own counsel. What will you bet, now, that it does not succeed?" "It would be against my own interest to bet against it," smiled the doctor, "inasmuch as I am interested in its success; so let us to work, for the ground begins to burn under my feet, and may next hour find us in possession of two angels that might well excite a sultan's envy!" * * * * * Bertha and Louisa had just helped their mother to wash up and put away the plates and dishes, and were busied making up summer clothes for the men, in which labour Meier played a prominent part, he having been relieved for a few days from hard work out of doors, and left within to cut out. Turner and Normann walked in; made their obeisance to the ladies, and sat themselves down on a couple of chunks of wood, sawed off for the purpose, and which did duty for chairs. But although the weather was really tempting, and the doctor began several times to say how wrong it was of the young ladies to shut themselves up in the house, and to devote themselves so entirely to work, while they ought to be enjoying the fresh healthy air, and thereby keeping off fever, yet Bertha excused herself on account of the quantity of work which had to be done, and declared that she had so much to do that she could hardly think of a walk, however short, for three days to come. Her mother confirmed this, and Normann, in despair, whittled about on the log, whereon he was sitting, with his penknife. Turner then took up the word, and led the conversation to the cattle, to the cows and calves, which they were expecting, and probably would cause a little change in their monotonous life. "Oh, yes," said Bertha, "I look forward with pleasure to the little calves, there is something so pretty and confiding in a creature that one has brought up oneself, and so made familiar to one; hitherto we have had no living thing upon the farm, except the chickens, which Mr. Wolfgang was kind enough to bring with him." Again, that name! Normann drew a deep breath, and looked up anxiously to his comrade, as though he would remind him of the promised assistance. "Oh, yes," continued Turner, without taking any notice of this movement; "I am very fond of tame animals myself; formerly, for instance, I once brought up a young bear, and I must confess that it pained me very much when I had to part with him afterwards, when he grew too big." "Bears are dangerous animals--are they not?" asked Louisa. "Bears! oh, no!" said Turner, as he brought his right knee over the left one, and clasped it there with both hands--"oh, no, not to mankind, but very much so to young game; they persecute young deer a good deal." Normann looked across at Turner, in amazement, for he knew very well that what he was stating was a falsehood, and consequently that he must have some object in it. Turner, however, retained his former attitude, and looked straight before him. "It is a melancholy reflexion," said Bertha, after a short pause, "how, among animals, one is always seeking the destruction of others; mankind must have learnt it from them. The poor little deer-calf, how frightened it must be when it sees such a formidable enemy approaching!" "Oh, that enemy, notwithstanding its strength, is the least dangerous!" said Turner, with a smile; "his attack is, at least, straightforward and open; but the poor little creature has much worse enemies, who better know how to employ cunning to get it into their power, and are thereby more formidable and less easily avoided; these last are, especially, the panther and the wolf. Indeed, everything nearly persecutes the young deer:--wild cats, ferrets, even eagles and carrion-vultures pounce down on them, kill them, and eat them on the spot." "Oh, that is dreadful!" exclaimed Louisa; "but why doesn't the dam hide them better?" Normann got up, and walked uneasily towards the door; Turner cast a smiling look after him, and continued:--"So she does; and it is seldom that the buzzards, especially, can find out such a little creature, yet it does sometimes occur--I had an example to-day." "But, Turner, it is getting late," said Normann, who could no longer control his impatience and his fears--"consider that we must send off the letter to-day, and that very soon, for the messenger will have no time when the cattle arrives and have to be attended to." "There's time enough," replied Turner, quite quietly; "I have reconsidered the matter, and think we had better not send till to-morrow morning." Normann turned away, to conceal the emotions which he could hardly suppress. "You have seen that to-day, Mr. Trevor?" asked Bertha and Louisa, laying down their work, and looking up anxiously at the man; "and the buzzards found and killed such a poor little creature?" "They haven't killed it yet," replied Turner; "but will probably do so as soon as it becomes dusk, they are always most ravenous then, and generally save their prey until that time." "But I don't understand you," said Bertha, surprised; "why do you suppose that they will destroy a deer-calf?--can they observe it in their flight? It is not possible!" "No, certainly not," said Turner, with a smile; "but just after dinner, to-day, when I was taking a stroll in the woods, I saw five or six of these birds; at first I thought that a panther might perhaps have destroyed some animal or other, and went to see what it could be; but found a pretty little deer-calf, only a few days old, which lay there alone and forsaken. Most likely its mother had been torn to pieces by a panther, and the poor little thing would have to starve to death there unless the vultures should free it from its misery." "But why didn't you bring it with you, then?" said Mrs. Hehrmann, stepping towards them; "good gracious! why it would be shocking if the poor creature should lie like that, helpless and unprotected." "Oh, how could you be so cruel as to leave it!" exclaimed Bertha. "Is it far from here?" asked Louisa. "If, as you say, the vultures don't eat their prey until evening, perhaps it may still be living." "Oh, if you would but fetch it!" asked Bertha. "My dear young lady," said the American, "the poor thing cannot be very well transported here, unless it were fed first where it lies. I took it up and stroked it; but it was so weak that it was hardly able to move. Men's hands are but rough instruments for handling such a weakly creature." "You said that it was but a few hundred yards from this?" asked Bertha, once more. "It is not a rifle-shot off," said the stranger. "Oh, mother!" begged Louisa. "Go, children--go," said Mrs. Hehrmann, quickly; "go and try to get the dear little thing home alive; your father will be particularly pleased; he has long wished for some such tame thing." "Oh, that is capital," exclaimed Louisa, jumping up for her bonnet and shawl; "but we must take some milk with us to strengthen our little charge." "Alas! if the buzzards should have got it," whispered Bertha, sadly, "I should be so sorry!" "I should scarcely think they have," said Turner, taking the milk-jug, which she had fetched, out of her hand; "it is but a short time since I was there, and the cowardly birds do not venture very readily upon anything while living." "Have we got enough milk?" asked Louisa. "I should think so," replied Bertha. There was fully milk enough to have filled three full-grown stags. But Normann, who had regained new life at the turn which the conversation had latterly taken, and could have willingly embraced the American, so grateful was he, now expressed himself ready, with the ladies' permission, to take part in the expedition of rescue, and all four were in the next minute on their road towards the woods. But scarcely had they left the houses, and entered upon the Bush, before the cracking of whips, and hallooing of voices, was heard in the distance, and the children of the settlement came rushing towards the houses, and announced, in delight, that "the cows were coming along, and the calves too." Universal activity now prevailed, and all ran confusedly hither and thither, for this was an epoch in their farming life. This was the first stock, which was to make them wealthy and comfortable. All streamed by, not only to assist in driving them into the fenced yards destined for them, but also to see them, to admire them, and--to criticise them. But the cows, rendered shy by the crowding upon them of so great a number of persons, began to trip about timidly, and to low; and Wolfgang exhorted the people to stand back, and not to make such a heathenish noise; but they paid no attention, nor did they obey his warnings, until one of the cows, a fine handsome animal, with lofty and pointed horns, sprang right among them, and, naturally meeting with little resistance, disappeared in the next moment in the woods. The shoemaker and the brewer happened to be just standing on the spot where she broke through, and the latter, upon the sudden charge of the excited animal, threw himself against the former with such force as to knock him right through a sassafras bush into the totally decayed stem of a tree, out of which he had to be got by the united efforts of two sturdy Oldenburghers. But if the settlers had laughed at the half-buried shoemaker, their merriment was yet further increased, when they discovered Meier in the boughs of a stunted oak, in which he must have climbed with indescribable activity and speed, when the first movement of the horned cattle was perceptible, and when the attention of every body else was directed towards them. Herbold, with irrepressible zeal, followed immediately, full gallop, after the cow; but Wolfgang, who well knew that that was almost an impracticable task in the thick underwood, was acquainted with a surer and much more convenient mode of bringing back the cow of her own accord: he cut off the calf's retreat, so that it could not follow its mother, and then drove it after the rest, which now, by the combined exertions of all, especially by those of the Oldenburghers, had just reached the entrance of the fence, and they soon saw all the cattle, with the exception of the run away cow, safely within fence and rail. The cows and calves were to remain together during the first night, but after that the former were to be let out, and thus the American mode of treatment be followed. Shortly afterwards poor Herbold returned, tired and weary, and, as Wolfgang had anticipated, without the cow; but Wolfgang comforted him (for he was annoyed about it) by the assurance that the mother would not leave her calf in the lurch, but would come back to it, most probably on the same evening, or at all events in the course of the night. The result showed that he had spoken truly, for the cow came within a few hours to the fence which held her young one enclosed, and lowed and ran round it until she was admitted too. It was not until the men had entered the house, and were about to take some refreshment, that Hehrmann thought of making his friends acquainted with Dr. Normann's arrival. Siebert dropped the fork, which he had just taken up, and cried-- "What! that fellow has the impudence to show his pale hang-dog face among us?" Hehrmann pacified him, and explained, in few words, why Dr. Normann had sought them out again, and that he hoped not only to recover the purchase-money for them, but also considerable damages. "My good Mr. Hehrmann," said Wolfgang, "the gentleman must have some other object, otherwise he would not have followed you. If he is not himself really the vendor of this land--which, however, I strongly suspect he is,--yet he can never hope to recover, in this manner, even a cent of the money which has once been thus expended. He appears to me, moreover, from all that I have hitherto heard of him, to be much too knowing really to believe anything of the kind himself." "But he told us that the laws----" said Hehrmann. "Why those very laws"--Wolfgang interrupted him--"do but too much assist those who wish to act unjustly. It is true that if the debt be small, under fifty dollars, and you have a formal note for it, then it may be recovered readily enough; but such debts as exceed fifty dollars, and more especially claims of such a description as require fraud to be established, are very difficult, if not impossible of prosecution." "Look you, my dear Wolfgang, how much you wrong him; foreseeing that, he has brought a friend of his, who happened to come up the river with him. He minutely inspected and surveyed all with his own eyes, and is to give testimony for us in New York." "Moonshine,--moonshine!" said Wolfgang, contemptuously; "that is, at most, a mere excuse and cover, to insure themselves a friendly reception here: I don't know of what other use it could be. That such testimony would be of no use to him in New York, Dr. Normann certainly knows full well. Is his companion a German?" "No, an American; but he speaks a little German, though with a very foreign pronunciation." "Where is he now, then?" asked Siebert; "and where are the young ladies? I have not seen them yet since our arrival." "The American had seen a young deer in the woods,"--Mrs. Hehrmann now took up the word,--"and as we feared that it might be starved, or attacked by the buzzards, the children have taken a jug of milk, and have gone with Dr. Normann and Mr. Trevor to fetch it." Wolfgang laid down his knife and fork, and looked up, alarmed, and almost astonished, towards the speaker. "The American found a deer-calf in the woods, which, as he feared, would starve!" he repeated, as though he were in doubt whether he could have rightly understood the words. "Yes," replied Mrs. Hehrmann, "and which, he said, was but a day or two old; and, in order that the bears might not devour it, or the buzzards, which had already congregated about it, get it, he went at once." "A deer-calf--day or two old--bears devour it--buzzards get it!" repeated Wolfgang, astonished. "Why, yes; and he added, besides, that he must fetch it before evening, for that it was then that the buzzards became most ravenous and most bold, and when they attacked their prey." "Gentlemen," said Wolfgang, who had suddenly become very earnest, "this American, whom I do not yet know, has either taken the liberty to play off a joke upon the young ladies, your daughters, or--some scoundrelism has been carried out." "For God's sake, what do you mean!" cried Mrs. Hehrmann, becoming deadly pale, and the men sprang from their seats in alarm. "What makes you think that?" said Becher; "is not all which the man said plausible?" "Plausible! Yes," said Wolfgang, "but a lie! Where, I should like to know, do you find, at this season, a deer-calf which may be expected to starve--they are all of them, even those which were dropped latest, several months old; he, therefore, cannot have found that in the woods. Then, again, no bear eats a young deer-calf--that's a fable; and the buzzard, which, besides, troubles itself little about anything which has life, goes to roost as other birds do, like the turkeys and the Prairie hens, at dusk. All that is pure invention to entice your daughters from home; and my advice is instantly to break up in pursuit--perhaps, we may yet overtake them!" "But where to seek them?" asked Hehrmann, tearing his double-barrelled gun from the wall: "Where to find them? Which of us can follow their track?" "I know what part of the woods they are gone to," said Schmidt, who had just entered. "I had left a cross-cut saw there this morning, and just went to fetch it." "Show us the way, then," said Wolfgang, looking at the priming of his own rifle, which, prior to his journey, he had left behind him in Hehrmann's house. "Oh, God--my children!" cried Mrs. Hehrmann, disconsolately. "Oh! let me go with you!--let me go with you!" "Don't be terrified, my dear," said the worthy Hehrmann, consolingly, to her; "who knows whether our fears are well founded?--we have at once supposed the worst. It's quite possible that they have only gone into the woods to look for berries, and that we may meet with them close by here." "I believe, altogether, that you think too badly of Dr. Normann," said Siebert, senior; "I don't think him capable of such villany." "You are right!" exclaimed Hehrmann, who probably thought of the last conversation of Normann with his daughter, but would not torture his wife yet more by betraying too great an anxiety on his part. "You are right; still, we will go after them; perhaps, too, we may fall in with the runaway cow." "But she--is in the opposite direction," the shoemaker was just going to blurt out, when he was stopped by an emphatic dig in the ribs from Becher; and when he turned angrily towards the latter, he made such desperately quieting faces that the shoemaker was quite taken aback, and held his peace without concluding the sentence. Wolfgang, Hehrmann, and Von Schwanthal, mounted the horses to go in search of the poor girls; and the remaining settlers, with very few exceptions, followed on foot, to cross the woods in all directions, and, if possible, to get on their track. Schmidt strode on manfully before them towards the spot where he had seen the two men with Hehrmann's daughters for the last time. * * * * * "If we can but find the poor little thing!" said Louisa, timidly, when they had entered right into the woods, and were gliding forward, in Indian file, along a narrow track. "Is it much further?" asked Bertha, shyly, who began to feel ill at ease in the dark shadows of the woods in the company of the two men, neither of whom had spoken a word since they lost sight of the houses. "No, Miss Bertha," answered the American, with a smile, "_we are nearly there_. Do you see yonder regularly formed circular hillocks?--the poor little creature lies between them." "Hark!" said Louisa; "I hear shouting and the cracking of whips--they've certainly arrived with the cows and calves. Oh, if we had but waited a little longer!" "We can be back within a quarter of an hour," said the American, cheerfully, to her. "According to my reckoning, we must be almost at the place." "But the ground is so damp here," said Bertha, "and mother has particularly cautioned us against getting wet feet--and you too, Doctor." The doctor was silent, and cast an anxious uneasy glance towards his comrade. Bertha looked up in astonishment at the men, and now first observed in their whole behaviour something strange and unfamiliar--and, like a dash of cold through heart and marrow, the idea of treachery arose in her mind. "We will turn back," she said, suppressing her fears with all the power of which her strong heart was capable. "We will turn back--Mr. Trevor must have missed the direction; no deer-calf could lie hereabouts, the ground is wet and swampy." "Where lies the boat?" whispered Normann to his comrade; "are we far from it?" "Over yonder--scarce a hundred yards from this." "But what shall we do with the girls?" "We must bind them," said Turner. "Scipio will come running with the ropes, as soon as I give the signal." Bertha had seized the hand of her sister convulsively--and the latter looked up to her timidly, but still without any foreboding of what was in agitation. "Why do the men whisper so together?" she asked her sister. "Cannot they find the spot? But, Bertha, what's the matter--why, you are as pale as a corpse! Oh, Doctor!" She turned round towards the doctor, but in the next moment she herself stood in need of the support of her sister; she started back with a loud cry of horror, and hid her face in her hands. Before her, a cocked pistol in his hand, stood the American, and, with a look which raised fears of the worst, in a threatening whisper, hissed out these words-- "Dare to scream!--dare to call for help!--and one of you falls a corpse--the other her murderess!" "Doctor!" begged Louisa, in a low voice--"oh! can you not protect us from this dreadful man?" But, without even bestowing a look upon the petitioner, the doctor exclaimed--"Give the signal, Turner!--we dare not lose a second more; if Wolfgang should learn under what pretext we have led the women into the woods at this season, his suspicions will be roused, and in tracking he equals an Indian." Turner raised his fingers to his lips, and gave a low whistle; immediately after, the bushes on the river's edge, which was not many yards distant, rustled, and Bertha herself could scarcely suppress a cry of terror, when the bright yellow, devilish countenance of the mulatto, with greedy, glowing eyes, and grinning teeth, dived out of the thicket, and hurried towards them, carrying a bundle of cords in his hand. "What are you going to do?" cried Bertha, who was the first to regain her presence of mind; "what is your purpose? Is this the return, doctor, that you make for my father's friendly reception? Let us go, and I pledge you my word that I will not say a word of what has hitherto passed.--Back, I say! don't touch that child." The American had seized Louisa, who was paralysed with fear, and was about to bind her hands, when Bertha rushed upon him. But without heeding the interruption, he flung her with powerful grasp towards the mulatto, who made fast her limbs with fearful rapidity, while Turner exclaimed threateningly-- "Speak but another word, and I'll drive the steel into your sister's heart! By everything sacred, I am not joking! You are prisoners, and must give way to your fate." "Help, help!" screamed Bertha, contemning every threat, for she did not fear death, if it could save her from shame. But in the next moment the broad palm of the mulatto was lying on her lips, and he exclaimed, with a grin-- "Must put little gag in the little mouth--make too much row!" Bertha soon found herself incapable of further resistance, and the same thing took place with Louisa, although less was to be feared from her, as she was restrained by the threat of death to her sister, from attempting anything for her own safety. "Now, away," said Turner, lifting Bertha in his arms. "Come, doctor, you take the lighter one, and, now, Scipio, carry the rifles yonder, and let us see how you can row. You know the reward which awaits you." He sprang forward to the banks of the small river, and down towards the concealed boat; the doctor, who appeared to be momentarily moved by fear, and perhaps, also, by repentance, stood for some seconds, as if petrified, but when he saw Turner disappearing beneath the steep river bank, with his own booty, the former passion was once more aroused; he raised the other girl, who looked up to him beseechingly, in his arms, and with rapid strides followed his confederate. A few minutes sufficed to get afloat the light and rapid skiff, and, with a low chuckle of triumph, the American pushed from shore. He sat in the stern of the boat himself, and steered; beside him, her back leaning against the cross-bench, with hands and feet tied, and her mouth wrapped round with a silk handkerchief, lay Bertha. The mulatto sat on the middle seat, with the starboard (or right) oar, and on the further seat, Dr. Normann, with the larboard (or left) oar, and quite forward, with her little head on the roughly dragged-in rope, lay Louisa, also bound and gagged, and the clear tears coursed down the poor girl's cheeks, which were as cold and as white as marble. The sharply-built boat shot forward like an arrow in the somewhat swollen stream, and Turner exclaimed, laughing-- "That was capitally executed; now, for a couple of hours' start, and the devil himself shall not overtake us." "But we require that, too," whispered the mulatto; "the little river is very crooked--runs first north, then south, in all directions. If they know that we are off, they only want a good horse, and then might shoot us one after another out of the boat." "That's true, Scipio," said the American, "but it can't be helped. But, hang it all! the Germans wont be such sharp trackers, either--Normann, don't make such an infernal row with your oar as to discover our place of departure so soon!--it would be horrid, if they should--that's a fact!" "Why, at the worst, we might always save ourselves," said Scipio, "though we should have to leave the pretty little bits of woman-flesh in the lurch." "But, look, for God's sake, at our course, again!--due east, slick away from the Mississippi!" "That's the great bend," said Scipio, "we shall take an hour to get round it, and yet 'tis but a couple of hundred yards across." "Stretch out, you two!" cried Turner; "we must make haste, and leave this little watercourse, with its high, uncomfortable, overgrown banks, behind us. I shan't feel myself in safety, till we're on the other side of the Mississippi." The men, thenceforward, observed a deep silence; Bertha endeavoured with all her power to raise herself, and looked up entreatingly at the dark man, who sat beside her, with the helm in his hand; but he, guessing well enough that she wanted to speak to him, shook his head, smiling, and whispered, in a low voice-- "No, my dear, you mustn't make any use of your pretty lips yet--the danger is too great, here; besides, begging, or praying, or offering ransom, or whatever else those tricks and evasions may be called, would be unavailing.--You are _mine_!"--and he hissed the word out so softly, between his teeth, that it escaped even Normann's ear: "thou art mine, and no devil shall tear thee from me!" The boat was now approaching the spot where the curve of the stream terminated, and where it almost resumed its former course. At this point, by reason of the great bend which it made to the right, the rivulet had washed away nearly the whole of the lower part of the left bank, so that the upper stratum of earth, in many places, overhung like a roof, and could only have been retained in its position by the roots of willows, and swamp maples. The boat, too, had been drifted by the current towards the outer side of the bend in the river, and Turner was just about to keep her head more towards mid-channel, in order to avoid the danger of getting foul of, and, perhaps, overturned by the tree stems which projected from the vicinity of the bank, when the mulatto suddenly held up his hand, and ceased rowing; Dr. Normann instantly followed his example, and the former stood up from his seat, and listened, holding his hands in the form of a funnel to his ear in the direction of the left bank. "Do you hear anything?" asked Turner. The mulatto made a sign with his hand to be quiet, but remained in his former attitude. The boat still shot quickly forward, although no longer urged on by the oars. "What's the matter?" asked Normann, timidly. "They are coming!" the mulatto suddenly whispered, and pointing, alarmed, upwards. A glad ray of hope passed across the countenances of the unhappy captives. There was some sign of salvation from their awful danger; and Bertha cast a look of joyful gratitude towards the blue canopy of heaven. But Turner, who, quickly as thought, perceived their only chance of remaining undiscovered, acted as promptly. He could no longer expect to get away on the opposite side, for he heard the approaching hoofs himself; and there, he must have fallen under the bullets of his enemies before he could climb up the steep bank. On the other hand, on the side whence the pursuers were approaching, the shore was bushy, and, as already mentioned, overhanging. Without betraying the fears which crept over himself therefore, by so much as the twinkling of an eyelash--even with the same cold smile upon his thin lips--he let the boat fall off into the current. In the next second, he glided between and among some willow shoots which grew close to the water's edge, and were overhung by thick bushes, and there the boat lay, held by the strong arm of the mulatto, still and motionless. At the same moment, some dry branches broke off above, and the leaves rustled--a rider bounded forward, heedless of the closely interwoven branches, and severing them with a sharp hunting-knife only when they actually stopped his passage, nearly to the edge of the bank, and, bending forward, gazed up and down the stream. "Do you see nothing, Wolfgang?" the anxious voice of Pastor Hehrmann was now heard to ask--"can you discover nothing of my children?" Bertha, hearing the voice of her father close above her, made a desperate exertion of strength to free her mouth, but Turner held her with an iron grasp, so that she was hindered from making any movement whatever; whilst Normann applied the same restraint to the younger sister, and in addition, pointed a knife at her breast. Although not a syllable escaped him in this action, yet his eyes betrayed the devil that was lurking within. "Nothing!--nothing at all to be seen or heard!" said young Wolfgang, with a sigh. "And yet it appeared to me, just before we reached the bank, as though I heard the sound of an oar; but I must have deceived myself." A contemptuous smile played round the corners of Turner's mouth. "And are you quite certain that they had a boat above here?" asked Herbold's voice. "I can pledge my neck for it!" Wolfgang answered him; "the tracks were plain enough to be seen." "Perhaps they are not so far yet," said Becher, who had now also arrived. "As you say yourself, the river hereabouts makes great bends, all of which we have cut off, and I should think, therefore----" "Perhaps--but perhaps not," Wolfgang interrupted him. "But we must consider this, above all things--that in case they should have passed, we are wasting valuable time in a most inexcusable manner, for we give them more and more the start; and if they once reach the Mississippi, little hope remains of our overtaking them." The mulatto, in the boat below, nodded his head, with a grin that disclosed two rows of dazzling white teeth. "How would it be if we were to gallop along the banks of the water-course?" asked Mr. Hehrmann. "Yes, if we could do that," said Wolfgang; "then they should not escape from us--I know that; but scarce half a mile from this, a deep slough empties itself into this little river, and that with such steep banks, that riding through it is out of the question: those on foot might make the attempt, for, if I am not mistaken, there are some cypresses fallen across it, which permit of a passage." Turner looked interrogatively at the mulatto, who confirmed the statement by a silent nod. "But how are we to get on, then?" demanded Hehrmann, anxiously. "We must ride back almost the same way that we came with the wagon," said Wolfgang. "'Tis true that it is several miles round, but it can't be helped." "Suppose we were to station men along the banks? Then they couldn't slip by, anyhow." "If we had more horses, and if it were daylight, that might do; but as it is, I fear that we should be dividing our forces too much. Besides, we could do little in a place like this before us, for example--for the scoundrels would know how to cover themselves by the bodies of their unhappy victims, so that we should not dare to fire upon them. My advice is, for all of us to start for the mouth of the Big Halchee, and we horsemen as fast as our beasts will carry us. The Big Halchee, too, is very narrow there, and if we put ourselves in ambush, and draw a couple of ropes across the stream, they _must_ fall into our hands." "But shall you be able to find the route in the dark?" asked Herbold, anxiously. "Yes, with the help of Providence," said the young man. "I am no longer a novice in the woods, and have spent many a long night abroad among them. But now, let's away. The men afoot may keep close to the river; from this part forward, the Halchee does not take so many turnings; and although the road is rough and bad to travel, yet, on the other hand, you cannot lose your way in the woods. But if you should discover the boat, still, for God's sake, do not fire into it, lest you should hit one of the poor girls, but keep it in your eye till you come to some shallow place, and perhaps may cut off their retreat. Now, gentlemen, give your horses the spurs, and away!" Wolfgang accompanied the word with the deed, and immediately afterwards, the bushes crackled again, and the horsemen disappeared in the woods. But the other settlers sprang and ran along the bank, over prostrate stems, through reed-brakes and thickets, keeping the rivulet in their eye at first as much as possible; but they soon discovered with what difficulties they had to contend, especially in the approaching darkness, and were obliged to confine themselves merely to keeping in its vicinity, so as to be able to recognise its banks. They thought that they should be thus enabled to reach the mouth of the Big Halchee before the boat. All, however, swore solemnly, each time they got entangled in some wild vine--every time they stumbled over the trunk or branch of a tree--when a thorn tore their faces or hands--that they would exemplarily punish the scoundrels who had so vilely abused their confidence. However, when the chase had lasted an hour or so, many a one among them would have willingly turned back; but, then, the very idea of returning alone by the road which they had come was dreadful. No; to go forward was preferable to that, with the hope of being party to the capture of a couple of traitors who, according to Meier's sentence, deserved to be pricked to death with red-hot needles. Turner continued under cover of the willows for about a quarter-of-an hour more, until some time after the last of the pursuers had quitted the bank of the stream, fearing some spy might have been left behind; at last, however, further delay was attended with just as much danger as actual discovery, for the horsemen would thereby get too much the start of them; and the American knew but too well that he should be a lost man, if his flight into the Mississippi were cut off. It was not that alone, however, which urged the scoundrel to reach the shores of that mighty stream half-an-hour, at least, before the pursuers; but he told his comrades nothing about that--indeed, he spoke not a word, but pushed the bushes gently and carefully aside, so that the boat could glide out between them; made signs to the mulatto, which must have been intelligible to the latter, to muffle the oars, so as to prevent the noise of the tholes, and the next moment the slim-built boat was gliding down close under the shadow of the left bank, and that with such extraordinary rapidity that it appeared to mock all further pursuit. But what, meanwhile, were the feelings of the poor, unhappy girls, thus torn from the arms of their parents, in the power of rude and desperate scoundrels, after having heard their father's voice close over them; after having seen salvation before their eyes, and yet tried in vain to make known their presence by a word, by a sound. Alas! they saw every hope of being restored to their own people, of being rescued from the violence of these traitors disappear. But, no; there yet remained one hope--they had heard Wolfgang's voice; they had heard the sound of the horses' hoofs, as they galloped off, and knew that they were hurrying towards the mouth of the little river to meet the ruffians there; it was yet possible that they might arrive first, for there must exist danger, or the mulatto would not have strained his sinews until his heavy breathing became more and more audible, more and more distinct, and betrayed the zeal with which he worked. This was the single gleam of hope which fell upon the torrid night of misery and despair which they suffered; and they could only pray to the Almighty that he would give wings to the footsteps of their people, and bring them in time to their rescue. FOOTNOTES: [22] The swing plough is not used in Germany, except in parts of Holstein and Friesland.--TR. [23] The worthy farmer had before said that they raised no fodder for cattle. The fact is, cattle get their living in the woods, but don't get fat there.--TR. CHAPTER VIII. THE MOUTH OF THE BIG HALCHEE. Werner was sitting upon the narrow gallery which surrounded the Boiler-deck of the Diana,[24] and Schwarz had taken his seat beside him, on a green-varnished camp-stool, which he bent back as far as he could, in order to be enabled to plant his feet at the same time firmly against the nearest pillar. But the scenery of the Mississippi had materially changed since they had quitted the more southern climate of Louisiana. Those splendid, wide-spread plantations which pressed back the old forest far, far, into the blue distance, and from whose well-fenced fields the feather-like sugar-canes or the stubborn cotton-plants had hitherto met their gaze on the boundless plains on every side, were gone. And with them had disappeared those comfortably arranged planters' dwellings, embosomed in flowers, and orange and pomegranate trees; gone were the tulip and fig-trees; gone the dam on the water's edge, behind which numerous flocks had grazed, and upon which, now and then, the heads and broad-brimmed straw-hats of dark-eyed Creoles had been visible, who, reining in their ponies for awhile, had stopped to admire the speed of the steamer that dashed past them. The little showily-painted boats, with their gaudy flags, which, lower down, had enlivened the prospect, were no longer to be seen, and the forest, the tall, mighty, unconquered forest, overran the land, to the margin of the steep and crumbling shore, and often even beyond it, out into the eddying foaming flood. It was only here and there that, in some nook of the dark and silent woods, there stood the shanty of some solitary cordwood-cutter, around which a regular clearing was but rarely to be seen, and that, perhaps, scarcely fenced in; but, instead, high piles of cordwood, often several hundred yards in extent, testified to the industry of the labourer working there in solitude, and who was but rarely linked to a world from which he seemed to have fled by some steamer stopping here at distant intervals for wood. "But how can any one think of settling in such a melancholy, desolate place?" said Werner, breaking silence, at last, after a long pause, just as the Diana was heaving up the waves from her paddles towards the western shore, till they almost washed the threshold of a hut standing near--"the surrounding swamps must poison the air." "Certainly," opined Helldorf, "it is a melancholy life they lead who dwell here; but they chiefly view it as means to an end, and therefore put up with it for a year or two, or even for half-a-dozen years." "And for what end?" asked Werner. "To earn enough money to enable them to settle in a healthier district, and to buy some little property with what they earn here." "But why don't the people go to such a spot at once, when land can be had everywhere so readily, as you say; why do they risk having a sickly body when the 'far West' lies open to them, only waiting for the plough?" "And there are reasons for that too," said Schwarz. "You, no doubt, remember that I have related to you, with _how little_ a man may begin life in the woods; but that little be must have, else he has to contend with too many and too painful obstacles. I can, were I to go now, with an axe and a rifle into the woods, found a home for myself; I can chop trees for my log-house; manage to subsist awhile on dried venison;[25] raise my dwelling with the assistance of my neighbours, and make a couple of acres fit for tillage; that is, I fell the smaller trees which are standing upon it and girdle the rest." "Girdle?" "Yes; they call it girdling, when they chop out the bark in a ring, for a hand's breadth or so, round a tree, and which is chiefly practised with very thick trees;[26] then grub up the worst roots; and now I have got my land, what Americans call, fit for ploughing. But where is the plough? There is no money to buy it, and I must _borrow_ it, as well as a horse to draw it. Neighbours will certainly do that, and willingly, too. They assist the settler with all their power, and not unfrequently make the greatest sacrifices for him. But that has not got me out of my difficulties, for now I want seed to sow my field; I want a hoe to earth up the growing stalks of Indian corn; I have to plough again from time to time; I require cooking utensils,--chisels,--augers,--nails. I haven't even a hand-mill to grind the _borrowed_ Indian corn, but must trouble my neighbour for that, too. To-day I want a chain,--to-morrow an iron wedge,--the next day this,--the day after, that, and it does not cease; there is no end of borrowing; so that the neighbours, let them be the most good-natured souls in the world, yet at last must lose patience, and shun the person who merely comes upon their farm to borrow, first one thing and then another, in order that they may not be compelled to give him a refusal. "All that can be met by a small but reasonably applied capital. When one is in a position to procure the most necessary things, there is no fear afterwards; the circumstances of the farmer improve, although slowly perhaps, yet surely, from year to year, and he may constantly look forward, for himself and his family, to a future free from care. But, to expend the little capital in a really reasonable manner, that is the stumbling-block over which most emigrants, or rather immigrants, fall. They frequently come over to America with not inconsiderable property, but then generally suppose--especially if they have much money--that they can buy the whole world, and allow themselves to be drawn into heedless speculations, of which, as they are ignorant of the country and the language, they understand nothing, and into which they are, for the most part, enticed by designing knaves, who are on the look out for such prey. They afterwards, when it is too late, find out how the swindler, who now laughs at them for their stupidity, was merely intent on appropriating to himself their good money, whilst he was making seductive representations of quickly-to-be-acquired riches; and the more difficult for them does it subsequently become, when they are thrown back upon their personal resources, to begin what, to a certain extent, is a new course of life, and a very unaccustomed and hard course, too. "Those who come over with small sums have the advantage, at least in this, that from the time of their leaving home, forward, they have not been in a position to form such great pretensions, and therefore, when they have lost that little, they are more easily reconciled to the idea of beginning afresh." "You seem to assume indisputably, and as a matter of course," said Werner, laughing, "that emigrants must really first lose all that they have brought with them!" "Certainly," Schwarz replied, drily; "for it happens at least ninety-three times out of a hundred, and the remaining seven you will surely allow me to class as exceptions. But experience will show you the truth of what I am telling you, when you shall have been a little longer in the country. Nearly all the Germans, who have got on here, have come over poor; and if you should see two persons arrive, the one with a thousand dollars, the other without a thousand pfennings,[27] I will wager anything that the poor man shall be the first of the two to become wealthy, or at all events independent." "According to that doctrine, money would be of no advantage, then," said Werner, shaking his head. "Of the _greatest_," Schwarz replied; "but he who possesses it must know how to keep it back. Take my word for it, my dear Werner, that if a man sets foot in this country with a hundred dollars, and lays them out immediately, they are worth nothing to him; but, if he wears them sewed up round his body for three or four years, or if he buries them, he will discover that at the end of that period he possesses in them a little treasure, with which he can commence a new and promising mode of life, in a great many different ways." "But the idea of burying money! It would surely be better to deposit it in some bank." "Yes, if you want to get rid of it. The devil trust the banks; to-day they pay silver for their rags--to-morrow they don't even give you half the amount for them. No, no; the banks may be all very well for those people who are accurately acquainted with their business and circumstances, and at least have the means of knowing when they risk something, and when not. But let the newly-arrived emigrant, for Heaven's sake, abstain from throwing his good money into these maws of speculation; else he may have to rue his imprudence when it is too late." "That throws us back again to my old position," said Werner; "if individuals are really so threatened by dangers on all sides, as you tell me, it must surely be best to begin in large societies or colonies, wherein the interests of all the members can be confided to experienced persons." "In order to be cheated in company," said Schwarz, with a laugh. "Say no more about your unlucky colonies; they never come to a good end, unless the people are influenced by a stern fanatical despotism, acting upon them by means of superstition and religious excitement. Such communities, it is true, are to be found, and some among them there are, in this country, which may be classed with the most blooming and the richest of our settlements; but Heaven preserve us from a life, where mind as well as body is bound in fetters which become tighter and more galling every day. No; we have not come to America for that; we want to enjoy freedom, the greatest blessing which this splendid country possesses; but a colony would just be the greatest and most insuperable hindrance. But I will tell you why, from the very nature of the thing, no German colony, unless under the condition just alluded to,--religious tyranny,--can exist. The different stages of refinement in which people are found in our blessed Germany, are the chief cause. Let them begin with the best intentions of concord and public spirit,--let their will be ever so good,--yet in the long run they don't agree among themselves; unintentionally there arise various little cliques, not exactly of those who are of similar opinions, but of similar education; for he who formerly occupied himself with literature and the fine arts, will always, let him set to work as hard as he pleases, like to devote his hours of leisure not only to chat about cattle and merely mechanical matters, but will also like to converse about something which shall occupy his mind, and, in some degree, recompense him for the now merely material life. But, generally speaking, the less educated man feels himself hurt by this; for as he takes no interest in such conversations himself, he can seldom comprehend how others can do so. "A feeling, unknown perhaps to himself, awakes within him. He thinks himself neglected, and considers those men proud who are only mentally his superiors. From this moment forward all their steps are sharply watched, and it does not remain unnoticed that, as their limbs will not immediately adapt themselves to the unaccustomed occupation, the hard country work, they do less work than the rest. A breach has arisen in their friendly relations which becomes wider every day. The old mischievous saying, 'All are equal here in America,' comes into use more and more frequently and pointedly, and even if those who wish well to the colony do everything in their power to allay the angry feeling, and to restore friendly relations among them, which have been disturbed, nobody knows how, yet it is of no use, good will is gone, a hard, thoughtless word, from one of the 'gentry,' as they already begin to be called, which, perhaps, he never meant himself, gives the finishing touch, and some fine morning Peter clears out this way, Paul that. "Those who possessed the least now come off the best; all the sacrifices made by the founders are forgotten; they must not calculate upon gratitude, and soon find themselves alone again." "It would be best, then, for persons of the same way of thinking, and of the same style of education, only to join in the formation of such a colony; the objection to which you allude would thereby be obviated." "It would, to be sure; but a thousand others arise," continued Schwarz; "just imagine a party issuing from Germany consisting of nothing but--I will assume even--country people, acquainted with one another--there shall not be among them a single gentleman farmer who is accustomed to have bailiffs and servants under him--just imagine them--left to their own resources in a country of which they do not understand even the language, much less the manners and customs, the poor devils would be surrounded by knaves and speculators directly; and even assuming that such colonists really should hold firmly and inseparably together, and should not allow themselves to be cheated in any way, (which is very improbable,) still they would not advance a step; and thus, going from one extreme to another, for the very reason that they did not speculate at all--indeed, could not speculate--they would resemble cattle tethered to a barren heath, although beautiful green pastures might be spread out around them. If any good were to be done with such colonies, my dear friend, you may rest assured that the Americans, who must be best fitted for them, would have discovered and realized it themselves. But they know better; they stand there singly, free and independent, and a German should follow their example in this respect, as he is compelled to do in a thousand other things." Werner looked out upon the yellow waters, reflectively, for some time, and after a short pause, asked-- "And what do you advise me to do, then?" "Come with me," said Schwarz. "I am going to the southern part of Missouri; there I shall purchase a little improvement--that is to say, a place where one of the restless and ever westward-moving Americans has worked before, and where I need not be obliged to clear land for the first year's crop at all events. We'll seek for a little place for yourself somewhere in the neighbourhood, buy cattle as soon as we get there, so as to lose no time in rearing them, and then you may as well work for a few months, or even for a year, as may be agreeable to us both, upon my land; at the expiration of that time, I hope to have brought you so far that you may commence on your own account, and then the sooner you fetch home your bride the better." "Oh, my dear Schwarz!--you paint the future much too brightly; I don't even hope to be so near to the fulfilment of my wishes." "Well, we shall see," said Schwarz, laughing--"we shall see. But where has Helldorf got to? he hasn't shown himself the whole morning; we must be nearly there." "He was sitting above, on the hurricane deck, beside the pilot," replied Werner. "Shall we go up?" At this moment, the large ship-bell gave the signal for landing; the boat, too, approached the shore more and more, and there, in the shade of enormous cotton-wood trees and cypresses, stood an insignificant little log hut, almost concealed by immense piles of cordwood, and making its presence known merely by the blue smoke which arose from its clay-plashed chimney into the clear morning air. The boat landed; across the planks, which were quickly shoved out, hurried away labourers, firemen, and deckhands, who were followed, although more slowly, urged on by rough language from the mate of the vessel, by the deck passengers, who, on board other boats, when they undertook to carry wood, merely had somewhat less to pay for their passage, but, on board the "Diana," were carried gratis, so that the task of wood-carrying should be speedily accomplished, and the journey not thereby delayed; it being important for that vessel to preserve her reputation as the fastest boat on the Mississippi. It was a strange, bustling kind of life which thus suddenly intruded itself on the quiet forest hermitage. The clerk or business-man of the vessel, with a long measuring pole in his hand, sprang upon the piled up wood, and there measured off a certain number of cords, the boundary of which was marked by a couple of logs laid crosswise; the impatient workpeople then fell upon the cordwood like vultures on their prey, and hurried, each man with his load of six or seven long logs, down the steep bank again, on board, where they threw down the wood, and where other men stood in readiness to pile it regularly up. There might be some forty persons in all, who, like busy ants, swarmed out in an almost uninterrupted line over one plank, and returned, loaded, on board again over the other; and within twelve minutes about twenty cord were got on board. The farmer or wood-cutter had meanwhile received his money in the cabin above, and he was just engaged in taking a drop of whisky-punch at the bar, when the bell rang again for starting, and he hastily jumped down, in order not to be carried off with the boat. The last of the labourers snatched up the remaining logs; another loosened the stern rope, the farmer himself remained forward beside the spring rope; the cry, "All aboard!" was heard, and the planks, seized by others of the sailors or deck hands, flew back. "Go ahead!" cried the captain, from the upper deck--the rope struck into the water--other sailors stood forward near the bowsprit, and shoved off her head with long poles; and soon after, she was panting once more away on her course up stream. "Are we still far from the mouth of the Halchee?" inquired Werner of young Helldorf, who had exchanged a few words with the American cordwood cutter. "Scarcely five miles; we may be there within an hour," replied the other; "but I scarcely think that we shall be able to reach the settlement itself this evening." "We had, perhaps, on that account, better remain at the mouth of the river, and start from thence early to-morrow morning," Schwarz suggested; "then we shall have no occasion to sleep in the open air." "But lose half a day"--Werner quickly interrupted him. "What harm will it do us if we should pass one night under the open sky? You are, no doubt, used to it, and it won't hurt me either; at worst, one can only catch cold." "Well," said Schwarz, with a smile, "I have no objection: your impatience appears to me very natural--therefore, let it be so. But, Helldorf, hadn't you better go up to the pilot again, that we may not pass the place by mistake; that would be a joke!" "No, no; the pilot has assured me that he knows the spot," said the latter, "and he will put us out there; but, by way of precaution, I'll remind him of it again. In the meanwhile, you two had better get our luggage down into the little yawl astern, so that we may not occasion any further delay to the vessel on that account." He ascended the narrow stairs which led over the paddle-box; Schwarz and Werner in the meantime followed his advice, got their boxes and bags into the little boat, which was made fast astern by two stout ropes, and was towed after the steamer over the swelling waves, and then returned to the boiler-deck to await the stopping of the Diana. They now passed a rounded point of land which projected far into the river, and continued to steer for a while along the eastern bank, in order to keep in the deeper channel, but then, just as a sandbank began to show its white surface at no great distance from them, the bow of the boat suddenly turned from the land, and kept a course obliquely across the stream towards the western shore. "Yonder is another little river, falling into the Mississippi," said Schwarz, pointing from the starboard gallery of the boat back towards the land which they were leaving more and more, behind them--"yonder, where the bright roof of the log-hut stands out." "You call that a river!" said Werner; "you are liberal with your fine names; three houses cannot stand near each other but you dub them a town. But how desert and wild the prospect looks here, the treacherous rolling stream with its flood of mud, the flat shores without a single eminence, the dead sandbank, which, like a winding-sheet, skirts the gloomy forest. I should not like to live here; the whole appearance of the country seems to tell of fever and misery." "Yes, it is a miserable kind of life, sure enough, that on the banks of the Mississippi; though it is nothing to speak of just now; but in the time of the floods, when the river overflows its banks and inundates the whole country--you should pass then; the log huts standing on piles seem to swim upon the waters, the flood as it rises higher and higher lifts up their floor boards and washes them off, and not unfrequently even tears away the miserable little dwellings themselves in its greedy embrace, and carries them off towards the Gulf of Mexico. "I really can't think how rational beings should like to settle here," said Werner, "for if----" "There lies the Halchee," cried Helldorf, who now came running down from the hurricane deck, pointing astern to the very spot which had already attracted the attention of the two friends--"there lies our destination, and the confounded captain won't put us ashore!" "What! not land us!" exclaimed Werner and Schwarz, jumping up from their seats, surprised. "Oh, hang him!" said Schwarz; "he must land us; in the first place, we have not paid our fare beyond--and, secondly, we wont go any further----" "Yes, all that is very well, but what are you to do with the captain of a steamer on board his own boat? there he is the most absolute of monarchs, and assumes to act with the utmost arbitrariness. It is true that you may 'summons' him at the next town, but that again is attended with so much trouble that one cannot make up one's mind to adopt it unless in an extremity." "But that is shameful," said Werner, angrily; "he takes money for our passage, and then drags us past the place where we want to land. But, my dear Mr. Helldorf, may you not be mistaken? That can't be the mouth of the Big Halchee, for, according to what Dr. Normann told us, there should be a town there." "Dr. Normann no doubt told you many things which were untrue," replied Helldorf, very gravely; "I fear, I fear that he has played another of his scoundrel tricks, and that with complete success. I ought not to have let him get off so quickly, but what could I do with him in New York without proofs." "But what in the name of goodness are we to be at here?" cried Werner. "How much further is this self-willed gentleman going to drag us along with him!" "Probably to the next town where he may stop, or perhaps, even to the next wood station." "That would be pleasant," growled Schwarz; "we have only just now taken in wood enough to last us till evening at least. No, he must put us out before; probably the place at the Halchee was not convenient for him to stop, because he had to keep so far from shore on account of the sandbank, and would have been compelled to wait a long time for the return of the boat." "Certainly, that was the reason," replied Helldorf; "and the pilot tells me that the captain has made a considerable wager that he will reach Louisville, which is 1400 miles from New Orleans, within six days. On that account it is that he takes deck-passengers for their services as wood-carriers merely, and only stops at those places where he is obliged." "Then I'll speak to him," said Schwarz; "so that, at all events, he may not carry us too far. If we land at any little town, or at a farm even, we probably may be able to get a canoe with which to return the few miles." Schwarz did as he proposed, but the swift boat carried them with great speed, for several hours more, away from their destination, and it was not until the Diana was rushing close past the eastern bank, and there, at a convenient spot for lying-to, found a considerable number of passengers, who had been waiting for the first steamer that should pass, that the captain gave the signal for putting out the boat. The three friends did not wait to be told twice, but quickly took their seats, and found themselves in a few seconds more on dry ground. Scarcely, however, had they touched the sand, before their boxes and bags were chucked after them, by the sailors, with the most amiable _naiveté_ in the world; with as little ceremony did they get on board the luggage which belonged to the passengers who were taken up there, and which was lying ready, hurried the passengers themselves after it, and in a couple of minutes from their departure they were alongside their boat again. A rope was thrown to them, and whilst the passengers (among whom were some women) were left to get from the low boat aboard the high steamer as well as they could, the latter already dashed on again, panting and foaming wildly. The proprietor of the farm where they stopped was then at the water's edge, whither he had accompanied the persons who had just left, and he received the three friends, who, as he naturally supposed, had come there on purpose to see him; for his little clearing lay in the midst of an immense reed-brake, and was not in any way connected, by land at least, with other places or settlements. Helldorf soon explained to him the cause of this really very unintentional visit. Nevertheless, the farmer gave them a hearty welcome, and comforted them with the assurance that the Diana was not the only one of the fast boats which committed such arbitrary acts. He promised them, moreover, a good canoe, large enough to carry them and their effects down stream, only that they must get out of the way of the swell caused by the steamers, as that was dangerous to a deep going canoe, or hollowed-out tree stem. This was cold comfort, certainly, but there was no choice, for they could not have got along by land, even had they been willing to leave their things in the lurch, a reed-brake in the Valley of the Mississippi being about the worst imaginable of impassable thickets or wildernesses. So, for a few dollars, they bought the little vessel, and were for putting their things aboard, and going off at once. But the farmer would not hear of this; it was dinner-time--dinner was waiting, as he said, on the table, and they should on no account leave his land hungry, particularly as they had a considerable journey before them, and it was doubtful besides whether they would be able to reach the mouth of the Halchee before darkness set in. Werner, it is true, would have preferred starting at once, for he could get no rest or peace so near his sweetheart; on the other hand, his stomach spoke pretty distinctly in favour of the offer of the hospitable American, so they accompanied the latter to his dwelling, which was but a few hundred yards off, and where they were most heartily received by the mistress of the house, a very pretty, neat, and tidily-dressed--but rather pale and delicate-looking, little woman. Here they remained for it might be an hour or more, and then they were obliged to take some Indian corn bread and cold turkey for the journey with them, in order, the young lady said, that they might not arrive there hungry again. But so quickly had they become acquainted with, and even attached to these good people, that after no more than an hour passed in their company, they already parted from them unwillingly. But time pressed, the journey which they had to make was a long one, and they wished, if possible, to reach the mouth of the Halchee before evening, at all events, in order to hear from the farmer residing there, whose country they had learned from their host, some particulars of the fortunes of the colony. Their canoe, which, from its size, might even pretend to the name of a pirogue, was excellent, and bore them, while Helldorf steered, and Schwarz and Werner rowed, quickly down stream. But the warning to avoid the swell raised by steamers seemed to have been by no means unnecessary; for once, when they had not troubled themselves about a boat passing far away towards the opposite shore, the canoe narrowly escaped being swamped by the waves, although these were already much weakened by the distance. By dint of great exertions they managed to keep themselves above water, with the head of their little bark towards the swell which rolled in towards them, whilst the two rowers had as much as they could do to bale out the water that washed over the gunwale. Rendered cautious by this, they landed each time that they saw a steamer coming--and once, when the gigantic Louisiana rushed past them, they carried their boxes upon shore, for this powerful boat threw waves nearly eight feet in height upon the bank. These repeated stoppages delayed their progress very much, and, when the sun set, they had not yet reached the longed-for spot. But the moon shone down clearly from the blue firmament, and they knew that by hugging the eastern shore they could not very well miss the place itself, as the considerable sandbank above the mouth marked the neighbourhood distinctly enough. They reached it, accordingly, at last--glided past it--crossed the Halchee--and landed opposite the house, just where a tolerably thick cotton-wood tree had fallen with its top in the stream, while its root still rested above on the bank, and thereby warded aside the current, and, to a certain extent, whilst they lay close under its shade, formed a secure harbour for the boat. They were about to go at once into the house, from the crevices of which a dim light issued, but another steamer coming up stream, warned them, first of all, to get their things into a place of safety; they carried them, therefore, up the bank, whilst the dogs lying near the house gave tongue, and announced the presence of strangers by barking and howling. But the people in the house appeared to trouble themselves little about the noise, for no door was opened; and had not the fire glimmering within betrayed the vicinity of human beings, our party would have supposed the hut uninhabited. "They seem to be very careless about robbers or thieves," said Helldorf, laughing, when they had carried up the last of their effects, and were going down to their pirogue again, to remain beside it until the approaching steamer had swept past, so that their rocking boat should not be washed away by the waves. "There won't be much to steal there!" said Schwarz; "there is generally not much to be got from the farmers, but a bit of cold steel or a lump of hot lead, and the thievish gentry rather avoid them. Nobody has a lock on his door--a wooden bolt, shoved forward from the inside or outside, answers the same purpose, and affords as much security;--But, didn't you hear some one speak? The voice seemed to come from the banks of the Mississippi." "I heard nothing," said Helldorf. "Oh, yes, I did, distinctly," replied Schwarz; "probably 'tis from the people, or negroes, from the house here, who may be about to light a fire to induce the passing steamer to land, and take in wood." But the steamer engaged their whole attention for the time, and not a word more was exchanged, for the colossus rushed nearer and nearer, and close behind it followed the foaming powerful waves, and rocked and beat about the crank boat so madly and wildly, that it was only with some exertion that the three men could protect it from them. But the waves disappeared as suddenly as they came; and Helldorf took hold of the long painter, which passed through a hole forward in the bow, and was just about to make it fast to the branch of a fallen tree, when he suddenly stopped in a listening posture, with his body advanced forward, and his hand raised. Immediately afterwards, the friends looked at each other in astonishment, for angry sounds, as of persons quarrelling, were heard in that direction; these were quickly succeeded by a half-suppressed cursing and groaning, and, in the next, by the report of a shot. The sound of hoofs of galloping horses next struck on the ear; it came nearer and nearer, and, about the moment when the horsemen must have reached the open space, a smart boat, rowed by one man only, glided out into the stream. "Massa! take me 'long with you!--for God's sake take me 'long with you!"--cried a voice from the shore. But the man in the boat did not appear to heed it, but rowed on with evident exertion, and that right across the river, in doing which he was carried a little downwards by the current, which was not very rapid in that place. The Germans had watched the whole proceeding with the most anxious interest, and in the surprise of the moment, really hardly knew which way to turn, or what course to pursue; but Helldorf now exclaimed:-- "There's something wrong going forward here; let us go up, perhaps we may yet be of some service;" and with these words he was about to run up the river bank; at that moment there resounded across from the boat, which was already almost lost in the obscurity, a cry for help, so loud and urgent that Helldorf stopped in alarm; but Werner cried out, as he started forward:-- "That was Bertha's voice, by Heaven! Helldorf, Schwarz, if you are my friends, show it now!" and, without waiting for a reply, or caring about the wild shouts and noise which now arose on the bank of the stream, he sprang into the boat, which they had just quitted, and the two friends had scarcely time to follow him, and to resume their places, before he pushed from the shore and took to the oar with all the vigour of which he was master. "Stay, or I fire!" cried a voice from the shore, which Werner instantly recognised as Von Schwanthal's. "'Tis I!" he called, in reply--"I, Werner!" "Stay, or I fire!" repeated the other, who, in his excitement, did not appear to have comprehended the words. "Then fire, and be d----d!" growled Helldorf, who thought that they had got far enough from shore not to need to fear a shot, especially in the dark; but Von Schwanthal, who never doubted but that this boat was connected with the other, and, in his haste and excitement, not remembering that Bertha, herself, should she happen to be in it, might be hit, levelled and fired; and directly after the flash, even before the report reached them, the slugs, with which the gun had been loaded, struck in and around the pirogue, and Werner could not suppress a low cry of pain. The second barrel missed fire. "Are you wounded?" cried Schwarz, turning round, in alarm, towards his friend; "has that blockhead hit you?" "Hit, certainly; but it's nothing--only grazed, I believe--for God's sake don't let us lose time--we shall be too late else--away!--yonder flies the boat, and if he once reaches the further shore, how are we to follow him?" Schwarz and Helldorf knew but too well the truth of this remark, and, without another word, they urged on the slim canoe, which was considerably lightened by the removal of their baggage, with the speed of an arrow, through the current, after the fugitive. FOOTNOTES: [24] The Boiler-deck, in American river steamers, is the space forward of the cabin, on the lower deck, between the two chimneys which pass up through it, and top over the hurricane deck. [25] A settler calculating on this would stand a chance of being starved.--TR. [26] Girdling is a bad and slovenly practice, as the girdled trees, when the rest are cleared away from around them, are very liable to be blown down, and thus endanger men and animals; again, the wood gets so very hard, that it is much more difficult to cut into lengths for logging and burning, when it is blown down.--TR. [27] A pfenning is German money, value 1/12th of a penny.--TR. CHAPTER IX. TREACHERY WITHIN TREACHERY. "Massa!" said the mulatto, after he had rowed awhile, till large drops of sweat rolled down his forehead--"massa, this is confounded hard work! Shall we drink a drop?--the bottle lies beside you." And he raised his oar out of the water whilst he said these words, so that the clear drops slowly trickled from it into the stream; Dr. Normann also stopped rowing, and breathed hard. "Confound it!" he then whispered, "this is cursed hard work! I should like you to take the oar a little. There you sit at your ease, enjoying yourself! Let me steer awhile." Normann made this proposition more for the purpose of getting beside Bertha than to be released from the work, which, though hard, was not altogether new to him; the bold looks which the rascally Yankee now no longer turned away for a moment from the girl, did not please him, and he was less and less able to suppress a growing suspicion that the American did not mean fair play. "Nonsense!" retorted Turner, who appeared by no means disposed to give up good-naturedly any advantage which he might have obtained. "You want to steer, do you? so that we may run foul of bushes or snags every minute, and afterwards get too late into the Mississippi--eh? No, every second is worth gold, and the change of places would occupy us too long. Row away! row away!--rest when we are once in the river!--there's no time for it now. Away!--when we're in the Mississippi, _you_ may steer,--a trifle either way is of no consequence there. Away, I say! or you will have no one to thank but yourself for the destruction of us all!" The men took to their oars again in silence, and shot down stream with wonderful speed. The moon lent them her silver light; and it was not until they caught sight of the shining sheet of water, the Mississippi, that they stopped a moment to take counsel whether they should attempt the passage at once, or reconnoitre first. Turner voted for the latter plan, and the mulatto was despatched to examine the safety of the mouth; but he returned within a few minutes, laughing, and chuckled out, shaking all the time with inward enjoyment-- "Just as I s'posed!--a confounded rough road through the woods, and the worthy Dutchmen will have a while to ride yet, before they catch sight of the shore! Well, I wish 'em joy! But now, massa, I must have a drink, by golly! or else I wont touch an oar again!" Turner handed him over the flask in silence, but immediately turned to Normann, and said-- "Doctor, it's time that we changed places; now you may steer. But just step ashore a minute; we must bale the water out of the boat--the confounded thing leaks. Confusion! what a row those dogs are making!--and yet they're to windward of us. What the devil ails them?" "No cons'quence," grinned the mulatto; "the people will think they are barking at the steamer that is just passing up stream. But, hallo, massa! she's going close in shore!--will make great swell." "We had better lighten our boat," said Turner, "else we may perhaps end by getting swamped." "There's no fear," said Normann. "With this boat, I'd row under the very paddles of the Sultana herself, and she shouldn't ship a drop!" "Yes, when you're once out in deep water," growled Turner; "but here, so close to the mud bank, stuck all over with old snags, the devil may trust it!--it's easy work, and 'tis better to be safe! If we ship water now, who knows but that the horsemen may be upon us before we have time to bale it out again." Without awaiting any further answer from Normann, he took Bertha's sister this time in his arms, and carried her ashore. This had the wished-for result; Normann followed quickly with Bertha, who turned her pale countenance away with a shudder, when she felt herself touched by the hands of the scoundrel; and the mulatto had to mount guard, Turner putting the painter into the doctor's hand, to hold the light vessel, whilst he himself, notwithstanding all the swaying and rocking from the swell, driven up the Halchee by the steamer, which now rushed past, baled her out. As soon as this work was concluded, he gave a gentle whistle, scarce audible, and the mulatto immediately came running down the steep river bank. "Bring one of the girls," said Turner to him--"the eldest first: so; lay her this way. Doctor, you'll get seated between the two lasses now, only don't let them make you forget to steer." He laughed, at the same time, quietly to himself, and it struck the doctor as though he whispered a few words to the mulatto. Be that as it might, Norman's suspicions became stronger, and he was thinking of letting go the rope, and taking his place in the boat again, when the mulatto came back. "Now, massa doctor," said the yellow fellow, showing his ivories--"take the youngest one, if you please,--I'll hold the boat so long." He took hold of the rope, and advanced the right foot. Normann stood, for a few seconds, in doubt, but then turned half aside from him, as though he were about to follow his advice; the half-son of Africa, too, allowed himself to be deceived, sprang rapidly towards the boat, shoved it quickly from the shore, and was just about to follow with a rapid spring, when Normann, who perhaps had a notion of something of the sort--and yet, again, could scarce believe that his own friends would leave him in the lurch in so shameful a manner--upset the well-spun scheme, by suddenly throwing himself upon, and flinging his arms round him. "Hold, sir!" he cried--"you rascal--you! You don't escape so! Turner, you perjured villain! would you betray me?" "Make yourself loose, Nick!" cried Turner to the mulatto--"make yourself loose!--quick! By Jove, I hear the horses! We are lost if they catch us!" "You scoundrel! I keep you in pawn!" cried the doctor, who was now driven to extremity. "He can't get away alone, and we shall, at all events, go to the devil together!" "Haven't you a knife about you, Nick?" exclaimed Turner. The danger increased every moment: a few minutes more must decide their fate. "Come quick!--come both of you, then, in the name of all the devils in hell!--only quickly!" he cried, at last, in a rage, for he knew how invaluable every second was. But even if he could have made the combatants comprehend his wish, Normann, after what had taken place, would not, on any account, have put himself into the hands of his treacherous companions; but as it was, neither of the two enraged men heard even a syllable of the proposal. Nick had, with infinite trouble, got his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small pocket pistol, which he quickly and secretly turned towards the German's forehead. But this movement of his opponent had not remained unobserved by the latter, and he threw his arm upward, and struck the weapon aside, at the very moment the mulatto was pulling the trigger: the ball even grazed his ear, and the powder singed his face. But now, driven to the extremity of rage, he no longer heard even the approaching galloping of the horses, but seizing the slim figure of the negro with all the strength he possessed, he threw him to the ground. In the same moment, the pursuers appeared on the river bank, close above the two wrestlers, and Turner's boat glided out beneath the shadow of the bushes into the Mississippi. "Confusion!" said the Yankee, gnashing his teeth, finding he had to handle the two heavy oars in tholes which did not correspond. "Confusion seize that awkward brute of a nigger! to let himself be upset like that by a Dutchman; if they only hang the varmint, and I hear of it, that'll be some comfort! Well, my pretty, now we two must make the journey alone," he said, turning grinning to the prisoner lying before him; "didn't I tell you, my poppet, that you----" "Help, help, here! Help!" suddenly cried with a loud voice, the unhappy girl, who had, meanwhile, with the most fearful exertions, freed herself from the gag. "Help, here! Help!" In the next instant, the palm of the American's hand was on her lips, and he whispered to her, through his clenched teeth-- "Ho-ho! my pretty little dove, must I draw the bit a little tighter? So," he continued, whilst he made any further attempt at screaming futile, by a large woollen cloth--"so! if it should be a little close for you, you must bear it; over in Arkansas, I'll make you more comfortable." He seized the oars once more, and pulled away till the tumid veins on his forehead threatened to burst the skin;--"Stop!" resounded across from the shore, and, as he was gazing thither, to see to whom the call was addressed, for he was himself too far for it to have reference to him--a flash gleamed in the obscurity and the report of a shot followed. His attention was thus drawn to the direction in which the shot was fired, and to his astonishment and alarm, he just discerned, in the dim light of the moon, the dark shadow of a second boat gliding on, which evidently must be following him. Although he could not account, in the first place, where this boat had come from, as the mulatto had found none thereabouts, or, secondly, why his enemies should fire upon it, yet, he did not, for a moment, hesitate in concluding it to contain, as it really did, _pursuers_; and his sole aim now was to reach the opposite shore before it. Once there with his prize, he could, under the dark shadow of the woods, either give them the slip, with his boat even, or else easily carry his prize into the thicket, where pursuit would be useless. So, with his face turned to the dark spot, from which the flashing light of the oars, as they were lifted out of the water, alone announced the activity with which those in it were striving after their object, he himself pulled away lustily, and shaped his course, so as to give way a little to the stream, not exactly across, but rather endeavouring to maintain his advantage, as he still thought it possible to escape them by superior speed. But he was soon undeceived, for although the pirogue was unquestionably clumsier in the water than the excellently modelled boat, yet the latter was not adapted to be rowed by one person: the tholes lay opposite separate seats, the one more forward than the other, and the working of both at the same time was highly inconvenient. Turner, who knew how to scull, might, it is true, have easily got his boat down stream in that way, but he could not have made, in that fashion, so much way as the pirogue, and, he was consequently obliged for his own safety to choose the less convenient but more advantageous mode. Still, the pursuers gained upon him, and he was obliged to turn the head of his boat more towards the stream, in order to reach the opposite shore as soon as possible. But this movement, which did not pass unnoticed by Helldorf, only redoubled the zeal of the Germans, and the steersman warned the rowers several times, not to pull too violently, lest they should break one of their oars, a loss which could not have been made good. Turner was now compelled, in order to get more command of the lower or larboard oar, and be enabled to stem the stream, to change the tholes, which occupied him some seconds, for whilst he stopped rowing, the boat's head turned quite towards the stream, and she lost her course. Scarcely had the American resumed his seat, and got his little vessel in her former direction, before he saw how much nearer the enemy had advanced, and became conscious of the danger which threatened him. The current, besides, had carried him further down than he anticipated, and he observed, on turning his head to look, that he must touch the upper part of the sandbank, situate on the opposite side of the river, about three English miles below the one before alluded to, and would not be able to give his pursuers the slip in the shadow of the woods, or in the top of some tree fallen into the water. All that remained for him was to save his own life, and gnashing his teeth, he was compelled to admit to himself, that the booty, which he had considered so safe, was lost to him. There is no knowing what he might have done in the first moment of rage, had he only dared to cease rowing for an instant; but as it was, he found himself almost within shot of the silently approaching avengers, and knew well enough, unless he reached the sandbank sooner, and much sooner, too, than they, that he should be exposed to their fire. He could not possibly dare to hope, that people who engaged in such a pursuit were unarmed, and yet such was the case; not one of the three carried so much as a pistol, and they had simply, on the impulse of the moment, and relying on the goodness of their cause, followed a desperate ruffian, who, there could be no doubt, would have sold his life dearly. Turner, never without a weapon himself, thought the same probable of others, and as his pursuers were Germans, they naturally, according to his idea, carried nothing else than fowling pieces or shot guns, and those double-barrelled ones. But, just now, he dreaded those more than he did a ball, for it was more probable that he should be hit by them, and perhaps crippled, than with a bullet. He therefore exerted himself in desperation, his limbs were bathed in sweat, his sinews strained almost to starting, and he was scarcely fifty yards distant from the strand which promised him deliverance, when the boat ran upon one of the numerous tongues of sand which in that place run out into the stream, and grounded hard and fast. Turner well knew how impossible it would be for him, under existing circumstances, to get her afloat again, and therefore, without a second's further delay, seized his rifle and shot bag, and jumped overboard, and ran, with rapid bounds, through the water, which there was scarcely a foot in depth, towards the sandy shore. He had hardly reached it, before he began to spring across the hard sand in zig-zag, in order to avoid any shot which might happen to be sent after him, and in doing this performed such extraordinary gambols, that Schwarz, who immediately guessed what he was in dread of, and knew the groundlessness of his fears, broke out into a loud laugh. But Werner, who troubled himself little about the runaway rascal, if he could only succeed in saving his sweetheart, was in half a minute's time beside the boat left in the lurch, in which the maiden, bound and gagged, was still lying. He was in it with a rapid spring, and in the next moment, Bertha, swooning from joyous surprise, rested upon his breast. For the unhappy girl had had no means of forming an idea that any body was in pursuit of her kidnapper; although she heard the shot fired at the canoe, yet, as she was lying in the stern of the boat, with her face turned forward, and could only see the exertion with which the scoundrel was rowing, she gave herself up for lost. Nor had she been able to perceive the happy consequences which had ensued from her cry for help, for the American had immediately thrown himself upon her, and stifled any further sound by a new bandage. When, therefore, she felt, as she supposed, the boat touch the shore, she abandoned all hope, and stared, with fixed and horrified gaze, at the man in whose ruffianly power she now believed herself. But how astonished was she, when, without bestowing a single word upon her, he jumped out of the boat into the splashing water, and directly afterwards another boat glided alongside, out of which--gracious Heaven! was it one of thy angels that thou hadst sent?--the very man sprang to whom her whole pure soul hung with devotion. The joy was too overwhelming; she cast a single look of gratitude upward, into the clear sky, and then sank back, unconscious, into the arms which were clasped around her. In the same moment of time Turner disappeared in the thicket of young cotton-wood saplings, which skirted the sand-bank. "I say, Helldorf, I think we shall make a good exchange here," said Schwarz, laughing, as he followed Werner into the captured boat; "well leave our old hollow log behind us: what say you?" "Why, of course," said Helldorf; "but we'll tow it into the current again, so that yonder varmint may not chance to use it to get away. Without a vessel, may he be devoured by mosquitoes in Mississippi swamps." "What jumps he took!" said Schwarz, still laughing at the thought of the Yankee's zig-zag flight. "He thought, no doubt, that we had a whole arsenal of fire arms aboard; but, by Jove, here are two rifles, and a whole box full of provision, apparently." "It will be time enough for examination when we get back," said Helldorf. "Werner, can you steer?" He nodded his head in silence, but did not remove his eyes from off the countenance of his beloved, whose deadly pale temples he bathed with the cool water of the stream. "But we're fast aground!" exclaimed Schwarz. "Wet feet won't hurt us much," Helldorf interrupted him, and jumped overboard at once to shove the boat afloat again. Schwarz quickly followed his example; in a few seconds they felt the boat give way to their efforts, and soon it rocked freely and merrily again in deeper water. The men now jumped in, and whilst they vigorously plied the long oars, Werner took hold of the tiller with his left hand, while with his right he supported his beloved. The well-modelled boat glided with the speed of an arrow towards the Eastern shore once more. But there, meanwhile, things had proceeded wildly and confusedly enough. Wolfgang and Herbold, throwing themselves from their horses, had seized the two traitors, who were struggling with each other; but the mulatto would certainly have escaped from the firm grasp of Herbold, for, quick as lightning, he drew a small knife from his girdle, from the use of which the doctor had hitherto prevented him, and stuck it into the shoulder of the German, who instantly let go his hold in alarm; but Pastor Hehrmann, although he shrank from shooting a fellow-being, even though as vile a criminal as he who stood before him, yet could not help giving some vent to his just rage, and, swinging round his weapon quickly, he struck, with its butt end, the hard-sculled son of Ethiopia, with such good will, on the head, that the stock broke in two, and the mulatto was doubled up without speech or movement. In the next moment, he, as well as Normann, whom Wolfgang held with an iron grasp, were bound so fast that they could not budge. Pastor Hehrmann had, in the meantime, discovered his poor younger child lying on the ground, almost lifeless with anxiety and dread; he loosened her bands, and pressed her affectionately to his bosom, when the report of Von Schwanthal's shot turned their attention in that direction. They now made out both boats in the moonlight, but all of them remained in uncertainty, for who in the world could the pursuers be, if the first boat contained the fugitive and his booty. Louisa increased their doubts by stating that the American was the only one now left of the treacherous band, and the Germans could not imagine where the other boat came from. Had Providence sent it to save the poor innocent girl from the hands of her kidnapper, or did it only bear away others of his rascally accomplices, who, perhaps, had been lying here in ambuscade to cover the traitor's flight? The prisoners were required to give them some explanation; but, however ready the mulatto might be to tell all that he knew, in the hope of saving his dark skin, yet he was compelled to confess that the second boat was unknown to him, and certainly did not belong to their party. This was the only circumstance which left the miserable father a glimmer of hope, although he could not conceive who the men might be who had hastened to the salvation of his child, so unexpectedly, and at so critical a moment. He could now only pray that Heaven might prosper their good work; and, with folded hands, and with his sobbing daughter leaning on his breast, the poor unhappy man stood and gazed, fixed and motionless, out into the silent surface of the stream, as though he would have penetrated the obscurity which shrouded it. Normann and the mulatto lay firmly bound beneath a tree, and Von Schwanthal stood beside them, with his gun again loaded and cocked; but Herbold pulled off his coat, and was just endeavouring, by the faint light of the moon, to examine the wound which he had received from the steel of the mulatto, when they heard the rustling of the bushes, and the younger Siebert, Schmidt, and an Alsatian, the former armed with a double-barrelled gun, and the other two carrying formidable bludgeons in their fists, rushed towards them. They were soon informed of the state of affairs, and the clubmen were turned into watchers of the prisoners, whilst Siebert laid down his weapon, and looked at Herbold's wound; it proved altogether free from danger; the uncertain thrust had but grazed the shoulder and torn the skin; a linen handkerchief was bound over it, and there was nothing more to be feared from it. It was then that Pastor Hehrmann, who had never turned away his eyes from the river, suddenly exclaimed, as he pointed, with his left arm outstretched, down the stream-- "Did you hear nothing? was not that a sound like an oar creaking against the hard wood of a boat's side?" All listened, and for some seconds absolute silence ensued, then it sounded distinctly across the water. All heard, at measured intervals, the regular working of a pair of oars, but they still remained in uncertainty whether the boat to which they belonged was going down the stream, or whether it was returning. After a quarter of an hour of the most exciting and painful expectation, Herbold first discerned a dark point in the lighter surface of the water, and soon after, every moment more distinctly, the outline of a boat became visible, ploughing the stream, and, it could no longer be doubted, making for the eastern shore. Now the separate figures of those in it might be distinguished--there were three of them--two rowed, and one was at the tiller--but what was that? Was there not something white lying in the stern? Something now moved in the boat, a white handkerchief was waved:-- "The Hoffnung, ahoy!" cried a loud voice to the shore. "Gracious Heaven!" said Pastor Hehrmann, and his knees trembled with joyous alarm, "gracious Heaven! was not that Werner's voice? And my daughter----Bertha----" "Is saved!" the other called back; "we bring her; father, she is here!" The boat glided into the shade of the projecting trees, and immediately after they heard it strike upon the soft mud. How Pastor Hehrmann flew down the steep bank and clasped the child who was found again, he hardly knew himself. It was only when held in Bertha's arms, and when that excellent girl, who up to that moment had exhibited fortitude and moral strength, broke out into convulsive sobs, and clasped her father's neck, as though she would never, never more loosen her embrace, that he comprehended, that he felt, that he had indeed got both his dear children back, and with a voice almost choked by emotion, he cried-- "My Lord, I thank thee!" How describe, with cold dead words, the feelings which the happy ones felt, when, in constantly renewed embraces, they felt completely that they were restored to each other, never more to be separated! How gladly did the father welcome the worthy deliverers of his daughters, two of whom were already his old and dear friends, and how often had they to recount again and again how they had just happened to arrive in time to save Bertha from an ill which--he shuddered at the mere thought of such misery! And why, during all these relations, did the dear great hearted girl hide her little head, with a deep blush, in her father's breast? Why did she not look freely and openly into the eyes of those who had so readily hurried to her rescue when she was in need and danger, as she had hitherto, unconscious of evil, done towards all men? Oh, do not press the poor girl, her nerves have not recovered from the fright and dread, and--Werner has, during the short passage, been whispering so many, so very many things into her ears, that--but 'tis no business of ours, and we had better stick to our story. "What's to be done now with these two fellows here?" said Von Schwanthal, who probably felt the evening air getting too damp for his taste. "Shall we take them into the house, or shall we carry them to the settlement with us?" "Well leave them here," said Wolfgang; "what's the use of dragging them about any further? Either we will pronounce judgment upon them ourselves to-morrow, which, at all events would be the shorter course, or we will take them, bound, in the boat, to Memphis, so that they may be punished there." "That will certainly be best," said Pastor Hehrmann, "for, may Heaven preserve us from executing the law ourselves, as I have heard is sometimes practised here in America! We will not dye our hands in human blood." "Am I dreaming?" said Helldorf, who had stopped to listen as soon as he heard Wolfgang's voice, advancing towards the latter, and availing himself of the uncertain light of the moon. "Isn't that--by all that's wonderful!--Wolfgang!" "Helldorf!" the other exclaimed, embracing his friend, and pressing him to his breast--"Helldorf, God bless you, my dear fellow--Helldorf!" and with that word, the name of a man with whom he had in past times shared joy and sorrow--the remembrance came upon him suddenly of all that he had lost, of all that he had suffered, and he cast himself in dumb and scarce bearable agony on the shoulder of his friend. "Friends! I have a hundred dollars in gold upon me," Dr. Normann now suddenly whispered to the two men who kept watch over him; "they are yours if you will cut through the cord, and turn away your head for a moment." "Hit him over the head, Hans, if he opens his mouth again," said Schmidt, growling a hearty curse to himself into the bargain. "Does the blackguard think to bribe us, too? Wait, you dog!" Under any other circumstances it is probable that Normann would have been deterred by this not over-encouraging answer, but the sound of the voices of the two men, Wolfgang and Helldorf, filled his soul with horror, and he dreaded the worst. "I have five hundred dollars with me," he whispered again, as he endeavoured to raise himself; "my men, I'll make you rich, only loosen my bands, and give me a minute's start. _Five hundred_ dollars, I say, do you hear?--five hundred dollars!" "Shall I give him a tap?" asked the Alsatian, and raised the heavy iron-shod stick, which in starting he had seized in haste as the most convenient weapon of offence and defence. "It won't do any harm," Schmidt considered, growling, "for he has already richly deserved----" The Alsatian did not wait for the conclusion of his comrade's sentence, but gave the bound criminal such a hard and well meant cut across the shoulders, that the latter yelled with pain and rage. "Hallo! what's up there?" Von Schwanthal now cried, as he levelled his gun, and quickly advanced. "Is he trying to get away?" "He's offering a bribe again," said Schmidt, laughing, "and the Alsatian has forbidden him rather feelingly." "Aha! he would like to be off," said Von Schwanthal, "I dare say. His is a desperate case. I wouldn't be in his shoes for the best bearskin in the world. But I think it would be better for us to take those worthies in-doors. In the first place they can be easier guarded there, and besides it's getting very unpleasant out here. Mr. Wolfgang, I dare say, has got a little bread and meat--you understand!" "Aha! you are hungry," said the party alluded to, with a smile; "well, we shall manage to find something. But here comes Scipio, with fire, I see. That's right of you, old fellow; throw the burning logs down here; we are not going to stay out here all night, it is true, but they may light us for the moment." He took, at the same time, a burning pine-torch out of the old negro's hand, and stepped up to the place where the malefactors were guarded. "So this gentleman, here, wanted to bribe our watchmen, eh?" said Wolfgang, while he passed the flaming light towards the pale face of the doctor. "That, I suppose, is your much-praised Dr. Normann. Confusion!" he suddenly cried out, interrupting himself, and starting back in surprise, as though he had trodden on a snake--"Wæhler! Dr. Wæhler! Then there is a retributive providence even in this world. Villain, thy hour has come! Mary! Mary! here is revenge!" And before any of the astonished spectators, who surrounded him, could interfere--yes, even before the pale sinner himself had any notion of what was in store for him--Wolfgang, driven by the sight of the hated one to the wildest and most unbridled rage, swung the heavy brand which he carried in his hand, and dashed it down with all his might upon the malefactor, who uttered a loud scream of dread and horror. The sparks flew far around, and the flame was extinguished--but again the glimmering club was raised and threatened destruction to him who had now fallen back unconscious; it was Pastor Hehrmann who saved him. He seized the enraged man's arm with all his strength, and begged and entreated of him to stay, and not to stain his soul with murder. "Murder!" said Wolfgang, musingly. "Murder!" he re-echoed as if in a dream. "Yes, yes, it would be murder--yet that villain, has he not deserved death a thousand-fold at my hands? Was he not the cause that we were obliged to leave the home we had founded in a beautiful country, and that my wife now--killed by fever and grief--lies in the cold earth? But you are right," he continued, after a short pause, whilst the smoking torch fell from his hand--"you are right; I will not stain myself with the blood of this villain--he shall be handed over to the _hangman_, to whom he belongs." "Hold there--hold fast!" cried Schmidt, as he made a spring, and missing his footing, pulled down the Alsatian who stood beside him, to the ground, too. "Back!" cried Von Schwanthal, at the same time, as he opposed himself to the dark form of the fugitive mulatto, who was just about to fly past him into the thicket. But perceiving the German levelling at him, and fearing the fowling-piece, which stopped his only outlet in that direction, more, he turned back and attacked young Siebert, who was taken by surprise, tore the gun out of his hand, and then sprung with it, with a tremendous leap, right into the stream, whose waters met over him again. "Wait a bit, you scoundrel!" said Von Schwanthal, as he sprang to the edge of the bank, and raised the gun to his cheek--"wait, you scoundrel! only show your black woolly head again, and I'll let fly at you, so that----" "Let him go," Werner begged, as he pushed the barrel, which was already aimed, aside--"we are all so happy, this evening. Human blood, spilt by our hands, would put us out. He will not escape his fate." "You are right, I will willingly leave him; however, you've saved his life, that's certain, else by this time he would have been on the high road to the infernal regions. But, if he really does go to the devil, we've got the head and chief rogue, and he must pay the penalty for both this time. Wait a bit, my little doctor, we'll make you swallow something which shall be more bitter than your own pills." But the doctor did not hear a word of all these friendly addresses, for, stupified by the blow, he continued to lie there rigid and unconscious, or else pretended to be so, and was carried by his sentinels into the house. The mulatto, who had made such good use of the moment when they were all occupied with the doctor, and was now joyously dividing the flood with sturdy arms, struck out towards the opposite shore. Von Schwanthal could, for a long time, trace the light stripe which the swimmer left behind him in the water. He certainly appeared to have escaped from the hands of mortal avengers; but a greater one watched him; Nemesis stretched forth her iron grasp towards him--he had met his fate. There are few who can plough their way across the mighty father of the waters--the Mississippi; the current is too strong; a thousand whirlpools exhaust the swimmer, although they may not be powerful enough to suck him down. The Mulatto stemmed the flood with powerful chest, and had already reached the middle of the river; he then turned on his back to rest, and now began again to labour with redoubled exertion. But this it was which proved fatal to him; he had, from the very first, to escape the still-dreaded shot, over-exerted himself, and now, when fear lest he should not reach the saving shore came to be superadded, it operated cripplingly upon him. His breathing became more laboured, his movements quicker, but also fainter, and it was only the sight of the shore, which constantly advanced more and more near, which yet maintained his spirit. He had now attained the dark line that mirrored the tree tops in the water, yet still the land receded about two hundred yards more. "Courage!" he faintly gasped, whilst he clenched his teeth as if in grim defiance--"courage! yonder--but a few yards off, life and freedom smile!--courage!" With a strength which he could only borrow from despair, he divided the waters. He had but a few yards more to swim before he could grasp the over-hanging willows of the shore. "Ha! how strong the current rolls along on this side!" He could scarcely support himself above the whirling flood. "Help!" he cried: Turner must be on this side, and would hear him. "Help!" In vain--twice, already, had he stretched out his hand to a projecting branch, twice had the current's speed sucked him away from under it. Now, again, a saving branch stretched out towards him--with a last exertion of strength, he threw himself upwards and towards it; he clutched the rocking branch which projected far into the river. But, oh! unfortunate wretch, it gave way! it was but a floating reed which had settled there, and that broke in the grasp. The mulatto sank--the waves curled and gurgled above him. He yet clutched the treacherous reed in his hand, and bore it with him into the deep. But there--yet again--as if in the battle of struggling and wrestling life with the silent deep, the dark figure reappeared from its watery grave; yet again it turned its wild defying look up to the bright, silent, friendly moon, that quietly and holily poured down her peaceful light, as well on the passion-torn sons of man, as on the cold, slumbering, earth, and the silver-gleaming stream. Yet again, a wild, blasphemous curse bubbled from the ashen lips of the mulatto, and the convulsed body sank for ever into the unceasingly further-rolling flood, as though nature would no longer suffer that hideous distorted mask to abide further in the wondrous harmony of her forms. Their caution awakened by the flight of the mulatto, the Germans watched their remaining prisoner with the greater attention and care, and the whole of them now retired to Wolfgang's dwelling, partly to pass the remainder of the night there, partly to maintain a fire, beside which the remaining pursuers, whom they also expected to arrive shortly, might warm and refresh themselves. However, hardly had Wolfgang completed the arrangements for the convenience of his guests, before, to the surprise of all, he led out his horse again, and told the men that he was about to ride back to the settlement that very night, to communicate the happy tidings of the result of their hunt to Madame Hehrmann, and relieve her mind, for that the anxiety of the mother for her daughters so shamefully carried off, must be boundless. Pastor Hehrmann at first tried to prevent him, but as he probably was alarmed for his poor wife himself, unless she should shortly receive good tidings concerning her daughters, he ultimately offered himself as a companion, and, notwithstanding Wolfgang positively declined this at first, and affirmed that the pastor stood almost as much in need of rest and care as his daughters, and that they must at all events have a protector, yet the father was not deterred by that. "I leave them to the care of their noble-minded preservers," he said, grasping Werner's hand; "and to-morrow follow us as quickly as you can--we shall await you impatiently." Louisa was unwilling to part with her father, but surrounded by so many friends, no further danger could threaten them, and to send tidings of their safety was the very thing she had ardently wished. The two horsemen, therefore, departed, and the remaining men divided themselves into two watches, to relieve one another, so as not to be overpowered by sleep. Werner, however, was excluded from these, for it now came out that he had been wounded by Von Schwanthal's shot, and was very weak from loss of blood. The wound, it is true, proved by no means dangerous, yet it called for rest. Von Schwanthal, when he first heard of it, was inconsolable, begged the young man's pardon a thousand times, offered to keep watch himself all night, then abused the doctor and his base accomplices again, and at last, proposed to permit their prisoner, who probably knew some little of surgery, at all events, to use his hands so far as to dress the wounded limb--the upper part of the right arm. Werner had, meanwhile, found a much dearer and better doctor, than him whom Von Schwanthal proposed--Bertha. Scarcely had she heard that the young man was wounded--wounded on her account--before she quickly, and with a strength which one would not have supposed her capable of, tore off the linen kerchief which she wore lightly tied round her neck, and begged--how could Werner resist such a request?--to be allowed to examine, and bind up the wounded limb. Her sister lent a helping hand, and Werner was ordered, notwithstanding all his opposition, to lie down and rest himself, so that he might not catch cold, and the wound, which then was not serious, be aggravated by inflammation. But he would not agree to this on any condition--not even upon the persevering request of the pretty girls; his place, he said, was beside the fire half the night, but the other half with the watch, to preserve those from harm whom he had been so fortunate as to save. Accordingly, it was so done; the men relieved each other regularly, although nothing suspicious further occurred, and, Normann was too securely guarded to escape. It was not till the sun rose on the following morning, in all his splendour and majesty, that they broke up to depart, and to follow the tracks of the horsemen who had ridden on before. The only remaining horse was now applied to the use of the two young ladies, and Bertha, with Louisa mounted behind her, sat as firmly in the saddle as though she had been used to romp about on horseback from infancy. But Werner walked by her side, and held the bridle of the spirited horse, as it stamped along, or she might not have mustered courage to do so. Normann was compelled to accompany the party with his hands tied behind his back, and with Von Schwanthal marching close after him; while the little negro was dispatched to the nearest town, to fetch the sheriff, in order to deliver up the criminal into his hands. Scipio, on the other hand, who had offered himself as their conductor, was to keep up a good fire at the mouth of the Halchee, to collect the scattered settlers, who, it was conjectured, had missed their way, and bivouacked in the woods. Helldorf assured them that he was able readily to find the road from the horse and wagon tracks. Sure enough, the remaining pursuers of the kidnappers, although they had not exactly lost themselves, yet had so entangled themselves in thickets and briers, that they found it impossible to get on after darkness had set in. Now they tumbled into a ditch, then stumbled over a branch or a root, and tore their hands and faces in a most melancholy manner. In all their troubles, they had kept closer and closer together, in order by their mutual vicinity to keep off, in part at least, the uncomfortable feeling which seized upon them, however brave they might be, when they gazed into the surrounding darkness, whence now and then, wild, strange, and sometimes fearful cries of animals resounded and filled them with terror. By the next morning's light, however, they followed the course of the Halchee, which brought them to the shores of the Mississippi, where the trusty black received them, and gave them tidings of all that had occurred. The luggage of the three friends had been meanwhile got into Wolfgang's house, and Scipio, who had first of all refreshed his guests with meat and drink, conducted them, following the old wagon tracks, as Helldorf had done, back to the settlement, where the poor little tailor took to his bed at once, and, in consequence of the unusual exertion, had a regular bone-shaking attack of the cold fever, or ague. CHAPTER X. THE MIGRATION. We must now pass over a period of nearly a year, and I will merely relate, in few words, what took place in the settlement and its neighbourhood in the interim. The sheriff, accompanied by two constables, had taken away Dr. Normann to the county town, but the settlers found themselves, in consequence, involved in infinite trouble, for almost every one of those who had taken part in the pursuit and capture of that scoundrel was summoned to give evidence upon oath, before the court; even Bertha and Louisa had to go there, and Wolfgang subsequently often expressed his opinion that it would have been better to have allowed him to pursue the course which he had wished to take, and then there would have been no occasion for all this trouble; Pastor Hehrmann, on the other hand, declared that he willingly submitted to it all, for that his conscience could not now accuse him of shedding, or of being party to the shedding of human blood. Dr. Normann, or Wæhler, as his name was discovered to be at the trial, was found guilty by the jury, and sentenced to ten years' imprisonment in the House of Correction; it is true, that he subsequently appealed to the court of the United States, but without obtaining a more favourable result, and in the early part of the following year, he was delivered over in irons to the penitentiary of the state. But how did it fare with the settlers, now that they had arrived in the foreign, but much-wished-for country? Alas, ill enough! At first, Helldorf and Schwarz had taken the greatest pains to induce them to migrate to a healthier district, and that without further loss of time, but the good folks would only profit by experience, and would first pass through every successive stage of expectation deceived and hope destroyed; without which practical lessons, Germans seldom follow advice. As Helldorf and Schwarz, therefore, soon discovered that further persuasion was not merely useless, but would even tend to confirm the obstinate people in their stupid resolution, they gave up preaching of colours to the blind, who could not see or comprehend them. Werner, on the other hand, brought into nearer contact with the Hehrmanns, and emboldened by his adventures and good fortune, sued for the little hand of the dear, blushing Bertha, and the parents gave their cheerful and willing assent, on condition that he should settle among them, and, like themselves, become a farmer. Mindful, however, of the warnings of his friends, and unwilling, besides, to cultivate a spot where the inexperienced Germans had been banished by the fraud of a fellow-countryman, he begged them to grant him a year's delay till he should have founded a little home for himself, when he would fetch bride and parents together, and would, with willing heart, work hard, in order to have all the dear ones beside him. Pastor Hehrmann, at that time, it is true, shook his head, and replied very gravely, that he had, once for all, given his word to the association, faithfully to stay beside them so long as they required him, and he should be the last to go from so important and self-imposed a duty. Helldorf, however, gave his opinion, with a laugh, that if there were nothing else to detain him beside that, Pastor Hehrmann would, no doubt, be a free and independent man, in the following year, and would willingly accompany his son-in-law to a healthier climate, and pleasanter neighbourhood; he, moreover, would warrant, that within a year, Werner should have made a beginning on a sufficient little property; and he longed not a little himself for the time when he should become a neighbour of the families of Hehrmann and Werner. Accordingly, matters remained thus for the present; Werner, after a stay of about three weeks, cleared out,--accompanied by Schwarz and Helldorf, and even by Wolfgang, the latter of whom, however, only intended to view the country, and to return to the Mississippi, for the present,--across to the southern part of Missouri, and there the three settled themselves on the woody banks of the Big Black River. They had worked and toiled there during three months or so, and with the little capital which they possessed, and warned by the experience of Helldorf and Schwarz, they had really performed wonders, when one day, Werner got hold of that sealed letter of introduction, which was directed to a distant relative of his own, settled but a few miles from where they were living. Werner would hitherto, on no account, seek him out, but now that his own circumstances looked rather more prosperous, the wish occurred to him to make the acquaintance of the old man, of whom his uncle had formerly often spoken to him. Dr. Wisslock resided, although he had but little intercourse with the neighbourhood, on the high road leading from St. Louis to Arkansas, and was reputed, as Werner had learnt from some of his neighbours, not only to be the possessor of a very considerable farm, and much property, but also, although very eccentric, to be a very good-hearted man. It was a Sunday, when Werner determined to look him up, and with the letter in his pocket, he reached, just before dinner-time, the neat and well-kept fence of the fields of Indian corn, between which, a straight, broad road led to the homestead. Werner followed this, and arrived before the house, threw his horse's bridle over a rack erected there for the purpose, and after tapping twice at the door without receiving an answer, stepped into the house, and from thence walked into a room, the door of which stood ajar. Here he found himself at once in the presence of his relative, Dr. Wisslock, introduced himself briefly and pithily, and handed him the letter. "Hem!" said the old man, when he had hastily skimmed through it--"hem? What has the young gentleman learnt, that he comes dropping, as from the clouds into the back woods in this way?--educated at a university--eh?" Werner answered affirmatively. "And now, all at once, wants to become a farmer?" "A farmer's life has been described to me," replied the other, "by several friends, as most suitable for a German." "Oh, ah! Yes, I dare say!" growled Dr. Wisslock, nodding his head, significantly; "I dare say, picturesque landscape--hanging woods and rocks--creepers and wild vines--bleating herds, and bear's flesh--the usual dream. You'll find out your mistake." "I scarcely think so," said Werner, smiling; "what I have hitherto seen of the country, pleases me much." "You'll think differently when you come to handle the axe and the plough," grumbled the old fellow, by no means more agreeably disposed by this reply. "Here, in the woods, there is no getting on without work, nor without right-down hard work either; we can't buy little niggers and blackamoors, directly. Do you intend to settle?" "It's already done," replied Werner, rather shortly, for the reception of the old man began to displease him. "Already done?" he asked, surprised, as he stopped a pinch of snuff midway to his nose. "Already done! why, how long has the young gentleman been in America, then?" and he opened the letter again, and looked at its date. "Almost a year, and for the last half-year I have been your neighbour, though rather a distant one." "Oh, the deuce!" exclaimed the old man, and a peculiar kind of movement played round the corners of his mouth, "the deuce! Then you're perhaps actually one of the three young Germans who have made such a good start on the Black River?" Werner nodded his head silently. "Very glad to make your acquaintance," continued the old man, becoming very friendly, and even hearty all at once,--"have heard nothing but good report of all of you, and was shortly coming to see you. But be seated, I beg, be seated. So you've carried the introduction about in your pocket for half a year! Hem! why didn't you come to me at once? "I had brought introductions to New York and Philadelphia," replied Werner, "and seeing their result, or rather finding that they had no result, and, as I now feel well enough, could have had none, I laid by the rest of the letters in my box, and indeed shouldn't have delivered this had it not been sealed, and had I not wished besides to make your acquaintance." "Hem--hem!" interjected the old man, and one could read in his looks how pleased he was with the firm, manly behaviour of the young man--"hem--hem! very reasonable that--must dine with me first--afterwards I'll take a ride over with you to the Black River--can sleep there, I suppose--eh? Should like to see your housekeeping there--hem--hem!--three bachelors--eh? Heaven have mercy upon us!--there is but one here, and even with him things are bad enough." The old man chatted away for a long time in his peculiar, but good-tempered style, and actually trotted over to the "Three Mens' Farm," (as it was called in the vicinity, from the three proprietors,) that same evening. But Dr. Wisslock was not the man to let the matter drop there. If Werner had brought the letter to him at first, and so, if not directly, still to a certain extent indirectly, challenged him to assist him, he might perhaps have met him with the usual American saying, "Help thyself!" But here was quite a different case--the young man did not want him; he had proved that he did not want him, and was only come there to make his acquaintance--that sounded quite differently. Besides, Werner knew nothing of a clause which was appended to the letter, and which his old uncle had _not_ read to him with the rest. The Doctor, as he was briefly styled in all the country round, now took a very particular interest in the plans of the three young people, whom he liked more and more upon further acquaintance. He inquired about one thing and the other, and made himself intimately acquainted with all, and not only helped them with excellent advice, but also subsequently, cheerfully, and with good will, by act and deed. Meanwhile, he had ascertained all the particulars, as well concerning the joint-stock settlement, as of Werner's love, and the worthy family of the Hehrmanns. But from that moment forward, he urged and urged Werner to go across and fetch the Hehrmanns out of the swamps, and put them in train to become acquainted with the _real_ life in the west, that they might not in those poisonous swamps imbibe a distaste for the noble woods. But Werner knew but too well that Hehrmann would never desert the settlement so long as the colony had existence, however few the members might be of which it might consist. Besides, he had firmly resolved not to return to the Halchee until he should be in a position to earn his livelihood, and subsist independently; such was, however, not yet the case, and full six months more elapsed before he had erected a little dwelling on his own land, and had procured all kinds of necessary implements. But when that was done the old man left him no more peace, and he and Helldorf, who volunteered as his companion, set out one fresh sunny morning in Autumn, after nearly a year's absence, to visit his sweetheart, and, with the parents' blessing, to fetch her home to his quiet cheerful house. Mounted on hardy ponies, the two friends trotted freshly and merrily along through the autumnal forest canopy, and although the wondrous splendour of colour of the foliage, and the thousand various tints of the fading leaves, now and then riveted their eyes, distracting the gaze to and fro, and although they could hardly sufficiently admire the constantly fresh beauties which were presenting themselves, still they did not, on that account, stay the course of their horses, and after a difficult ride through the Mississippi swamps, which, although then dry, were yet overgrown with rank vegetation, reached the broad stream, took advantage of a ferry kept up near the southern boundary of Kentucky, to be set across, and now kept along the eastern shore, and at the foot of the hills as far as Jackson, in order to avoid the low land, and not to be further detained by the difficulties of the ground. It was not until the fourth day that they entered upon the narrow bridle path which the settlers, under Wolfgang's guidance, had in former times marked out to the little town, by cutting blazes, or large pieces of bark from the trees standing on this line. But the road, even when they came quite into the vicinity of the settlement, seemed not to have been used for a long time past; the blazes were grown over, and the yellow leaves of Autumn covered, undisturbed, the slightest trace even of a path. Helldorf smiled quietly to himself, and after they had ridden silently for some time, merely observed-- "The young colony seems to keep itself pretty independent; at all events, it does not seem to keep up much intercourse with the interior of the country." "Helldorf," said Werner, giving, at the same time, his own beast the spurs, and pushing on beside his friend as a somewhat more open space allowed of their riding abreast; "Helldorf, it seems to me as though the young colony stood in no further connexion at all. I see no cattle anywhere, nor, indeed, any traces of any having ever pastured here; no axe is to be heard, no--but, hold!--what was that? That sounded like one, at least; then, after all, I may have been mistaken." The men halted for a moment to listen, and then heard distinctly enough the distant, regular strokes of an axe. The sound came from the quarter where the settlement lay, and as they now knew that they were near their destination, they cantered cheerfully along through thorn and thicket, no longer following the blazed trees, but the guidance of their own hearing, into the woods. "It still looks rather rural round the _town of Hoffnung_," said Helldorf, as he was obliged to leap his nag over a great tree stem which lay crosswise in his way. Werner made no reply, but raised himself in the stirrups, and tried to get a view of the clearing, which began to be discernible through the lighter bush. But, good Heaven! how deserted, how forsaken, did that place look! Where was the bustle and activity of a cheerful, industrious band of settlers, who must be intent on carrying the stores of harvest to meet the approaching winter? Where was the realization of those hopes which so many had nursed and revelled in, whereby a glad provision was to be made for them, and their children after them? Alas, they had all passed away!--those plans and fancies, those bold castles in the air, those notions of public spirit and friendship. Discord and ill will had sown their seeds even in that secluded colony of the Mississippi swamp, or rather the seed which had been long sown had sprung up, and ripened its evil crop, and those expectations which had filled the hearts of the better sort with cheerful confidence, and for which they had quitted their native land and everything dear, had there dissolved away into an evil, painful dream, and yonder stood the ruins, cold and bleak, staring towards Heaven, as though they would testify to the hateful, evil disposition of mankind. "Good Heaven! what has happened here?" said Werner, as he drew in his horse's reins in alarm--"where are all the people gone who formerly animated this place?" "Why, where should they be?" said Helldorf, shrugging his shoulders; "dispersed in all quarters, as I foretold you. That does not surprise me much; but that Pastor Hehrmann should not have let us know a word of his having left the place--that does seem extraordinary." "There's some one back yonder, chopping," said Werner; "his back is towards us; now he turns this way. By all that's holy, _that's_ Hehrmann!--may I never see paradise if I did not recognise the face! But how pale he looks!" "Hehrmann, and alone here!" replied Helldorf, thoughtfully. "Well, we will leave the horses behind awhile, for they won't be able to make their way through this wild chaos of young shoots and old stumps; we can then soon convince ourselves whether you are right. I hope, at least, that it may be so; but let us advance--this uncertainty is dreadful." The man, who had hitherto been chopping at a long stem, now lifted, with evident difficulty, a heavy log which he had cut off, on to his shoulder, and stepped with it towards the house; there, outside the door, he put it down, and a young lad, who came running from another corner of the clearing, helped him to carry in the load. Helldorf and Werner hurried forward without exchanging another word, and in a few minutes were in front of the door, which was opened from within. Hehrmann, who, with the assistance of Charles, the former glazier's apprentice, had just placed the heavy back-log on the fire, stood with his back towards them, but on his wife and daughters uttering a cry of surprise, on seeing those who had approached, he turned quickly round towards the door, and that with no presentiment of any good. But who shall describe his joyful astonishment, when he recognised the dear and long-wished for forms of those worthy men, for whose friendly voices he had so often longed? Who can paint his feelings when he grasped Werner and Helldorf's hands, and with a hearty, although certainly rather tremulous voice, bade them a joyful, sincere "Welcome?" And what said Bertha to this meeting? Oh, my dear reader, thou art not to know everything; thou must rest satisfied with being told that Werner had been a full hour in the house, and since he was first welcomed by Bertha, and yet, as if in absence of mind, kept her little hand lying warmly and firmly in his. Hast thou ever thus held a being that was dear--very dear to thee? Then thou knowest what it means, and if thou hast _not_--then, poor reader, then, any explanations or description which I might give would not assist thee. But how poor Werner's heart bled, when he learnt, as he now by degrees did, the whole story of the sufferings of the young colony. The prophecies with which those who meant them well had warned them, had been but too soon fulfilled. Quarrels and discord broke out first when the people discovered that they could not, as they had actually supposed, become rich and independent in half a year, and the majority would no longer work, as they declared that they had no occasion to labour so hard for their own livelihood, and that they were not disposed to toil for others of the "Gentry." Becher had then, first of all, withdrawn himself from the affair, and given up what he termed a hopeless business; Siebert, junior, had followed him, and immediately afterwards the elder one had also disappeared, and that, as Hehrmann, Herbold, and Von Schwanthal could not conceal from the rest of the settlers, with a pretty considerable portion of the common funds. Pastor Hehrmann had then had great sacrifices to make, and gave up the greater part of his already much diminished property to pacify those who made the loudest complaints, and to stave off the ruin of all his hopes, which else would have taken place at once. But what hurt him more than all was the ungrateful conduct of those whom he had most obliged, whom he had most actively supported. People who, without means of their own, had been hitherto supported from the common stock of the society, showed themselves the most discontented; the most embittered quarrels and disputes followed the distaste for work, and although the better men among them, and Hehrmann as the foremost of these, gave way, and again and again endeavoured to restore a good understanding--although representations and even prayers were wasted upon the disturbers, it was in vain. "We are all equal here," was the eternal answer; "and if I'm to toil and moil here, I should like to know what for," said the stupid fellows, who either could not, or would not see, that by such bad faith they not only destroyed the society, but also brought the greatest evils upon themselves, as they now went off without knowing the language, without money, and without friends, into a strange country, and had to toil and plague themselves for yet stranger people, and that, perhaps, for six or seven dollars a month, and without receiving either thanks or a friendly word in return. Von Schwanthal had left later, in order to see Arkansas; for an American, who had passed through, had told him so much of the shooting in Arkansas, that he could no longer resist the newly awakened and mighty love of hunting any longer. He embarked himself and his baggage, after having formally taken leave of the colony, for Little Rock, and intended, as he had told Pastor Hehrmann at parting, to lead a regular hunter's life in the new state. Becher had gone to New Orleans, and the rest gradually dispersed to all quarters of the compass. Hehrmann saw them, one after another, take their leave, or even forsake the place without leave-taking; but when he was left almost alone, and wished himself to seek a better, healthier home, when his last friend had disappeared with Wolfgang, who had cleared out for Missouri as late as seven months since, he found, to his alarm, that he no longer possessed the means. He had given away everything--sacrificed all, in order that he might not see his favourite plan, the union of Germans in, a fraternal society, founder. He had, when they learnt from Buffalo that the things left behind there were gone, and could not be traced, and the landlord pretended to know nothing about anything of the kind--when subsequently link after link of the chain fell away, when those forsook him on whom he had calculated most--even when ridicule or contemptuous laughter met his ear, he had never hesitated. "We are melted down to a few," he used to say to those few, "but we can yet prove that people who religiously are in earnest in the good cause, can carry it through in spite of the greatest difficulties." But he soon discovered that those who continued with him were, for the most part, merely compelled to do so, because they did not possess a single dollar wherewith to pay their passage anywhere else, and gladly seized upon the first opportunity which offered, without troubling themselves much as to what became of Pastor Hehrmann and his family, whom they left alone in the swamps. One only continued with them honestly and faithfully--one only never forgot how well, how kindly he had been taken by the hand by this family, when he himself stood alone and friendless. This was Charles, the former glazier's apprentice, and richly did he requite all the benefits he had received, especially during the past summer, when Pastor Hehrmann, himself, was confined to his bed for weeks, by fever. Oh, how often, how ardently had they longed for Werner to come back--that he might keep his word, and seek them again in their now disconsolate solitude! Alas! the mother had already begun to doubt, and had said-- "You'll see, my child; he has acted like the rest of them; he has gone off, far, far away, and no longer thinks of those, formerly his so dear friends, whom he has left behind." "Or, perhaps, lies ill and helpless himself among strangers," worthy Hehrmann would then usually interrupt her, for still he never could make up his mind to think ill of any one, unless, as, alas! had latterly often been the case, he was compelled to do so, against his will. Bertha would on such occasions stealthily press her father's hand, and wipe a tear from her eye, for still she did not doubt her lover's word; but the idea that he might be ill and suffering, might stand in need of her help, that alone it was which pained her, and which, however much she might strive against it, oppressed her with melancholy. Louisa, too, who had, by this time, grown up to full, blooming womanhood, had latterly become strikingly sad and melancholy, and had even, when the conversation turned upon Werner and his friends, several times left the room, and afterwards returned, with eyes dimmed and red with crying. Such was the posture of affairs at the "Hoffnung," or "Hope," as they had (with so little presentiment of the result) named the town, which, indeed, was destined to remain a hope, merely. But Werner and Helldorf now sat down beside Hehrmann, who in this one year seemed to have added ten to his age, and spoke to him of courage and comfort. "You cannot stay here any longer," said Helldorf, at last. "Wolfgang, too, has particularly commissioned us to bring you away, at all events. We have capital land, in Missouri, and although not adequately furnished, still have such conveniences as a farmer in the woods needs. A farm lies ready for you: you can begin to work, and till it, at once; cattle there are also; so that with what yet remains here----" "Oh, my good Mr. Helldorf!" said Hehrmann, shrugging his shoulders, "it would certainly be difficult to begin with what remains here. Not a single head remains--not even a single horse, to perform the most needful work. The people have left me nothing, and what cows and pigs we had, were all eaten half-a-year ago. I would gladly have bought a cow again, in order to have milk for my family, at least--but, in the first place, I could not spare time to leave the farm so long, and then I doubted whether the price might not be beyond my means. Our ready money has, perhaps through our own fault, very much dwindled down." "Hem!" said Helldorf, reflectively, not wishing to let it be seen how much all that he heard pained him; "hem--then matters are indeed come to extremity. But, my dear Mr. Hehrmann, don't let that trouble you; you have purchased experience dearly, it is true, but yet, perhaps, not too dearly; you are all still healthy, you know; consider how it fared with poor Wolfgang. No; from henceforward, I trust a better life is in store for you. You will come with us--won't you?" "Gladly, to a healthier climate," replied he. "I have done all that God or man can require of me, and now I owe it to my family to lead them hence; in order to do so, I certainly stand much in need of your help, but, if I keep my health, be assured that you will not have obliged one who will be ungrateful." "Enough, enough!" said Helldorf, smiling; "who knows how soon we may not hold you to your word." "But what is to become of Charles?" asked Madame Hehrmann--"we cannot leave the poor boy here all alone." "No, certainly not," said Werner; "he shall go with us, and if he has a liking for farming, shall found a home for himself; so far as it is in our power to help him, he may rely upon us. That he has kept with you so honestly and faithfully deserves not only our warmest thanks, but also some return, and he shall never find us behindhand." The preparations for removal were soon made; the little which the settlers had left Pastor Hehrmann, and which was really worth carriage, such as the clothes and linen of the family (of which, however, very much had been carried off) was got together. But the little family-council, which was called for the purpose, really did not know how that little was to be transported as far as the Mississippi, as the horses could not possibly carry all, and the road was too long to make more than one journey. At this juncture, Helldorf made a suggestion which was immediately accepted, and quickly put into execution--namely, to form a light raft on the then swollen Halchee, to cover it with the boards which roofed the house, and upon this to float down their whole stock. They had no occasion to chop trees for this purpose, but took a small log-hut rudely erected for storing Indian corn, but which, as no Indian corn had been yet raised, had never been used, carried the short and not very heavy stems to the rivulet, tied them together with such ropes as yet remained, and soon found that the new construction answered its purpose admirably. The things were then made fast upon it, and Helldorf and Charles undertook to steer it down stream. Werner and Hehrmann were to lead the little caravan towards the Mississippi, for which the two saddles were by ingenious contrivances turned into side saddles. One of these was occupied by Madame Hehrmann, and Bertha and Louisa occupied the other by turns. Helldorf had wished, at first, to take the women with him upon the raft, upon which they certainly might have performed the journey very smoothly. And the otherwise so bashful Louisa had been quite ready to throw aside all fear, and to confide herself to the care of the new captain of the raft, as he called himself in joke; but Madame Hehrmann feared to trust herself to so fragile a conveyance, and the land journey consequently received the preference. They reached the stream without any accident, and were there compelled to avail themselves of Wolfgang's almost ruinous hut, to avoid an approaching storm, and to await the arrival of a steamer, going up stream. Fortunately, the latter happened first. It was the Marmion, a dreadfully slow boat, which crept along the shore like a snail, but, on that very account, landed anywhere whenever a signal was made to take in passengers or goods. She was bound for Cincinnati, and they availed themselves of her as far as Benton, in Missouri, landed there, hired a large carrier's wagon, to the teamster of which they entrusted their whole luggage, bought some more horses, and then prosecuted their journey quickly, and without further hindrance. They thus reached a spot, within about a mile of their future abode, where speculative heads had, in earlier times, planned a town which did not answer, and was abandoned. An old Yankee lived by himself upon the spot, and had planted the clearing, destined for public buildings, with Indian corn. Here, to Werner's astonishment, Dr. Wisslock came to meet them, saluted the company very politely, and then, as opportunity occurred, appeared to have much and important business to discuss with Helldorf. The latter had not left Louisa's side during the whole ride from Benton, and must have had a great many very interesting things to tell her, for the two had often, out of mere absence of mind, lagged several hundred yards in the rear, and could only be brought up with the main body by repeated shouts and signals. Werner could not imagine what, in the name of wonder, could have induced Dr. Wisslock to ride thus far to meet them, and then to carry on this conversation aside, which surely could have very well kept till the end of their journey. But he did not remain long in the dark as to the object of this mysterious conduct, for Helldorf suddenly advanced toward the Hehrmann family, who were encamped under a wide spreading hickory, and proposed--Werner's astonishment may be conceived--formally for Louisa's hand! "And in order that you, dear father," he turned to him, "may no longer stand alone in the world--in order that you may not be forsaken by your _children_ also, as others have forsaken you, come and live with me, on my farm, and we will conduct our farming together, so that it shall be a pleasure to us both, and so that you may look forward with courage and confidence to an old age, cheerful and free from care." "I protest against that," exclaimed Werner, without leaving any one else time to speak. "I have priority--you come with me and Bertha; or, if you won't do that--at least, live alternately with each, so that each of your children may enjoy your society." "Hallo there, young gentleman!" said Dr. Wisslock, who had by this time approached, and taken hold of Werner's arm. "First of all, that young lady yonder, who has suddenly turned so red, has got a word to say, and then we two have also a crow to pick together." "We two?" said Werner, astonished. "Yes, we two," continued the old man, without losing his gravity, whilst Louisa, as if dyed in crimson, hid her blushing face in her mother's bosom, and at last, when Helldorf again and again pressed her, merely reached him her little hand without looking at him or changing her posture. "But, my dear doctor, what, in the first place, have you to say to me?" "That I'll explain directly to the young gentleman. Does he suppose that he brings me a letter, in which my cousin--but that would be a secondary matter--no, the best friend of my youth--charges me, by all that I hold dear, to care for him as for a son!" "But, my good----" "Hear me out!--to care for him as for a son, I say. Does the young gentleman suppose that I have so quickly forgotten all that I owe his old uncle? and that is all I possess. No, indeed! In order, however, that I may, in discharging a portion of my obligation, yet derive a benefit from it, I have planned the thing in this way:--The young gentleman marries Pastor Hehrmann's elder daughter, and goes to live on my farm, which he----" "Doctor----" "Hear me out, I say!--which he uses and works as though it were his own. But the old doctor, with whom ploughing and chopping have not exactly agreed for the last two years, must be fed and nursed until his end, in return for which he engages besides to find the young gentleman and his family in medicine and medical attendance during any illnesses which may occur--_without_ the use of calomel--and gratis. When I happen to die, of course he inherits what I have scraped together here; but it is to be hoped that he will have quite enough to do with me, and can very well afford to leave his wife's parents to their other son, whom, by-the-bye, he may always take as a pattern for himself. So now the young gentleman may speak--is he content?" "Dear doctor--your goodness--you--you heap benefits upon me which--I really don't know--Bertha----" "Well, of course, that's understood," the doctor quickly interrupted him; "you must first ask your bride whether she will undertake the arduous office of sick nurse to an old man like me--she of course has the principal voice in the matter, for hers will be the greatest burthen and trouble. Well, miss," he said, turning with gravity to the charming girl, "Do you say 'Yes' or 'No,' to the bargain?" Bertha, with agitated feelings, seized the old man's hand, and assured him, that she would always be a good, faithful daughter to him. This so pleased the doctor, that he first looked kindly and fixedly in her bright eyes, and then, all at once, without further warning, took hold of her head, and gave her a hearty kiss. Is there any need of further description of these happy people? Hardly--Love and Friendship made to them their rude home in the woods a paradise, and the old doctor, who had been already vegetating there for many long years past, forsaken and alone, completely revived, in the midst of them, to a new and almost-forgotten existence. What became of the other settlers remained for the most part unknown. Von Schwanthal had gone to Arkansas, as already mentioned; the elder Siebert was subsequently met by Becher in New Orleans, but he was not destined long to enjoy the fruits of his breach of trust; he died of yellow fever, and was robbed, by a mulatto woman, who had waited on him during his brief sickness, of everything which he called his, and, by reason of total absence of funds, was earthed away with a thousand others whom "Yellow Jack" had swept off about the same time, in the Potter's field, in a wet, swampy soil. The brewer made his way to Cincinnati, and was quite hearty, when the shoemaker subsequently met him there; Herbold, too, started a distillery, somewhere in Ohio state, and Schmidt was, after a lapse of some years, reported to have been seen in Illinois. The poor tailor fared, perhaps, the most strangely; he was very lucky at first, went to Little Rock, got work there, and earned so much money that he was enabled to begin business on his own account, in a small way; but then bad times came, money got scarce, and saving had to be practised, to which rule of conduct, Meier, who, by this time, had begun to play the dandy a little, would, on no account, conform. The natural consequence did not fail to ensue: he got into debt, and accepted an offer of marriage from a rather elderly lady, on condition that she should pay his debts; this was done, and Meier was now to become a happy husband. But not wishing to carry the joke to that length, he endeavoured to escape southward, on a steamer which happened to be there at the time, but was discovered, and, on that very day, united in the holy bands of matrimony to his forgiving bride. Next year, they learnt that Dr. Normann, or Wæhler--perhaps even that was not his real name--had been transferred to the Penitentiary of the State; but of Turner, no further trace was ever found, save that Pastor Hehrmann affirmed at a subsequent period that he had seen him at St. Louis, whither he had gone on business; he had too quickly disappeared again, however, for the former to make himself certain of the fact. Nor did any one know the name there. But what cared the happy ones about these scoundrels? They left them to their own shame and dishonour, and to the contempt of all good and honest men; whilst they themselves toiled and laboured on, in their allotted, although narrow sphere of life, according to the best of their ability, and the "Three Men's Farm," as the settlement still continued to be called--when Schwarz, too, afterwards sought unto himself, from among the daughters of the land, a dear little wife--was soon reputed to be one of the best in the United States. THE END. T. C. Savill, Printer, 4, Chandos-street, Covent-garden. 
7792	----	PELLE THE CONQUEROR PART II.--APPRENTICESHIP BY MARTIN ANDERSON NEXO TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH By Bernard Miall. II. APPRENTICESHIP I On that windy May-morning when Pelle tumbled out of the nest, it so happened that old Klaus Hermann was clattering into town with his manure-cart, in order to fetch a load of dung. And this trifling circumstance decided the boy's position in life. There was no more pother than this about the question: What was Pelle to be? He had never put that question to himself. He had simply gone onward at hazard, as the meaning of the radiant world unfolded itself. As to what he should make of himself when he was really out in the world --well, the matter was so incomprehensible that it was mere folly to think about it. So he just went on. Now he had reached the further end of the ridge. He lay down in the ditch to recover his breath after his long walk; he was tired and hungry, but in excellent spirits. Down there at his feet, only half a mile distant, lay the town. There was a cheerful glitter about it; from its hundreds of fireplaces the smoke of midday fires curled upward into the blue sky, and the red roofs laughed roguishly into the beaming face of the day. Pelle immediately began to count the houses; not wishing to exaggerate, he had estimated them at a million only, and already he was well into the first hundred. But in the midst of his counting he jumped up. What did the people down there get for dinner? They must surely live well there! And was it polite to go on eating until one was quite full, or should one lay down one's spoon when one had only half finished, like the landowners when they attended a dinner? For one who was always hungry this was a very important question. There was a great deal of traffic on the high-road. People were coming and going; some had their boxes behind them in a cart, and others carried their sole worldly possessions in a bag slung over their shoulders, just as he did. Pelle knew some of these people, and nodded to them benevolently; he knew something about all of them. There were people who were going to the town--his town--and some were going farther, far over the sea, to America, or even farther still, to serve the King there; one could see that by their equipment and the frozen look on their faces. Others were merely going into the town to make a hole in their wages, and to celebrate May-day. These came along the road in whole parties, humming or whistling, with empty hands and overflowing spirits. But the most interesting people were those who had put their boxes on a wheelbarrow, or were carrying them by both handles. These had flushed faces, and were feverish in their movements; they were people who had torn themselves away from their own country-side, and their accustomed way of life, and had chosen the town, as he himself had done. There was one man, a cottager, with a little green chest on his wheelbarrow; this latter was broad in the beam, and it was neatly adorned with flowers painted by his own hand. Beside him walked his daughter; her cheeks were red, and her eyes were gazing into the unknown future. The father was speaking to her, but she did not look as though she heard him. "Yes--now you must take it on you to look out for yourself; you must think about it, and not throw yourself away. The town is quite a good place for those who go right ahead and think of their own advantage, but it thinks nothing of who gets trodden underfoot. So don't be too trusting, for the people there are wonderful clever in all sorts of tricks to take you in and trip you up. At the same time you want to be soft-spoken and friendly." She did not reply to this; she was apparently more taken up with the problem of putting down her feet in their new shoes so that the heels should not turn over. There was a stream of people coming up from the town too. All the forenoon Pelle had been meeting Swedes who had come that morning in the steamer, and were now looking for a job on the land. There were old folk, worn out with labor, and little children; there were maidens as pretty as yellow-haired Marie, and young laborers who had the strength of the whole world in their loins and muscles. And this current of life was setting hither to fill up the gaps left by the swarms that were going away--but that did not concern Pelle. For seven years ago he had felt everything that made their faces look so troubled now; what they were just entering upon he had already put behind him. So there was no good in looking back. Presently the old man from Neuendorf came along the road. He was got up quite like an American, with a portmanteau and a silk neckerchief, and the inside pockets of his open coat were stuffed full of papers. At last he had made up his mind, and was going out to his betrothed, who had already been three years away. "Hullo!" cried Pelle, "so you are going away?" The man came over to Pelle and set his portmanteau down by the side of the ditch. "Well, yes; it's time to be going," he said. "Laura won't wait for me any longer. So the old people must see how they can get along without a son; I've done everything for them now for three years. Provided they can manage all by themselves--" "They can do that all right," said Pelle, with an experienced air. "And they had to get help formerly. There is no future for young people at home." He had heard his elders say this. He struck at the grass with his stick, assuming a superior air. "No," said the other, "and Laura refuses to be a cottager's wife. Well, good-bye!" He held out his hand to Pelle and tried to smile, but his features had it their own way; nothing but a rather twisted expression came over them. He stood there a minute, looking at his boots, his thumb groping over his face as though he wanted to wipe the tormented look away; then he picked up his portmanteau and went. He was evidently not very comfortable. "I'll willingly take over the ticket and the bride," shouted Pelle merrily. He felt in the deuce of a good humor. Everybody to-day was treading the road along which Pelle's own young blood had called him--every young fellow with a little pluck, every good-looking wench. Not for a moment was the road free of traffic; it was like a vast exodus, an army of people escaping from places where everyone had the feeling that he was condemned to live and die on the very spot where he was born; an army of people who had chosen the excitement of the unknown. Those little brick houses which lay scattered over the green, or stood drawn up in two straight rows where the high-road ran into the town--those were the cottages of the peasant folk who had renounced the outdoor life, and dressed themselves in townified clothes, and had then adventured hither; and down on the sea-front the houses stood all squeezed and heaped together round the church, so close that there looked to be no room between them; there were the crowds who had gone wandering, driven far afield by the longing in their hearts--and then the sea had set a limit to their journey. Pelle had no intention of allowing anything whatever to set a limit to his journeying. Perhaps, if he had no luck in the town, he would go to sea. And then one day he would come to some coast that interested him, and he would land, and go to the gold-diggings. Over there the girls went mother-naked, with nothing but some blue tattoo-work to hide their shame; but Pelle had his girl sitting at home, true to him, waiting for his return. She was more beautiful even than Bodil and yellow-haired Marie put together, and whole crowds followed her footsteps, but she sat at home and was faithful, and she would sing the old love-song: "I had a lad, but he went away All over the false, false sea, Three years they are gone, and now to-day He writes no more to me!" And while she sang the letter came to the door. But out of every letter that his father Lasse received fell ten-kroner banknotes, and one day a letter came with steamer-tickets for the two of them. The song would not serve him any further, for in the song they perished during the voyage, and the poor young man spent the rest of his days on the sea-shore, gazing, through the shadow of insanity, upon every rising sail. She and Lasse arrived safely--after all sorts of difficulties, that went without saying--and Pelle stood on the shore and welcomed them. He had dressed himself up like a savage, and he carried on as though he meant to eat them before he made himself known. _Houp la!_ Pelle jumped to his feet. Up the road there was a rattling and a clanking as though a thousand scythes were clashing together: an old cart with loose plank sides came slowly jolting along, drawn by the two most miserable moorland horses he had ever seen. On the driver's seat was an old peasant, who was bobbing about as though he would every moment fall in pieces, like all the rest of his equipment. Pelle did not at first feel sure whether it was the cart itself or the two bags of bones between the shafts that made such a frightful din whenever they moved, but as the vehicle at last drew level with him, and the old peasant drew up, he could not resist the invitation to get up and have a lift. His shoulders were still aching from carrying his sack. "So you are going to town, after all?" said old Klaus, pointing to his goods and chattels. To town, yes indeed! Something seemed to grip hold of Pelle's bursting heart, and before he was aware of it he had delivered himself and his whole future into the old peasant's hands. "Yes, yes--yes indeed--why, naturally!" said Klaus, nodding as Pelle came forward. "Yes, of course! A man can't do less. And what's your idea about what you are going to be in the long run--councillor or king?" He looked up slowly. "Yes, goin' to town; well, well, they all, take the road they feel something calling them to take.... Directly a young greyhound feels the marrow in his bones, or has got a shilling in his pocket, he's got to go to town and leave it there. And what do you think conies back out the town? Just manure and nothing else! What else have I ever in my life been able to pick up there? And now I'm sixty-five. But what's the good of talking? No more than if a man was to stick his tail out and blow against a gale. It comes over them just like the May-gripes takes the young calves-- heigh-ho! and away they go, goin' to do something big. Afterward, then old Klaus Hermann can come and clean up after them! They've no situation there, and no kinsfolk what could put them up--but they always expect something big. Why, down in the town there are beds made up in the streets, and the gutters are running over with food and money! But what do you mean to do? Let's hear it now." Pelle turned crimson. He had not yet succeeded in making a beginning, and already he had been caught behaving like a blockhead. "Well, well, well," said Klaus, in a good-humored tone, "you are no bigger fool than all the rest. But if you'll take my advice, you'll go to shoemaker Jeppe Kofod as apprentice; I am going straight to his place to fetch manure, and I know he's looking for an apprentice. Then you needn't go floundering about uncertain-like, and you can drive right up to the door like the quality." Pelle winced all over. Never in his life had it entered his head that he could ever become a shoemaker. Even back there on the land, where people looked up to the handicrafts, they used always to say, if a boy had not turned out quite right: "Well, we can always make a cobbler or a tailor of him!" But Pelle was no cripple, that he must lead a sedentary life indoors in order to get on at all; he was strong and well-made. What he would be--well, that certainly lay in the hands of fortune; but he felt very strongly that it ought to be something active, something that needed courage and energy. And in any case he was quite sure as to what he did not want to be. But as they jolted through the town, and Pelle--so as to be beforehand with the great world--kept on taking off his cap to everybody, although no one returned his greeting, his spirits began to sink, and a sense of his own insignificance possessed him. The miserable cart, at which all the little town boys laughed and pointed with their fingers, had a great deal to do with this feeling. "Take off your cap to a pack like that!" grumbled Klaus; "why, only look how puffed up they behave, and yet everything they've got they've stolen from us others. Or what do you suppose--can you see if they've got their summer seeds in the earth yet?" And he glared contemptuously down the street. No, there was nothing growing on the stone pavements, and all these little houses, which stood so close that now and then they seemed to Pelle as if they must be squeezed out of the row--these gradually took his breath away. Here were thousands and thousands of people, if that made any difference; and all his blind confidence wavered at the question: where did all their food come from? For here he was once more at home in his needy, familiar world, where no amount of smoke will enable one to buy a pair of socks. All at once he felt thoroughly humble, and he decided that it would be all he could do here to hold his own, and find his daily bread among all these stones, for here people did not raise it naturally from the soil, but got it--well, how _did_ they get it? The streets were full of servants. The girls stood about in groups, their arms round one another's waists, staring with burning eyes at the cotton-stuffs displayed in the shops; they rocked themselves gently to and fro as though they were dreaming. A 'prentice boy of about Pelle's age, with a red, spotty face, was walking down the middle of the street, eating a great wheaten roll which he held with both hands; his ears were full of scabs and his hands swollen with the cold. Farm laborers went by, carrying red bundles in their hands, their overcoats flapping against their calves; they would stop suddenly at a turning, look cautiously round, and then hurry down a side street. In front of the shops the salesmen were walking up and down, bareheaded, and if any one stopped in front of their windows they would beg them, in the politest manner, to step nearer, and would secretly wink at one another across the street. "The shopkeepers have arranged their things very neatly to-day," said Pelle. Klaus nodded. "Yes, yes; to-day they've brought out everything they couldn't get rid of sooner. To-day the block-heads have come to market--the easy purses. Those"--and he pointed to a side street, "those are the publicans. They are looking this way so longingly, but the procession don't come as far as them. But you wait till this evening, and then take a turn along here, and ask the different people how much they've got left of their year's wages. Yes, the town's a fine place--the very deuce of a fine place!" And he spat disgustedly. Pelle had quite lost all his blind courage. He saw not a single person doing anything by which he himself might earn his bread. And gladly as he would have belonged to this new world, yet he could not venture into anything where, perhaps without knowing it, he would be an associate of people who would tear the rags off his old comrades' backs. All the courage had gone out of him, and with a miserable feeling that even his only riches, his hands, were here useless, he sat irresolute, and allowed himself to be driven, rattling and jangling, to Master Jeppe Kofod's workshop. II The workshop stood over an entry which opened off the street. People came and went along this entry: Madame Rasmussen and old Captain Elleby; the old maid-servant of a Comptroller, an aged pensioner who wore a white cap, drew her money from the Court, and expended it here, and a feeble, gouty old sailor who had bidden the sea farewell. Out in the street, on the sharp-edged cobble-stones, the sparrows were clamoring loudly, lying there with puffed-out feathers, feasting among the horse-droppings, tugging at them and scattering them about to the accompaniment of a storm of chirping and scolding. Everything overlooking the yard stood open. In the workshop all four windows were opened wide, and the green light sifted into the room and fell on the faces of those present. But that was no help. Not a breath of wind was blowing; moreover, Pelle's heat came from within. He was sweating with sheer anxiety. For the rest, he pulled industriously at his cobbler's wax, unless, indeed, something outside captured his harassed mind, so that it wandered out into the sunshine. Everything out there was splashed with vivid sunlight; seen from the stuffy workshop the light was like a golden river, streaming down between the two rows of houses, and always in the same direction, down to the sea. Then a speck of white down came floating on the air, followed by whitish-gray thistle-seeds, and a whole swarm of gnats, and a big broad bumble-bee swung to and fro. All these eddied, gleaming, in the open doorway, and they went on circling as though there was something there which attracted them all--doubtless an accident, or perhaps a festival. "Are you asleep, booby?" asked the journeyman sharply. Pelle shrank into his shell and continued to work at the wax; he kneaded away at it, holding it in hot water. Inside the court, at the baker's--the baker was the old master's brother--they were hoisting sacks of meal. The windlass squeaked horribly, and in between the squeaking one could hear Master Jorgen Kofod, in a high falsetto, disputing with his son. "You're a noodle, a pitiful simpleton--whatever will become of you? Do you think we've nothing more to do than to go running out to prayer-meetings on a working day? Perhaps that will get us our daily bread? Now you just stay here, or, God's mercy, I'll break every bone in your body!" Then the wife chimed in, and then of a sudden all was silent. And after a while the son stole like a phantom along the wall of the opposite house, a hymn-book in his hand. He was not unlike Howling Peter. He squeezed himself against the wall, and his knees gave under him if any one looked sharply at him. He was twenty-five years old, and he took beatings from his father without a murmur. But when matters of religion were in question he defied public opinion, the stick, and his father's anger. "Are you asleep, booby? I shall really have to come over and teach you to hurry!" For a time no one spoke in the workshop--the journeyman was silent, so the others had to hold their tongues. Each bent over his work, and Pelle pulled the pitch out to as great a length as possible, kneaded some grease into it, and pulled again. Outside, in the sunshine, some street urchins were playing, running to and fro. When they saw Pelle, they held their clenched fist under their noses, nodded to him in a provocative manner, and sang-- "The cobbler has a pitchy nose, The more he wipes it the blacker it grows!" Pelle pretended not to see them, but he secretly ticked them all off in his mind. It was his sincere intention to wipe them all off the face of the earth. Suddenly they all ran into the street, where a tremendous, monotonous voice lifted itself and flowed abroad. This was the crazy watchmaker; he was standing on his high steps, crying damnation on the world at large. Pelle knew perfectly well that the man was crazy, and in the words which he so ponderously hurled at the town there was not the slightest meaning. But they sounded wonderfully fine notwithstanding, and the "ordeal by wax" was hanging over him like a sort of last judgment. Involuntarily, he began to turn cold at the sound of this warning voice, which uttered such solemn words and had so little meaning, just as he did at the strong language in the Bible. It was just the voice that frightened him; it was such a terrible voice, such a voice as one might hear speaking out of the clouds; the sort of voice, in short, that made the knees of Moses and Paul give under them; a portentous voice, such as Pelle himself used to hear coming out of the darkness at Stone Farm when a quarrel was going on. Only the knee-strap of little Nikas, the journeyman, kept him from jumping up then and there and throwing himself down like Paul. This knee-strap was a piece of undeniable reality in the midst of all his imaginings; in two months it had taught him never quite to forget who and where he was. He pulled himself together, and satisfied himself that all his miseries arose from his labors over this wretched cobbler's wax; besides, there was such a temptation to compare his puddle of cobbler's wax with the hell in which he was told he would be tormented. But then he heard the cheerful voice of the young shoemaker in the yard outside, and the whole trouble disappeared. The "ordeal by wax" could not really be so terrible, since all the others had undergone it--he had certainly seen tougher fellows than these in his lifetime! Jens sat down and ducked his head, as though he was expecting a box on the ears;--that was the curse of the house which continually hung over him. He was so slow at his work that already Pelle could overtake him; there was something inside him that seemed to hamper his movements like a sort of spell. But Peter and Emil were smart fellows--only they were always wanting to thrash him. Among the apple trees in the yard it was early summer, and close under the workshop windows the pig stood smacking at his food. This sound was like a warm breeze that blew over Pelle's heart. Since the day when Klaus Hermann had shaken the squeaking little porker out of his sack, Pelle had begun to take root. It had squealed at first in a most desolate manner, and something of Pelle's own feeling of loneliness was taken away from him by its cries. Now it complained simply because it was badly fed, and it made Pelle quite furious to see the nasty trash that was thrown to it--a young pig must eat well, that is half the battle. They ought not to go running out every few minute to throw something or other to the pig; when once the heat really set in it would get acidity of the stomach. But there was no sense in these town folk. "Are you really asleep, booby? Why, you are snoring, deuce take me!" The young master came limping in, took a drink, and buried himself in his book. As he read he whistled softly in time with the hammer- strokes of the others. Little Nikas began to whistle too, and the two older apprentices who were beating leather began to strike in time with the whistling, and they even kept double time, so that everything went like greased lightning. The journeyman's trills and quavers became more and more extraordinary, in order to catch up with the blows--the blows and the whistling seemed to be chasing one another--and Master Andres raised his head from his book to listen. He sat there staring into the far distance, as though the shadowy pictures evoked by his reading were hovering before his eyes. Then, with a start, he was present and among them all, his eyes running over them with a waggish expression; and then he stood up, placing his stick so that it supported his diseased hip. The master's hands danced loosely in the air, his head and his whole figure jerking crazily under the compulsion of the rhythm. _Swoop!_--and the dancing hands fell upon the cutting-out knife, and the master fingered the notes on the sharp edge, his head on one side and his eyes closed--his whole appearance that of one absorbed in intent inward listening. But then suddenly his face beamed with felicity, his whole figure contracted in a frenzy of delight, one foot clutched at the air as though bewitched, as though he were playing a harp with his toes--Master Andres was all at once a musical idiot and a musical clown. And _smack!_ the knife flew to the ground and he had the great tin cover in his hand-- _chin-da-da-da chin-da-da-da!_ Suddenly by a stroke of magic the flute had turned into a drum and cymbals! Pelle was doubled up with laughter: then he looked in alarm at the knee-strap and again burst out laughing; but no one took any notice of him. The master's fingers and wrist were dancing a sort of devil's dance on the tin cover, and all of a sudden his elbows too were called into requisition, so that the cover banged against the master's left knee, bounced off again and quick as lightning struck against his wooden heel, which stuck out behind him; then against Pelle's head, and round about it went, striking the most improbable objects, _dum, dum, dum_, as though in wild, demoniacal obedience to the flute-like tones of the journeyman. There was no holding back. Emil, the oldest apprentice, began boldly to whistle too, cautiously at first, and then, as no one smacked his head, more forcefully. Then the next apprentice, Jens--the music-devil, as he was called, because anything would produce a note between his fingers--plucked so cleverly at his waxed-end that it straightway began to give out a buzzing undertone, rising and falling through two or three notes, as though an educated bumble-bee had been leading the whole orchestra. Out of doors the birds came hopping on to the apple-boughs; they twisted their heads inquisitively to one side, frantically fluffed out their feathers, and then they too joined in this orgy of jubilation, which was caused merely by a scrap of bright blue sky. But then the young master had an attack of coughing, and the whole business came to an end. Pelle worked away at his cobbler's wax, kneading the pitch and mixing grease with it. When the black lump was on the point of stiffening, he had to plunge both hands into hot water, so that he got hangnails. Old Jeppe came tripping in from the yard, and Master Andres quickly laid the cutting-board over his book and diligently stropped his knife. "That's right!" said Jeppe; "warm the wax, then it binds all the better." Pelle had rolled the wax into balls, and had put them in the soaking-tub, and now stood silent; for he had not the courage of his own accord to say, "I am ready." The others had magnified the "ordeal by wax" into something positively terrible; all sorts of terrors lurked in the mystery that was now awaiting him; and if he himself had not known that he was a smart fellow--why--yes, he would have left them all in the lurch. But now he meant to submit to it, however bad it might be; he only wanted time to swallow first. Then at last he would have succeeded in shaking off the peasant, and the handicraft would be open to him, with its song and its wandering life and its smart journeyman's clothes. The workshop here was no better than a stuffy hole where one sat and slaved over smelly greasy boots, but he saw that one must go through with it in order to reach the great world, where journeymen wore patent-leather shoes on workdays and made footwear fit for kings. The little town had given Pelle a preliminary foreboding that the world was almost incredibly great, and this foreboding filled him with impatience. He meant to conquer it all! "Now I am ready!" he said resolutely; now he would decide whether he and the handicraft were made for one another. "Then you can pull a waxed end--but make it as long as a bad year!" said the journeyman. The old master was all on fire at the idea. He went over and watched Pelle closely, his tongue hanging out of his mouth; he felt quite young again, and began to descant upon his own apprenticeship in Copenhagen, sixty years ago. Those were times! The apprentices didn't lie in bed and snore in those days till six o'clock in the morning, and throw down their work on the very stroke of eight, simply to go out and run about. No; up they got at four, and stuck at it as long as there was work to do. Then fellows _could_ work--and then they still learned something; they were told things just once, and then--the knee-strap! Then, too, the manual crafts still enjoyed some reputation; even the kings had to learn a handicraft. It was very different to the present, with its bungling and cheap retailing and pinching and paring everywhere. The apprentices winked at one another. Master Andres and the journeyman were silent. You might as well quarrel with the sewing-machine because it purred. Jeppe was allowed to spin his yarn alone. "Are you waxing it well?" said little Nikas. "It's for pigskin." The others laughed, but Pelle rubbed the thread with a feeling as though he were building his own scaffold. "Now I am ready!" he said, in a low voice. The largest pair of men's lasts was taken down from the shelf, and these were tied to one end of the waxed-end and were let right down to the pavement. People collected in the street outside, and stood there staring. Pelle had to lean right out of the window, and bend over as far as he could, while Emil, as the oldest apprentice, laid the waxed-end over his neck. They were all on their feet now, with the exception of the young master; he took no part in this diversion. "Pull, then!" ordered the journeyman, who was directing the solemn business. "Pull them along till they're right under your feet!" Pelle pulled, and the heavy lasts joggled over the pavement, but he paused with a sigh; the waxed-end was slipping over his warm neck. He stood there stamping, like an animal which stamps its feet on the ground, without knowing why; he lifted them cautiously and looked at them in torment. "Pull, pull!" ordered Jeppe. "You must keep the thing moving or it sticks!" But it was too late; the wax had hardened in the hairs of his nape--Father Lasse used to call them his "luck curls," and prophesied a great future for him on their account--and there he stood, and could not remove the waxed-end, however hard he tried. He made droll grimaces, the pain was so bad, and the saliva ran out of his mouth. "Huh! He can't even manage a pair of lasts!" said Jeppe jeeringly. "He'd better go back to the land again and wash down the cows' behinds!" Then Pelle, boiling with rage, gave a jerk, closing his eyes and writhing as he loosed himself. Something sticky and slippery slipped through his fingers with the waxed-end; it was bloody hair, and across his neck the thread had bitten its way in a gutter of lymph and molten wax. But Pelle no longer felt the pain, his head was boiling so, and he felt a vague but tremendous longing to pick up a hammer and strike them all to the ground, and then to run through the street, banging at the skulls of all he met. But then the journeyman took the lasts off him, and the pain came back to him, and his whole miserable plight. He heard Jeppe's squeaky voice, and looked at the young master, who sat there submissively, without having the courage to express his opinion, and all at once he felt terribly sorry for himself. "That was right," buzzed old Jeppe, "a shoemaker mustn't be afraid to wax his hide a little. What? I believe it has actually brought the water to his eyes! No, when I was apprentice we had a real ordeal; we had to pass the waxed-end twice round our necks before we were allowed to pull. Our heads used to hang by a thread and dangle when we were done. Yes, those were times!" Pelle stood there shuffling, in order to fight down his tears; but he had to snigger with mischievous delight at the idea of Jeppe's dangling head. "Then we must see whether he can stand a buzzing head," said the journeyman, getting ready to strike him. "No, you can wait until he deserves it," said Master Andres hastily. "You will soon find an occasion." "Well, he's done with the wax," said Jeppe, "but the question is, can he sit? Because there are some who never learn the art of sitting." "That must be tested, too, before we can declare him to be useful," said little Nikas, in deadly earnest. "Are you done with your tomfoolery now?" said Master Andres angrily, and he went his way. But Jeppe was altogether in his element; his head was full of the memories of his boyhood, a whole train of devilish tricks, which completed the ordination. "Then we used to brand them indelibly with their special branch, and they never took to their heels, but they considered it a great honor as long as they drew breath. But now these are weakly times and full of pretences; the one can't do this and the other can't do that; and there's leather colic and sore behinds and God knows what. Every other day they come with certificates that they're suffering from boils from sitting down, and then you can begin all over again. No, in my time we behaved very different--the booby got held naked over a three-legged stool and a couple of men used to go at him with knee-straps! That was leather on leather, and like that they learned, damn and blast it all! how to put up with sitting on a stool!" The journeyman made a sign. "Now, is the seat of the stool ready consecrated, and prayed over? Yes, then you can go over there and sit down." Pelle went stupidly across the room and sat down--it was all the same to him. But he leaped into the air with a yell of pain, looked malevolently about him, and in a moment he had a hammer in his hand. But he dropped it again, and now he cried--wept buckets of tears. "What the devil are you doing to him now?" The young master came out of the cutting-out room. "What dirty tricks are you hatching now?" He ran his hand over the seat of the stool; it was studded with broken awl-points. "You are barbarous devils; any one would think he was among a lot of savages!" "What a weakling!" sneered Jeppe. "In these days a man can't take a boy as apprentice and inoculate him a bit against boils! One ought to anoint the boobies back and front with honey, perhaps, like the kings of Israel? But you are a freethinker!" "You get out of this, father!" shouted Master Andres, quite beside himself. "You get out of this, father!" He trembled, and his face was quite gray. And then he pushed the old man out of the room before he had struck Pelle on the shoulder and received him properly into the handicraft. Pelle sat there and reflected. He was altogether disillusioned. All the covert allusions had evoked something terrifying, but at the same time impressive. In his imagination the ordeal had grown into something that constituted the great barrier of his life, so that one passed over to the other side as quite a different being; it was something after the fashion of the mysterious circumcision in the Bible, a consecration to new things. And now the whole thing was just a spitefully devised torture! The young master threw him a pair of children's shoes, which had to be soled. So he was admitted to that department, and need no longer submit to preparing waxed-ends for the others! But the fact did not give him any pleasure. He sat there struggling with something irrational that seemed to keep on rising deep within him; when no one was looking he licked his fingers and drew them over his neck. He seemed to himself like a half-stupefied cat which had freed itself from the snare and sat there drying its fur. Out of doors, under the apple-trees, the sunlight lay green and golden, and a long way off, in the skipper's garden, three brightly dressed girls were walking and playing; they seemed to Pelle like beings out of another world. "Fortune's children on the sunbright shore," as the song had it. From time to time a rat made its appearance behind the pigsty, and went clattering over the great heap of broken glass that lay there. The pig stood there gobbling down its spoiled potatoes with that despairing noise that put an end to all Pelle's proud dreams of the future, while it filled him with longing--oh, such a mad longing! And everything that possibly could do so made its assault upon him at this moment when he was feeling particularly victorious; the miseries of his probation here in the workshop, the street urchins, the apprentices, who would not accept him as one of themselves, and all the sharp edges and corners which he was continually running up against in this unfamiliar world. And then the smelly workshop itself, where never a ray of sunlight entered. And no one here seemed to respect anything. When the master was not present, little Nikas would sometimes indulge in tittle-tattle with the older apprentices. Remarks were made at such times which opened new spheres of thought to Pelle, and he had to ask questions; or they would talk of the country, which Pelle knew better than all of them put together, and he would chime in with some correction. _Smack!_ came a box on his ears that would send him rolling into the corner; he was to hold his tongue until he was spoken to. But Pelle, who was all eyes and ears, and had been accustomed to discuss everything in heaven or earth with Father Lasse, could not learn to hold his tongue. Each exacted with a strong hand his quantum of respect, from the apprentices to the old master, who was nearly bursting with professional pride in his handicraft; only Pelle had no claim to any respect whatever, but must pay tribute to all. The young master was the only one who did not press like a yoke on the youngster's neck. Easygoing as he was, he would disregard the journeyman and the rest, and at times he would plump himself down beside Pelle, who sat there feeling dreadfully small. Outside, when the sun was shining through the trees in a particular way, and a peculiar note came into the twittering of the birds, Pelle knew it was about the time when the cows began to get on their feet after their midday chewing of the cud. And then a youngster would come out from among the little fir-trees, lustily cracking his whip; he was the general of the whole lot--Pelle, the youngster--who had no one set over him. And the figure that came stumbling across the arable yonder, in order to drive the cows home--why, that was Lasse! Father Lasse! He did not know why, but it wrung a sob from him; it took him so unawares. "Hold your row!" cried the journeyman threateningly. Pelle was greatly concerned; he had not once made the attempt to go over and see Lasse. The young master came to get something off the shelf above his head, and leaned confidentially on Pelle's shoulder, his weak leg hanging free and dangling. He stood there loitering for a time, staring at the sky outside, and this warm hand on Pelle's shoulder quieted him. But there could be no talk of enjoyment when he thought where good Father Lasse was. He had not seen his father since that sunny morning when he himself had gone away and left the old man to his loneliness. He had not heard of him; he had scarcely given a thought to him. He had to get through the day with a whole skin, and to adapt himself to the new life; a whole new world was before him, in which he had to find his feet. Pelle had simply had no time; the town had swallowed him. But at this moment his conduct confronted him as the worst example of unfaithfulness the world had ever known. And his neck continued to hurt him--he must go somewhere or other where no one would look at him. He made a pretence of having to do something in the yard outside; he went behind the washhouse, and he crouched down by the woodpile beside the well. There he lay, shrinking into himself, in the blackest despair at having left Father Lasse so shamelessly in the lurch, just for the sake of all these new strange surroundings. Yes, and then, when they used to work together, he had been neither as good nor as heedful as he should have been. It was really Lasse who, old as he was, had sacrificed himself for Pelle, in order to lighten his work and take the worst of the burden off him, although Pelle had the younger shoulders. And he had been a little hard at times, as over that business between his father and Madame Olsen; and he had not always been very patient with his good-humored elderly tittle-tattle, although if he could hear it now he would give his life to listen. He could remember only too plainly occasions when he had snapped at Lasse, so unkindly that Lasse had given a sigh and made off; for Lasse never snapped back--he was only silent and very sad. But how dreadful that was! Pelle threw all his high-and-mighty airs to the winds and gave himself up to despair. What was he doing here, with Father Lasse wandering among strangers, and perhaps unable to find shelter? There was nothing with which he could console himself, no evasion or excuse was possible; Pelle howled at the thought of his faithlessness. And as he lay there despairing, worrying over the whole business and crying himself into a state of exhaustion, quite a manful resolve began to form within him; he must give up everything of his own--the future, and the great world, and all, and devote his days to making the old man's life happy. He must go back to Stone Farm! He forgot that he was only a child who could just earn his own keep. To protect the infirm old man at every point and make his life easy--that was just what he wanted. And Pelle was by no means disposed to doubt that he could do it. In the midst of his childish collapse he took upon himself all the duties of a strong man. As he lay there, woe-begone, playing with a couple of bits of firewood, the elder-boughs behind the well parted, and a pair of big eyes stared at him wonderingly. It was only Manna. "Did they beat you--or why are you crying?" she asked earnestly. Pelle turned his face away. Manna shook her hair back and looked at him fixedly. "Did they beat you? What? If they did, I shall go in and scold them hard!" "What is it to you?" "People who don't answer aren't well-behaved." "Oh, hold your row!" Then he was left in peace; over at the back of the garden Manna and her two younger sisters were scrambling about the trellis, hanging on it and gazing steadfastly across the yard at him. But that was nothing to him; he wanted to know nothing about them; he didn't want petticoats to pity him or intercede for him. They were saucy jades, even if their father had sailed on the wide ocean and earned a lot of money. If he had them here they would get the stick from him! Now he must content himself with putting out his tongue at them. He heard their horrified outcry--but what then? He didn't want to go scrambling about with them any more, or to play with the great conch-shells and lumps of coral in their garden! He would go back to the land and look after his old father! Afterward, when that was done, he would go out into the world himself, and bring such things home with him--whole shiploads of them! They were calling him from the workshop window. "Where in the world has that little blighter got to?" he heard them say. He started, shrinking; he had quite forgotten that he was serving his apprenticeship. He got on his feet and ran quickly indoors. Pelle had soon tidied up after leaving off work. The others had run out in search of amusement; he was alone upstairs in the garret. He put his worldly possessions into his sack. There was a whole collection of wonderful things--tin steamboats, railway-trains, and horses that were hollow inside--as much of the irresistible wonders of the town as he had been able to obtain for five white krone pieces. They went in among the washing, so that they should not get damaged, and then he threw the bag out of the gable-window into the little alley. Now the question was how he himself should slip through the kitchen without arousing the suspicions of Jeppe's old woman; she had eyes like a witch, and Pelle had a feeling that every one who saw him would know what he was about. But he went. He controlled himself, and sauntered along, so that the people should think he was taking washing to the laundrywoman; but he could only keep it up as far as the first turning; then he started off as fast as he could go. He was homesick. A few street-boys yelled and threw stones after him, but that didn't matter, so long as he only got away; he was insensible to everything but the remorse and homesickness that filled his heart. It was past midnight when he at last reached the outbuildings of Stone Farm. He was breathless, and had a stitch in his side. He leaned against the ruined forge, and closed his eyes, the better to recover himself. As soon as he had recovered his breath, he entered the cowshed from the back and made for the herdsman's room. The floor of the cowshed felt familiar to his feet, and now he came in the darkness to the place where the big bull lay. He breathed in the scent of the creature's body and blew it out again--ah, didn't he remember it! But the scent of the cowherd's room was strange to him. "Father Lasse is neglecting himself," he thought, and he pulled the feather-bed from under the sleeper's head. A strange voice began to upbraid him. "Then isn't this Lasse?" said Pelle. His knees were shaking under him. "Lasse?" cried the new cowherd, as he sat upright. "Do you say Lasse? Have you come to fetch that child of God, Mr. Devil? They've been here already from Hell and taken him with them--in the living body they've taken him there with them--he was too good for this world, d'ye see? Old Satan was here himself in the form of a woman and took him away. You'd better go there and look for him. Go straight on till you come to the devil's great-grandmother, and then you've only got to ask your way to the hairy one." Pelle stood for a while in the yard below and considered. So Father Lasse had gone away! And wanted to marry, or was perhaps already married. And to Karna, of course. He stood bolt-upright, sunk in intimate memories. The great farm lay hushed in moonlight, in deepest slumber, and all about him rose memories from their sleep, speaking to him caressingly, with a voice like that contented purring, remembered from childhood, when the little kittens used to sleep upon his pillow, and he would lay his cheek against their soft, quivering bodies. Pelle's memory had deep roots. Once, at Uncle Kalle's, he had laid himself in the big twins' cradle and had let the other children rock him--he was then fully nine years old--and as they rocked him a while the surroundings began to take hold of him, and he saw a smoky, raftered ceiling, which did not belong to Kalle's house, swaying high over his head, and he had a feeling that a muffled-up old woman, wrapped in a shawl, sat like a shadow at the head of the cradle, and rocked it with her foot. The cradle jolted with the over-vigorous rocking, and every time the rocking foot slipped from the footboard it struck on the floor with the sound of a sprung wooden shoe. Pelle jumped up--"she bumped so," he said, bewildered. "What? No, you certainly dreamed that!" Kalle looked, smiling, under the rockers. "Bumped!" said Lasse. "That ought to suit you first-rate! At one time, when you were little, you couldn't sleep if the cradle didn't bump, so we had to make the rockers all uneven. It was almost impossible to rock it. Bengta cracked many a good wooden shoe in trying to give you your fancy." The farmyard here was like a great cradle, which swayed and swayed in the uncertain moonlight, and now that Pelle had once quite surrendered himself to the past, there was no end to the memories of childhood that rose within him. His whole existence passed before him, swaying above his head as before, and the earth itself seemed like a dark speck in the abysm of space. And then the crying broke out from the house--big with destiny, to be heard all over the place, so that Kongstrup slunk away shamefaced, and the other grew angry and ungovernable. ... And Lasse ... yes, where was Father Lasse? With one leap, Pelle was in the brew-house, knocking on the door of the maid's room. "Is that you, Anders?" whispered a voice from within, and then the door opened, and a pair of arms fastened themselves about him and drew him in. Pelle felt about him, and his hands sank into a naked bosom--why, it was yellow-haired Marie! "Is Karna still here?" he asked. "Can't I speak to Karna a moment?" They were glad to see him again; and yellow-haired Marie patted his cheeks quite affectionately, and just before that she kissed him too. Karna could scarcely recover from her surprise; he had acquired such a townsman's air. "And now you are a shoemaker too, in the biggest workshop in the town! Yes, we've heard; Butcher Jensen heard about it on the market. And you have grown tall and townified. You do hold yourself well!" Karna was dressing herself. "Where is Father Lasse?" said Pelle; he had a lump in his throat only from speaking of him. "Give me time, and I'll come out with you. How fine you dress now! I should hardly have known you. Would you, Marie?" "He's a darling boy--he always was," said Marie, and she pushed at him with her arched foot--she was now in bed again. "It's the same suit as I always had," said Pelle. "Yes, yes; but then you held yourself different--there in town they all look like lords. Well, shall we go?" Pelle said good-by to Marie affectionately; it occurred to him that he had much to thank her for. She looked at him in a very odd way, and tried to draw his hand under the coverlet. "What's the matter with father?" said Pelle impatiently, as soon as they were outside. Well, Lasse had taken to his heels too! He couldn't stand it when Pelle had gone. And the work was too heavy for one. Where he was just at the moment Karna could not say. "He's now here, now there, considering farms and houses," she said proudly. "Some fine day he'll be able to take you in on his visit to town." "And how are things going here?" inquired Pelle. "Well, Erik has got his speech back and is beginning to be a man again--he can make himself understood. And Kongstrup and his wife, they drink one against the other." "They drink together, do they, like the wooden shoemaker and his old woman?" "Yes, and so much that they often lie in the room upstairs soaking, and can't see one another for the drink, they're that foggy. Everything goes crooked here, as you may suppose, with no master. 'Masterless, defenceless,' as the old proverb says. But what can you say about it--they haven't anything else in common! But it's all the same to me--as soon as Lasse finds something I'm off!" Pelle could well believe that, and had nothing to say against it. Karna looked at him from head to foot in surprise as they walked on. "They feed you devilish well in the town there, don't they?" "Yes--vinegary soup and rotten greaves. We were much better fed here." She would not believe it--it sounded too foolish. "But where are all the things they have in the shop windows--all the meats and cakes and sweet things? What becomes of all them?" "That I don't know," said Pelle grumpily; he himself had racked his brains over this very question. "I get all I can eat, but washing and clothes I have to see to myself." Karna could scarcely conceal her amazement; she had supposed that Pelle had been, so to speak, caught up to Heaven while yet living. "But how do you manage?" she said anxiously. "You must find that difficult. Yes, yes, directly we set out feet under our own table we'll help you all we can." They parted up on the high-road, and Pelle, tired and defeated, set out on his way back. It was broad daylight when he got back, and he crawled into bed without any one noticing anything of his attempted flight. III Little Nikas had washed the blacking from his face and had put on his best clothes; he wanted to go to the market with a bundle of washing, which the butcher from Aaker was to take home to his mother, and Pelle walked behind him, carrying the bundle. Little Nikas saluted many friendly maidservants in the houses of the neighborhood, and Pelle found it more amusing to walk beside him than to follow; two people who are together ought to walk abreast. But every time he walked beside the journeyman the latter pushed him into the gutter, and finally Pelle fell over a curbstone; then he gave it up. Up the street the crazy watchmaker was standing on the edge of his high steps, swinging a weight; it was attached to the end of a long cord, and he followed the swinging of the pendulum with his fingers, as though he were timing the beats. This was very interesting, and Pelle feared it would escape the journeyman. "The watchmaker's making an experiment," he said cheerfully. "Stop your jaw!" said the journeyman sharply. Then it occurred to Pelle that he was not allowed to speak, so he closed his mouth tight. He felt the bundle, in order to picture to himself what the contents were like. His eyes swept all the windows and the side streets, and every moment he carried his free hand to his mouth, as though he were yawning, and introduced a crumb of black bread, which he had picked up in the kitchen. His braces were broken, so he had continually to puff out his belly; there were hundreds of things to look at, and the coal-merchant's dog to be kicked while, in all good faith, he snuffed at a curbstone. A funeral procession came toward them, and the journeyman passed it with his head bared, so Pelle did the same. Eight at the back of the procession came Tailor Bjerregrav with his crutch; he always followed every funeral, and always walked light at the back because his method of progression called for plenty of room. He would stand still and look on the ground until the last of the other followers had gone a few steps in advance, then he would set his crutch in front of him, swing himself forward for a space, and then stand still again. Then he would swing forward again on his lame legs, and again stand still and watch the others, and again take a few paces, looking like a slowly wandering pair of compasses which was tracing the path followed by the procession. But the funniest thing was that the tailor had forgotten to button up the flap of his black mourning-breeches, so that it hung over his knees like an apron. Pelle was not quite sure that the journeyman had noticed this. "Bjerregrav has forgotten--" "Hold your jaw." Little Nikas made a movement backward, and Pelle ducked his head and pressed his hand tightly to his mouth. Over in Staal Street there was a great uproar; an enormously fat woman was standing there quarrelling with two seamen. She was in her nightcap and petticoat, and Pelle knew her. "That's the Sow!" he began. "She's a dreadful woman; up at Stone Farm----" _Smack!_ Little Nikas gave him such a box on the ear that he had to sit down on the woodcarver's steps. "One, two, three, four-- that's it; now come on!" He counted ten steps forward and set off again. "But God help you if you don't keep your distance!" Pelle kept his distance religiously, but he instantly discovered that little Nikas, like old Jeppe, had too large a posterior. That certainly came of sitting too much--and it twisted one's loins. He protruded his own buttocks as far as he could, smoothed down a crease in his jacket over his hips, raised himself elegantly upon the balls of his feet and marched proudly forward, one hand thrust into the breast of his coat. If the journeyman scratched himself, Pelle did the same--and he swayed his body in the same buoyant manner; his cheeks were burning, but he was highly pleased with himself. Directly he was his own master he went the round of the country butchers, questioning them, in the hope of hearing some news of Lasse, but no one could tell him anything. He went from cart to cart, asking his questions. "Lasse Karlson?" said one. "Ah, he was cowherd up at Stone Farm!" Then he called to another, asking him about Lasse --the old cowherd at Stone Farm--and he again called to a third, and they all gathered about the carts, in order to talk the matter over. There were men here who travelled all over the island [Bornholm] in order to buy cattle; they knew everything and everybody, but they could tell him nothing of Lasse. "Then he's not in the island," said one, very decidedly. "You must get another father, my lad!" Pelle did not feel inclined for chaff, so he slipped away. Besides, he must go back and get to work; the young master, who was busily going from cart to cart, ordering meat, had called to him. They hung together like the halves of a pea-pod when it was a question of keeping the apprentices on the curb, although otherwise they were jealous enough of one another. Bjerregrav's crutch stood behind the door, and he himself sat in stiff funereal state by the window; he held a folded white handkerchief in his folded hands, and was diligently mopping his eyes. "Was he perhaps a relation of yours?" said the young master slyly. "No; but it is so sad for those who are left--a wife and children. There is always some one to mourn and regret the dead. Man's life is a strange thing, Andres." "Ah, and potatoes are bad this year, Bjerregrav!" Neighbor Jorgen filled up the whole doorway. "Lord, here we have that blessed Bjerregrav!" he shouted; "and in state, too! What's on to-day then--going courting, are you?" "I've been following!" answered Bjerregrav, in a hushed voice. The big baker made an involuntary movement; he did not like being unexpectedly reminded of death. "You, Bjerregrav, you ought to be a hearse-driver; then at least you wouldn't work to no purpose!" "It isn't to no purpose when they are dead," stammered Bjerregrav. "I am not so poor that I need much, and there is no one who stands near to me. No living person loses anything because I follow those who die. And then I know them all, and I've followed them all in thought since they were born," he added apologetically. "If only you got invited to the funeral feast and got something of all the good things they have to eat," continued the baker, "I could understand it better." "The poor widow, who sits there with her four little ones and doesn't know how she's to feed them--to take food from her--no, I couldn't do it! She's had to borrow three hundred kroner so that her man could have a respectable funeral party." "That ought to be forbidden by law," said Master Andres; "any one with little children hasn't the right to throw away money on the dead." "She is giving her husband the last honors," said Jeppe reprovingly. "That is the duty of every good wife." "Of course," rejoined Master Andres. "God knows, something must be done. It's like the performances on the other side of the earth, where the widow throws herself on the funeral pyre when the husband dies, and has to be burned to death." Baker Jorgen scratched his thighs and grimaced. "You are trying to get us to swallow one of your stinking lies, Andres. You'd never get a woman to do that, if I know anything of womankind." But Bjerregrav knew that the shoemaker was not lying, and fluttered his thin hands in the air, as though he were trying to keep something invisible from touching his body. "God be thanked that we came into the world on this island here," he said, in a low voice. "Here only ordinary things happen, however wrongheaded they may be." "What puzzles me is where she got all that money!" said the baker. "She's borrowed it, of course," said Bjerregrav, in a tone of voice that made it clear that he wanted to terminate the conversation. Jeppe retorted contemptuously, "Who's going to lend a poor mate's widow three hundred kroner? He might as well throw it into the sea right away." But Baker Jorgen gave Bjerregrav a great smack on the back. "You've given her the money, it's you has done it; nobody else would he such a silly sheep!" he said threateningly. "You let me be!" stammered Bjerregrav. "I've done nothing to you! And she has had one happy day in the midst of all her sorrow." His hands were trembling. "You're a goat!" said Jeppe shortly. "What is Bjerregrav really thinking about when he stands like this looking down into the grave?" asked the young master, in order to divert the conversation. "I am thinking: Now you are lying there, where you are better off than here," said the old tailor simply. "Yes, because Bjerregrav follows only poor people," said Jeppe, rather contemptuously. "I can't help it, but I'm always thinking," continued Master Andres; "just supposing it were all a take-in! Suppose he follows them and enjoys the whole thing--and then there's nothing! That's why I never like to see a funeral." "Ah, you see, that's the question--supposing there's nothing." Baker Jorgen turned his thick body. "Here we go about imagining a whole lot of things; but what if it's all just lies?" "That's the mind of an unbeliever!" said Jeppe, and stamped violently on the floor. "God preserve my mind from unbelief!" retorted brother Jorgen, and he stroked his face gravely. "But a man can't very well help thinking. And what does a man see round about him? Sickness and death and halleluiah! We live, and we live, I tell you, Brother Jeppe--and we live in order to live! But, good heavens! all the poor things that aren't born yet!" He sank into thought again, as was usual with him when he thought of Little Jorgen, who refused to come into the world and assume his name and likeness, and carry on after him.... There lay his belief; there was nothing to be done about it. And the others began to speak in hushed voices, in order not to disturb his memories. Pelle, who concerned himself with everything in heaven and earth, had been absorbing every word that was spoken with his protruding ears, but when the conversation turned upon death he yawned. He himself had never been seriously ill, and since Mother Bengta died, death had never encroached upon his world. And that was lucky for him, as it would have been a case of all or nothing, for he had only Father Lasse. For Pelle the cruel hands of death hardly existed, and he could not understand how people could lay themselves down with their noses in the air; there was so much to observe here below--the town alone kept one busy. On the very first evening he had run out to look for the other boys, just where the crowd was thickest. There was no use in waiting; Pelle was accustomed to take the bull by the horns, and he longed to be taken into favor. "What sort of brat is that?" they said, flocking round him. "I'm Pelle," he said, standing confidently in the midst of the group, and looking at them all. "I have been at Stone Farm since I was eight, and that is the biggest farm in the north country." He had put his hands in his pockets, and spat coolly in front of him, for that was nothing to what he had in reserve. "Oh, so you're a farmer chap, then!" said one, and the others laughed. Rud was among them. "Yes," said Pelle; "and I've done a bit of ploughing, and mowing fodder for the calves." They winked at one another. "Are you really a farmer chap?" "Yes, truly," replied Pelle, perplexed; they had spoken the word in a tone which he now remarked. They all burst out laughing: "He confesses it himself. And he comes from the biggest farm in the country. Then he's the biggest farmer in the country!" "No, the farmer was called Kongstrup," said Pelle emphatically. "I was only the herd-boy." They roared with laughter. "He doesn't see it now! Why, Lord, that's the biggest farmer's lout!" Pelle had not yet lost his head, for he had heavier ammunition, and now he was about to play a trump. "And there at the farm there was a man called Erik, who was so strong that he could thrash three men, but the bailiff was stronger still; and he gave Erik such a blow that he lost his senses." "Oh, indeed! How did he manage that? Can you hit a farmer chap so that he loses his senses? Who was it hit you like that?" The questions rained upon him. Pelle pushed the boy who had asked the last question, and fixed his eyes upon his. But the rascal let fly at him again. "Take care of your best clothes," he said, laughing. "Don't crumple your cuffs!" Pelle had put on a clean blue shirt, of which the neckband and wristbands had to serve as collar and cuffs. He knew well enough that he was clean and neat, and now they were being smart at his expense on that very account. "And what sort of a pair of Elbe barges has he got on? Good Lord! Why, they'd fill half the harbor!" This was in reference to Kongstrup's shoes. Pelle had debated with himself as to whether he should wear them on a week-day. "When did you celebrate hiring-day?" asked a third. This was in reference to his fat red cheeks. Now he was ready to jump out of his skin, and cast his eyes around to see if there was nothing with which he could lay about him, for this would infallibly end in an attack upon the whole party. Pelle already had them all against him. But just then a long, thin lad came forward. "Have you a pretty sister?" he asked. "I have no sisters at all," answered Pelle shortly. "That's a shame. Well, can you play hide-and-seek?" Of course Pelle could! "Well, then, play!" The thin boy pushed Pelle's cap over his eyes, and turned him with his face against the plank fence. "Count to a hundred--and no cheating, I tell you!" No, Pelle would not cheat--he would neither look nor count short-- so much depended on this beginning. But he solemnly promised himself to use his legs to some purpose; they should all be caught, one after another! He finished his counting and took his cap from his eyes. No one was to be seen. "Say 'peep'!" he cried; but no one answered. For half an hour Pelle searched among timbers and warehouses, and at last he slipped away home and to bed. But he dreamed, that night, that he caught them all, and they elected him as their leader for all future time. The town did not meet him with open arms, into which he could fall, with his childlike confidence, and be carried up the ladder. Here, apparently, one did not talk about the heroic deeds which elsewhere gave a man foothold; here such things merely aroused scornful laughter. He tried it again and again, always with something new, but the answer was always the same--"Farmer!" His whole little person was overflowing with good-will, and he became deplorably dejected. Pelle soon perceived that his whole store of ammunition was crumbling between his hands, and any respect he had won at home, on the farm or in the village, by his courage and good nature, went for nothing here. Here other qualities counted; there was a different jargon, the clothes were different, and people went about things in a different way. Everything he had valued was turned to ridicule, even down to his pretty cap with its ear-flaps and its ribbon adorned with representations of harvest implements. He had come to town so calmly confident in himself--to make the painful discovery that he was a laughable object! Every time he tried to make one of a party, he was pushed to one side; he had no right to speak to others; he must take the hindmost rank! Nothing remained to him but to sound the retreat all along the line until he had reached the lowest place of all. And hard as this was for a smart youngster who was burning to set his mark on everything, Pelle did it, and confidently prepared to scramble up again. However sore his defeat, he always retained an obstinate feeling of his own worth, which no one could take away from him. He was persuaded that the trouble lay not with himself but with all sorts of things about him, and he set himself restlessly to find out the new values and to conduct a war of elimination against himself. After every defeat he took himself unweariedly to task, and the next evening he would go forth once more, enriched by so many experiences, and would suffer defeat at a new point. He wanted to conquer--but what must he not sacrifice first? He knew of nothing more splendid than to march resoundingly through the streets, his legs thrust into Lasse's old boots--this was the essence of manliness. But he was man enough to abstain from so doing--for here such conduct would be regarded as boorish. It was harder for him to suppress his past; it was so inseparable from Father Lasse that he was obsessed by a sense of unfaithfulness. But there was no alternative; if he wanted to get on he must adapt himself in everything, in prejudices and opinions alike. But he promised himself to flout the lot of them so soon as he felt sufficiently high-spirited. What distressed him most was the fact that his handicraft was so little regarded. However accomplished he might become, the cobbler was, and remained, a poor creature with a pitchy snout and a big behind! Personal performance counted for nothing; it was obvious that he must as soon as possible escape into some other walk of life. But at least he was in the town, and as one of its inhabitants-- there was no getting over that. And the town seemed still as great and as splendid, although it had lost the look of enchantment it once had, when Lasse and he had passed through it on their way to the country. Most of the people wore their Sunday clothes, and many sat still and earned lots of money, but no one knew how. All roads came hither, and the town swallowed everything: pigs and corn and men--everything sooner or later found its harbor here! The Sow lived here with Rud, who was now apprenticed to a painter, and the twins were here! And one day Pelle saw a tall boy leaning against a door and bellowing at the top of his voice, his arms over his face, while a couple of smaller boys were thrashing him; it was Howling Peter, who was cook's boy on a vessel. Everything flowed into the town! But Father Lasse--he was not here! IV There was something about the town that made it hard to go to bed and hard to get up. In the town there was no sunrise shining over the earth and waking everybody. The open face of morning could not be seen indoors. And the dying day poured no evening weariness into one's limbs, driving them to repose; life seemed here to flow in the reverse direction, for here people grew lively at night! About half-past six in the morning the master, who slept downstairs, would strike the ceiling with his stick. Pelle, whose business it was to reply, would mechanically sit up and strike the side of the bedstead with his clenched fist. Then, still sleeping, he would fall back again. After a while the process was repeated. But then the master grew impatient. "Devil take it! aren't you going to get up to-day?" he would bellow. "Is this to end in my bringing you your coffee in bed?" Drunken with sleep, Pelle would tumble out of bed. "Get up, get up!" he would cry, shaking the others. Jens got nimbly on his feet; he always awoke with a cry of terror, guarding his head; but Emil and Peter, who were in the hobbledehoy stage, were terribly difficult to wake. Pelle would hasten downstairs, and begin to set everything in order, filling the soaking-tub and laying a sand-heap by the window-bench for the master to spit into. He bothered no further about the others; he was in a morning temper himself. On the days when he had to settle right away into the cobbler's hunch, without first running a few early errands or doing a few odd tasks, it took hours to thaw him. He used to look round to see whether on the preceding evening he had made a chalk-mark in any conspicuous place; for then there must be something that he had to remember. Memory was not his strong point, hence this ingenious device. Then it was only a matter of not forgetting what the mark stood for; if he forgot, he was no better off than before. When the workshop was tidy, he would hurry downstairs and run out for Madame, to fetch morning rolls "for themselves." He himself was given a wheaten biscuit with his coffee, which he drank out in the kitchen, while the old woman went grumbling to and fro. She was dry as a mummy and moved about bent double, and when she was not using her hands she carried one forearm pressed against her midriff. She was discontented with everything, and was always talking of the grave. "My two eldest are overseas, in America and Australia; I shall never see them again. And here at home two menfolk go strutting about doing nothing and expecting to be waited on. Andres, poor fellow, isn't strong, and Jeppe's no use any longer; he can't even keep himself warm in bed nowadays. But they know how to ask for things, that they do, and they let me go running all over the place without any help; I have to do everything myself. I shall truly thank God when at last I lie in my grave. What are you standing there for with your mouth and your eyes wide open? Get away with you!" Thereupon Pelle would finish his coffee--it was sweetened with brown sugar--out of doors, by the workshop window. In the mornings, before the master appeared, there was no great eagerness to work; they were all sleepy still, looking forward to a long, dreary day. The journeyman did not encourage them to work; he had a difficulty in finding enough for himself. So they sat there wool-gathering, striking a few blows with the hammer now and then for appearance's sake, and one or another would fall asleep again over the table. They all started when three blows were struck on the wall as a signal for Pelle. "What are you doing? It seems to me you are very idle in there!" the master would say, staring suspiciously at Pelle. But Pelle had remarked what work each was supposed to have in hand, and would run over it all. "What day's this--Thursday? Damnation take it! Tell that Jens he's to put aside Manna's uppers and begin on the pilot's boots this moment--they were promised for last Monday." The master would struggle miserably to get his breath: "Ah, I've had a bad night, Pelle, a horrible night; I was so hot, with such a ringing in my ears. New blood is so devilishly unruly; it's all the time boiling in my head like soda-water. But it's a good thing I'm making it, God knows; I used to be so soon done up. Do you believe in Hell? Heaven, now, that's sheer nonsense; what happiness can we expect elsewhere if we can't be properly happy here? But do you believe in Hell? I dreamed I'd spat up the last bit of my lungs and that I went to Hell. 'What the devil d'you want here, Andres?' they asked me; 'your heart is still whole!' And they wouldn't have me. But what does that signify? I can't breathe with my heart, so I'm dying. And what becomes of me then? Will you tell me that? "There's something that bids a man enter again into his mother's womb; now if only a man could do that, and come into the world again with two sound legs, you'd see me disappear oversea double-quick, whoop! I wouldn't stay messing about here any longer.... Well, have you seen your navel yet to-day? Yes, you ragamuffin, you laugh; but I'm in earnest. It would pay you well if you always began the day by contemplating your navel." The master was half serious, half jesting. "Well, now, you can fetch me my port wine; it's on the shelf, behind the box with the laces in it. I'm deadly cold." Pelle came back and announced that the bottle was empty. The master looked at him mildly. "Then run along and get me another. I've no money--you must say-- well, think it out for yourself; you've got a head." The master looked at him with an expression which went to Pelle's heart, so that he often felt like bursting into tears. Hitherto Pelle's life had been spent on the straight highway; he did not understand this combination of wit and misery, roguishness and deadly affliction. But he felt something of the presence of the good God, and trembled inwardly; he would have died for the young master. When the weather was wet it was difficult for the sick man to get about; the cold pulled him down. If he came into the workshop, freshly washed and with his hair still wet, he would go over to the cold stove, and stand there, stamping his feet. His cheeks had quite fallen in. "I've so little blood for the moment," he said at such times, "but the new blood is on the way; it sings in my ears every night." Then he would be silent a while. "There, by my soul, we've got a piece of lung again," he said, and showed Pelle, who stood at the stove brushing shoes, a gelatinous lump. "But they grow again afterward!" "The master will soon be in his thirtieth year," said the journeyman; "then the dangerous time is over." "Yes, deuce take it--if only I can hang together so long--only another six months," said the master eagerly, and he looked at Pelle, as though Pelle had it in his power to help him; "only another six months! Then the whole body renews itself--new lungs--everything new. But new legs, God knows, I shall never get." A peculiar, secret understanding grew up between Pelle and the master; it did not manifest itself in words, but in glances, in tones of the voice, and in the whole conduct of each. When Pelle stood behind him, it was as though even the master's leather jacket emitted a feeling of warmth, and Pelle followed him with his eyes whenever and wherever he could, and the master's behavior to Pelle was different from his behavior to the others. When, on his return from running errands in the town, he came to the corner, he was delighted to see the young master standing in the doorway, tightly grasping his stick, with his lame leg in an easy position. He stood there, sweeping his eyes from side to side, gazing longingly into the distance. This was his place when he was not indoors, sitting over some book of adventure. But Pelle liked him to stand there, and as he slipped past he would hang his head shyly, for it often happened that the master would clutch his shoulder, so hard that it hurt, and shake him to and fro, and would say affectionately: "Oh, you limb of Satan!" This was the only endearment that life had vouchsafed Pelle, and he sunned himself in it. Pelle could not understand the master, nor did he understand his sighs and groans. The master never went out, save as an exception, when he was feeling well; then he would hobble across to the beerhouse and make up a party, but as a rule his travels ended at the house door. There he would stand, looking about him a little, and then he would hobble indoors again, with that infectious good humor which transformed the dark workshop into a grove full of the twittering of birds. He had never been abroad, and he felt no craving to go; but in spite of this his mind and his speech roamed over the whole wide world, so that Pelle at times felt like falling sick from sheer longing. He demanded nothing more than health of the future, and adventures hovered all about him; one received the impression that happiness itself had fluttered to earth and settled upon him. Pelle idolized him, but did not understand him. The master, who at one moment would make sport of his lame leg and the next moment forget that he had one, or jest about his poverty as though he were flinging good gold pieces about him--this was a man Pelle could not fathom. He was no wiser when he secretly looked into the books which Master Andres read so breathlessly; he would have been content with a much more modest adventure than a journey to the North Pole or the center of the earth, if only he himself could have been of the party. He had no opportunity to sit still and indulge in fancies. Every moment it was, "Pelle, run and do something or other!" Everything was purchased in small quantities, although it was obtained on credit. "Then it doesn't run up so," Jeppe used to say; it was all the same to Master Andres. The foreman's young woman came running in; she absolutely must have her young lady's shoes; they were promised for Monday. The master had quite forgotten them. "They are in hand now," he said, undaunted. "To the devil with you, Jens!" And Jens had hastily thrust a pair of lasts into the shoes, while Master Andres went outside with the girl, and joked with her on the landing, in order to smooth her down. "Just a few nails, so that they'll hang together," said the master to Jens. And then, "Pelle, out you go, as quick as your legs will carry you! Say we'll send for them early to-morrow morning and finish them properly! But run as though the devil were at your heels!" Pelle ran, and when he returned, just as he was slipping into his leather apron, he had to go out again. "Pelle, run out and borrow a few brass nails--then we needn't buy any to-day. Go to Klausen--no, go to Blom, rather; you've been to Klausen already this morning." "Blom's are angry about the screw-block!" said Pelle. "Death and all the devils! We must see about putting it in repair and returning it; remember that, and take it with you to the smith's. Well, what in the world shall we do?" The young master stared helplessly from one to another. "Shoemaker Marker," suggested little Nikas. "We don't borrow from Marker," and the master wrinkled his forehead. "Marker's a louse!" Marker had succeeded in stealing one of the oldest customers of the workshop. "There isn't salt to eat an egg!" "Well, what _shall_ I do?" asked Pelle, somewhat impatiently. The master sat for a while in silence. "Well, take it, then!" he cried, and threw a krone toward Pelle; "I have no peace from you so long as I've got a farthing in my pocket, you demon! Buy a packet and pay back Klausen and Blom what we've borrowed." "But then they'd see we've got a whole packet," said Pelle. "Besides, they owe us lots of other things that they've borrowed of us." Pelle showed circumspection in his dealings. "What a rogue!" said the master, and he settled himself to read. "Lord above us, what a gallows-bird!" He looked extremely contented. And after a time it was once more, "Pelle, run out, etc." The day was largely passed in running errands, and Pelle was not one to curtail them; he had no liking for the smelly workshop and its wooden chairs. There was so much to be fetched and carried, and Pelle considered these errands to be his especial duty; when he had nothing else to do he roved about like a young puppy, and thrust his nose into everything. Already the town had no more secrets from him. There was in Pelle an honorable streak which subdued the whole. But hitherto he had suffered only defeat; he had again and again sacrificed his qualities and accomplishments, without so far receiving anything in return. His timidity and distrust he had stripped from him indoors, where it was of importance that he should open his defences on all sides, and his solid qualities he was on the point of sacrificing on the altar of the town as boorish. But the less protection he possessed the more he gained in intrepidity, so he went about out-of-doors undauntedly--the town should be conquered. He was enticed out of the safe refuge of his shell, and might easily be gobbled up. The town had lured him from the security of his lair, but in other matters he was the same good little fellow--most people would have seen no difference in him, except that he had grown taller. But Father Lasse would have wept tears of blood to see his boy as he now walked along the streets, full of uncertainty and uneasy imitativeness, wearing his best coat on a workday, and yet disorderly in his dress. Yonder he goes, sauntering along with a pair of boots, his fingers thrust through the string of the parcel, whistling with an air of bravado. Now and again he makes a grimace and moves cautiously--when his trousers rub the sensitive spots of his body. He has had a bad day. In the morning he was passing a smithy, and allowed the splendid display of energy within, half in the firelight and half in the shadow, to detain him. The flames and the clanging of the metal, the whole lively uproar of real work, fascinated him, and he had to go in and ask whether there was an opening for an apprentice. He was not so stupid as to tell them where he came from, but when he got home, Jeppe had already been told of it! But that is soon forgotten, unless, indeed, his trousers rub against his sore places. Then he remembers it; remembers that in this world everything has to be paid for; there is no getting out of things; once one begins anything one has to eat one's way through it, like the boy in the fairy-tale. And this discovery is, in the abstract, not so strikingly novel to Pelle. He has, as always, chosen the longest way, rummaging about back yards and side streets, where there is a possibility of adventure; and all at once he is suddenly accosted by Albinus, who is now employed by a tradesman. Albinus is not amusing. He has no right to play and loiter about the warehouse in the aimless fashion that is possible out-of-doors; nor to devote himself to making a ladder stand straight up in the air while he climbs up it. Not a word can be got out of him, although Pelle does his best; so he picks up a handful of raisins and absconds. Down at the harbor he boards a Swedish vessel, which has just arrived with a cargo of timber. "Have you anything for us to do?" he asks, holding one hand behind him, where his trousers have a hole in them. "Klausen's apprentice has just been here and got what there was," replied the skipper. "That's a nuisance--you ought to have given it to us," says Pelle. "Have you got a clay pipe?" "Yes--just you come here!" The skipper reaches for a rope's end, but Pelle escapes and runs ashore. "Will you give me a thrashing now?" he cries, jeering. "You shall have a clay pipe if you'll run and get me half a krone's worth of chewing 'bacca." "What will it cost?" asks Pelle, with an air of simplicity. The skipper reaches for his rope's end again, but Pelle is off already. "Five ore worth of chewing tobacco, the long kind," he cries, before he gets to the door even. "But it must be the very best, because it's for an invalid." He throws the money on the counter and puts on a cheeky expression. Old Skipper Lau rises by the aid of his two sticks and hands Pelle the twist; his jaws are working like a mill, and all his limbs are twisted with gout. "Is it for some one lying-in?" he asks slyly. Pelle breaks off the stem of the clay pipe, lest it should stick out of his pocket, boards the salvage steamer, and disappears forward. After a time he reappears from under the cabin hatchway, with a gigantic pair of sea-boots and a scrap of chewing tobacco. Behind the deck-house he bites a huge mouthful off the brown Cavendish, and begins to chew courageously, which makes him feel tremendously manly. But near the furnace where the ship's timbers are bent he has to unload his stomach; it seems as though all his inward parts are doing their very utmost to see how matters would be with them hanging out of his mouth. He drags himself along, sick as a cat, with thumping temples; but somewhere or other inside him a little feeling of satisfaction informs him that one has to undergo the most dreadful consequences in order to perform any really heroic deed. In most respects the harbor, with its stacks of timber and its vessels on the slips, is just as fascinating as it was on the day when Pelle lay on the shavings and guarded Father Lasse's sack. The black man with the barking hounds still leans from the roof of the harbor warehouse, but the inexplicable thing is that one could ever have been frightened of him. But Pelle is in a hurry. He runs a few yards, but he must of necessity stop when he comes to the old quay. There the "strong man," the "Great Power," is trimming some blocks of granite. He is tanned a coppery brown with wind and sun, and his thick black hair is full of splinters of granite; he wears only a shirt and canvas trousers, and the shirt is open on his powerful breast; but it lies close on his back, and reveals the play of his muscles. Every time he strikes a blow the air whistles-- _whew!_--and the walls and timber-stacks echo the sound. People come hurrying by, stop short at a certain distance, and stand there looking on. A little group stands there all the time, newcomers taking the place of those that move on, like spectators in front of a cage of lions. It is as though they expect something to happen-- something that will stagger everybody and give the bystanders a good fright. Pelle goes right up to the "Great Power." The "strong man" is the father of Jens, the second youngest apprentice. "Good-day," he says boldly, and stands right in the giant's shadow. But the stonecutter pushes him to one side without looking to see who it is, and continues to hew at the granite: _whew! whew!_ "It is quite a long time now since he has properly used his strength," says an old townsman. "Is he quieting down, d'you think?" "He must have quieted down for good," says another. "The town ought to see that he keeps quiet." And they move on, and Pelle must move on, too--anywhere, where no one can see him. "Cobbler, wobbler, groats in your gruel, Smack on your back goes the stick--how cruel!" It is those accursed street-urchins. Pelle is by no means in a warlike humor; he pretends not to see them. But they come up close behind him and tread on his heels, and before he knows what is happening they are upon him. The first he knows about it is that he is lying in the gutter, on his back, with all three on top of him. He has fallen alongside of the curbstone and cannot move; he is faint, too, as a result of his indiscretion; the two biggest boys spread his arms wide open on the flagstones and press them down with all their might, while the third ventures to deal with his face. It is a carefully planned outrage, and all Pelle can do is to twist his head round under the blows--and for once he is thankful for his disgracefully fat cheeks. Then, in his need, a dazzling apparition appears before him; standing in the doorway yonder is a white baker's boy, who is royally amused. It is no other than Nilen, the wonderful little devil Nilen, of his schooldays, who was always fighting everybody like a terrier and always came out of it with a whole skin. Pelle shuts his eyes and blushes for himself, although he knows perfectly well that this is only an apparition. But then a wonderful thing happens; the apparition leaps down into the gutter, slings the boys to one side, and helps him to his feet. Pelle recognizes the grip of those fingers--even in his schooldays they were like claws of iron. And soon he is sitting behind the oven, on Nilen's grimy bed. "So you've become a cobbler?" says Nilen, to begin with, compassionately, for he feels a deucedly smart fellow himself in his fine white clothes, with his bare arms crossed over his naked breast. Pelle feels remarkably comfortable; he has been given a slice of bread and cream, and he decides that the world is more interesting than ever. Nilen is chewing manfully, and spitting over the end of the bed. "Do you chew?" asks Pelle, and hastens to offer him the leaf-tobacco. "Yes, we all do; a fellow has to when he works all night." Pelle cannot understand how people can keep going day and night. "All the bakers in Copenhagen do--so that the people can get fresh bread in the morning--and our master wants to introduce it here. But it isn't every one can do it; the whole staff had to be reorganized. It's worst about midnight, when everything is turning round. Then it comes over you so that you keep on looking at the time, and the very moment the clock strikes twelve we all hold our breath, and then no one can come in or go out any more. The master himself can't stand the night shift; the 'baccy turns sour in his mouth and he has to lay it on the table. When he wakes up again he thinks it's a raisin and sticks it in the dough. What's the name of your girl?" For a moment Pelle's thoughts caress the three daughters of old Skipper Elleby--but no, none of them shall be immolated. No, he has no girl. "Well, you get one, then you needn't let them sit on you. I'm flirting a bit just now with the master's daughter--fine girl, she is, quite developed already--you know! But we have to look out when the old man's about!" "Then are you going to marry her when you are a journeyman?" asks Pelle, with interest. "And have a wife and kids on my back? You are a duffer, Pelle! No need to trouble about that! But a woman--well, that's only for when a man's bored. See?" He stretches himself, yawning. Nilen has become quite a young man, but a little crude in his manner of expressing himself. He sits there and looks at Pelle with a curious expression in his eyes. "Cobbler's patch!" he says contemptuously, and thrusts his tongue into his cheek so as to make it bulge. Pelle says nothing; he knows he cannot thrash Nilen. Nilen has lit his pipe and is lying on his back in bed--with his muddy shoes on--chattering. "What's your journeyman like? Ours is a conceited ass. The other day I had to fetch him a box on the ears, he was so saucy. I've learned the Copenhagen trick of doing it; it soon settles a man. Only you want to keep your head about it." A deuce of a fellow, this Nilen, he is so grown up! Pelle feels smaller and smaller. But suddenly Nilen jumps up in the greatest hurry. Out in the bakery a sharp voice is calling. "Out of the window--to the devil with you!" he yelps--"the journeyman!" And Pelle has to get through the window, and is so slow about it that his boots go whizzing past him. While he is jumping down he hears the well-known sound of a ringing box on the ear. When Pelle returned from his wanderings he was tired and languid; the stuffy workshop did not seem alluring. He was dispirited, too; for the watchmaker's clock told him that he had been three hours away. He could not believe it. The young master stood at the front door, peeping out, still in his leather jacket and apron of green baize; he was whistling softly to himself, and looked like a grown fledgling that did not dare to let itself tumble out of the nest. A whole world of amazement lay in his inquiring eyes. "Have you been to the harbor again, you young devil?" he asked, sinking his claws into Pelle. "Yes." Pelle was properly ashamed. "Well, what's going on there? What's the news?" So Pelle had to tell it all on the stairs; how there was a Swedish timber ship whose skipper's wife was taken with childbirth out at sea, and how the cook had to deliver her; of a Russian vessel which had run into port with a mutiny on board; and anything else that might have happened. To-day there were only these boots. "They are from the salvage steamer--they want soling." "H'm!" The master looked at them indifferently. "Is the schooner _Andreas_ ready to sail?" But that Pelle did not know. "What sort of a sheep's head have you got, then? Haven't you any eyes in it? Well, well, go and get me three bottles of beer! Only stick them under your blouse so that father don't see, you monster!" The master was quite good-tempered again. Then Pelle got into his apron and buckled on the knee-strap. Everybody was bending over his work, and Master Andres was reading; no sound was to be heard but those produced by the workers, and now and again a word of reprimand from the journeyman. Every second afternoon, about five o'clock, the workshop door would open slightly, and a naked, floury arm introduced the newspaper and laid it on the counter. This was the baker's son, Soren, who never allowed himself to be seen; he moved about from choice like a thief in the night. If the master--as he occasionally did--seized him and pulled him into the workshop, he was like a scared faun strayed from his thickets; he would stand with hanging head, concealing his eyes, and no one could get a word from him; and when he saw an opportunity, he would slip away. The arrival of the newspaper caused quite a small commotion in the workshop. When the master felt inclined, he would read aloud--of calves with two heads and four pairs of legs; of a pumpkin that weighed fifty pounds; of the fattest man in the world; of fatalities due to the careless handling of firearms, or of snakes in Martinique. The dazzling wonder of the whole world passed like a pageant, filling the dark workshop; the political news was ignored. If the master happened to be in one of his desperate humors, he would read the most damnable nonsense: of how the Atlantic Ocean had caught fire, so that the people were living on boiled codfish; or how the heavens had got torn over America, so that angels fell right on to somebody's supper-tray. Things which one knew at once for lies--and blasphemous nonsense, too, which might at any time have got him into trouble. Rowing people was not in the master's line, he was ill the moment there was any unpleasantness; but he had his own way of making himself respected. As he went on reading some one would discover that he was getting a wigging, and would give a jump, believing that all his failings were in the paper. When the time drew near for leaving off work, a brisker note sounded in the workshop. The long working-day was coming to an end, and the day's weariness and satiety were forgotten, and the mind looked forward--filling with thoughts of the sand-hills or the woods, wandering down a road that was bright with pleasure. Now and again a neighbor would step in, and while away the time with his gossip; something or other had happened, and Master Andres, who was so clever, must say what he thought about it. Sounds that had been confused during the day now entered the workshop, so that those within felt that they were participating in the life of the town; it was as though the walls had fallen. About seven o'clock a peculiar sound was heard in the street without, approaching in very slowly _tempo;_ there was a dull thump and then two clacking sounds; and then came the thump again, like the tread of a huge padded foot, and once more the clack-clack. This was old Bjerregrav, swinging toward the workshop on his crutches; Bjerregrav, who moved more slowly than anybody, and got forward more quickly. If Master Andres happened to be in one of his bad humors, he would limp away, in order not to remain in the same room with a cripple; at other times he was glad to see Bjerregrav. "Well, you are a rare bird, aren't you?" he would cry, when Bjerregrav reached the landing and swung himself sideways through the door; and the old man would laugh--he had paid this visit daily now for many years. The master took no further notice of him, but went on reading; and Bjerregrav sank into his dumb pondering; his pale hands feeling one thing after another, as though the most everyday objects were unknown to him. He took hold of things just as a newborn child might have done; one had to smile at him and leave him to sit there, grubbing about like the child he really was. It was quite impossible to hold a continuous conversation with him; for even if he did actually make an observation it was sure to be quite beside the mark; Bjerregrav was given to remarking attributes which no one else noticed, or which no one would have dwelt upon. When he sat thus, pondering over and fingering some perfectly familiar object, people used to say, "Now Bjerregrav's questioning fit is coming on!" For Bjerregrav was an inquirer; he would ask questions about the wind and the weather, and even the food that he ate. He would ask questions about the most laughable subjects-- things that were self-evident to any one else--why a stone was hard, or why water extinguished fire. People did not answer him, but shrugged their shoulders compassionately. "He is quite all there," they would say; "his head's all right. But he takes everything the wrong way round!" The young master looked up from his book. "Now, shall I inherit Bjerregrav's money?" he asked mischievously. "No--you've always been good to me; I don't want to cause you any misfortune." "Worse things than that might befall me, don't you think?" "No, for you've got a fair competence. No one has a right to more, so long as the many suffer need." "Certain people have money in the bank themselves," said Master Andres allusively. "No, that's all over," answered the old man cheerfully. "I'm now exactly as rich as you." "The devil! Have you run through the lot?" The young master turned round on his chair. "You and your 'run through it all'! You always sit over me like a judge and accuse me of things! I'm not conscious of having done anything wrong; but it's true that the need gets worse every winter. It's a burden to have money, Andres, when men are hungry all about you; and if you help them then you learn afterward that you've done the man injury; they say it themselves, so it must be true. But now I've given the money to the Charity Organization Society, so now it will go to the right people." "Five thousand kroner!" said the master, musing. "Then there ought to be great rejoicing among the poor this winter." "Well, they won't get it direct in food and firing," said Bjerregrav, "but it will come to them just as well in other ways. For when I'd made my offer to the Society, Shipowner Monsen--you know him--came to me, and begged me to lend him the money at one year. He would have gone bankrupt if he hadn't had it, and it was terrible to think of all the poor people who would have gone without bread if that great business of his had come to a standstill. Now the responsibility falls on me. But the money is safe enough, and in that way it does the poor twice as much good." Master Andres shook his head. "Suppose Bjerregrav has just sat himself down in the nettles?" "Why? But what else could I have done?" said the old man uneasily. "The devil knows it won't be long before he's bankrupt. He's a frothy old rogue," murmured the master. "Has Bjerregrav got a note of hand?" The old man nodded; he was quite proud of himself. "And interest? Five per cent.?" "No, no interest. For money to stand out and receive interest--I don't like that. It has to suck the interest somewhere or other, and of course it's from the poor. Interest is blood-money, Andres --and it's a new-fangled contrivance, too. When I was young we knew nothing about getting interest on our money." "Yes, yes: 'Who gives to other folks his bread And after suffers in their stead, Why club him, club him, club him dead!'" said the master, and went on reading. Bjerregrav sat there sunk in his own thoughts. Suddenly he looked up. "Can you, who are so well read, tell me what keeps the moon from falling? I lay overnight puzzling over it, so as I couldn't sleep. She wanders and wanders through the sky, and you can see plainly there's nothing but air under her." "The devil may know," said Master Andres thoughtfully. "She must have strength of her own, so that she holds herself up." "I've thought that myself--for obligation isn't enough. Now we can do that--we walk and walk where we are put down, but then we've the earth under us to support us. And you are always studying, aren't you? I suppose you have read nearly all the books in the world?" Bjerregrav took the master's book and felt it thoroughly. "That's a good book," he said, striking his knuckles against the cover and holding the book to his ear; "good material, that. Is it a lying story or a history book?" "It's a travel book. They go up to the North Pole, and they get frozen in, and they don't know if they'll ever get home alive again." "But that's terrible--that people should risk their lives so. I've often thought about that--what it's like at the end of the world--but to go and find out--no, I should never have had the courage. Never to get home again!" Bjerregrav, with an afflicted expression, looked first at one, then at another. "And they get frost-bite in their feet--and their toes have to be amputated--in some cases, the whole foot." "No, be quiet! So they lose their health, poor fellows!--I don't want to hear any more!" The old man sat rocking himself to and fro, as though he felt unwell. But a few moments later he asked inquisitively: "Did the king send them up there to make war?" "No; they went to look for the Garden of Eden. One of the people who investigate writings has discovered that it is said to lie behind the ice," declared the master solemnly. "The Garden of Eden--or they call it Paradise, too--but that lies where the two rivers fall into a third, in the East! That is quite plainly written. Consequently what you read there is false teaching." "It's at the North Pole, God's truth it is!" said the master, who was inclined to be a free-thinker; "God's truth, I tell you! The other's just a silly superstition." Bjerregrav maintained an angry silence. He sat for some time bending low in his chair, his eyes roaming anywhere so that they did not meet another's. "Yes, yes," he said, in a low voice; "everybody thinks something new in order to make himself remarkable, but no one can alter the grave." Master Andres wriggled impatiently to and fro; he could change his mood like a woman. Bjerregrav's presence began to distress him. "Now, I've learned to conjure up spirits; will Bjerregrav make the experiment?" he said suddenly. "No, not at any price!" said the old man, smiling uneasily. But the master pointed, with two fingers, at his blinking eyes, and gazed at him, while he uttered the conjuration. "In the name of the Blood, in the name of the Sap, in the name of all the Humors of the Body, the good and the bad alike, and in the name of the Ocean," he murmured, crouching like a tom-cat. "Stop it, I tell you! Stop it! I won't have it!" Bjerregrav was hanging helplessly between his crutches, swinging to and fro, with an eye to the door, but he could not wrest himself away from the enchantment. Then, desperately, he struck down the master's conjuring hand, and profited by the interruption of the incantation to slip away. The master sat there blowing upon his hand. "He struck out properly," he said, in surprise, turning his reddened hand with the palm inward. Little Nikas did not respond. He was not superstitious, but he did not like to hear ridicule cast upon the reality of things. "What shall I do?" asked Peter. "Are mate Jensen's boots ready?" The master looked at the clock. "Then you can nibble your shin-bones." It was time to stop work. The master took his stick and hat and limped over to the beer-house to play a game of billiards; the journeyman dressed and went out; the older apprentices washed their necks in the soaking-tub. Presently they too would go out and have a proper time of it. Pelle gazed after them. He too experienced a desperate need to shake off the oppressive day, and to escape out of doors, but his stockings were nothing but holes, and his working-blouse had to be washed so that it should be dry by the following morning. Yes, and his shirt--and he blushed up to his ears--was it a fortnight he had worn it, or was this the fourth week? The time had slipped past so.... He had meant to defer the disagreeable business of washing only for a few days--and now it had mounted up to fourteen! His body had a horrible crawling feeling; was his punishment come upon him because he had turned a deaf ear to the voice of conscience, and had ignored Father Lasse's warning, that disgrace awaited those who did not keep themselves clean? No, thank God! But Pelle had received a thorough fright, and his ears were still burning as he scrubbed his shirt and blouse downstairs in the yard. It would be well to take it as a timely warning from on high! And then blouse and shirt were hanging on the fence, spreading themselves abroad as though they wanted to hug the heavens for joy in their cleanliness. But Pelle sat dejectedly upstairs, at the window of the apprentices' garret, one leg outside, so that part of him at least was in the open air. The skillful darning which his father had taught him was not put into practice here; the holes were simply cobbled together, so that Father Lasse would have sunk into the earth for shame. Gradually he crept right out on to the roof; below, in the skipper's garden, the three girls were wandering idly, looking over toward the workshop, and evidently feeling bored. Then they caught sight of him, and at once became different beings. Manna came toward him, thrust her body impatiently against the stone wall, and motioned to him with her lips. She threw her head back imperiously, and stamped with her feet--but without making a sound. The other two were bent double with suppressed laughter. Pelle understood perfectly what this silent speech intended, but for a time he courageously stood his ground. At last, however, he could endure it no longer; he threw everything aside and next moment was with the girls. All Pelle's dreams and unuttered longings hovered over those places where men disported themselves. To him nothing was more ridiculous than to run after petticoats. Women, for Pelle, were really rather contemptible; they had no strength, and very little intelligence; indeed, they understood nothing but the art of making themselves ornamental. But Manna and her sisters were something apart; he was still enough of a child to play, and they were excellent playmates. Manna--the wild cat--was afraid of nothing; with her short skirts and her pigtail and her skipping movements she reminded him of a frolicsome, inquisitive young bird--Skip! out of the thicket and back again! She could climb like a boy, and could carry Pelle all round the garden on her back; it was really an oversight that she should have to wear skirts. Her clothes wouldn't keep on her, and she was always tumbling into the workshop, having torn something or other off her shoes. Then she would turn everything upside down, take the master's stick away, so that he could not move, and would even get her fingers among the journeyman's American tools. She was on good terms with Pelle the very first day. "Whose new boy are you?" she asked him, smacking him on the back. And Pelle laughed, and returned her look frankly, with that immediate comprehension which is the secret of our early years. There was no trace of embarrassment between them; they had always known one another, and could at any time resume their play just where they had left off. In the evening Pelle used to station himself by the garden wall and wait for her; then in a moment he was over and in the middle of some game. Manna was no ordinary cry-baby; not one who seeks to escape the consequences of her action by a display of tears. If she let herself in for a scuffle, she never sued for mercy, however hardly it went with her. But Pelle was to a certain extent restrained by the fact of her petticoats. And she, on one occasion, did not deny that she wished she could only be a little stronger! But she had courage, and Pelle, like a good comrade, gave as good as he got, except in the workshop, where she bullied him. If she assailed him from behind, dropping something down his neck or pushing him off his wooden stool, he restrained himself, and was merely thankful that his bones were still unbroken. All his best hours were spent in the skipper's garden, and this garden was a wonderful place, which might well hold his senses captive. The girls had strange outlandish names, which their father had brought home with him on his long voyages: Aina, Dolores, and Sjermanna! They wore heavy beads of red coral round their necks and in their ears. And about the garden lay gigantic conch-shells, in which one could hear the surging of the ocean, and tortoise-shells as big as a fifteen-pound loaf, and whole great lumps of coral. All these things were new to Pelle, but he would not allow them to confound him; he enrolled them as quickly as possible among the things that were matters of course, and reserved himself the right to encounter, at any moment, something finer and more remarkable. But on some evenings he would disappoint the girls, and would stroll about the town where he could see real life--or go down to the dunes or the harbor. Then they would stand dejectedly at the garden wall, bored and quarrelsome. But on Sundays, as soon as he had finished in the workshop, he would faithfully appear, and they would spin out their games, conscious of a long day in front of them. They played games innumerable, and Pelle was the center of them all; he could turn himself to anything; he became everything in turn--lawful husband, cannibal, or slave. He was like a tame bear in their hands; they would ride on him, trample all over him, and at times they would all three fall upon him and "murder" him. And he had to lie still, and allow them to bury his body and conceal all traces of it. The reality of the affair was enhanced by the fact that he was really covered with earth--all but his face, which was left bare only from necessity--they contented themselves with covering that with withered leaves. When he cried afterward over the state of his fine confirmation clothes, they brushed him with solicitous hands, and when he could scarcely be comforted they all three kissed him. With them he was always referred to as "Manna's husband." So Pelle's days went by. He had a certain grim humor rather than a cheerful mind; he felt gloomy, and as though things were going badly with him; and he had no one to lean upon. But he continued his campaign against the town, undaunted; he thought of it night and day, and fought, it in his sleep. "If you're ever in a difficulty, you've always Alfred and Albinus to help you out," Uncle Kalle had said, when Pelle was bidding him good-bye; and he did not fail to look them up. But the twins were to-day the same slippery, evasive customers as they were among the pastures; they ventured their skins neither for themselves nor for anybody else. In other respects they had considerably improved. They had come hither from the country in order to better their positions, and to that end had accepted situations which would serve them until they had saved sufficient to allow them to commence a more distinguished career. Albinus had advanced no further, as he had no inclination to any handicraft. He was a good-tempered youth, who was willing to give up everything else if only he could practise his acrobatic feats. He always went about balancing something or other, taking pains to put all sorts of objects to the most impossible uses. He had no respect for the order of nature; he would twist his limbs into all imaginable positions, and if he threw anything into the air he expected it to stay there while he did something else. "Things must be broken in as well as animals," he would say, and persevere indefatigably. Pelle laughed; he liked him, but he did not count on him any further. Alfred had struck out in quite another direction. He no longer indulged in hand-springs, but walked decorously on his legs, had always much ado to pull down and straighten his collar and cuffs, and was in continual anxiety as to his clothes. He was now apprentice to a painter, but had a parting in his hair like a counter-jumper, and bought all sorts of things at the chemist's, which he smeared on his hair. If Pelle ran across him in the street, Alfred always made some excuse to shake him off; he preferred to associate with tradesmen's apprentices, and was continually greeting acquaintances right and left--people who were in a better position than himself. Alfred put on airs of importance which made Pelle long one fine day to cudgel him soundly. The twins resembled one another in this--no one need look to them for assistance of any kind. They laughed comfortably at the very idea, and if any one made fun of Pelle they joined in the laughter. It was not easy to get on. He had quite shaken off the farm-boy; it was his poverty that gave him trouble now. He had recklessly bound himself as apprentice for board and lodging; he had a few clothes on his body, and he had not thought other requisites necessary for one who did not stroll up and down and gad about with girls. But the town demanded that he should rig himself out. Sunday clothes were here not a bit too good for weekdays. He ought to see about getting himself a rubber collar--which had the advantage that one could wash it oneself; cuffs he regarded as a further desideratum. But that needed money, and the mighty sum of five kroner, with which he had set out to conquer the world, or, at the worst, to buy it--well, the town had enticed it out of his pocket before he was aware of it. Hitherto Father Lasse had taken all very difficult matters upon himself; but now Pelle stood alone, and had only himself to rely on. Now he stood face to face with life, and he struggled courageously forward, like the excellent boy he was. But at times he broke down. And this struggle was a drag upon all his boyish doings and strivings. In the workshop he made himself useful and tried to stand well with everybody. He won over little Nikas by drawing a somewhat extravagant representation of his betrothed from a photograph. The face would not come out quite right; it looked as though some one had trodden on it; but the clothes and the brooch at the throat were capital. The picture hung for a week in the workshop, and brought Pelle a wonderful piece of luck: Carlsen, who ran errands for the stone-workers, ordered two large pictures, one of himself and one of his wife, at the rate of twenty-five ore apiece. "But you must show a few curls in my hair," he said, "for my mother's always wished I had curls." Pelle could not promise the pictures in less than two months' time; it was tedious work if they were to be accurate. "Well, well; we can't spare the money sooner. This month there's the lottery, and next month the rent to pay." Pelle could very well appreciate that, for Carlsen earned eight kroner a week and had nine children. But he felt that he could not well reduce the price. Truly, people weren't rolling in money here! And when for once he actually had a shilling in hand, then it was sure to take to its heels under his very nose, directly he began to rack his brains to decide how it could most usefully be applied: on one such occasion, for example, he had seen, in a huckster's window, a pipe in the form of a boot-leg, which was quite irresistible. When the three girls called to him over the garden wall his childhood found companionship, and he forgot his cares and struggles. He was rather shy of anybody seeing him when he slipped across; he felt that his intercourse with the children was not to his credit; moreover, they were only "petticoats." But he felt that he was lucky to be there, where there were curious things which were useful to play with--Chinese cups and saucers, and weapons from the South Sea Islands. Manna had a necklace of white teeth, sharp and irregular, strung together in a haphazard way, which she maintained were human teeth, and she had the courage to wear them round her bare neck. And the garden was full of wonderful plants; there were maize, and tobacco, and all sorts of other plants, which were said, in some parts of the world, to grow as thick as corn does at home. They were finer of skin than other folk, and they were fragrant of the strange places of the world. And he played with them, and they regarded him with wonder and mended his clothes when he tore them; they made him the center of all their games--even when he was not present. There was a secret satisfaction in this--although he accepted it as a matter of course, it was a portion of all that fate and good fortune had reserved for him, a slight advance payment from the infinite fairy-tale of life. He longed to rule over them absolutely, and if they were obstinate he lectured them angrily, so that they suddenly gave in to him. He knew well enough that every proper man makes his wife behave submissively. So passed the early summer; time was moving onward. The townsfolk had already, at Whitsuntide, provided themselves with what they needed for the summer, and out in the country people had other things to think about than trapesing into town with work for the artisans; the coming harvest occupied all their thoughts. Even in the poorest quarters, where no work was done for the peasants, one realized how utterly dependent the little town was upon the country. It was as though the town had in a moment forgotten its superiority; the manual workers no longer looked down on the peasants; they looked longingly toward the fields, spoke of the weather and the prospects of harvest, and had forgotten all their urban interests. If by exception a farmer's cart came through the streets, people ran to the window to look after it. And as the harvest stood almost at their doors, it seemed as though old memories were calling to them, and they raised their heads to listen; those who could gave up their town life and went into the country to help in the work of harvest. Both the journeyman and the two apprentices had left the workshop; Jens and Pelle could comfortably manage the work. Pelle saw nothing of this stagnant mood; he was occupied on all sides in keeping a whole skin and getting the utmost out of life; there were thousands of impressions of good and evil which had to be assimilated, and which made a balanced whole--that remarkable thing, the town, of which Pelle never knew whether he felt inclined to bless it or curse it,--or it always held him in suspense. And amidst all his activities, Lasse's face rose up before him and made him feel lonely in the midst of the bustle. Wherever could Father Lasse be? Would he ever hear of him again? Every day he had expected, in reliance on Karna's word, to see him blundering in at the door, and when anybody fumbled at the door-knocker he felt quite certain it was Lasse. It became a silent grief in the boy's mind, a note that sounded through all that he undertook. V One Sunday evening, as Pelle was running down East Street, a cart loaded with household goods came jolting in from the country. Pelle was in a great hurry, but was obliged to look at it. The driver sat in front, below the load, almost between the horses; he was tall and had ruddy cheeks, and was monstrously wrapped up, in spite of the heat. "Hallo!" Why, it was the worthy Due, Kalle's son-in-law; and above him, in the midst of all the lumber, sat Anna and the children, swaying to and fro with the motion of the cart. "Hullo!" Pelle waved his cap, and with one spring he had his foot on the shaft and was sitting next to Due, who was laughing all over his face at the encounter. "Yes, we've had enough of the farming country, and now we've come to see if things aren't better here in town," said Due, in his quiet manner. "And here you are, running about just like you did at home!" There was amazement in his voice. Anna came crawling over the load, and smiled down upon him. "Have you news of Father Lasse?" Pelle asked her. This was always his question when he met an acquaintance. "Yes, that we have--he's just going to buy a farm up on the heath. Now, you devil, are you goin' to behave?" Anna crawled backward, and a child began to cry. Then she reappeared. "Yes, and we were to remember father to you, and mother, and all the rest." But Pelle had no thoughts to spare for Uncle Kalle. "Is it up by Stone Farm?" he asked. "No--farther to the east, by the Witch's Cell," said Due. "It is a big piece of land, but it's not much more than stone. So long as he doesn't ruin himself over it--two have gone smash there before him. He's arranged it together with Karna." "Uncle Lasse will know what he's about," said Anna. "Karna has found the money for it; she has something saved." Pelle couldn't sit still; his heart leaped in his body at this news. No more uncertainty--no more horrible possibilities: he had his father once more! And the dream of Lasse's life was about to be fulfilled: he could now put his feet under his own table. He had become a landowner into the bargain, if one didn't use the term too precisely; and Pelle himself--why, he was a landowner's son! By nine o'clock in the evening he had finished everything, and was able to get off; his blood was pulsing with excitement.... Would there be horses? Why, of course; but would there be laborers, too? Had Father Lasse become one of those farmers who pay wages on a quarter-day, and come into town on a Sunday afternoon, their fur-lined collars up to their ears? Pelle could see the men quite plainly going up the stairs, one after another, taking off their wooden shoes and knocking on the door of the office--yes, they wanted to see about an advance on their wages. And Lasse scratched the back of his head, looked at them thoughtfully, and said: "Not on any account, you'd only waste it on drink." But he gave it to them finally, for all that. "One is much too good-natured," he said to Pelle.... For Pelle had bidden farewell to cobbling, and was living at home as a landowner's son. Really, Pelle managed the whole business--only it wouldn't do to say so. And at the Christmas feast he danced with the buxom farmer's daughters. There was whispering in the corners when Pelle made his appearance; but he went straight across the room and invited the Pastor's daughter to a dance, so that she lost her breath, and more besides, and begged him on the spot to marry her.... He hurried onward, still dreaming; longing drew him onward, and before he knew it he had travelled some miles along the high-road. The road he now turned into led him by pine woods and heath-covered hills; the houses he passed were poorer, and the distance from one to another was increasing. Pelle took a turning a little farther on, which, to the best of his knowledge, led in the required direction, and hurried forward with awakened senses. The landscape was only half revealed by the summer night, but it was all as familiar as the mends in the back of Father Lasse's waistcoat, although he had never been here before. The poverty-stricken landscape spoke to him as with a mother's voice. Among these clay-daubed huts, the homes of poor cultivators who waged war upon the rocky ground surrounding their handful of soil, he felt safe as he had never felt before. All this had been his through many generations, down to the rags thrust into the broken window-panes and the lumber piled upon the thatch to secure it. Here was nothing for any one to rack his brains over, as elsewhere in the world; here a man could lie down at peace and rest. Yet it was not for him to till the ground and to dwell amid all these things. For he had outgrown them, as he had outgrown the shelter of his mother's skirts. The lane gradually became a deep cart-track, which meandered between rocks and moorland. Pelle knew that he ought to keep to the east, but the track went now to the south, now to the north. He soon had enough of it, noted his direction exactly, and struck off obliquely. But it was difficult to make his way; the moonlight deceived his eyes so that he stumbled and sank into hollows, while the heather and the juniper reached as high as his waist, and hampered every movement. And then he turned obstinate, and would not turn back to the cart-track, but labored forward, so that he was soon steaming with heat; clambering over slanting ridges of rock, which were slippery with the dewfall on the moss, and letting himself tumble at hazard over the ledges. A little too late he felt a depth below him; it was as though a cold wave washed through his heart, and he clutched wildly at the air for some support. "Father Lasse!" he cried woefully; and at the same moment he was caught by brambles, and sank slowly down through their interwoven runners, which struck their myriad claws into him and reluctantly let him pass, until he was cautiously deposited, deep down among the sharp stones at the bottom of a ravine, shuddering and thanking his stars for all the thorns that had mercifully flayed his hide in order that he should not split his skull. Then he must needs grope forward, through the darkness and running water, until he found a tree and was able to climb to the surface. Now he had lost his bearings, and when that became clear he lost his head as well. Nothing was left of the confident Pelle of a while ago; he ran blindly forward, in order to reach the summit of the hill. And as he was hastening upward, so that he might take note of the crags that lay about him, the ground rose and closed above him with a frightful clamor, and the air turned black and full of noises, and he could not see his hand before his eyes. It was like a stupendous explosion--as though released by his cheerful stamping over the rocks, the earth was hurled into the sky and dissolved in darkness, and the darkness itself cried aloud with terror and eddied round him. His heart pounded in his breast and robbed him of his last remnant of understanding; he jumped for sheer unbridled terror and bellowed like a maniac. The black mass drove over his head, so that he was forced to duck, and gleaming rifts showed and disappeared; and the darkness surged like the ocean and cried continually aloud with a hellish chaos of sounds. Then it suddenly swung to one side, drifted northward, and descended. And Pelle understood that he had stumbled upon a rookery. He found himself behind a great rock. How he got there he did not know; but he knew that he was a terrible duffer. How easily he could have brought confusion on the fifty-odd crows by tossing a few stones into the air! He went along the slope, very valiant in his resolve, but with shaking knees. In the far distance a fox sat upon a cliff and howled insanely at the moon, and far to the north and the south lay a transient glimmer of sea. Up here subterranean creatures had their home; when one trod upon the rock it sounded hollow. In the southern opening the sea lay silver in the moonlight, but as Pelle looked again it disappeared, and the low-lying plain was drowned in white. In every direction the land was disappearing; Pelle watched in amazement while the sea slowly rose and filled every hollow. Then it closed above the lesser hills; one by one it swallowed them, and then it took the long ridge of hills to the east, until only the crests of the pine-trees lifted themselves above it; but Pelle did not as yet give himself up for lost; for behind all his anxiety lay a confused conception of Mount Ararat, which kept up his courage. But then it became so dreadfully cold that Pelle's breeches seemed to stick to his body. "That's the water," he thought, and he looked round in alarm; the rock had become a little island, and he and it were floating on the ocean. Pelle was a sturdy little realist, who had already had all manner of experiences. But now the fear had at last curdled his blood, and he accepted the supernatural without a protest. The world had evidently perished, and he himself was drifting--drifting out into space, and space was terribly cold. Father Lasse, and the workshop, Manna and the young master's shining eyes--here was an end of them all. He did not mourn them; he simply felt terribly lonely. What would be the end of it all--or was this perhaps death? Had he perhaps fallen dead a little while ago, when he tumbled over the precipice? And was he now voyaging toward the land of the blessed? Or was this the end of the world itself, of which he had heard such dreadful things said, as far back as he could remember? Perhaps he was adrift on the last scrap of earth, and was the only person still living? It did not in the least surprise Pelle that he should be left where everybody else had perished; in this moment of despair he found it quite natural. He stood breathlessly silent and listened to the infinite; and he heard the cudgel-like blows of his pulses. Still he listened, and now he heard something more: far away in the night that surged against his ears he heard the suggestion of a sound, the vibrating note of some living creature. Infinitely remote and faint though it was, yet Pelle was so aware of it that it thrilled him all through. It was a cow feeding on the chain; he could follow the sound of her neck scrubbing up and down against the post. He ran down over the craggy declivity, fell, and was again on his feet and running forward; the mist had swallowed him unawares. Then he was down on arable that had once been woodland; then he trod on something that felt familiar as it brushed against his feet--it was land that had once been ploughed but had now been recaptured by the heath. The sound grew louder, and changed to all those familiar sounds that one hears at night coming from an open cowshed; and now a decayed farmhouse showed through the mist. This could not of course be the farm Pelle was looking for--Father Lasse had a proper farmhouse with four wings! But he went forward. Out in the country people do not lock everything up as carefully as they do in town; so Pelle could walk right in. Directly he opened the door of the sitting-room he was filled with an uplifting joy. The most comfortable odor he had ever known struck upon his senses --the foundation of everything fragrant--the scent of Father Lasse! It was dark in the room, and the light of the night without could not make its way through the low window. He heard the deep breathing of persons asleep, and knew that they had not awakened--the night was not nearly over yet. "Good-evening!" he said. A hand began to grope for the matches. "Is any one there?" said a drowsy woman's voice. "Good-evening!" he cried again, and went forward into the room. "It's Pelle!" He brought out the name in a singsong voice. "So it's you, boy!" Lasse's voice quavered, and the hands could not manage the matches; but Pelle stepped toward the voice and clasped his wrist. "And how did you find your way here in the wilderness-- and at night, too? Yes, yes, I'll get up!" he continued, and he tried, with a groan, to sit up. "No, you stop there and let me get up," said Karna, who lay against the wall--she had kept silence while the men-folk were speaking. "He gets this lumbago, I can tell you!" she declared, jumping out of bed. "Ay, I've been at it a bit too hard. Work comes easy when a man's his own master--it's difficult to leave off. But it'll be all right when once I've got things properly going. Work's a good embrocation for the lumbago. And how goes it with you then? I was near believing you must be dead!" So Pelle had to sit on the edge of the bed and tell about everything in town--about the workshop, and the young master's lame leg, and everything. But he said nothing of the disagreeable things; it was not for men to dwell upon such things. "Then you've been getting on well in foreign parts!" said Lasse, delighted. "And do they think well of you?" "Yes!" This came a trifle slowly. In the first place, respect was just particularly what he had not won--but why trumpet forth his miseries? "The young master must like me--he often chats with me, even over the journeyman's head." "Now, think of that! I have often wondered, I can tell you, how you were getting on, and whether we shouldn't soon have good news of you. But everything takes time, that we know. And as you see, I'm in a very different position." "Yes, you've become a landowner!" said Pelle, smiling. "The deuce, yes, so I am!" Lasse laughed, too, but then he groaned piteously with the pain in his back. "In the daytime, when I'm working hard, I get along well enough, but as soon as I lie down, then it comes on directly. And it's the devil of a pain--as though the wheels of a heavy loaded wagon were going to and fro across your back, whatever name you like to give it. Well, well! It's a fine thing, all the same, to be your own master! It's funny how it takes me--but dry bread tastes better to me at my own table than--yes, by God, I can tell you, it tastes better than cake at any other body's table! And then to be all alone on your own bit of land, and to be able to spit wherever you like to spit, without asking anybody's leave! And the soil isn't so bad; even if most of it has never been under cultivation, it has all been lying there storing up its power to produce since the beginning of the world. But about the people in the town--are they agreeable?" Oh, Pelle had nothing to complain about. "But when were you married?" he asked suddenly. "Well, you see," and Lasse began to stumble over his own words, although he had been prepared for the boy to ask this very question; "in a way we aren't exactly married. That takes money, and the work here is getting forward.... But it's our intention, I needn't say, as soon as we have time and money." It was honestly Lasse's opinion that one could just as well dispense with the ceremony; at least until children came, and demanded an honorable birth. But he could see that Pelle did not relish the idea; he was still the same pedantic little chap the moment a point of honor was in question. "As soon as we've got the harvest under shelter we'll invite people to a grand feast," he said resolutely. Pelle nodded eagerly. Now he was a landowner's son, and he could make the shabby-genteel boys of the town envious of him. But they mustn't be able to throw it in his face that his father was "living with a woman!" Now Karna came in with some food. She looked at the boy with much affection. "Now, fall to, and don't despise our poor table, my son," she said, and gave his arm a friendly pat. Pelle fell to with a good appetite. Lasse hung half out of the alcove, delighted. "You haven't lost your appetite down there," he said. "Do you get anything decent to eat? Karna thought the food wasn't any too good." "It's passable!" said Pelle obstinately. He repented of having betrayed himself to Karna that evening, when he was so depressed. The desire to eat awoke in Lasse, so that little by little he crept out of the alcove. "You are sitting alone there," he said, and sat down at the table in his nightcap and pants. He was wearing a knitted nightcap, one end of which fell loosely over his ear. He looked like a genuine old farmer, one that had money in his mattress. And Karna, who was moving to and fro while the menfolk ate, had a round, comfortable figure, and was carrying a big bread-knife in her hand. She inspired confidence, and she too looked a regular farmer's wife. A place was found for Pelle on the bed. He extinguished the tallow dip before he undressed, and thrust his underclothing under the pillow. He woke late; the sun had already left the eastern heavens. The most delicious smell of coffee filled the room. Pelle started up hastily, in order to dress himself before Karna could come in and espy his condition; he felt under the pillow--and his shirt was no longer there! And his stockings lay on a stool, and they had been darned! "When Karna came in he lay motionless, in obstinate silence; he did not reply to her morning salutation, and kept his eyes turned toward the alcove. She ought not to have gone rummaging among his things! "I've taken your shirt and washed it," she said serenely, "but you can have it again this evening. After all, you can wear this until then." She laid one of Lasse's shirts on the coverlet. Pelle lay there for a time as though he had not heard Karna. Then he sat up, feeling very cross and got into the shirt. "No, stay there until you've drunk your coffee," she said as he attempted to get up, and she placed a stool by him. And so Pelle had his coffee in bed, as he had dreamed it was to happen when Father Lasse remarried; and he could not go on feeling angry. But he was still burning with shame, and that made him taciturn. During the morning Lasse and Pelle went out and inspected the property. "It'll be best if we go round it first; then you will see plainly where the boundary lies," said Lasse, who knew that the dimensions of the place would be a surprise to Pelle. They wandered through heather and brambles and thorns, striking across the moorland and skirting precipitous slopes. It was several hours before they had finished their round. "It's an awfully large holding," Pelle said again and again. And Lasse answered proudly. "Yes, there's nearly seventy acres here--if only it were all tilled!" It was virgin soil, but it was overrun with heather and juniper- scrub, through which brambles and honeysuckle twined their way. Halfway up a perpendicular wall of rock hung the ash and the wild cherry, gripping the bare cliff with roots that looked like crippled hands. Crab-apple trees, sloe-bushes and wild rose-briars made an impenetrable jungle, which already bore traces of Lasse's exertions. And in the midst of this luxuriant growth the rocky subsoil protruded its grim features, or came so near the surface that the sun had scorched the roots of the herbage. "That's a proper little Paradise," said Lasse; "you can scarcely set foot in it without treading on the berries. But it's got to be turned into arable if one is to live here. "Isn't the soil rather middling?" said Pelle. "Middling--when all that can grow and flourish there?" Lasse pointed to where birch and aspen stood waving their shining foliage to and fro in the breeze. "No, but it'll be a damned rough bit of work to get it ready for ploughing; I'm sorry now that you aren't at home." Lasse had several times made this allusion, but Pelle was deaf to it. All this was not what he had imagined; he felt no desire to play the landowner's son at home in the way Lasse had in mind. "It'll be trouble enough here to manage about your daily bread," he said, with remarkable precocity. "Oh, it won't be so difficult to earn our daily bread, even if we can't hold a feast every day," said Lasse, affronted. "And here at any rate a man can straighten his back without having a bailiff come yapping round him. Even if I were to work myself to death here, at least I've done with slavery. And you must not forget the pleasure of seeing the soil coming under one's hands, day after day, and yielding something instead of lying there useless. That is indeed the finest task a man can perform--to till the earth and make it fruitful--I can think of none better! But you--have you lost the farmer's instinct in town?" Pelle did not reply. Although there might be something fine and splendid in working oneself to death over a bit of land, just so that something different might grow there, he himself was glad that he did not possess this farmer's instinct. "My father, and his father, and all of our family I have ever known, we've all had something in us so that we've been driven to improve the soil, without thinking of our own comfort. But it certainly never entered the mind of one of us that we should ever hear it ill spoken of--and by one of our own people too!" Lasse spoke with his face turned away--as did the Almighty when He was wroth with His people; and Pelle felt as though he were a hateful renegade, as bad as bad could be. But nevertheless he would not give in. "I should be no use at all here," he said apologetically, gazing in the direction of the sea. "I don't believe in it." "No, you've cut yourself loose from it all, you have!" retorted Lasse bitterly. "But you'll repent it some day, in the long run. Life among the strangers there isn't all splendor and enjoyment." Pelle did not answer; he felt at that moment too much of a man to bandy words. He contained himself, and they went onward in silence. "Well, of course, it isn't an estate," said Lasse suddenly, in order to take the sting out of further criticism. Pelle was still silent. Round the house the land was cultivated, and all round the cultivated land the luxuriant heather revealed disappearing traces of cultivation, and obliterated furrows. "This was a cornfield once," said Pelle. "Well, to think of your seeing that right off!" exclaimed Lasse, half sarcastically, half in real admiration. "The deuce of an eye you've got, you truly have! I should certainly have noticed nothing particular about the heath--if I had not known. Yes, that has been under cultivation, but the heath has won it back again! That was under my predecessor, who took in more than he could work, so that it ruined him. But you can see now that something can be done with the land!" Lasse pointed to a patch of rye, and Pelle was obliged to recognize that it looked very well. But through the whole length of the field ran high ridges of broken stone, which told him what a terrible labor this soil demanded before it could be brought under cultivation. Beyond the rye lay newly-broken soil, which looked like a dammed-up ice-field; the plough had been driven through mere patches of soil. Pelle looked at it all, and it made him sad to think of his father. Lasse himself was undismayed. "As it is, it needs two to hold the plough. Karna is very strong, but even so it's as though one's arms would be torn from one's body every time the plough strikes. And most of it has to be broken up with pick and drill--and now and again it takes a bit of a sneeze. I use dynamite; it's more powerful than powder, and it bites down into the ground better," he said proudly. "How much is under cultivation here?" asked Pelle. "With meadow and garden, almost fourteen acres; but it will be more before the year is out." "And two families have been ruined already by those fourteen acres," said Karna, who had come out to call them in to dinner. "Yes, yes; God be merciful to them--and now we get the fruit of their labors! The parish won't take the farm away again--not from us," he said. Lasse spoke in a tone full of self-reliance. Pelle had never seen him stand so upright. "I can never feel quite easy about it," said Karna; "it's as though one were ploughing up churchyard soil. The first who was turned out by the parish hanged himself, so they say." "Yes, he had a hut on the heath there--where you see the elder-trees --but it's fallen to pieces since then. I'm so glad it didn't happen in the house." Lasse shuddered uncomfortably. "People say he haunts the place when any misfortune is in store for those that come after him." "Then the house was built later?" asked Pelle, astonished, for it had such a tumble-down appearance. "Yes, my predecessor built that. He got the land from the parish free for twenty years, provided he built a house and tilled a tonde of land a year. Those were not such bad conditions. Only he took in too much at a time; he was one of those people who rake away fiercely all the morning and have tired themselves out before midday. But he built the house well"--and Lasse kicked the thin mud-daubed wall--"and the timber-work is good. I think I shall break a lot of stone when the winter comes; the stone must be got out of the way, and it isn't so bad to earn a few hundred kroner. And in two or three years we will make the old house into a barn and build ourselves a new house--eh, Karna? With a cellar underneath and high steps outside, like they have at Stone Farm. It could be of unhewn granite, and I can manage the walls myself." Karna beamed with joy, but Pelle could not enter into their mood. He was disillusioned; the descent from his dream to this naked reality was too great. And a feeling rose within him of dull resentment against this endless labor, which, inexperienced though he was, was yet part of his very being by virtue of the lives of ten, nay, twenty generations. He himself had not waged the hard-fought war against the soil, but he had as a matter of course understood everything that had to do with tilling the soil ever since he could crawl, and his hands had an inborn aptitude for spade and rake and plough. But he had not inherited his father's joy in the soil; his thoughts had struck out in a new direction. Yet this endless bondage to the soil lay rooted in him, like a hatred, which gave him a survey unknown to his father. He was reasonable; he did not lose his head at the sight of seventy acres of land, but asked what they contained. He himself was not aware of it, but his whole being was quick with hostility toward the idea of spending one's strength in this useless labor; and his point of view was as experienced as though he had been Lasse's father. "Wouldn't you have done better to buy a cottage-holding with twelve or fourteen acres of land, and that in a good state of cultivation?" he asked. Lasse turned on him impatiently. "Yes, and then a man might stint and save all his life, and never get beyond cutting off his fly to mend his seat; he'd most likely spend twice what he made! What the deuce! I might as well have stayed where I was. Here, it's true, I do work harder and I have to use my brains more, but then there's a future before me. When I've once got the place under cultivation this will be a farm to hold its own with any of them!" Lasse gazed proudly over his holding; in his mind's eye it was waving with grain and full of prime cattle. "It would carry six horses and a score or two of cows easily," he said aloud. "That would bring in a nice income! What do you think, Karna?" "I think the dinner will be cold," said Karna, laughing. She was perfectly happy. At dinner Lasse proposed that Pelle should send his clothes to be washed and mended at home. "You've certainly got enough to do without that," he said indulgently. "Butcher Jensen goes to market every Saturday; he'd take it for you and put it down by the church, and it would be odd if on a Sunday no one from the heath went to church, who could bring the bundle back to us." But Pelle suddenly turned stubborn and made no reply. "I just thought it would be too much for you to wash and mend for yourself," said Lasse patiently. "In town one must have other things to think about, and then it isn't really proper work for a man!" "I'll do it myself all right," murmured Pelle ungraciously. Now he would show them that he could keep himself decent. It was partly in order to revenge himself for his own neglect that he refused the offer. "Yes, yes," said Lasse meekly; "I just asked you. I hope you won't take it amiss." However strong Karna might be, and however willing to help in everything, Lasse did greatly feel the need of a man to work with him. Work of a kind that needed two had accumulated, and Pelle did not spare himself. The greater part of the day was spent in heaving great stones out of the soil and dragging them away; Lasse had knocked a sledge together, and the two moorland horses were harnessed up to it. "Yes, you mustn't look at them too closely," said Lasse, as he stroked the two scarecrows caressingly. "Just wait until a few months have gone by, and then you'll see! But they've plenty of spirit now." There was much to be done, and the sweat was soon pouring down their faces; but they were both in good spirits. Lasse was surprised at the boy's strength--with two or three such lads he could turn the whole wilderness over. Once again he sighed that Pelle was not living at home; but to this Pelle still turned a deaf ear. And before they were aware of it Karna had come out again and was calling them to supper. "I think we'll harness the horses and drive Pelle halfway to town-- as a reward for the work he's done," said Lasse gaily. "And we've both earned a drive." So the two screws were put into the cart. It was amusing to watch Lasse; he was a notable driver, and one could not but be almost persuaded that he had a pair of blood horses in front of him. When they met any one he would cautiously gather up the reins in order to be prepared lest the horses should shy--"they might so easily bolt," he said solemnly. And when he succeeded in inducing them to trot he was delighted. "They take some holding," he would say, and to look at him you would have thought they called for a strong pair of wrists. "Damn it all, I believe I shall have to put the curb on them!" And he set both his feet against the dashboard, and sawed the reins to and fro. When half the distance was covered Father Lasse wanted to drive just a little further, and again a little further still--oh, well, then, they might as well drive right up to the house! He had quite forgotten that the following day would be a day of hard labor both for himself and for the horses. But at last Pelle jumped out. "Shan't we arrange that about your washing?" asked Lasse. "No!" Pelle turned his face away--surely they might stop asking him that! "Well, well, take care of yourself, and thanks for your help. You'll come again as soon as you can?" Pelle smiled at them, but said nothing; he dared not open his mouth, for fear of the unmanly lump that had risen in his throat. Silently he held out his hand and ran toward the town. VI The other apprentices were able to provide themselves with clothes, as they worked on their own account in their own time; they got work from their friends, and at times they pirated the master's customers, by underbidding him in secret. They kept their own work under the bench; when the master was not at home they got it out and proceeded with it. "To-night I shall go out and meet my girl," they would say, laughing. Little Nikas said nothing at all. Pelle had no friends to give him work, and he could not have done much. If the others had much to do after work-hours or on Sundays he had to help them; but he gained nothing by so doing. And he also had Nilen's shoes to keep mended, for old acquaintances' sake. Jeppe lectured them at great length on the subject of tips, as he had promised; for the townsfolk had been complaining of this burdensome addition to their expenditure, and in no measured terms had sworn either to abate or abolish this tax on all retail transactions. But it was only because they had read of the matter in the newspapers, and didn't want to be behind the capital! They always referred to the subject when Pelle went round with his shoes, and felt in their purses; if there was a shilling there they would hide it between their fingers, and say that he should have something next time for certain--he must remind them of it another time! At first he did remind them--they had told him to do so--but then Jeppe received a hint that his youngest apprentice must stop his attempts at swindling. Pelle could not understand it, but he conceived an increasing dislike of these people, who could resort to such a shameless trick in order to save a penny piece, which they would never have missed. Pelle, who had been thinking that he had had enough of the world of poor folk, and must somehow contrive to get into another class, learned once again to rely on the poor, and rejoiced over every pair of poor folk's shoes which the master anathematized because they were so worn out. The poor were not afraid to pay a shilling if they had one; it made him feel really sad to see how they would search in every corner to get a few pence together, and empty their children's money-boxes, while the little ones stood by in silence, looking on with mournful eyes. And if he did not wish to accept their money they were offended. The little that he did receive he owed to people who were as poor as himself. Money, to these folk, no longer consisted of those round, indifferent objects which people in the upper strata of human society piled up in whole heaps. Here every shilling meant so much suffering or happiness, and a grimy little copper would still the man's angry clamor and the child's despairing cry for food. Widow Hoest gave him a ten-ore piece, and he could not help reflecting that she had given him her mid-day meal for two days to come! One day, as he was passing the miserable hovels which lay out by the northern dunes, a poor young woman came to her door and called to him; she held the remains of a pair of elastic-sided boots in her hand. "Oh, shoemaker's boy, do be so kind as to mend these a bit for me!" she pleaded. "Just sew them up anyhow, so that they'll stick on my feet for half the evening. The stone-masons are giving their feast, and I do so want to go to it!" Pelle examined the boots; there was not much to be done for them, nevertheless he took them, and mended them in his own time. He learned from Jens that the woman was the widow of a stone-cutter, who was killed by an explosion shortly after their marriage. The boots looked quite decent when he returned them. "Well, I've no money, but I do offer you many, many thanks!" she said, looking delightedly at the boots; "and how nice you've made them look! God bless you for it." "Thanks killed the blacksmith's cat," said Pelle smiling. Her pleasure was contagious. "Yes, and God's blessing falls where two poor people share their bed," the young woman rejoined jestingly. "Still, I wish you everything good as payment--now I can dance after all!" Pelle was quite pleased with himself as he made off. But few doors farther on another poor woman accosted him; she had evidently heard of the success of the first, and there she stood holding a dirty pair of children's boots, which she earnestly begged him to mend. He took the boots and repaired them although it left him still poorer; he knew too well what need was to refuse. This was the first time that any one in the town had regarded him as an equal, and recognized him at the first glance as a fellow-creature. Pelle pondered over this; he did not know that poverty is cosmopolitan. When he went out after the day's work he took a back seat; he went about with the poorest boys and behaved as unobtrusively as possible. But sometimes a desperate mood came over him, and at times he would make himself conspicuous by behavior that would have made old Lasse weep; as, for example, when he defiantly sat upon a freshly-tarred bollard. He became thereby the hero of the evening; but as soon as he was alone he went behind a fence and let down his breeches in order to ascertain the extent of the damage. He had been running his errands that day in the best clothes he possessed. This was no joke. Lasse had deeply imbued him with his own moderation, and had taught him to treat his things carefully, so that it seemed to Pelle almost a pious duty. But Pelle felt himself forsaken by all the gods, and now he defied them. The poor women in the streets were the only people who had eyes for him. "Now look at the booby, wearing his confirmation jacket on a weekday!" they would say, and call him over in order to give him a lecture, which as a rule ended in an offer to repair the damage. But it was all one to Pelle; if he ran about out-of-doors in his best clothes he was only doing as the town did. At all events he had a shirt on, even if it was rather big! And the barber's assistant himself, who looked most important in tail-coat and top-hat, and was the ideal of every apprentice, did not always wear a shirt; Pelle had once noticed that fact as the youth was swinging some ladies. Up in the country, where a man was appraised according to the number of his shirts, such a thing would have been impossible. But here in town people did not regard such matters so strictly. He was no longer beside himself with astonishment at the number of people--respectable folk for the most part--who had no abiding place anywhere, but all through the year drifted in the most casual manner from one spot to another. Yet the men looked contented, had wives and children, went out on Sundays, and amused themselves; and after all why should one behave as if the world was coming to an end because one hadn't a barrel of salt pork or a clamp of potatoes to see one through the winter? Recklessness was finally Pelle's refuge too; when all the lights seemed to have gone out of the future it helped him to take up the fairy-tale of life anew, and lent a glamor to naked poverty. Imagination entered even into starvation: are you or are you not going to die of it? Pelle was poor enough for everything to be still before him, and he possessed the poor man's alert imagination; the great world and the romance of life were the motives that drew him through the void, that peculiar music of life which is never silent, but murmurs to the reckless and the careful alike. Of the world he knew well enough that it was something incomprehensibly vast--something that was always receding; yet in eighty days one could travel right round it, to the place where men walk about with their heads downward, and back again, and experience all its wonders. He himself had set out into this incomprehensible world, and here he was, stranded in this little town, where there was never a crumb to feed a hungry imagination; nothing but a teeming confusion of petty cares. One felt the cold breath of the outer winds, and the dizziness of great spaces; when the little newspaper came the small tradesmen and employers would run eagerly across the street, their spectacles on their noses, and would speak, with gestures of amazement, of the things that happened outside. "China," they would say; "America!" and fancy that they themselves made part of the bustling world. But Pelle used to wish most ardently that something great and wonderful might wander thither and settle down among them just for once! He would have been quite contented with a little volcano underfoot, so that the houses would begin to sway and bob to one another; or a trifling inundation, so that ships would ride over the town, and have to moor themselves to the weather-cock on the church steeple. He had an irrational longing that something of this kind should happen, something to drive the blood from his heart and make his hair stand on end. But now he had enough to contend against apart from matters of this sort; the world must look after itself until times were better. It was more difficult to renounce the old fairy-tales, for poverty itself had sung them into his heart, and they spoke to him with Father Lasse's quivering voice. "A rich child often lies in a poor mother's lap," his father used to say, when he prophesied concerning his son's future, and the saying sank deep into the boy's mind, like the refrain of a song. But he had learned this much, that there were no elephants here, on whose necks a plucky youngster could ride astraddle, in order to ride down the tiger which was on the point of tearing the King of the Himalayas to pieces so that he would of course receive the king's daughter and half his kingdom as a reward for his heroic deed. Pelle often loitered about the harbor, but no beautifully dressed little girl ever fell into the water, so that he might rescue her, and then, when he was grown up, make her his wife. And if such a thing did really happen he knew now that his elders would cheat him out of any tip he might receive. And he had quite given up looking for the golden coach which was to run over him, so that the two terrified ladies, who would be dressed in mourning, would take him into their carriage and carry him off to their six- storied castle! Of course, they would adopt him permanently in place of the son which they had just lost, and who, curiously enough, was exactly the same age as himself. No, there were no golden coaches here! Out in the great world the poorest boy had the most wonderful prospects; all the great men the books had ever heard of had been poor lads like himself, who had reached their high estate through good fortune and their own valor. But all the men in town who possessed anything had attained their wealth by wearily plodding forward and sucking the blood of the poor. They were always sitting and brooding over their money, and they threw nothing away for a lucky fellow to pick up; and they left nothing lying about, lest some poor lad should come and take it. Not one of them considered it beneath him to pick up an old trouser-button off the pavement, and carry it home. One evening Pelle was running out to fetch half a pound of canister tobacco for Jeppe. In front of the coal-merchant's house the big dog, as always, made for his legs, and he lost the twenty-five-ore piece. While he was looking for it, an elderly man came up to him. Pelle knew him very well; he was Monsen the shipowner, the richest man in the town. "Have you lost something, my lad?" he asked, and began to assist in the search. "Now he will question me," thought Pelle. "And then I shall answer him boldly, and then he will look at me attentively and say--" Pelle was always hoping for some mysterious adventure, such as happens to an able lad and raises him to fortune. But the shipowner did nothing he was expected to do. He merely searched eagerly, and inquired: "Where were you walking? Here, weren't you? Are you quite certain of that?" "In any case he'll give me another twenty-five ore," thought Pelle. "Extraordinary--how eager he is!" Pelle did not really want to go on searching, but he could not very well leave off before the other. "Well, well!" said the shipowner at last, "you may as well whistle for those twenty-five ore. But what a booby you are!" And he moved on, and Pelle looked after him for a long while before putting his hand into his own pocket. Later, as he was returning that way, he saw a man bowed over the flagstones, striking matches as he searched. It was Monsen. The sight tickled Pelle tremendously. "Have you lost anything?" he asked mischievously, standing on the alert, lest he should get a box on the ear. "Yes, yes; twenty-five ore;" groaned the shipowner. "Can't you help me to find it, my boy?" Well, he had long understood that Monsen was the richest man in the town, and that he had become so by provisioning ships with spoiled foodstuffs, and refitting old crank vessels, which he heavily insured. And he knew who was a thief and who a bankrupt speculator, and that Merchant Lau only did business with the little shopkeepers, because his daughter had gone to the bad. Pelle knew the secret pride of the town, the "Top-galeass," as she was called, who in her sole self represented the allurements of the capital, and he knew the two sharpers, and the consul with the disease which was eating him up. All this was very gratifying knowledge for one of the rejected. He had no intention of letting the town retain any trace of those splendors with which he had once endowed it. In his constant ramblings he stripped it to the buff. For instance, there stood the houses of the town, some retiring, some standing well forward, but all so neat on the side that faced the street, with their wonderful old doorways and flowers in every window. Their neatly tarred framework glistened, and they were always newly lime-washed, ochrous yellow or dazzling white, sea-green, or blue as the sky. And on Sundays there was quite a festive display of flags. But Pelle had explored the back quarters of every house; and there were sinks and traps there, with dense slimy growths, and stinking refuse-barrels, and one great dustbin with a drooping elder-tree over it. And the spaces between the cobble-stones were foul with the scales of herrings and the guts of codfish, and the lower portions of the walls were covered with patches of green moss. The bookbinder and his wife went about hand in hand when they set out for the meeting of some religious society. But at home they fought, and in chapel, as they sat together and sang out of the same hymn-book, they would secretly pinch one another's legs. "Yes," people used to say, "such a nice couple!" But the town couldn't throw dust in Pelle's eyes; he knew a thing or two. If only he had known just how to get himself a new blouse! Some people didn't go without clothes so readily; they were forever making use of that fabulous thing--credit! At first it took his breath away to discover that the people here in the town got everything they wanted without paying money for it. "Will you please put it down?" they would say, when they came for their boots; and "it's to be entered," he himself would say, when he made a purchase for his employers. All spoke the same magical formula, and Pelle was reminded of Father Lasse, who had counted his shillings over a score of times before he ventured to buy anything. He anticipated much from this discovery, and it was his intention to make good use of the magic words when his own means became exhausted. Now, naturally, he was wiser. He had discovered that the very poor must always go marketing with their money in their hands, and even for the others there came a day of reckoning. The master already spoke with horror of the New Year; and it was very unfortunate for his business that the leather-sellers had got him in their pocket, so that he could not buy his material where it was cheapest. All the small employers made the same complaint. But the fairy-tale of credit was not yet exhausted--there was still a manner of drawing a draft upon fortune, which could be kept waiting, and on the future, which redeems all drafts. Credit was a spark of poetry in the scramble of life; there were people going about who were poor as church mice, yet they played the lord. Alfred was such a lucky fellow; he earned not a red cent, but was always dressed like a counter-jumper, and let himself want for nothing. If he took a fancy to anything he simply went in and got it on "tick"; and he was never refused. His comrades envied him and regarded him as a child of fortune. Pelle himself had a little flirtation with fortune. One day he went gaily into a shop, in order to procure himself some underclothing. When he asked for credit they looked at him as though he could not be quite sane, and he had to go away without effecting his object. "There must be some secret about it that I don't know," he thought; and he dimly remembered another boy, who couldn't stir the pot to cook his porridge or lay the table for himself, because he didn't know the necessary word. He sought Alfred forthwith in order to receive enlightenment. Alfred was wearing new patent braces, and was putting on his collar. On his feet were slippers with fur edging, which looked like feeding pigeons. "I got them from a shopkeeper's daughter," he said; and he coquetted with his legs; "she's quite gone on me. A nice girl too-- only there's no money." Pelle explained his requirements. "Shirts! shirts!" Alfred chortled with delight, and clapped his hands before his face. "Good Lord, he wants to gets shirts on tick! If only they had been linen shirts!" He was near bursting with laughter. Pelle tried again. As a peasant--for he was still that--he had thought of shirts first of all; but now he wanted a summer overcoat and rubber cuffs. "Why do you want credit?" asked the shopkeeper, hesitating. "Are you expecting any money? Or is there any one who will give you a reference?" No, Pelle didn't want to bring any one else into it; it was simply that he had no money. "Then wait until you have," said the shopkeeper surlily. "We don't clothe paupers!" Pelle slunk away abashed. "You're a fool!" said Alfred shortly. "You are just like Albinus--he can never learn how to do it!" "How do you do it then?" asked Pelle meekly. "How do I do it--how do I do it?" Alfred could give no explanation; "it just came of itself. But naturally I don't tell them that I'm poor! No, you'd better leave it alone--it'll never succeed with you!" "Why do you sit there and pinch your upper lip?" asked Pelle discontentedly. "Pinch? You goat, I'm stroking my moustache!" VII On Saturday afternoon Pelle was busily sweeping the street. It was getting on for evening; in the little houses there was already a fire in the grate; one could hear it crackling at Builder Rasmussen's and Swedish Anders', and the smell of broiled herrings filled the street. The women were preparing something extra good in order to wheedle their husbands when they came home with the week's wages. Then they ran across to the huckster's for schnaps and beer, leaving the door wide open behind them; there was just half a minute to spare while the herring was getting cooked on the one side! And now Pelle sniffed it afar off--Madame Rasmussen was tattling away to the huckster, and a voice screeched after her: "Madame Rasmussen! Your herring is burning!" Now she came rushing back, turning her head confusedly from house to house as she scampered across the street and into her house. The blue smoke drifted down among the houses; the sun fell lower and filled the street with gold-dust. There were people sweeping all along the street; Baker Jorgen, the washerwoman, and the Comptroller's maid-servant. The heavy boughs of the mulberry-tree across the road drooped over the wall and offered their last ripe fruits to whomsoever would pick them. On the other side of the wall the rich merchant Hans--he who married the nurse-maid--was pottering about his garden. He never came out, and the rumor ran that he was held a prisoner by his wife and her kin. But Pelle had leaned his ear against the wall, and had heard a stammering old voice repeating the same pet names, so that it sounded like one of those love-songs that never come to an end; and when in the twilight he slipped out of his attic window and climbed on to the ridge of the roof, in order to take a look at the world, he had seen a tiny little white-haired man walking down there in the garden, with his arm round the waist of a woman younger than himself. They were like a couple of young lovers, and they had to stop every other moment in order to caress one another. The most monstrous things were said of him and his money; of his fortune, that once upon a time was founded on a paper of pins, and was now so great that some curse must rest upon it. From the baker's house the baker's son came slinking hymn-book in hand. He fled across to the shelter of the wall, and hurried off; old Jorgen stood there gobbling with laughter as he watched him, his hands folded over his broomstick. "O Lord, is that a man?" he cried to Jeppe, who sat at his window, shaving himself before the milk-can. "Just look how he puffs! Now he'll go in and beg God to forgive him for going courting!" Jeppe came to the window to see and to silence him; one could hear Brother Jorgen's falsetto voice right down the street. "Has he been courting? However did you get him to venture such a leap?" he asked eagerly. "Oh, it was while we were sitting at table. I had a tussle with my melancholy madman--because I couldn't help thinking of the little Jorgen. God knows, I told myself, no little Jorgen has come to carry on your name, and the boy's a weakling, and you've no one else to build on! It's all very well going about with your nose in the air all the days God gives you--everything will be swept away and be to no purpose. And everything of that sort--you know how I get thinking when ideas like that get the upper hand with me. I sat there and looked at the boy, and angry I felt with him, that I did; and right opposite him there was sitting a fine bit of womanhood, and he not looking at her. And with that I struck my hand on the table, and I says, 'Now, boy, just you take Marie by the hand and ask her whether she'll be your wife--I want to make an end of the matter now and see what you're good for!' The boy all shrivels up and holds out his hand, and Marie, it don't come amiss to her. 'Yes, that I will!' she says, and grips hold of him before he has time to think what he's doing. And we shall be having the marriage soon." "If you can make a boot out of that leather!" said Jeppe. "Oh, she's a warm piece--look at the way she's built. She's thawing him already. Women, they know the way--he won't freeze in bed." Old Jorgen laughed contentedly, and went off to his work. "Yes, why, she'd breathe life into the dead," he announced to the street at large. The others went out in their finest clothes, but Pelle did not care to go. He had not been able to accomplish his constant resolution to keep himself neat and clean, and this failure weighed upon him and abashed him. And the holes in his stockings, which were now so big that they could no longer be darned, were disgustingly apparent, with his skin showing through them, so that he had a loathing for himself. Now all the young people were going out. He could see the sea in the opening at the end of the street; it was perfectly calm, and had borrowed the colors of the sunset. They would be going to the harbor or the dunes by the sea; there would be dancing on the grass, and perhaps some would get to fighting about a girl. But he wasn't going to be driven out of the pack like a mangy dog; he didn't care a hang for the whole lot of them! He threw off his apron and established himself on a beer-barrel which stood outside before the gate. On the bench opposite sat the older inhabitants of the street, puffing at their pipes and gossiping about everything under the sun. Now the bells sounded the hour for leaving off work. Madame Rasmussen was beating her child and reviling it in time with her blows. Then suddenly all was silent; only the crying of the child continued, like a feeble evening hymn. Old Jeppe was talking about Malaga--"when I ran ashore at Malaga!"-- but Baker Jorgen was still lamenting his want of an heir, and sighing: "Yes, yes; if only one could see into the future!" Then he suddenly began to talk about the Mormons. "It might really be great fun to see, some time, what they have to offer you," he said. "I thought you'd been a Mormon a long time, Uncle Jorgen," said Master Andres. The old man laughed. "Well, well; one tries all sorts of things in one's time," he said, and looked out at the sky. Up the street stood the watchmaker, on his stone steps, his face turned up to the zenith, while he shouted his senseless warnings: "The new time! I ask you about the new time, O God the Father!" he repeated. Two weary stevedores were going homeward. "He'll drive all poverty out of the world and give us all a new life--that's the form his madness takes," said one of them, with a dreary laugh. "Then he's got the millennium on the brain?" said the other. "No, he's just snarling at the world," said old Jorgen, behind them. "We shall certainly get a change in the weather." "Things are bad with him just now, poor fellow," said Bjerregrav, shuddering. "It was about this time of the year that he lost his wits." An inner voice admonished Pelle: "Don't sit there with your hands in your lap, but go in and look after your clothes!" But he could not bring himself to do so--the difficulties had become too insurmountable. On the following day Manna and the others called him, but he could not spring over the wall to join them; they had begun to turn up their noses at him and regard him critically. He did not very well understand it, but he had become an outcast, a creature who no longer cared about washing himself properly. But what was the use? He could not go on contending against the invincible! No one had warned him in time, and now the town had captured him, and he had given up everything else. He must shuffle through life as best he could. No one had a thought for him! When washing was being done for his employers it never occurred to Madam to wash anything of his, and he was not the boy to come forward of himself. The washerwoman was more considerate; when she could she would smuggle in some of Pelle's dirty linen, although it meant more work for her. But she was poor herself; as for the rest, they only wanted to make use of him. There was no one in town who cared sufficiently for his welfare to take the trouble even to open his mouth to tell him the truth. This was a thought that made him feel quite weak about the knees, although he was fifteen years old and had courage to tackle a mad bull. More than anything else it was his loneliness that weakened his powers of resistance. He was helpless alone among all these people, a child, who had to look after himself as best he could, and be prepared for attacks from every quarter. He sat there, making no effort to dispel the misery that had come over him, and was working its will with him, while with half an ear he listened to the life around him. But suddenly he felt something in his waistcoat pocket--money! He felt immensely relieved at once, but he did not hurry; he slipped behind the gate and counted it. One and a half kroner. He was on the point of regarding it as a gift from on high, as something which the Almighty had in His great goodness placed there, but then it occurred to him that this was his master's money. It had been given him the day before for repairs to a pair of ladies' shoes, and he had forgotten to pay it in, while the master, strangely enough, had quite forgotten to ask for it. Pelle stood with bent back by the well outside, scrubbing himself over a bucket until his blood tingled. Then he put on his best clothes, drew his shoes on to his naked feet, to avoid the painful feeling of the ragged stockings, and buttoned his rubber collar--for the last time innocent of any tie--to his shirt. Shortly afterward he was standing outside a shop-window, contemplating some large neckties, which had just been put upon the market, and could be worn with any one of four faces outward; they filled the whole of the waistcoat, so that one did not see the shirt. Now he would be disdained no longer! For a moment he ran to and fro and breathed the air; then he got upon the scent, and ran at a breathless gallop toward the sea-dunes, where the young folk of the town played late into the summer night that lay over the wan sea. Of course, it was only a loan. Pelle had to sole a pair of shoes for a baker's apprentice who worked with Nilen; as soon as they were finished he would repay the money. He could put the money under the cutting-out board in his master's room; the master would find it there, would gaze at it with a droll expression, and say: "What the devil is this?" And then he would knock on the wall, and would treat Pelle to a long rigmarole about his magical gifts--and then he would ask him to run out and fetch a half-bottle of port. He did not receive the money for soling the shoes; half the sum he had to pay out for leather, and the rest was a long time coming, for the baker's apprentice was a needy wretch. But he did not doubt his own integrity; the master might be as sure of his money as if it had been in the bank. Yet now and again he forgot to give up petty sums --if some necessity or other was pressing him unexpectedly. They were, of course, all loans--until the golden time came. And that was never far away. One day he returned home as the young master was standing at the door, staring at the driving clouds overhead. He gave Pelle's shoulder a familiar squeeze. "How was it they didn't pay you for the shoes at the Chamberlain's yesterday?" Pelle went crimson and his hand went to his waistcoat pocket. "I forgot it," he said in a low voice. "Now, now!" The master shook him good-naturedly. "It's not that I mistrust you. But just to be methodical!" Pelle's heart pounded wildly in his body; he had just decided to use the money to buy a pair of stockings, the very next time he went out --and then what would have happened? And the master's belief in him! And all at once his offence showed itself to him in all its shameful treachery; he felt as if he was on the point of being sick, so disturbed was he. Until this moment he had preserved through everything the feeling of his own worth, and now it was destroyed; there could not be any one wickeder than he in all the world. In future no one could trust him any more, and he could no longer look people straight in the face; unless he went to the master at once and cast himself and his shame unconditionally on his mercy. There was no other salvation, that he knew. But he was not certain that the master would conceive the matter in its finer aspect, or that everything would turn out for the best; he had given up believing in fairy-tales. Then he would simply be turned away, or perhaps be sent to the courthouse, and it would be all up with him. Pelle resolved to keep it to himself; and for many days he went about suffering from a sense of his own wickedness. But then necessity gripped him by the throat and brushed all else aside; and in order to procure himself the most necessary things he was forced to resort to the dangerous expedient of stating; when the master gave him money to buy anything, that it was to be put down. And then one day it was all up with him. The others were ready to pull down the house about his ears; they threw his things out of the garret and called him a filthy, beast. Pelle wept; he was quite convinced that not he was the guilty person, but Peter, who was always keeping company with the nastiest women, but he could get no hearing. He hurried away, with the resolves that he would never come back. On the dunes he was captured by Emil and Peter, who had been sent out after him by old Jeppe. He did not want to go back with them, but they threw him down and dragged him back, one taking his head and one his legs. People came to the door and laughed and asked questions, and the other two gave their explanation of the matter, which was a terrible disgrace for Pelle. And then he fell ill. He lay under the tiled roof raving with fever; they had thrown his bed into the loft. "What, isn't he up yet?" said Jeppe, astounded, when he came in to the workshop. "No? Well, he'll soon get up when he gets hungry." It was no joke to take a sick apprentice his meals in bed. But Pelle did not come down. Once the young master threw all considerations overboard and took some food up to him. "You're making yourself ridiculous," sneered Jeppe; "you'll never be able to manage people like that!" And Madam scolded. But Master Andres whistled until he was out of hearing. Poor Pelle lay there, in delirium; his little head was full of fancies, more than it would hold. But now the reaction set in, and he lay there stuffing himself with all that was brought him. The young master sat upstairs a great deal and received enlightenment on many points. It was not his nature to do anything energetically, but he arranged that Pelle's washing should be done in the house, and he took care that Lasse should be sent for. VIII Jeppe was related to about half the island, but he was not greatly interested in disentangling his relationship. He could easily go right back to the founder of the family, and trace the generations through two centuries, and follow the several branches of the family from country to town and over the sea and back again, and show that Andres and the judge must be cousins twice removed. But if any insignificant person asked him: "How was it, then--weren't my father and you first cousins?" he would answer brusquely, "Maybe, but the soup grows too thin after a time. This relationship!" "Then you and I, good Lord! are second cousins, and you are related to the judge as well," Master Andres would say. He did not grudge people any pleasure they could derive from the facts of relationship. Poor people regarded him gratefully--they said he had kind eyes; it was a shame that he should not be allowed to live. Jeppe was the oldest employer in the town, and among the shoemakers his workshop was the biggest. He was able, too, or rather he had been, and he still possessed the manual skill peculiar to the old days. When it came to a ticklish job he would willingly show them how to get on with it, or plan some contrivance to assist them. Elastic-sided boots and lace-up boots had superseded the old footwear, but honest skill still meant an honest reputation. And if some old fellow wanted a pair of Wellingtons or Bluchers of leather waterproofed with grease, instead of by some new-fangled devilry, he must needs go to Jeppe--no one else could shape an instep as he could. And when it came to handling the heavy dressed leathers for sea-boots there was no one like Jeppe. He was obstinate, and rigidly opposed to everything new, where everybody else was led away by novelty. In this he was peculiarly the representative of the old days, and people respected him as such. The apprentices alone did not respect him. They did everything they could to vex him and to retaliate on him for being such a severe task-master. They all laid themselves out to mystify him, speaking of the most matter-of-fact things in dark and covert hints, in order to make old Jeppe suspicious, and if he spied upon them and caught them at something which proved to be nothing at all they had a great day of it. "What does this mean? Where are you going without permission?" asked Jeppe, if one of them got up to go into the court; he was always forgetting that times had altered. They did not answer, and then he would fly into a passion. "I'll have you show me respect!" he would cry, stamping on the floor until the dust eddied round him. Master Andres would slowly raise his head. "What's the matter with you this time, father?" he would ask wearily. Then Jeppe would break out into fulminations against the new times. If Master Andres and the journeyman were not present, the apprentices amused themselves by making the old man lose his temper; and this was not difficult, as he saw hostility in everything. Then he would snatch up a knee-strap and begin to rain blows upon the sinner. At the same time he would make the most extraordinary grimaces and give vent to a singular gurgling sound. "There, take that, although it grieves me to use harsh measures!" he would mew. "And that, too--and that! You've got to go through with it, if you want to enter the craft!" Then he would give the lad something that faintly resembled a kick, and would stand there struggling for breath. "You're a troublesome youngster--you'll allow that?" "Yes, my mother used to break a broomstick over my head every other day!" replied Peter, the rogue, snorting. "There, you see you are! But it may all turn out for the best even now. The foundation's not so bad!" Jeppe doddered to and fro, his hands behind his back. The rest of the day he was inclined to solemnity, and did his best to obliterate all remembrance of the punishment. "It was only for your own good!" he would say, in a propitiatory tone. Jeppe was first cousin to the crazy Anker, but he preferred not to lay claim to the fact; the man could not help being mad, but he made his living, disgracefully enough, by selling sand in the streets--a specialist in his way. Day by day one saw Anker's long, thin figure in the streets, with a sackful of sand slung over his sloping shoulders; he wore a suit of blue twill and white woollen stockings, and his face was death-like. He was quite fleshless. "That comes of all his digging," people said. "Look at his assistant!" He never appeared in the workshop with his sack of sand; he was afraid of Jeppe, who was now the oldest member of the family. Elsewhere he went in and out everywhere with his clattering wooden shoes; and people bought of him, as they must have sand for their floors, and his was as good as any other. He needed next to nothing for his livelihood; people maintained that he never ate anything, but lived on his own vitals. With the money he received he bought materials for the "New Time," and what was left he threw away, in his more exalted moments, from the top of his high stairs. The street-urchins always came running up when the word went round that the madness about the "new time" was attacking him. He and Bjerregrav had been friends as boys. Formerly they had been inseparable, and neither of them was willing to do his duty and marry, although each was in a position to keep a wife and children. At an age when others were thinking about how to find favor with the womenfolk, these two were running about with their heads full of rubbish which enraged people. At that time a dangerous revolutionist was living with Bjerregrav's brother; he had spent many years on Christianso, but then the Government had sent him to spend the rest of his term of captivity on Bornholm. Dampe was his name; Jeppe had known him when an apprentice in Copenhagen; and his ambition was to overthrow God and king. This ambition of his did not profit him greatly; he was cast down like a second Lucifer, and only kept his head on his shoulders by virtue of an act of mercy. The two young people regarded him as then justification, and he turned their heads with his venomous talk, so that they began to ponder over things which common folk do better to leave alone. Bjerregrav came through this phase with a whole skin, but Anker paid the penalty by losing his wits. Although they both had a comfortable competence, they pondered above all things over the question of poverty--as though there was anything particular to be discovered about that! All this was many years ago; it was about the time when the craze for freedom had broken out in the surrounding nations with fratricide and rebellion. Matters were not so bad on the island, for neither Anker nor Bjerregrav was particularly warlike; yet everybody could see that the town was not behind the rest of the world. Here the vanity of the town was quite in agreement with Master Jeppe, but for the rest he roundly condemned the whole movement. He always looked ready to fall upon Bjerregrav tooth and nail if the conversation turned on Anker's misfortune. "Dampe!" said Jeppe scornfully, "he has turned both your heads!" "That's a lie!" stammered Bjerregrav. "Anker went wrong later than that--after King Frederick granted us liberty. And it's only that I'm not very capable; I have my wits, thank God!" Bjerregrav solemnly raised the fingers of his right hand to his lips, a gesture which had all the appearance of a surviving vestige of the sign of the cross. "You and your wits!" hissed Jeppe contemptuously. "You, who throw your money away over the first tramp you meet! And you defend an abominable agitator, who never goes out by daylight like other people, but goes gallivanting about at night!" "Yes, because he's ashamed of humanity; he wants to make the world more beautiful!" Bjerregrav blushed with embarrassment when he had said this. But Jeppe was beside himself with contempt. "So gaol-birds are ashamed of honest people! So that's why he takes his walks at night! Well, the world would of course be a more beautiful place if it were filled with people like you and Dampe!" The pitiful thing about Anker was that he was such a good craftsman. He had inherited the watchmaker's trade from his father and grandfather, and his Bornholm striking-clocks were known all over the world; orders came to him from Funen as well as from the capital. But when the Constitution was granted he behaved like a child--as though people had not always been free on Bornholm! Now, he said, the new time had begun, and in its honor he intended, in his insane rejoicing, to make an ingenious clock which should show the moon and the date and the month and year. Being an excellent craftsman, he completed it successfully, but then it entered his head that the clock ought to show the weather as well. Like so many whom God had endowed with His gifts, he ventured too far and sought to rival God Himself. But here the brakes were clapped on, and the whole project was nearly derailed. For a long time he took it greatly to heart, but when the work was completed he rejoiced. He was offered a large price for his masterpiece, and Jeppe bade him close with the offer, but he answered crazily--for he was now definitely insane--"This cannot be bought with money. Everything I made formerly had its value in money, but not this. Can any one buy _me_?" For a long time he was in a dilemma as to what he should do with his work, but then one day he came to Jeppe, saying: "Now I know; the best ought to have the clock. I shall send it to the King. He has given us the new time, and this clock will tell the new time." Anker sent the clock away, and after some time he received two hundred thalers, paid him through the Treasury. This was a large sum of money, but Anker was not satisfied; he had expected a letter of thanks from the King's own hand. He behaved very oddly about this, and everything went wrong with him; over and over again trouble built its nest with him. The money he gave to the poor, and he lamented that the new time had not yet arrived. So he sank even deeper into his madness, and however hard Jeppe scolded him and lectured him it did no good. Finally he went so far as to fancy that he was appointed to create the new time, and then he became cheerful once more. Three or four families of the town--very poor people, so demoralized that the sects would have nothing to do with them--gathered around Anker, and heard the voice of God in his message. "_They_ lose nothing by sitting under a crazy man," saw Jeppe scornfully. Anker himself paid no attention to them, but went his own way. Presently he was a king's son in disguise, and was betrothed to the eldest daughter of the King--and the new time was coming. Or when his mood was quieter, he would sit and work at an infallible clock which would not show the time; it would _be_ the time--the new time itself. He went to and fro in the workshop, in order to let Master Andres see the progress of his invention; he had conceived a blind affection for the young master. Every year, about the first of January, Master Andres had to write a letter for him, a love-letter to the king's daughter, and had also to take it upon him to despatch it to the proper quarter; and from time to time Anker would run in to ask whether an answer had yet arrived; and at the New Year a fresh love-letter was sent off. Master Andres had them all put away. One evening--it was nearly time to knock off--there was a thundering knock on the workshop door, and the sound of some one humming a march drifted in from the entry. "Can you not open?" cried a solemn voice: "the Prince is here!" "Pelle, open the door quick!" said the master. Pelle flung the door wide open, and Anker marched in. He wore a paper hat with a waving plume, and epaulettes made out of paper frills; his face was beaming, and he stood there with his hand to his hat as he allowed the march to die away. The young master rose gaily and shouldered arms with his stick. "Your Majesty," he said, "how goes it with the new time?" "Not at all well!" replied Anker, becoming serious. "The pendulums that should keep the whole in motion are failing me." He stood still, gazing at the door; his brain was working mysteriously. "Ought they to be made of gold?" The master's eyes were twinkling, but he was earnestness personified. "They ought to be made of eternity," said Anker unwillingly, "and first it has got to be invented." For a long time he stood there, staring in front of him with his gray, empty eyes, without speaking a word. He did not move; only his temples went on working as though some worm was gnawing at them and seeking its way out. Suddenly it became uncomfortable; his silence was sometimes like a living darkness that surrounded those about him. Pelle sat there with palpitating heart. Then the lunatic came forward and bent over the young master's ear. "Has an answer come from the king?" he asked, in a penetrating whisper. "No, not yet; but I expect it every day. You can be quite easy," the master whispered back. Anker stood for a few moments in silence; he looked as though he must be meditating, but after his own fashion. Then he turned round and marched out of the workshop. "Go after him and see he gets home all right," said the young master. His voice sounded mournful now. Pelle followed the clockmaker up the street. It was a Saturday evening, and the workers were on their way homeward from the great quarries and the potteries which lay about half a mile beyond the town. They passed in large groups, their dinner-boxes on their back, with a beer-bottle hung in front as a counter-weight. Their sticks struck loudly on the flagstones, and the iron heel-pieces of their wooden shoes struck out sparks as they passed. Pelle knew that weary homecoming; it was as though weariness in person had invaded the town. And he knew the sound of this taciturn procession; the snarling sound when this man or that made an unexpected and involuntary movement with his stiffened limbs, and was forced to groan with the pain of it. But to-night they gave him a different impression, and something like a smile broke through the encrusted stone-dust on their faces; it was the reflection of the bright new kroner that lay in their pockets after the exhausting labor of the week. Some of them had to visit the post-office to renew their lottery tickets or to ask for a postponement, and here and there one was about to enter a tavern, but at the last moment would be captured by his wife, leading a child by the hand. Anker stood motionless on the sidewalk, his face turned toward the passing workers. He had bared his head, and the great plume of his hat drooped to the ground behind him; he looked agitated, as though something were fermenting within him, which could not find utterance, save in an odd, unintelligible noise. The workers shook their heads sadly as they trudged onward; one solitary young fellow threw him a playful remark. "Keep your hat on--it's not a funeral!" he cried. A few foreign seamen came strolling over the hill from the harbor; they came zigzagging down the street, peeping in at all the street doors, and laughing immoderately as they did so. One of them made straight for Anker with outstretched arms, knocked off his hat, and went on with his arm in the air as though nothing had happened. Suddenly he wheeled about. "What, are you giving yourself airs?" he cried, and therewith he attacked the lunatic, who timidly set about resisting him. Then another sailor ran up and struck Anker behind the knees, so that he fell. He lay on the ground shouting and kicking with fright, and the whole party flung itself upon him. The boys scattered in all directions, in order to gather stones and come to Anker's assistance. Pelle stood still, his body jerking convulsively, as though the old sickness were about to attack him. Once he sprang forward toward Anker, but something within him told him that sickness had deprived him of his blind courage. There was one pale, slender youth who was not afraid. He went right among the sailors, in order to drag them off the lunatic, who was becoming quite frantic under their treatment of him. "He isn't in his right mind!" cried the boy, but he was hurled back with a bleeding face. This was Morten, the brother of Jens the apprentice. He was so angry that he was sobbing. Then a tall man came forward out of the darkness, with a rolling gait; he came forward muttering to himself. "Hurrah!" cried the boys. "Here comes the 'Great Power.'" But the man did not hear; he came to a standstill by the fighting group and stood there, still muttering. His giant figure swayed to and fro above them. "Help him, father!" cried Morten. The man laughed foolishly, and began slowly to pull his coat off. "Help him, then!" bellowed the boy, quite beside himself, shaking his father's arm. Jorgensen stretched out his hand to pat the boy's cheek, when he saw the blood on his face. "Knock them down!" cried the boy, like one possessed. Then a sudden shock ran through the giant's body--somewhat as when a heavy load is suddenly set in motion; he bowed himself a little, shook himself, and began to throw the sailors aside. One after another they stood still for a moment, feeling the place where he had seized them, and then they set off running as hard as they could toward the harbor. Jorgensen set the madman on his legs again and escorted him home. Pelle and Morten followed them hand-in-hand. A peculiar feeling of satisfaction thrilled Pelle through; he had seen strength personified in action, and he had made a friend. After that they were inseparable. Their friendship did not grow to full strength; it overshadowed them suddenly, magically conjured out of their hearts. In Morten's pale, handsome face there was something indescribable that made Pelle's heart throb in his breast, and a gentler note came into the voices of all who spoke to him. Pelle did not clearly understand what there could be attractive about himself; but he steeped himself in this friendship, which fell upon his ravaged soul like a beneficent rain. Morten would come up into the workshop as soon as work was over, or wait for Pelle at the corner. They always ran when they were going to meet. If Pelle had to work overtime, Morten did not go out, but sat in the workshop and amused him. He was very fond of reading, and told Pelle about the contents of many books. Through Morten, Pelle drew nearer to Jens, and found that he had many good qualities under his warped exterior. Jens had just that broken, despondent manner which makes a child instinctively suspect a miserable home. Pelle had at first supposed that Jens and Morten must have been supported by the poor-box; he could not understand how a boy could bear his father to be a giant of whom the whole town went in terror. Jens seemed hard of hearing when any one spoke to him. "He has had so many beatings," said Morten. "Father can't endure him, because he is stupid." Clever he was not, but he could produce the most wonderful melodies by whistling merely with his lips, so that people would stand still and listen to him. After his illness Pelle had a more delicate ear for everything. He no longer let the waves pass over him, careless as a child, but sent out tentacles--he was seeking for something. Everything had appeared to him as simpler than it was, and his dream of fortune had been too crudely conceived; it was easily shattered, and there was nothing behind it for him to rest on. Now he felt that he must build a better foundation, now he demanded nourishment from a wider radius, and his soul was on the alert for wider ventures; he dropped his anchors in unfamiliar seas. The goal of his desires receded into the unknown; he now overcame his aversion from the great and mysterious Beyond, where the outlines of the face of God lay hidden. The God of Bible history and the sects had for Pelle been only a man, equipped with a beard, and uprightness, and mercy, and all the rest; he was not to be despised, but the "Great Power" was certainly stronger. Hitherto Pelle had not felt the want of a God; he had only obscurely felt his membership in that all-loving God who will arise from the lowest and foulest and overshadow heaven; in that frenzied dream of the poor, who see, in a thousand bitter privations, the pilgrimage to the beloved land. But now he was seeking for that which no words can express; now the words, "the millennium," had a peculiar sound in his ears. Anker, of course, was crazy, because the others said so; when they laughed at him, Pelle laughed with them, but there was still something in him that filled Pelle with remorse for having laughed at him. Pelle himself would have liked to scramble money from the top of his high steps if he had been rich; and if Anker talked strangely, in curious phrases, of a time of happiness for all the poor, why, Father Lasse's lamentations had dealt with the same subject, as far back as he could remember. The foundation of the boy's nature felt a touch of the same pious awe which had forbidden Lasse and the others, out in the country, to laugh at the insane, for God's finger had touched them, so that their souls wandered in places to which no other could attain. Pelle felt the face of the unknown God gazing at him out of the mist. He had become another being since his illness; his movements were more deliberate, and the features of his round childish face had become more marked and prominent. Those two weeks of illness had dislodged his cares, but they were imprinted on his character, to which they lent a certain gravity. He still roamed about alone, encompassing himself with solitude, and he observed the young master in his own assiduous way. He had an impression that the master was putting him to the proof, and this wounded him. He himself knew that that which lay behind his illness would never be repeated, and he writhed uneasily under suspicion. One day he could bear it no longer. He took the ten kroner which Lasse had given him so that he might buy a much-needed winter overcoat, and went in to the master, who was in the cutting-out room, and laid them on the table. The master looked at him with a wondering expression, but there was a light in his eyes. "What the devil is that?" he asked, drawling. "That's master's money," said Pelle, with averted face. Master Andres gazed at him with dreamy eyes, and then he seemed to return, as though from another world, and Pelle all at once understood what every one said--that the young master was going to die. Then he burst into tears. But the master himself could not understand. "What the deuce. But that means nothing!" he cried, and he tossed the ten kroner in the air. "Lord o' me! what a lot of money! Well, you aren't poor!" He stood there, not knowing what to believe, his hand resting on Pelle's shoulder. "It's right," whispered Pelle. "I've reckoned it up exactly. And the master mustn't suspect me--I'll never do it again." Master Andres made a gesture of refusal with his hand, and wanted to speak, but at that very moment he was attacked by a paroxysm of coughing. "You young devil!" he groaned, and leaned heavily on Pelle; his face was purple. Then came a fit of sickness, and the sweat beaded his face. He stood there for a little, gasping for breath while his strength returned, and then he slipped the money into Pelle's hand and pushed him out of the room. Pelle was greatly dejected. His uprightness was unrewarded, and what had become of his vindication? He had been so glad to think that he would shake himself free of all the disgrace. But late in the afternoon the master called him into the cutting-out room. "Here, Pelle," he said confidentially, "I want to renew my lottery ticket; but I've no money. Can you lend me those ten kroner for a week?" So it was all as it should be; his one object was to put the whole disgrace away from him. Jens and Morten helped him in that. There were three of them now; and Pelle had a feeling that he had a whole army at his back. The world had grown no smaller, no less attractive, by reason of the endless humiliations of the year. And Pelle knew down to the ground exactly where he stood, and that knowledge was bitter enough. Below him lay the misty void, and the bubbles which now and again rose to the surface and broke did not produce in him any feeling of mystical wonder as to the depths. But he did not feel oppressed thereby; what was, was so because it must be. And over him the other half of the round world revolved in the mystery of the blue heavens, and again and again he heard its joyous _Forward! On!_ IX In his loneliness Pelle had often taken his way to the little house by the cemetery, where Due lived in two little rooms. It was always a sort of consolation to see familiar faces, but in other respects he did not gain much by his visits; Due was pleasant enough, but Anna thought of nothing but herself, and how she could best get on. Due had a situation as coachman at a jobmaster's, and they seemed to have a sufficiency. "We have no intention of being satisfied with driving other people's horses," Anna would say, "but you must crawl before you can walk." She had no desire to return to the country. "Out there there's no prospects for small people, who want something more than groats in their belly and a few rags on their back. You are respected about as much as the dirt you walk on, and there's no talk of any future. I shall never regret that we've come away from the country." Due, on the contrary, was homesick. He was quite used to knowing that there was a quarter of a mile between him and the nearest neighbor, and here he could hear, through the flimsy walls, whether his neighbors were kissing, fighting, or counting their money. "It is so close here, and then I miss the earth; the pavements are so hard." "He misses the manure--he can't come treading it into the room," said Anna, in a superior way; "for that was the only thing there was plenty of in the country. Here in the town too the children can get on better; in the country poor children can't learn anything that'll help them to amount to something; they've got to work for their daily bread. It's bad to be poor in the country!" "It's worse here in town," said Pelle bitterly, "for here only those who dress finely amount to anything!" "But there are all sorts of ways here by which a man can earn money, and if one way doesn't answer, he can try another. Many a man has come into town with his naked rump sticking out of his trousers, and now he's looked up to! If a man's only got the will and the energy --well, I've thought both the children ought to go to the municipal school, when they are older; knowledge is never to be despised." "Why not Marie as well?" asked Pelle. "She? What? She's not fitted to learn anything. Besides, she's only a girl." Anna, like her brother Alfred, had set herself a lofty goal. Her eyes were quite bright when she spoke of it, and it was evidently her intention to follow it regardless of consequences. She was a loud-voiced, capable woman with an authoritative manner; Due simply sat by and smiled and kept his temper. But in his inmost heart, according to report, he knew well enough what he wanted. He never went to the public-house, but came straight home after work; and in the evening he was never happier than when all three children were scrambling over him. He made no distinction between his own two youngsters and the six-year-old Marie, whom Anna had borne before she married him. Pelle was very fond of little Marie, who had thrived well enough so long as her child-loving grandparents had had her, but now she was thin and had stopped growing, and her eyes were too experienced. She gazed at one like a poor housewife who is always fretted and distressed, and Pelle was sorry for her. If her mother was harsh to her, he always remembered that Christmastide evening when he first visited his Uncle Kalle, and when Anna, weeping and abashed, had crept into the house, soon to be a mother. Little Anna, with the mind of a merry child, whom everybody liked. What had become of her now? One evening, as Morten was not at liberty, he ran thither. Just as he was on the point of knocking, he heard Anna storming about indoors; suddenly the door flew open and little Marie was thrown out upon the footpath. The child was crying terribly. "What's the matter, then?" asked Pelle, in his cheerful way. "What's the matter? The matter is that the brat is saucy and won't eat just because she doesn't get exactly the same as the others. Here one has to slave and reckon and contrive--and for a bad girl like that! Now she's punishing herself and won't eat. Is it anything to her what the others have? Can she compare herself with them? She's a bastard brat and always will be, however you like to dress it up!" "She can't help that!" said Pelle angrily. "Can't help it! Perhaps I can help it? Is it my fault that she didn't come into the world a farmer's daughter, but has to put up with being a bastard? Yes, you may believe me, the neighbors' wives tell me to my face she hasn't her father's eyes, and they look at me as friendly as a lot of cats! Am I to be punished all my life, perhaps, because I looked a bit higher, and let myself be led astray in a way that didn't lead to anything? Ah, the little monster!" And she clenched her fists and shook them in the direction from which the child's crying could still be heard. "Here one goes and wears oneself out to keep the house tidy and to be respectable, and then no one will treat me as being as good as themselves, just because once I was a bit careless!" She was quite beside herself. "If you aren't kind to little Marie, I shall tell Uncle Kalle," said Pelle warningly. She spat contemptuously. "Then you can tell him. Yes, I wish to God you'd do it! Then he'd come and take her away, and delighted I should be!" But now Due was heard stamping on the flags outside the door, and they could hear him too consoling the child. He came in holding her by the hand, and gave his wife a warning look, but said nothing. "There, there--now all that's forgotten," he repeated, in order to check the child's sobs, and he wiped away the grimy tears from her cheeks with his great thumbs. Anna brought him his food, sulkily enough, and out in the kitchen she muttered to herself. Due, while he ate his supper of bacon and black bread, stood the child between his knees and stared at her with round eyes. "Rider!" she said, and smiled persuasively. "Rider!" Due laid a cube of bacon on a piece of bread. "There came a rider riding On his white hoss, hoss, hoss, hoss!" he sang, and he made the bread ride up to her mouth. "And then?" "Then, _pop_ he rode in at the gate!" said the child, and swallowed horse and rider. While she ate she kept her eyes fixed upon him unwaveringly, with that painful earnestness which was so sad to see. But sometimes it happened that the rider rode right up to her mouth, and then, with a jerk, turned about, and disappeared, at a frantic gallop, between Due's white teeth. Then she smiled for a moment. "There's really no sense shoving anything into her," said Anna, who was bringing coffee in honor of the visitor. "She gets as much as she can eat, and she's not hungry." "She's hungry, all the same!" hummed Due. "Then she's dainty--our poor food isn't good enough for her. She takes after her father, I can tell you! And what's more, if she isn't naughty now she soon will be when once she sees she's backed up." Due did not reply. "Are you quite well again now?" he asked, turning to Pelle. "What have you been doing to-day?" asked Anna, filling her husband's long pipe. "I had to drive a forest ranger from up yonder right across the whole of the moor. I got a krone and a half for a tip." "Give it to me, right away!" Due passed her the money, and she put it into an old coffeepot. "This evening you must take the bucket to the inspector's," she said. Due stretched himself wearily. "I've been on the go since half-past four this morning," he said. "But I've promised it faithfully, so there's nothing else to be done. And then I thought you'd see to the digging for them this autumn; you can see when we've got the moonlight, and then there's Sundays. If we don't get it some one else will--and they are good payers." Due did not reply. "In a year or two from now, I'm thinking, you'll have your own horses and won't need to go scraping other people's daily bread together," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "Won't you go right away and take the bucket? Then it's done. And I must have some small firewood cut before you go to bed." Due sat there wearily blinking. After eating, fatigue came over him. He could hardly see out of his eyes, so sleepy was he. Marie handed him his cap, and at last he got on his legs. He and Pelle went out together. The house in which Due lived lay far up the long street, which ran steeply down to the sea. It was an old watercourse, and even now when there was a violent shower the water ran down like a rushing torrent between the poor cottages. Down on the sea-road they met a group of men who were carrying lanterns in their hands; they were armed with heavy sticks, and one of them wore an old leather hat and carried a club studded with spikes. This was the night-watch. They moved off, and behind them all went the new policeman, Pihl, in his resplendent uniform. He kept well behind the others, in order to show off his uniform, and also to ensure that none of the watch took to their heels. They were half drunk, and were taking their time; whenever they met any one they stood still and related with much detail precisely why they had taken the field. The "Great Power" was at his tricks again. He had been refractory all day, and the provost had given the order to keep an eye on him. And quite rightly, for in his cups he had met Ship- owner Monsen, on Church Hill, and had fallen upon him with blows and words of abuse: "So you take the widow's bread out of her mouth, do you? You told her the _Three Sisters_ was damaged at sea, and you took over her shares for next to nothing, did you? Out of pure compassion, eh, you scoundrel? And there was nothing the matter with the ship except that she had done only too well and made a big profit, eh? So you did the poor widow a kindness, eh?" A scoundrel, he called him and at every question he struck him a blow, so that he rolled on the ground. "We are all witnesses, and now he must go to prison. A poor stone-cutter oughtn't to go about playing the judge. Come and help us catch him, Due--you are pretty strong!" "It's nothing to do with me," said Due. "You do best to keep your fingers out of it," said one of the men derisively; "you might get to know the feel of his fist." And they went on, laughing contemptuously. "They won't be so pleased with their errand when they've done," said Due, laughing. "That's why they've got a nice drop stowed away-- under their belts. To give them courage. The strong man's a swine, but I'd rather not be the one he goes for." "Suppose they don't get him at all!" said Pelle eagerly. Due laughed. "They'll time it so that they are where he isn't. But why don't he stick to his work and leave his fool's tricks alone? He could have a good drink and sleep it off at home--he's only a poor devil, he ought to leave it to the great people to drink themselves silly!" But Pelle took another view of the affair. The poor man of course ought to go quietly along the street and take his hat off to everybody; and if anybody greeted him in return he'd be quite proud, and tell it to his wife as quite an event, as they were going to bed. "The clerk raised his hat to me to-day--yes, that he did!" But Stonecutter Jorgensen looked neither to right nor to left when he was sober, and in his cups he trampled everybody underfoot. Pelle by no means agreed with the pitiful opinions of the town. In the country, whence he came, strength was regarded as everything, and here was a man who could have taken strong Erik himself and put him in his pocket. He roamed about in secret, furtively measuring his wrists, and lifted objects which were much too heavy for him; he would by no means have objected to be like the "Great Power," who, as a single individual, kept the whole town in a state of breathless excitement, whether he was in one of his raging moods or whether he lay like one dead. The thought that he was the comrade of Jens and Morten made him quite giddy, and he could not understand why they bowed themselves so completely to the judgment of the town, as no one could cast it in their teeth that they were on the parish, but only that their father was a powerful fellow. Jens shrank from continually hearing his father's name on all lips, and avoided looking people in the eyes, but in Morten's open glance he saw no trace of this nameless grief. One evening, when matters were quite at their worst, they took Pelle home with them. They lived in the east, by the great clay-pit, where the refuse of the town was cast away. Their mother was busy warming the supper in the oven, and in the chimney-corner sat a shrivelled old grandmother, knitting. It was a poverty-stricken home. "I really thought that was father," said the woman, shivering. "Has any of you heard of him?" The boys related what they had heard; some one had seen him here, another there. "People are only too glad to keep us informed," said Jens bitterly. "Now it's the fourth evening that I've warmed up his supper to no purpose," the mother continued. "Formerly he used to take care to look in at home, however much they were after him--but he may come yet." She tried to smile hopefully, but suddenly threw her apron in front of her eyes and burst into tears. Jens went about with hanging head, not knowing what he ought to do; Morten put his arm behind the weary back and spoke soothingly: "Come, come; it isn't worse than it has often been!" And he stroked the projecting shoulder-blades. "No, but I did feel so glad that it was over. A whole year almost he never broke out, but took his food quietly when he came home from work, and then crawled into bed. All that time he broke nothing; he just slept and slept; at last I believed he had become weak-minded, and I was glad for him, for he had peace from those terrible ideas. I believed he had quieted down after all his disgraces, and would take life as it came; as the rest of his comrades do. And now he's broken out again as audacious as possible, and it's all begun over again!" She wept desolately. The old woman sat by the stove, her shifting glance wandering from one to another; she was like a crafty bird of prey sitting in a cage. Then her voice began, passionless and uninflected: "You're a great donkey; now it's the fourth evening you've made pancakes for your vagabond; you're always at him, kissing and petting him! I wouldn't sweeten my husband's sleep if he had behaved so scandalously to his wife and family; he could go to bed and get up again hungry, and dry too, for all I cared; then he'd learn manners at last. But there's no grit in you--that's the trouble; you put up with all his sauciness." "If I were to lay a stone in his way--why, who would be good to him, if his poor head wanted to lie soft? Grandmother ought to know how much he needs some one who believes in him. And there's nothing else I can do for him." "Yes, yes; work away and wear yourself out, so that there's always something for the great fellow to smash if he has a mind to! But now you go to bed and lie down; I'll wait up for Peter and give him his food, if he comes; you must be half dead with weariness, you poor worm." "There's an old proverb says, 'A man's mother is the devil's pother,' but it don't apply to you, grandmother," said the mother of the boys mildly. "You always take my part, although there's no need. But now you go to bed! It's far past your bed-time, and I'll look after Peter. It's so easy to manage him if only he knows that you mean well by him." The old woman behaved as though she did not hear; she went on knitting. The boys remembered that they had brought something with them; a bag of coffee-beans, some sugar-candy, and a few rolls. "You waste all your hard-earned shillings on me," said the mother reproachfully, and put the water to boil for the coffee, while her face beamed with gratitude. "They've no young women to waste it on," said the old woman dryly. "Grandmother's out of humor this evening," said Morten. He had taken off the old woman's glasses and looked smilingly into her gray eyes. "Out of humor--yes, that I am! But time passes, I tell you, and here one sits on the edge of the grave, waiting for her own flesh and blood to get on and do something wonderful, but nothing ever happens! Energies are wasted--they run away like brook-water into the sea-- and the years are wasted too--or is it lies I'm telling you? All want to be masters; no one wants to carry the sack; and one man seizes hold of another and clambers over him just to reach an inch higher. And there ought to be plenty in the house--but there's poverty and filth in every corner. I should think the dear God will soon have had enough of it all! Not an hour goes by but I curse the day when I let myself be wheedled away from the country; there a poor man's daily bread grows in the field, if he'll take it as it comes. But here he must go with a shilling in his fist, if it's only that he wants a scrap of cabbage for his soup. If you've money you can have it; if you haven't, you can leave it. Yes, that's how it is! But one must live in town in order to have the same luck as Peter! Everything promised splendidly, and I, stupid old woman, have always had a craving to see my own flesh and blood up at the top. And now I sit here like a beggar-princess! Oh, it has been splendid--I'm the mother of the biggest vagabond in town!" "Grandmother shouldn't talk like that," said the mother of the boys. "Yes, yes; but I'm sick of it all--and yet I can't think about dying! How can I go and lay me down--who would take a stick to Peter?--the strong man!" she said contemptuously. "Grandmother had better go quietly and lie down; I can manage Peter best if I'm alone with him," said the wife, but the old woman did not move. "Can't you get her to go, Morten?" whispered the mother. "You are the only one she will listen to." Morten lectured the old woman until he had enticed her away; he had to promise to go with her and arrange the bedclothes over her feet. "Now, thank goodness, we've got her out of the way!" said the mother, relieved. "I'm always so afraid that father might forget what he's doing when he's like he is now; and she doesn't think of giving in to him, so it's flint against flint. But now I think you ought to go where the rest of the young folks are, instead of sitting here and hanging your heads." "We'll stay and see whether father comes," declared Morten. "But what does it matter to you--you can say good-day to father at any time. Go now--listen--father prefers to find me alone when he's like this and comes home merry. Perhaps he takes me in his arms and swings me round--he's so strong--so that I feel as giddy as a young girl. 'Ho, heigh, wench, here's the "Great Power"!' he says, and he laughs as loud as he used to in his rowdy young days. Yes, when he's got just enough in him he gets as strong and jolly as ever he was in his very best days. I'm glad it's soon over. But that's not for you --you had better go." She looked at them appealingly, and shrank back as some one fumbled at the door. Out-of-doors it was terrible weather. It was only the youngest, who had come home from her day's work. She might have been ten or twelve years old and was small for her age, although she looked older; her voice was harsh and strident, and her little body seemed coarsened and worn with work. There was not a spot about her that shed or reflected a single ray of light; she was like some subterranean creature that has strayed to the surface. She went silently across the room and let herself drop into her grandmother's chair; she leaned over to one side as she sat, and now and again her features contracted. "She's got that mischief in her back," said the mother, stroking her thin, unlovely hair. "She got it always carrying the doctor's little boy--he's so tall and so heavy. But as long as the doctor says nothing, it can't be anything dangerous. Yes, you did really leave home too early, my child; but, after all, you get good food and you learn to be smart. And capable, that she is; she looks after the doctor's three children all by herself! The eldest is her own age, but she has to dress and undress her. Such grand children, they don't even learn how to do things for themselves!" Pelle stared at her curiously. He himself had put up with a good deal, but to cripple himself by dragging children about, who were perhaps stronger than himself--no, no one need expect that of him! "Why do you carry the over-fed brat?" he asked. "They must have some one to look after them," said the mother, "and their mother, who's the nearest to them, she doesn't feel inclined to do it. And they pay her for it." "If it was me, I'd let the brat fall," said Pelle boldly. The little girl just glanced at him with her dull eyes, and a feeble interest glimmered in them. But her face retained its frozen indifference, and it was impossible to say what she was thinking, so hard and experienced was her expression. "You mustn't teach her anything naughty," said the mother; "she has enough to struggle against already; she's got an obstinate nature. And now you must go to bed, Karen"--she caressed her once more-- "Father can't bear to see you when he's had too much. He's so fond of her," she added helplessly. Karen drew away from the caress without the slightest change of expression; silently she went up to the garret where she slept. Pelle had not heard her utter a sound. "That's how she is," said the mother, shivering. "Never a word to say 'good night'! Nothing makes any impression on her nowadays-- neither good nor bad; she's grown up too soon. And I have to manage so that father doesn't see her when he's merry. He goes on like a wild beast against himself and everybody else when it comes across his mind how she's been put upon." She looked nervously at the clock. "But go now--do listen! You'll do me a great favor if you'll go!" She was almost crying. Morten stood up, hesitating, and the others followed his example. "Pull your collars up and run," said the mother, and buttoned up their coats. The October gale was beating in gusts against the house, and the rain was lashing violently against the window-panes. As they were saying good night a fresh noise was heard outside. The outer door banged against the wall, and they heard the storm burst in and fill the entry. "Ah, now it's too late!" lamented the mother reproachfully. "Why didn't you go sooner?" A monstrous breathing sounded outside, like the breathing of a gigantic beast, sniffing up and down at the crack of the door, and fumbling after the latch with its dripping paws. Jens wanted to run and open the door. "No, you mustn't do that!" cried his mother despairingly, and she pushed the bolt. She stood there, rigid, her whole body trembling. Pelle too began to shiver; he had a feeling that the storm itself was lying there in the entry like a great unwieldy being, puffing and snorting in a kind of gross content, and licking itself dry while it waited for them. The woman bent her ear to the door, listening in frantic suspense. "What is he up to now?" she murmured; "he is so fond of teasing!" She was crying again. The boys had for the moment forgotten her. Then the outer door was beaten in, and the monster got up on all four dripping paws, and began to call them with familiar growls. The woman turned about in her distress; waving her hands helplessly before her, and then clapping them to her face. But now the great beast became impatient; it struck the door sharply, and snarled warningly. The woman shrank back as though she herself were about to drop on all fours and answered him. "No, no!" she cried, and considered a moment. Then the door was burst in with one tremendous blow, and Master Bruin rolled over the threshold and leaped toward them in clumsy jumps, his head thrown somewhat backward as though wondering why his little comrade had not rushed to meet him, with an eager growl. "Peter, Peter, the boy!" she whispered, bending over him; but he pushed her to the floor with a snarl, and laid one heavy paw upon her. She tore herself away from him and escaped to a chair. "Who am I?" he asked, in a stumbling, ghostly voice, confronting her. "The great strong man!" She could not help smiling; he was ramping about in such a clumsy, comical way. "And you?" "The luckiest woman in all the world!" But now her voice died away in a sob. "And where is the strong man to rest to-night?" He snatched at her breast. She sprang up with blazing eyes. "You beast--oh, you beast!" she cried, red with shame, and she struck him in the face. The "Great Power" wiped his face wonderingly after each blow. "We're only playing," he said. Then, in a flash, he caught sight of the boys, who had shrunk into a corner. "There you are!" he said, and he laughed crazily; "yes, mother and I, we're having a bit of a game! Aren't we, mother?" But the woman had run out of doors, and now stood under the eaves, sobbing. Jorgensen moved restlessly to and fro. "She's crying," he muttered. "There's no grit in her--she ought to have married some farmer's lad, devil take it, if the truth must be told! It catches me here and presses as though some one were shoving an iron ferrule into my brain. Come on, 'Great Power'! Come on! so that you can get some peace from it! I say every day. No, let be, I say then--you must keep a hold on yourself, or she just goes about crying! And she's never been anything but good to you! But deuce take it, if it would only come out! And then one goes to bed and says, Praise God, the day is done--and another day, and another. And they stand there and stare--and wait; but let them wait; nothing happens, for now the 'Great Power' has got control of himself! And then all at once it's there behind! Hit away! Eight in the thick of the heap! Send them all to hell, the scoundrels! 'Cause a man must drink, in order to keep his energies in check.... Well, and there she sits! Can one of you lend me a krone?" "Not I!" said Jens. "No, not you--he'd be a pretty duffer who'd expect anything from you! Haven't I always said 'he takes after the wrong side'? He's like his mother. He's got a heart, but he's incapable. What can you really do, Jens? Do you get fine clothes from your master, and does he treat you like a son, and will you finish up by taking over the business as his son-in-law? And why not? if I may ask the question. Your father is as much respected as Morten's." "Morten won't be a son-in-law, either, if his master has no daughter," Jens muttered. "No. But he might have had a daughter, hey? But there we've got an answer. You don't reflect. Morten, he's got something there!" He touched his forehead. "Then you shouldn't have hit me on the head," retorted Jens sulkily. "On the head--well! But the understanding has its seat in the head. That's where one ought to hammer it in. For what use would it be, I ask you, supposing you commit some stupidity with your head and I smack you on the behind? You don't need any understanding there? But it has helped--you've grown much smarter. That was no fool's answer you gave me just now: 'Then you shouldn't have hit me on the head!'" He nodded in acknowledgment. "No, but here is a head that can give them some trouble--there are knots of sense in this wood, hey?" And the three boys had to feel the top of his head. He stood there like a swaying tree, and listened with a changing expression to the less frequent sobs of his wife; she was now sitting by the fire, just facing the door. "She does nothing but cry," he said compassionately; "that's a way the women have of amusing themselves nowadays. Life has been hard on us, and she couldn't stand hardships, poor thing! For example, if I were to say now that I'd like to smash the stove"--and here he seized a heavy chair and waved it about in the air--"then she begins to cry. She cries about everything. But if I get on I shall take another wife --one who can make a bit of a show. Because this is nonsense. Can she receive her guests and make fine conversation? Pah! What the devil is the use of my working and pulling us all out of the mud? But now I'm going out again--God knows, it ain't amusing here!" His wife hurried across to him. "Ah, don't go out, Peter--stay here, do!" she begged. "Am I to hang about here listening to you maundering on?" he asked sulkily, shrugging his shoulders. He was like a great, good-natured boy who gives himself airs. "I won't maunder--I'm ever so jolly--if only you'll stay!" she cried, and she smiled through her tears. "Look at me--don't you see how glad I am? Stay with me, do, 'Great Power!'" She breathed warmly into his ear; she had shaken off her cares and pulled herself together, and was now really pretty with her glowing face. The "Great Power" looked at her affectionately; he laughed stupidly, as though he was tickled, and allowed himself to be pulled about; he imitated her whisper to the empty air, and was overflowing with good humor. Then he slyly approached his mouth to her ear, and as she listened he trumpeted loudly, so that she started back with a little cry. "Do stay, you great baby!" she said, laughing. "I won't let you go; I can hold you!" But he shook her off, laughing, and ran out bareheaded. For a moment it looked as though she would run after him, but then her hands fell, and she drooped her head. "Let him run off," she said wearily; "now things must go as they will. There's nothing to be done; I've never seen him so drunk. Yes, you look at me, but you must remember that he carries his drink differently to every one else--he is quite by himself in everything!" She said this with a certain air of pride. "And he has punished the shipowner--and even the judge daren't touch him. The good God Himself can't be more upright than he is." X Now the dark evenings had come when the lamp had to be lit early for the workers. The journeyman left while it was still twilight; there was little for him to do. In November the eldest apprentice had served his time. He was made to sit all alone in the master's room, and there he stayed for a whole week, working on his journeyman's task--a pair of sea-boots. No one was allowed to go in to him, and the whole affair was extremely exciting. When the boots were ready and had been inspected by some of the master-shoemakers, they were filled to the top with water and suspended in the garret; there they hung for a few days, in order to show that they were water-tight. Then Emil was solemnly appointed a journeyman, and had to treat the whole workshop. He drank brotherhood with little Nikas, and in the evening he went out and treated the other journeymen--and came home drunk as a lord. Everything passed off just as it should. On the following day Jeppe came into the workshop. "Well, Emil, now you're a journeyman. What do you think of it? Do you mean to travel? It does a freshly baked journeyman good to go out into the world and move about and learn something." Emil did not reply, but began to bundle his things together. "No, no; it's not a matter of life and death to turn you out. You can come to the workshop here and share the light and the warmth until you've got something better--those are good conditions, it seems to me. Now, when I was learning, things were very different--a kick behind, and out you went! And that's for young men--it's good for them!" He could sit in the workshop and enumerate all the masters in the whole island who had a journeyman. But that was really only a joke --it never happened that a new journeyman was engaged. On the other hand, he and the others knew well enough how many freshly-baked journeymen had been thrown on to the streets that autumn. Emil was by no means dejected. Two evenings later they saw him off on the Copenhagen steamer. "There is work enough," he said, beaming with delight. "You must promise me that you'll write to me in a year," said Peter, who had finished his apprenticeship at the same time. "That I will!" said Emil. But before a month had passed they heard that Emil was home again. He was ashamed to let himself be seen. And then one morning he came, much embarrassed, slinking into the workshop. Yes, he had got work --in several places, but had soon been sent away again. "I have learned nothing," he said dejectedly. He loitered about for a time, to enjoy the light and warmth of the workshop, and would sit there doing some jobs of cobbling which he had got hold of. He kept himself above water until nearly Christmas-time, but then he gave in, and disgraced his handicraft by working at the harbor as an ordinary stevedore. "I have wasted five years of my life," he used to say when they met him; "Run away while there's time! Or it'll be the same with you as it was with me." He did not come to the workshop any longer out of fear of Jeppe, who was extremely wroth with him for dishonoring his trade. It was cozy in the workshop when the fire crackled in the stove and the darkness looked in at the black, uncovered window-panes. The table was moved away from the window so that all four could find place about it, the master with his book and the three apprentices each with his repairing job. The lamp hung over the table, and smoked; it managed to lessen the darkness a little. The little light it gave was gathered up by the great glass balls which focussed it and cast it upon the work. The lamp swayed slightly, and the specks of light wriggled hither and thither like tadpoles, so that the work was continually left in darkness. Then the master would curse and stare miserably at the lamp. The others suffered with their eyes, but the master sickened in the darkness. Every moment he would stand up with a shudder. "Damn and blast it, how dark it is here; it's as dark as though one lay in the grave! Won't it give any light to-night?" Then Pelle would twist the regulator, but it was no better. When old Jeppe came tripping in, Master Andres looked up without trying to hide his book; he was in a fighting mood. "Who is there?" he asked, staring into the darkness. "Ah, it's father!" "Have you got bad eyes?" asked the old man derisively. "Will you have some eye-water?" "Father's eye-water--no thanks! But this damned light--one can't see one's hand before one's face!" "Open your mouth, then, and your teeth will shine!" Jeppe spat the words out. This lighting was always a source of strike between them. "No one else in the whole island works by so wretched a light, you take my word, father." "In my time I never heard complaints about the light," retorted Jeppe. "And better work has been done under the glass ball than any one can do now with all their artificial discoveries. But it's disappearing now; the young people to-day know no greater pleasure than throwing their money out of the window after such modern trash." "Yes, in father's time--then everything was so splendid!" said Master Andres. "That was when the angels ran about with white sticks in their mouths!" In the course of the evening now one and another would drop in to hear and tell the news. And if the young master was in a good temper they would stay. He was the fire and soul of the party, as old Bjerregrav said; he could, thanks to his reading, give explanations of so many things. When Pelle lifted his eyes from his work he was blind. Yonder, in the workshop, where Baker Jorgen and the rest sat and gossiped, he could see nothing but dancing specks of light, and his work swam round in the midst of them; and of his comrades he saw nothing but their aprons. But in the glass ball the light was like a living fire, in whose streams a world was laboring. "Well, this evening there's a capital light," said Jeppe, if one of them looked to the lamp. "You mean there's no light at all!" retorted Master Andres, twisting the regulator. But one day the ironmonger's man brought something in a big basket --a hanging lamp with a round burner; and when it was dark the ironmonger himself came in order to light it for the first time, and to initiate Pelle into the management of the wonderful contrivance. He went to work very circumstantially and with much caution. "It can explode, I needn't tell you," he said, "but you'd have to treat the mechanism very badly first. If you only set to work with care and reason there is no danger whatever." Pelle stood close to him, holding the cylinder, but the others turned their heads away from the table, while the young master stood right at the back, and shuffled to and fro. "Devil knows I don't want to go to heaven in my living body!" he said, with a comical expression; "but deuce take it, where did you get the courage, Pelle? You're a saucy young spark!" And he looked at him with his wide, wondering gaze, which held in it both jest and earnest. At last the lamp shone out; and even on the furthest shelf, high up under the ceiling, one could count every single last. "That's a regular sun!" said the young master, and he put his hand to his face; "why, good Lord, I believe it warms the room!" He was quite flushed, and his eyes were sparkling. The old master kept well away from the lamp until the ironmonger had gone; then he came rushing over to it. "Well, aren't you blown sky-high?" he asked, in great astonishment. "It gives an ugly light --oh, a horrible light! Poof, I say! And it doesn't shine properly; it catches you in the eyes. Well, well, you can spoil your sight as far as I'm concerned!" But for the others the lamp was a renewal of life. Master Andres sunned himself in its rays. He was like a sun-intoxicated bird; as he sat there, quite at peace, a wave of joy would suddenly come over him. And to the neighbors who gathered round the lamp in order to discover its qualities he held forth in great style, so that the light was doubled. They came often and stayed readily; the master beamed and the lamp shone; they were like insects attracted by the light--the glorious light! Twenty times a day the master would go out to the front door, but he always came in again and sat by the window to read, his boot with the wooden heel sticking out behind him. He spat so much that Pelle had to put fresh sand every day under his place. "Is there some sort of beast that sits in your chest and gnaws?" said Uncle Jorgen, when Andres' cough troubled him badly. "You look so well otherwise. You'll recover before we know where we are!" "Yes, thank God!" The master laughed gaily between two attacks. "If you only go at the beast hard enough, it'll surely die. Now, where you are, in your thirtieth year, you ought to be able to get at it. Suppose you were to give it cognac?" Jorgen Kofod, as a rule, came clumping in with great wooden shoes, and Jeppe used to scold him. "One wouldn't believe you've got a shoemaker for a brother!" he would say crossly; "and yet we all get our black bread from you." "But what if I can't keep my feet warm now in those damned leather shoes? And I'm full through and through of gout--it's a real misery!" The big baker twisted himself dolefully. "It must be dreadful with gout like that," said Bjerregrav. "I myself have never had it." "Tailors don't get gout," rejoined Baker Jorgen scornfully. "A tailor's body has no room to harbor it. So much I do know--twelve tailors go to a pound." Bjerregrav did not reply. "The tailors have their own topsy-turvy world," continued the baker. "I can't compare myself with them. A crippled tailor--well, even he has got his full strength of body." "A tailor is as fine a fellow as a black-bread baker!" stammered Bjerregrav nervously. "To bake black bread--why, every farmer's wife can do that!" "Fine! I believe you! Hell and blazes! If the tailor makes a cap he has enough cloth left over to make himself a pair of breeches. That's why tailors are always dressed so fine!" The baker was talking to the empty air. "Millers and bakers are always rogues, everybody says." Old Bjerregrav turned to Master Andres, trembling with excitement. But the young master stood there looking gaily from one to the other, his lame leg dangling in the air. "For the tailor nothing comes amiss--there's too much room in me!" said the baker, as though something were choking him. "Or, as another proverb says--it's of no more consequence than a tailor in hell. They are the fellows! We all know the story of the woman who brought a full-grown tailor into the world without even knowing she was with child." Jeppe laughed. "Now, that's enough, really; God knows neither of you will give in to the other." "Well, and I've no intention of trampling a tailor to death, if it can anyhow be avoided--but one can't always see them." Baker Jorgen carefully lifted his great wooden shoes. "But they are not men. Now is there even one tailor in the town who has been overseas? No, and there were no men about while the tailor was being made. A woman stood in a draught at the front door, and there she brought forth the tailor." The baker could not stop himself when once he began to quiz anybody; now that Soren was married, he had recovered all his good spirits. Bjerregrav could not beat this. "You can say what you like about tailors," he succeeded in saying at last. "But people who bake black bread are not respected as handicraftsmen--no more than the washerwoman! Tailoring and shoemaking, they are proper crafts, with craftman's tests, and all the rest." "Yes, shoemaking of course is another thing," said Jeppe. "But as many proverbs and sayings are as true of you as of us," said Bjerregrav, desperately blinking. "Well, it's no longer ago than last year that Master Klausen married a cabinet-maker's daughter. But whom must a tailor marry? His own serving-maid?" "Now how can you, father!" sighed Master Andres. "One man's as good as another." "Yes, you turn everything upside down! But I'll have my handicraft respected. To-day all sorts of agents and wool-merchants and other trash settle in the town and talk big. But in the old days the handicraftsmen were the marrow of the land. Even the king himself had to learn a handicraft. I myself served my apprenticeship in the capital, and in the workshop where I was a prince had learned the trade. But, hang it all, I never heard of a king who learned tailoring!" They were capable of going on forever in this way, but, as the dispute was at its worst, the door opened, and Wooden-leg Larsen stumped in, filling the workshop with fresh air. He was wearing a storm-cap and a blue pilot-coat. "Good evening, children!" he said gaily, and threw down a heap of leather ferrules and single boots on the window-bench. His entrance put life into all. "Here's a playboy for us! Welcome home! Has it been a good summer?" Jeppe picked up the five boots for the right foot, one after another, turned back the uppers, and held heels and soles in a straight line before his eyes. "A bungler has had these in hand," he growled, and then he set to work on the casing for the wooden leg. "Well, did the layer of felt answer?" Larsen suffered from cold in his amputated foot. "Yes; I've not had cold feet any more." "Cold feet!" The baker struck himself on the loins and laughed. "Yes, you can say what you like, but every time my wooden leg gets wet I get a cold in the head!" "That's the very deuce!" cried Jorgen, and his great body rolled like a hippopotamus. "A funny thing, that!" "There are many funny things in the world," stammered Bjerregrav. "When my brother died, my watch stopped at that very moment--it was he who gave it me." Wooden-leg Larsen had been through the whole kingdom with his barrel-organ, and had to tell them all about it; of the railway- trains which travelled so fast that the landscape turned round on its own axis, and of the great shops and places of amusement in the capital. "It must be as it will," said Master Andres. "But in the summer I shall go to the capital and work there!" "In Jutland--that's where they have so many wrecks!" said the baker. "They say everything is sand there! I've heard that the country is shifting under their feet--moving away toward the east. Is it true that they have a post there that a man must scratch himself against before he can sit down?" "My sister has a son who has married a Jutland woman and settled down there," said Bjerregrav. "Have you seen anything of them?" The baker laughed. "Tailors are so big--they've got the whole world in their waistcoat pocket. Well, and Funen? Have you been there, too? That's where the women have such a pleasant disposition. I've lain before Svendborg and taken in water, but there was no time to go ashore." This remark sounded like a sigh. "Can you stand it, wandering so much?" asked Bjerregrav anxiously. Wooden-leg Larsen looked contemptuously at Bjerregrav's congenital club-foot--he had received his own injury at Heligoland, at the hands of an honorable bullet. "If one's sound of limb," he said, spitting on the floor by the window. Then the others had to relate what had happened in town during the course of the summer; of the Finnish barque which had stranded in the north, and how the "Great Power" had broken out again. "Now he's sitting in the dumps under lock and key." Bjerregrav took exception to the name they gave him; he called it blasphemy, on the ground that the Bible said that power and might belonged to God alone. Wooden-leg Larsen said that the word, as they had used it, had nothing to do with God; it was an earthly thing; across the water people used it to drive machinery, instead of horses. "I should think woman is the greatest power," said Baker Jorgen, "for women rule the world, God knows they do! And God protect us if they are once let loose on us! But what do you think, Andres, you who are so book-learned?" "The sun is the greatest power," said Master Andres. "It rules over all life, and science has discovered that all strength and force come from the sun. When it falls into the sea and cools, then the whole world will become a lump of ice." "Then the sea is the greatest power!" cried Jeppe triumphantly. "Or do you know of anything else that tears everything down and washes it away? And from the sea we get everything back again. Once when I went to Malaga----" "Yes, that really is true," said Bjerregrav, "for most people get their living from the sea, and many their death. And the rich people we have get all their money from the sea." Jeppe drew himself up proudly and his glasses began to glitter. "The sea can bear what it likes, stone or iron, although it is soft itself! The heaviest loads can travel on its back. And then all at once it swallows everything down. I have seen ships which sailed right into the weather and disappeared when their time came." "I should very much like to know whether the different countries float on the water, or whether they stand firm on the bottom of the sea. Don't you know that, Andres?" asked Bjerregrav. Master Andres thought they stood on the bottom of the sea, far below the surface; but Uncle Jorgen said: "Nay! Big as the sea is!" "Yes, it's big, for I've been over the whole island," said Bjerregrav self-consciously; "but I never got anywhere where I couldn't see the sea. Every parish in all Bornholm borders on the sea. But it has no power over the farmers and peasants--they belong to the land, don't they?" "The sea has power over all of us," said Larsen. "Some it refuses; they go to sea for years and years, but then in their old age they suffer from sea-sickness, and then they are warned. That is why Skipper Andersen came on shore. And others it attracts, from right away up in the country! I have been to sea with such people--they had spent their whole lives up on the island, and had seen the sea, but had never been down to the shore. And then one day the devil collared them and they left the plough and ran down to the sea and hired themselves out. And they weren't the worse seamen." "Yes," said Baker Jorgen, "and all of us here have been to sea, and Bornholmers sail on all the seas, as far as a ship can go. And I have met people who had never been on the sea, and yet they were as though it was their home. When I sailed the brig _Clara_ for Skipper Andersen, I had such a lad on board as ordinary seaman. He had never bathed in the sea; but one day, as we were lying at anchor, and the others were swimming around, he jumped into the water too--now this is God's truth--as though he were tumbling into his mother's arms; he thought that swimming came of its own accord. He went straight to the bottom, and was half dead before we fished him up again." "The devil may understand the sea!" cried Master Andres breathlessly. "It is curved like an arch everywhere, and it can get up on its hind legs and stand like a wall, although it's a fluid! And I have read in a book that there is so much silver in the sea that every man in the whole world might be rich." "Thou righteous God!" cried Bjerregrav, "such a thing I have never heard. Now does that come from all the ships that have gone down? Yes, the sea--that, curse it, is the greatest power!" "It's ten o'clock," said Jeppe. "And the lamp is going out--that devil's contrivance!" They broke up hastily, and Pelle turned the lamp out. But long after he had laid his head on his pillow everything was going round inside it. He had swallowed everything, and imaginary pictures thronged in his brain like young birds in an over-full nest, pushing and wriggling to find a place wherein to rest. The sea was strong; now in the wintertime the surging of the billows against the cliffs was continually in his ear. Pelle was not sure whether it would stand aside for him! He had an unconscious reluctance to set himself limits, and as for the power about which they had all been disputing, it certainly had its seat in Pelle himself, like a vague consciousness that he was, despite all his defeats, invincible. At times this feeling manifested itself visibly and helped him through the day. One afternoon they were sitting and working, after having swallowed their food in five minutes, as their custom was; the journeyman was the only one who did not grudge himself a brief mid-day rest, and he sat reading the newspaper. Suddenly he raised his head and looked wonderingly at Pelle. "Now what's this? Lasse Karlson--isn't that your father?" "Yes," answered Pelle, with a paralyzed tongue, and the blood rushed to his cheeks. Was Father Lasse in the news? Not among the accidents? He must have made himself remarkable in one way or another through his farming! Pelle was nearly choking with excitement, but he did not venture to ask, and Little Nikas simply sat there and looked secretive. He had assumed the expression peculiar to the young master. But then he read aloud: "Lost! A louse with three tails has escaped, and may be left, in return for a good tip, with the landowner Lasse Karlson, Heath Farm. Broken black bread may also be brought there." The others burst into a shout of laughter, but Pelle turned an ashen gray. With a leap he was across the table and had pulled little Nikas to the ground underneath him; there he lay, squeezing the man's throat with his fingers, trying to throttle him, until he was overpowered. Emil and Peter had to hold him while the knee-strap put in its work. And yet he was proud of the occurrence; what did a miserable thrashing signify as against the feat of throwing the journeyman to the ground and overcoming the slavish respect he had felt for him! Let them dare to get at him again with their lying allusions, or to make sport of Father Lasse! Pelle was not inclined to adopt circuitous methods. And the circumstances justified him. After this he received more consideration; no one felt anxious to bring Pelle and his cobbler's tools on top of him, even although the boy could be thrashed afterward. XI The skipper's garden was a desert. Trees and bushes were leafless; from the workshop window one could look right through them, and over other gardens beyond, and as far as the backs of the houses in East Street. There were no more games in the garden; the paths were buried in ice and melting snow, and the blocks of coral, and the great conch-shells which, with their rosy mouths and fish-like teeth, had sung so wonderfully of the great ocean, had been taken in on account of the frost. Manna he saw often enough. She used to come tumbling into the workshop with her school satchel or her skates; a button had got torn off, or a heel had been wrenched loose by a skate. A fresh breeze hovered about her hair and cheeks, and the cold made her face glow. "There is blood!" the young master would say, looking at her delightedly; he laughed and jested when she came in. But Manna would hold on to Pelle's shoulder and throw her foot into his lap, so that he could button her boots. Sometimes she would pinch him secretly and look angry--she was jealous of Morten. But Pelle did not understand; Morten's gentle, capable mind had entirely subjugated him and assumed the direction of their relations. Pelle was miserable if Morten was not there when he had an hour to spare. Then he would run, with his heart in his mouth, to find him; everything else was indifferent to him. One Sunday morning, as he was sweeping the snow in the yard, the girls were in their garden; they were making a snowman. "Hey, Pelle!" they cried, and they clapped their mittens; "come over here! You can help us to build a snow-house. We'll wall up the door and light some Christmas-tree candles: we've got some ends. Oh, do come!" "Then Morten must come too--he'll be here directly!" Manna turned up her nose. "No, we don't want Morten here!" "Why not? He's so jolly!" said Pelle, wounded. "Yes, but his father is so dreadful--everybody is afraid of him. And then he's been in prison." "Yes, for beating some one--that's nothing so dreadful! My father was too, when he was a young man. That's no disgrace, for it isn't for stealing." But Manna looked at him with an expression exactly like Jeppe's when he was criticizing somebody from his standpoint as a respectable citizen. "But, Pelle, aren't you ashamed of it? That's how only the very poorest people think--those who haven't any feelings of shame!" Pelle blushed for his vulgar way of looking at things. "It's no fault of Morten's that his father's like that!" he retorted lamely. "No, we won't have Morten here. And mother won't let us. She says perhaps we can play with you, but not with anybody else. We belong to a very good family," she said, in explanation. "My father has a great farm--it's worth quite as much as a rotten barge," said Pelle angrily. "Father's ship isn't rotten!" rejoined Manna, affronted. "It's the best in the harbor here, and it has three masts!" "All the same, you're nothing but a mean hussy!" Pelle spat over the hedge. "Yes, and you're a Swede!" Manna blinked her eyes triumphantly, while Dolores and Aina stood behind her and put out their tongues. Pelle felt strongly inclined to jump over the garden wall and beat them; but just then Jeppe's old woman began scolding from the kitchen, and he went on with his work. Now, after Christmas, there was nothing at all to do. People were wearing out their old boots, or they went about in wooden shoes. Little Nikas was seldom in the workshop; he came in at meal-times and went away again, and he was always wearing his best clothes. "He earns his daily bread easily," said Jeppe. Over on the mainland they didn't feed their people through the winter; the moment there was no more work, they kicked them out. In the daytime Pelle was often sent on a round through the harbor in order to visit the shipping. He would find the masters standing about there in their leather aprons, talking about nautical affairs; or they would gather before their doors, to gossip, and each, from sheer habit, would carry some tool or other in his hand. And the wolf was at the door. The "Saints" held daily meetings, and the people had time enough to attend them. Winter proved how insecurely the town was established, how feeble were its roots; it was not here as it was up in the country, where a man could enjoy himself in the knowledge that the earth was working for him. Here people made themselves as small and ate as little as possible, in order to win through the slack season. In the workshops the apprentices sat working at cheap boots and shoes for stock; every spring the shoemakers would charter a ship in common and send a cargo to Iceland. This helped them on a little. "Fire away!" the master would repeat, over and over again; "make haste--we don't get much for it!" The slack season gave rise to many serious questions. Many of the workers were near to destitution, and it was said that the organized charities would find it very difficult to give assistance to all who applied for it. They were busy everywhere, to their full capacity. "And I've heard it's nothing here to what it is on the mainland," said Baker Jorgen. "There the unemployed are numbered in tens of thousands." "How can they live, all those thousands of poor people, if the unemployment is so great?" asked Bjerregrav. "The need is bad enough here in town, where every employer provides his people with their daily bread." "Here no one starves unless he wants to," said Jeppe. "We have a well-organized system of relief." "You're certainly becoming a Social Democrat, Jeppe," said Baker Jorgen; "you want to put everything on to the organized charities!" Wooden-leg Larsen laughed; that was a new interpretation. "Well, what do they really want? For they are not freemasons. They say they are raising their heads again over on the mainland." "Well, that, of course, is a thing that comes and goes with unemployment," said Jeppe. "The people must do something. Last winter a son of the sailmaker's came home--well, he was one of them in secret. But the old folks would never admit it, and he himself was so clever that he got out of it somehow." "If he'd been a son of mine he would have got the stick," said Jorgen. "Aren't they the sort of people who are making ready for the millennium? We've got a few of their sort here," said Bjerregrav diffidently. "D'you mean the poor devils who believe in the watchmaker and his 'new time'? Yes, that may well be," said Jeppe contemptuously. "I have heard they are quite wicked enough for that. I'm inclined to think they are the Antichrist the Bible foretells." "Ah, but what do they really want?" asked Baker Jorgen. "What is their madness really driving at?" "What do they want?" Wooden-leg Larsen pulled himself together. "I've knocked up against a lot of people, I have, and as far as I can understand it they want to get justice; they want to take the right of coining money away from the Crown and give it to everybody. And they want to overthrow everything, that is quite certain." "Well," said Master Andres, "what they want, I believe, is perfectly right, only they'll never get it. I know a little about it, on account of Garibaldi." "But what _do_ they want, then, if they don't want to overthrow the whole world?" "What do they want? Well, what do they want? That everybody should have exactly the same?" Master Andres was uncertain. "Then the ship's boy would have as much as the captain! No, it would be the devil and all!" Baker Jorgen smacked his thigh and laughed. "And they want to abolish the king," said Wooden-leg Larsen eagerly. "Who the devil would reign over us then? The Germans would soon come hurrying over! That's a most wicked thing, that Danish people should want to hand over their country to the enemy! All I wonder is that they don't shoot them down without trial! They'd never be admitted to Bornholm." "That we don't really know!" The young master smiled. "To the devil with them--we'd all go down to the shore and shoot them: they should never land alive!" "They are just a miserable rabble, the lot of them," said Jeppe. "I should very much like to know whether there is a decent citizen among them." "Naturally, it's always the poor who complain of poverty," said Bjerregrav. "So the thing never comes to an end." Baker Jorgen was the only one of them who had anything to do. Things would have to be bad indeed before the people stopped buying his black bread. He even had more to do than usual; the more people abstained from meat and cheese, the more bread they ate. He often hired Jeppe's apprentices so that they might help him in the kneading. But he was not in a happy frame of mind. He was always shouting his abuse of Soren through the open doors, because the latter would not go near his buxom young wife. Old Jorgen had taken him and put him into bed with her with his own hands, but Soren had got out of the business by crying and trembling like a new-born calf. "D'you think he's perhaps bewitched?" asked Master Andres. "She's young and pretty, and there's not the least fault to be found with her--and we've fed him with eggs right through the winter. She goes about hanging her head, she gets no attention from him. 'Marie! Soren!' I cry, just to put a little life into them--he ought to be the sort of devil I was, I can tell you! She laughs and blushes, but Soren, he simply sneaks off. It's really a shame--so dainty as she is too, in every way. Ah, it ought to have been in my young days, I can tell you!" "You are still young enough, Uncle Jorgen!" laughed Master Andres. "Well, a man could almost bring himself to it--when he considers what a dreadful injustice is going on under his own eyes. For, look you, Andres, I've been a dirty beast about all that sort of thing, but I've been a jolly fellow too; people were always glad to be on board with me. And I've had strength for a booze, and a girl; and for hard work in bad weather. The life I've led--it hasn't been bad; I'd live it all over again the same. But Soren--what sort of a strayed weakling is he? He can't find his own way about! Now, if only you would have a chat with him--you've got some influence over him." "I'll willingly try." "Thanks; but look here, I owe you money." Jorgen took ten kroner and laid them on the table as he was going. "Pelle, you devil's imp, can you run an errand for me?" The young master limped into the cutting-out room, Pelle following on his heels. A hundred times a day the master would run to the front door, but he hurried back again directly; he could not stand the cold. His eyes were full of dreams of other countries, whose climates were kinder, and he spoke of his two brothers, of whom one was lost in South America--perhaps murdered. But the other was in Australia, herding sheep. He earned more at that than the town magistrate received as salary, and was the cleverest boxer in the neighborhood. Here the master made his bloodless hands circle one round the other, and let them fall clenched upon Pelle's back. "That," he said, in a superior tone, "is what they call boxing. Brother Martin can cripple a man with one blow. He is paid for it, the devil!" The master shuddered. His brother had on several occasions offered to send him his steamer-ticket, but there was that damned leg. "Tell me what I should do over there, eh, Pelle?" Pelle had to bring books from the lending library every day, and he soon learned which writers were the most exciting. He also attempted to read himself, but he could not get on with it; it was more amusing to stand about by the skating-pond and freeze and watch the others gliding over the ice. But he got Morten to tell him of exciting books, and these he brought home for the master; such was the "Flying Dutchman." "That's a work of poetry, Lord alive!" said the master, and he related its contents to Bjerregrav, who took them all for reality. "You should have played some part in the great world, Andres--I for my part do best to stay at home here. But you could have managed it--I'm sure of it." "The great world!" said the master scornfully. No, he didn't take much stock in the world--it wasn't big enough. "If I were to travel, I should like to look for the way into the interior of the earth-- they say there's a way into it in Iceland. Or it would be glorious to make a voyage to the moon; but that will always be just a story." At the beginning of the new year the crazy Anker came to the young master and dictated a love-letter to the eldest daughter of the king. "This year he will surely answer," he said thoughtfully. "Time is passing, and fortune disappears, and there are few that have their share of it; we need the new time very badly." "Yes, we certainly do," said Master Andres. "But if such a misfortune should happen that the king should refuse, why, you are man enough to manage the matter yourself, Anker!" It was a slack season, and, just as it was at its very worst, shoemaker Bohn returned and opened a shop on the marketplace. He had spent a year on the mainland and had learned all sorts of modern humbug. There was only one pair of boots in his window, and those were his own Sunday boots. Every Monday they were put out and exhibited again, so that there should be something to look at. If he himself was in the shop, talking to the people, his wife would sit in the living-room behind and hammer on a boot, so that it sounded as though there were men in the workshop. But at Shrovetide Jeppe received some orders. Master Andres came home quite cheerfully one day from Bjerhansen's cellar; there he had made the acquaintance of some of the actors of a troupe which had just arrived. "They are fellows, too!" he said, stroking his cheeks. "They travel continually from one place to another and give performances--they get to see the world!" He could not sit quiet. The next morning they came rioting into the workshop, filling the place with their deafening gabble. "Soles and heels!" "Heels that won't come off!" "A bit of heel-work and two on the snout!" So they went on, bringing great armfuls of boots from under their cloaks, or fishing them out of bottomless pockets, and throwing them in heaps on the window-bench, each with his droll remarks. Boots and shoes they called "understandings"; they turned and twisted every word, tossing it like a ball from mouth to mouth, until not a trace of sense was left in it. The apprentices forgot everything, and could scarcely contain themselves for laughing, and the young master overflowed with wit-- he was equal to the best of them. Now one saw that he really might have luck with the women: there was no boasting or lying about it. The young actress with the hair like the lightest flax could not keep her eyes off him, although she evidently had all the others at her petticoat-tails; she made signs to her companions that they should admire the master's splendid big mustache. The master had forgotten his lame leg and thrown his stick away; he was on his knees, taking the actress's measure for a pair of high boots with patent tops and concertina-like folds in the legs. She had a hole in the heel of her stocking, but she only laughed over it; one of the actors cried "Poached egg!" and then they laughed uproariously. Old Jeppe came tumbling into the room, attracted by the merriment. The blonde lady called him "Grandfather," and wanted to dance with him, and Jeppe forgot his dignity and laughed with the rest. "Yes, it's to us they come when they want to have something good," he said proudly. "And I learned my trade in Copenhagen, and I used to carry boots and shoes to more than one play-actor there. We had to work for the whole theater; Jungfer Patges, who became so famous later on, got her first dancing shoes from us." "Yes, those are the fellows!" said Master Andres, as at last they bustled out; "devil take me, but those are the chaps!" Jeppe could not in the least understand how they had found their way thither, and Master Andres did not explain that he had been to the tavern. "Perhaps Jungfer Patges sent them to me," he said, gazing into the distance. "She must somehow have kept me in mind." Free tickets poured in on them; the young master was in the theater every evening. Pelle received a gallery ticket every time he went round with a pair of boots. He was to say nothing--but the price was plainly marked on the sole with chalk. "Did you get the money?" the master would ask eagerly; he used to stand on the stairs all the time, waiting. No, Pelle was to present their very best wishes, and to say they would come round and settle up themselves. "Well, well, people of that sort are safe enough," said the master. One day Lasse came stamping into the workshop and into the midst of them all, looking the picture of a big farmer, with his fur collar drawn round his ears. He had a sack of potatoes outside; it was a present to Pelle's employers, because Pelle was learning his trade so well. Pelle was given leave and went out with his father; and he kept looking furtively at the fur collar. At last he could contain himself no longer, but turned it up inquiringly. Disillusioned, he let it fall again. "Ah, yes--er--well--that's just tacked on to my driving-cloak. It looks well, and it keeps my ears nice and warm. You thought I'd blossomed out into a proper fur coat? No, it won't run to that just yet--but it will soon. And I could name you more than one big farmer who has nothing better than this." Yes, Pelle was just a trifle disappointed. But he must admit that there was no difference to be perceived between this cloak and the real bear-skin. "Are things going on all right?" he asked. "Oh, yes; at present I am breaking stone. I've got to break twenty cords if I'm to pay everybody what's owing to him by the Devil's birthday. [Footnote: The 11th December--the general pay-day and hiring-day.--TB.] So long as we keep our health and strength, Karna and I." They drove to the merchant's and put up the horses. Pelle noticed that the people at the merchant's did not rush forward to Lasse quite so eagerly as they did to the real farmers; but Lasse himself behaved in quite an important manner. He stumped right into the merchant's counting-house, just like the rest, filled his pipe at the barrel, and helped himself to a drink of brandy. A cold breath of air hung about him as he went backward and forward from the cart with buttoned-up cloak, and he stamped as loudly on the sharp cobble-stones as though his boot-soles too were made of stone. Then they went on to Due's cottage; Lasse was anxious to see how matters were prospering there. "It isn't always easy when one of the parties brings a love-child into the business." Pelle explained to him how matters stood. "Tell them at Uncle Kalle's that they must take little Maria back again. Anna ill-treats her. They are getting on well in other ways; now they want to buy a wagon and horses and set up as carriers." "Do they? Well, it's easy for those to get on who haven't any heart." Lasse sighed. "Look, father," said Pelle suddenly, "there's a theater here now, and I know all the players. I take them their boots, and they give me a ticket every evening. I've seen the whole thing." "But, of course, that's all lies, eh?" Lasse had to pull up, in order to scrutinize Pelle's face. "So you've been in a proper theater, eh? Well, those who live in the town have got the devil to thank for it if they are cleverer than a peasant. One can have everything here!" "Will you go with me to-night? I can get the tickets." Lasse was uneasy. It wasn't that he didn't want to go; but the whole thing was so unaccustomed. However, it was arranged that he should sleep the night at Due's, and in the evening they both went to the theater. "Is it here?" asked Lasse, astounded. They had come to a great building like a barn, before which a number of people were standing. But it was fine inside. They sat right up at the top, at the back, where the seats were arranged like the side of a hill, and they had a view over the whole theater. Down below, right in front, sat some ladies who, so far as Lasse could see, were naked. "I suppose those are the performers?" he inquired. Pelle laughed. "No, those are the grandest ladies in the town--the doctor's wife, the burgomaster's lady, and the inspector's wife, and such like." "What, they are so grand that they haven't enough clothes to wear!" cried Lasse. "With us we call that poverty! But where are the players, then?" "They are the other side of the curtain." "Then have they begun already?" "No, you can see they haven't--the curtain has to go up first." There was a hole in the curtain, and a finger came through it, and began to turn from side to side, pointing at the spectators. Lasse laughed. "That's devilish funny!" he cried, slapping his thighs, as the finger continued to point. "It hasn't begun yet," said Pelle. "Is that so?" This damped Lasse's spirits a little. But then the big crown-light began suddenly to run up through a hole in the ceiling; up in the loft some boys were kneeling round the hole, and as the light came up they blew out the lamps. Then the curtain went up, and there was a great brightly-lit hall, in which a number of pretty young girls were moving about, dressed in the most wonderful costumes--and they were speaking! Lasse was quite astonished to find that he could understand what they said; the whole thing seemed so strange and foreign to him; it was like a peep into dreamland. But there was one maiden who sat there all alone at her spinning wheel, and she was the fairest of them all. "That's surely a fine lady?" asked Lasse. But Pelle whispered that she was only a poor forest maiden, whom the lord of the castle had robbed, and now he wanted to force her to be his sweetheart. All the others were making a tremendous lot of her, combing her golden hair and kneeling before her; but she only looked unhappier than before. And sometimes her sadness was more than she could bear; then she opened her beautiful mouth and her wounded heart bled in song, which affected Lasse so that he had to fetch a long sighing breath. Then a tall man with a huge red beard came stamping into the hall. Lasse saw that he was dressed like a man who has been keeping Carnival. "That's the one we made the fine boots for," whispered Pelle: "the lord of the castle, who wants to seduce her." "An ugly devil he looks too!" said Lasse, and spat. "The master at Stone Farm is a child of God compared with him!" Pelle signed to him to be quiet. The lord of the castle drove all the other women away, and then began to tramp stormily to and fro, eyeing the forest maiden and showing the whites of his eyes. "Well, have you at last decided?" he roared, and snorted like a mad bull. And suddenly he sprang at her as if to take her by force. "Ha! Touch me not!" she cried, "or by the living God, I will plunge this dagger into my heart! You believe you can buy my innocence because I am poor, but the honor of the poor is not to be bought with gold!" "That's a true word!" said Lasse loudly. But the lord of the castle gave a malicious laugh, and tugged at his red beard. He rolled his r's dreadfully. "Is my offer not enough for you? Come, stay this night with me and you shall receive a farm with ten head of cattle, so that to-morrow you can stand at the altar with your huntsman!" "Hold your tongue, you whoremonger!" said Lasse angrily. Those round about him tried to calm him; one or another nudged him in the ribs. "Well, can't a man speak any longer?" Lasse turned crossly to Pelle. "I'm no clergyman, but if the girl doesn't want to, let him leave her alone; at any rate he shan't slake his lust publicly in the presence of hundreds of people with impunity! A swine like that!" Lasse was speaking loudly, and it seemed as though his words had had their effect on the lord of the castle. He stood there awhile staring in front of him, and then called a man, and bade him lead the maiden back to the forest. Lasse breathed easily again as the curtain fell and the boys overhead by the hole in the ceiling relit the lamps and let them down again. "So far she's got out of it all right," he told Pelle, "but I don't trust the lord--he's a scoundrel!" He was perspiring freely, and did not look entirely satisfied. The next scene which was conjured up on the stage was a forest. It was wonderfully fine, with pelargoniums blooming on the ground, and a spring which was flowing out of something green. "That is a covered beer-barrel!" said Pelle, and now Lasse too could see the tap, but it was wonderfully natural. Right in the background one could see the lord's castle on a cliff, and in the foreground lay a fallen tree-trunk; two green-clad huntsmen sat astride of it, concocting their evil schemes. Lasse nodded--he knew something of the wickedness of the world. Now they heard a sound, and crouched down behind the tree-trunk, each with a knife in his hand. For a moment all was silent; then came the forest maiden and her huntsman, wandering all unawares down the forest path. By the spring they took a clinging and affectionate farewell; then the man came forward, hurrying to his certain death. This was too much. Lasse stood up. "Look out!" he cried in a choking voice: "look out!" Those behind him pulled his coat and scolded him. "No, devil take you all, I won't hold my tongue!" he cried, and laid about him. And then he leaned forward again: "Look where you're going, d'you hear! Your life is at stake! They're hiding behind the fallen tree!" The huntsman stood where he was and stared up, and the two assassins had risen to their feet and were staring, and the actors and actresses came through from the wings and gazed upward over the auditorium. Lasse saw that the man was saved, but now he had to suffer for his services; the manager wanted to throw him out. "I can perfectly well go by myself," he said. "An honorable man is one too many in this company!" In the street below he talked aloud to himself; he was in a blazing temper. "It was only a play," said Pelle dejectedly. In his heart he was ashamed of his father. "You needn't try to teach me about that! I know very well that it all happened long ago and that I can do nothing to alter it, not if I was to stand on my head. But that such low doings should be brought to life again! If the others had felt as I did we should have taken the lord and thrashed him to death, even if it did come a hundred years too late!" "Why--but that was Actor West, who comes to our workshop every day." "Is that so? Actor West, eh? Then you are Actor Codfish, to let yourself be imposed on like that! I have met people before now who had the gift of falling asleep and conjuring up long dead people in their place--but not so real as here, you understand. If you had been behind the curtain you would have seen West lying there like dead, while he, the other one--the Devil--was carrying on and ordering everybody about. It's a gift I'd rather not have; a dangerous game! If the others forget the word of command that brings him back into the body it would be all up with him, and the other would take his place." "But that is all superstition! When I know it's West in a play--why, I recognized him at once!" "Oh, of course! You are always the cleverer! You'd like a dispute with the devil himself every day! So it was only a show? When he was rolling the whites of his eyes in his frantic lust! You believe me--if she hadn't had that knife he would have fallen on her and satisfied his desire in front of everybody! Because if you conjure up long bygone times the action has to have its way, however many there are to see. But that they should do it for money--for money --ugh! And now I'm going home!" Lasse would say nothing more, but had the horses harnessed. "You had best not go there again," he said at parting. "But if it has got hold of you already, at least put a knife in your pocket. Yes, and we'll send you your washing by Butcher Jensen, one Saturday, soon." Pelle went to the theater as before; he had a shrewd idea that it was only a play, but there _was_ something mysterious about it; people must have a supernatural gift who evening after evening could so entirely alter their appearance and so completely enter into the people they represented. Pelle thought he would like to become an actor if he could only climb high enough. The players created a considerable excitement when they strolled through the streets with their napping clothes and queer head-gear; people ran to their windows to see them, the old folk peeping over their shoulders. The town was as though transformed as long as they were in it. Every mind had taken a perverse direction. The girls cried out in their sleep and dreamed of abductions; they even left their windows a little open; and every young fellow was ready to run away with the players. Those who were not theater-mad attended religious meetings in order to combat the evil. And one day the players disappeared--as they had come--and left a cloud of debts behind them. "Devil's trash!" said the master with his despondent expression. "They've tricked us! But, all the same, they were fine fellows in their way, and they had seen the world!" But after these happenings he could by no means get warm again. He crawled into bed and spent the best part of the month lying there. XII It can be very cozy on those winter evenings when everybody sits at home in the workshop and passes the time by doing nothing, because it is so dark and cold out of doors, and one has nowhere to go to. To stand about by the skating-ponds and to look on, frozen, while others go swinging past--well, Pelle has had enough of it; and as for strolling up the street toward the north, and then turning about and returning toward the south, and turning yet again, up and down the selfsame street--well, there is nothing in it unless one has good warm clothes and a girl whose waist one can hold. And Morten too is no fresh-air disciple; he is freezing, and wants to sit in the warmth. So they slink into the workshop as soon as it begins to grow dark, and they take out the key and hang it on the nail in the entry, in order to deceive Jeppe, and then they secretly make a fire in the stove, placing a screen in front of it, so that Jeppe shall not see the light from it when he makes his rounds past the workshop windows. They crouch together on the ledge at the bottom of the stove, each with an arm round the other's shoulder, and Morten tells Pelle about the books he has read. "Why do you do nothing but read those stupid books?" asks Pelle, when he has listened for a time. "Because I want to know something about life and about the world," answers Morten, out of the darkness. "Of the world?" says Pelle, in a contemptuous tone. "I want to go out into the world and see things--what's in the books is only lies. But go on." And Morten goes on, good-natured as always. And in the midst of his narrative something suddenly occurs to him, and he pulls a paper packet from his breast-pocket: "That's chocolate from Bodil," he says, and breaks the stick in two. "Where had she put it?" asks Pelle. "Under the sheet--I felt something hard under my back when I lay down." The boys laugh, while they nibble at the chocolate. Suddenly Pelle says: "Bodil, she's a child-seducer! She enticed Hans Peter away from Stone Farm--and he was only fifteen!" Morten does not reply; but after a time his head sinks on Pelle's shoulder--his body is twitching. "Well, you are seventeen," says Pelle, consoling. "But it's silly all the same; she might well be your mother--apart from her age." And they both laugh. It can be still cozier on work-day evenings. Then the fire is burning openly in the stove, even after eight o'clock, and the lamp is shining, and Morten is there again. People come from all directions and look in for a moment's visit, and the cold, an impediment to everything else, awakens all sorts of notable reminiscences. It is as though the world itself comes creeping into the workshop. Jeppe conjures up his apprentice years in the capital, and tells of the great bankruptcy; he goes right back to the beginning of the century, to a wonderful old capital where the old people wore wigs, and the rope's-end was always at hand and the apprentices just kept body and soul together, begging on Sundays before the doors of the townsfolk. Ah, those were times! And he comes home and wants to settle down as master, but the guild won't accept him; he is too young. So he goes to sea as cook, and comes to places down south where the sun burns so fiercely that the pitch melts in the seams and the deck scorches one's feet. They are a merry band, and Jeppe, little as he is, by no means lags behind the rest. In Malaga they storm a tavern, throw all the Spaniards out of the window, and sport with the girls--until the whole town falls upon them and they have to fly to their boat. Jeppe cannot keep up with them, and the boat shoves off, so that he has to jump into the water and swim for it. Knives fall splashing about him in the water, and one sticks shivering in his shoulder-blades. When Jeppe comes to this he always begins to strip his back to show the scar, and Master Andres holds him back. Pelle and Morten have heard the story many a time, but they are willing always to hear it again. And Baker Jorgen, who for the greater part of his life has been a seaman on the big vessels sailing the northern and southern oceans, talks about capstans and icebergs and beautiful black women from the West Indies. He sets the capstan turning, so that the great three-master makes sail out of the Havana roadstead, and all his hearers feel their hearts grow light. "Heave ho, the capstan, Waltz her well along! Leave the girl a-weeping, Strike up the song!" So they walk round and round, twelve men with their breasts pressed against the heavy capstan-bars; the anchor is weighed, and the sail fills with the wind--and behind and through his words gleam the features of a sweetheart in every port. Bjerregrav cannot help crossing himself--he who has never accomplished anything, except to feel for the poor; but in the young master's eyes everybody travels--round and round the world, round and round the world. And Wooden-leg Larsen, who in winter is quite the well-to-do pensioner, in blue pilot-coat and fur cap, leaves his pretty, solidly-built cottage when the Spring comes, and sallies forth into the world as a poor organ-grinder--he tells them of the Zoological Gardens on the hill, and the adventurous Holm-Street, and of extraordinary beings who live upon the dustbins in the back-yards of the capital. But Pelle's body creaks whenever he moves; his bones are growing and seeking to stretch themselves; he feels growth and restlessness in every part and corner of his being. He is the first to whom the Spring comes; one day it announces itself in him in the form of a curiosity as to what his appearance is like. Pelle has never asked himself this question before; and the scrap of looking-glass which he begged from the glazier from whom he fetches the glass scrapers tells him nothing truly. He has at bottom a feeling that he is an impossible person. He begins to give heed to the opinions of others respecting his outward appearance; now and again a girl looks after him, and his cheeks are no longer so fat that people can chaff him about them. His fair hair is wavy; the lucky curl on his forehead is still visible as an obstinate little streak; but his ears are still terribly big, and it is of no use to pull his cap over them, in order to press them close to his head. But he is tall and well-grown for his age, and the air of the workshop has been powerless to spoil his ruddy complexion; and he is afraid of nothing in the world-- particularly when he is angry. He thinks out a hundred different kinds of exercise in order to satisfy the demands of his body, but it is of no use. If he only bends over his hammer-work he feels it in every joint of his body. And then one day the ice breaks and goes out to sea. Ships are fitted out again, and provisioned, and follow the ice, and the people of the town awake to the idea of a new life, and begin to think of green woods and summer clothing. And one day the fishing-boats arrive! They come gliding across from Hellavik and Nogesund on the Swedish coast. They cut swiftly through the water, heeling far over under their queer lateen sails, like hungry sea-birds that sweep the waves with one wing-tip in their search for booty. A mile to seaward the fishermen of the town receive them with gunshots; they have no permission to anchor in the fishing port, but have to rent moorings for themselves in the old ship's harbor, and to spread out the gear to dry toward the north. The craftsmen of the town come flocking down to the harbor, discussing the foreign thieves who have come from a poorer country in order to take the bread out of the mouths of the townsfolk; for they are inured to all weathers, and full of courage, and are successful in their fishing. They say the same things every Spring, but when they want to buy herrings they deal with the Swedes, who sell more cheaply than the Bornholmers. "Perhaps our fishermen wear leather boots?" inquires Jeppe. "No, they wear wooden shoes week- days and Sunday alike. Let the wooden-shoe makers deal with them--I buy where the fish is cheapest!" It is as though the Spring in person has arrived with these thin, sinewy figures, who go singing through the streets, challenging the petty envy of the town. There are women, too, on every boat, to mend and clean the gear, and they pass the workshop in crowds, searching for their old lodgings in the poor part of the town near the "Great Power's" home. Pelle's heart leaps at the sight of these young women, with pretty slippers on their feet, black shawls round their oval faces, and many fine colors in their dress. His mind is full of shadowy memories of his childhood, which have lain as quiet as though they were indeed extinguished; vague traditions of a time that he has experienced but can no longer remember; it is like a warm breath of air from another and unknown existence. If it happens that one or another of these girls has a little child on her arm, then the town has something to talk about. Is it Merchant Lund again, as it was last year? Lund, who since then had been known only as "the Herring Merchant"? Or is it some sixteen- year-old apprentice, a scandal to his pastor and schoolmaster, whose hands he has only just left? Then Jens goes forth with his concertina, and Pelle makes haste with his tidying up, and he and Morten hurry up to Gallows Hill, hand-in- hand, for Morten finds it difficult to run so quickly. All that the town possesses of reckless youth is there; but the Swedish girls take the lead. They dance and whirl until their slippers fly off, and little battles are fought over them. But on Saturdays the boats do not go to sea; then the men turn up, with smouldering brows, and claim their women, and then there is great slaughter. Pelle enters into it all eagerly; here he finds an opportunity of that exercise of which his handicraft deprives his body. He hungers for heroic deeds, and presses so close to the fighters that now and again he gets a blow himself. He dances with Morten, and plucks up courage to ask one of the girls to dance with him; he is shy, and dances like a leaping kid in order to banish his shyness; and in the midst of the dance he takes to his heels and leaves the girl standing there. "Damned silly!" say the onlookers, and he hears them laughing behind him. He has a peculiar manner of entering into all this recklessness which lets the body claim its due without thought for the following day and the following year. If some man-hunting young woman tries to capture his youth he lashes out behind, and with a few wanton leaps he is off and away. But he loves to join in the singing when the men and women go homeward with closely-twined arms, and he and Morten follow them, they too with their arms about each other. Then the moon builds her bridge of light across the sea, and in the pinewood, where a white mist lies over the tree-tops, a song rises from every path, heard as a lulling music in the haunts of the wandering couples; insistently melancholy in its meaning, but issuing from the lightest hearts. It is just the kind of song to express their happiness. "Put up, put up thy golden hair; A son thou'lt have before a year-- No help in thy clamor and crying! In forty weeks may'st look for me. I come to ask how it fares with thee. The forty weeks were left behind. And sad she was and sick of mind, And fell to her clamor and crying--" And the song continues as they go through the town, couple after couple, wandering as they list. The quiet winding closes ring with songs of love and death, so that the old townsfolk lift their heads from their pillows, and, their nightcaps pushed to one side, wag gravely at all this frivolity. But youth knows nothing of this; it plunges reveling onward, with its surging blood. And one day the old people have the best of it; the blood surges no longer, but there they are, and there are the consequences, and the consequences demand paternity and maintenance. "Didn't we say so?" cry the old folk; but the young ones hang their heads, and foresee a long, crippled existence, with a hasty marriage or continual payments to a strange woman, while all through their lives a shadow of degradation and ridicule clings to them; both their wives and their company must be taken from beneath them. They talk no longer of going out into the world and making their way; they used to strut arrogantly before the old folk and demand free play for their youth, but now they go meekly in harness with hanging heads, and blink shamefacedly at the mention of their one heroic deed. And those who cannot endure their fate must leave the country secretly and by night, or swear themselves free. The young master has his own way of enjoying himself. He takes no part in the chase after the girls; but when the sunlight is really warm, he sits before the workshop window and lets it warm his back. "Ah, that's glorious!" he says, shaking himself. Pelle has to feel his fur jacket to see how powerful the sun is. "Thank God, now we have the spring here!" Inside the workshop they whistle and sing to the hammer-strokes; there are times when the dark room sounds like a bird-shop. "Thank God, now we have the spring!" says Master Andres over and over again, "but the messenger of spring doesn't seem to be coming this year." "Perhaps he is dead," says little Nikas. "Garibaldi dead? Good Lord! he won't die just yet. All the years I can remember he has looked just as he does now and has drunk just as hard. Lord of my body! but how he has boozed in his time, the rascal! But you won't find his equal as a shoemaker all the world over." One morning, soon after the arrival of the steamer, a thin, tall, sharp-shouldered man comes ducking through the workshop door. His hands and face are blue with the cold of the morning and his cheeks are rather baggy, but in his eyes burns an undying fire. "Morning, comrades!" he says, with a genial wave of the hand. "Well, how's life treating us? Master well?" He dances into the workshop, his hat pressed flat under his left arm. His coat and trousers flap against his body, revealing the fact that he is wearing nothing beneath them; his feet are thrust bare into his shoes, and he wears a thick kerchief round his neck. But such a manner and a carriage in a craftsman Pelle has never seen in all his days; and Garibaldi's voice alone is like a bell. "Now, my son," he says, and strikes Pelle lightly on the shoulder, "can you fetch me something to drink? Just a little, now at once, for I'm murderously thirsty. The master has credit! Pst! We'll have the bottleful--then you needn't go twice." Pelle runs. In half a minute he is back again. Garibaldi knows how to do things quickly; he has already tied his apron, and is on the point of passing his opinion on the work in the workshop. He takes the bottle from Pelle, throws it over his shoulder, catches it with the other hand, sets his thumb against the middle of the bottle, and drinks. Then he shows the bottle to the others. "Just to the thumbnail, eh?" "I call that smart drinking!" says little Nikas. "It can be done though the night is black as a crow"; Garibaldi waves his hand in a superior manner. "And old Jeppe is alive still? A smart fellow!" Master Andres strikes on the wall. "He has come in--he is there!" he says, with his wide-opened eyes. After a time he slips into his clothes and comes out into the workshop; he hangs about gossiping, but Garibaldi is sparing of his words; he is still rusty after the night voyage. A certain feverishness has affected them all; an anxiety lest anything should escape them. No one regards his daily work with aversion to-day; everybody exerts his capacities to the utmost. Garibaldi comes from the great world, and the spirit of adventure and the wandering life exhales from his flimsy clothes. "If he'll only begin to tell us about it," whispers Pelle to Jens; he cannot sit still. They hang upon his lips, gazing at him; if he is silent it is the will of Providence. Even the master does not bother him, but endures his taciturnity and little Nikas submits to being treated like an apprentice. Garibaldi raises his head. "Well, one didn't come here to sit about and idle!" he cries gaily. "Plenty to do, master?" "There's not much doing here, but we've always work for you," replies Master Andres. "Besides, we've had an order for a pair of wedding-shoes, white satin with yellow stitching; but we haven't properly tackled it." He gives little Nikas a meaning glance. "No yellow stitching with white satin, master; white silk, of course, and white edges." "Is that the Paris fashion?" asks Master Andres eagerly. Garibaldi shrugs his shoulders. "Don't let us speak of Paris, Master Andres; here we have neither the leather nor the tools to make Parisian shoes; and we haven't the legs to put into them, either." "The deuce! Are they so fashionable?" "Fashionable! I should say so! I can hold the foot of a well-grown Parisian woman in the hollow of my hand. And when they walk they don't touch the pavement! You could make shoes for a Parisian girl out of whipped cream, and they'd hold together! If you were to fit her with a pair of ordinary woman's beetle-crushers she'd jump straight into the sewer!" "Well, I'm damned!" The master is hastily cutting some leather to shape. "The devil she would!" Never did any one make himself at home more easily; Garibaldi draws a seat up to the table and is at once in full swing. No rummaging about after tools; his hand finds his way to the exact spot where the thing required lies, as though an invisible track lay between them. These hands do everything of themselves, quietly, with gentle movements, while the eyes are elsewhere; gazing out into the garden, or examining the young master, or the work of the apprentices. To Pelle and the others, who always have to look at everything from every side in turn, this is absolutely marvelous. And before they have had time to look round Garibaldi has put everything in order, and is sitting there working and looking across the room at the master, who is himself sewing to-day. And then Jeppe comes tumbling in, annoyed that no one has told him of Garibaldi's arrival. "'Day, master--'day, craft-master!" says Garibaldi, who stands up and bows. "Yes," says Jeppe self-consciously, "if there were craft-masters still, I should be one. But manual work is in a wretched case to-day; there's no respect for it, and where shall a man look for respect if he doesn't respect himself?" "That's meant for the young master, eh?" says Garibaldi laughing. "But times have altered, Master Jeppe; knee-straps and respect have given out; yes, those days are over! Begin at seven, and at six off and away! So it is in the big cities!" "Is that this sosherlism?" says Jeppe disdainfully. "It's all the same to me what it is--Garibaldi begins and leaves off when it pleases him! And if he wants more for his work he asks for it! And if that doesn't please them--then adieu, master, adieu! There are slaves enough, said the boy, when he got no bread." The others did not get very much done; they have enough to do to watch Garibaldi's manner of working. He has emptied the bottle, and now his tongue is oiled; the young master questions him, and Garibaldi talks and talks, with continual gestures. Not for a moment do his hands persist at their work; and yet the work progresses so quickly it is a revelation to watch it; it is as though it were proceeding of itself. His attention is directed upon their work, and he always interferes at the right moment; he criticizes their way of holding their tools, and works out the various fashions of cut which lend beauty to the heel and sole. It is as though he feels it when they do anything wrongly; his spirit pervades the whole workshop. "That's how one does it in Paris," he says, or "this is Nuremberg fashion." He speaks of Vienna and Greece in as matter-of-fact a way as though they lay yonder under Skipper Elleby's trees. In Athens he went to the castle to shake the king by the hand, for countrymen should always stand by one another in foreign parts. "He was very nice, by the by; but he had had his breakfast already. And otherwise it's a damned bad country for traveling; there are no shoemakers there. No, there I recommend you Italy--there are shoemakers there, but no work; however, you can safely risk it and beg your way from place to place. They aren't like those industrious Germans; every time you ask them for a little present they come and say, 'Come in, please, there is some work you can do!' And it is so warm there a man can sleep on the bare ground. Wine flows in every gutter there, but otherwise it's no joke." Garibaldi raises the empty bottle high in the air and peeps wonderingly up at the shelves; the young master winks at Pelle, and the latter fetches another supply of drink at the gallop. The hot blood is seething in Pelle's ears. He must go away, far away from here, and live the wandering life, like Garibaldi, who hid himself in the vineyards from the gendarmes, and stole the bacon from the chimneys while the people were in the fields. A spirit is working in him and the others; the spirit of their craft. They touch their tools and their material caressingly with their fingers; everything one handles has an inward color of its own; which tells one something. All the dustiness and familiarity of the workshop is swept away; the objects standing on the shelves glow with interest; the most tedious things contain a radiant life of their own. The world rises before them like a cloudy wonder, traversed by endless highways deep in white dust, and Garibaldi treads them all. He has sold his journeyman's pass to a comrade for a slice of bread and butter, and is left without papers; German policemen give chase to him, and he creeps through the vineyards for fourteen days, on hands and knees, getting nothing for his pains but grapes and a shocking attack of summer cholera. Finally his clothes are so very much alive that he no longer needs to move of himself; he simply lies quiet, and lets himself be carried along until he comes to a little town. "An inn?" asks Garibaldi. Yes, there is an inn. There he tells a story to the effect that he has been robbed; and the good people put him to bed, and warm and dry his clothes. Garibaldi snores, and pushes the chair nearer the stove; snores, and pushes it a little further; and as his clothes burst into a blaze he starts up roaring and scolding and weeping, and is inconsolable. So then he is given fine new clothes and new papers, and is out on the road again, and the begging begins afresh; mountains rise and pass him by, and great cities too, cities with wide rivers. There are towns in which the wandering journeyman can get no money, but is forced to work; damnable places, and there are German hostels where one is treated like a prisoner; all clothes must be taken off in a long corridor, even to one's shirt; a handful of men examine them, and then everything is put safely away. Thirty or forty naked men are admitted, one after another, to the great bare dormitory. Paris--the name is like a bubble bursting in one's ear! There Garibaldi has worked for two years, and he has been there a score of times on passing visits. Paris is the glory of the whole world massed together, and all the convenient contrivances of the world brought to a state of perfection. Here in the town no respectable shoemaker will mend the dirty shoes of the "Top-galeass"; she goes about in down-trodden top-boots, or, if the snipping season has been poor, she wears wooden shoes. In Paris there are women who wear shoes at twenty guineas a pair, who carry themselves like queens, earn forty thousand pounds a year, and are yet nothing but prostitutes. Forty thousand! If another than Garibaldi had said it he would have had all the lasts thrown at his head! Pelle does not hear what the master says to him, and Jens is in a great hurry for the cobbler's wax; he has cut the upper of the shoe he is soling. They are quite irresponsible; as though bewitched by this wonderful being, who goes on pouring brandy down his throat, and turning the accursed drink into a many-colored panorama of the whole world, and work that is like a miracle. The news has soon spread, and people come hurrying in to see Garibaldi, and perhaps to venture to shake him by the hand; Klausen wants to borrow some pegs, and Marker, quite unabashed, looks in to borrow the biggest last. The old cobbler Drejer stands modestly in a corner and says "Yes, yes!" to the other's remarks. Garibaldi has reached him his hand, and now he can go home to his gloomy shop and his dirty stock and his old man's solitude. The genius of the craft has touched him, and for the rest of his days has shed a light upon his wretched work of patching and repairing; he has exchanged a handshake with the man who made the cork-soled boots for the Emperor of Germany himself when he went out to fight the French. And the crazy Anker is there too; but does not come in, as he is shy of strangers. He walks up and down the yard before the workshop window, and keeps on peeping in. Garibaldi points his finger to his forehead and nods, and Anker does the same; he is shaking with suppressed laughter, as over some excellent joke, and runs off like a child who must hide himself in a corner in order to savor his delight. Baker Jorgen is there, bending down with his hands on his thighs, and his mouth wide open. "Lor' Jiminy!" he cries from time to time; "did ever one hear the like!" He watches the white silk run through the sole and form itself into glistening pearls along the edge. Pearl after pearl appears; Garibaldi's arms fly about him, and presently he touches the baker on the hip. "Am I in the way?" asks old Jorgen. "No, God forbid--stay where you are!" And his arms fly out again, and the butt of the bodkin touches the baker with a little click. "I'm certainly in the way," says Jorgen, and moves a few inches. "Not in the least!" replies Garibaldi, stitching away. Then out fly his arms again, but this time the point of the bodkin is turned toward the baker. "Now, good Lord, I can see I'm in the way!" says Jorgen, rubbing himself behind. "Not at all!" replies Garibaldi courteously, with an inviting flourish of his hand. "Pray come nearer." "No, thank you! No, thank you!" Old Jorgen gives a forced laugh, and hobbles away. Otherwise Garibaldi lets them come and stare and go as they like. It does not trouble him that he is an eminent and remarkable person; quite unperturbed, he puts the brandy-bottle to his lips and drinks just as long as he is thirsty. He sits there, playing thoughtlessly with knife and leather and silk, as though he had sat on the stool all his life, instead of having just fallen from the moon. And about the middle of the afternoon the incomparable result is completed; a pair of wonderful satin shoes, slender as a neat's tongue, dazzling in their white brilliance, as though they had just walked out of the fairy-tale and were waiting for the feet of the Princess. "Look at them, damn it all!" says the master, and passes them to little Nikas, who passes them round the circle. Garibaldi throws back his close-cropped gray head. "You need not say who has made them--everybody can see that. Suppose now the shoes go to Jutland and are worn there and are thrown on the rubbish-heap. One day, years hence, some porridge-eater goes ploughing; a scrap of the instep comes to the surface; and a wandering journeyman, who is sitting in the ditch nibbling at his supper, rakes it toward him with his stick. That bit of instep, he says, that, or the Devil may fry me else, was part of a shoe made by Garibaldi--deuce take me, he says, but that's what it was. And in that case the journeyman must be from Paris, or Nuremberg, or Hamburg--one or the other, that's certain. Or am I talking nonsense, master?" No; Master Andres can asseverate this is no nonsense--he who from childhood lived with Garibaldi on the highways and in great cities, who followed him so impetuously with that lame leg of his that he remembers Garibaldi's heroic feats better than Garibaldi himself. "But now you will stay here," he says persuasively. "Now we'll work up the business--we'll get all the fine work of the whole island." Garibaldi has nothing against this; he has had enough of toiling through the world. Klausen will gladly make one of the company; in the eyes of all those present this proposal is a dream which will once more raise the craft to its proper level; will perhaps improve it until the little town can compete with Copenhagen. "How many medals have you really received?" says Jeppe, as he stands there with a great framed diploma in his hand. Garibaldi shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know, old master; one gets old, and one's hand gets unsteady. But what is this? Has Master Jeppe got the silver medal?" Jeppe laughs. "For this I have to thank a tramp by the name of Garibaldi. He was here four years ago and won the silver medal for me!" Well--that is a thing Garibaldi has long forgotten! But medals are scattered about wherever he has been. "Yes, there are a hundred masters knocking about who boast of their distinctions: first-class workshop--you can see it for yourself-- 'a silver medal.' But who did the work? Who got his day's wages and an extra drop of drink and then--good-bye, Garibaldi! What has one to show for it, master? There are plenty of trees a man can change his clothes behind--but the shirt?" For a moment he seems dejected. "Lorrain in Paris gave me two hundred francs for the golden medal I won for him; but otherwise it was always--Look in my waistcoat pocket! or--I've an old pair of trousers for you, Garibaldi! But now there's an end to that, I tell you; Garibaldi has done with bringing water to the mill for the rich townsfolk; for now he's a sosherlist!" He strikes the table so that the glass scrapers jingle. "That last was Franz in Cologne--gent's boots with cork socks. He was a stingy fellow; he annoyed Garibaldi. I'm afraid this isn't enough for the medal, master, I said; there's too much unrest in the air. Then he bid me more and yet more--but it won't run to the medal--that's all I will say. At last he sends Madame to me with coffee and Vienna bread--and she was in other respects a lady, who drove with a lackey on the box. But we were furious by that time! Well, it was a glorious distinction--to please Madame." "Had he many journeymen?" asks Jeppe. "Oh, quite thirty or forty." "Then he must have been somebody." Jeppe speaks in a reproving tone. "Somebody--yes--he was a rascal! What did it matter to me that he had a lot of journeymen? I didn't cheat them out of their wages!" Now Garibaldi is annoyed; he takes off his apron, puts his hat on sideways, and he goes into the town. "Now he's going to look for a sweetheart!" says the young master; "he has a sweetheart in every town." At eight he comes sailing into the workshop again. "What, still sitting here?" he says to the apprentices. "In other parts of the world they have knocked off work two hours ago. What sort of slaves are you to sit crouching here for fourteen hours? Strike, damn it all!" They look at one another stupidly. "Strike--what is that?" Then comes the young master. "Now it would do one good to warm one's eyes a bit," says Garibaldi. "There's a bed made up for you in the cutting-out room," says the master. But Garibaldi rolls his coat under his head and lies down on the window-bench. "If I snore, just pull my nose," he says to Pelle, and goes to sleep. Next day he makes two pairs of kid boots with yellow stitching--for little Nikas this would be a three days' job. Master Andres has all his plans ready--Garibaldi is to be a partner. "We'll knock out a bit of wall and put in a big shop-window!" Garibaldi agrees--he really does for once feel a desire to settle down. "But we mustn't begin too big," he says: "this isn't Paris." He drinks a little more and does not talk much; his eyes stray to the wandering clouds outside. On the third day Garibaldi begins to show his capacities. He does not do much more work, but he breaks a heavy stick in two with one blow as it flies through the air, and jumps over a stick which he holds in both hands. "One must have exercise," he says restlessly. He balances an awl on the face of a hammer and strikes it into a hole in the sole of a boot. And suddenly he throws down his work. "Lend me ten kroner, master," he says; "I must go and buy myself a proper suit. Now I'm settled and a partner in a business I can't go about looking like a pig." "It will be better for you to get that finished," says the master quietly, pushing Garibaldi's work across to little Nikas. "We shan't see him again!" This is really the case. He will go into the town with the honorable intentions, to buy something, and then he will be caught and whirled out into the great world, far away, quite at hazard. "He's on the way to Germany with some skipper already," says the master. "But he hasn't even said good-bye!" The master shrugs his shoulders. He was like a falling star! But for Pelle and the others he signified more than that; they learned more in three days than in the whole course of their apprenticeship. And they saw brilliant prospects for the craft; it was no hole-and-corner business after all; with Garibaldi, they traveled the whole wonderful world. Pelle's blood burned with the desire to wander; he knew now what he wanted. To be capable as Garibaldi--that genius personified; and to enter the great cities with stick and knapsack as though to a flourish of trumpets. They all retained traces of his fleeting visit. Something inside them had broken with a snap; they gripped their tools more freely, more courageously; and they had seen their handicraft pass before their eyes like a species of technical pageant. For a long time the wind of the passage of the great bird hung about the little workshop with its atmosphere of respectable citizenship. And this fresh wind in one's ears was the spirit of handicraft itself which hovered above their heads--borne upon its two mighty pinions--genius and debauchery. But one thing remained in Pelle's mind as a meaningless fragment-- the word "strike." What did it mean? XIII One could not be quite as cheerful and secure here as one could at home in the country; there was always a gnawing something in the background, which kept one from wholly surrendering oneself. Most people had wandered hither in search of fortune--poverty had destroyed their faculty of surrendering to fate; they were weary of waiting and had resolved to take matters into their own hands. And now here they were, sunk in wretchedness. They could not stir from the spot; they only labored and sunk deeper into the mire. But they continued to strive, with the strength of their bodies, until that gave way, and it was all over with them. Pelle had often enough wondered to see how many poor people there were in the town. Why did not they go ahead with might and main until they were well off? They had all of them had intentions of that kind, but nothing came of them. Why? They themselves did not understand why, but bowed their heads as though under a curse. And if they raised them again it was only to seek that consolation of the poor--alcohol, or to attend the meetings of the home missions. Pelle could not understand it either. He had an obscure sense of that joyous madness which arises from poverty itself, like a dim but wonderful dream of reaching the light. And he could not understand why it failed; and yet he must always follow that impetus upward which resided in him, and scramble up once more. Yet otherwise his knowledge was wide; a patched-up window-pane, or a scurfy child's head, marked an entrance to that underworld which he had known so well from birth, so that he could have found his way about it with bandaged eyes. He attached no particular importance to it, but in this direction his knowledge was continually extended; he "thee'd and thou'd" poor people from the first moment, and knew the mournful history of every cottage. And all he saw and heard was like a weary refrain--it spoke of the same eternally unalterable longing and the same defeats. He reflected no further about the matter, but it entered into his blood like an oppression, purged his mind of presumption, and vitiated his tense alertness. When he lay his head on his pillow and went to sleep the endless pulsing of his blood in his ears became the tramping of weary hordes who were for ever passing in their blind groping after the road which should lead to light and happiness. His consciousness did not grasp it, but it brooded oppressively over his days. The middle-class society of the town was still, as far as he was concerned, a foreign world. Most of the townsfolk were as poor as church mice, but they concealed the fact skilfully, and seemed to have no other desire than to preserve appearances. "Money!" said Master Andres; "here there's only one ten-kroner note among all the employers in the town, and that goes from hand to hand. If it were to stop too long with one of them all the rest of us would stop payment!" The want of loose capital weighed on them oppressively, but they boasted of Shipowner Monsen's money--there were still rich people in the town! For the rest, each kept himself going by means of his own earnings; one had sent footwear to the West Indies, and another had made the bride-bed for the burgomaster's daughter; they maintained themselves as a caste and looked down with contempt upon the people. Pelle himself had honestly and honorably intended to follow the same path; to keep smiles for those above him and harsh judgments for those below him; in short, like Alfred, to wriggle his way upward. But in the depths of his being his energies were working in another direction, and they continually thrust him back where he belonged. His conflict with the street-urchins stopped of itself, it was so aimless; Pelle went in and out of their houses, and the boys, so soon as they were confirmed, became his comrades. The street boys sustained an implacable conflict with those who attended the town school and the grammar-school. They called them pigs, after the trough-like satchels which they carried on their backs. Pelle found himself between a double fire, although he accepted the disdain and the insult of those above him, as Lasse had taught him, as something that was inherent in the nature of things. "Some are born to command and some to obey," as Lasse said. But one day he came to blows with one of them. And having thrashed the postmaster's son until not a clean spot was left on him, he discovered that he now had a crow to pluck with the sons of all the fine folks, or else they would hold him up to ridicule. It was as though something was redeemed at his hands when he managed to plant them in the face of one of these lads, and there seemed to be a particular charm connected with the act of rolling their fine clothes in the mire. When he had thrashed a "pig" he was always in the rosiest of tempers, and he laughed to think how Father Lasse would have crossed himself! One day he met three grammar-school students, who fell upon him then and there, beating him with their books; there was repayment in every blow. Pelle got his back against the wall, and defended himself with his belt, but could not manage the three of them; so he gave the biggest of them a terrific kick in the lower part of the body and took to his heels. The boy rolled on the ground and lay there shrieking; Pelle could see, from the other end of the street, how the other two were toiling to set him on his legs again. He himself had got off with a black eye. "Have you been fighting again, you devil's imp?" said the young master. No! Pelle had fallen and bruised himself. In the evening he went round the harbor to see the steamer go out and to say good-bye to Peter. He was in a bad temper; he was oppressed by a foreboding of evil. The steamer was swarming with people. Over the rail hung a swarm of freshly-made journeymen of that year's batch--the most courageous of them; the others had already gone into other trades, had become postmen or farm servants. "There is no employment for us in the shoe trade," they said dejectedly as they sank. As soon as their journeyman's test-work was done they took to their heels, and new apprentices were taken all along the line. But these fellows here were crossing to the capital; they wanted to go on working at their own trade. The hundreds of apprentices of the little town were there, shouting "Hurrah!" every other moment, for those departing were the heroes who were going forth to conquer the land of promise for them all. "We are coming after you!" they cried. "Find me a place, you! Find me a place!" Emil stood by the harbor shed, with some waterside workers, looking on. His time was long ago over. The eldest apprentice had not had the pluck to leave the island; he was now a postman in Sudland and cobbled shoes at night in order to live. Now Peter stood on the deck above, while Jens and Pelle stood below and looked up at him admiringly. "Good-bye, Pelle!" he cried. "Give Jeppe my best respects and tell him he can kiss my bootsoles!" Some of the masters were strolling to and fro on the quay, in order to note that none of their apprentices were absconding from the town. Jens foresaw the time when he himself would stand there penniless. "Send me your address," he said, "and find me something over there." "And me too," said Pelle. Peter spat. "There's a bit of sour cabbage soup--take it home and give it to Jeppe with my love and I wish him good appetite! But give my very best respects to Master Andres. And when I write, then come over--there's nothing to be done in this hole." "Don't let the Social Democrats eat you up!" cried some one from among the spectators. The words "Social Democrat" were at this time in every mouth, although no one knew what they meant; they were used as terms of abuse. "If they come to me with their damned rot they'll get one on the mouth!" said Peter, disdainfully. And then the steamer began to move; the last cheers were given from the outer breakwater. Pelle could have thrown himself into the sea; he was burning with desire to turn his back on it all. And then he let himself drift with the crowd from the harbor to the circus-ground. On the way he heard a few words of a conversation which made his ears burn. Two townsmen were walking ahead of him and were talking. "They say he got such a kick that he brought up blood," said the one. "Yes, it's terrible, the way that scum behaves! I hope they'll arrest the ruffian." Pelle crept along behind the tent until he came to the opening. There he stood every evening, drinking everything in by his sense of smell. He had no money to pay his way in; but he could catch a glimpse of a whole host of magnificent things when the curtain was drawn up in order to admit a late-comer. Albinus came and went at will--as always, when jugglers were in the town. He was acquainted with them almost before he had seen them. When he had seen some clever feat of strength or skill he would come crawling out from under the canvas in order to show his companions that he could do the same thing. Then he was absolutely in his element; he would walk on his hands along the harbor railings and let his body hang over the water. Pelle wanted to go home and sleep on the day's doings, but a happy pair came up to him--a woman who was dancing as she walked, and a timid young workman, whom she held firmly by the arm. "Here, Hans!" she said, "this is Pelle, whose doing it is that we two belong to each other!" Then she laughed aloud for sheer delight, and Hans, smiling, held out his hand to Pelle. "I ought to thank you for it," he said. "Yes, it was that dance," she said. "If my dancing-shoes hadn't been mended Hans would have run off with somebody else!" She seized Pelle's arm. And then they went on, very much pleased with one another, and Pelle's old merriment returned for a time. He too could perform all sorts of feats of strength. On the following day Pelle was hired by Baker Jorgensen to knead some dough; the baker had received, at short notice, a large order for ship's biscuit for the _Three Sisters_. "Keep moving properly!" he would cry every moment to the two boys, who had pulled off their stockings and were now standing up in the great kneading-trough, stamping away, with their hands gripping the battens which were firmly nailed to the rafters. The wooden ceiling between the rafters was black and greasy; a slimy paste of dust and dough and condensed vapor was running down the walls. When the boys hung too heavily on the battens the baker would cry: "Use your whole weight! Down into the dough with you--then you'll get a foot like a fine young lady!" Soren was pottering about alone, with hanging head as always; now and again he sighed. Then old Jorgen would nudge Marie in the side, and they would both laugh. They stood close together, and as they were rolling out the dough their hands kept on meeting; they laughed and jested together. But the young man saw nothing of this. "Don't you see?" whispered his mother, striking him sharply in the ribs; her angry eyes were constantly fixed on the pair. "Oh, leave me alone!" the son would say, moving a little away from her. But she moved after him. "Go and put your arm round her waist-- that's what she wants! Let her feel your hands on her hips! Why do you suppose she sticks out her bosom like that? Let her feel your hands on her hips! Push the old man aside!" "Oh, leave me alone!" replied Soren, and he moved further away from her again. "You are tempting your father to sin--you know what he is! And she can't properly control herself any longer, now that she claims to have a word in the matter. Are you going to put up with that? Go and take her round the waist--strike her if you can't put up with her, but make her feel that you're a man!" "Well, are you working up there?" old Jorgen cried to the boys, turning his laughing countenance from Marie. "Tread away! The dough will draw all the rottenness out of your bodies! And you, Soren--get a move on you!" "Yes, get a move on--don't stand there like an idiot!" continued his mother. "Oh, leave me alone! I've done nothing to anybody; leave me in peace!" "Pah!" The old woman spat at him. "Are you a man? Letting another handle your wife! There she is, obliged to take up with a gouty old man like that! Pah, I say! But perhaps you are a woman after all? I did once bring a girl into the world, only I always thought she was dead. But perhaps you are she? Yes, make long ears at me!" she cried to the two boys, "you've never seen anything like what's going on here! There's a son for you, who leaves his father to do all the work by himself!" "Now then, what's the matter with you?" cried old Jorgen jollily. "Is mother turning the boys' heads?" Marie broke into a loud laugh. Jeppe came to fetch Pelle. "Now you'll go to the Town Hall and get a thrashing," he said, as they entered the workshop. Pelle turned an ashen gray. "What have you been doing now?" asked Master Andres, looking sadly at him. "Yes, and to one of our customers, too!" said Jeppe. "You've deserved that, haven't you?" "Can't father get him let off the beating?" said Master Andres. "I have proposed that Pelle should have a good flogging here in the workshop, in the presence of the deputy and his son. But the deputy says no. He wants justice to run its course." Pelle collapsed. He knew what it meant when a poor boy went to the town hall and was branded for life. His brain sought desperately for some way of escape. There was only one--death! He could secretly hide the knee-strap under his blouse and go into the little house and hang himself. He was conscious of a monotonous din; that was Jeppe, admonishing him; but the words escaped him; his soul had already began its journey toward death. As the noise ceased he rose silently. "Well? What are you going out for?" asked Jeppe. "I'm going to the yard." He spoke like a sleepwalker. "Perhaps you want to take the knee-strap out with you?" Jeppe and the master exchanged a look of understanding. Then Master Andres came over to him. "You wouldn't be so silly?" he said, and looked deep into Pelle's eyes. Then he made himself tidy and went into the town. "Pelle, you devil's imp," he said, as he came home, "I've been running from Herod to Pilate, and I've arranged matters so that you can get off if you will ask for pardon. You must go to the grammar- school about one o'clock. But think it over first, as to what you are going to say, because the whole class will hear it." "I won't ask for pardon." It sounded like a cry. The master looked at Pelle hesitatingly. "But that is no disgrace-- if one has done wrong." "I have not done wrong. They began it, and they have been making game of me for a long time." "But you thrashed him, Pelle, and one mustn't thrash fine folks like that; they have got a doctor's certificate that might be your ruin. Is your father a friend of the magistrate's? They can dishonor you for the rest of your life. I think you ought to choose the lesser evil." No, Pelle could not do that. "So let them flog me instead!" he said morosely. "Then it will be about three o'clock at the town hall," said the master, shortly, and he turned red about the eyes. Suddenly Pelle felt how obstinacy must pain the young master, who, lame and sick as he was, had of his own accord gone running about the town for him. "Yes, I'll do it!" he said; "I'll do it!" "Yes, yes!" replied Master Andres quietly; "for your own sake as well. And I believe you ought to be getting ready now." Pelle slunk away; it was not his intention to apologize, and he had plenty of time. He walked as though asleep; everything was dead within him. His thoughts were busy with all sorts of indifferent matters, as though he sought to delay something by chattering; Crazy Anker went by with his bag of sand on his back, his thin legs wobbling under him. "I will help him to carry it," thought Pelle dejectedly, as he went onward; "I will help him to carry it." Alfred came strolling down the street; he was carrying his best walking-stick and was wearing gloves, although it was in the midst of working hours. "If he sees me now he'll turn down the corner by the coal-merchant's," thought Pelle bitterly. "Oughtn't I to ask him to say a good word for me? He is such an important person! And he still owes me money for soling a pair of boots." But Alfred made straight for him. "Have you seen anything of Albinus? He has disappeared!" he said; and his pretty face seemed somehow unusually moved. He stood there chewing at his moustache, just as fine folk do when they are musing over something. "I've got to go to the town hall," said Pelle. "Yes, I know--you've got to be flogged. But don't you know anything of Albinus?" Alfred had drawn him into the coal-merchant's doorway, in order not to be seen in his company. "Yes, Albinus, Albinus--" Something was dawning in Pelle's mind. "Wait a minute--he--he--I'm sure he has run away with the circus. At least, I believe he has!" Whereat Alfred turned about and ran-- ran in his best clothes! Of course Albinus had run away with the circus. Pelle could understand the whole affair perfectly well. The evening before he had slipped on board Ole Hansen's yacht, which during the night was to have taken the trick-rider across to Sweden, and now he would live a glorious life and do what he liked. To run away--that was the only clear opening in life. Before Pelle knew it, he was down by the harbor, staring at a ship which was on the point of sailing. He followed up his inspiration, and went about inquiring after a vacancy on board some vessel, but there was none. He sat down by the waterside, and played with a chip of wood. It represented a three-master, and Pelle gave it a cargo; but every time it should have gone to sea it canted over, and he had to begin the loading all over again. All round him carpenters and stone- cutters were working on the preparations for the new harbor; and behind them, a little apart, stood the "Great Power," at work, while, as usual, a handful of people were loitering near him; they stood there staring, in uneasy expectation that something would happen. Pelle himself had a feeling of something ominous as he sat there and plashed in the water to drive his ship out to sea; he would have accepted it as a manifestation of the most sacred principle of life had Jorgensen begun to rage before his eyes. But the stone-cutter only laid down his hammer, in order to take his brandy-bottle from under the stone and swallow a mouthful; with that exception, he stood there bowed over the granite as peacefully as though there were no other powers in the world save it and him. He did not see the onlookers who watched him in gaping expectation, their feet full of agility, ready to take to flight at his slightest movement. He struck so that the air moaned, and when he raised himself again his glance swept over them. Gradually Pelle had concentrated all his expectations upon this one man, who endured the hatred of the town without moving an eyelash, and was a haunting presence in every mind. In the boy's imagination he was like a loaded mine; one stood there not knowing whether or not it was ignited, and in a moment the whole might leap into the air. He was a volcano, and the town existed from day to day by his mercy. And from time to time Pelle allowed him to shake himself a little--just enough to make the town rock. But now, moreover, there was a secret between them; the "Great Power" had been punished too for beating the rich folks. Pelle was not slow in deducing the consequences--was there not already a townsman standing and watching him at play? He too was the terror of the people. Perhaps he would join himself to the "Great Power"; there would be little left of the town then! In the daytime they would lie hidden among the cliffs, but at night they came down and plundered the town. They fell upon all who had earned their living as bloodsuckers; people hid themselves in their cellars and garrets when they heard that Pelle and the "Great Power" were on the march. They hanged the rich shipowner Monsen to the church steeple, and he dangled there a terror and a warning to all. But the poor folk came to them as trustingly as lambs and ate out of their hands. They received all they desired; so poverty was banished from the world, and Pelle could proceed upon his radiant, onward way without a feeling of betrayal. His glance fell upon the clock on the harbor guard-house; it was nearly three. He sprang up and looked irresolutely about him; he gazed out over the sea and down into the deep water of the harbor, looking for help. Manna and her sisters--they would disdainfully turn their backs upon the dishonored Pelle; they would no longer look at him. And the people would point their fingers at him, or merely look at him, and think: "Ha, there goes the boy who was flogged at the town hall!" Wherever he went in the world it would follow him like a shadow, that he had been flogged as a child; such a thing clings visibly to a man. He knew men and maids and old white-headed men who had come to Stone Farm from places where no one else had ever been. They might come as absolute strangers, but there was something in their past which in spite of all rose up behind them and went whispering from mouth to mouth. He roamed about, desperately in his helplessness, and in the course of his wanderings came to stone-cutter Jorgensen. "Well," said the "Great Power," as he laid down his hammer, "you've quarrelled nicely with the big townsfolk! Do you think you can keep a stiff upper-lip?" Then he reached for his hammer again. But Pelle took his bearings and ran despondently to the town-hall. XIV The punishment itself was nothing. It was almost laughable, those few strokes, laid on through his trousers, by the stick of the old gaoler; Pelle had known worse thrashings. But he was branded, an outcast from the society even of the very poorest; he read as much into the compassion of the people to whom he carried boots and shoes. "Good Lord, this miserable booby! Has it gone as far as that with him!" This was what he read in their eyes. Everybody would always stare at him now, and when he went down the street he saw faces in the "spy" mirrors fixed outside the windows. "There goes that shoemaker boy!" The young master was the only one who treated him precisely as before; and Pelle repaid him for that with the most limitless devotion. He bought on credit for him and saved him from blows where only he could. If the young master in his easy-going way had promised to have something completed and had then forgotten it, Pelle would sit in his place and work overtime on it. "What's it matter to us?" Jens used to say. But Pelle would not have the customers coming to scold Master Andres, nor would he allow him to suffer the want of anything that would keep him on his feet. He became more intimate than ever with Jens and Morten; they all suffered from the same disgrace; and he often accompanied them home, although no pleasure awaited them in their miserable cottage. They were among the very poorest, although the whole household worked. It was all of no avail. "Nothing's any use," the "Great Power" himself would say when he was disposed to talk; "poverty is like a sieve: everything goes straight through it, and if we stop one hole, it's running through ten others at the same time. They say I'm a swine, and why shouldn't I be? I can do the work of three men--yes, but do I get the wages of three? I get my day's wages and the rest goes into the pockets of those who employ me. Even if I wanted to keep myself decent, what should we gain by it? Can a family get decent lodging and decent food and decent clothing for nine kroner a week? Will the means of a laborer allow him to live anywhere but by the refuse-heaps, where only the pigs used to be kept? Why should I be housed like a pig and live like a pig and yet be no pig--is there any sense in that? My wife and children have to work as well as me, and how can things be decent with us when wife and children have to go out and make things decent for other people? No, look here! A peg of brandy, that makes everything seem decent, and if that doesn't do it, why, then, a bottle!" So he would sit talking, when he had been drinking a little, but otherwise he was usually silent. Pelle knew the story of the "Great Power" now, from the daily gossip of the townsfolk, and his career seemed to him sadder than all the rest; it was as though a fairy-tale of fortune had come to a sudden end. Among the evil reports which were continually in circulation respecting Stone-cutter Jorgensen--it seemed that there was never an end of them--it was said that in his youth he had strolled into town from across the cliffs, clad in canvas trousers, with cracked wooden shoes on his feet, but with his head in the clouds as though the whole town belonged to him. Brandy he did not touch. He had a better use for his energies, he said: he was full of great ideas of himself and would not content himself with ordinary things. And he was thoroughly capable--he was quite absurdly talented for a poor man. And at once he wanted to begin turning everything topsy-turvy. Just because he was begotten among the cliffs and crags by an old toil- worn stone-cutter, he behaved like a deity of the rocks; he brushed long-established experience aside, and introduced novel methods of work which he evolved out of his own mind. The stone was as though bewitched in his hands. If one only put a sketch before him, he would make devils' heads and subterranean monsters and sea-serpents --the sort of thing that before his time had to be ordered from the sculptors in Copenhagen. Old deserving stone-masons saw themselves suddenly set aside and had then and there to take to breaking stones; and this young fellow who had strayed into the town straightway ignored and discounted the experience of their many years. They tried, by the most ancient of all methods, to teach the young man modesty. But they gave it up. Peter Jorgensen had the strength of three men and the courage of ten. It was not good to meddle with one who had stolen his capacities from God himself, or perhaps was in league with Satan. So they resigned themselves, and avenged themselves by calling him the "Great Power"--and they put their trust in misfortune. To follow in his footsteps meant to risk a broken neck. And whenever the brave townsfolk made the journey, something of its dizzy quality remained with them. In the night he would sit sketching and calculating, so that no one could understand when he slept; and on Sundays, when decent people went to church, he would stop at home and cut the queerest things out of stone--although he never got a penny for it. It was at this time that the famous sculptor came from the capital of Germany to hew a great lion out of granite, in honor of Liberty. But he could not get forward with his toolbox full of butter-knives; the stone was too hard for one who was accustomed to stand scratching at marble. And when for once he really did succeed in knocking off a bit of granite, it was always in the wrong place. Then the "Great Power" asserted himself, and undertook to hew the lion out of granite, according to a scale model of some sort which the sculptor slapped together for him! All were persuaded that he would break down in this undertaking, but he negotiated it so cleverly that he completed the work to the utmost satisfaction of those concerned. He received a good sum of money for this, but it was not enough for him; he wanted half the honor, and to be spoken of in the newspapers like the sculptor himself; and as nothing came of it he threw down his tools and refused to work any more for other people. "Why should I do the work and others have the honor of it?" he asked, and sent in a tender for a stone-cutting contract. In his unbounded arrogance he sought to push to one side those who were born to ride on the top of things. But pride comes before a fall; his doom was already hanging over him. He had sent in the lowest tender for the work on the South Bridge. They could not disregard it; so they sought to lay every obstacle in his path; they enticed his workmen away from him and made it difficult for him to obtain materials. The district judge, who was in the conspiracy, demanded that the contract should be observed; so the "Great Power" had to work day and night with the few men left to him in order to complete the work in time. A finer bridge no one had ever seen. But he had to sell the shirt off his body in order to meet his engagements. He lived at that time in a pretty little house that was his own property. It lay out on the eastern highway, and had a turret on the mansard--Jens and Morten had spent their early childhood there. A little garden, with tidy paths, and a grotto which was like a heap of rocks, lay in front of it. Jorgenson had planned it all himself. It was taken from him, and he had to remove to a poor quarter of the town, to live among the people to whom he rightly belonged, and to rent a house there. But he was not yet broken. He was cheerful in spite of his downfall, and more high-and-mighty than ever in his manners. It was not easy to hit him! But then he sent in a tender for the new crane-platform. They could have refused him the contract on the pretext that he had no capital at his disposal. But now he _should_ be struck down! He got credit from the savings-bank, in order to get well under way, and workers and material were his to dispose of. And then, as he was in the midst of the work, the same story was repeated--only this time he was to break his neck! Rich and poor, the whole town was at one in this matter. All demanded the restoration of the old certainty, high and low, appointed by God Himself. The "Great Power" was of the humblest descent; now he could quietly go back to the class he was born in! He failed! The legal proprietor took over a good piece of work and got it for nothing, and Stonemason Jorgensen stood up in a pair of cracked wooden shoes, with a load of debts which he would never be able to shake off. Every one rejoiced to see him return to the existence of a day-laborer. But he did not submit quietly. He took to drink. From time to time he broke out and raged like the devil himself. They could not get rid of him; he weighed upon the minds of all, like an angry rumbling; even when he was quietly going about his work they could not quite forget him. Under these conditions he squandered his last possessions, and he moved into the cottage by the refuse-heaps, where formerly no one had dwelt. He had become another man since the grant for the great harbor project had been approved. He no longer touched any brandy; when Pelle went out to see his friends, the "Great Power" would be sitting at the window, busying himself with sketches and figures. His wife was moving about and weeping quietly to herself; the old woman was scolding. But Jorgensen turned his broad back upon them and pored silently over his own affairs. He was not to be shaken out of his self-sufficiency. The mother received them out in the kitchen, when she heard their noisy approach. "You must move quietly--Father is calculating and calculating, poor fellow! He can get no peace in his head since the harbor plans have been seriously adopted. His ideas are always working in him. That must be so, he says, and that so! If he would only take life quietly among his equals and leave the great people to worry over their own affairs!" He sat in the window, right in the sunlight, adding up some troublesome accounts; he whispered half to himself, and his mutilated forefinger, whose outer joint had been blown off, ran up and down the columns. Then he struck the table. "Oh, if only a man had learned something!" he groaned. The sunlight played on his dark beard; his weary labors had been powerless to stiffen his limbs or to pull him down. Drink had failed to hurt him--he sat there like strength personified; his great forehead and his throat were deeply bronzed by the sun. "Look here, Morten!" he cried, turning to the boys. "Just look at these figures!" Morten looked. "What is it, father?" "What is it? Our earnings during the last week! You can see they are big figures!" "No, father; what are they?" Morten twined his slender hand in his father's beard. The "Great Power's" eyes grew mild under this caress. "It's a proposed alteration--they want to keep the channel in the old place, and that is wrong; when the wind blows in from the sea, one can't get into the harbor. The channel must run out there, and the outer breakwater must curve like this"--and he pointed to his sketches. "Every fisherman and sailor will confirm what I say--but the big engineer gentlemen are so clever!" "But are you going--again--to send in a tender?" Morten looked at his father, horrified. The man nodded. "But you aren't good enough for them--you know you aren't! They just laugh at you!" "This time I shall be the one to laugh," retorted Jorgensen, his brow clouding at the thought of all the contempt he had had to endure. "Of course they laugh at him," said the old woman from the chimney- corner, turning her hawk-like head toward them; "but one must play at something. Peter must always play the great man!" Her son did not reply. "They say you know something about sketching, Pelle?" he said quietly. "Can't you bring this into order a bit? This here is the breakwater--supposing the water isn't there--and this is the basin --cut through the middle, you understand? But I can't get it to look right--yet the dimensions are quite correct. Here above the water-line there will be big coping-stones, and underneath it's broken stone." Pelle set to work, but he was too finicking. "Not so exact!" said Jorgensen. "Only roughly!" He was always sitting over his work when they came. From his wife they learned that he did not put in a tender, after all, but took his plans to those who had undertaken the contract and offered them his cooperation. She had now lost all faith in his schemes, and was in a state of continual anxiety. "He's so queer--he's always taken up with only this one thing," she said, shuddering. "He never drinks --and he doesn't go raging against all the world as he used to do." "But that's a good thing," said Morten consolingly. "Yes, you may talk, but what do you know about it? If he looks after his daily bread, well, one knows what that means. But now, like this.... I'm so afraid of the reaction if he gets a set-back. Don't you believe he's changed--it's only sleeping in him. He's the same as ever about Karen; he can't endure seeing her crooked figure; she reminds him always too much of everything that isn't as it should be. She mustn't go to work, he says, but how can we do without her help? We must live! I daren't let him catch sight of her. He gets so bitter against himself, but the child has to suffer for it. And he's the only one she cares anything about." Karen had not grown during the last few years; she had become even more deformed; her voice was dry and shrill, as though she had passed through a frozen desert on her way to earth. She was glad when Pelle was there and she could hear him talk; if she thought he would come in the evening, she would hurry home from her situation. But she never joined in the conversation and never took part in anything. No one could guess what was going on in her mind. Her mother would suddenly break down and burst into tears if her glance by chance fell upon her. "She really ought to leave her place at once," said her mother over and again. "But the doctor's wife has one child after another, and then they ask so pleadingly if she can't stay yet another half-year. They think great things of her; she is so reliable with children." "Yes, if it was Pelle, he'd certainly let them fall." Karen laughed --it was a creaking laugh. She said nothing more; she never asked to be allowed to go out, and she never complained. But her silence was like a silent accusation, destroying all comfort and intimacy. But one day she came home and threw some money on the table. "Now I needn't go to Doctor's any more." "What's the matter? Have you done something wrong?" asked the mother, horrified. "The doctor gave me a box on the ear because I couldn't carry Anna over the gutter--she's so heavy." "But you can't be sent away because he has struck you! You've certainly had a quarrel--you are so stubborn!" "No; but I accidentally upset the perambulator with little Erik in it--so that he fell out. His head is like a mottled apple." Her expression was unchanged. The mother burst into tears. "But how could you do such a thing?" Karen stood there and looked at the other defiantly. Suddenly her mother seized hold of her. "You didn't do it on purpose? Did you do it on purpose?" Karen turned away with a shrug of the shoulders and went up to the garret without saying good night. Her mother wanted to follow her. "Let her go!" said the old woman, as though from a great distance. "You have no power over her! She was begotten in wrath." XV All the winter Jens had smeared his upper lip with fowl's dung in order to grow a moustache; now it was sprouting, and he found himself a young woman; she was nurse-maid at the Consul's. "It's tremendous fun," he said; "you ought to get one yourself. When she kisses me she sticks out her tongue like a little kid." But Pelle wanted no young woman--in the first place, no young woman would have him, branded as he was; and then he was greatly worried. When he raised his head from his work and looked out sideways over the manure-sheds and pigsties, he saw the green half-twilight of the heart of the apple-tree, and he could dream himself into it. It was an enchanted world of green shadows and silent movement; countless yellow caterpillars hung there, dangling to and fro, each on its slender thread; chaffinches and yellow-hammers swung themselves impetuously from bough to bough, and at every swoop snapped up a caterpillar; but these never became any fewer. Without a pause they rolled themselves down from the twigs, and hung there, so enticingly yellow, swinging to and fro in the gentle breath of the summer day, and waited to be gobbled up. And deeper still in the green light--as though on the floor of a green sea--three brightly-clad maidens moved and played. Now and again the two younger would suddenly look over at Pelle, but they turned their eyes away again the moment he looked at them; and Manna was as grown-up and self-controlled as though he had never existed. Manna had been confirmed a long time now; her skirts were halfway to the ground, and she walked soberly along the street, arm-in-arm with her girl friends. She no longer played; she had long been conscious of a rapidly-increasing certainty that it wouldn't do to play any longer. In a few days she went over from Pelle's side to the camp of the grown-ups. She no longer turned to him in the workshop, and if he met her in the street she looked in another direction. No longer did she leap like a wild cat into the shop, tearing Pelle from his stool if she wanted something done; she went demurely up to the young master, who wrapped up her shoes in paper. But in secret she still recognized her playmate; if no one was by she would pinch his arm quite hard, and gnash her teeth together as she passed him. But Pelle was too clumsy to understand the transition, and too much of a child to be shy of the light himself. He hung hack, lonely, and pondered, uncomprehending, over the new condition of affairs. But now she did not know him in secret even--he simply did not exist for her any longer. And Dolores and Aina too had withdrawn their favor; when he looked out, they averted their heads and shrugged their shoulders. They were ashamed that they had ever had anything to do with such a person, and he knew very well why that was. It had been a peculiar and voluptuous delight to be handled by those delicate and generous hands. It had been really splendid to sit there with open mouth and let all three stuff him with delicacies, so that he was in danger of choking! He wasn't allowed to swallow them down--they wanted to see how much his mouth would hold; and then they would laugh and dance round him, and their plump girlish hands would take hold of his head, one on each side, and press his jaws together. Now Pelle had gradually added quite an ell to his stature as a worldly wise citizen; he knew very well that he was of coarser clay than his companions, and that there must have been an end of it all, even without the town hall. But it hurt him; he felt as though he had been betrayed; properly he oughtn't to touch his food. For was not Manna his betrothed? He had never thought of that! These were the pains of love! So this was what they were like! Did those who took their lives on account of unhappy love feel any different? His grief, to be sure, was not very stupendous; when the young master made a joke or cursed in his funny way he could laugh quite heartily still. That, with his disgrace, was the worst of all. "You ought to get yourself a young woman," said Jens. "She's as soft as a young bird, and she warms you through your clothes and everything!" But Pelle had something else on hand. He wanted to learn to swim. He wanted to know how to do everything that the town boys did, and to win back his place among them. He no longer dreamed of leading them. So he went about with the "gang"; he drew back a little if they teased him too brutally, and then crept back again; finally they grew accustomed to him. Every evening he ran down to the harbor. To the south of the big basin, which was now being pumped dry, there was always, in the twilight, a crowd of apprentices; they leaped naked among the rocks and swam in chattering shoals toward the west, where the sky still glowed after the sunset. A long way out a reef lay under the water, and on this they could just touch bottom; there they would rest before they swam back, their dark heads brooding on the water like chattering sea-birds. Pelle swam out with them in order to accustom himself to deep water, although they always tried to pull him under by his legs. When the sea blushed it was as though one was swimming amid roses; and the light, slippery, shining fronds which the deep-lying weed-beds had thrown up gleamed in the evening light and slid gently across his shoulders, and far out in the west lay the land of Fortune, beyond the vast radiant portals of the sunset; or it showed its golden plains stretching out into infinity. There it lay, shining with a strange enticing radiance, so that Pelle forgot the limits of his strength, and swam out farther than his powers justified. And when he turned round, parting the floating weed with vigorous strokes, the water stared at him blackly, and the terror of the depths seized upon him. One evening the boys had been hostile in their attitude, and one of them maintained that the marks of the whip could still be seen on Pelle's back. "Pelle has never been beaten with a whip!" cried Morten, in a rage. Pelle himself made no reply, but followed the "squadron"; his whole nature felt somehow embittered. There was a slight swell, and this perhaps washed the swimmers out of their proper course; they could not find the reef on which they were used to rest. For a time they splashed about, trying to find it, and wasting their strength; then they turned back to the shore. Pelle looked after them with wondering eyes. "Lie on your back and rest!" they cried, as they passed him, and then they made for the beach; a touch of panic had fallen on them. Pelle tried to rest, but he had had no practice in floating; the waves broke over his face; so he labored after the others. On the shore there was great excitement; he wondered what it meant. Morten, who had never bathed with the others, was standing on a rock and was shouting. Some of the foremost swimmers were already in safety. "You can touch bottom here!" they shouted, standing with outstretched arms, the water up to their chins. Pelle labored on indefatigably, but he was quite convinced that it was useless. He was making hardly any progress, and he was sinking deeper and deeper. Every moment a wave washed over him and filled him with water. The stronger swimmers came out again; they swam round him and tried to help him, but they only made matters worse. He saw Morten run shouting into the water with all his clothes on, and that gave him a little strength. But then suddenly his arms became paralyzed; he went round and round in the same spot, and only his eyes were above water. Pelle had often flown in his dreams, and something had always clutched his legs and hampered his flight. But now this had become reality; he was floating in the blue sky and poised on his outspread pinions; and out of the darkness below he heard voices. "Pelle!" they cried, "little Pelle!" "Yes, Father Lasse!" he answered, and with a sense of relief he folded his weary wings; he sank in whirling haste, and a surging sounded in his ears. Then of a sudden he felt a violent pain in his shins. His hands clutched at growing plants. He stood up with a leap, and light and air flowed over him as from a new existence. The boys were running about, frightened, one leg in their trousers, and he was standing on the submarine reef, up to the breast in the sea, vomiting salt water. Round about him swimmers were splashing, diving in every direction to fetch him up from the bottom of the sea. It was all really rather funny, and Pelle raised his arms high above his head as a greeting to life, and took the water with a long dive. Some distance farther in he appeared again, and swam to shore, parting the waves like a frolicsome porpoise. But on the beach he fell down as God had made him, in a profound sleep; he had just pulled one stocking over his big toe. Since that day the boys recognized him again. He had certainly performed no heroic deed, but Destiny had for a moment rested upon his head--that was enough! Pelle always took the steel sharpener with him after that; and laid it on the beach with the point toward the land; he wanted after all to live a little longer. He did not allow himself to be intimidated, but plunged headlong into the water. If the sea was so rough that they could not swim, they would lie on the brink of the water and let the waves roll them over and over. Then the waves would come in sweeping flight from the west, as though to spring upon them; the herds of white horses drove onward, their grayish manes streaming obliquely behind them. Rearing they came, sweeping the sea with their white tails, striking out wildly with their hooves and plunging under the surface. But others sprang up and leaped over them in serried ranks. They lay flat on the water and rushed toward the land. The storm whipped the white foam out of their mouths and drove it along the beach, where it hung gleaming on the bushes, and then vanished into nothingness. Right up to the shore they dashed, and then fell dead. But fresh hordes stormed shoreward from the offing, as though the land must be over-run by them; they reared, foaming, and struck at one another; they sprang, snorting and quivering, high in the air; they broke asunder in panic; there was never an end to it all. And far out in the distance the sun went down in a flame-red mist. A streak of cloud lay across it, stretching far out into infinity. A conflagration like a glowing prairie fire surrounded the horizon, and drove the hordes before it in panic-stricken flight, and on the beach shouted the naked swarm of boys. Now and again they sprang up with outspread arms, and, shouting, chased the wild horses back into the sea. XVI Things were not going well in the brothers' home. Jorgensen had done nothing with his plans. He was the only person who had not known that such would be the case. The people knew, too, on very good authority, that the engineer had offered him a hundred kroner for them, and as he would not take them, but demanded a share in the undertaking and the honor of executing it, he was shown to the door. He had never before taken anything so quietly. He did not burst out roaring with violent words; he simply betook himself to his usual day-laborer's work in the harbor, like any other worker. He did not mention his defeat, and allowed no one else to do so. He treated his wife as though she did not exist. But she had to watch him wrap himself up in silence, without knowing what was going on in his mind. She had a foreboding of something terrible, and spoke of her trouble to the boys. He made no scenes, although now and again he got drunk; he ate in silence and went to bed. When he was not working, he slept. But as he himself had so far revealed his plans that they were known to all, it was all up with his work. The engineer had taken from Jorgensen's plans as much as he could use--every one could see that--and now the "Great Power" stood with his mouth empty, simply because he had put more in his spoon than his mouth would hold. Most people were far from envying his position, and they took plenty of time to talk about it; the town was quite accustomed to neglect its own affairs in order to throw its whole weight on his obstinate back. But now he was down in the dust all had been to the harbor to watch the "Great Power" working there--to see him, as a common laborer, carting the earth for his own wonderful scheme. They marvelled only that he took it all so quietly; it was to some extent a disappointment that he did not flinch under the weight of his burden and break out into impotent raving. He contented himself with drinking; but that he did thoroughly. He went about it as it were in the midst of a cloud of alcoholic vapor, and worked only just enough to enable him to go on drinking. "He has never yet been like this," said his wife, weeping. "He doesn't storm and rage, but he is angry all the time so that one can't bear him at home any longer. He breaks everything in his anger, and he scolds poor Karen so that it's wretched. He has no regard for anybody, only for his old mother, and God knows how long that will last. He doesn't work, he only drinks. He steals my hard-earned money out of my dress-pocket and buys brandy with it. He has no shame left in him, although he always used to be so honorable in his way of life. And he can't stand his boozing as he used to; he's always falling about and staggering. Lately he came home all bloody--he'd knocked a hole in his head. What have we ever done to the dear God that he should punish us like this?" The old woman said nothing, but let her glance sweep from one to the other, and thought her own thoughts. So it went on, week after week. The boys became weary of listening to their mother's complaints, and kept away from home. One day, when Karen had been sent on an errand for her mother, she did not return. Neither had she returned on the following day. Pelle heard of it down at the boat-harbor, where she had last been seen. They were dragging the water with nets in the hope of finding her, but no one dared tell Jorgensen. On the following afternoon they brought her to the workshop; Pelle knew what it was when he heard the many heavy footsteps out in the street. She lay on a stretcher, and two men carried her; before her the autumn wind whirled the first falling leaves, and her thin arms were hanging down to the pavement, as though she sought to find a hold there. Her disordered hair was hanging, too, and the water was dripping from her. Behind the stretcher came the "Great Power." He was drunk. He held one hand before his eyes, and murmured as though in thought, and at every moment he raised his forefinger in the air. "She has found peace," he said thickly, trying to look intelligent. "Peace--the higher it is----" He could not find the word he wanted. Jens and Pelle replaced the men at the stretcher, and bore it home. They were afraid of what was before them. But the mother stood at the door and received them silently, as though she had expected them; she was merely pale. "She couldn't bear it!" she whispered to them, and she kneeled down beside the child. She laid her head on the little crippled body, and whispered indistinctly; now and again she pressed the child's fingers into her mouth, in order to stifle her sobs. "And you were to have run an errand for mother," she said, and she shook her head, smilingly. "You are a nice sort of girl to me--not to be able to buy me two skeins of thread; and the money I gave you for it--have you thrown it away?" Her words came between smiles and sobs, and they sounded like a slow lament. "Did you throw the money away? It doesn't matter --it wasn't your fault. Dear child, dear little one!" Then her strength gave way. Her firmly closed mouth broke open, and closed again, and so she went on, her head rocking to and fro, while her hands felt eagerly in the child's pocket. "Didn't you run that errand for mother?" she moaned. She felt, in the midst of her grief, the need of some sort of corroboration, even if it referred to something quite indifferent. And she felt in the child's purse. There lay a few ore and a scrap of paper. Then she suddenly stood up. Her face was terribly hard as she turned to her husband, who stood against the wall, swaying to and fro. "Peter!" she cried in agony, "Peter! Don't you know what you have done? 'Forgive me, mother,' it says here, and she has taken four ore of the thirteen to buy sugar-candy. Look here, her hand is still quite sticky." She opened the clenched hand, which was closed upon a scrap of sticky paper. "Ah, the poor persecuted child! She wanted to sweeten her existence with four ore worth of sugar-candy, and then into the water! A child has so much pleasure at home here! 'Forgive me, mother!' she says, as though she had done something wrong. And everything she did was wrong; so she had to go away. Karen! Karen! I'm not angry with you--you were very welcome--what do they signify, those few ore! I didn't mean it like that when I reproached you for hanging about at home! But I didn't know what to do--we had nothing to eat. And he spent the little money there was!" She turned her face from the body to the father and pointed to him. It was the first time that the wife of the "Great Power" had ever turned upon him accusingly. But he did not understand her. "She has found peace," he murmured, and attempted to pull himself up a little; "the peace of--" But here the old woman rose in the chimney-corner--until this moment she had not moved. "Be silent!" she said harshly, setting her stick at his breast, "or your old mother will curse the day when she brought you into the world." Wondering, he stared at her; and a light seemed to shine through the mist as he gazed. For a time he still stood there, unable to tear his eyes from the body. He looked as though he wished to throw himself down beside his wife, who once more lay bowed above the bier, whispering. Then, with hanging head, he went upstairs and lay down. XVII It was after working hours when Pelle went homeward; but he did not feel inclined to run down to the harbor or to bathe. The image of the drowned child continued to follow him, and for the first time Death had met him with its mysterious "Why?". He found no answer, and gradually he forgot it for other things. But the mystery itself continued to brood within him, and made him afraid without any sort of reason, so that he encountered the twilight even with a foreboding of evil. The secret powers which exhale from heaven and earth when light and darkness meet clutched at him with their enigmatical unrest, and he turned unquietly from one thing to another, although he must be everywhere in order to cope with this inconceivable Something that stood, threatening, behind everything. For the first time he felt, rid of all disguise, the unmercifulness which was imminent in this or that transgression of his. Never before had Life itself pressed upon him with its heavy burden. It seemed to Pelle that something called him, but he could not clearly discover whence the call came. He crept from his window on to the roof and thence to the gable-end; perhaps it was the world that called. The hundreds of tile-covered roofs of the town lay before him, absorbing the crimson of the evening sky, and a blue smoke was rising. And voices rose out of the warm darkness that lay between the houses. He heard, too, the crazy Anker's cry; and this eternal prophecy of things irrational sounded like the complaint of a wild beast. The sea down yonder and the heavy pine-woods that lay to the north and the south--these had long been familiar to him. But there was a singing in his ears, and out of the far distance, and something or some one stood behind him, whose warm breath struck upon his neck. He turned slowly about. He was no longer afraid in the darkness, and he knew beforehand that nothing was there. But his lucid mind had been invaded by the twilight, with its mysterious train of beings which none of the senses can confirm. He went down into the courtyard and strolled about. Everywhere prevailed the same profound repose. Peers, the cat, was sitting on the rain-water butt, mewing peevishly at a sparrow which had perched upon the clothes-line. The young master was in his room, coughing; he had already gone to bed. Pelle bent over the edge of the well and gazed vacantly over the gardens. He was hot and dizzy, but a cool draught rose from the well and soothingly caressed his head. The bats were gliding through the air like spirits, passing so close to his face that he felt the wind of their flight, and turning about with a tiny clapping sound. He felt a most painful desire to cry. Among the tall currant-bushes yonder something moved, and Sjermanna's head made its appearance. She was moving cautiously and peering before her. When she saw Pelle she came quickly forward. "Good evening!" she whispered. "Good evening!" he answered aloud, delighted to return to human society. "Hush! You mustn't shout!" she said peremptorily. "Why not?" Pelle himself was whispering now. He was feeling quite concerned. "Because you mustn't! Donkey! Come, I'll show you something. No, nearer still!" Pelle pushed his head forward through the tall elder-bush, and suddenly she put her two hands about his head and kissed him violently and pushed him back. He tried gropingly to take hold of her, but she stood there laughing at him. Her face glowed in the darkness. "You haven't heard anything about it!" she whispered. "Come, I'll tell you!" Now he was smiling all over his face. He pushed his way eagerly into the elder-bush. But at the same moment he felt her clenched fist strike his face. She laughed crazily, but he stood fixed in the same position, as though stunned, his mouth held forward as if still awaiting a kiss. "Why do you hit me?" he asked, gazing at her brokenly. "Because I can't endure you! You're a perfect oaf, and so ugly and so common!" "I have never done anything to you!" "No? Anyhow, you richly deserved it! What did you want to kiss me for?" Pelle stood there helplessly stammering. The whole world of his experience collapsed under him. "But I didn't!" he at last brought out; he looked extraordinarily foolish. Manna aped his expression. "Ugh! Bugh! Take care, or you'll freeze to the ground and turn into a lamp-post! There's nothing on the hedge here that will throw light on your understanding!" With a leap Pelle was over the hedge. Manna took him hastily by the hand and drew him through the bushes. "Aina and Dolores will be here directly. Then we'll play," she declared. "I thought they couldn't come out in the evenings any more," said Pelle, obediently allowing her to lead him. She made no reply, but looked about her as though she wanted to treat him to something as in the old days. In her need she stripped a handful of leaves off the currant-boughs, and stuffed them into his mouth. "There, take that and hold your mouth!" She was quite the old Manna once more, and Pelle laughed. They had come to the summer-house. Manna cooled his swollen cheeks with wet earth while they waited. "Did it hurt you much?" she asked sympathetically, putting her arm about his shoulder. "It's nothing. What's a box on the ear?" he said manfully. "I didn't mean it--you know that. Did _that_ hurt you very much?" Pelle gazed at her sadly. She looked at him inquisitively. "Was it here?" she said, letting her hand slide down his back. He rose silently, in order to go, but she seized him by the wrist. "Forgive me," she whispered. "Aren't the others coming soon?" asked Pelle harshly. He proposed to be angry with her, as in the old days. "No! They aren't coming at all! I've deceived you. I wanted to talk to you!" Manna was gasping for breath. "I thought you didn't want to have anything more to do with me?" "Well, I don't! I only want--" She could not find words, and stamped angrily on the ground. Then she said slowly and solemnly, with the earnestness of a child: "Do you know what I believe? I believe--I love you!" "Then we can get married when we are old enough!" said Pelle joyfully. She looked at him for a moment with a measuring glance. The town-hall and the flogging! thought Pelle. He was quite resolved that he would do the beating now; but here she laughed at him. "What a glorious booby you are!" she said, and as though deep in thought, she let a handful of wet earth run down his neck. Pelle thought for a moment of revenge; then, as though in sport, he thrust his hand into her bosom. She fell back weakly, groping submissively with her hands; a new knowledge arose in him, and impelled him to embrace her violently. She looked at him in amazement, and tried gently to push his hand away. But it was too late. The boy had broken down her defences. As Pelle went back into the house he was overwhelmed, but not happy. His heart hammered wildly, and a chaos reigned in his brain. Quite instinctively he trod very softly. For a long time he lay tossing to and fro without being able to sleep. His mind had resolved the enigma, and now he discovered the living blood in himself. It sang its sufferings in his ear; it welled into his cheeks and his heart; it murmured everywhere in numberless pulses, so that his whole body thrilled. Mighty and full of mystery, it surged through him like an inundation, filling him with a warm, deep astonishment. Never before had he known all this! In the time that followed his blood was his secret confidant in everything; he felt it like a caress when it filled his limbs, causing a feeling of distension in wrists and throat. He had his secret now, and his face never betrayed the fact that he had ever known Sjermanna. His radiant days had all at once changed into radiant nights. He was still enough of a child to long for the old days, with their games in the broad light of day; but something impelled him to look forward, listening, and his questing soul bowed itself before the mysteries of life. The night had made him accomplice in her mysteries. With Manna he never spoke again. She never came into the garden, and if he met her she turned into another street. A rosy flame lay continually over her face, as though it had burned its way in. Soon afterward she went to a farm in Ostland, where an uncle of hers lived. But Pelle felt nothing and was in no way dejected. He went about as though in a half-slumber; everything was blurred and veiled before his spiritual vision. He was quite bewildered by all that was going on within him. Something was hammering and laboring in every part and corner of him. Ideas which were too fragile were broken down and built up more strongly, so that they should bear the weight of the man in him. His limbs grew harder; his muscles became like steel, and he was conscious of a general feeling of breadth across his back, and of unapplied strength. At times he awakened out of his half-slumber into a brief amazement, when he felt himself, in one particular or another, to have become a man; as when one day he heard his own voice. It had gained a deep resonance, which was quite foreign to his ear, and forced him to listen as though it had been another that spoke. XVIII Pelle fought against the decline of the business. A new apprentice had been taken into the workshop, but Pelle, as before, had to do all the delicate jobs. He borrowed articles when necessary, and bought things on credit; and he had to interview impatient customers, and endeavor to pacify them. He got plenty of exercise, but he learned nothing properly. "Just run down to the harbor," the master used to say: "Perhaps there will be some work to bring back!" But the master was much more interested in the news which he brought thence. Pelle would also go thither without having received any orders. Everybody in the town must needs make for the harbor whenever he went from home; it was the heart through which everything came and went, money and dreams and desires and that which gratified them. Every man had been to sea, and his best memories and his hardest battles belonged to the sea. Dreams took the outward way; yonder lay the sea, and all men's thoughts were drawn to it; the thoughts of the young, who longed to go forth and seek adventure, and of the old, who lived on their memories. It was the song in all men's hearts, and the God in the inmost soul of all; the roving-ground of life's surplus, the home of all that was inexplicable and mystical. The sea had drunk the blood of thousands, but its color knew no change; the riddle of life brooded in its restless waters. Destiny rose from the floor of the deep and with short shrift set her mark upon a man; he might escape to the land, like Baker Jorgensen, who went no more to sea when once the warning had come to him, or, like Boatman Jensen, he might rise in his sleep and walk straight over the vessel's side. Down below, where the drowned dwelt, the ships sank to bring them what they needed; and from time to time the bloodless children of the sea rose to the shore, to play with the children that were born on a Sunday, and to bring them death or happiness. Over the sea, three times a week, came the steamer with news from Copenhagen; and vessels all wrapped in ice, and others that had sprung a heavy leak, or bore dead bodies on board; and great ships which came from warm countries and had real negroes among their crews. Down by the harbor stood the old men who had forsaken the sea, and now all the long day through they stared out over the playground of their manhood, until Death came for them. The sea had blown gout into their limbs, had buffeted them until they were bent and bowed, and in the winter nights one could hear them roar with the pain like wild beasts. Down to the harbor drifted all the flotsam and jetsam of the land, invalids and idle men and dying men, and busy folk raced round about and up and down with fluttering coat-tails, in order to scent out possible profits. The young sported here continually; it was as though they encountered the future when they played here by the open sea. Many never went further, but many let themselves be caught and whirled away out into the unknown. Of these was Nilen. When the ships were being fitted out he could wait no longer. He sacrificed two years' apprenticeship, and ran away on board a vessel which was starting on a long voyage. Now he was far away in the Trades, on the southern passage round America, homeward bound with a cargo of redwood. And a few left with every steamer. The girls were the most courageous when it came to cutting themselves loose; they steamed away swiftly, and the young men followed them in amorous blindness. And men fought their way outward in order to seek something more profitable than could be found at home. Pelle had experienced all this already: he had felt this same longing, and had known the attractive force of the unknown. Up in the country districts it was the dream of all poor people to fight their way to town, and the boldest one day ventured thither, with burning cheeks, while the old people spoke warningly of the immorality of cities. And in the town here it was the dream of all to go to the capital, to Copenhagen; there fortune and happiness were to be found! He who had the courage hung one day over the ship's rail, and waved farewell, with an absent expression in his eyes, as though he had been playing a game with high stakes; over there on the mainland he would have to be a match with the best of them. But the old people shook their heads and spoke at length of the temptations and immorality of the capital. Now and again one came back and justified their wisdom. Then they would run delightedly from door to door. "Didn't we tell you so?" But many came home at holiday seasons and were such swells that it was really the limit! And this or that girl was so extremely stylish that people had to ask the opinion of Wooden-leg Larsen about her. The girls who got married over there--well, they were well provided for! After an interval of many years they came back to their parents' homes, travelling on deck among the cattle, and giving the stewardess a few pence to have them put in the newspaper as cabin-passengers. They were fine enough as to their clothes, but their thin haggard faces told another story. "There is certainly not enough to eat for all over there!" said the old women. But Pelle took no interest in those that came home again. All his thoughts were with those who went away; his heart tugged painfully in his breast, so powerful was his longing to be off. The sea, whether it lay idle or seethed with anger, continually filled his head with the humming of the world "over yonder," with a vague, mysterious song of happiness. One day, as he was on his way to the harbor, he met old thatcher Holm from Stone Farm. Holm was going about looking at the houses from top to bottom; he was raising his feet quite high in the air from sheer astonishment, and was chattering to himself. On his arm he carried a basket loaded with bread and butter, brandy, and beer. "Well, here's some one at last!" he said, and offered his hand. "I'm going round and wondering to myself where they all live, those that come here day after day and year after year, and whether they've done any good. Mother and I have often talked about it, that it would be splendid to know how things have turned out for this one or that. And this morning she said it would be best if I were to make a short job of it before I quite forget how to find my way about the streets here, I haven't been here for ten years. Well, according to what I've seen so far, mother and I needn't regret we've stayed at home. Nothing grows here except lamp-posts, and mother wouldn't understand anything about rearing them. Thatched roofs I've not seen here. Here in the town they'd grudge a thatcher his bread. But I'll see the harbor before I go home." "Then we'll go together," said Pelle. He was glad to meet some one from his home. The country round about Stone Farm was always for him the home of his childhood. He gossiped with the old man and pointed out various objects of interest. "Yes, I've been once, twice, three times before this to the harbor," said Holm, "but I've never managed to see the steamer. They tell me wonderful things of it; they say all our crops are taken to Copenhagen in the steamer nowadays." "It's lying here to-day," said Pelle eagerly. "This evening it goes out." Holm's eyes beamed. "Then I shall be able to see the beggar! I've often seen the smoke from the hill at home--drifting over the sea-- and that always gave me a lot to think about. They say it eats coals and is made of iron." He looked at Pelle uncertainly. The great empty harbor basin, in which some hundreds of men were at work, interested him greatly. Pelle pointed out the "Great Power," who was toiling like a madman and allowing himself to be saddled with the heaviest work. "So that is he!" cried Holm. "I knew his father; he was a man who wanted to do things above the ordinary, but he never brought them off. And how goes it with your father? Not any too well, as I've heard?" Pelle had been home a little while before; nothing was going well there, but as to that he was silent. "Karna isn't very well," he said. "She tried to do too much; she's strained herself lifting things." "They say he'll have a difficult job to pull through. They have taken too much on themselves," Holm continued. Pelle made no reply; and then the steamer absorbed their whole attention. Talkative as he was, Holm quite forgot to wag his tongue. The steamer was on the point of taking in cargo; the steam derricks were busy at both hatches, squealing each time they swung round in another direction. Holm became so light on his legs one might have thought he was treading on needles; when the derrick swung round over the quay and the chain came rattling down, he ran right back to the granary. Pelle wanted to take him on board, but he would not hear of it. "It looks a bad-tempered monster," he said: "look how it sneezes and fusses!" On the quay, by the forward hold, the goods of a poverty-stricken household lay all mixed together. A man stood there holding a mahogany looking-glass, the only article of value, in his arms. His expression was gloomy. By the manner in which he blew his nose--with his knuckles instead of with his fingers--one could see that he had something unaccustomed on hand. His eyes were fixed immovably on his miserable household possessions, and they anxiously followed every breakable article as it went its airy way into the vessel's maw. His wife and children were sitting on the quay-wall, eating out of a basket of provisions. They had been sitting there for hours. The children were tired and tearful; the mother was trying to console them, and to induce them to sleep on the stone. "Shan't we start soon?" they asked continually, in complaining tones. "Yes, the ship starts directly, but you must be very good or I shan't take you with me. And then you'll come to the capital city, where they eat white bread and always wear leather boots. The King himself lives there, and they've got everything in the shops there." She arranged her shawl under their heads. "But that's Per Anker's son from Blaaholt!" cried Holm, when he had been standing a while on the quay and had caught sight of the man. "What, are you leaving the country?" "Yes, I've decided to do so," said the man, in an undertone, passing his hand over his face. "And I thought you were doing so well! Didn't you go to Ostland, and didn't you take over a hotel there?" "Yes, they enticed me out there, and now I've lost everything there." "You ought to have considered--considering costs nothing but a little trouble." "But they showed me false books, which showed a greater surplus than there really was. Shipowner Monsen was behind the whole affair, together with the brewer from the mainland, who had taken the hotel over in payment of outstanding debts." "But how did big folks like that manage to smell you out?" Holm scratched his head; he didn't understand the whole affair. "Oh, they'd heard of the ten thousand, of course, which I'd inherited from my father. They throw their nets out for sums like that, and one day they sent an agent to see me. Ten thousand was just enough for the first instalment, and now they have taken the hotel over again. Out of compassion, they let me keep this trash here." He suddenly turned his face away and wept; and then his wife came swiftly up to him. Holm drew Pelle away. "They'd rather be rid of us," he said quietly; and he continued to discuss the man's dismal misfortune, while they strolled out along the mole. But Pelle was not listening to him. He had caught sight of a little schooner which was cruising outside, and was every moment growing more restless. "I believe that's the Iceland schooner!" he said at last. "So I must go back." "Yes, run off," said Holm, "and many thanks for your guidance, and give my respects to Lasse and Karna." On the harbor hill Pelle met Master Jeppe, and farther on Drejer, Klaussen, and Blom. The Iceland boat had kept them waiting for several months; the news that she was in the roads quickly spread, and all the shoemakers of the whole town were hurrying down to the harbor, in order to hear whether good business had been done before the gangway was run out. "The Iceland boat is there now!" said the merchants and leather- dealers, when they saw the shoemakers running by. "We must make haste and make out our bills, for now the shoemakers will be having money." But the skipper had most of the boots and shoes still in his hold; he returned with the terrifying news that no more boots and shoes could be disposed of in Iceland. The winter industry had been of great importance to the shoemakers. "What does this mean?" asked Jeppe angrily. "You have been long enough about it! Have you been trying to open another agency over there? In others years you have managed to sell the whole lot." "I have done what I could," replied the captain gloomily. "I offered them to the dealers in big parcels, and then I lay there and carried on a retail trade from the ship. Then I ran down the whole west coast; but there is nothing to be done." "Well, well," said Jeppe, "but do the Icelanders mean to go without boots?" "There's the factories," replied the captain. "The factories, the factories!" Jeppe laughed disdainfully, but with a touch of uncertainty. "You'll tell me next that they can make shoes by machinery--cut out and peg and sew and fix the treads and all? No, damn it, that can only be done by human hands directed by human intelligence. Shoemaking is work for men only. Perhaps I myself might be replaced by a machine--by a few cog-wheels that go round and round! Bah! A machine is dead, I know that, and it can't think or adapt itself to circumstances; you may have to shape the boot in a particular way for a special foot, on account of tender toes, or--here I give the sole a certain cut in the instep, so that it looks smart, or--well, one has to be careful, or one cuts into the upper!" "There are machines which make boots, and they make them cheaper than you, too," said the skipper brusquely. "I should like to see them! Can you show me a boot that hasn't been made by human hands?" Jeppe laughed contemptuously. "No; there's something behind all this, by God! Some one is trying to play us a trick!" The skipper went his way, offended. Jeppe stuck to it that there was something uncanny about it--the idea of a machine making boots was enough to haunt him. He kept on returning to it. "They'll be making human beings by machinery too, soon!" he exclaimed angrily. "No," said Baker Jorgen; "there, I believe, the old method will survive!" One day the skipper came in at the workshop door, banged a pair of shoes down on the window-bench, and went out again. They had been bought in England, and belonged to the helmsman of a bark which had just come into the harbor. The young master looked at them, turned them over in his hands, and looked at them again. Then he called Jeppe. They were sewn throughout--shoes for a grown man, yet sewn throughout! Moreover, the factory stamp was under the sole. In Jeppe's opinion they were not worth a couple of shillings. But he could not get over the fact that they were machine-made. "Then we are superfluous," he said, in a quavering voice. All his old importance seemed to have fallen from him. "For if they can make the one kind on a machine, they can make another. The handicraft is condemned to death, and we shall all be without bread one fine day! Well, I, thank God, have not many years before me." It was the first time that Jeppe had admitted that he owed his life to God. Every time he came into the workshop he began to expatiate on the same subject. He would stand there turning the hated shoes over between his hands. Then he would criticize them. "We must take more pains next winter." "Father forgets it's all up with us now," said the young master wearily. Then the old man would be silent and hobble out. But after a time he would be back again, fingering the boots and shoes, in order to discover defects in them. His thoughts were constantly directed upon this new subject; no song of praise, no eulogy of his handicraft, passed his lips nowadays. If the young master came to him and asked his help in some difficult situation, he would refuse it; he felt no further desire to triumph over youth with his ancient dexterity, but shuffled about and shrank into himself. "And all that we have thought so highly of--what's to become of it?" he would ask. "For machines don't make masterpieces and medal work, so where will real good work come in?" The young master did not look so far ahead; he thought principally of the money that was needed. "Devil take it, Pelle, how are we going to pay every one, Pelle?" he would ask dejectedly. Little Nikas had to look out for something else; their means would not allow them to keep a journeyman. So Nikas decided to marry, and to set up as a master shoemaker in the north. The shoemaker of the Baptist community had just died, and he could get plenty of customers by joining the sect; he was already attending their services. "But go to work carefully!" said Jeppe. "Or matters will go awry!" It was a bad shock to all of them. Klaussen went bankrupt and had to find work on the new harbor. Blom ran away, deserting his wife and children, and they had to go home to the house of her parents. In the workshop matters had been getting worse for a long time. And now this had happened, throwing a dazzling light upon the whole question. But the young master refused to believe the worst. "I shall soon be well again now," he said. "And then you will just see how I'll work up the business!" He lay in bed more often now, and was susceptible to every change in the weather. Pelle had to see to everything. "Run and borrow something!" the master would say. And if Pelle returned with a refusal, he would look at the boy with his wide, wondering eyes. "They've got the souls of grocers!" he would cry. "Then we must peg those soles!" "That won't answer with ladies' patent-leather shoes!" replied Pelle very positively. "Damn and blast it all, it will answer! We'll black the bottom with cobbler's wax." But when the black was trodden off, Jungfer Lund and the others called, and were wroth. They were not accustomed to walk in pegged shoes. "It's a misunderstanding!" said the young master, the perspiration standing in clear beads on his forehead. Or he would hide and leave it to Pelle. When it was over, he would reach up to the shelf, panting with exhaustion. "Can't you do anything for me, Pelle?" he whispered. One day Pelle plucked up courage and said it certainly wasn't healthy to take so much spirit; the master needed so much now. "Healthy?" said the master; "no, good God, it isn't healthy! But the beasts demand it! In the beginning I couldn't get the stuff down, especially beer; but now I've accustomed myself to it. If I didn't feed them, they'd soon rush all over me and eat me up." "Do they swallow it, then?" "I should think they do! As much as ever you like to give them. Or have you ever seen me tipsy? I can't get drunk; the tubercles take it all. And for them it's sheer poison. On the day when I am able to get drunk again I shall thank God, for then the beasts will be dead and the spirit will be able to attack me again. Then it'll only be a question of stopping it, otherwise it'll play the deuce with my mind!" Since the journeyman had left, the meals had become more meager than ever. The masters had not had enough money in the spring to buy a pig. So there was no one to consume the scraps. Now they had to eat them all themselves. Master Andres was never at the table; he took scarcely any nourishment nowadays; a piece of bread-and-butter now and again, that was all. Breakfast, at half-past seven, they ate alone. It consisted of salt herrings, bread and hog's lard, and soup. The soup was made out of all sorts of odds and ends of bread and porridge, with an addition of thin beer. It was fermented and unpalatable. What was left over from breakfast was put into a great crock which stood in one corner of the kitchen, on the floor, and this was warmed up again the next morning, with the addition of a little fresh beer. So it went on all the year round. The contents were renewed only when some one kicked the crock so that it broke. The boys confined themselves to the herrings and the lard; the soup they did not use except to fish about in it. They made a jest of it, throwing all sorts of objects into it, and finding them again after half a year. Jeppe was still lying in the alcove, asleep; his nightcap was hoved awry over one eye. Even in his sleep he still had a comical expression of self-importance. The room was thick with vapor; the old man had his own way of getting air, breathing it in with a long snort and letting it run rumbling through him. If it got too bad, the boys would make a noise; then he would wake and scold them. They were longing for food by dinner-time; the moment Jeppe called his "Dinner!" at the door they threw everything down, ranged themselves according to age, and tumbled in behind him. They held one another tightly by the coat-tails, and made stupid grimaces. Jeppe was enthroned at the head of the table, a little cap on his head, trying to preserve seemly table-manners. No one might begin before him or continue after he had finished. They snatched at their spoons, laid them down again with a terrified glance at the old man, and nearly exploded with suppressed laughter. "Yes, I'm very hungry to-day, but there's no need for you to remark it!" he would say warningly, once they were in full swing. Pelle would wink at the others, and they would go on eating, emptying one dish after another. "There's no respect nowadays!" roared Jeppe, striking on the table. But when he did this discipline suddenly entered into them, and they all struck the table after him in turn. Sometimes, when matters got too bad, Master Andres had to find some reason for coming into the room. The long working-hours, the bad food, and the foul air of the workshop left their mark on Pelle. His attachment to Master Andres was limitless; he could sit there till midnight and work without payment if a promise had been made to finish some particular job. But otherwise he was imperceptibly slipping into the general slackness, sharing the others' opinion of the day as something utterly abominable, which one must somehow endeavor to get through. To work at half pressure was a physical necessity; his rare movements wearied him, and he felt less inclined to work than to brood. The semi-darkness of the sunless workshop bleached his skin and filled him with unhealthy imaginations. He did little work now on his own account; but he had learned to manage with very little. Whenever he contrived to get hold of a ten-ore piece, he bought a savings-stamp, so that in this way he was able to collect a few shillings, until they had grown to quite a little sum. Now and again, too, he got a little help from Lasse, but Lasse found it more and more difficult to spare anything. Moreover, he had learned to compose his mind by his work. XIX The crazy Anker was knocking on the workshop door. "Bjerregrav is dead!" he said solemnly. "Now there is only one who can mourn over poverty!" Then he went away and announced the news to Baker Jorgen. They heard him going from house to house, all along the street. Bjerregrav dead! Only yesterday evening he was sitting yonder, on the chair by the window-bench, and his crutch was standing in the corner by the door; and he had offered them all his hand in his odd, ingenuous way--that unpleasantly flabby hand, at whose touch they all felt a certain aversion, so importunate was it, and almost skinless in its warmth, so that one felt as if one had involuntarily touched some one on a naked part. Pelle was always reminded of Father Lasse; he too had never learned to put on armor, but had always remained the same loyal, simple soul, unaffected by his hard experience. The big baker had fallen foul of him as usual. Contact with this childlike, thin-skinned creature, who let his very heart burn itself out in a clasp of his hand, always made him brutal. "Now, Bjerregrav, have you tried it--you know what--since we last saw you?" Bjerregrav turned crimson. "I am content with the experience which the dear God has chosen for me," he answered, with blinking eyes. "Would you believe it, he is over seventy and doesn't know yet how a woman is made!" "Because, after all I find it suits me best to live alone, and then there's my club foot." "So he goes about asking questions about everything, things such as every child knows about," said Jeppe, in a superior tone. "Bjerregrav has never rubbed off his childish innocence." Yet as he was going home, and Pelle was helping him over the gutter, he was still in his mood of everlasting wonder. "What star is that?" he said; "it has quite a different light to the others. It looks so red to me--if only we don't have a severe winter, with the soil frozen and dear fuel for all the poor people." Bjerregrav sighed. "You mustn't look at the moon so much. Skipper Andersen came by his accident simply because he slept on deck and the moon shone right in his face; now he has gone crazy!" Yesterday evening just the same as always--and now dead! And no one had known or guessed, so that they might have been a little kinder to him just at the last! He died in his bed, with his mind full of their last disdainful words, and now they could never go to him and say: "Don't take any notice of it, Bjerregrav; we didn't mean to be unkind." Perhaps their behavior had embittered his last hours. At all events, there stood Jeppe and Brother Jorgen, and they could not look one another in the face; an immovable burden weighed upon them. And it meant a void--as when the clock in a room stops ticking. The faithful sound of his crutch no longer approached the workshop about six o'clock. The young master grew restless about that time; he could not get used to the idea of Bjerregrav's absence. "Death is a hateful thing," he would say, when the truth came over him; "it is horribly repugnant. Why must one go away from here without leaving the least part of one behind? Now I listen for Bjerregrav's crutch, and there's a void in my ears, and after a time there won't be even that. Then he will be forgotten, and perhaps more besides, who will have followed him, and so it goes on forever. Is there anything reasonable about it all, Pelle? They talk about Heaven, but what should I care about sitting on a damp cloud and singing 'Hallelujah'? I'd much rather go about down here and get myself a drink--especially if I had a sound leg!" The apprentices accompanied him to the grave. Jeppe wished them to do so, as a sort of atonement. Jeppe himself and Baker Jorgen, in tall hats, walked just behind the coffin. Otherwise only a few poor women and children followed, who had joined the procession out of curiosity. Coachman Due drove the hearse. He had now bought a pair of horses, and this was his first good job. Otherwise life flowed onward, sluggish and monotonous. Winter had come again, with its commercial stagnation, and the Iceland trade was ruined. The shoemakers did no more work by artificial light; there was so little to do that it would not repay the cost of the petroleum; so the hanging lamp was put on one side and the old tin lamp was brought out again. That was good enough to sit round and to gossip by. The neighbors would come into the twilight of the workshop; if Master Andres was not there, they would slip out again, or they would sit idly there until Jeppe said it was bed-time. Pelle had begun to occupy himself with carving once more; he got as close to the lamp as possible, listening to the conversation while he worked upon a button which was to be carved like a twenty-five-ore piece. Morten was to have it for a tie-pin. The conversation turned upon the weather, and how fortunate it was that the frost had not yet come to stop the great harbor works. Then it touched upon the "Great Power," and from him it glanced at the crazy Anker, and poverty, and discontent. The Social Democrats "over yonder" had for a long time been occupying the public mind. All the summer through disquieting rumors had crossed the water; it was quite plain that they were increasing their power and their numbers --but what were they actually aiming at? In any case, it was nothing good. "They must be the very poorest who are revolting," said Wooden-leg Larsen. "So their numbers must be very great!" It was as though one heard the roaring of something or other out on the horizon, but did not know what was going on there. The echo of the upheaval of the lower classes was quite distorted by the time it reached the island; people understood just so much, that the lowest classes wanted to turn God's appointed order upside down and to get to the top themselves, and involuntarily their glance fell covertly on the poor in the town. But these were going about in their customary half-slumber, working when there was work to be had and contenting themselves with that. "That would be the last straw," said Jeppe, "here, where we have such a well-organized poor-relief!" Baker Jorgen was the most eager--every day he came with news of some kind to discuss. Now they had threatened the life of the King himself! And now the troops were called out. "The troops!" The young master made a disdainful gesture. "That'll help a lot! If they merely throw a handful of dynamite among the soldiers there won't be a trouser-button left whole! No, they'll conquer the capital now!" His cheeks glowed: he saw the event already in his mind's eye. "Yes, and then? Then they'll plunder the royal Mint!" "Yes--no. Then they'll come over here--the whole party!" "Come over here? No, by God! We'd call out all the militia and shoot them down from the shore. I've put my gun in order already!" One day Marker came running in. "The pastrycook's got a new journeyman from over yonder--and he's a Social Democrat!" he cried breathlessly. "He came yesterday evening by the steamer." Baker Jorgen had also heard the news. "Yes, now they're on you!" said Jeppe, as one announcing disaster. "You've all been trifling with the new spirit of the times. This would have been something for Bjerregrav to see--him with his compassion for the poor!" "Let the tailor rest in peace in his grave," said Wooden-leg Larsen, in a conciliatory tone. "You mustn't blame him for the angry masses that exist to-day. He wanted nothing but people's good--and perhaps these people want to do good, too!" "Good!" Jeppe was loud with scorn. "They want to overturn law and order, and sell the fatherland to the Germans! They say the sum is settled already, and all!" "They say they'll be let into the capital during the night, when our own people are asleep," said Marker. "Yes," said Master Andres solemnly. "They've let out that the key's hidden under the mat--the devils!" Here Baker Jorgen burst into a shout of laughter; his laughter filled the whole workshop when he once began. They guessed what sort of a fellow the new journeyman might be. No one had seen him yet. "He certainly has red hair and a red beard," said Baker Jorgen. "That's the good God's way of marking those who have signed themselves to the Evil One." "God knows what the pastrycook wants with him," said Jeppe. "People of that sort can't do anything--they only ask. I've heard the whole lot of them are free-thinkers." "What a lark!" The young master shook himself contentedly. "He won't grow old here in the town!" "Old?" The baker drew up his heavy body. "To-morrow I shall go to the pastrycook and demand that he be sent away. I am commander of the militia, and I know all the townsfolk think as I do." Drejer thought it might be well to pray from the pulpit--as in time of plague, and in the bad year when the field-mice infested the country. Next morning Jorgen Kofod looked in on his way to the pastrycook's. He was wearing his old militia coat, and at his belt hung the leather wallet in which flints for the old flint-locks had been carried many years before. He filled his uniform well; but he came back without success. The pastrycook praised his new journeyman beyond all measure, and wouldn't hear a word of sending him away. He was quite besotted. "But we shall buy there no more--we must all stick to that--and no respectable family can deal with the traitor in future." "Did you see the journeyman, Uncle Jorgen?" asked Master Andres eagerly. "Yes, I saw him--that is, from a distance! He had a pair of terrible, piercing eyes; but he shan't bewitch me with his serpent's glance!" In the evening Pelle and the others were strolling about the market in order to catch a glimpse of the new journeyman--there were a number of people there, and they were all strolling to and fro with the same object in view. But he evidently kept the house. And then one day, toward evening, the master came tumbling into the workshop. "Hurry up, damn it all!" he cried, quite out of breath; "he's passing now!" They threw down their work and stumbled along the passage into the best room, which at ordinary times they were not allowed to enter. He was a tall, powerful man, with full cheeks and a big, dashing moustache, quite as big as the master's. His nostrils were distended, and he held his chest well forward. His jacket and wasitcoat were open, as though he wanted more air. Behind him slunk a few street urchins, in the hope of seeing something; they had quite lost their accustomed insolence, and followed him in silence. "He walks as though the whole town belonged to him!" said Jeppe scornfully. "But we'll soon finish with him here!" XX Out in the street some one went by, and then another, and then another; there was quite a trampling of feet. The young master knocked on the wall. "What in the world is it, Pelle?" He did not mean to get up that day. Pelle ran out to seek information. "Jen's father has got delirium-- he's cleared the whole harbor and is threatening to kill them all!" The master raised his head a little. "By God, I believe I shall get up!" His eyes were glistening; presently he had got into his clothes, and limped out of doors; they heard him coughing terribly in the cold. Old Jeppe put his official cap in his pocket before he ran out; perhaps the authorities would be needed. For a time the apprentices sat staring at the door like sick birds; then they, too, ran out of the house. Outside everything was in confusion. The wildest rumors were flying about as to what Stonemason Jorgensen had done. The excitement could not have been greater had a hostile squadron come to anchor and commenced to bombard the town. Everybody dropped what he was holding and rushed down to the harbor. The smaller side-streets were one unbroken procession of children and old women and small employers in their aprons. Old gouty seamen awoke from their decrepit slumber and hobbled away, their hands dropped to the back of their loins and their faces twisted with pain. "Toot aroot aroot aroot. All the pitchy snouts!" A few street-urchins allowed themselves this little diversion, as Pelle came running by with the other apprentices; otherwise all attention was concentrated on the one fact that the "Great Power" had broken out again! A certain festivity might have been noted on the faces of the hurrying crowd; a vivid expectation. The stonemason had been quiet for a long time now; he had labored like a giant beast of burden, to all appearance extinguished, but toiling like an elephant, and quietly taking home a couple of kroner in the evening. It was almost painful to watch him, and a disappointed silence gathered about him. And now came a sudden explosion, thrilling everybody through! All had something to say of the "strong man" while they hastened down to the harbor. Everybody had foreseen that it must come; he had for a long time looked so strange, and had done nothing wrong, so that it was only a wonder that it hadn't come sooner! Such people ought not really to be at large; they ought to be shut up for life! They went over the events of his life for the hundredth time--from the day when he came trudging into town, young and fearless in his rags, to find a market for his energies, until the time when he drove his child into the sea and settled down as a lunatic. Down by the harbor the people were swarming; everybody who could creep or crawl was stationed there. The crowd was good-humored, in spite of the cold and the hard times; the people stamped their feet and cracked jokes. The town had in a moment shaken off its winter sleep; the people clambered up on the blocks of stone, or hung close-packed over the rough timber frames that were to be sunk in building the breakwater. They craned their necks and started nervously, as though some one might come up suddenly and hit them over the head. Jens and Morten were there, too; they stood quite apart and were speaking to one another. They looked on mournfully, with shy, harrassed glances, and where the great slip ran obliquely down to the floor of the basin the workmen stood in crowds; they hitched up their trousers, for the sake of something to do, exchanged embarrassed glances, and swore. But down on the floor of the great basin the "Great Power" ruled supreme. He was moving about alone, and he seemed to be as unconscious of his surroundings as a child absorbed in play; he had some purpose of his own to attend to. But what that was it was not easy to tell. In one hand he held a bundle of dynamite cartridges; with the other he was leaning on a heavy iron bar. His movements were slow and regular, not unlike those of a clumsy bear. When he stood up, his comrades shouted to him excitedly; they would come and tear him into little pieces; they would slit his belly so that he could see his own bowels; they would slash him with their knives and rub his wounds with vitriol if he didn't at once lay down his weapons and let them come down to their work. But the "Great Power" did not deign to answer. Perhaps he never heard them. When he raised his head his glance swept the distance, laden with a mysterious burden which was not human. That face, with its deadly weariness, seemed in its sadness to be turned upon some distant place whither none could follow him. "He is mad!" they whispered; "God has taken away his wits!" Then he bent himself to his task again; he seemed to be placing the cartridges under the great breakwater which he himself had proposed. He was pulling cartridges out of every pocket; that was why they had stuck out from his body curiously. "What the devil is he going to do now? Blow up the breakwater?" they asked, and tried to creep along behind the causeway, so as to come upon him from behind. But he had eyes all round him; at the slightest movement on their part he was there with his iron bar. The whole works were at a standstill! Two hundred men stood idle hour after hour, growling and swearing and threatening death and the devil, but no one ventured forward. The overseer ran about irresolutely, and even the engineer had lost his head; everything was in a state of dissolution. The district judge was walking up and down in full uniform, with an impenetrable expression of face; his mere presence had a calming effect, but he did nothing. Each proposal made was wilder than the last. Some wanted to make a gigantic screen which might be pushed toward him; others suggested capturing him with a huge pair of tongs made of long balks of timber; but no one attempted to carry out these suggestions; they were only too thankful that he allowed them to stand where they were. The "Great Power" could throw a dynamite cartridge with such force that it would explode where it struck and sweep away everything around it. "The tip-wagons!" cried some one. Here at last was an idea! The wagons were quickly filled with armed workmen. The catch was released, but the wagons did not move. The "Great Power" with his devilish cunning, had been before them; he had spiked the endless chain so that it could not move. And now he struck away the under-pinning of a few of the supports, so that the wagons could not be launched upon him by hand. This was no delirium; no one had ever yet seen delirium manifest itself in such a way! And he had touched no spirit since the day they had carried his daughter home. No; it was the quietest resolution imaginable; when they got up after the breakfast-hour and were strolling down to the slip, he stood there with his iron bar and quietly commanded them to keep away--the harbor belonged to him! They had received more than one sharp blow before they understood that he was in earnest; but there was no malice in him--one could see quite plainly how it hurt him to strike them. It was certainly the devil riding him--against his own will. But where was it going to end? They had had enough of it now! For now the great harbor bell was striking midday, and there was something derisive in the sound, as though it was jeering at respectable people who only wanted to resume their work. They didn't want to waste the whole day; neither did they want to risk life and limb against the fool's tricks of a lunatic. Even the mighty Bergendal had left his contempt of death at home to-day, and was content to grumble like the rest. "We must knock a hole in the dam," he said, "then the brute may perish in the waves!" They immediately picked up their tools, in order to set to work. The engineer threatened them with the law and the authorities; it would cost thousands of kroner to empty the harbor again. They would not listen to him; what use was he if he couldn't contrive for them to do their work in peace? They strolled toward the dam, with picks and iron crowbars, in order to make the breach; the engineer and the police were thrust aside. Now it was no longer a matter of work; it was a matter of showing that two hundred men were not going to allow one crazy devil to make fools of them. Beelzebub had got to be smoked out. Either the "Great Power" would come up from the floor of the basin, or he would drown. "You shall have a full day's wages!" cried the engineer, to hold them back. They did not listen; but when they reached the place of the intended breach, the "Great Power" was standing at the foot of the dam, swinging his pick so that the walls of the basin resounded. He beamed with helpfulness at every blow; he had posted himself at the spot where the water trickled in, and they saw with horror what an effect his blows had. It was sheer madness to do what he was doing there. "He'll fill the harbor with water, the devil!" they cried, and they hurled stones at his head. "And such a work as it was to empty it!" The "Great Power" took cover behind a pile and worked away. Then there was nothing for it but to shoot him down before he had attained his object. A charge of shot in the legs, if nothing more, and he would at least be rendered harmless. The district judge was at his wits' end; but Wooden-leg Larsen was already on the way home to fetch his gun. Soon he came stumping back, surrounded by a swarm of boys. "I've loaded it with coarse salt!" he cried, so that the judge might hear. "Now you'll be shot dead!" they called down to him. In reply, the "Great Power" struck his pick into the foot of the dam, so that the trampled clay sighed and the moisture rose underfoot. A long crackling sound told them that the first plank was shattered. The final resolve had been formed quite of itself; everybody was speaking of shooting him down as though the man had been long ago sentenced, and now everybody was longing for the execution. They hated the man below there with a secret hatred which needed no explanation; his defiance and unruliness affected them like a slap in the face; they would gladly have trampled him underfoot if they could. They shouted down insults; they reminded him how in his presumption he had ruined his family, and driven his daughter to suicide; and they cast in his face his brutal attack on the rich shipowner Monsen, the benefactor of the town. For a time they roused themselves from their apathy in order to take a hand in striking him down. And now it must be done thoroughly; they must have peace from this fellow, who couldn't wear his chains quietly, but must make them grate like the voice of hatred that lay behind poverty and oppression. The judge leaned out over the quay, in order to read his sentence over the "Great Power"--three times must it be read, so the man might have opportunity to repent. He was deathly pale, and at the second announcement he started convulsively; but the "Great Power" threw no dynamite cartridges at him; he merely lifted his hand to his head, as though in greeting, and made a few thrusting motions in the air with two of his fingers, which stood out from his forehead like a pair of horns. From where the apothecary stood in a circle of fine ladies a stifled laugh was heard. All faces were turned to where the burgomaster's wife stood tall and stately on a block of stone. But she gazed down unflinchingly at the "Great Power" as though she had never seen him before. On the burgomaster the gesture had an effect like that of an explosion. "Shoot him down!" he roared, with purple face, stumbling excitedly along the breakwater. "Shoot him down, Larsen!" But no one heeded his command. All were streaming toward the wagon-slip, where an old, faded little woman was in the act of groping her way along the track toward the floor of the basin. "It's the 'Great Power's' mother!" The word passed from mouth to mouth. "No! How little and old she is! One can hardly believe she could have brought such a giant into the world!" Excitedly they followed her, while she tottered over the broken stone of the floor of the basin, which was littered with the _debris_ of explosions until it resembled an ice-floe under pressure. She made her way but slowly, and it looked continually as though she must break her legs. But the old lady persevered, bent and withered though she was, with her shortsighted eyes fixed on the rocks before her feet. Then she perceived her son, who stood with his iron bar poised in his hand. "Throw the stick away, Peter!" she cried sharply, and mechanically he let the iron rod fall. He gave way before her, slowly, until she had pinned him in a corner and attempted to seize him; then he pushed her carefully aside, as though she was something that inconvenienced him. A sigh went through the crowd, and crept round the harbor like a wandering shudder. "He strikes his own mother--he must be mad!" they repeated, shuddering. But the old woman was on her legs again. "Do you strike your own mother, Peter?" she cried, with sheer amazement in her voice, and reached up after his ear; she could not reach so far; but the "Great Power" bent down as though something heavy pressed upon him, and allowed her to seize his ear. Then she drew him away, over stock and stone, in a slanting path to the slipway, where the people stood like a wall. And he went, bowed, across the floor of the basin, like a great beast in the little woman's hands. Up on the quay the police stood ready to fall upon the "Great Power" with ropes; but the old woman was like pepper and salt when she saw their intention. "Get out of the way, or I'll let him loose on you!" she hissed. "Don't you see he has lost his intellect? Would you attack a man whom God has smitten?" "Yes, he is mad!" said the people, in a conciliatory tone; "let his mother punish him--she is the nearest to him!" XXI Now Pelle and the youngest apprentice had to see to everything, for in November Jens had finished his term and had left at once. He had not the courage to go to Copenhagen to seek his fortune. So he rented a room in the poor quarter of the town and settled there with his young woman. They could not get married; he was only nineteen years of age. When Pelle had business in the northern portion of the town he used to look in on them. The table stood between the bed and the window, and there sat Jens, working on repairs for the poor folk of the neighborhood. When he had managed to get a job the girl would stand bending over him, waiting intently until he had finished, so that she could get something to eat. Then she would come back and cook something right away at the stove, and Jens would sit there and watch her with burning eyes until he had more work in hand. He had grown thin, and sported a sparse pointed beard; a lack of nourishment was written in both their faces. But they loved one another, and they helped one another in everything, as awkwardly as two children who are playing at "father and mother." They had chosen the most dismal locality; the lane fell steeply to the sea, and was full of refuse; mangy cats and dogs ran about, dragging fish-offal up the steps of the houses and leaving it lying there. Dirty children were grubbing about before every door. One Sunday morning, when Pelle had run out there to see them, he heard a shriek from one of the cottages, and the sound of chairs overturned. Startled, he stood still. "That's only one-eyed Johann beating his wife," said an eight-year-old girl; "he does that almost every day." Before the door, on a chair, sat an old man, staring imperturbably at a little boy who continually circled round him. Suddenly the child ran inward, laid his hands on the old man's knee, and said delightedly: "Father runs round the table--mother runs round the table--father beats mother--mother runs round the table and--cries." He imitated the crying, laughed all over his little idiot's face, and dribbled. "Yes, yes," was all the old man said. The child had no eyebrows, and the forehead was hollow over the eyes. Gleefully he ran round and round, stamping and imitating the uproar within. "Yes, yes," said the old man imperturbably, "yes, yes!" At the window of one of the cottages sat a woman, gazing out thoughtfully, her forehead leaning against the sash-bar. Pelle recognized her; he greeted her cheerfully. She motioned him to the door. Her bosom was still plump, but there was a shadow over her face. "Hans!" she cried uncertainly, "here is Pelle, whose doing it was that we found one another!" The young workman replied from within the room: "Then he can clear out, and I don't care if he looks sharp about it!" He spoke threateningly. In spite of the mild winter, Master Andres was almost always in bed now. Pelle had to receive all instructions, and replace the master as well as he could. There was no making of new boots now--only repairs. Every moment the master would knock on the wall, in order to gossip a little. "To-morrow I shall get up," he would say, and his eyes would shine; "yes, that I shall, Pelle! Give me sunlight tomorrow, you devil's imp! This is the turning-point--now nature is turning round in me. When that's finished I shall be quite well! I can feel how it's raging in my blood--it's war to the knife now--but the good sap is conquering! You should see me when the business is well forward-- this is nothing to what it will be! And you won't forget to borrow the list of the lottery-drawings?" He would not admit it to himself, but he was sinking. He no longer cursed the clergy, and one day Jeppe silently went for the pastor. When he had gone, Master Jeppe knocked on the wall. "It's really devilish queer," he said, "for suppose there should be anything in it? And then the pastor is so old, he ought rather to be thinking of himself." The master lay there and looked thoughtful; he was staring up at the ceiling. He would lie all day like that; he did not care about reading now. "Jens was really a good boy," he would say suddenly. "I could never endure him, but he really had a good disposition. And do you believe that I shall ever be a man again?" "Yes, when once the warm weather comes," said Pelle. From time to time the crazy Anker would come to ask after Master Andres. Then the master would knock on the wall. "Let him come in, then," he said to Pelle. "I find myself so terribly wearisome." Anker had quite given up the marriage with the king's eldest daughter, and had now taken matters into his own hands. He was now working at a clock which would _be_ the "new time" itself, and which would go in time with the happiness of the people. He brought the wheels and spring and the whole works with him, and explained them, while his gray eyes, fixed out-of-doors, wandered from one object to another. They were never on the thing he was exhibiting. He, like all the others, had a blind confidence in the young master, and explained his invention in detail. The clock would be so devised that it would show the time only when every one in the land had what he wanted. "Then one can always see and know if anybody is suffering need--there'll be no excuse then! For the time goes and goes, and they get nothing to eat; and one day their hour comes, and they go hungry into the grave." In his temples that everlasting thing was beating which seemed to Pelle like the knocking of a restless soul imprisoned there; and his eyes skipped from one object to another with their vague, indescribable expression. The master allowed himself to be quite carried away by Anker's talk as long as it lasted; but as soon as the watchmaker was on the other side of the door he shook it all off. "It's only the twaddle of a madman," he said, astonished at himself. Then Anker repeated his visit, and had something else to show. It was a cuckoo; every ten-thousandth year it would appear to the hour and cry "Cuckoo!" The time would not be shown any longer--only the long, long course of time--which never comes to an end--eternity. The master looked at Anker bewildered. "Send him away, Pelle!" he whispered, wiping the sweat from his forehead: "he makes me quite giddy; he'll turn me crazy with his nonsense!" Pelle ought really to have spent Christmas at home, but the master would not let him leave him. "Who will chat with me all that time and look after everything?" he said. And Pelle himself was not so set on going; it was no particular pleasure nowadays to go home. Karna was ill, and Father Lasse had enough to do to keep her in good spirits. He himself was valiant enough, but it did not escape Pelle that as time went on he was sinking deeper into difficulties. He had not paid the latest instalment due, and he had not done well with the winter stone-breaking, which from year to year had helped him over the worst. He had not sufficient strength for all that fell to his lot. But he was plucky. "What does it matter if I'm a few hundred kroner in arrears when I have improved the property to the tune of several thousand?" he would say. Pelle was obliged to admit the truth of that. "Raise a loan," he advised. Lasse did try to do so. Every time he was in the town he went to the lawyers and the savings-banks. But he could not raise a loan on the land, as on paper it belonged to the commune, until, in a given number of years, the whole of the sum to which Lasse had pledged himself should be paid up. On Shrove Tuesday he was again in town, and then he had lost his cheerful humor. "Now we know it, we had better give up at once," he said despondently, "for now Ole Jensen is haunting the place--you know, he had the farm before me and hanged himself because he couldn't fulfill his engagements. Karna saw him last night." "Nonsense!" said Pelle. "Don't believe such a thing!" But he could not help believing in it just a little himself. "You think so? But you see yourself that things are always getting more difficult for us--and just now, too, when we have improved the whole property so far, and ought to be enjoying the fruit of our labor. And Karna can't get well again," he added despondently. "Well, who knows?--perhaps it's only superstition!" he cried at last. He had courage for another attempt. Master Andres was keeping his bed. But he was jolly enough there; the more quickly he sank, the more boldly he talked. It was quite wonderful to listen to his big words, and to see him lying there so wasted, ready to take his departure when the time should come. At the end of February the winter was so mild that people were already beginning to look for the first heralds of spring; but then in one night came the winter from the north, blustering southward on a mighty ice-floe. Seen from the shore it looked as though all the vessels in the world had hoisted new white sails, and were on the way to Bornholm, to pay the island a visit, before they once again set out, after the winter's rest, on their distant voyages. But rejoicings over the breaking-up of the ice were brief; in four-and- twenty hours the island was hemmed in on every side by the ice-pack, so that there was not a speck of open water to be seen. And then the snow began. "We really thought it was time to begin work on the land," said the people; but they could put up with the cold--there was still time enough. They proceeded to snowball one another, and set their sledges in order; all through the winter there had been no toboggan-slide. Soon the snow was up to one's ankles, and the slide was made. Now it might as well stop snowing. It might lie a week or two, so that people might enjoy a few proper sleighing-parties. But the snow continued to flutter down, until it reached to the knee, and then to the waist; and by the time people were going to bed it was no longer possible to struggle through it. And those who did not need to rise before daylight were very near not getting out of bed at all, for in the night a snowstorm set in, and by the morning the snow reached to the roofs and covered all the windows. One could hear the storm raging about the chimneys, but down below it was warm enough. The apprentices had to go through the living-room to reach the workshop. The snow was deep there and had closed all outlets. "What the devil is it?" said Master Andres, looking at Pelle in alarm. "Is the world coming to an end?" Was the world coming to an end? Well, it might have come to an end already; they could not hear the smallest sound from without, to tell them whether their fellow-men were living still, or were already dead. They had to burn lamps all day long; but the coal was out in the snow, so they must contrive to get to the shed. They all pushed against the upper half-door of the kitchen, and succeeded in forcing it so far open that Pelle could just creep through. But once out there it was impossible to move. He disappeared in the mass of snow. They must dig a path to the well and the coal-shed; as for food, they would have to manage as best they could. At noon the sun came out, and so far the snow melted on the south side of the house that the upper edge of the window admitted a little daylight. A faint milky shimmer shone through the snow. But there was no sign of life outside. "I believe we shall starve, like the people who go to the North Pole," said the master, his eyes and mouth quite round with excitement. His eyes were blazing like lamps; he was deep in the world's fairy-tale. During the evening they dug and bored halfway to Baker Jorgen's. They must at least secure their connection with the baker. Jeppe went in with a light. "Look out that it doesn't fall on you," he said warningly. The light glistened in the snow, and the boys proceeded to amuse themselves. The young master lay in bed, and called out at every sound that came to him from outside--so loudly that his cough was terrible. He could not contain himself for curiosity. "I'll go and see the robbers' path, too, by God!" he said, over and over again. Jeppe scolded him, but he took no notice. He had his way, got into his trousers and fur jacket, and had a counterpane thrown about him. But he could not stand up, and with a despairing cry he fell back on the bed. Pelle watched him until his heart burned within him. He took the master on his arm, and supported him carefully until they entered the tunnel. "You are strong; good Lord, you are strong!" The master held Pelle convulsively, one arm about his neck, while he waved the other in the air, as defiantly as the strong man in the circus. "Hip, hip!" He was infected by Pelle's strength. Cautiously he turned round in the glittering vault; his eyes shone like crystals of ice. But the fever was raging in his emaciated body. Pelle felt it like a devouring fire through all his clothes. Next day the tunnel was driven farther--as far as Baker Jorgen's steps, and their connection with the outer world was secure. At Jorgen's great things had happened in the course of the last four- and-twenty hours. Marie had been so excited by the idea that the end of the world was perhaps at hand that she had hastily brought the little Jorgen into it. Old Jorgen was in the seventh heaven; he had to come over at once and tell them about it. "He's a regular devil, and he's the very image of me!" "That I can well believe!" cried Master Andres, and laughed. "And is Uncle pleased?" But Jeppe took the announcement very coolly; the condition of his brother's household did not please him. "Is Soren delighted with the youngster?" he asked cautiously. "Soren?" The baker gave vent to a shout of laughter. "He can think of nothing but the last judgment--he's praying to the dear God!" Later in the day the noise of shovels was heard. The workmen were outside; they cleared one of the pavements so that one could just get by; but the surface of the street was still on a level with the roofs. Now one could get down to the harbor once more; it felt almost as though one were breathing again after a choking-fit. As far as the eyes could reach the ice extended, packed in high ridges and long ramparts where the waves had battled. A storm was brewing. "God be thanked!" said the old seamen, "now the ice will go!" But it did not move. And then they understood that the whole sea was frozen; there could not be one open spot as big as a soup-plate on which the storm could begin its work. But it was a wonderful sight, to see the sea lying dead and motionless as a rocky desert in the midst of this devastating storm. And one day the first farmer came to town, with news of the country. The farms inland were snowed up; men had to dig pathways into the open fields, and lead the horses in one by one; but of accidents he knew nothing. All activities came to a standstill. No one could do any work, and everything had to be used sparingly--especially coals and oil, both of which threatened to give out. The merchants had issued warnings as early as the beginning of the second week. Then the people began to take to all sorts of aimless doings; they built wonderful things with the snow, or wandered over the ice from town to town. And one day a dozen men made ready to go with the ice-boat to Sweden, to fetch the post; people could no longer do without news from the outside world. On Christianso they had hoisted the flag of distress; provisions were collected in small quantities, here, there, and everywhere, and preparations were made for sending an expedition thither. And then came the famine; it grew out of the frozen earth, and became the only subject of conversation. But only those who were well provided for spoke of it; those who suffered from want were silent. People appealed to organized charity; there was Bjerregrav's five thousand kroner in the bank. But no, they were not there. Ship-owner Monsen declared that Bjerregrav had recalled the money during his lifetime. There was no statement in his will to the contrary. The people knew nothing positively; but the matter gave plenty of occasion for discussion. However things might be, Monsen was the great man, now as always--and he gave a thousand kroner out of his own pocket for the help of the needy. Many eyes gazed out over the sea, but the men with the ice-boat did not come back; the mysterious "over yonder" had swallowed them. It was as though the world had sunk into the sea; as if, behind the rugged ice-field which reached to the horizon, there now lay nothing but the abyss. The "Saints" were the only people who were busy; they held overcrowded meetings, and spoke about the end of the world. All else lay as though dead. Under these conditions, who would worry himself about the future? In the workshop they sat in caps and overcoats and froze; the little coal that still remained had to be saved for the master. Pelle was in his room every moment. The master did not speak much now; he lay there and tossed to and fro, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling; but as soon as Pelle had left him he knocked for him again. "How are things going now?" he would ask wearily. "Run down to the harbor and see whether the ice isn't near breaking--it is so very cold; at this rate the whole earth will become a lump of ice. This evening they will certainly hold another meeting about the last judgment. Run and hear what they think about it." Pelle went, and returned with the desired information, but when he had done so the master had usually forgotten all about the matter. From time to time Pelle would announce that there seemed to be a bluish shimmer on the sea, far beyond the ice. Then the master's eyes would light up. But he was always cast down again by the next announcement. "The sea will eat up the ice yet--you'll see," said Master Andres, as though from a great distance. "But perhaps it cannot digest so much. Then the cold will get the upper hand, and we shall all be done for!" But one morning the ice-field drove out seaward, and a hundred men got ready to clear the channel of ice by means of dynamite. Three weeks had gone by since any post had been received from the outer world, and the steamer went out in order to fetch news from Sweden. It was caught by the ice out in the offing, and driven toward the south; from the harbor they could see it for days, drifting about in the ice-pack, now to the north and now to the south. At last the heavy bonds were broken. But it was difficult alike for the earth and for mankind to resume the normal activities of life. Everybody's health had suffered. The young master could not stand the change from the bitter frost to the thaw; when his cough did not torment him he lay quite still. "Oh, I suffer so dreadfully, Pelle!" he complained, whispering. "I have no pain--but I suffer, Pelle." But then one morning he was in a good humor. "Now I am past the turning-point," he said, in a weak but cheerful voice; "now you'll just see how quickly I shall get well. What day is it really to-day? Thursday? Death and the devil! then I must renew my lottery ticket! I am so light I was flying through the air all night long, and if I only shut my eyes I am flying again. That is the force in the new blood--by summer I shall be quite well. Then I shall go out and see the world! But one never--deuce take it!--gets to see the best--the stars and space and all that! So man must learn to fly. But I was there last night." Then the cough overpowered him again. Pelle had to lift him up; at every spasm there was a wet, slapping sound in his chest. He put one hand on Pelle's shoulder and leaned his forehead against the boy's body. Suddenly the cough ceased; and the white, bony hand convulsively clutched Pelle's shoulder. "Pelle, Pelle!" moaned the master, and he gazed at him, a horrible anxiety in his dying eyes. "What does he see now?" thought Pelle, shuddering; and he laid him back on his pillow. XXII Often enough did Pelle regret that he had wasted five years as apprentice. During his apprenticeship he had seen a hundred, nay, two hundred youths pass into the ranks of the journeymen; and then they were forthwith turned into the streets, while new apprentices from the country filled up the ranks again. There they were, and they had to stand on their own legs. In most cases they had learned nothing properly; they had only sat earning their master's daily bread, and now they suddenly had to vindicate their calling. Emil had gone to the dogs; Peter was a postman and earned a krone a day, and had to go five miles to do that. When he got home he had to sit over the knee-strap and waxed-end, and earn the rest of his livelihood at night. Many forsook their calling altogether. They had spent the best years of their youth in useless labor. Jens had done no better than the majority. He sat all day over repairs, and had become a small employer, but they were positively starving. The girl had recently had a miscarriage, and they had nothing to eat. When Pelle went to see them they were usually sitting still and staring at one another with red eyes; and over their heads hung the threat of the police, for they were not yet married. "If I only understood farm work!" said Jens. "Then I'd go into the country and serve with a farmer." Despite all his recklessness, Pelle could not help seeing his own fate in theirs; only his attachment to Master Andres had hindered him from taking to his heels and beginning something else. Now everything suddenly came to an end; old Jeppe sold the business, with apprentices and all. Pelle did not wish to be sold. Now was his opportunity; now, by a sudden resolve, he might bring this whole chapter to an end. "You don't go!" said Jeppe threateningly; "you have still a year of your apprenticeship before you! I shall give information to the police about you--and you've learned what that means." But Pelle went. Afterward they could run to the police as often as they liked. With a light and cheerful mind he rented an attic on the hill above the harbor, and removed his possessions thither. He felt as though he was stretching himself after his years of slavery; he no longer had any one over him, and he had no responsibilities, and no burdens. Year by year he had fought against a continual descent. It had by no means fortified his youthful courage vainly to pit his energies, day after day, against the decline of the workshop; he was only able to hold back the tide a little, and as for the rest, he must perforce sink with the business. A good share of resignation and a little too much patience with regard to his eighteen years--this was for the moment his net profit from the process of going downhill. Now it all lay at the foot of the hill, and he could stand aside and draw himself up a little. His conscience was clear, and he felt a somewhat mitigated delight in his freedom; that was all he had won. He had no money for traveling, and his clothes were in a sad case; but that did not trouble him at first. He breathed deeply, and considered the times. The death of the master had left a great void within him; he missed that intelligent glance, which had given him the feeling that he was serving an idea; and the world was a terribly desolate and God-forsaken place now that this glance no longer rested on him, half lucid and half unfathomable, and now that the voice was silent which had always gone to his heart--when it was angry just as much as when it was infinitely mild or frolicsome. And where he was used to hear that voice his ear encountered only solitude. He did nothing to arouse himself; he was for the present idle. This or that employer was after him, truly, for they all knew that he was a quick and reliable worker, and would willingly have taken him as apprentice, for a krone a week and his food. But Pelle would have none of them; he felt that his future did not lie in that direction. Beyond that he knew nothing, but only waited, with a curious apathy, for something to happen--something, anything. He had been hurried out of his settled way of life, yet he had no desire to set to work. From his window he could look out over the harbor, where the extensive alterations that had been interrupted by the winter were again in full swing. And the murmur of the work rose up to him; they were hewing, boring and blasting; the tip-wagons wandered in long rows up the slipway, threw their contents out on the shore, and returned. His limbs longed for strenuous work with pick and shovel, but his thoughts took another direction. If he walked along the street the industrious townsfolk would turn to look after him, exchanging remarks which were loud enough to reach his ear. "There goes Master Jeppe's apprentice, loafing along," they would tell one another; "young and strong he is, but he doesn't like work. He'll turn into a loafer if you give him time-- that you can see. Yes, wasn't it he who got a beating at the town hall, for his brutal behavior? What else can you expect of him?" So then Pelle kept the house. Now and again he got a little work from comrades, and poor people of his acquaintance; he did his best without proper implements, or if he could not manage otherwise he would go to Jens. Jens had lasts and an anvil. At other times he sat at the window, freezing, and gazed out over the harbor and the sea. He saw the ships being rigged and fitted, and with every ship that went gliding out of the harbor, to disappear below the horizon, it seemed to him that a last possibility had escaped him; but although he had such a feeling it did not stir him. He shrank from Morten, and did not mix with other people. He was ashamed to be so idle when every one else was working. As for food, he managed fairly well; he lived on milk and bread, and needed only a few ore a day. He was able to avoid extreme hunger. As for firing, it was not to be thought of. Sitting idly in his room, he enjoyed his repose, apart from a certain feeling of shame; otherwise he was sunk in apathy. On sunny mornings he got up early and slipped out of the town. All day long he would stroll in the great pine-woods or lie on the dunes by the shore, with the murmur of the sea sounding through his half- slumber. He ate like a dog whatever he could get that was eatable, without particularly thinking of what it consisted. The glitter of the sun on the water, and the poignant scent of the pine-trees, and the first rising of the sluggish sap which came with spring, made him dizzy, and filled his brain with half-wild imaginations. The wild animals were not afraid of him, but only stood for a moment inhaling his scent; then they would resume their daily life before his eyes. They had no power to disturb his half-slumber; but if human beings approached, he would hide himself, with a feeling of hostility, almost of hatred. He experienced a kind of well-being out in the country. The thought often occurred to him that he would give up his dwelling in the town, and creep at night under the nearest tree. Only when the darkness hid him did he return to his room. He would throw himself, fully dressed, on his bed, and lie there until he fell asleep. As though from a remote distance he could hear his next-door neighbor, Strom the diver, moving about his room with tottering steps, and clattering with his cooking utensils close at hand. The smell of food, mingled with tobacco smoke and the odor of bedding, which crept through the thin board partition, and hovered, heavy and suffocating, above his head, became even more overpowering. His mouth watered. He shut his eyes and forced himself to think of other things, in order to deaden his hunger. Then a light, well-known step sounded on the stairs and some one knocked on the door--it was Morten. "Are you there, Pelle?" he asked. But Pelle did not move. Pelle could hear Strom attacking his bread with great bites, and chewing it with a smacking sound; and suddenly in the intervals of mastication, another sound was audible; a curious bellowing, which was interrupted every time the man took a bite; it sounded like a child eating and crying simultaneously. That another person should cry melted something in Pelle, and filled him with a feeble sense of something living; he raised himself on his elbows and listened to Strom struggling with terror, while cold shudders chased one another down his back. People said that Strom lived here because in his youth he had done something at home. Pelle forgot his own need and listened, rigid with terror, to this conflict with the powers of evil. Patiently, through his clenched teeth, in a voice broken by weeping, Strom attacked the throng of tiny devils with words from the Bible. "I'll do something to you at last that'll make you tuck your tails between your legs!" he cried, when he had read a little. There was a peculiar heaviness about his speech, which seemed charged with a craving for peace. "Ah!" he cried presently, "you want some more, you damned rascals, do you? Then what have you got to say to this --'I, the Lord thy God, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob'"--Strom hurled the words at them, anger crept into his voice, and suddenly he lost patience. He took the Bible and flung it on the floor. "Satan take you, then!" he shouted, laying about him with the furniture. Pelle lay bathed in sweat, listening to this demoniac struggle; and it was with a feeling of relief that he heard Strom open the window and drive the devils out over the roofs. The diver fought the last part of the battle with a certain humor. He addressed the corner of the room in a wheedling, flattering tone. "Come, you sweet, pretty little devil! What a white skin you have--Strom would so like to stroke you a little! No, you didn't expect that! Are we getting too clever for you? What? You'd still bite, would you, you devil's brat? There, don't scowl like that!"--Strom shut the window with an inward chuckle. For a while he strolled about amusing himself. "Strom is still man enough to clear up Hell itself!" he said, delighted. Pelle heard him go to bed, and he himself fell asleep. But in the night he awoke; Strom was beating time with his head against the board partition, while he lay tearfully singing "By the waters of Babylon!" But halfway through the psalm the diver stopped and stood up. Pelle heard him groping to and fro across the floor and out on the landing. Seized with alarm, he sprang out of bed and struck a light. Outside stood Strom, in the act of throwing a noose over the rafters. "What do you want here?" he said fiercely. "Can I never get any peace from you?" "Why do you want to lay hands on yourself?" asked Pelle quietly. "There's a woman and a little child sitting there, and she's forever and forever crying in my ear. I can't stand it any longer!" answered Strom, knotting his rope. "Think of the little child, then!" said Pelle firmly, and he tore down the rope. Strom submitted to be led back into his room, and he crawled into bed. But Pelle must stay with him; he dared not put out the light and lie alone in the darkness. "Is it the devils?" asked Pelle. "What devils?" Strom knew nothing of any devils. "No, it's remorse," he replied. "The child and its mother are continually complaining of my faithlessness." But next moment he would spring out of bed and stand there whistling as though he was coaxing a dog. With a sudden grip he seized something by the throat, opened the window, and threw it out. "So, that was it!" he said, relieved; "now there's none of the devil's brood left!" He reached after the bottle of brandy. "Leave it alone!" said Pelle, and he took the bottle away from him. His will increased in strength at the sight of the other's misery. Strom crept into bed again. He lay there tossing to and fro, and his teeth chattered. "If I could only have a mouthful!" he said pleadingly; "what harm can that do me? It's the only thing that helps me! Why should a man always torment himself and play the respectable when he can buy peace for his soul so cheaply? Give me a mouthful!" Pelle passed him the bottle. "You should take one yourself--it sets a man up! Do you think I can't see that you've suffered shipwreck, too? The poor man goes aground so easily, he has so little water under the keel. And who d'you think will help him to get off again if he's betrayed his own best friend? Take a swallow, then--it wakes the devil in us and gives us courage to live." No, Pelle wanted to go to bed. "Why do you want to go now? Stay here, it is so comfortable. If you could, tell me about something, something that'll drive that damned noise out of my ears for a bit! There's a young woman and a little child, and they're always crying in my ears." Pelle stayed, and tried to distract the diver. He looked into his own empty soul, and he could find nothing there; so he told the man of Father Lasse and of their life at Stone Farm, with everything mixed up just as it occurred to him. But his memories rose up within him as he spoke of them, and they gazed at him so mournfully that they awakened his crippled soul to life. Suddenly he felt utterly wretched about himself, and he broke down helplessly. "Now, now!" said Strom, raising his head. "Is it your turn now? Have you, too, something wicked to repent of, or what is it?" "I don't know." "You don't know? That's almost like the women--crying is one of their pleasures. But Strom doesn't hang his head; he would like to be at peace with himself, if it weren't for a pair of child's eyes that look at him so reproachfully, day in and day out, and the crying of a girl! They're both at home there in Sweden, wringing their hands for their daily bread. And the one that should provide for them is away from them here and throws away his earnings in the beer-houses. But perhaps they're dead now because I've forsaken them. Look you, that is a real grief; there's no child's talk about that! But you must take a drink for it." But Pelle did not hear; he sat there gazing blindly in front of him. All at once the chair began to sail through air with him; he was almost fainting with hunger. "Give me just one drink--I've had not a mouthful of food to-day!" He smiled a shamefaced smile at the confession. With one leap, Strom was out of bed. "No, then you shall have something to eat," he said eagerly, and he fetched some food. "Did one ever see the like--such a desperate devil! To take brandy on an empty stomach! Eat now, and then you can drink yourself full elsewhere! Strom has enough on his conscience without that.... He can drink his brandy himself! Well, well, then, so you cried from hunger! It sounded like a child crying to me!" Pelle often experienced such nights. They enlarged his world in the direction of the darkness. When he came home late and groped his way across the landing he always experienced a secret terror lest he should rub against Strom's lifeless body; and he only breathed freely when he heard him snoring or ramping round his room. He liked to look in on him before he went to bed. Strom was always delighted to see him, and gave him food; but brandy he would not give him. "It's not for fellows as young as you! You'll get the taste for it early enough, perhaps." "You drink, yourself," said Pelle obstinately. "Yes, I drink to deaden remorse. But that's not necessary in your case." "I'm so empty inside," said Pelle. "Really brandy might set me up a little. I feel as if I weren't human at all, but a dead thing, a table, for instance." "You must do something--anything--or you'll become a good-for- nothing. I've seen so many of our sort go to the dogs; we haven't enough power of resistance!" "It's all the same to me what becomes of me!" replied Pelle drowsily. "I'm sick of the whole thing!" XXIII It was Sunday, and Pelle felt a longing for something unaccustomed. At first he went out to see Jens, but the young couple had had a dispute and had come to blows. The girl had let the frying-pan containing the dinner fall into the fire, and Jens had given her a box on the ears. She was still white and poorly after her miscarriage. Now they were sitting each in a corner, sulking like children. They were both penitent, but neither would say the first word. Pelle succeeded in reconciling them, and they wanted him to stay for dinner. "We've still got potatoes and salt, and I can borrow a drop of brandy from a neighbor!" But Pelle went; he could not watch them hanging on one another's necks, half weeping, and kissing and babbling, and eternally asking pardon of one another. So he went out to Due's. They had removed to an old merchant's house where there was room for Due's horses. They seemed to be getting on well. It was said that the old consul took an interest in them and helped them on. Pelle never went into the house, but looked up Due in the stable, and if he was not at home Pelle would go away again. Anna did not treat him as though he was welcome. Due himself greeted him cordially. If he had no rounds to make he used to hang about the stable and potter round the horses; he did not care about being in the house. Pelle gave him a hand, cutting chaff for him, or helping in anything that came to hand, and then they would go into the house together. Due was at once another man if he had Pelle behind him; he was more decided in his behavior. Anna was gradually and increasingly getting the upper hand over him. She was just as decided as ever, and kept the house in good order. She no longer had little Marie with her. She dressed her own two children well, and sent them to a school for young children, and she paid for their attendance. She was delightful to look at, and understood how to dress herself, but she would hear nothing good of any one else. Pelle was not smart enough for her; she turned up her nose at his every-day clothes, and in order to make him feel uncomfortable she was always talking about Alfred's engagement to Merchant Lau's daughter. This was a fine match for him. "_He_ doesn't loaf about and sleep his time away, and sniff at other people's doors in order to get their plate of food," she said. Pelle only laughed; nothing made any particular impression on him nowadays. The children ran about, wearying themselves in their fine clothes --they must not play with the poor children out-of-doors, and must not make themselves dirty. "Oh, play with us for a bit, Uncle Pelle!" they would say, hanging on to him. "Aren't you our uncle too? Mother says you aren't our uncle. She's always wanting us to call the consul uncle, but we just run away. His nose is so horribly red." "Does the consul come to see you, then?" asked Pelle. "Yes, he often comes--he's here now!" Pelle peeped into the yard. The pretty wagon had been taken out. "Father's gone out," said the children. Then he slipped home again. He stole a scrap of bread and a drop of brandy from Strom, who was not at home, and threw himself on his bed. As the darkness came on he strolled out and lounged, freezing, about the street corners. He had a vague desire to do something. Well-dressed people were promenading up and down the street, and many of his acquaintances were there, taking their girls for a walk; he avoided having to greet them, and to listen to whispered remarks and laughter at his expense. Lethargic as he was, he still had the acute sense of hearing that dated from the time of his disgrace at the town hall. People enjoyed finding something to say when he passed them; their laughter still had the effect of making his knees begin to jerk with a nervous movement, like the quickly-suppressed commencement of a flight. He slipped into a side-street; he had buttoned his thin jacket tightly about him, and turned up his collar. In the half-darkness of the doorways stood young men and girls, in familiar, whispered conversation. Warmth radiated from the girls, and their bibbed aprons shone in the darkness. Pelle crept along in the cold, and knew less than ever what to do with himself; he ranged about to find a sweetheart for himself. In the market he met Alfred, arm-in-arm with Lau's daughter. He carried a smart walking-stick, and wore brown gloves and a tall hat. "The scamp--he still owes me two and a half kroner, and I shall never get it out of him!" thought Pelle, and for a moment he felt a real desire to spring upon him and to roll all his finery in the mud. Alfred turned his head the other way. "He only knows me when he wants to do something and has no money!" said Pelle bitterly. He ran down the street at a jog-trot, in order to keep himself warm, turning his eyes toward the windows. The bookbinder and his wife were sitting at home, singing pious songs. The man drank when at home; that one could see plainly on the blind. At the wool-merchant's they were having supper. Farther on, at the Sow's, there was life, as always. A mist of tobacco smoke and a great deal of noise were escaping through the open window. The Sow kept a house for idle seamen, and made a great deal of money. Pelle had often been invited to visit her, but had always considered himself too good; moreover, he could not bear Rud. But this evening he seized greedily upon the memory of this invitation, and went in. Perhaps a mouthful of food would come his way. At a round table sat a few tipsy seamen, shouting at one another, and making a deafening row. The Sow sat on a young fellow's knee; she lay half over the table and dabbled her fingers in a puddle of spilt beer; from time to time she shouted right in the face of those who were making the most noise. The last few years had not reduced her circumference. "Now look at that! Is that you, Pelle?" she said, and she stood up to give him her hand. She was not quite sober, and had some difficulty in taking his. "That's nice of you to come, now--I really thought we weren't good enough for you! Now, sit down and have a drop; it won't cost you anything." She motioned to him to take a seat. The sailors were out of humor; they sat staring sleepily at Pelle. Their heavy heads wagged helplessly. "That's surely a new customer?" asked one, and the others laughed. The Sow laughed too, but all at once became serious. "Then you can leave him out of your games, for he's far too good to be dragged into anything; one knows what you are!" She sank into a chair next to Pelle, and sat looking at him, while she rubbed her own greasy countenance. "How tall and fine you've grown--but you aren't well-off for clothes! And you don't look to be overfed.... Ah, I've known you from the time when you and your father came into the country; a little fellow you were then, and Lasse brought me my mother's hymn-book!" She was suddenly silent, and her eyes filled with tears. One of the sailors whispered to the rest, and they began to laugh. "Stop laughing, you swine!" she cried angrily, and she crossed over to them. "You aren't going to play any of your nonsense with him--he comes like a memory of the times when I was respectable, too. His father is the only creature living who can prove that I was once a pretty, innocent little maid, who got into bad company. He's had me on his lap and sung lullabies to me." She looked about her defiantly, and her red face quivered. "Didn't you weigh as much then as you do now?" asked one of the men, and embraced her. "Don't play the fool with the little thing!" cried another. "Don't you see she's crying? Take her on your lap and sing her a lullaby-- then she'll believe you are Lasse-Basse!" Raging, she snatched up a bottle. "Will you hold your tongue with your jeering? Or you'll get this on the head!" Her greasy features seemed to run together in her excitement. They let her be, and she sat there sobbing, her hands before her face. "Is your father still alive?" she asked. "Then give him my respects--just say the Sow sends her respects--you can safely call me the Sow!--and tell him he's the only person in the world I have to thank for anything. He thought well of me, and he brought me the news of mother's death." Pelle sat there listening with constraint to her tearful speech, with an empty smile. He had knives in his bowels, he was so empty, and the beer was going to his head. He remembered all the details of Stone Farm, where he had first seen and heard the Sow, just as Father Lasse had recalled her home and her childhood to her. But he did not connect any further ideas with that meeting; it was a long time ago, and--"isn't she going to give me anything to eat?" he thought, and listened unsympathetically to her heavy breathing. The sailors sat looking at her constrainedly; a solemn silence lay on their mist-wreathed faces; they were like drunken men standing about a grave. "Give over washing the decks now--and get us something to drink!" an old fellow said suddenly. "Each of us knows what it is to have times of childish innocence come back to him, and I say it's a jolly fine thing when they will peep through the door at old devils like us! But let the water stop overboard now, I say! The more one scours an old barge the more damage comes to light! So, give us something to drink now, and then the cards, ma'am!" She stood up and gave them what they asked for; she had mastered her emotion, but her legs were still heavy. "That's right--and then we've got a sort of idea that to-day is Sunday! Show us your skill, ma'am, quick!" "But that costs a krone, you know!" she said, laughing. They collected the money and she went behind the bar and undressed. She reappeared in her chemise, with a burning candle in her hand.... Pelle slipped out. He was quite dizzy with hunger and a dull feeling of shame. He strolled on at random, not knowing what he did. He had only one feeling--that everything in the world was indifferent to him, whatever happened--whether he went on living in laborious honesty, or defiled himself with drinking, or perished--it was all one to him! What was the good of it all? No one cared what happened to him--not even he himself. Not a human soul would miss him if he went to the dogs--but yes, there was Lasse, Father Lasse! But as for going home now and allowing them to see him in all his wretchedness --when they had expected such unreasonable things of him--no, he could not do it! The last remnants of shame protested against it. And to work--what at? His dream was dead. He stood there with a vague feeling that he had come to the very edge of the abyss, which is so ominous to those in the depths. Year in, year out, he had kept himself by his never-flagging exertions, and with the demented idea that he was mounting upward. And now he stood very near the lowest depth of life--the very bottom. And he was so tired. Why not let himself sink yet a little further; why not let destiny run its course? There would be a seductive repose in the acts, after his crazy struggle against the superior powers. The sound of a hymn aroused him slightly. He had come down a side-street, and right in front of him stood a wide, lofty building, with the gable facing the street and a cross on the point of the gable. Hundreds of voices had sought, in the course of the years, to entice him hither; but in his arrogance he had had no use for spiritual things. What was there here for a smart youngster? And now he was stranded outside! And now he felt a longing for a little care, and he had a feeling that a hand had led him hither. The hall was quite filled with poor families. They were packed amazingly close together on the benches, each family by itself; the men, as a rule, were asleep, and the women had all they could do to quiet their children, and to make them sit politely with their legs sticking out in front of them. These were people who had come to enjoy a little light and warmth, free of cost, in the midst of their desolate lives; on Sundays, at least, they thought, they could ask for a little of these things. They were the very poorest of the poor, and they sought refuge here, where they would not be persecuted, and where they were promised their part in the millennium. Pelle knew them all, both those whom he had seen before and those others, who wore the same expression, as of people drowned in the ocean of life. He soon found himself cozily settled among all these dishevelled nestlings, whom the pitiless wind had driven oversea, and who were now washed ashore by the waves. A tall man with a full beard and a pair of good child-like eyes stood up among the benches, beating the time of a hymn--he was Dam, the smith. He led the singing, and as he stood there he bent his knees in time, and they all sang with him, with tremulous voices, each in his own key, of that which had passed over them. The notes forced their way through the parched, worn throats, cowering, as though afraid, now that they had flown into the light. Hesitatingly they unfurled their fragile, gauzy wings, and floated out into the room, up from the quivering lips. And under the roof they met with their hundreds of sisters, and their defilement fell from them. They became a jubilation, loud and splendid, over some unknown treasure, over the kingdom of happiness, that was close at hand. To Pelle it seemed that the air must be full of butterflies winged with sunshine: "O blessed, blessed shall we be When we, from care and mis'ry free, The splendor of Thy kingdom see, And with our Saviour come to Thee!" "Mother, I'm hungry!" said a child's voice, as the hymn was followed by silence. The mother, herself emaciated, silenced the child with a shocked expression, and looked wonderingly about her. What a stupid idea of the child's! "You've just had your food!" she said loudly, as though she had been comfortably off. But the child went on crying: "Mother, I'm so hungry!" Then Baker Jorgen's Soren came by, and gave the child a roll. He had a whole basket full of bread. "Are there any more children who are hungry?" he asked aloud. He looked easily in people's faces, and was quite another creature to what he was at home; here no one laughed at him, and no one whispered that he was the brother of his own son. An old white-bearded man mounted the pulpit at the back of the hall. "That's him," was whispered in every direction, and they all hastened to clear their throats by coughing, and to induce the children to empty their mouths of food. He took the cry of the little one as his text: "Mother, I am so hungry!" That was the voice of the world--that great, terrible cry--put into the mouth of a child. He saw no one there who had not writhed at the sound of that cry on the lips of his own flesh and blood--no one who, lest he should hear it again, had not sought to secure bread during his lifetime--no one who had not been beaten back. But they did not see God's hand when that hand, in its loving-kindness, changed that mere hunger for bread into a hunger for happiness. They were the poor, and the poor are God's chosen people. For that reason they must wander in the desert, and must blindly ask: "Where is the Promised Land?" But the gleam of which the faithful followed was not earthly happiness! God himself led them to and fro until their hunger was purged and became the true hunger--the hunger of the soul for eternal happiness! They did not understand much of what he said; but his words set free something within them, so that they engaged in lively conversation over everyday things. But suddenly the buzz of conversation was silenced; a little hunchbacked man had clambered up on a bench and was looking them over with glittering eyes. This was Sort, the traveling shoemaker from the outer suburb. "We want to be glad and merry," he said, assuming a droll expression; "God's children are always glad, however much evil they have to fight against, and they can meet with no misfortune--God is Joy!" He began to laugh, as boisterously as a child, and they all laughed with him; one infected the next. They could not control themselves; it was as though an immense merriment had overwhelmed them all. The little children looked at the grown-ups and laughed, till their little throats began to cough with laughing. "He's a proper clown!" said the men to their wives, their own faces broad with laughter, "but he's got a good heart!" On the bench next to Pelle sat a silent family, a man and wife and three children, who breathed politely through their raw little noses. The parents were little people, and there was a kind of inward deftness about them, as though they were continually striving to make themselves yet smaller. Pelle knew them a little, and entered into conversation with them. The man was a clay-worker, and they lived in one of the miserable huts near the "Great Power's" home. "Yes, that is true--that about happiness," said the wife. "Once we too used to dream of getting on in the world a little, so that we might be sure of our livelihood; and we scraped a little money together, that some good people lent us, and we set up in a little shop, and I kept it while father went to work. But it wouldn't answer; no one supported us, and we got poorer goods because we were poor, and who cares about dealing with very poor people? We had to give it up, and we were deeply in debt, and we're still having to pay it off--fifty ore every week, and there we shall be as long as we live, for the interest is always mounting up. But we are honorable people, thank God!" she concluded. The man took no part in the conversation. Her last remark was perhaps evoked by a man who had quietly entered the hall, and was now crouching on a bench in the background; for he was not an honorable man. He had lived on a convict's bread and water; he was "Thieving Jacob," who about ten years earlier had smashed in the window of Master Jeppe's best room and had stolen a pair of patent-leather shoes for his wife. He had heard of a rich man who had given his betrothed such a pair of shoes, and he wanted to see what it was like, just for once, to give a really fine present--a present worth as much as one would earn in two weeks. This he had explained before the court. "Numbskull!" said Jeppe always, when the conversation touched upon Jacob; "for such a miserable louse suddenly to get a swollen head, to want to make big presents! And if it had been for his young woman even--but for his wife! No, he paid the penalty to the very last day--in spite of Andres." Yes, he certainly had to pay the penalty! Even here no one would sit next to him! Pelle looked at him and wondered that his own offence should be so little regarded. The remembrance of it now only lay in people's eyes when they spoke to him. But at this moment Smith Dam went and sat next to Thieving Jacob, and they sat hand-in-hand and whispered. And over yonder sat some one who nodded to Pelle--in such a friendly manner; it was the woman of the dancing-shoes; her young man had left her, and now she was stranded here--her dancing days were over. Yet she was grateful to Pelle; the sight of him had recalled delightful memories; one could see that by the expression of her eyes and mouth. Pelle's own temper was softened as he sat there. Something melted within him; a quiet and humble feeling of happiness came over him. There was still one human being who believed herself in Pelle's debt, although everything had gone wrong for her. As the meeting was breaking up, at half-past nine, she was standing in the street, in conversation with another woman. She came up to Pelle, giving him her hand. "Shall we walk a little way together?" she asked him. She evidently knew of his circumstances; he read compassion in her glance. "Come with me," she said, as their ways parted. "I have a scrap of sausage that's got to be eaten. And we are both of us lonely." Hesitatingly he went with her, a little hostile, for the occasion was new and unfamiliar. But once he was seated in her little room he felt thoroughly at ease. Her white, dainty bed stood against the wall. She went to and fro about the room, cooking the sausage at the stove, while she opened her heart to him, unabashed. It isn't everybody would take things so easily! thought Pelle, and he watched her moving figure quite happily. They had a cheerful meal, and Pelle wanted to embrace her in his gratitude, but she pushed his hands away. "You can keep that for another time!" she said, laughing. "I'm a poor old widow, and you are nothing but a child. If you want to give me pleasure, why, just settle down and come to yourself again. It isn't right that you should be just loafing about and idling, and you so young and such a nice boy. And now go home, for I must get up early to-morrow and go to my work." Pelle visited her almost every evening. She had a disagreeable habit of shaking him out of his slumber, but her simple and unchanging manner of accepting and enduring everything was invigorating. Now and again she found a little work for him, and was always delighted when she could share her poor meal with him. "Any one like myself feels a need of seeing a man-body at the table-end once in a while," she said. "But hands off--you don't owe me anything!" She criticized his clothes. "They'll all fall off your body soon-- why don't you put on something else and let me see to them?" "I have nothing but these," said Pelle, ashamed. On Saturday evening he had to take off his rags, and creep, mother- naked, into her bed. She would take no refusal, and she took shirt and all, and put them into a bucket of water. It took her half the night to clean everything. Pelle lay in bed watching her, the coverlet up to his chin. He felt very strange. As for her, she hung the whole wash to dry over the stove, and made herself a bed on a couple of chairs. When he woke up in the middle of the morning she was sitting by the window mending his clothes. "But what sort of a night did you have?" asked Pelle, a trifle concerned. "Excellent! Do you know what I've thought of this morning? You ought to give up your room and stay here until you are on your feet again --you've had a good rest--for once," she smiled teasingly. "That room is an unnecessary expense. As you see, there's room here for two." But Pelle would not agree. He would not hear of being supported by a woman. "Then people will believe that there's something wrong between us--and make a scandal of it," he said. "Let them then!" she answered, with her gay laugh. "If I've a good conscience it's indifferent to me what others think." While she was talking she was working diligently at his linen, and she threw one article after another at his head. Then she ironed his suit. "Now you're quite a swell again!" she said, when he stood up dressed once more, and she looked at him affectionately. "It's as though you had become a new creature. If I were only ten or fifteen years younger I'd be glad to go down the street on your arm. But you shall give me a kiss--I've put you to rights again, as if you were my own child." She kissed him heartily and turned about to the stove. "And now I've got no better advice than that we have some cold dinner together and then go our ways," she said, with her back still turned. "All my firing has been used overnight to dry your things, and you can't stay here in the cold. I think I can pay a visit somewhere or other, and so the day will pass; and you can find some corner to put yourself in.' "It's all the same to me where I am," said Pelle indifferently. She looked at him with a peculiar smile. "Are you really always going to be a loafer?" she said. "You men are extraordinary creatures! If anything at all goes wrong with you, you must start drinking right away, or plunge yourself into unhappiness in some other way--you are no better than babies! We must work quietly on, however things go with us!" She stood there hesitating in her hat and cloak. "Here's five-and-twenty ore," she said; "that's just for a cup of coffee to warm you!" Pelle would not accept it. "What do I want with your money?" he said. "Keep it yourself!" "Take it, do! I know it's only a little, but I have no more, and there's no need for us to be ashamed of being helped by one another." She put the coin in his jacket pocket and hurried off. Pelle strolled out to the woods. He did not feel inclined to go home, to resume the aimless battle with Strom. He wandered along the deserted paths, and experienced a feeble sense of well-being when he noticed that the spring was really coming. The snow was still lying beneath the old moss-gray pinetrees, but the toadstools were already thrusting their heads up through the pine-needles, and one had a feeling, when walking over the ground, as though one trod upon rising dough. He found himself pondering over his own affairs, and all of a sudden he awoke out of his half-slumber. Something had just occurred to him, something cozy and intimate--why, yes, it was the thought that he might go to Marie and set up for himself, like Jens and his girl. He could get hold of a few lasts and sit at home and work ... he could scrape along for a bit, until better times came. She earned something too, and she was generous. But when he thought over the matter seriously it assumed a less pleasant aspect. He had already sufficiently abused her poverty and her goodness of heart. He had taken her last scrap of firing, so that she was now forced to go out in order to get a little warmth and some supper. The idea oppressed him. Now that his eyes were opened he could not escape this feeling of shame. It went home and to bed with him, and behind all her goodness he felt her contempt for him, because he did not overcome his misery by means of work, like a respectable fellow. On the following morning he was up early, and applied for work down at the harbor. He did not see the necessity of work in the abstract, but he would not be indebted to a woman. On Sunday evening he would repay her outlay over him and his clothes. XXIV Pelle stood on the floor of the basin, loading broken stone into the tip-wagons. When a wagon was full he and his comrade pushed it up to the head of the track, and came gliding back hanging to the empty wagons. Now and again the others let fall their tools, and looked across to where he stood; he was really working well for a cobbler! And he had a fine grip when it came to lifting the stone. When he had to load a great mass of rock into the wagon, he would lift it first to his knee, then he would let out an oath and put his whole body into it; he would wipe the sweat from his forehead and take a dram of brandy or a drop of beer. He was as good as any of the other men! He did not bother himself with ideas; two and two might make five for all he cared; work and fatigue were enough for him. Hard work had made his body supple and filled him with a sense of sheer animal well-being. "Will my beer last out the afternoon to-day?" he would wonder; beyond that nothing mattered. The future did not exist, nor yet the painful feeling that it did not exist; there was no remorse in him for what he had lost, or what he had neglected; hard work swallowed up everything else. There was only this stone that had to be removed--and then the next! This wagon which had to be filled-- and then the next! If the stone would not move at the first heave he clenched his teeth; he was as though possessed by his work. "He's still fresh to harness," said the others; "he'll soon knock his horns off!" But Pelle wanted to show his strength; that was his only ambition. His mate let him work away in peace and did not fatigue himself. From time to time he praised Pelle, in order to keep his steam up. This work down at the harbor was the hardest and lowest kind of labor; any one could get taken on for it without previous qualifications. Most of Pelle's comrades were men who had done with the world, who now let themselves go as the stream carried them, and he felt at ease among them. He stood on the solid ground, and no words had power to call the dead past to life; it had power to haunt only an empty brain. An iron curtain hung before the future; happiness lay here to his hand; the day's fatigue could straightway be banished by joyous drinking. His free time he spent with his companions. They led an unsettled, roving life; the rumor that extensive works were to be carried out had enticed them hither. Most were unmarried; a few had wives and children somewhere, but held their tongues about them, or no longer remembered their existence, unless reminded by something outside themselves. They had no proper lodgings, but slept in Carrier Koller's forsaken barn, which was close to the harbor. They never undressed, but slept in the straw, and washed in a bucket of water that was seldom changed; their usual diet consisted of stale bread, and eggs, which they grilled over a fire made between two stones. The life pleased Pelle, and he liked the society. On Sundays they ate and drank alternately, all day long, and lay in the smoke-filled barn; burrowing deep into the straw, they told stories, tragic stories of youngest sons who seized an axe and killed their father and mother, and all their brothers and sisters, because they thought they were being cheated of their share of their inheritance! Of children who attended confirmation class, and gave way to love, and had children themselves, and were beheaded for what they did! And of wives who did not wish to bring into the world the children it was their duty to bear, and whose wombs were closed as punishment! Since Pelle had begun to work here he had never been out to see Marie Nielsen. "She's making a fool of you," said the others, to whom he had spoken of Marie; "she's playing the respectable so that you shall bite. Women have always got second thoughts--it's safest to be on the lookout. They and these young widows would rather take two than one--they're the worst of all. A man must be a sturdy devil to be able to stand up against them." But Pelle was a man, and would allow no woman to lead him by the nose. Either you were good friends and no fuss about it, or nothing. He'd tell her that on Saturday, and throw ten kroner on the table-- then they would sure enough be quits! And if she made difficulties she'd get one over the mouth! He could not forgive her for using all her firing, and having to pass Sunday in the street; the remembrance would not leave him, and it burned like an angry spark. She wanted to make herself out a martyr. One day, about noon, Pelle was standing among the miners on the floor of the basin; Emil and he had just come from the shed, where they had swallowed a few mouthfuls of dinner. They had given up their midday sleep in order to witness the firing of a big blast during the midday pause when the harbor would be empty. The whole space was cleared, and the people in the adjacent houses had opened their windows so that they should not be shattered by the force of the explosion. The fuse was lit, and the men took shelter behind the caissons, and stood there chatting while they waited for the explosion. The "Great Power" was there too. He was always in the neighborhood; he would stand and stare at the workers with his apathetic expression, without taking part in anything. They took no notice of him, but let him move about as he pleased. "Take better cover, Pelle," said Emil; "it's going off directly!" "Where are Olsen and Strom?" said some one suddenly. The men looked at one another bewildered. "They'll be taking their midday sleep," said Emil. "They've been drinking something chronic this morning." "Where are they sleeping?" roared the foreman, and he sprang from his cover. They all had a foreboding, but no one wanted to say. It flashed across them that they must do something. But no one stirred. "Lord Jesus!" said Bergendal, and he struck his fist against the stone wall. "Lord Jesus!" The "Great Power" sprang from his shelter and ran along the side of the basin, taking long leaps from one mass of rock to the next, his mighty wooden shoes clattering as he went. "He's going to tear the fuse away!" cried Bergendal. "He'll never reach it--it must be burnt in!" There was a sound as of a cry of distress, far above the heads of those who heard it. They breathlessly followed the movements of the "Great Power"; they had come completely out of shelter. In Pelle an irrational impulse sprang into being. He made a leap forward, but was seized by the scruff of the neck. "One is enough," said Bergendal, and he threw him back. Now the "Great Power" had reached the goal. His hand was stretched out to seize the fuse. Suddenly he was hurled away from the fuse, as though by an invisible hand, and was swept upward and backward through the air, gently, like a human balloon, and fell on his back. Then the roar of the explosion drowned everything. When the last fragments had fallen the men ran forward. The "Great Power" lay stretched upon his back, looking quietly up at the sky. The corners of his mouth were a little bloody and the blood trickled from a hole behind the ear. The two drunken men were scathless. They rose to their feet, bewildered, a few paces beyond the site of the explosion. The "Great Power" was borne into the shed, and while the doctor was sent for Emil tore a strip from his blouse, and soaked it in brandy, and laid it behind the ear. The "Great Power" opened his eyes and looked about him. His glance was so intelligent that every one knew that he had not long to live. "It smells of brandy here," he said. "Who will stand me a drop?" Emil reached him the bottle, and he emptied it. "It tastes good," he said easily. "Now I haven't touched brandy for I don't know how long, but what was the good? The poor man must drink brandy, or he's good for nothing; it is no joke being a poor man! There is no other salvation for him; that you have seen by Strom and Olsen--drunken men never come to any harm. Have they come to any harm?" He tried to raise his head. Strom stepped forward. "Here we are," he said, his voice stifled with emotion. "But I'd give a good dead to have had us both blown to hell instead of this happening. None of us has wished you any good!" He held out his hand. But the "Great Power" could not raise his; he lay there, staring up through the holes in the thatched roof. "It has been hard enough, certainly, to belong to the poor," he said, "and it's a good thing it's all over. But you owe me no thanks. Why should I leave you in the lurch and take everything for myself--would that be like the 'Great Power'? Of course, the plan was mine! But could I have carried it out alone? No, money does everything. You've fairly deserved it! The 'Great Power' doesn't want to have more than any one else--where we have all done an equal amount of work." He raised his hand, painfully, and made a magnanimous gesture. "There--he believes he's the engineer of the harbor works!" said Strom. "He's wandering. Wouldn't a cold application do him good?" Emil took the bucket in order to fetch fresh water. The "Great Power" lay with closed eyes and a faint smile on his face; he was like a blind man who is listening. "Do you understand," he said, without opening his eyes, "how we have labored and labored, and yet have been barely able to earn our daily bread? The big people sat there and ate up everything that we could produce; when we laid down our tools and wanted to still our hunger there was nothing. They stole our thoughts, and if we had a pretty sweetheart or a young daughter they could do with her too--they didn't disdain our cripple even. But now that's done with, and we will rejoice that we have lived to see it; it might have gone on for a long time. Mother wouldn't believe what I told her at all--that the bad days would soon be over. But now just see! Don't I get just as much for my work as the doctor for his? Can't I keep my wife and daughter neat and have books and get myself a piano, just as he can? Isn't it a great thing to perform manual labor too? Karen has piano lessons now, just as I've always wished, for she's weakly and can't stand any hard work. You should just come home with me and hear her play--she does it so easily too! Poor people's children have talent too, it's just that no one notices it." "God, how he talks!" said Strom, crying. "It's almost as if he had the delirium." Pelle bent down over the "Great Power." "Now you must be good and be quiet," he said, and laid something wet on his forehead. The blood was trickling rapidly from behind his ear. "Let him talk," said Olsen. "He hasn't spoken a word for months now; he must feel the need to clear his mind this once. It'll be long before he speaks again, too!" Now the "Great Power" was only weakly moving his lips. His life was slowly bleeding away. "Have you got wet, little Karen?" he murmured. "Ah, well, it'll dry again! And now it's all well with you, now you can't complain. Is it fine to be a young lady? Only tell me everything you want. Why be modest? We've been that long enough! Gloves for the work-worn fingers, yes, yes. But you must play something for me too. Play that lovely song: 'On the joyful journey through the lands of earth....' That about the Eternal Kingdom!" Gently he began to hum it; he could no longer keep time by moving his head, but he blinked his eyes in time; and now his humming broke out into words. Something irresistibly impelled the others to sing in concert with him; perhaps the fact that it was a religious song. Pelle led them with his clear young voice; and it was he who best knew the words by heart. "Fair, fair is earth, And glorious Heaven; Fair is the spirit's journey long; Through all the lovely earthly kingdoms, Go we to Paradise with song." The "Great Power" sang with increasing strength, as though he would outsing Pelle. One of his feet was moving now, beating the time of the song. He lay with closed eyes, blindly rocking his head in time with the voices, like one who, at a drunken orgy, must put in his last word before he slips under the table. The saliva was running from the corners of his mouth. "The years they come, The years they go And down the road to death we throng, But ever sound the strains from heaven-- The spirit's joyful pilgrim song!" The "Great Power" ceased; his head drooped to one side, and at the same moment the others ceased to sing. They sat in the straw and gazed at him--his last words still rang in their ears, like a crazy dream, which mingled oddly with the victorious notes of the hymn. They were all sensible of the silent accusation of the dead, and in the solemnity of the moment they judged and condemned themselves. "Yes, who knows what we might come to!" said one ragged fellow, thoughtfully chewing a length of straw. "I shall never do any good," said Emil dejectedly. "With me it's always been from bad to worse. I was apprenticed, and when I became a journeyman they gave me the sack; I had wasted five years of my life and couldn't do a thing. Pelle--he'll get on all right." Astonished, Pelle raised his head and gazed at Emil uncomprehendingly. "What use is it if a poor devil tries to make his way up? He'll always be pushed down again!" said Olsen. "Just look at the 'Great Power'; could any one have had a better claim than he? No, the big folks don't allow us others to make our way up!" "And have we allowed it ourselves?" muttered Strom. "We are always uneasy if one of our own people wants to fly over our heads!" "I don't understand why all the poor folk don't make a stand together against the others," said Bergendal. "We suffer the same wrongs. If we all acted together, and had nothing to do with them that mean us harm, for instance, then it would soon be seen that collective poverty is what makes the wealth of the others. And I've heard that that's what they're doing elsewhere." "But we shall never in this life be unanimous about anything whatever," said an old stonemason sadly. "If one of the gentlemen only scratches our neck a bit, then we all grovel at his feet, and let ourselves be set on to one of our own chaps. If we were all like the 'Great Power,' then things might have turned out different." They were silent again; they sat there and gazed at the dead man; there was something apologetic in the bearing of each and all. "Yes, that comes late!" said Strom, with a sigh. Then he felt in the straw and pulled out a bottle. Some of the men still sat there, trying to put into words something that ought perhaps to be said; but then came the doctor, and they drew in their horns. They picked up their beer-cans and went out to their work. Silently Pelle gathered his possessions together and went to the foreman. He asked for his wages. "That's sudden," said the foreman. "You were getting on so well just now. What do you want to do now?" "I just want my wages," rejoined Pelle. What more he wanted, he himself did not know. And then he went home and put his room in order. It was like a pigsty; he could not understand how he could have endured such untidiness. In the meantime he thought listlessly of some way of escape. It had been very convenient to belong to the dregs of society, and to know that he could not sink any deeper; but perhaps there were still other possibilities. Emil had said a stupid thing--what did he mean by it? "Pelle, he'll get on all right!" Well, what did Emil know of the misery of others? He had enough of his own. He went down into the street in order to buy a little milk; then he would go back and sleep. He felt a longing to deaden all the thoughts that once more began to seethe in his head. Down in the street he ran into the arms of Sort, the wandering shoemaker. "Now we've got you!" cried Sort. "I was just coming here and wondering how best I could get to speak with you. I wanted to tell you that I begin my travelling to-morrow. Will you come with me? It is a splendid life, to be making the round of the farms now in the spring-time; and you'll go to the dogs if you stay here. Now you know all about it and you can decide. I start at six o'clock! I can't put it off any later!" Sort had observed Pelle that evening at the prayer-meeting, and on several occasions had spoken to him in the hope of arousing him. "He can put off his travels for a fortnight as far as I'm concerned!" thought Pelle, with a touch of self-esteem. He wouldn't go! To go begging for work from farm to farm! Pelle had learned his craft in the workshop, and looked down with contempt upon the travelling cobbler, who lives from hand to mouth and goes from place to place like a beggar, working with leather and waxed-ends provided on the spot, and eating out of the same bowl as the farm servants. So much pride of craft was still left in Pelle. Since his apprentice days, he had been accustomed to regard Sort as a pitiful survival from the past, a species properly belonging to the days of serfdom. "You'll go to the dogs!" Sort had said. And all Marie Melsen's covert allusions had meant the same thing. But what then? Perhaps he had already gone to the dogs! Suppose there was no other escape than this! But now he would sleep, and think no more of all these things. He drank his bottle of milk and ate some bread with it, and went to bed. He heard the church clock striking--it was midnight, and glorious weather. But Pelle wanted to sleep--only to sleep! His heart was like lead. He awoke early next morning and was out of bed with one leap. The sun filled his room, and he himself was filled with a sense of health and well-being. Quickly he slipped into his clothes--there was still so much that he wanted to do! He threw up the window, and drank in the spring morning in a breath that filled his body with a sense of profound joy. Out at sea the boats were approaching the harbor; the morning sun fell on the slack sails, and made them glow; every boat was laboring heavily forward with the aid of its tiller. He had slept like a stone, from the moment of lying down until now. Sleep lay like a gulf between yesterday and to-day. Whistling a tune to himself, he packed his belongings and set out upon his way, a little bundle under his arm. He took the direction of the church, in order to see the time. It was still not much past five. Then he made for the outermost suburb with vigorous steps, as joyful as though he were treading the road to happiness. XXV Two men appeared from the wood and crossed the highroad. One was little and hump-backed; he had a shoemaker's bench strapped tightly on his back; the edge rested on his hump, and a little pillow was thrust between, so that the bench should not chafe him. The other was young and strongly built; a little thin, but healthy and fresh- colored. He carried a great bundle of lasts on his back, which were held in equilibrium by another box, which he carried on his chest, and which, to judge by the sounds that proceeded from it, contained tools. At the edge of the ditch he threw down his burden and unstrapped the bench from the hunchback. They threw themselves down in the grass and gazed up into the blue sky. It was a glorious morning; the birds twittered and flew busily to and fro, and the cattle were feeding in the dewy clover, leaving long streaks behind them as they moved. "And in spite of that, you are always happy?" said Pelle. Sort had been telling him the sad story of his childhood. "Yes, look you, it often vexes me that I take everything so easily-- but what if I can't find anything to be sad about? If I once go into the matter thoroughly, I always hit on something or other that makes me still happier--as, for instance, your society. You are young, and health beams out of your eyes. The girls become so friendly wherever we go, and it's as though I myself were the cause of their pleasure!" "Where do you really get your knowledge of everything?" asked Pelle. "Do you find that I know so much?" Sort laughed gaily. "I go about so much, and I see so many different households, some where man and wife are as one, and others where they live like cat and dog. I come into contact with people of every kind. And I get to know a lot, too, because I'm not like other men--more than one maiden has confided her miseries to me. And then in winter, when I sit alone, I think over everything--and the Bible is a good book, a book a man can draw wisdom from. There a man learns to look behind things; and if you once realize that everything has its other side, then you learn to use your understanding. You can go behind everything if you want to, and they all lead in the same direction--to God. And they all came from Him. He is the connection, do you see; and once a man grasps that, then he is always happy. It would be splendid to follow things up further--right up to where they divide, and then to show, in spite of all, that they finally run together in God again! But that I'm not able to do." "We ought to see about getting on." Pelle yawned, and he began to bestir himself. "Why? We're so comfortable here--and we've already done what we undertook to do. What if there should be a pair of boots yonder which Sort and Pelle won't get to sole before they're done with? Some one else will get the job!" Pelle threw himself on his back and again pulled his cap over his eyes--he was in no hurry. He had now been travelling nearly a month with Sort, and had spent almost as much time on the road as sitting at his work. Sort could never rest when he had been a few days in one place; he must go on again! He loved the edge of the wood and the edge of the meadow, and could spend half the day there. And Pelle had many points of contact with this leisurely life in the open air; he had his whole childhood to draw upon. He could lie for hours, chewing a grass-stem, patient as a convalescent, while sun and air did their work upon him. "Why do you never preach to me?" he said suddenly, and he peeped mischievously from tinder his cap. "Why should I preach to you? Because I am religious? Well, so are you; every one who rejoices and is content is religious." "But I'm not at all content!" retorted Pelle, and he rolled on his back with all four limbs in the air. "But you--I don't understand why you don't get a congregation; you've got such a power over language." "Yes, if I were built as you are--fast enough. But I'm humpbacked!" "What does that matter? You don't want to run after the women!" "No, but one can't get on without them; they bring the men and the children after them. And it's really queer that they should--for women don't bother themselves about God! They haven't the faculty of going behind things. They choose only according to the outside--they want to hang everything on their bodies as finery--and the men too, yes, and the dear God best of all--they've got a use for the lot!" Pelle lay still for a time, revolving his scattered experiences. "But Marie Nielsen wasn't like that," he said thoughtfully. "She'd willingly give the shirt off her body and ask nothing for herself. I've behaved badly to her--I didn't even say goodbye before I came away!" "Then you must look her up when we come to town and confess your fault. There was no lovemaking between you?" "She treated me like a child; I've told you." Sort was silent a while. "If you would help me, we'd soon get a congregation! I can see it in your eyes, that you've got influence over them, if you only cared about it; for instance, the girl at Willow Farm. Thousands would come to us." Pelle did not answer. His thoughts were roaming back wonderingly to Willow Farm, where Sort and he had last been working; he was once more in that cold, damp room with the over-large bed, on which the pale girl's face was almost invisible. She lay there encircling her thick braids with her transparent hand, and gazed at him; and the door was gently closed behind him. "That was really a queer fancy," he said, and he breathed deeply; "some one she'd never laid eyes on before; I could cry now when I think of it." "The old folks had told her we were there, and asked if she wouldn't like me to read something from God's word with her. But she'd rather see you. The father was angry and didn't want to allow it. 'She has never thought about young men before,' he said, 'and she shall stand before the throne of God and the Lamb quite pure.' But I said, 'Do you know so precisely that the good God cares anything for what you call purity, Ole Jensen? Let the two of them come together, if they can take any joy in it.' Then we shut the door behind you--and how was it then?" Sort turned toward Pelle. "You know," replied Pelle crossly. "She just lay there and looked at me as though she was thinking: 'That's what he looks like--and he's come a long way here.' I could see by her eyes that you had spoken of me and that she knew about all my swinishness." Sort nodded. "Then she held out her hand to me. How like she is to one of God's angels already--I thought--but it's a pity in one who's so young. And then I went close to her and took her hand." "And what then?" Sort drew nearer to Pelle. His eyes hung expectantly on Pelle's lips. "Then she stretched out her mouth to me a little--and at that very moment I forgot what sort of a hog I'd been--and I kissed her!" "Didn't she say anything to you--not a word?" "She only looked at me with those eyes that you can't understand. Then I didn't know what I--what I ought to do next, so I came away." "Weren't you afraid that she might transfer death to you?" "No; why should I be? I didn't think about it. But she could never think of a thing like that--so child-like as she was!" They both lay for a time without speaking. "You have something in you that conquers them all!" said Sort at length. "If only you would help me--I'd see to the preaching!" Pelle stretched himself indolently--he felt no desire to create a new religion. "No, I want to go away and see the world now," he said. "There must be places in that world where they've already begun to go for the rich folks--that's where I want to go!" "One can't achieve good by the aid of evil--you had better stay here! Here you know where you are--and if we went together--" "No, there's nothing here for any one to do who is poor--if I go on here any longer, I shall end in the mud again. I want to have my share--even if I have to strike a bloodsucker dead to get it--and that couldn't be any very great sin! But shan't we see about getting on now? We've been a whole month now tramping round these Sudland farms. You've always promised me that we should make our way toward the heath. For months now I've heard nothing of Father Lasse and Karna. When things began to go wrong with me, it was as though I had quite forgotten them." Sort rose quickly. "Good! So you've still thoughts for other things than killing bloodsuckers! How far is it, then, to Heath Farm?" "A good six miles." "We'll go straight there. I've no wish to begin anything to-day." They packed their possessions on their backs and trudged onward in cheerful gossip. Sort pictured their arrival to Pelle. "I shall go in first and ask whether they've any old boots or harness that we can mend; and then you'll come in, while we're in the middle of a conversation." Pelle laughed. "Shan't I carry the bench for you? I can very well strap it on the other things." "You shan't sweat for me as well as yourself!" rejoined Sort, laughing. "You'd want to take off even your trousers then." They had chattered enough, and tramped on in silence. Pelle stepped forward carelessly, drinking in the fresh air. He was conscious of a superfluity of strength and well-being; otherwise he thought of nothing, but merely rejoiced unconsciously over his visit to his home. At every moment he had to moderate his steps, so that Sort should not be left behind. "What are you really thinking about now?" he asked suddenly. He would always have it that Sort was thinking of something the moment he fell silent. One could never know beforehand in what region he would crop up next. "That's just what the children ask!" replied Sort, laughing. "They always want to know what's inside." "Tell me, then--you might as well tell me!" "I was thinking about life. Here you walk at my side, strong and certain of victory as the young David. And yet a month ago you were part of the dregs of society!" "Yes, that is really queer," said Pelle, and he became thoughtful. "But how did you get into such a mess? You could quite well have kept your head above water if you had only wanted to!" "That I really don't know. I tell you, it's as if some one had hit you over the head; and then you run about and don't know what you're doing; and it isn't so bad if you've once got there. You work and drink and bang each other over the head with your beer-cans or bottles--" "You say that so contentedly--you don't look behind things--that's the point! I've seen so many people shipwrecked; for the poor man it's only one little step aside, and he goes to the dogs; and he himself believes he's a devilish fine fellow. But it was a piece of luck that you got out of it all! Yes, it's a wonder remorse didn't make your life bitter." "If we felt remorse we had brandy," said Pelle, with an experienced air. "That soon drives out everything else." "Then it certainly has its good points--it helps a man over the time of waiting!" "Do you really believe that an eternal kingdom is coming--the 'thousand-year kingdom'--the millennium? With good times for all, for the poor and the miserable?" Sort nodded. "God has promised it, and we must believe His Word. Something is being prepared over on the mainland, but whether it's the real millennium, I don't know." They tramped along. The road was stony and deserted. On either side the rocky cliffs, with their scrubby growth, were beginning to rise from the fields, and before them ranged the bluish rocky landscape of the heath or moorland. "As soon as we've been home, I shall travel; I must cross the sea and find out what they do really intend there," said Pelle. "I have no right to hold you back," answered Sort quietly, "but it will be lonely travelling for me. I shall feel as if I'd lost a son. But of course you've got other things to think of than to remember a poor hunchback! The world is open to you. Once you've feathered your nest, you'll think no more of little Sort!" "I shall think of you, right enough," replied Pelle. "And as soon as I'm doing well I shall come back and look out for you--not before. Father will be sure to object to my idea of travelling--he would so like me to take over Heath Farm from him; but there you must back me up. I've no desire to be a farmer." "I'll do that." "Now just look at it! Nothing but stone upon stone with heather and scrubby bushes in between! That's what Heath Farm was four years ago --and now it's quite a fine property. That the two of them have done --without any outside help." "You must be built of good timber," said Sort. "But what poor fellow is that up on the hill? He's got a great sack on his back and he's walking as if he'd fall down at every step." "That--that is Father Lasse! Hallo!" Pelle waved his cap. Lasse came stumbling up to them; he dropped his sack and gave them his hand without looking at them. "Are you coming this way?" cried Pelle joyfully; "we were just going on to look for you!" "You can save yourself the trouble! You've become stingy about using your legs. Spare them altogether!" said Lasse lifelessly. Pelle stared at him. "What's the matter? Are you leaving?" "Yes, we're leaving!" Lasse laughed--a hollow laugh. "Leaving--yes! We've left--indeed, we've each of us gone our own way. Karna has gone where there's no more care and trouble--and here's Lasse, with all that's his!" He struck his foot against the sack, and stood there with face averted from them, his eyes fixed upon the ground. All signs of life had vanished from Pelle's face. Horrified, he stared at his father, and his lips moved, but he could form no words. "Here I must meet my own son by accident in the middle of the empty fields! So often as I've looked for you and asked after you! No one knew anything about you. Your own flesh and blood has turned from you, I thought--but I had to tell Karna you were ill. She fully expected to see you before she went away. Then you must give him my love, she said, and God grant all may go well with him. She thought more about you than many a mother would have done! Badly you've repaid it. It's a long time ago since you set foot in our house." Still Pelle did not speak; he stood there swaying from side to side; every word was like the blow of a club. "You mustn't be too hard on him!" said Sort. "He's not to blame--ill as he's been!" "Ah, so you too have been through bad times and have got to fight your way, eh? Then, as your father, I must truly be the last to blame you." Lasse stroked his son's sleeve, and the caress gave Pelle pleasure. "Cry, too, my son--it eases the mind. In me the tears are dried up long ago. I must see how I can bear my grief; these have become hard times for me, you may well believe. Many a night have I sat by Karna and been at my wits' end--I could not leave her and go for help, and everything went wrong with us all at the same time. It almost came to my wishing you were ill. You were the one who ought to have had a kindly thought for us, and you could always have sent us news. But there's an end of it all!" "Are you going to leave Heath Farm, father?" asked Pelle quietly. "They have taken it away from me," replied Lasse wretchedly. "With all these troubles, I couldn't pay the last instalment, and now their patience is at an end. Out of sheer compassion they let me stay till Karna had fought out her fight and was happily buried in the earth--every one could see it wasn't a matter of many days more." "If it is only the interest," said Sort, "I have a few hundred kroner which I've saved up for my old days." "Now it's too late; the farm is already taken over by another man. And even if that were not the case--what should I do there without Karna? I'm no longer any use!" "We'll go away together, father!" said Pelle, raising his head. "No; I go nowhere now except to the churchyard. They have taken my farm away from me, and Karna has worked herself to death, and I myself have left what strength I had behind me. And then they took it away from me!" "I will work for us both--you shall be comfortable and enjoy your old days!" Pelle saw light in the distance. Lasse shook his head. "I can no longer put things away from me--I can no longer leave them behind and go on again!" "I propose that we go into the town," said Sort. "Up by the church we are sure to find some one who will drive us in." They collected their things and set off. Lasse walked behind the others, talking to himself; from time to time he broke out into lamentation. Then Pelle turned back to him in silence and took his hand. "There is no one to help us and give us good advice. On the contrary, they'd gladly see us lose life and fortune if they could only earn a few shillings on that account. Even the authorities won't help the poor man. He's only there so that they can all have a cut at him and then each run off with his booty. What do they care that they bring need and misery and ruin upon us? So long as they get their taxes and their interest! I could stick them all in the throat, in cold blood!" So he continued a while, increasing in bitterness, until he broke down like a little child. XXVI They lived with Sort, who had his own little house in the outermost suburb. The little travelling cobbler did not know what to do for them: Lasse was so dejected and so aimless. He could not rest; he did not recover; from time to time he broke out into lamentation. He had grown very frail, and could no longer lift his spoon to his mouth without spilling the contents. If they tried to distract him, he became obstinate. "Now we must see about fetching your things," they would both say repeatedly. "There is no sense in giving your furniture to the parish." But Lasse would not have them sent for. "They've taken everything else from me; they can take that, too," he said. "And I won't go out there again--and let myself be pitied by every one." "But you'll beggar yourself," said Sort. "They've done that already. Let them have their way. But they'll have to answer for it in the end!" Then Pelle procured a cart, and drove over himself to fetch them. There was quite a load to bring back. Mother Bengta's green chest he found upstairs in the attic; it was full of balls of thread. It was so strange to see it again--for many years he had not thought of his mother. "I'll have that for a travelling trunk," he thought, and he took it with him. Lasse was standing before the door when he returned. "See, I've brought everything here for you, father!" he cried, lustily cracking his whip. But Lasse went in without saying a word. When they had unloaded the cart and went to look for him, he had crawled into bed. There he lay with his face to the wall, and would not speak. Pelle told him all sorts of news of Heath Farm, in order to put a little life into him. "Now the parish has sold Heath Farm to the Hill Farm man for five thousand kroner, and they say he's got a good bargain. He wants to live there himself and to leave Hill Farm in his son's hands." Lasse half turned his head. "Yes, something grows there now. Now they are making thousands--and the farmer will do better still," he said bitterly. "But it's well-manured soil. Karna overstrained herself and died and left me.... And we went so well in harness together. Her thousand kroner went into it, too ... and now I'm a poor wreck. All that was put into the barren, rocky soil, so that it became good and generous soil. And then the farmer buys it, and now he wants to live there--we poor lice have prepared the way for him! What else were we there for? Fools we are to excite ourselves so over such a thing! But, how I loved the place!" Lasse suddenly burst into tears. "Now you must be reasonable and see about becoming cheerful again," said Sort. "The bad times for the poor man will soon be over. There is a time coming when no one will need to work himself to death for others, and when every one will reap what he himself has sown. What injury have you suffered? For you are on the right side and have thousands of kroner on which you can draw a bill. It would be still worse if you owed money to others!" "I haven't much more time," said Lasse, raising himself on his elbows. "Perhaps not, you and I, for those who start on the pilgrimage must die in the desert! But for that reason we are God's chosen people, we poor folk. And Pelle, he will surely behold the Promised Land!" "Now you ought to come in, father, and see how we have arranged it," said Pelle. Lasse stood up wearily and went with them. They had furnished one of Sort's empty rooms with Lasse's things. It looked quite cozy. "We thought that you would live here until Pelle is getting on well 'over there,'" said Sort. "No, you don't need to thank me! I'm delighted to think I shall have society, as you may well understand." "The good God will repay it to you," said Lasse, with a quavering voice. "We poor folk have no one but Him to rely on." Pelle could not rest, nor control his thoughts any longer; he must be off! "If you'll give me what the fare comes to, as I've helped you," he told Sort, "then I'll start this evening...." Sort gave him thirty kroner. "That's the half of what we took. There's not so much owing to me," said Pelle. "You are the master and had the tools and everything." "I won't live by the work of other hands--only by that of my own," said Sort, and he pushed the money across to Pelle. "Are you going to travel just as you stand?" "No, I have plenty of money," said Pelle gaily. "I've never before possessed so much money all at once! One can get quite a lot of clothes for that." "But you mustn't touch the money! Five kroner you'll need for the passage and the like; the rest you must save, so that you can face the future with confidence!" "I shall soon earn plenty of money in Copenhagen!" "He has always been a thoughtless lad," said Lasse anxiously. "Once, when he came into town here to be apprenticed he had five kroner; and as for what he spent them on, he could never give any proper account!" Sort laughed. "Then I shall travel as I stand!" said Pelle resolutely. But that wouldn't do, either! He could not by any means please both--they were like two anxious clucking hens. He had no lack of linen, for Lasse had just thought of his own supply. Karna had looked after him well. "But it will be very short for your long body. It's not the same now as it was when you left Stone Farm--then we had to put a tuck in my shirt for you." In the matter of shoes he was not well off. It would never do for a journeyman shoemaker to look for work wearing such shoes as his. Sort and Pelle must make a pair of respectable boots. "We must leave ourselves time," said Sort. "Think! They must be able to stand the judgment of the capital!" Pelle was impatient, and wanted to get the work quickly out of hand. Now there was only the question of a new suit. "Then buy it ready made on credit," said Sort. "Lasse and I will be good enough securities for a suit." In the evening, before he started, he and Lasse went out to look up Due. They chose the time when they were certain of meeting Due himself. They neither of them cared much for Anna. As they approached the house they saw an old richly-dressed gentleman go in at the front door. "That is the consul," said Pelle, "who has helped them to get on. Then Due is out with the horses, and we are certainly not welcome." "Is it like that with them?" said Lasse, standing still. "Then I am sorry for Due when he first finds out how his affairs really stand! He will certainly find that he has bought his independence too dearly! Yes, yes; for those who want to get on the price is hard to pay. I hope it will go well with you over there, my boy." They had reached the church. There stood a cart full of green plants; two men were carrying them into a dwelling-house. "What festivity's going on here?" asked Pelle. "There's to be a wedding to-morrow," answered one of the men. "Merchant Lau's daughter is marrying that swaggering fellow, who's always giving himself airs--Karlsen, he's called, and he's a poor chap like ourselves. But do you suppose he'll notice us? When dirt comes to honor, there's no bearing with it! Now he's become a partner in the business!" "Then I'll go to the wedding," said Lasse eagerly, while they strolled on. "It is very interesting to see when one of a family comes to something." Pelle felt that this was to some extent meant as a reproach, but he said nothing. "Shall we have one look at the new harbor?" he said. "No, now the sun's going down, and I'll go home and get to bed. I'm old--but you go. I shall soon find my way back." Pelle strolled onward, but then turned aside toward the north--he would go and bid Marie Nielsen good-bye. He owed her a friendly word for all her goodness. Also, as an exception, she should for once see him in respectable clothes. She had just come home from her work, and was on the point of preparing her supper. "No, Pelle, is that you?" she cried delightedly, "and so grand, too--you look like a prince!" Pelle had to remain to supper. "I have really only come to thank you for all your friendliness and to say good-bye. To-morrow I go to Copenhagen." She looked at him earnestly. "And you are glad!" Pelle had to tell her what he had been doing since he had last seen her. He sat there looking gratefully about the poor, clean room, with the bed set so innocently against the wall, covered with a snow-white counterpane. He had never forgotten that fragrance of soap and cleanliness and her fresh, simple nature. She had taken him in the midst of all his misery and had not thought her own white bed too good for him while she scrubbed the mire from him. When he reached the capital he would have himself photographed and send her his portrait. "And how are you doing now?" he asked gently. "Just as when you last saw me--only a little more lonely," she answered earnestly. And then he must go. "Good-bye, and may everything go well with you!" he said, and he shook her hand. "And many thanks for all your goodness!" She stood before him silently, looking at him with an uncertain smile. "Ah, no! I'm only a human being too!" she cried suddenly, and she flung her arms about him in a passionate embrace. And then the great day broke! Pelle awaked with the sun and had the green chest already packed before the others were up, and then he roamed about, not knowing what he should set his hand to, he was so restless and so excited. He answered at random, and his eyes were full of radiant dreams. In the morning he and Lasse carried the chest to the steamer, in order to have the evening free. Then they went to the church, in order to attend Alfred's wedding. Pelle would gladly have stayed away; he had enough to do with his own affairs, and he had no sympathy for Alfred's doings. But Lasse pushed him along. The sun stood high in heaven and blazed in the winding side-streets so that the tarred timberwork sweated and the gutters stank; from the harbor came the sound of the crier, with his drum, crying herrings, and announcing an auction. The people streamed to church in breathless conversation concerning this child of fortune, Alfred, who had climbed so far. The church was full of people. It was gaily decorated, and up by the organ stood eight young women who were to sing "It is so lovely together to be!" Lasse had never seen or heard of such a wedding. "I feel quite proud!" he said. "He's a bladder full of wind!" said Pelle. "He's taking her simply on account of the honor." And then the bridal pair stepped up to the altar. "It's tremendous the way Alfred has greased his head!" whispered Lasse. "It looks like a newly-licked calf's head! But she is pretty. I'm only puzzled that she's not put on her myrtle-wreath--I suppose nothing has happened?" "Yes, she's got a child," whispered Pelle. "Otherwise, he would never in this world have got her!" "Oh, I see! Yes, but that's smart of him, to catch such a fine lady!" Now the young women sang, and it sounded just as if they were angels from heaven who had come to seal the bond. "We must take our places so that we can congratulate them," said Lasse, and he wanted to push right through the crowd, but Pelle held him back. "I'm afraid he won't know us to-day; but look now, there's Uncle Kalle." Kalle stood squeezed among the hindmost chairs, and there he had to stay until everybody had passed out. "Yes, I was very anxious to take part in this great day," he said, "and I wanted to bring mother with me, but she thought her clothes weren't respectable enough." Kalle wore a new gray linsey-woolsey suit; he had grown smaller and more bent with the years. "Why do you stand right away in the corner here, where you can see nothing? As the bridegroom's father, you must have been given your place in the first row," said Lasse. "I have been sitting there, too--didn't you see me sitting next to Merchant Lau? We sang out of the same hymn-book. I only got pushed here in the crowd. Now I ought to go to the wedding-feast. I was properly invited, but I don't quite know...." He looked down at himself. Suddenly he made a movement, and laughed in his own reckless way. "Ugh--what am I doing standing here and telling lies to people who don't believe me! No, pigs don't belong in the counting-house! I might spread a bad smell, you know! People like us haven't learned to sweat scent!" "Bah! He's too grand to know his own father! Devil take it! Then come with us so that you needn't go away hungry!" said Lasse. "No--I've been so overfed with roast meats and wine and cakes that I can't get any more down for the present. Now I must go home and tell mother about all the splendid things. I've eighteen miles to go." "And you came here on foot--thirty-six miles! That's too much for your years!" "I had really reckoned that I'd stay the night here. I didn't think ... Well, an owl's been sitting there! Children can't very well climb higher than that--not to recognize their own fathers! Anna is now taking the best way to become a fine lady, too.... I shall be wondering how long I shall know myself! Devil take it, Kalle Karlsen, I'm of good family, too, look you! Well, then, ajoo!" Wearily he set about tramping home. He looked quite pitiful in his disappointment. "He's never looked so miserable in his life!" said Lasse, gazing after him, "and it takes something, too, to make Brother Kalle chuck his gun into the ditch!" Toward evening they went through the town to the steamer. Pelle took long strides, and a strange feeling of solemnity kept him silent. Lasse trotted along at his side; he stooped as he went. He was in a doleful mood. "Now you won't forget your old father?" he said, again and again. "There's no danger of that," rejoined Sort. Pelle heard nothing of this; his thoughts were all set on his journey. The blue smoke of kitchen fires was drifting down among the narrow lanes. The old people were sitting out of doors on their front steps, and were gossiping over the news of the day. The evening sun fell upon round spectacles, so that great fiery eyes seemed to be staring out of their wrinkled faces. The profound peace of evening lay over the streets. But in the narrow lanes there was the breathing of that eternal, dull unrest, as of a great beast that tosses and turns and cannot sleep. Now and again it blazed up into a shout, or the crying of a child, and then began anew--like heavy, labored breathing. Pelle knew it well, that ghostly breathing, which rises always from the lair of the poor man. The cares of poverty had shepherded the evil dreams home for the night. But he was leaving this world of poverty, where life was bleeding away unnoted in the silence; in his thoughts it was fading away like a mournful song; and he gazed out over the sea, which lay glowing redly at the end of the street. Now he was going out into the world! The crazy Anker was standing at the top of his high steps. "Good-bye!" cried Pelle, but Anker did not understand. He turned his face up to the sky and sent forth his demented cry. Pelle threw a last glance at the workshop. "There have I spent many a good hour!" he thought; and he thought, too, of the young master. Old Jorgen was standing before his window, playing with the little Jorgen, who sat inside on the windowseat. "Peep, peep, little one!" he cried, in his shrill voice, and he hid, and bobbed up into sight again. The young wife was holding the child; she was rosy with maternal delight. "You'll be sure to let us hear from you," said Lasse yet again, as Pelle stood leaning over the steamer's rail. "Don't forget your old father!" He was quite helpless in his anxiety. "I will write to you as soon as I'm getting on," said Pelle, for the twentieth time at least. "Only don't worry!" Sure of victory, he laughed down at the old man. For the rest they stood silent and gazed at one another. At last the steamer moved. "Good luck--take care of yourself!" he cried for the last time, as they turned the pier-head; and as long as he could see he waved his cap. Then he went right forward and sat on a coil of rope. He had forgotten all that lay behind him. He gazed ahead as though at any moment the great world itself might rise in front of the vessel's bow. He pictured nothing to himself of what was to come and how he would meet it--he was only longing--longing! THE END. 
7791	----	PELLE THE CONQUEROR PART I--BOYHOOD BY MARTIN ANDERSON NEXO TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH by Jessie Muir. NOTE When the first part of "Pelle Erobreren" (Pelle the Conqueror) appeared in 1906, its author, Martin Andersen Nexo, was practically unknown even in his native country, save to a few literary people who knew that he had written some volumes of stories and a book full of sunshiny reminiscences from Spain. And even now, after his great success with "Pelle," very little is known about the writer. He was born in 1869 in one of the poorest quarters of Copenhagen, but spent his boyhood in his beloved island Bornholm, in the Baltic, in or near the town, Nexo, from which his final name is derived. There, too, he was a shoemaker's apprentice, like Pelle in the second part of the book, which resembles many great novels in being largely autobiographical. Later, he gained his livelihood as a bricklayer, until he somehow managed to get to one of the most renowned of our "people's high-schools," where he studied so effectually that he was enabled to become a teacher, first at a provincial school, and later in Copenhagen. "Pelle" consists of four parts, each, except perhaps the last, a complete story in itself. First we have the open-air life of the boy in country surroundings in Bornholm; then the lad's apprenticeship in a small provincial town not yet invaded by modern industrialism and still innocent of socialism; next the youth's struggles in Copenhagen against employers and authorities; and last the man's final victory in laying the foundation of a garden-city for the benefit of his fellow-workers. The background everywhere is the rapid growth of the labor movement; but social problems are never obtruded, except, again, in the last part, and the purely human interest is always kept well before the reader's eye through variety of situation and vividness of characterization. The great charm of the book seems to me to lie in the fact that the writer knows the poor from within; he has not studied them as an outsider may, but has lived with them and felt with them, at once a participant and a keen-eyed spectator. He is no sentimentalist, and so rich is his imagination that he passes on rapidly from one scene to the next, sketching often in a few pages what another novelist would be content to work out into long chapters or whole volumes. His sympathy is of the widest, and he makes us see tragedies behind the little comedies, and comedies behind the little tragedies, of the seemingly sordid lives of the working people whom he loves. "Pelle" has conquered the hearts of the reading public of Denmark; there is that in the book which should conquer also the hearts of a wider public than that of the little country in which its author was born. OTTO JESPERSEN, Professor of English in the University of Copenhagen. GENTOFTE, COPENHAGEN. April, 1913. Pelle the Conqueror I. BOYHOOD I It was dawn on the first of May, 1877. From the sea the mist came sweeping in, in a gray trail that lay heavily on the water. Here and there there was a movement in it; it seemed about to lift, but closed in again, leaving only a strip of shore with two old boats lying keel uppermost upon it. The prow of a third boat and a bit of breakwater showed dimly in the mist a few paces off. At definite intervals a smooth, gray wave came gliding out of the mist up over the rustling shingle, and then withdrew again; it was as if some great animal lay hidden out there in the fog, and lapped at the land. A couple of hungry crows were busy with a black, inflated object down there, probably the carcass of a dog. Each time a wave glided in, they rose and hovered a few feet up in the air with their legs extended straight down toward their booty, as if held by some invisible attachment. When the water retreated, they dropped down and buried their heads in the carrion, but kept their wings spread, ready to rise before the next advancing wave. This was repeated with the regularity of clock-work. A shout came vibrating in from the harbor, and a little while after the heavy sound of oars working over the edge of a boat. The sound grew more distant and at last ceased; but then a bell began to ring--it must have been at the end of the mole--and out of the distance, into which the beat of the oars had disappeared, came the answering sound of a horn. They continued to answer one another for a couple of minutes. The town was invisible, but now and then the silence there was broken by the iron tramp of a quarryman upon the stone paving. For a long time the regular beat of his footsteps could be heard, until it suddenly ceased as he turned some corner or other. Then a door was opened, followed by the sound of a loud morning yawn; and someone began to sweep the pavement. Windows were opened here and there, out of which floated various sounds to greet the gray day. A woman's sharp voice was heard scolding, then short, smart slaps and the crying of a child. A shoemaker began beating leather, and as he worked fell to singing a hymn-- "But One is worthy of our hymn, O brothers: The Lamb on Whom the sins of all men lay." The tune was one of Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words." Upon the bench under the church wall sat a boat's crew with their gaze turned seaward. They were leaning forward and smoking, with hands clasped between their knees. All three wore ear-rings as a preventive of colds and other evils, and all sat in exactly the same position, as if the one were afraid of making himself in the very least different from the others. A traveller came sauntering down from the hotel, and approached the fishermen. He had his coat-collar turned up, and shivered in the chill morning air. "Is anything the matter?" he asked civilly, raising his cap. His voice sounded gruff. One of the fishermen moved his hand slightly in the direction of his head-gear. He was the head man of the boat's crew. The others gazed straight before them without moving a muscle. "I mean, as the bell's ringing and the pilot-boat's out blowing her horn," the traveller went on. "Are they expecting a ship?" "May be. You never can tell!" answered the head man unapproachably. The stranger looked as if he were deeply insulted, but restrained himself. It was only their usual secretiveness, their inveterate distrust of every one who did not speak their dialect and look exactly like themselves. They sat there inwardly uneasy in spite of their wooden exterior, stealing glances at him when he was not looking, and wishing him at Jericho. He felt tempted to tease them a little. "Dear me! Perhaps it's a secret?" he said, laughing. "Not that I know of," answered the fisherman cautiously. "Well, of course I don't expect anything for nothing! And besides it wears out your talking-apparatus to be continually opening and shutting it. How much do you generally get?" He took out his purse; it was his intention to insult them now. The other fishermen threw stolen glances at their leader. If only he did not run them aground! The head man took his pipe out of his mouth and turned to his companions: "No, as I was saying, there are some folks that have nothing to do but go about and be clever." He warned them with his eyes, the expression of his face was wooden. His companions nodded. They enjoyed the situation, as the commercial traveller could see from their doltish looks. He was enraged. Here he was, being treated as if he were air and made fun of! "Confound you fellows! Haven't you even learnt as much as to give a civil answer to a civil question?" he said angrily. The fishermen looked backward and forward at one another, taking mute counsel. "No, but I tell you what it is! She must come some time," said the head man at last. "What 'she'?" "The steamer, of course. And she generally comes about this time. Now you've got it!" "Naturally--of course! But isn't it a little unwise to speak so loud about it?" jeered the traveller. The fishermen had turned their backs on him, and were scraping out their pipes. "We're not quite so free with our speech here as some people, and yet we make our living," said the head man to the others. They growled their approval. As the stranger wandered on down the harbor hill, the fishermen looked after him with a feeling of relief. "What a talker!" said one. "He wanted to show off a bit, but you gave him what he won't forget in a hurry." "Yes, I think it touched him on the raw, all right," answered the man, with pride. "It's these fine gentlemen you need to be most careful of." Half-way down the harbor hill, an inn-keeper stood at his door yawning. The morning stroller repeated his question to him, and received an immediate answer, the man being a Copenhagener. "Well, you see we're expecting the steamer from Ystad today, with a big cargo of slaves--cheap Swedish laborers, that's to say, who live on black bread and salt herrings, and do the work of three. They ought to be flogged with red-hot icicles, that sort, and the brutes of farmers, too! You won't take a little early morning glass of something, I suppose?" "No, thank you, I think not--so early." "Very well, please yourself." Down at the harbor a number of farmers' carts were already standing, and fresh ones arrived at full gallop every minute. The newcomers guided their teams as far to the front as possible, examined their neighbors' horses with a critical eye, and settled themselves into a half-doze, with their fur collars turned up about their ears. Custom-house men in uniform, and pilots, looking like monster penguins, wandered restlessly about, peering out to sea and listening. Every moment the bell at the end of the mole rang, and was answered by the pilot-boat's horn somewhere out in the fog over the sea, with a long, dreary hoot, like the howl of some suffering animal. "What was that noise?" asked a farmer who had just come, catching up the reins in fear. His fear communicated itself to his horses, and they stood trembling with heads raised listening in the direction of the sea, with questioning terror in their eyes. "It was only the sea-serpent," answered a custom-house officer. "He always suffers from wind in this foggy weather. He's a wind-sucker, you see." And the custom-house men put their heads together and grinned. Merry sailors dressed in blue with white handkerchiefs round their necks went about patting the horses, or pricking their nostrils with a straw to make them rear. When the farmers woke up and scolded, they laughed with delight, and sang-- "A sailor he must go through A deal more bad than good, good, good!" A big pilot, in an Iceland vest and woollen gloves, was rushing anxiously about with a megaphone in his hand, growling like an uneasy bear. Now and then he climbed up on the molehead, put the megaphone to his mouth, and roared out over the water: "Do--you--hear--any--thing?" The roar went on for a long time out upon the long swells, up and down, leaving behind it an oppressive silence, until it suddenly returned from the town above, in the shape of a confused babble that made people laugh. "N-o-o!" was heard a little while after in a thin and long-drawn-out cry from the sea; and again the horn was heard, a long, hoarse sound that came rocking in on the waves, and burst gurgling in the splash under the wharf and on the slips. The farmers were out of it all. They dozed a little or sat flicking their whips to pass the time. But every one else was in a state of suspense. A number of people had gradually gathered about the harbor --fishermen, sailors waiting to be hired, and master-artisans who were too restless to stay in their workshop. They came down in their leather aprons, and began at once to discuss the situation; they used nautical expressions, most of them having been at sea in their youth. The coming of the steamer was always an event that brought people to the harbor; but to-day she had a great many people on board, and she was already an hour behind time. The dangerous fog kept the suspense at high pressure; but as the time passed, the excitement gave place to a feeling of dull oppression. Fog is the seaman's worst enemy, and there were many unpleasant possibilities. On the best supposition the ship had gone inshore too far north or south, and now lay somewhere out at sea hooting and heaving the lead, without daring to move. One could imagine the captain storming and the sailors hurrying here and there, lithe and agile as cats. Stop!--Half-speed ahead! Stop!--Half-speed astern! The first engineer would be at the engine himself, gray with nervous excitement. Down in the engine-room, where they knew nothing at all, they would strain their ears painfully for any sound, and all to no purpose. But up on deck every man would be on the alert for his life; the helmsman wet with the sweat of his anxiety to watch every movement of the captain's directing hand, and the look-out on the forecastle peering and listening into the fog until he could hear his own heart beat, while the suspense held every man on deck on tenterhooks, and the fog-horn hooted its warning. But perhaps the ship had already gone to the bottom! Every one knew it all; every man had in some way or other been through this overcharged suspense--as cabin-boy, stoker, captain, cook--and felt something of it again now. Only the farmers were unaffected by it; they dozed, woke up with a jerk, and yawned audibly. The seafarers and the peasants always had a difficulty in keeping on peaceable terms with one another; they were as different as land and sea. But to-day the indifferent attitude of the peasants made the sea-folk eye them with suppressed rage. The fat pilot had already had several altercations with them for being in his way; and when one of them laid himself open to criticism, he was down upon him in an instant. It was an elderly farmer, who woke from his nap with a start, as his head fell forward, and impatiently took out his watch and looked at it. "It's getting rather late," he said. "The captain can't find his stall to-day." "More likely he's dropped into an inn on the way!" said the pilot, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Very likely," answered the farmer, without for the moment realizing the nature of the paths of the sea. His auditors laughed exultingly, and passed the mistake on to their neighbors, and people crowded round the unfortunate man, while some one cried: "How many inns are there between this and Sweden?" "Yes, it's too easy to get hold of liquids out there, that's the worst of it," the pilot went on. "But for that any booby could manage a ship. He's only got to keep well to the right of Mads Hansen's farm, and he's got a straight road before him. And the deuce of a fine road! Telegraph-wires and ditches and a row of poplars on each side--just improved by the local board. You've just got to wipe the porridge off your mustache, kiss the old woman, and climb up on to the bridge, and there you are! Has the engine been oiled, Hans? Right away, then, off we go; hand me my best whip!" He imitated the peasants' manner of speech. "Be careful about the inns, Dad!" he added in a shrill falsetto. There were peals of laughter, that had an evil sound in the prevailing depression. The farmer sat quite still under the deluge, only lowering his head a little. When the laughter had almost died away, he pointed at the pilot with his whip, and remarked to the bystanders-- "That's a wonderful clever kid for his age! Whose father art thou, my boy?" he went on, turning to the pilot. This raised a laugh, and the thick-necked pilot swelled with rage. He seized hold of the body of the cart and shook it so that the farmer had a difficulty in keeping his seat. "You miserable old clodhopper, you pig-breeder, you dung-carter!" he roared. "What do you mean by coming here and saying 'thou' to grown-up people and calling them 'boy'? And giving your opinions on navigation into the bargain! Eh! you lousy old money-grubber! No, if you ever take off your greasy night-cap to anybody but your parish clerk, then take it off to the captain who can find his harbor in a fog like this. You can give him my kind regards and say I said so." And he let go of the cart so suddenly that it swung over to the other side. "I may as well take it off to you, as the other doesn't seem able to find us to-day," said the farmer with a grin, and took off his fur cap, disclosing a large bald head. "Cover up that great bald pumpkin, or upon my word I'll give it something!" cried the pilot, blind with rage, and beginning to clamber up into the cart. At that moment, like the thin metallic voice of a telephone, there came faintly from the sea the words: "We--hear--a--steam--whistle!" The pilot ran off on to the breakwater, hitting out as he passed at the farmer's horse, and making it rear. Men cleared a space round the mooring-posts, and dragged up the gangways with frantic speed. Carts that had hay in them, as if they were come to fetch cattle, began to move without having anywhere to drive to. Everything was in motion. Labor-hirers with red noses and cunning eyes, came hurrying down from the sailors' tavern where they had been keeping themselves warm. Then as if a huge hand had been laid upon the movement, everything suddenly stood still again, in strained effort to hear. A far-off, tiny echo of a steam whistle whined somewhere a long way off. Men stole together into groups and stood motionless, listening and sending angry glances at the restless carts. Was it real, or was it a creation of the heart-felt wishes of so many? Perhaps a warning to every one that at that moment the ship had gone to the bottom? The sea always sends word of its evil doings; when the bread-winner is taken his family hear a shutter creak, or three taps on the windows that look on to the sea--there are so many ways. But now it sounded again, and this time the sound come in little waves over the water, the same vibrating, subdued whistle that long-tailed ducks make when they rise; it seemed alive. The fog-horn answered it out in the fairway, and the bell in at the mole-head; then the horn once more, and the steam-whistle in the distance. So it went on, a guiding line of sound being spun between the land and the indefinite gray out there, backward and forward. Here on terra firma one could distinctly feel how out there they were groping their way by the sound. The hoarse whistle slowly increased in volume, sounding now a little to the south, now to the north, but growing steadily louder. Then other sounds made themselves heard, the heavy scraping of iron against iron, the noise of the screw when it was reversed or went on again. The pilot-boat glided slowly out of the fog, keeping to the middle of the fairway, and moving slowly inward hooting incessantly. It towed by the sound an invisible world behind it, in which hundreds of voices murmured thickly amidst shouting and clanging, and tramping of feet--a world that floated blindly in space close by. Then a shadow began to form in the fog where no one had expected it, and the little steamer made its appearance--looking enormous in the first moment of surprise--in the middle of the harbor entrance. At this the last remnants of suspense burst and scattered, and every one had to do something or other to work off the oppression. They seized the heads of the farmers' horses and pushed them back, clapped their hands, attempted jokes, or only laughed noisily while they stamped on the stone paving. "Good voyage?" asked a score of voices at once. "All well!" answered the captain cheerfully. And now he, too, has got rid of his incubus, and rolls forth words of command; the propeller churns up the water behind, hawsers fly through the air, and the steam winch starts with a ringing metallic clang, while the vessel works herself broadside in to the wharf. Between the forecastle and the bridge, in under the upper deck and the after, there is a swarm of people, a curiously stupid swarm, like sheep that get up on to one another's backs and look foolish. "What a cargo of cattle!" cries the fat pilot up to the captain, tramping delightedly on the breakwater with his wooden-soled boots. There are sheepskin caps, old military caps, disreputable old rusty hats, and the women's tidy black handkerchiefs. The faces are as different as old, wrinkled pigskin and young, ripening fruit; but want, and expectancy, and a certain animal greed are visible in all of them. The unfamiliarity of the moment brings a touch of stupidity into them, as they press forward, or climb up to get a view over their neighbors' heads and stare open-mouthed at the land where the wages are said to be so high, and the brandy so uncommonly strong. They see the fat, fur-clad farmers and the men come down to engage laborers. They do not know what to do with themselves, and are always getting in the way; and the sailors chase them with oaths from side to side of the vessel, or throw hatches and packages without warning at their feet. "Look out, you Swedish devil!" cries a sailor who has to open the iron doors. The Swede backs in bewilderment, but his hand involuntarily flies to his pocket and fingers nervously his big pocket-knife. The gangway is down, and the two hundred and fifty passengers stream down it--stone-masons, navvies, maid-servants, male and female day-laborers, stablemen, herdsmen, here and there a solitary little cowherd, and tailors in smart clothes, who keep far away from the rest. There are young men straighter and better built than any that the island produces, and poor old men more worn with toil and want than they ever become here. There are also faces among them that bear an expression of malice, others sparkling with energy, and others disfigured with great scars. Most of them are in working-clothes and only possess what they stand in. Here and there is a man with some tool upon his shoulder--a shovel or a crowbar. Those that have any luggage, get it turned inside out by the custom-house officers: woven goods are so cheap in Sweden. Now and then some girl with an inclination to plumpness has to put up with the officers' coarse witticisms. There, for instance, is Handsome Sara from Cimrishamn, whom everybody knows. Every autumn she goes home, and comes again every spring with a figure that at once makes her the butt of their wit; but Sara, who generally has a quick temper and a ready tongue, to-day drops her eyes in modest confusion: she has fourteen yards of cloth wrapped round her under her dress. The farmers are wide awake now. Those who dare, leave their horses and go among the crowd; the others choose their laborers with their eyes, and call them up. Each one takes his man's measure--width of chest, modest manner, wretchedness; but they are afraid of the scarred and malicious faces, and leave them to the bailiffs on the large farms. Offers are made and conditions fixed, and every minute one or two Swedes climb up into the hay in the back of some cart, and are driven off. A little on one side stood an elderly, bent little man with a sack upon his back, holding a boy of eight or nine by the hand; beside them lay a green chest. They eagerly watched the proceedings, and each time a cart drove off with some of their countrymen, the boy pulled impatiently at the hand of the old man, who answered by a reassuring word. The old man examined the farmers one by one with an anxious air, moving his lips as he did so: he was thinking. His red, lashless eyes kept watering with the prolonged staring, and he wiped them with the mouth of the coarse dirty sack. "Do you see that one there?" he suddenly asked the boy, pointing to a fat little farmer with apple-cheeks. "I should think he'd be kind to children. Shall we try him, laddie?" The boy nodded gravely, and they made straight for the farmer. But when he had heard that they were to go together, he would not take them; the boy was far too little to earn his keep. And it was the same thing every time. It was Lasse Karlsson from Tommelilla in the Ystad district, and his son Pelle. It was not altogether strange to Lasse, for he had been on the island once before, about ten years ago; but he had been younger then, in full vigor it might be said, and had no little boy by the hand, from whom he would not be separated for all the world; that was the difference. It was the year that the cow had been drowned in the marl-pit, and Bengta was preparing for her confinement. Things looked bad, but Lasse staked his all on one cast, and used the couple of krones he got for the hide of the cow to go to Bornholm. When he came back in the autumn, there were three mouths to fill; but then he had a hundred krones to meet the winter with. At that time Lasse had been equal to the situation, and he would still straighten his bowed shoulders whenever he thought of that exploit. Afterward, whenever there were short commons, he would talk of selling the whole affair and going to Bornholm for good. But Bengta's health failed after her late child-bearing, and nothing came of it, until she died after eight years of suffering, this very spring. Then Lasse sold their bit of furniture, and made nearly a hundred krones on it; it went in paying the expenses of the long illness, and the house and land belonged to the landlord. A green chest, that had been part of Bengta's wedding outfit, was the only thing he kept. In it he packed their belongings and a few little things of Bengta's, and sent it on in advance to the port with a horse-dealer who was driving there. Some of the rubbish for which no one would bid he stuffed into a sack, and with it on his back and the boy's hand clasped in his, he set out to walk to Ystad, where the steamer for Ronne lay. The few coins he had would just pay their passage. He had been so sure of himself on the way, and had talked in loud tones to Pelle about the country where the wages were so incomprehensibly high, and where in some places you got meat or cheese to eat with your bread, and always beer, so that the water-cart in the autumn did not come round for the laborers, but only for the cattle. And--why, if you liked you could drink gin like water, it was so cheap; but it was so strong that it knocked you down at the third pull. They made it from real grain, and not from diseased potatoes; and they drank it at every meal. And laddie would never feel cold there, for they wore wool next their skin, and not this poor linen that the wind blew right through; and a laborer who kept himself could easily make his two krones a day. That was something different from their master's miserable eighty ores and finding themselves in everything. Pelle had heard the same thing often before--from his father, from Ole and Anders, from Karna and a hundred others who had been there. In the winter, when the air was thick with frost and snow and the needs of the poor, there was nothing else talked about in the little villages at home; and in the minds of those who had not been on the island themselves, but had only heard the tales about it, the ideas produced were as fantastic as the frost-tracery upon the window-panes. Pelle was perfectly well aware that even the poorest boys there always wore their best clothes, and ate bread-and-dripping with sugar on it as often as they liked. There money lay like dirt by the roadside, and the Bornholmers did not even take the trouble to stoop and pick it up; but Pelle meant to pick it up, so that Father Lasse would have to empty the odds and ends out of the sack and clear out the locked compartment in the green chest to make room for it; and even that would be hardly enough. If only they could begin! He shook his father's hand impatiently. "Yes, yes," said Lasse, almost in tears. "You mustn't be impatient." He looked about him irresolutely. Here he was in the midst of all this splendor, and could not even find a humble situation for himself and the boy. He could not understand it. Had the whole world changed since his time? He trembled to his very finger-tips when the last cart drove off. For a few minutes he stood staring helplessly after it, and then he and the boy together carried the green chest up to a wall, and trudged hand in hand up toward the town. Lasse's lips moved as he walked; he was thinking. In an ordinary way he thought best when he talked out loud to himself, but to-day all his faculties were alert, and it was enough only to move his lips. As he trudged along, his mental excuses became audible. "Confound it!" he exclaimed, as he jerked the sack higher up his back. "It doesn't do to take the first thing that comes. Lasse's responsible for two, and he knows what he wants--so there! It isn't the first time he's been abroad! And the best always comes last, you know, laddie." Pelle was not paying much attention. He was already consoled, and his father's words about the best being in store for them, were to him only a feeble expression for a great truth, namely, that the whole world would become theirs, with all that it contained in the way of wonders. He was already engaged in taking possession of it, open-mouthed. He looked as if he would like to swallow the harbor with all its ships and boats, and the great stacks of timber, where it looked as if there would be holes. This would be a fine place to play in, but there were no boys! He wondered whether the boys were like those at home; he had seen none yet. Perhaps they had quite a different way of fighting, but he would manage all right if only they would come one at a time. There was a big ship right up on land, and they were skinning it. So ships have ribs, just like cows! At the wooden shed in the middle of the harbor square, Lasse put down the sack, and giving the boy a piece of bread and telling him to stay and mind the sack, he went farther up and disappeared. Pelle was very hungry, and holding the bread with both hands he munched at it greedily. When he had picked the last crumbs off his jacket, he set himself to examine his surroundings. That black stuff in that big pot was tar. He knew it quite well, but had never seen so much at once. My word! If you fell into that while it was boiling, it would be worse even than the brimstone pit in hell. And there lay some enormous fish-hooks, just like those that were hanging on thick iron chains from the ships' nostrils. He wondered whether there still lived giants who could fish with such hooks. Strong John couldn't manage them! He satisfied himself with his own eyes that the stacks of boards were really hollow, and that he could easily get down to the bottom of them, if only he had not had the sack to drag about. His father had said he was to mind the sack, and he never let it out of his hands for a moment; as it was too heavy to carry, he had to drag it after him from place to place. He discovered a little ship, only just big enough for a man to lie down in, and full of holes bored in the bottom and sides. He investigated the ship-builders' big grind-stone, which was nearly as tall as a man. There were bent planks lying there, with nails in them as big as the parish constable's new tether-peg at home. And the thing that ship was tethered to--wasn't it a real cannon that they had planted? Pelle saw everything, and examined every single object in the appropriate manner, now only spitting appraisingly upon it, now kicking it or scratching it with his penknife. If he came across some strange wonder or other, that he could not get into his little brain in any other way, he set himself astride on it. This was a new world altogether, and Pelle was engaged in making it his own. Not a shred of it would he leave. If he had had his playfellows from Tommelilla here, he would have explained it all to them. My word, how they would stare! But when he went home to Sweden again, he would tell them about it, and then he hoped they would call him a liar. He was sitting astride an enormous mast that lay along the timber- yard upon some oak trestles. He kicked his feet together under the mast, as he had heard of knights doing in olden days under their horses, and imagined himself seizing hold of a ring and lifting himself, horse and all. He sat on horseback in the midst of his newly discovered world, glowing with the pride of conquest, struck the horse's loins with the flat of his hand, and dug his heels into its sides, while he shouted a song at the top of his voice. He had been obliged to let go the sack to get up. "Far away in Smaaland the little imps were dancing With ready-loaded pistol and rifle-barrelled gun; All the little devils they played upon the fiddle, But for the grand piano Old Harry was the one." In the middle of his noisy joy, he looked up, and immediately burst into a roar of terror and dropped down on to the wood-shavings. On the top of the shed at the place where his father had left him stood a black man and two black, open-mouthed hell-hounds; the man leaned half out over the ridge of the roof in a menacing attitude. It was an old figure-head, but Pelle thought it was Old Harry himself, come to punish him for his bold song, and he set off at a run up the hill. A little way up he remembered the sack and stopped. He didn't care about the sack; and he wouldn't get a thrashing if he did leave it behind, for Father Lasse never beat him. And that horrid devil would eat him up at the very least, if he ventured down there again; he could distinctly see how red the nostrils shone, both the devil's and the dogs'. But Pelle still hesitated. His father was so careful of that sack, that he would be sure to be sorry if he lost it--he might even cry as he did when he lost Mother Bengta. For perhaps the first time, the boy was being subjected to one of life's serious tests, and stood--as so many had stood before him--with the choice between sacrificing himself and sacrificing others. His love for his father, boyish pride, the sense of duty that is the social dower of the poor--the one thing with the other--determined his choice. He stood the test, but not bravely; he howled loudly the whole time, while, with his eyes fixed immovably upon the Evil One and his hell-hounds, he crept back for the sack and then dragged it after him at a quick run up the street. No one is perhaps a hero until the danger is over. But even then Pelle had no opportunity of shuddering at his own courage; for no sooner was he out of the reach of the black man, than his terror took a new form. What had become of his father? He had said he would be back again directly! Supposing he never came back at all! Perhaps he had gone away so as to get rid of his little boy, who was only a trouble and made it difficult for him to get a situation. Pelle felt despairingly convinced that it must be so, as, crying, he went off with the sack. The same thing had happened to other children with whom he was well acquainted; but they came to the pancake cottage and were quite happy, and Pelle himself would be sure to--perhaps find the king and be taken in there and have the little princes for his playmates, and his own little palace to live in. But Father Lasse shouldn't have a thing, for now Pelle was angry and vindictive, although he was crying just as unrestrainedly. He would let him stand and knock at the door and beg to come in for three days, and only when he began to cry--no, he would have to let him in at once, for to see Father Lasse cry hurt him more than anything else in the world. But he shouldn't have a single one of the nails Pelle had filled his pockets with down in the timber-yard; and when the king's wife brought them coffee in the morning before they were up---- But here both his tears and his happy imaginings ceased, for out of a tavern at the top of the street came Father Lasse's own living self. He looked in excellent spirits and held a bottle in his hand. "Danish brandy, laddie!" he cried, waving the bottle. "Hats off to the Danish brandy! But what have you been crying for? Oh, you were afraid? And why were you afraid? Isn't your father's name Lasse--Lasse Karlsson from Kungstorp? And he's not one to quarrel with; he hits hard, he does, when he's provoked. To come and frighten good little boys! They'd better look out! Even if the whole wide world were full of naming devils, Lasse's here and you needn't be afraid!" During all this fierce talk he was tenderly wiping the boy's tear- stained cheeks and nose with his rough hand, and taking the sack upon his back again. There was something touchingly feeble about his stooping figure, as, boasting and comforting, he trudged down again to the harbor holding the boy by the hand. He tottered along in his big waterproof boots, the tabs of which stuck out at the side and bore an astonishing resemblance to Pelle's ears; out of the gaping pockets of his old winter coat protruded on one side his red pocket-handkerchief, on the other the bottle. He had become a little looser in his knee-joints now, and the sack threatened momentarily to get the upper hand of him, pushing him forward and forcing him to go at a trot down the hill. He looked decrepit, and perhaps his boastful words helped to produce this effect; but his eyes beamed confidently, and he smiled down at the boy, who ran along beside him. They drew near to the shed, and Pelle turned cold with fear, for the black man was still standing there. He went round to the other side of his father, and tried to pull him out in a wide curve over the harbor square. "There he is again," he whimpered. "So that's what was after you, is it?" said Lasse, laughing heartily; "and he's made of wood, too! Well, you really are the bravest laddie I ever knew! I should almost think you might be sent out to fight a trussed chicken, if you had a stick in your hand!" Lasse went on laughing, and shook the boy goodnaturedly. But Pelle was ready to sink into the ground with shame. Down by the custom-house they met a bailiff who had come too late for the steamer and had engaged no laborers. He stopped his cart and asked Lasse if he was looking for a place. "Yes, we both want one," answered Lasse, briskly. "We want to be at the same farm--as the fox said to the goose." The bailiff was a big, strong man, and Pelle shuddered in admiration of his father who could dare to speak to him so boldly. But the great man laughed good-humoredly. "Then I suppose he's to be foreman?" he said, flicking at Pelle with his whip. "Yes, he certainly will be some day," said Lasse, with conviction. "He'll probably eat a few bushels of salt first. Well, I'm in want of a herdsman, and will give you a hundred krones for a year--although it'll be confounded hard for you to earn them from what I can see. There'll always be a crust of bread for the boy, but of course he'll have to do what little he can. You're his grandfather, I suppose?" "I'm his father--in the sight of God and man," answered Lasse, proudly. "Oh, indeed! Then you must still be fit for something, if you've come by him honestly. But climb up, if you know what's for your own good, for I haven't time to stand here. You won't get such an offer every day." Pelle thought a hundred krones was a fearful amount of money; Lasse, on the contrary, as the older and more sensible, had a feeling that it was far too little. But, though he was not aware of it yet, the experiences of the morning had considerably dimmed the brightness of his outlook on life. On the other hand, the dram had made him reckless and generously-minded. "All right then," he said with a wave of the hand. "But the master must understand that we won't have salt herring and porridge three times a day. We must have a proper bedroom too--and be free on Sundays." He lifted the sack and the boy up into the cart, and then climbed up himself. The bailiff laughed. "I see you've been here before, old man. But I think we shall be able to manage all that. You shall have roast pork stuffed with raisins and rhubarb jelly with pepper on it, just as often as you like to open your mouth." They drove down to the quay for the chest, and then out toward the country again. Lasse, who recognized one thing and another, explained it all in full to the boy, taking a pull at the bottle between whiles; but the bailiff must not see this. Pelle was cold and burrowed into the straw, where he crept close up to his father. "You take a mouthful," whispered Lasse, passing the bottle to him cautiously. "But take care that he doesn't see, for he's a sly one. He's a Jute." Pelle would not have a dram. "What's a Jute?" he asked in a whisper. "A Jute? Good gracious me, laddie, don't you know that? It was the Jutes that crucified Christ. That's why they have to wander all over the world now, and sell flannel and needles, and such-like; and they always cheat wherever they go. Don't you remember the one that cheated Mother Bengta of her beautiful hair? Ah, no, that was before your time. That was a Jute too. He came one day when I wasn't at home, and unpacked all his fine wares--combs and pins with blue glass heads, and the finest head-kerchiefs. Women can't resist such trash; they're like what we others are when some one holds a brandy-bottle to our nose. Mother Bengta had no money, but that sly devil said he would give her the finest handkerchief if she would let him cut off just the end of her plait. And then he went and cut it off close up to her head. My goodness, but she was like flint and steel when she was angry! She chased him out of the house with a rake. But he took the plait with him, and the handkerchief was rubbish, as might have been expected. For the Jutes are cunning devils, who crucified----" Lasse began at the beginning again. Pelle did not pay much attention to his father's soft murmuring. It was something about Mother Bengta, but she was dead now and lay in the black earth; she no longer buttoned his under-vest down the back, or warmed his hands when they were cold. So they put raisins into roast pork in this country, did they? Money must be as common as dirt! There was none lying about in the road, and the houses and farms were not so very fine either. But the strangest thing was that the earth here was of the same color as that at home, although it was a foreign country. He had seen a map in Tommelilla, in which each country had a different color. So that was a lie! Lasse had long since talked himself out, and slept with his head upon the boy's back. He had forgotten to hide the bottle. Pelle was just going to push it down into the straw when the bailiff --who as a matter of fact was not a Jute, but a Zeelander--happened to turn round and caught sight of it. He told the boy to throw it into the ditch. By midday they reached their destination. Lasse awoke as they drove on to the stone paving of the large yard, and groped mechanically in the straw. But suddenly he recollected where he was, and was sober in an instant. So this was their new home, the only place they had to stay in and expect anything of on this earth! And as he looked out over the big yard, where the dinner-bell was just sounding and calling servants and day-laborers out of all the doors, all his self-confidence vanished. A despairing feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him, and made his face tremble with impotent concern for his son. His hands shook as he clambered down from the wagon; he stood irresolute and at the mercy of all the inquiring glances from the steps down to the basement of the big house. They were talking about him and the boy, and laughing already. In his confusion he determined to make as favorable a first impression as possible, and began to take off his cap to each one separately; and the boy stood beside him and did the same. They were rather like the clowns at a fair, and the men round the basement steps laughed aloud and bowed in imitation, and then began to call to them; but the bailiff came out again to the cart, and they quickly disappeared down the steps. From the house itself there came a far-off, monotonous sound that never left off, and insensibly added to their feeling of depression. "Don't stand there playing the fool!" said the bailiff sharply. "Be off down to the others and get something to eat! You'll have plenty of time to show off your monkey-tricks to them afterwards." At these encouraging words, the old man took the boy's hand and went across to the basement steps with despair in his heart, mourning inwardly for Tommelilla and Kungstorp. Pelle clung close to him in fear. The unknown had suddenly become an evil monster in the imagination of both of them. Down in the basement passage the strange, persistent sound was louder, and they both knew that it was that of a woman weeping. II Stone Farm, which for the future was to be Lasse and Pelle's home, was one of the largest farms on the island. But old people knew that when their grandparents were children, it had been a crofter's cottage where only two horses were kept, and belonged to a certain Vevest Koller, a grandson of Jens Kofod, the liberator of Bornholm. During his time, the cottage became a farm. He worked himself to death on it, and grudged food both for himself and the others. And these two things--poor living and land-grabbing--became hereditary in that family. The fields in this part of the island had been rock and heather not many generations since. Poor people had broken up the ground, and worn themselves out, one set after another, to keep it in cultivation. Round about Stone Farm lived only cottagers and men owning two horses, who had bought their land with toil and hunger, and would as soon have thought of selling their parents' grave as their little property; they stuck to it until they died or some misfortune overtook them. But the Stone Farm family were always wanting to buy and extend their property, and their chance only came through their neighbors' misfortunes. Wherever a bad harvest or sickness or ill luck with his beasts hit a man hard enough to make him reel, the Kollers bought. Thus Stone Farm grew, and acquired numerous buildings and much importance; it became as hard a neighbor as the sea is, when it eats up the farmer's land, field by field, and nothing can be done to check it. First one was eaten up and then another. Every one knew that his turn would come sooner or later. No one goes to law with the sea; but all the ills and discomfort that brooded over the poor man's life came from Stone Farm. The powers of darkness dwelt there, and frightened souls pointed to it always. "That's well-manured land," the people of the district would say, with a peculiar intonation that held a curse; but they ventured no further. The Koller family was not sentimental; it throve capitally in the sinister light that fell upon the farm from so many frightened minds, and felt it as power. The men were hard drinkers and card-players; but they never drank so much as to lose sight and feeling; and if they played away a horse early in the evening, they very likely won two in the course of the night. When Lasse and Pelle came to Stone Farm, the older cottagers still remembered the farmer of their childhood, Janus Koller, the one who did more to improve things than any one else. In his youth he once, at midnight, fought with the devil up in the church-tower, and overcame him; and after that everything succeeded with him. Whatever might or might not have been the reason, it is certain that in his time one after another of his neighbors was ruined, and Janus went round and took over their holdings. If he needed another horse, he played for and won it at loo; and it was the same with everything. His greatest pleasure was to break in wild horses, and those who happened to have been born at midnight on Christmas Eve could distinctly see the Evil One sitting on the box beside him and holding the reins. He came to a bad end, as might have been expected. One morning early, the horses came galloping home to the farm, and he was found lying by the roadside with his head smashed against a tree. His son was the last master of Stone Farm of that family. He was a wild devil, with much that was good in him. If any one differed from him, he knocked him down; but he always helped those who got into trouble. In this way no one ever left house and home; and as he had the family fondness for adding to the farm, he bought land up among the rocks and heather. But he wisely let it lie as it was. He attached many to the farm by his assistance, and made them so dependent that they never became free again. His tenants had to leave their own work when he sent for them, and he was never at a loss for cheap labor. The food he provided was scarcely fit for human beings, but he always ate of the same dish himself. And the priest was with him at the last; so there was no fault to find with his departure from this life. He had married twice, but his only child was a daughter by the second wife, and there was something not quite right about her. She was a woman at the age of eleven, and made up to any one she met; but no one dared so much as look at her, for they were afraid of the farmer's gun. Later on she went to the other extreme, and dressed herself up like a man, and went about out on the rocks instead of busying herself with something at home; and she let no one come near her. Kongstrup, the present master of Stone Farm, had come to the island about twenty years before, and even now no one could quite make him out. When he first came he used to wander about on the heath and do nothing, just as she did; so it was hardly to be wondered at that he got into trouble and had to marry her. But it was dreadful! He was a queer fellow; but perhaps that was what people were like where he came from? He first had one idea and then another, raised wages when no one had asked him to, and started stone-quarrying with contract work. And so he went on with his foolish tricks to begin with, and let his cottagers do as they liked about coming to work at the farm. He even went so far as to send them home in wet weather to get in their corn, and let his own stand and be ruined. But things went all wrong of course, as might well be imagined, and gradually he had to give in, and abandon all his foolish ideas. The people of the district submitted to this condition of dependence without a murmur. They had been accustomed, from father to son, to go in and out of the gates of Stone Farm, and do what was required of them, as dutifully as if they had been serfs of the land. As a set-off they allowed all their leaning toward the tragic, all the terrors of life and gloomy mysticism, to center round Stone Farm. They let the devil roam about there, play loo with the men for their souls, and ravish the women; and they took off their caps more respectfully to the Stone Farm people than to any one else. All this had changed a little as years went on; the sharp points of the superstition had been blunted a little. But the bad atmosphere that hangs over large estates--over all great accumulations of what should belong to the many--also hung heavy over Stone Farm. It was the judgment passed by the people, their only revenge for themselves and theirs. Lasse and Pelle were quickly aware of the oppressive atmosphere, and began to see with the half-frightened eyes of the others, even before they themselves had heard very much. Lasse especially thought he could never be quite happy here, because of the heaviness that always seemed to surround them. And then that weeping that no one could quite account for! All through the long, bright day, the sound of weeping came from the rooms of Stone Farm, like the refrain of some sad folk-song. Now at last it had stopped. Lasse was busying himself with little things in the lower yard, and he still seemed to have the sound in his ears. It was sad, so sad, with this continual sound of a woman weeping, as if a child were dead, or as if she were left alone with her shame. And what could there be to weep for, when you had a farm of several hundred acres, and lived in a high house with twenty windows! "Riches are nought but a gift from the Lord, But poverty, that is in truth a reward. They who wealth do possess Never know happiness, While the poor man's heart is ever contented!" So sang Karna over in the dairy, and indeed it was true! If only Lasse knew where he was to get the money for a new smock-frock for the little lad, he would never envy any one on this earth; though it would be nice to have money for tobacco and a dram now and then, if it was not unfair to any one else. Lasse was tidying up the dung-heap. He had finished his midday work in the stable, and was taking his time about it; it was only a job he did between whiles. Now and then he glanced furtively up at the high windows and put a little more energy into his work; but weariness had the upper hand. He would have liked to take a little afternoon nap, but did not dare. All was quiet on the farm. Pelle had been sent on an errand to the village shop for the kitchen-folk, and all the men were in the fields covering up the last spring corn. Stone Farm was late with this. The agricultural pupil now came out of the stable, which he had entered from the other side, so as to come upon Lasse unexpectedly. The bailiff had sent him. "Is that you, you nasty spy!" muttered Lasse when he saw him. "Some day I'll kill you!" But he took off his cap with the deepest respect. The tall pupil went up the yard without looking at him, and began to talk nonsense with the maids down in the wash-house. He wouldn't do that if the men were at home, the scarecrow! Kongstrup came out on to the steps, and stood for a little while looking at the weather; then he went down to the cow-stable. How big he was! He quite filled the stable doorway. Lasse put down his fork and hastened in in case he was wanted. "Well, how are you getting on, old man?" asked the farmer kindly. "Can you manage the work?" "Oh, yes, I get through it," answered Lasse; "but that's about all. It's a lot of animals for one man." Kongstrup stood feeling the hind quarters of a cow. "You've got the boy to help you, Lasse. Where is he, by the by? I don't see him." "He's gone to the village shop for the women-folk." "Indeed? Who told him to go?" "I think it was the mistress herself." "H'm. Is it long since he went?" "Yes, some time. He ought soon to be back now." "Get hold of him when he comes, and send him up to me with the things, will you?" Pelle was rather frightened at having to go up to the office, and besides the mistress had told him to keep the bottle well hidden under his smock. The room was very high, and on the walls hung splendid guns; and up upon a shelf stood cigar-boxes, one upon another, right up to the ceiling, just as if it were a tobacco-shop. But the strangest thing of all was that there was a fire in the stove, now, in the middle of May, and with the window open! It must be that they didn't know how to get rid of all their money. But wherever were the money-chests? All this and much more Pelle observed while he stood just inside the door upon his bare feet, not daring from sheer nervousness to raise his eyes. Then the farmer turned round in his chair, and drew him toward him by the collar. "Now let's see what you've got there under your smock, my little man!" he said kindly. "It's brandy," said Pelle, drawing forth the bottle. "The mistress said I wasn't to let any one see it." "You're a clever boy," said Kongstrup, patting him on the cheek. "You'll get on in the world one of these days. Now give me the bottle and I'll take it out to your mistress without letting any one see." He laughed heartily. Pelle handed him the bottle--_there_ stood money in piles on the writing-table, thick round two-krone pieces one upon another! Then why didn't Father Lasse get the money in advance that he had begged for? The mistress now came in, and the farmer at once went and shut the window. Pelle wanted to go, but she stopped him. "You've got some things for me, haven't you?" she said. "I've received the _things,_" said Kongstrup. "You shall have them--when the boy's gone." But she remained at the door. She would keep the boy there to be a witness that her husband withheld from her things that were to be used in the kitchen; every one should know it. Kongstrup walked up and down and said nothing. Pelle expected he would strike her, for she called him bad names--much worse than Mother Bengta when Lasse came home merry from Tommelilla. But he only laughed. "Now that'll do," he said, leading her away from the door, and letting the boy out. Lasse did not like it. He had thought the farmer was interfering to prevent them all from making use of the boy, when he so much needed his help with the cattle; and now it had taken this unfortunate turn! "And so it was brandy!" he repeated. "Then I can understand it. But I wonder how she dares set upon him like that when it's with _her_ the fault lies. He must be a good sort of fellow." "He's fond of drink himself," said Pelle, who had heard a little about the farmer's doings. "Yes, but a woman! That's quite another thing. Remember they're fine folk. Well, well, it doesn't become us to find fault with our betters; we have enough to do in looking after ourselves. But I only hope she won't send you on any more of her errands, or we may fall between two stools." Lasse went to his work. He sighed and shook his head while he dragged the fodder out. He was not at all happy. III There was something exhilarating in the wealth of sunshine that filled all space without the accompaniment of corresponding heat. The spring moisture was gone from the air, and the warm haze of summer had not yet come. There was only light--light over the green fields and the sea beyond, light that drew the landscape in clear lines against the blue atmosphere, and breathed a gentle, pleasant warmth. It was a day in the beginning of June--the first real summer day; and it was Sunday. Stone Farm lay bathed in sunshine. The clear golden light penetrated everywhere; and where it could not reach, dark colors trembled like a hot, secret breath out into the light. Open windows and doors looked like veiled eyes in the midst of the light, and where the roof lay in shadow, it had the appearance of velvet. It was quiet up in the big house to-day; it was a day of rest from wrangling too. The large yard was divided into two by a fence, the lower part consisting in the main of a large, steaming midden, crossed by planks in various directions, and at the top a few inverted wheelbarrows. A couple of pigs lay half buried in the manure, asleep, and a busy flock of hens were eagerly scattering the pile of horse-dung from the last morning clearance. A large cock stood in the middle of the flock, directing the work like a bailiff. In the upper yard a flock of white pigeons were pecking corn off the clean stone paving. Outside the open coach-house door, a groom was examining the dog-cart, while inside stood another groom, polishing the best harness. The man at the dog-cart was in shirt-sleeves and newly-polished top-boots; he had a youthful, elastic frame, which assumed graceful attitudes as he worked. He wore his cap on the back of his head, and whistled softly while he cleaned the wheels outside and in, and sent stolen glances down to the wash-house, where, below the window, one of the maids was going through her Sunday ablutions, with shoulders and arms bare, and her chemise pushed down below her bosom. The big dairymaid, Karna, went past him to the pump with two large buckets. As she returned, she splashed some water on to one of his boots, and he looked up with an oath. She took this as an invitation to stop, and put down her pails with a cautious glance up at the windows of the big house. "You've not had all the sleep you ought to have had, Gustav," she said teasingly, and laughed. "Then it isn't your fault, at any rate," he answered roughly. "Can you patch my everyday trousers for me to-day?" "No, thank you! I don't mend for another to get all the pleasant words!" "Then you can leave it alone! There are plenty who'll mend for me without you!" And he bent again to his work. "I'll see if I can get time," said the big woman meekly. "But I've got all the work in the place to do by myself this afternoon; the others are all going out." "Yes, I see Bodil's washing herself," said Gustav, sending a squirt of tobacco-juice out of his mouth in the direction of the wash-house window. "I suppose she's going to meeting, as she's doing it so, thoroughly." Karna looked cunning. "She asked to be free because she wanted to go to church. She go to church! I should just like to see her! No, she's going down to the tailor's in the village, and there I suppose she'll meet Malmberg, a townsman of hers. I wonder she isn't above having anything to do with a married man." "She can go on the spree with any one she likes, for all I care," answered Gustav, kicking the last wheel into place with his foot, while Karna stood looking at him kindly. But the next moment she spied a face behind the curtains up in one of the windows, and hurried off with her pails. Gustav spat contemptuously between his teeth after her. She was really too old for his seventeen years; she must be at least forty; and casting another long look at Bodil, he went across to the coachhouse with oil-can and keys. The high white house that closed the yard at its upper end, had not been built right among the other buildings, but stood proudly aloof, unconnected with them except by two strips of wooden paling. It had gables on both sides, and a high basement, in which were the servants' hall, the maids' bedrooms, the wash-house, the mangling-room, and the large storerooms. On the gable looking on to the yard was a clock that did not go. Pelle called the building the Palace, and was not a little proud of being allowed to enter the basement. The other people on the farm did not give it such a nice name. He was the only one whose awe of the House had nothing sinister about it; others regarded it in the light of a hostile fortress. Every one who crossed the paved upper yard, glanced involuntarily up at the high veiled windows, behind which an eye might secretly be kept upon all that went on below. It was, a little like passing a row of cannons' mouths--it made one a little unsteady on one's feet; and no one crossed the clean pavement unless he was obliged. On the other hand they went freely about the other half of the yard, which was just as much overlooked by the House. Down there two of the lads were playing. One of them had seized the other's cap and run off with it, and a wild chase ensued, in at one barn-door and out at another all round the yard, to the accompaniment of mischievous laughter and breathless exclamations. The yard-dog barked with delight and tumbled madly about on its chain in its desire to join in the game. Up by the fence the robber was overtaken and thrown to the ground; but he managed to toss the cap up into the air, and it descended right in front of the high stone steps of the House. "Oh, you mean beast!" exclaimed the owner of the cap, in a voice of despairing reproach, belaboring the other with the toes of his boots. "Oh, you wretched bailiff's sneak!" He suddenly stopped and measured the distance with an appraising eye. "Will you stand me half a pint if I dare go up and fetch the cap?" he asked in a whisper. The other nodded and sat up quickly to see what would come of it. "Swear? You won't try and back out of it?" he said, lifting his hand adjuringly. His companion solemnly drew his finger across his throat, as if cutting it, and the oath was taken. The one who had lost the cap, hitched up his trousers and pulled himself together, his whole figure stiffening with determination; then he put his hands upon the fence, vaulted it, and walked with bent head and firm step across the yard, looking like one who had staked his all upon one card. When he had secured the cap, and turned his back upon the House, he sent a horrible grimace down the yard. Bodil now came up from the basement in her best Sunday clothes, with a black silk handkerchief on her head and a hymn-book in her hand. How pretty she was! And brave! She went along the whole length of the House and out! But then she could get a kiss from the farmer any day she liked. Outside the farm proper lay a number of large and small outbuildings --the calves' stable, the pigsties, the tool-shed, the cart-shed and a smithy that was no longer used. They were all like so many mysteries, with trap-doors that led down to pitch-dark, underground beet and potato cellars, from which, of course, you could get by secret passages to the strangest places underground, and other trap-doors that led up to dark lofts, where the most wonderful treasures were preserved in the form of old lumber. But Pelle unfortunately had little time to go into all this. Every day he had to help his father to look after the cattle, and with so large a herd, the work was almost beyond their power. If he had a moment's breathing-space, some one was sure to be after him. He had to fetch water for the laundry girls, to grease the pupil's boots and run to the village shop for spirits or chewing-tobacco for the men. There was plenty to play with, but no one could bear to see him playing; they were always whistling for him as if he were a dog. He tried to make up for it by turning his work into a game, and in many instances this was possible. Watering the cattle, for instance, was more fun than any real game, when his father stood out in the yard and pumped, and the boy only had to guide the water from manger to manger. When thus occupied, he always felt something like a great engineer. But on the other hand, much of the other work was too hard to be amusing. At this moment the boy was wandering about among the outbuildings, where there was no one to hunt him about. The door to the cow-stable stood open, and he could hear the continual munching of the cows, now and then interrupted by a snuff of contentment or the regular rattle of a chain up and down when a cow rubbed its neck upon the post. There was a sense of security in the sound of his father's wooden shoes up and down the foddering-passage. Out of the open half-doors of the smaller outbuildings there came a steamy warmth that smelt pleasantly of calves and pigs. The pigs were hard at work. All through the long sty there was munching and smacking. One old sow supped up the liquid through the corners of her mouth, another snuffed and bubbled with her snout along the bottom of the trough to find the rotten potatoes under the liquid. Here and there two pigs were fighting over the trough, and emitting piercing squeals. The calves put their slobbering noses out at the doors, gazing into the sunny air and lowing feelingly. One little fellow, after snuffing up air from the cow-stable in a peculiarly thorough way, turned up his lip in a foolish grin: it was a bull- calf. He laid his chin upon the half-door, and tried to jump over, but Pelle drove him down again. Then he kicked up his hind legs, looked at Pelle out of the corner of his eye, and stood with arched back, lifting his fore and hindquarters alternately with the action of a rocking-horse. He was light-headed with the sun. Down on the pond, ducks and geese stood upon their heads in the water, flourishing their red legs in the air. And all at once the whole flock would have an attack of giddy delight in the sunshine, and splash screaming from bank to bank, the last part of the way sliding along the top of the water with a comical wagging of the tail. Pelle had promised himself much from this couple of hours that were to be entirely his own, as his father had given him a holiday until the time came for the midday work. But now he stood in bewilderment, overwhelmed by the wealth of possibilities. Would it be the best fun to sail upon the pond on two tail-boards laid one across the other? There was a manure-cart lying there now to be washed. Or should he go in and have a game with the tiny calves? Or shoot with the old bellows in the smithy? If he filled the nozzle with wet earth, and blew hard, quite a nice shot could come out of it. Pelle started and tried to make himself invisible. The farmer himself had come round the corner, and was now standing shading his eyes with his hand and looking down over the sloping land and the sea. When he caught sight of Pelle, he nodded without changing his expression, and said: "Good day, my boy! How are you getting on?" He gazed on, and probably hardly knew that he had said it and patted the boy on the shoulder with the end of his stick; the farmer often went about half asleep. But Pelle felt it as a caress of a divine nature, and immediately ran across to the stable to tell his father what had happened to him. He had an elevating sensation in his shoulder as if he had been knighted; and he still felt the stick there. An intoxicating warmth flowed from the place through his little body, sent the adventure mounting to his head and made him swell with pride. His imagination rose and soared into the air with some vague, dizzy idea about the farmer adopting him as his son. He soon came down again, for in the stable he ran straight into the arms of the Sunday scrubbing. The Sunday wash was the only great objection he had to make to life; everything else came and was forgotten again, but it was always coming again. He detested it, especially that part of it which had to do with the interior of his ears. But there was no kind mother to help; Lasse stood ready with a bucket of cold water, and some soft soap on a piece of broken pot, and the boy had to divest himself of his clothes. And as if the scrubbing were not enough, he afterwards had to put on a clean shirt--though, fortunately, only every other Sunday. The whole thing was nice enough to look back upon afterwards--like something gone through with, and not to happen again for a little while. Pelle stood at the stable door into the yard with a consequential air, with bristling hair and clean shirt-sleeves, his hands buried in his trouser pockets. Over his forehead his hair waved in what is called a "cow's lick," said to betoken good fortune; and his face, all screwed up as it turned towards the bright light, looked the oddest piece of topsy-turvydom, with not a single feature in its proper place. Pelle bent the calves of his legs out backwards, and stood gently rocking himself to and fro as he saw Gustav doing, up on the front-door steps, where he stood holding the reins, waiting for his master and mistress. The mistress now appeared, with the farmer, and a maid ran down in front to the carriage with a little stepladder, and helped her in. The farmer stood at the top of the steps until she was seated: she had difficulty in walking. But what a pair of eyes she had! Pelle hastily looked away when she turned her face down towards the yard. It was whispered among the men that she could bring misfortune upon any one by looking at him if she liked. Now Gustav unchained the dog, which bounded about, barking, in front of the horses as they drove out of the courtyard. Anyhow the sun did not shine like this on a week-day. It was quite dazzling when the white pigeons flew in one flock over the yard, turning as regularly as if they were a large white sheet flapping in the sunshine; the reflection from their wings flashed over the dung-heap and made the pigs lift their heads with an inquiring grunt. Above, in their rooms the men sat playing "Sixty-six," or tipping wooden shoes, and Gustav began to play "Old Noah" on his concertina. Pelle picked his way across the upper part of the yard to the big dog-kennel, which could be turned on a pivot according to the direction of the wind. He seated himself upon the angle of the roof, and made a merry-go-round of it by pushing off with his foot every time he passed the fence. Suddenly it occurred to him that he himself was everybody's dog, and had better hide himself; so he dropped down, crept into the kennel, and curled himself up on the straw with his head between his fore-paws. There he lay for a little while, staring at the fence and panting with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Then an idea came into his head so suddenly as to make him forget all caution; and the next moment he was sliding full tilt down the railing of the front-door steps. He had done this seventeen times and was deeply engrossed in the thought of reaching fifty, when he heard a sharp whistle from the big coach-house door. The farm pupil stood there beckoning him. Pelle, crestfallen, obeyed the call, bitterly regretting his thoughtlessness. He was most likely wanted now to grease boots again, perhaps for them all. The pupil drew him inside the door, which he shut. It was dark, and the boy, coming in out of the bright daylight, could distinguish nothing; what he made out little by little assumed shapeless outlines to his frightened imagination. Voices laughed and growled confusedly in his ears, and hands that seemed to him enormous pulled him about. Terror seized him, and with it came crazy, disconnected recollections of stories of robbery and murder, and he began to scream with fright. A big hand covered the whole of his face, and in the silence that followed his stifled scream, he heard a voice out in the yard, calling to the maids to come and see something funny. He was too paralyzed with terror to know what was being done with him, and only wondered faintly what there was funny out there in the sunshine. Would he ever see the sun again, he wondered? As if in answer to his thought, the door was at that moment thrown open. The light poured in and he recognized the faces about him, and found himself standing half naked in the full daylight, his trousers down about his heels and his shirt tucked up under his waistcoat. The pupil stood at one side with a carriage-whip, with which he flicked at the boy's naked body, crying in a tone of command: "Run!" Pelle, wild with terror and confusion, dashed into the yard, but there stood the maids, and at sight of him they screamed with laughter, and he turned to fly back into the coach-house. But he was met by the whip, and forced to return into the daylight, leaping like a kangaroo and calling forth renewed shouts of laughter. Then he stood still, crying helplessly, under a shower of coarse remarks, especially from the maids. He no longer noticed the whip, but only crouched down, trying to hide himself, until at last he sank in a heap upon the stone paving, sobbing convulsively. Karna, large of limb, came rushing up from the basement and forced her way through the crowd, crimson with rage and scolding as she went. On her freckled neck and arms were brown marks left by the cows' tails at the last milking, looking like a sort of clumsy tattooing. She flung her slipper in the pupil's face, and going up to Pelle, wrapped him in her coarse apron and carried him down to the basement. When Lasse heard what had happened to the boy, he took a hammer and went round to kill the farm pupil; and the look in the old man's eyes was such that no one desired to get in his way. The pupil had thought his wisest course was to disappear; and when Lasse found no vent for his wrath, he fell into a fit of trembling and weeping, and became so really ill that the men had to administer a good mouthful of spirits to revive him. This took instant effect, and Lasse was himself again and able to nod consolingly to the frightened, sobbing Pelle. "Never mind, laddie!" he said comfortingly. "Never mind! No one has ever yet got off without being punished, and Lasse'll break that long limb of Satan's head and make his brains spurt out of his nose; you take my word for it!" Pelle's face brightened at the prospect of this forcible redress, and he crept up into the loft to throw down the hay for the cattle's midday meal. Lasse, who was not so fond of climbing, went down the long passage between the stalls distributing the hay. He was cogitating over something, and Pelle could hear him talking to himself all the time. When they had finished, Lasse went to the green chest and brought out a black silk handkerchief that had been Bengta's Sunday best. His expression was solemn as he called Pelle. "Run over to Karna with this and ask her to accept it. We're not so poor that we should let kindness itself go from us empty-handed. But you mustn't let any one see it, in case they didn't like it. Mother Bengta in her grave won't be offended; she'd have proposed it herself, if she could have spoken; but her mouth's full of earth, poor thing!" Lasse sighed deeply. Even then he stood for a little while with the handkerchief in his hand before giving it to Pelle to run with. He was by no means as sure of Bengta as his words made out; but the old man liked to beautify her memory, both in his own and in the boy's mind. It could not be denied that she had generally been a little difficult in a case of this kind, having been particularly jealous; and she might take it into her head to haunt them because of that handkerchief. Still she had had a heart for both him and the boy, and it was generally in the right place--they must say that of her! And for the rest, the Lord must judge her as kindly as He could. During the afternoon it was quiet on the farm. Most of the men were out somewhere, either at the inn or with the quarry-men at the stone-quarry. The master and mistress were out too; the farmer had ordered the carriage directly after dinner and had driven to the town, and half an hour later his wife set off in the pony-carriage --to keep an eye on him, people said. Old Lasse was sitting in an empty cow-stall, mending Pelle's clothes, while the boy played up and down the foddering passage. He had found in the herdsman's room an old boot-jack, which he placed under his knee, pretending it was a wooden leg, and all the time he was chattering happily, but not quite so loudly as usual, to his father. The morning's experience was still fresh in his mind, and had a subduing effect; it was as if he had performed some great deed, and was now nervous about it. There was another circumstance, too, that helped to make him serious. The bailiff had been over to say that the animals were to go out the next day. Pelle was to mind the young cattle, so this would be his last free day, perhaps for the whole summer. He paused outside the stall where his father sat. "What are you going to kill him with, father?" "With the hammer, I suppose." "Will you kill him quite dead, as dead as a dog?" Lasse's nod boded ill to the pupil. "Yes, indeed I shall!" "But who'll read the names for us then?" The old man shook his head pensively. "That's true enough!" he exclaimed, scratching himself first in one place and then in another. The name of each cow was written in chalk above its stall, but neither Lasse nor Pelle could read. The bailiff had, indeed, gone through the names with them once, but it was impossible to remember half a hundred names after hearing them once--even for the boy, who had such an uncommon good memory. If Lasse now killed the pupil, then who _would_ help them to make out the names? The bailiff would never stand their going to him and asking him a second time. "I suppose we shall have to content ourselves with thrashing him," said Lasse meditatively. The boy went on playing for a little while, and then once more came up to Lasse. "Don't you think the Swedes can thrash all the people in the world, father?" The old man looked thoughtful. "Ye-es--yes, I should think so." "Yes, because Sweden's much bigger than the whole world, isn't it?" "Yes, it's big," said Lasse, trying to imagine its extent. There were twenty-four provinces, of which Malmohus was only one, and Ystad district a small part of that again; and then in one corner of Ystad district lay Tommelilla, and his holding that he had once thought so big with its five acres of land, was a tiny little piece of Tommelilla! Ah, yes, Sweden was big--not bigger than the whole world, of course, for that was only childish nonsense--but still bigger than all the rest of the world put together. "Yes, it's big! But what are you doing, laddie?" "Why, can't you see I'm a soldier that's had one leg shot off?" "Oh, you're an old crippled pensioner, are you? But you shouldn't do that, for God doesn't like things like that. You might become a real cripple, and that would be dreadful." "Oh, He doesn't see, because He's in the churches to-day!" answered the boy; but for safety's sake he thought it better to leave off. He stationed himself at the stable-door, whistling, but suddenly came running in with great eagerness: "Father, there's the Agricultural! Shall I run and fetch the whip?" "No, I expect we'd better leave him alone. It might be the death of him; fine gentlemen scamps like that can't stand a licking. The fright alone might kill him." Lasse glanced doubtfully at the boy. Pelle looked very much disappointed. "But suppose he does it again?" "Oh, no, we won't let him off without a good fright. I shall pick him up and hold him out at arm's length dangling in the air until he begs for mercy; and then I shall put him down again just as quietly. For Lasse doesn't like being angry. Lasse's a decent fellow." "Then you must pretend to let him go while you're holding him high up in the air; and then he'll scream and think he's going to die, and the others'll come and laugh at him." "No, no; you mustn't tempt your father! It might come into my mind to throw him down, and that would be murder and penal servitude for life, that would! No, I'll just give him a good scolding; that's what a classy scoundrel like that'll feel most." "Yes, and then you must call him a spindle-shanked clodhopper. That's what the bailiff calls him when he's angry with him." "No, I don't think that would do either; but I'll speak so seriously with him that he won't be likely to forget it in a hurry." Pelle was quite satisfied. There was no one like his father, and of course he would be as good at blowing people up as at everything else. He had never heard him do it, and he was looking forward to it immensely while he hobbled along with the boot-jack. He was not using it as a wooden leg now, for fear of tempting Providence; but he held it under his arm like a crutch, supporting it on the edge of the foundation wall, because it was too short. How splendid it would be to go on two crutches like the parson's son at home! He could jump over the very longest puddles. There was a sudden movement of light and shadow up under the roof, and when Pelle turned round, he saw a strange boy standing in the doorway out to the field. He was of the same height as Pelle, but his head was almost as large as that of a grown man. At first sight it appeared to be bald all over; but when the boy moved in the sun, his bare head shone as if covered with silver scales. It was covered with fine, whitish hair, which was thinly and fairly evenly distributed over the face and everywhere else; and his skin was pink, as were the whites of his eyes. His face was all drawn into wrinkles in the strong light, and the back of his head projected unduly and looked as if it were much too heavy. Pelle put his hands in his trouser pockets and went up to him. "What's your name?" he said, and tried to expectorate between his front teeth as Gustav was in the habit of doing. The attempt was a failure, unfortunately, and the saliva only ran down his chin. The strange boy grinned. "Rud," he said, indistinctly, as if his tongue were thick and unmanageable. He was staring enviously at Pelle's trouser pockets. "Is that your father?" he asked, pointing at Lasse. "Of course!" said Pelle, consequentially. "And he can thrash everybody." "But my father can buy everybody, because he lives up there." And Rud pointed toward the big house. "Oh, does he really?" said Pelle, incredulously. "Why don't you live there with him, then?" "Why, I'm a bastard-child; mother says so herself." "The deuce she does!" said Pelle, stealing a glance at his father on account of the little oath. "Yes, when she's cross. And then she beats me, but then I run away from her." "Oh, you do, do you!" said a voice outside. The boys started and retreated farther into the stable, as a big, fat woman appeared in the doorway, and looked angrily round in the dim light. When she caught sight of Rud, she continued her scolding. Her accent was Swedish. "So you run away, do you, you cabbage-head! If you'd only run so far that you couldn't find your way back again, a body wouldn't need to wear herself out thrashing a misbegotten imp like you! You'll go to the devil anyhow, so don't worry yourself about that! So that's the boy's father, is it?" she said, suddenly breaking off as she caught sight of Lasse. "Yes, it is," said Lasse, quietly. "And surely you must be schoolmaster Johan Pihl's Johanna from Tommelilla, who left the country nearly twenty years ago?" "And surely you must be the smith's tom-cat from Sulitjelma, who had twins out of an old wooden shoe the year before last?" retorted the big woman, imitating his tone of voice. "Very well; it doesn't matter to me who you are!" said the old man in an offended tone. "I'm not a police spy." "One would think you were from the way you question. Do you know when the cattle are to go out?" "To-morrow, if all's well. Is it your little boy who's going to show Pelle how things go? The bailiff spoke of some one who'd go out with him and show him the grazing-ground." "Yes, it's that Tom Noddy there. Here, come out so that we can see you properly, you calf! Oh, the boy's gone. Very well. Does your boy often get a thrashing?" "Oh yes, sometimes," answered Lasse, who was ashamed to confess that he never chastised the boy. "I don't spare mine either. It'll take something to make a man of such rubbish; punishment's half what he lives on. Then I'll send him up here first thing to-morrow morning; but take care he doesn't show himself in the yard, or there'll be no end of a row!" "The mistress can't bear to see him, I suppose?" said Lasse. "You're just about right. She's had nothing to do with the making of that scarecrow. Though you wouldn't think there was much there to be jealous about! But I might have been a farmer's wife at this moment and had a nice husband too, if that high and mighty peacock up there hadn't seduced me. Would you believe that, you cracked old piece of shoe-leather?" she asked with a laugh, slapping his knee with her hand. "I can believe it very well," said Lasse. "For you were as pretty a girl as might be when you left home." "Oh, you and your 'home'," she said, mimicking him. "Well, I can see that you don't want to leave any footmarks behind you, and I can quite well pretend to be a stranger, even if I have held you upon my knee more than once when you were a little thing. But do you know that your mother's lying on her deathbed?" "Oh no! Oh no!" she exclaimed, turning to him a face that was becoming more and more distorted. "I went to say good-bye to her before I left home rather more than a month ago, and she was very ill. 'Good-bye, Lasse,' she said, 'and thank you for your neighborliness all these years. And if you meet Johanna over there,' she said, 'give her my love. Things have gone terribly badly with her, from what I've heard; but give her my love, all the same. Johanna child, little child! She was nearest her mother's heart, and so she happened to tread upon it. Perhaps it was our fault. You'll give her her mother's love, won't you, Lasse?' Those were her very words, and now she's most likely dead, so poorly as she was then." Johanna Pihl had no command over her feelings. It was evident that she was not accustomed to weep, for her sobs seemed to tear her to pieces. No tears came, but her agony was like the throes of child-birth. "Little mother! Poor little mother!" she said every now and again, as she sat rocking herself upon the edge of the manger. "There, there, there!" said Lasse, patting her on the head. "I told them they had been too hard with you. But what did you want to creep through that window for--a child of sixteen and in the middle of the night? You can hardly wonder that they forgot themselves a little, all the more that he was earning no wages beyond his keep and clothes, and was a bad fellow at that, who was always losing his place." "I was fond of him," said Johanna, weeping. "He's the only one I've ever cared for. And I was so stupid that I thought he was fond of me too, though he'd never seen me." "Ah, yes; you were only a child! I said so to your parents. But that you could think of doing anything so indecent!" "I didn't mean to do anything wrong. I only thought that we two ought to be together as we loved one another. No, I didn't even think that then. I only crept in to him, without thinking about it at all. Would you believe that I was so innocent in those days? And nothing bad happened either." "And nothing happened even?" said Lasse. "But it's terribly sad to think how things have turned out. It was the death of your father." The big woman began to cry helplessly, and Lasse was almost in tears himself. "Perhaps I ought never to have told you," he said in despair. "But I thought you must have heard about it. I suppose he thought that he, as schoolmaster, bore the responsibility for so many, and that you'd thrown yourself at any one in that way, and a poor farm-servant into the bargain, cut him to the quick. It's true enough that he mixed with us poor folks as if we'd been his equals, but the honor was there all the same; and he took it hardly when the fine folk wouldn't look at him any more. And after all it was nothing at all--nothing happened? But why didn't you tell them so?" Johanna had stopped crying, and now sat with tear-stained, quivering face, and eyes turned away. "I did tell them, but they wouldn't listen. I was found there of course. I screamed for help when I found out he didn't even know me, but was only flattered at my coming, and wanted to take hold of me. And then the others came running in and found me there. They laughed and said that I'd screamed because I'd lost my innocence; and I could see that my parents thought the same. Even they wouldn't hear of nothing having happened, so what could the other rabble think? And then they paid him to come over here, and sent me away to relations." "Yes, and then you added to their sorrow by running away." "I went after him. I thought he'd get to be fond of me, if only I was near him. He'd taken service here at Stone Farm, and I took a place here as housemaid; but there was only one thing he wanted me for, and that I wouldn't have if he wasn't fond of me. So he went about boasting that I'd run away from home for his sake, and the other thing that was a lie; so they all thought they could do what they liked with me. Kongstrup was just married then, but he was no better than the others. I'd got the place quite by chance, because the other housemaid had had to go away somewhere to lie in; so I was awfully careful. He got her married afterwards to a quarryman at the quarries." "So that's the sort of man he is!" exclaimed Lasse. "I had my doubts about him. But what became of the other fellow?" "He went to work in the quarry when we'd been at the farm a couple of years and he'd done me all the harm he could. While he was there, he drank and quarreled most of the time. I often went to see him, for I couldn't get him out of my head; but he was always drunk. At last he couldn't stay there any longer, and disappeared, and then we heard that he was in Nordland, playing Hell among the rocks at Blaaholt. He helped himself to whatever he wanted at the nearest place he could find it, and knocked people down for nothing at all. And one day they said that he'd been declared an outlaw, so that any one that liked could kill him. I had great confidence in the master, who, after all, was the only person that wished me well; and he comforted me by saying that it would be all right: Knut would know how to take care of himself." "Knut? Was it Knut Engstrom?" asked Lasse. "Well, then, I've heard about him. He was breaking out as wild as the devil the last time I was in this country, and assaulted people on the high-road in broad daylight. He killed one man with a hammer, and when they caught him, he'd made a long gash on his neck from the back right up to his eye. The other man had done that, he said; he'd only defended himself. So they couldn't do anything to him. So that was the man, was it! But who was it he was living with, then? They said he lived in a shed on the heath that summer, and had a woman with him." "I ran away from service, and pretended to the others that I was going home. I'd heard what a wretched state he was in. They said he was gashed all over his head. So I went up and took care of him." "Then you gave in at last," said Lasse, with a roguish wink. "He beat me every day," she answered hoarsely. "And when he couldn't get his way, he drove me away at last. I'd set my mind on his being fond of me first." Her voice had grown coarse and hard again. "Then you deserved a good whipping for taking a fancy to such a ruffian! And you may be glad your mother didn't get to know anything about that, for she'd never have survived it." At the word "mother" Johanna started. "Every one must look after themselves," she said in a hard voice. "I've had more to look to than mother, and see how fat I've grown." Lasse shook his head. "I shouldn't care to fight with you now. But what happened to you afterwards?" "I came back to Stone Farm again at Martinmas, but the mistress wouldn't take me on again, for she preferred my room to my company. But Kongstrup got his way by making me dairymaid. He was as kind to me as ever, for all that I'd stood out against him for nine years. But at last the magistrate got tired of having Knut going about loose; he made too much disturbance. So they had a hunt for him up on the heath. They didn't catch him, but he must have come back to the quarry to hide himself, for one day when they were blasting there, his body came out among the bits of rock, all smashed up. They drove the pieces down here to the farm, and it made me so ill to see him come to me like that, that I had to go to bed. There I lay shivering day and night, for it seemed as if he'd come to me in his sorest need. Kongstrup sat with me and comforted me when the others were at work, and he took advantage of my misery to get his way. "There was a younger brother of the farmer on the hill who liked me. He'd been in America in his early days, and had plenty of money. He didn't care a rap what people said, and every single year he proposed to me, always on New Year's Day. He came that year too, and now that Knut was dead, I couldn't have done better than have taken him and been mistress of a farm; but I had to refuse him after all, and I can tell you it was hard when I made the discovery. Kongstrup wanted to send me away when I told him about it; but that I would not have. I meant to stay and have my child born here on the farm to which it belonged. He didn't care a bit about me any longer, the mistress looked at me with her evil eyes every day, and there was no one that was kind to me. I wasn't so hard then as I am now, and it was all I could do to keep from crying always. I became hard then. When anything was the matter, I clenched my teeth so that no one should deride me. I was working in the field the very day it happened, too. The boy was born in the middle of a beet-field, and I carried him back to the farm myself in my apron. He was deformed even then: the mistress's evil eyes had done it. I said to myself that she should always have the changeling in her sight, and refused to go away. The farmer couldn't quite bring himself to turn me out by force, and so he put me into the house down by the shore." "Then perhaps you work on the farm here in the busy seasons?" asked Lasse. She sniffed contemptuously. "Work! So you think I need do that? Kongstrup has to pay me for bringing up his son, and then there are friends that come to me, now one and now another, and bring a little with them--when they haven't spent it all in drink. You may come down and see me this evening. I'll be good to you too." "No, thank you!" said Lasse, gravely. "I am a human being too, but I won't go to one who's sat on my knee as if she'd been my own child." "Have you any gin, then?" she asked, giving him a sharp nudge. Lasse thought there was some, and went to see. "No, not a drop," he said, returning with the bottle. "But I've got something for you here that your mother asked me to give you as a keepsake. It was lucky I happened to remember it." And he handed her a packet, and looked on happily while she opened it, feeling pleased on her account. It was a hymn-book. "Isn't it a beauty?" he said. "With a gold cross and clasp--and then, it's your mother's." "What's the good of that to me?" asked Johanna. "I don't sing hymns." "Don't you?" said Lasse, hurt. "But your mother has never known but that you've kept the faith you had as a child, so you must forgive her this once." "Is that all you've got for me?" she asked, pushing the book off her lap. "Yes, it is," said Lasse, his voice trembling; and he picked up the book. "Who's going to have the rest, then?" "Well, the house was leased, and there weren't many things left, for it's a long time since your father died, remember. Where you should have been, strangers have filled the daughter's place; and I suppose those who've looked after her will get what there is. But perhaps you'd still be in time, if you took the first steamer." "No, thank you! Go home and be stared at and play the penitent--no, thank you! I'd rather the strangers got what's left. And mother-- well, if she's lived without my help, I suppose she can die without it too. Well, I must be getting home. I wonder what's become of the future master of Stone Farm?" She laughed loudly. Lasse would have taken his oath that she had been quite sober, and yet she walked unsteadily as she went behind the calves' stables to look for her son. It was on his lips to ask whether she would not take the hymn-book with her, but he refrained. She was not in the mood for it now, and she might mock God; so he carefully wrapped up the book and put it away in the green chest. * * * * * At the far end of the cow-stable a space was divided off with boards. It had no door, and the boards were an inch apart, so that it resembled a crate. This was the herdsman's room. Most of the space was occupied by a wide legless bedstead made of rough boards knocked together, with nothing but the stone floor to rest on. Upon a deep layer of rye straw the bed-clothes lay in a disordered heap, and the thick striped blankets were stiff with dried cow-dung, to which feathers and bits of straw had adhered. Pelle lay curled up in the middle of the bed with the down quilt up to his chin, while Lasse sat on the edge, turning over the things in the green chest and talking to himself. He was going through his Sunday devotions, taking out slowly, one after another, all the little things he had brought from the broken-up home. They were all purely useful things--balls of cotton, scraps of stuff, and such-like, that were to be used to keep his own and the boy's clothes in order; but to him each thing was a relic to be handled with care, and his heart bled every time one of them came to an end. With each article he laid down, he slowly repeated what Bengta had said it was for when she lay dying and was trying to arrange everything for him and the boy: "Wool for the boy's gray socks. Pieces to lengthen the sleeves of his Sunday jacket. Mind you don't wear your stockings too long before you mend them." They were the last wishes of the dying woman, and they were followed in the smallest detail. Lasse remembered them word for word, in spite of his bad memory. Then there were little things that had belonged to Bengta herself, cheap finery that all had its happy memory of fairs and holidays, which he recalled in his muttered reverie. Pelle liked this subdued murmur that he did not need to listen to or answer, and that was so pleasant to doze off in. He lay looking out sleepily at the bright sky, tired and with a vague feeling of something unpleasant that was past. Suddenly he started. He had heard the door of the cow-stable open, and steps upon the long foddering-passage. It was the pupil. He recognized the hated step at once. He thrilled with delight. Now that fellow would be made to understand that he mustn't do anything to boys with fathers who could hold a man out at arm's length and scold! oh, much worse than the bailiff. He sat up and looked eagerly at his father. "Lasse!" came a voice from the end of the tables. The old man growled sullenly, stirred uneasily, but did not rise. "Las-se!" came again, after a little, impatiently and in a tone of command. "Yes," said Lasse slowly, rising and going out. "Can't you answer when you're called, you old Swedish rascal? Are you deaf?" "Oh, I can answer well enough," said Lasse, in a trembling voice. "But Mr. Pupil oughtn't to--I'm a father, let me tell you--and a father's heart----" "You may be a monthly nurse for all I care, but you've got to answer when you're called, or else I'll get the bailiff to give you a talking-to. Do you understand?" "Yes, oh yes!--Mr. Pupil must excuse me, but I didn't hear." "Well, will you please remember that Aspasia's not to go out to pasture to-morrow." "Is she going to calve?" "Yes, of course! Did you think she was going to foal?" Lasse laughed, as in duty bound, and followed the pupil back through the stable. Now it would come, thought Pelle, and sat listening intently; but he only heard his father make another excuse, close the half-door, and come back with slow, tottering steps. Then he burst into tears, and crept far in under the quilt. Lasse went about for some time, grumbling to himself, and at last came and gently drew the quilt down from the boy's head. But Pelle buried his face in the clothes, and when his father turned it up toward him, he met a despairing, uncomprehending gaze that made his own wander restlessly round the room. "Yes," he said, with an attempt at being cross. "It's all very well for you to cry! But when you don't know where Aspasia stands, you've got to be civil, I'm thinking." "I know Aspasia quite well," sobbed the boy. "She's the third from the door here." Lasse was going to give a cross answer, but broke down, touched and disarmed by the boy's grief. He surrendered unconditionally, stooped down until his forehead touched the boy's, and said helplessly, "Yes, Lasse's a poor thing--old and poor! Any one can make a fool of him. He can't be angry any more, and there's no strength in his fist, so what's the good of clenching it! He has to put up with everything, and let himself be hustled about--and say thank you into the bargain--that's how it is with old Lasse. But you must remember that it's for your sake he lets himself be put upon. If it wasn't for you, he'd shoulder his pack and go--old though he is. But you can grow on where your father rusts. And now you must leave off crying!" And he dried the boy's wet eyes with the quilt. Pelle did not understand his father's words, but they quieted him nevertheless, and he soon fell asleep; but for a long time he sobbed as he lay. Lasse sat still upon the edge of the bed and watched the boy as he slept, and when he had become quieter, crept away through the stable and out. It had been a poor Sunday, and now he would go and see if any of the men were at home and had visitors, for then there would be spirits going round. Lasse could not find it in his heart to take any of his wages to buy a dram with; that money would have quite enough to do to buy bare necessaries. On one of the beds lay a man asleep, fully dressed, and with his boots on. He was dead drunk. All the others were out, so Lasse had to give up all thoughts of a dram, and went across to the basement to see if there was any gaiety going among the maids. He was not at all averse to enjoyment of one sort or another, now that he was free and his own master as he had been in the days of his youth. Up by the dairy stood the three farm-laborers' wives who used to do the milking for the girls on Sunday evening. They were thick-set, small, and bent with toil. They were all talking together and spoke of illnesses and other sad things in plaintive tones. Lasse at once felt a desire to join them, for the subject found an echo in his being like the tones of a well-known song, and he could join in the refrain with the experience of a lifetime. But he resisted the temptation, and went past them down the basement steps. "Ah, yes, death will come to us all!" said one of the women, and Lasse said the words after her to himself as he went down. Down there Karna was sitting mending Gustav's moleskin trousers, while Gustav lay upon the bench asleep with his cap over his face. He had put his feet up on Karna's lap, without so much as taking off his shoes; and she had accommodated her lap, so that they should not slide off. Lasse sat down beside her and tried to make himself agreeable. He wanted some one to be nice to him. But Karna was unapproachable; those dirty feet had quite turned her head. And either Lasse had forgotten how to do it, or he was wanting in assurance, for every time he attempted a pleasant speech, she turned it off. "We might have such a comfortable time, we two elderly folk," he said hopelessly. "Yes, and I could contribute what was wanting," said Gustav, peeping out from under his cap. Insolent puppy, lying there and boasting of his seventeen years! Lasse had a good mind to go for him then and there and chance yet one more trial of strength. But he contented himself with sitting and looking at him until his red, lashless eyes grew watery. Then he got up. "Well, well, I see you want young people this evening!" he said bitterly to Karna. "But you can't get rid of your years, all the same! Perhaps you'll only get the spoon to lick after the others." He went across to the cow-stable and began to talk to the three farm-laborers' wives, who were still speaking of illness and misery and death, as if nothing else existed in the world. Lasse nodded and said: "Yes, yes, that's true." He could heartily endorse it all, and could add much to what they said. It brought warmth to his old body, and made him feel quite comfortable--so easy in his joints. But when he lay on his back in bed, all the sad thoughts came back and he could not sleep. Generally he slept like a log as soon as he lay down, but to-day was Sunday, and he was tormented with the thought that life had passed him by. He had promised himself so much from the island, and it was nothing but worry and toil and trouble --nothing else at all. "Yes, Lasse's old!" he suddenly said aloud, and he kept on repeating the words with a little variation until he fell asleep: "He's old, poor man--and played out! Ah, so old!" Those words expressed it all. He was awakened again by singing and shouting up on the high-road. "And now the boy you gave me With the black and curly hair, He is no longer little, No longer, no longer, But a fine, tall strapping youth." It was some of the men and girls of the farm on their way home from some entertainment. When they turned into the farm road they became silent. It was just beginning to grow light; it must have been about two o'clock. IV At four, Lasse and Pelle were dressed and were opening the cow-stable doors on the field side. The earth was rolling off its white covering of night mist, and the morning rose prophetically. Lasse stood still in the doorway, yawning, and making up his mind about the weather for the day; but Pelle let the soft tones of the wind and the song of the lark--all that was stirring--beat upon his little heart. With open mouth and doubtful eyes he gazed into the incomprehensible as represented by each new day with all its unimagined possibilities. "To-day you must take your coat with you, for we shall have rain about midday," Lasse would then say; and Pelle peered into the sky to find out where his father got his knowledge from. For it generally came true. They then set about cleaning out the dung in the cow-stable, Pelle scraping the floor under the cows and sweeping it up, Lasse filling the wheelbarrow and wheeling it out. At half-past five they ate their morning meal of salt herring and porridge. After that Pelle set out with the young cattle, his dinner basket on his arm, and his whip wound several times round his neck. His father had made him a short, thick stick with rings on it, that he could rattle admonishingly and throw at the animals; but Pelle preferred the whip, because he was not yet strong enough to use it. He was little, and at first he had some difficulty in making an impression upon the great forces over which he was placed. He could not get his voice to sound sufficiently terrifying, and on the way out from the farm he had hard work, especially up near the farm, where the corn stood high on both sides of the field-road. The animals were hungry in the morning, and the big bullocks did not trouble to move when once they had their noses buried in the corn and he stood belaboring them with the short handle of the cattle- whip. The twelve-foot lash, which, in a practised hand, left little triangular marks in the animal's hide, he could not manage at all; and if he kicked the bullock on the head with his wooden shoe, it only closed its eyes good-naturedly, and browsed on sedately with its back to him. Then he would break into a despairing roar, or into little fits of rage in which he attacked the animal blindly and tried to get at its eyes; but it was all equally useless. He could always make the calves move by twisting their tails, but the bullocks' tails were too strong. He did not cry, however, for long at a time over the failure of his resources. One evening he got his father to put a spike into the toe of one of his wooden shoes, and after that his kick was respected. Partly by himself, and partly through Rud, he also learned where to find the places on the animals where it hurt most. The cow-calves and the two bull-calves all had their particular tender spot, and a well-directed blow upon a horn could make even the large bullocks bellow with pain. The driving out was hard work, but the herding itself was easy. When once the cattle were quietly grazing, he felt like a general, and made his voice sound out incessantly over the meadow, while his little body swelled with pride and a sense of power. Being away from his father was a trouble to him. He did not go home to dinner, and often in the middle of his play, despair would come over him and he would imagine that something had happened to his father, that the great bull had tossed him or something else; and he would leave everything, and start running homeward crying, but would remember in time the bailiff's whip, and trudge back again. He found a remedy for his longing by stationing himself so that he could keep a lookout on the fields up there, and see his father when he went out to move the dairy-cows. He taught himself to whittle boats and little rakes and hoes and decorate sticks with patterns cut upon the bark. He was clever with his knife and made diligent use of it. He would also stand for hours on the top of a monolith--he thought it was a gate-post--and try to crack his cattle-whip like a pistol-shot. He had to climb to a height to get the lash off the ground at all. When the animals lay down in the middle of the morning, he was often tired too, and then he would seat himself upon the head of one of the big bullocks, and hold on to the points of its horns; and while the animal lay chewing with a gentle vibration like a machine, he sat upon its head and shouted at the top of his voice songs about blighted affections and horrible massacres. Toward midday Rud came running up, as hungry as a hunter. His mother sent him out of the house when the hour for a meal drew near. Pelle shared the contents of his basket with him, but required him to bring the animals together a certain number of times for every portion of food. The two boys could not exist apart for a whole day together. They tumbled about in the field like two puppies, fought and made it up again twenty times a day, swore the most fearful threats of vengeance that should come in the shape of this or that grown-up person, and the next moment had their arms round one another's necks. About half-a-mile of sand-dunes separated the Stone Farm fields from the sea. Within this belt of sand the land was stony and afforded poor grazing; but on both sides of the brook a strip of green meadow-land ran down among the dunes, which were covered with dwarf firs and grass-wrack to bind the sand. The best grazing was on this meadow-land, but it was hard work minding both sides of it, as the brook ran between; and it had been impressed upon the boy with severe threats, that no animal must set its foot upon the dune-land, as the smallest opening might cause a sand-drift. Pelle took the matter quite literally, and all that summer imagined something like an explosion that would make everything fly into the air the instant an animal trod upon it; and this possibility hung like a fate at the back of everything when he herded down there. When Rud came and they wanted to play, he drove the cattle up on to the poor pasture where there was plenty of room for them. When the sun shone the boys ran about naked. They dared not venture down to the sea for fear of the bailiff, who, they were sure, always stood up in the attic of the big house, and watched Pelle through his telescope; but they bathed in the brook--in and out of the water continually for hours together. After heavy rain it became swollen, and was then quite milky from the china clay that it washed away from the banks farther up. The boys thought it was milk from an enormous farm far up in the island. At high water the sea ran up and filled the brook with decaying seaweed that colored the water crimson; and this was the blood of all the people drowned out in the sea. Between their bathes they lay under the dunes and let the sun dry them. They made a minute examination of their bodies, and discussed the use and intention of the various parts. Upon this head Rud's knowledge was superior, and he took the part of instructor. They often quarrelled as to which of them was the best equipped in one way or another--in other words, had the largest. Pelle, for instance, envied Rud his disproportionately large head. Pelle was a well-built little fellow, and had put on flesh since he had come to Stone Farm. His glossy skin was stretched smoothly over his body, and was of a warm, sunburnt color. Rud had a thin neck in proportion to his head, and his forehead was angular and covered with scars, the results of innumerable falls. He had not full command of all his limbs, and was always knocking and bruising himself; there were blue, livid patches all over him that were slow to disappear, for he had flesh that did not heal easily. But he was not so open in his envy as Pelle. He asserted himself by boasting of his defects until he made them out to be sheer achievements; so that Pelle ended by envying him everything from the bottom of his heart. Rud had not Pelle's quick perception of things, but he had more instinct, and on certain points possessed quite a talent in anticipating what Pelle only learned by experience. He was already avaricious to a certain extent, and suspicious without connecting any definite thoughts with it. He ate the lion's share of the food, and had a variety of ways of getting out of doing the work. Behind their play there lay, clothed in the most childish forms, a struggle for the supremacy, and for the present Pelle was the one who came off second best. In an emergency, Rud always knew how to appeal to his good qualities and turn them to his own advantage. And through all this they were the best friends in the world, and were quite inseparable. Pelle was always looking toward "the Sow's" cottage when he was alone, and Rud ran off from home as soon as he saw his opportunity. * * * * * It had rained hard in the course of the morning, in spite of Lasse, and Pelle was wet through. Now the blue-black cloud was drawing away over the sea, and the boats lay in the middle of it with all their red sails set, and yet motionless. The sunlight flashed and glittered on wet surfaces, making everything look bright; and Pelle hung his clothes on a dwarf fir to dry. He was cold, and crept close up to Peter, the biggest of the bullocks, as he lay chewing the cud. The animal was steaming, but Pelle could not bring warmth into his extremities, where the cold had taken hold. His teeth chattered, too, and he was shivering. And even now there was one of the cows that would not let him have any peace. Every time he had snuggled right in under the bullock and was beginning to get a little warmer, the cow strayed away over the northern boundary. There was nothing but sand there, but when it was a calf there had been a patch of mixed crops, and it still remembered that. It was one of two cows that had been turned out of the dairy-herd on account of their dryness. They were ill-tempered creatures, always discontented and doing some mischief or other; and Pelle detested them heartily. They were two regular termagants, upon which even thrashing made no impression. The one was a savage beast, that would suddenly begin stamping and bellowing like a mad bull in the middle of grazing, and, if Pelle went toward it, wanted to toss him; and when it saw its opportunity, it would eat up the cloth in which Pelle's dinner was wrapped. The other was old and had crumpled horns that pointed in toward its eyes, one of which had a white pupil. It was the noisy one that was now at its tricks. Every other minute Pelle had to get up and shout: "Hi, Blakka, you villainous beast! Just you come back!" He was hoarse with anger, and at last his patience gave way, and he caught up a big stick and began to chase the cow. As soon as it saw his intention, it set off at a run up toward the farm, and Pelle had to make a wide circle to turn it down to the herd again. Then it ran at full gallop in and out among the other animals, the herd became confused and ran hither and thither, and Pelle had to relinquish his pursuit for a time while he gathered them together. But then he began again at once. He was boiling with rage, and leaped about like an indiarubber ball, his naked body flashing in loops and curves upon the green grass. He was only a few yards from the cow, but the distance remained the same; he could not catch her up to-day. He stopped up by the rye-field, and the cow stood still almost at the same moment. It snapped at a few ears, and moved its head slowly to choose its direction. In a couple of leaps Pelle was up to it and had hold of its tail. He hit it over the nose with his cudgel, it turned quickly away from the rye, and set off at a flying pace down toward the others, while blows rained down upon its bony prominences. Every stroke echoed back from the dunes like blows upon the trunk of a tree, and made Pelle swell with pride. The cow tried to shake Pelle off as it ran, but he was not to be got rid of; it crossed the brook in long bounds, backward and forward, with Pelle almost floating through the air; but the blows continued to rain down upon it. Then it grew tired and began to slacken its pace; and at last it came to a standstill, coughed, and resigned itself to the thrashing. Pelle threw himself flat upon his face, and panted. Ha, ha! _That_ had made him warm! Now that beast should--He rolled suddenly over on to his side with a start. The bailiff! But it was a strange man with a beard who stood over him, looking at him with serious eyes. The stranger went on gazing at him for a long time without saying anything, and Pelle grew more and more uneasy under his scrutiny; he had the sun right in his eyes too, if he tried to return the man's gaze, and the cow still stood there coughing. "What do you think the bailiff will say?" asked the man at last, quietly. "I don't think he's seen it," whispered Pelle, looking timidly round. "But God has seen it, for He sees everything. And He has led me here to stop the evil in you while there's still time. Wouldn't you like to be God's child?" The man sat down beside him and took his hand. Pelle sat tugging at the grass and wishing he had had his clothes on. "And you must never forget that God sees everything you do; even in the darkest night He sees. We are always walking in God's sight. But come now, it's unseemly to run about naked!" And the man took him by the hand and led him to his clothes, and then, going across to the north side, he gathered the herd together while Pelle dressed himself. The wicked cow was over there again already, and had drawn a few of the others after it. Pelle watched the man in surprise; he drove the animals back quite quietly, neither using stones nor shouting. Before he got back, Blakka had once more crossed the boundary; but he turned and brought her back again just as gently as before. "That's not an easy cow to manage," he said kindly, when he returned; "but you've got young legs. Shan't we agree to burn that?" he asked, picking up the thick cudgel, "and do what we have to do with just our hands? God will always help you when you're in difficulties. And if you want to be a true child of God, you must tell the bailiff this evening what you did--and take your punishment." He placed his hand upon Pelle's head, and looked at him with that unendurable gaze; and then he left him, taking the stick with him. For a long time Pelle followed him with his eyes. So that was what a man looked like, who was sent by God to warn you! Now he knew, and it would be some time before he chased a cow like that again. But go to the bailiff, and tell of himself, and get the whip-lash on his bare legs? Not if he knew it! Rather than that, God would have to be angry--if it was really true that He could see everything? It couldn't be worse than the bailiff, anyhow. All that morning he was very quiet. He felt the man's eyes upon him in everything he did, and it robbed him of his confidence. He silently tested things, and saw everything in a new light; it was best not to make a noise, if you were always walking in the sight of God. He did not go on cracking his cattle-whip, but meditated a little on whether he should burn that too. But a little before midday Rud appeared, and the whole incident was forgotten. Rud was smoking a bit of cane that he had cut off the piece his mother used for cleaning the stove-pipes, and Pelle bartered some of his dinner for a few pulls at it. First they seated themselves astride the bullock Cupid, which was lying chewing the cud. It went on calmly chewing with closed eyes, until Rud put the glowing cane to the root of its tail, when it rose hastily, both boys rolling over its head. They laughed and boasted to one another of the somersault they had turned, as they went up on to the high ground to look for blackberries. Thence they went to some birds' nests in the small firs, and last of all they set about their best game--digging up mice-nests. Pelle knew every mouse-hole in the meadow, and they lay down and examined them carefully. "Here's one that has mice in it," said Rud. "Look, here's their dunghill!" "Yes, that smells of mouse," said Pelle, putting his nose to the hole. "And the blades of grass turn outward, so the old ones must be out." With Pelle's knife they cut away the turf, and set to work eagerly to dig with two pieces of pot. The soil flew about their heads as they talked and laughed. "My word, how fast we're getting on!" "Yes; Strom couldn't work as fast!" Strom was a famous worker who got twenty-five ores a day more than other autumn farm-hands, and his example was used as an incentive to coax work out of the laborers. "We shall soon get right into the inside of the earth." "Well, but it's burning hot in there." "Oh, nonsense: is it?" Pelle paused doubtfully in his digging. "Yes, the schoolmaster says so." The boys hesitated and put their hands down into the hole. Yes, it was warm at the bottom--so warm that Pelle found it necessary to pull out his hand and say: "Oh, my word!" They considered a little, and then went on scraping out the hole as carefully as if their lives depended on it. In a little while straw appeared in the passage, and in a moment the internal heat of the earth was forgotten. In less than a minute they had uncovered the nest, and laid the little pink, new-born mice out on the grass. They looked like half-hatched birds. "They _are_ ugly," said Pelle, who did not quite like taking hold of them, but was ashamed not to do so. "They're much nastier to touch than toads. I believe they're poisonous." Rud lay pinching them between his fingers. "Poisonous! Don't be silly! Why, they haven't any teeth! There are no bones in them at all; I'm sure you could eat them quite well." "Pah! Beastly!" Pelle spat on the ground. "I shouldn't be at all afraid of biting one; would you?" Rud lifted a little mouse up toward his mouth. "Afraid? Of course I'm not afraid--but--" Pelle hesitated. "No, you're afraid, because you're a blue-bag!" Now this nickname really only applied to boys who were afraid of water, but Pelle quickly seized one of the little mice, and held it up to his mouth, at exactly the same distance from his lips that Rud was from his. "You can see for yourself!" he cried, in an offended tone. Rud went on talking, with many gestures. "You're afraid," he said, "and it's because you're Swedish. But when you're afraid, you should just shut your eyes--so--and open your mouth. Then you pretend to put the mouse right into your mouth, and then--" Rud had his mouth wide open, and held his hand close to his mouth; Pelle was under his influence, and imitated his movements--"and then--" Pelle received a blow that sent the little mouse halfway down his throat. He retched and spat; and then his hands fumbled in the grass and got hold of a stone. But by the time he was on his feet and was going to throw it, Rud was far away up the fields. "I must go home now!" he shouted innocently. "There's something I've got to help mother with." Pelle did not love solitude, and the prospect of a blockade determined him at once for negotiations. He dropped the stone to show his serious wish for a reconciliation, and had to swear solemnly that he would not bear malice. Then at last Rud came back, tittering. "I was going to show you something funny with the mouse," he said by way of diversion; "but you held on to it like an idiot." He did not venture to come quite close up to Pelle, but stood watching his movements. Pelle was acquainted with the little white lie when the danger of a thrashing was imminent, but the lie as an attack was still unknown to him. If Rud, now that the whole thing was over, said that he only wanted to have shown him something funny, it must be true. But then why was he mistrustful? Pelle tried, as he had so often done before, to bend his little brain round the possible tricks of his playmate, but failed. "You may just as well come up close," he said stoutly. "For if I wanted to, I could easily catch you up." Rud came. "Now we'll catch big mice." he said. "That's better fun." They emptied Pelle's milk-bottle, and hunted up a mouse's nest that appeared to have only two exits, one up in the meadow, the other halfway down the bank of the stream. Here they pushed in the mouth of the bottle, and widened the hole in the meadow into a funnel; and they took it in turns to keep an eye on the bottle, and to carry water up to the other hole in their caps. It was not long before a mouse popped out into the bottle, which they then corked. What should they do with it? Pelle proposed that they should tame it and train it to draw their little agricultural implements; but Rud, as usual, got his way--it was to go out sailing. Where the stream turned, and had hollowed out its bed into a hole as big as a cauldron, they made an inclined plane and let the bottle slide down into the water head foremost, like a ship being launched. They could follow it as it curved under the water until it came up slantingly, and stood bobbing up and down on the water like a buoy, with its neck up. The mouse made the funniest leaps up toward the cork to get out; and the boys jumped up and down on the grass with delight. "It knows the way it got in quite well!" They imitated its unsuccessful leaps, lay down again and rolled about in exuberant mirth. At last, however, the joke became stale. "Let's take out the cork!" suggested Rud. "Yes--oh, yes!" Pelle waded quickly in, and was going to set the mouse at liberty. "Wait a minute, you donkey!" Rud snatched the bottle from him, and holding his hand over the mouth, put it back, into the water. "Now we'll see some fun!" he cried, hastening up the bank. It was a little while before the mouse discovered that the way was open, but then it leaped. The leap was unsuccessful, and made the bottle rock, so that the second leap was slanting and rebounded sideways. But then followed with lightning rapidity a number of leaps--a perfect bombardment; and suddenly the mouse flew right out of the bottle, head foremost into the water. "That was a leap and a half!" cried Pelle, jumping straight up and down in the grass, with his arms at his sides. "It could just squeeze its body through, just exactly!" And he jumped again, squeezing himself together. The mouse swam to land, but Rud was there, and pushed it out again with his foot. "It swam well," he said, laughing. It made for the opposite bank. "Look out for the fellow!" Rud roared, and Pelle sprang forward and turned it away from the shore with a good kick. It swam helplessly backward and forward in the middle of the pool, seeing one of the two dancing figures every time it approached a bank, and turning and turning endlessly. It sank deeper and deeper, its fur becoming wet and dragging it down, until at last it swam right under water. Suddenly it stretched out its body convulsively, and sank to the bottom, with all four legs outspread like a wide embrace. Pelle had all at once comprehended the perplexity and helplessness --perhaps was familiar with it. At the animal's final struggle, he burst into tears with a little scream, and ran, crying loudly, up the meadow toward the fir-plantation. In a little while he came back again. "I really thought Cupid had run away," he said repeatedly, and carefully avoided looking Rud in the face. Quietly he waded into the water, and fished up the dead mouse with his foot. They laid it upon a stone in the sun, so that it might come to life again. When that failed, Pelle remembered a story about some people who were drowned in a lake at home, and who came to themselves again when cannons were fired over them. They clapped their hollowed hands over the mouse, and when that too brought about no result, they decided to bury it. Rud happened to remember that his grandmother in Sweden was being buried just now, and this made them go about the matter with a certain amount of solemnity. They made a coffin out of a matchbox, and ornamented it with moss; and then they lay on their faces and lowered the coffin into the grave with twine, taking every possible care that it should not land upon its head. A rope might give way; such things did sometimes happen, and the illusion did not permit of their correcting the position of the coffin afterward with their hands. When this was done, Pelle looked down into his cap, while Rud prayed over the deceased and cast earth upon the coffin; and then they made up the grave. "I only hope it's not in a trance and going to wake up again!" exclaimed Pelle suddenly. They had both heard many unpleasant stories of such cases, and went over all the possibilities--how they woke up and couldn't get any air, and knocked upon the lid, and began to eat their own hands--until Pelle could distinctly hear a knocking on the lid below. They had the coffin up in a trice, and examined the mouse. It had not eaten its forepaws, at any rate, but it had most decidedly turned over on its side. They buried it again, putting a dead beetle beside it in the coffin for safety's sake, and sticking a straw down into the grave to supply it with air. Then they ornamented the mound, and set up a memorial stone. "It's dead now!" said Pelle, gravely and with conviction. "Yes, I should just think so--dead as a herring." Rud had put his ear to the straw and listened. "And now it must be up with God in all His glory--right high, high up." Rud sniffed contemptuously. "Oh, you silly! Do you think it can crawl up there?" "Well, can't mice crawl, I should like to know?" Pelle was cross. "Yes; but not through the air. Only birds can do that." Pelle felt himself beaten off the field and wanted to be revenged. "Then your grandmother isn't in heaven, either!" he declared emphatically. There was still a little rancor in his heart from the young mouse episode. But this was more than Rud could stand. It had touched his family pride, and he gave Pelle a dig in the side with his elbow. The next moment they were rolling in the grass, holding one another by the hair, and making awkward attempts to hit one another on the nose with their clenched fists. They turned over and over like one lump, now one uppermost, now the other; they hissed hoarsely, groaned and made tremendous exertions. "I'll make you sneeze red," said Pelle angrily, as he rose above his adversary; but the next moment he was down again, with Rud hanging over him and uttering the most fearful threats about black eyes and seeing stars. Their voices were thick with passion. And suddenly they were sitting opposite one another on the grass wondering whether they should set up a howl. Rud put out his tongue, Pelle went a step further and began to laugh, and they were once more the best of friends. They set up the memorial stone, which had been overturned in the heat of battle, and then sat down hand in hand, to rest after the storm, a little quieter than usual. It was not because there was more evil in Pelle, but because the question had acquired for him an importance of its own, and he must understand it, that a meditative expression came into his eyes, and he said thoughtfully: "Well, but you've told me yourself that she was paralyzed in her legs!" "Well, what if she was?" "Why, then she couldn't crawl up into heaven." "Oh, you booby! It's her spirit, of course!" "Then the mouse's spirit can very well be up there too." "No, it can't, for mice haven't got any spirit." "Haven't they? Then how is it they can breathe?" [Footnote: In Danish, spirit = aand, and to breathe = aande.] That was one for Rud! And the tiresome part of it was that he attended Sunday-school. His fists would have come in handy again now, but his instinct told him that sooner or later Pelle would get the better of him in fighting. And anyhow his grandmother was saved. "Yes," he said, yielding; "and it certainly could breathe. Well, then, it was its spirit flying up that overturned the stone--that's what it was!" A distant sound reached them, and far off near the cottage they could see the figure of a fat woman, beckoning threateningly. "The Sow's calling you," said Pelle. The two boys never called her anything but "the Sow" between themselves. So Rud had to go. He was allowed to take the greater part of the contents of the dinner-basket with him, and ate as he ran. They had been too busy to eat. Pelle sat down among the dunes and ate his dinner. As usual when Rud had been with him, he could not imagine what had become of the day. The birds had ceased singing, and not one of the cattle was still lying down, so it must be at least five o'clock. Up at the farm they were busy driving in. It went at full gallop-- out and in, out and in. The men stood up in the carts and thrashed away at the horses with the end of the reins, and the swaying loads were hurried along the field-roads, looking like little bristling, crawling things, that have been startled and are darting to their holes. A one-horsed vehicle drove out from the farm, and took the high-road to the town at a quick trot. It was the farmer; he was driving so fast that he was evidently off to the town on the spree. So there was something gone wrong at home, and there would be crying at the farm that night. Yes, there was Father Lasse driving out with the water-cart, so it was half-past five. He could tell that too by the birds beginning their pleasant evening twittering, that was soft and sparkling like the rays of the sun. Far inland above the stone-quarry, where the cranes stood out against the sky, a cloud of smoke rose every now and then into the air, and burst in a fountain of pieces of rock. Long after came the explosion, bit by bit in a series of rattling reverberations. It sounded as if some one were running along and slapping his thigh with fingerless gloves. The last few hours were always long--the sun was so slow about it. And there was nothing to fill up the time either. Pelle himself was tired, and the tranquillity of evening had the effect of subduing his voice. But now they were driving out for milking up there, and the cattle were beginning to graze along the edge of the meadow that turned toward the farm; so the time was drawing near. At last the herd-boys began to jodel over at the neighboring farms, first one, and then several joining in: "Oh, drive home, o-ho, o-o-ho! O-ho, o-ho! O-ho, o-ho! Oh, drive home, o-o-ho! O-ho!" From all sides the soft tones vibrated over the sloping land, running out, like the sound of happy weeping, into the first glow of evening; and Pelle's animals began to move farther after each pause to graze. But he did not dare to drive them home yet, for it only meant a thrashing from the bailiff or the pupil if he arrived too early. He stood at the upper end of the meadow, and called his homeward- drifting flock together; and when the last tones of the call had died away, he began it himself, and stepped on one side. The animals ran with a peculiar little trot and heads extended. The shadow of the grass lay in long thin stripes across the ground, and the shadows of the animals were endless. Now and then a calf lowed slowly and broke into a gallop. They were yearning for home, and Pelle was yearning too. From behind a hollow the sun darted long rays out into space, as if it had called all its powers home for the night, and now poured them forth in one great longing, from west to east. Everything pointed in long thin lines, and the eager longing of the cattle seemed visible in the air. To the mind of the child there was nothing left out of doors now; everything was being taken in, and he longed for his father with a longing that was almost a pain. And when at last he turned the corner with the herd, and saw old Lasse standing there, smiling happily with his red-rimmed eyes, and opening the gate to the fold, the boy gave way and threw himself weeping into his father's arms. "What's the matter, laddie? What's the matter?" asked the old man, with concern in his voice, stroking the child's face with a trembling hand. "Has any one been unkind to you? No? Well, that's a good thing! They'd better take care, for happy children are in God's own keeping. And Lasse would be an awkward customer if it came to that. So you were longing for me, were you? Then it's good to be in your little heart, and it only makes Lasse happy. But go in now and get your supper, and don't cry any more." And he wiped the boy's nose with his hard, crooked fingers, and pushed him gently away. V Pelle was not long in finding out all about the man who had been sent by God, and had the grave, reproachful eyes. He proved to be nothing but a little shoemaker down in the village, who spoke at the meeting-house on Sundays; and it was also said that his wife drank. Rud went to his Sunday-school, and he was poor; so he was nothing out of the ordinary. Moreover, Gustav had got a cap which could turn out three different crowns--one of blue duffle, one of water-proof American cloth, and one of white canvas for use in sunny weather. It was an absorbingly interesting study that threw everything else into the background, and exercised Pelle's mind for many days; and he used this miraculous cap as a standard by which to measure everything great and desirable. But one day he gave Gustav a beautifully carved stick for permission to perform the trick of turning the crown inside out himself; and that set his mind at rest at last, and the cap had to take its place in his everyday world like everything else. But what did it look like in Farmer Kongstrup's big rooms? Money lay upon the floor there, of course, the gold in one place and the silver in another; and in the middle of each heap stood a half-bushel measure. What did the word _"practical"_ mean, which the bailiff used when he talked to the farmer? And why did the men call one another _"Swede"_ as a term of abuse? Why, they were all Swedes! What was there away beyond the cliffs where the stone-quarry lay? The farm-lands extended as far as that on the one side. He had not been there yet, but was going with his father as soon as an opportunity presented itself. They had learnt quite by chance that Lasse had a brother who owned a house over there; so of course they knew the place comparatively well. Down there lay the sea; he had sailed upon it himself! Ships both of iron and wood sailed upon it, though how iron could float when it was so heavy he did not know! The sea must be strong, for in the pond, iron went to the bottom at once. In the middle of the pond there was no bottom, so there you'd go on sinking forever! The old thatcher, when he was young, had had more than a hundred fathoms of rope down there with a drag, to fish up a bucket, but he never reached the bottom. And when he wanted to pull up the rope again, there was some one deep down who caught hold of the drag and tried to pull him down, so he had to let the whole thing go. God ... well, He had a long white beard like the farmer at Kaase Farm; but who kept house for Him now He was old? Saint Peter was His bailiff, of course!... How could the old, dry cows have just as young calves as the young ones? And so on, and so on. There was one subject about which, as a matter of course, there could be no question, nor any thought at all in that sense, because it was the very foundation of all existence--Father Lasse. He was there, simply, he stood like a safe wall behind everything that one did. He was the real Providence, the last great refuge in good and ill; he could do whatever he liked--Father Lasse was almighty. Then there was one natural centre in the world--Pelle himself. Everything grouped itself about him, everything existed for him--for him to play with, to shudder at, or to put on one side for a great future. Even distant trees, houses and rocks in the landscape, that he had never been up to, assumed an attitude toward him, either friendly or hostile; and the relation had to be carefully decided in the case of each new thing that appeared upon his horizon. His world was small; he had only just begun to create it. For a good arm's-length on all sides of him, there was more or less _terra firma_; but beyond that floated raw matter, chaos. But Pelle already found his world immense, and was quite willing to make it infinite. He attacked everything with insatiable appetite; his ready perceptions laid hold of all that came within their reach; they were like the mouth of a machine, into which matter was incessantly rushing in small, whirling particles. And in the draught they raised, came others and again others; the entire universe was on its way toward him. Pelle shaped and set aside twenty new things in the course of a second. The earth grew out under him into a world that was rich in excitement and grotesque forms, discomfort and the most everyday things. He went about in it uncertainly, for there was always something that became displaced and had to be revalued or made over again; the most matter-of-fact things would change and all at once become terrifying marvels, or _vice versa_. He went about in a state of continual wonderment, and assumed an expectant attitude even with regard to the most familiar things; for who could tell what surprises they might give one? As an instance; he had all his life had opportunities of verifying the fact that trouser-buttons were made of bone and had five holes, one large one in the middle and four smaller ones round it. And then one day, one of the men comes home from the town with a pair of new trousers, the buttons of which are made of bright metal and are no larger than a sixpenny-piece! They have only four holes, and the thread is to lie across them, not from the middle outward, as in the old ones. Or take the great eclipse of the sun, that he had wondered so much about all the summer, and that all the old people said would bring about the destruction of the world. He had looked forward to it, especially the destruction part of it; it would be something of an adventure, and somewhere within him there was a little bit of confident assurance that it would all come right as far as he was concerned. The eclipse did come too, as it was meant to; it grew dark too, as if it were the Last Day, and the birds became so quiet, and the cattle bellowed and wanted to run home. But then it grew light again and it all came to nothing. Then there were fearful terrors that all at once revealed themselves as tiny, tiny things--thank goodness! But there were also anticipated pleasures that made your heart beat, and when you got up to them they were dullness itself. Far out in the misty mass, invisible worlds floated by that had nothing to do with his own. A sound coming out of the unknown created them in a twinkling. They came into existence in the same way that the land had done that morning he had stood upon the deck of the steamer, and heard voices and noise through the fog, thick and big, with forms that looked like huge gloves without fingers. And inside one there was blood and a heart and a soul. The heart Pelle had found out about himself; it was a little bird shut up in there. But the soul bored its way like a serpent to whatever part of the body desire occupied. Old thatcher Holm had once drawn the soul like a thin thread out of the thumb of a man who couldn't help stealing. Pelle's own soul was good; it lay in the pupils of his eyes, and reflected Father Lasse's image whenever he looked into them. The blood was the worst, and so Father Lasse always let himself be bled when there was anything the matter with him; the bad humors had to be let out. Gustav thought a great deal about blood, and could tell the strangest things about it; and he cut his fingers only to see whether it was ripe. One evening he came over to the cow-stable and exhibited a bleeding finger. The blood was quite black. "Now I'm a man!" he said, and swore a great oath; but the maids only made fun of him, and said that he had not carried his four bushels of peas up into the loft yet. Then there was hell and heaven, and the stone-quarry where they struck one another with heavy hammers when they were drunk. The men in the stone-quarry were the strongest men in the world. One of them had eaten ten poached eggs at one time without being ill; and there is nothing so strengthening as eggs. Down in the meadow, will-o'-the-wisps hopped about looking for something in the deep summer nights. There was always one of them near the stream, and it stood and danced on the top of a little heap of stones that lay in the middle of the meadow. A couple of years ago a girl had one night given birth to a child out there among the dunes and as she did not know what to do about a father for it, she drowned it in one of the pools that the brook makes where it turns. Good people raised the little cairn, so that the place should not be forgotten; and over it the child's soul used to burn at dead of night at the time of year at which it was born. Pelle believed that the child itself was buried beneath the stones, and now and then ornamented the mound with a branch of fir; but he never played at that part of the stream. The girl was sent across the sea, sentenced to penal servitude for many years, and people wondered at the father. She had not named any one, but every one knew who it was all the same. He was a young, well-to-do fisherman down in the village, and the girl was one of the poorest, so there could never have been any question of their marrying. The girl must have preferred this to begging help of him for the child, and living in the village with an illegitimate child, an object of universal derision. And he had certainly put a bold face on the matter, where many another would have been ashamed and gone away on a long voyage. This summer, two years after the girl went to prison, the fisherman was going home one night along the shore toward the village with some nets on his back. He was of a callous nature, and did not hesitate to take the shortest way across the meadow; but when he got in among the dunes, he saw a will-o'-the-wisp following in his steps, grew frightened, and began to run. It began to gain upon him, and when he leaped across the brook to put water between himself and the spirit, it seized hold of the nets. At this he shouted the name of God, and fled like one bereft of his senses. The next morning at sunrise he and his father went to fetch the nets. They had caught on the cairn, and lay right across the stream. Then the young man joined the Revivalists, and his father abandoned his riotous life and followed him. Early and late the young fisherman was to be found at their meetings, and at other times he went about like a malefactor with his head hanging down, only waiting for the girl to come out of prison, so that he could marry her. Pelle was up in it all. The girls talked shudderingly about it as they sat upon the men's knees in the long summer evenings, and a lovesick fellow from inland had made up a ballad about it, which Gustav sang to his concertina. Then all the girls on the farm wept, and even Lively Sara's eyes filled with tears, and she began to talk to Mons about engagement rings. One day when Pelle was lying on his face in the grass, singing and clapping his naked feet together in the clear air, he saw a young man standing by the cairn and putting on it stones which he took out of his pocket; after which he knelt down. Pelle went up to him. "What are you doing?" he asked boldly, feeling that he was in his own domain. "Are you saying your prayers?" The man did not answer, but remained in a kneeling posture. At last he rose, and spat out tobacco-juice. "I'm praying to Him Who is to judge us all," he said, looking steadily at Pelle. Pelle recognized that look. It was the same in expression as that of the man the other day--the one that had been sent by God. Only there was no reproach in it. "Haven't you any bed to sleep in then?" asked Pelle. "I always say my prayers under the clothes. He hears them just as well! God knows everything." The young man nodded, and began moving about the stones on the cairn. "You mustn't hurt that," said Pelle firmly, "for there's a little baby buried there." The young man turned upon him a strange look. "That's not true!" he said thickly; "for the child lies up in the churchyard in consecrated earth." "O--oh, inde--ed?" said Pelle, imitating his father's slow tones. "But I know it was the parents that drowned it--and buried it here." He was too proud of his knowledge to relinquish it without a word. The man looked as if he were about to strike him, and Pelle retreated a little, and then, having confidence in his legs, he laughed openly. But the other seemed no longer aware of his presence, and stood looking dully past the cairn. Pelle drew nearer again. The man started at Pelle's shadow, and heaved a deep sigh. "Is that you?" he said apathetically, without looking at Pelle. "Why can't you leave me alone?" "It's _my_ field," said Pelle, "because I herd here; but you may stay here if you won't hit me. And you mustn't touch the cairn, because there's a little baby buried there." The young man looked gravely at Pelle. "It's not true what you say! How dare you tell such a lie? God hates a lie. But you're a simple-hearted child, and I'll tell you all about it without hiding anything, as truly as I only want to walk wholly in God's sight." Pelle looked at him uncomprehendingly. "I should think I ought to know all about it," he said, "considering I know the whole song by heart. I can sing it to you, if you like. It goes like this." Pelle began to sing in a voice that was a little tremulous with shyness-- "So happy are we in our childhood's first years, Neither sorrow nor sin is our mead; We play, and there's nought in our path to raise fears That it straight into prison doth lead. Right many there are that with voice sorrowful Must oft for lost happiness long. To make the time pass in this prison so dull, I now will write down all my song. I played with my father, with mother I played, And childhood's days came to an end; And when I had grown up into a young maid, I played still, but now with my friend. I gave him my day and I gave him my night, And never once thought of deceit; But when I him told of my sorrowful plight, My trust I had cause to regret. 'I never have loved you,' he quickly did say; 'Begone! I'll ne'er see you again!' He turned on his heel and went angry away. 'Twas then I a murd'ress became." Here Pelle paused in astonishment, for the grown-up man had sunk forward as he sat, and he was sobbing. "Yes, it was wicked," he said. "For then she killed her child and had to go to prison." He spoke with a certain amount of contempt; he did not like men that cried. "But it's nothing that you need cry about," he added carelessly, after a little. "Yes, it is; for she'd done nothing. It was the child's father that killed it; it was me that did the dreadful thing; yes, I confess that I'm a murderer! Haven't I openly enough acknowledged by wrongdoing?" He turned his face upward, as though he were speaking to God. "Oh, was it you?" said Pelle, moving a little away from him. "Did you kill your own child? Father Lasse could never have done that! But then why aren't you in prison? Did you tell a lie, and say _she'd_ done it?" These words had a peculiar effect upon the fisherman. Pelle stood watching him for a little, and then exclaimed: "You do talk so queerly--'blop-blop-blop,' just as if you were from another country. And what do you scrabble in the air with your fingers for, and cry? Will you get a thrashing when you get home?" At the word "cry," the man burst into a flood of tears. Pelle had never seen any one cry so unrestrainedly. His face seemed all blurred. "Will you have a piece of my bread-and-butter?" he asked, by way of offering comfort. "I've got some with sausage on." The fisherman shook his head. Pelle looked at the cairn. He was obstinate, and determined not to give in. "It _is_ buried there," he said. "I've seen its soul myself, burning up on the top of the heap at night. That's because it can't get into heaven." A horrible sound came from the fisherman's lips, a hollow groan that brought Pelle's little heart into his mouth. He began to jump up and down in fear, and when he recovered his senses and stopped, he saw the fisherman running with head bent low across the meadow, until he disappeared among the dunes. Pelle gazed after him in astonishment, and then moved slowly toward his dinner-basket. The result of the encounter was, as far as it had gone, a disappointment. He had sung to a perfect stranger, and there was no denying that that was an achievement, considering how difficult it often was only to answer "yes" or "no" to somebody you'd never seen before. But he had hardly more than begun the verses, and what made the performance remarkable was that he knew the entire ballad by heart. He sang it now for his own benefit from beginning to end, keeping count of the verses on his fingers; and he found the most intense satisfaction in shouting it out at the top of his voice. In the evening he as usual discussed the events of the day with his father, and he then understood one or two things that filled his mind with uncomfortable thoughts. Father Lasse's was as yet the only human voice that the boy wholly understood; a mere sigh or shake of the head from the old man had a more convincing power than words from any one else. "Alas!" he said again and again. "Evil, evil everywhere; sorrow and trouble wherever you turn! He'd willingly give his life to go to prison in her stead, now it's too late! So he ran away when you said that to him? Well, well, it's not easy to resist the Word of God even from the lips of a child, when the conscience is sore; and trading in the happiness of others is a bad way of earning a living. But now see about getting your feet washed, laddie." Life furnished enough to work at and struggle with, and a good deal to dread; but worse almost than all that would harm Pelle himself, were the glimpses he now and then had of the depths of humanity: in the face of these his child's brain was powerless. Why did the mistress cry so much and drink secretly? What went on behind the windows in the big house? He could not comprehend it, and every time he puzzled his little brain over it, the uncomfortable feeling only seemed to stare out at him from all the window-panes, and sometimes enveloped him in all the horror of the incomprehensible. But the sun rode high in the heavens, and the nights were light. The darkness lay crouching under the earth and had no power. And he possessed the child's happy gift of forgetting instantly and completely. VI Pelle had a quick pulse and much energy, and there was always something that he was attempting to overtake in his restless onward rush--if nothing else, then time itself. Now the rye was all in, now the last stack disappeared from the field, the shadows grew longer every day. But one evening the darkness surprised him before his bedtime, and this made him serious. He no longer hastened on the time, but tried to hold it back by many small sun-signs. One day the men's midday rest was taken off. They harnessed the horses again as soon as they had eaten their dinner, and the chaff-cutting was put off until the evening. The horse-way lay on the outer side of the stable, and none of the men cared to tramp round out there in the dark, driving for the chaff-cutter, so Pelle had to do it. Lasse protested and threatened to go to the farmer, but it was of no use; every evening Pelle had to be out there for a couple of hours. They were his nicest hours that they took from him, the hours when he and Father Lasse pottered about in the stable, and talked themselves happily through all the day's troubles into a common bright future; and Pelle cried. When the moon chased the clouds away and he could see everything round him distinctly, he allowed his tears to run freely; but on dark evenings he was quiet and held his breath. Sometimes when it rained it was so dark that the farm and everything disappeared; and then he saw hundreds of beings that at other times the light hid. They appeared out of the darkness, terribly big, or came sliding up to him upon their bellies. He grew rigid as he gazed, and could not take his eyes from them. He sought shelter under the wall, and encouraged the horse from there; and one evening he ran in. They chased him out again, and he submitted to be chased, for when it came to the point he was more afraid of the men inside than of the beings outside. But one pitch-dark evening he was in an unusually bad way, and when he discovered that the horse, his only comfort, was also afraid, he dropped everything and ran in for the second time. Threats were powerless to make him go out again, and blows equally so, and one of the men took him up and carried him out; but then Pelle forgot everything, and screamed till the house shook. While they were struggling with him, the farmer came out. He was very angry when he heard what was the matter, and blew the foreman up sky high. Then he took Pelle by the hand, and went down with him to the cow-stable. "A man like you to be afraid of a little dark!" he said jokingly. "You must try to get the better of that. But if the men harm you, just you come to me." The plough went up and down the fields all day long, and made the earth dark in color, the foliage became variegated, and there was often sleet. The coats of the cattle grew thicker, their hair grew long and stood up on their backs. Pelle had much to put up with, and existence as a whole became a shade more serious. His clothing did not become thicker and warmer with the cold weather like that of the cattle; but he could crack his whip so that it sounded, in the most successful attempts, like little shots; he could thrash Rud when there was no unfairness, and jump across the stream at its narrowest part. All that brought warmth to the body. The flock now grazed all over the farm-lands, wherever the cows had been tethered; the dairy-cows being now indoors; or they went inland on the fens, where all the farms had each a piece of grass-land. Here Pelle made acquaintance with herd-boys from the other farms, and looked into quite another world that was not ruled by bailiff and farm-pupil and thrashings, but where all ate at the same table, and the mistress herself sat and spun wool for the herd-boys' stockings. But he could never get in there, for they did not take Swedes at the small farms, nor would the people of the island take service together with them. He was sorry for this. As soon as the autumn ploughing was started up on the fields, the boys, according to old custom, took down the boundary-fences and let all the animals graze together. The first few days it gave them more to do, for the animals fought until they got to know one another. They were never wholly mingled; they always grazed in patches, each farm's flock by itself. The dinner-baskets were also put together, and one boy was appointed in turn to mind the whole herd. The other boys played at robbers up among the rocks, or ran about in the woods or on the shore. When it was really cold they lighted bonfires, or built fireplaces of flat stones, where they roasted apples and eggs which they stole from the farms. It was a glorious life, and Pelle was happy. It was true he was the smallest of them all, and his being a Swede was a drawback to him. In the midst of their play, the others would sometimes begin to mimic his way of talking, and when he grew angry asked why he did not draw his knife. But on the other hand he was from the biggest farm, and was the only one that had bullocks in his herd; he was not behind them in physical accomplishments, and none of them could carve as he could. And it was his intention, when he grew big, to thrash them all. In the meantime he had to accommodate himself to circumstances, ingratiate himself with the big ones, wherever he discovered there was a flaw in their relations to one another, and be obliging. He had to take his turn oftener than the others, and came off badly at mealtimes. He submitted to it as something unavoidable, and directed all his efforts toward getting the best that it was possible to get out of the circumstances; but he promised himself, as has been said, the fullest reparation when he grew big. Once or twice it became too hot for him, and he left the community and kept by himself; but he soon returned to the others again. His little body was bursting with courage to live the life, and would not let him shirk it; he must take his chance--eat his way through. One day there came two new boys, who herded cattle from two farms on the other side of the stone-quarry. They were twins, and their names were Alfred and Albinus. They were tall, thin lads, who looked as if they might have been half-starved when they were little; their skin had a bluish tinge, and stood the cold badly. They were quick and active, they could overtake the quickest calf, they could walk on their hands and smoke at the same time, and not only vault but really jump obstacles. They were not much good at fighting; they were lacking in courage, and their ability forsook them in an emergency. There was something comical about the two brothers. "Here are the twins, the twelvins!" cried the whole flock in greeting, the first morning they appeared. "Well, how many times have you had a baby in your house since last year?" They belonged to a family of twelve, and among these there had twice been twins, and this of itself was an inexhaustible source of raillery; and moreover they were half Swedish. They shared the disadvantage with Pelle. But nothing seemed to have any effect upon them; they grinned at everything, and gave themselves away still more. From all he saw and heard, Pelle could understand that there was something ridiculous about their home in the eyes of the parish; but they did not mind that. It was the fecundity of their parents that was the special subject of derision, and the two boys quite happily exposed them to ridicule, and would tell all about the most private home matters. One day when the flock had been most persistent in calling "Twelvins!" they said, grinning, that their mother would soon be having a thirteenth. They were incapable of being wounded. Every time they exposed their parents to ridicule, it hurt Pelle, for his own feelings on this point were the most sacred that he had. Try as he would, he could not understand them; he had to go to his father with the matter one evening. "So they mock and make fun of their own parents?" said Lasse. "Then they'll never prosper in this world, for you're to honor your father and mother. Good parents who have brought them into the world with pain, and must toil hard, perhaps hunger and put up with much themselves, to get food and clothing for them! Oh, it's a shame! And you say their surname is Karlsson like ours, and that they live on the heath behind the stone-quarry? Then they must be brother Kalle's sons! Why, bless my soul, if I don't believe that's it! You ask them tomorrow if their father hasn't a notch in his right ear! I did it myself with a piece of a horse-shoe when we were little boys one day I was in a rage with him because he made fun of me before the others. He was just the same as those two, but he didn't mean anything by it, there was nothing ill-natured about him." The boys' father _had_ a notch in his right ear. Pelle and they were thus cousins; and the way that both they and their parents were made fun of was a matter for both laughter and tears. In a way, Father Lasse too came in for a share of the ridicule, and that thought was hardly to be endured. The other boys quickly discovered Pelle's vulnerable point, and used it for their own advantage; and Pelle had to give way and put up with things in order to keep his father out of their conversation. He did not always succeed, however. When they were in the mood, they said quite absurd things about one another's homes. They were not intended to be taken for more than they were worth, but Pelle did not understand jokes on that head. One day one of the biggest boys said to him: "Do you know, your father was the cause of his own mother's having a child!" Pelle did not understand the play of words in this coarse joke, but he heard the laughter of the others, and becoming blind with rage, he flew at the big boy, and kicked him so hard in the stomach, that he had to keep his bed for several days. During those days, Pelle went about in fear and trembling. He dared not tell his father what had happened, for then he would be obliged to repeat the boy's ugly accusation, too; so he went about in dread of the fatal consequences. The other boys had withdrawn themselves from him, so as not to share the blame if anything came of it; the boy was a farmer's son--the only one in the company--and they had visions of the magistrate at the back of the affair, and perhaps a caning at the town-hall. So Pelle went by himself with his cattle, and had plenty of time to think about the event, which, by the force of his lively imagination, grew larger and larger in its consequences, until at last it almost suffocated him with terror. Every cart he saw driving along the high-road sent a thrill through him; and if it turned up toward Stone Farm, he could distinctly see the policemen--three of them--with large handcuffs, just as they had come to fetch Erik Erikson for ill-treating his wife. He hardly dared drive the cattle home in the evening. One morning the boy came herding over there with his cattle, and there was a grown-up man with him, whom, from his clothes and everything else about him, Pelle judged to be a farmer--was it the boy's father? They stood over there for a little while, talking to the herd-boys, and then came across toward him, with the whole pack at their heels, the father holding his son by the hand. The perspiration started from every pore of Pelle's body; his fear prompted him to run away, but he stood his ground. Together the father and son made a movement with their hand, and Pelle raised both elbows to ward off a double box-on-the-ears. But they only extended their hands. "I beg your pardon," said the boy, taking one of Pelle's hands; "I beg your pardon," repeated the father, clasping his other hand in his. Pelle stood in bewilderment, looking from one to the other. At first he thought that the man was the same as the one sent by God; but it was only his eyes--those strange eyes. Then he suddenly burst into tears and forgot all else in the relief they brought from the terrible anxiety. The two spoke a few kind words to him, and quietly went away to let him be alone. After this Pelle and Peter Kure became friends, and when Pelle learnt to know him better, he discovered that sometimes the boy had a little of the same look in his eyes as his father, and the young fisherman, and the man that was sent by God. The remarkable course that the event had taken occupied his mind for a long time. One day a chance comparison of his experiences brought him to the discovery of the connection between this mysterious expression in their eyes and their remarkable actions; the people who had looked at him with those eyes had all three done unexpected things. And another day it dawned upon him that these people were _religious_; the boys had quarrelled with Peter Kure that day, and had used the word as a term of abuse against his parents. There was one thing that was apparent, and outweighed everything, even his victory. He had entered the lists with a boy who was bigger and stronger than he, and had held his own, because for the first time in his life he had struck out recklessly. If you wanted to fight, you had to kick wherever it hurt most. If you only did that, and had justice on your side, you might fight anybody, even a farmer's son. These were two satisfactory discoveries, which for the present nothing could disturb. Then he had defended his father; that was something quite new and important in his life. He required more space now. At Michaelmas, the cattle were taken in, and the last of the day- laborers left. During the summer, several changes had been made among the regular servants at the farm, but now, at term-day, none were changed; it was not the habit of Stone Farm to change servants at the regular term-times. So Pelle again helped his father with the foddering indoors. By rights he should have begun to go to school, and a mild representation of this fact was made to the farmer by the school authorities; but the boy was very useful at home, as the care of the cattle was too much for one man; and nothing more was heard about the matter. Pelle was glad it was put off. He had thought much about school in the course of the summer, and had invested it with so much that was unfamiliar and great that he was now quite afraid of it. VII Christmas Eve was a great disappointment. It was the custom for the herd-boys to come out and spend Christmas at the farms where they served in the summer, and Pelle's companions had told him of all the delights of Christmas--roast meat and sweet drinks, Christmas games and ginger-nuts and cakes; it was one endless eating and drinking and playing of Christmas games, from the evening before Christmas Eve until "Saint Knut carried Christmas out," on January 7th. That was what it was like at all the small farms, the only difference being that those who were religious did not play cards, but sang hymns instead. But what they had to eat was just as good. The last few days before Christmas Pelle had to get up at two or half-past two to help the girls pluck poultry, and the old thatcher Holm to heat the oven. With this his connection with the delights of Christmas came to an end. There was dried cod and boiled rice on Christmas Eve, and it tasted good enough; but of all the rest there was nothing. There were a couple of bottles of brandy on the table for the men, that was all. The men were discontented and quarrelsome. They poured milk and boiled rice into the leg of the stocking that Karna was knitting, so that she was fuming the whole evening; and then sat each with his girl on his knee, and made ill-natured remarks about everything. The old farm-laborers and their wives, who had been invited to partake of the Christmas fare, talked about death and all the ills of the world. Upstairs there was a large party. All the wife's relations were invited, and they were hard at work on the roast goose. The yard was full of conveyances, and the only one of the farm-servants who was in good spirits was the head man, who received all the tips. Gustav was in a thoroughly bad humor, for Bodil was upstairs helping to wait. He had brought his concertina over, and was playing love-songs. It was putting them into better spirits, and the evil expression was leaving their eyes; one after another they started singing, and it began to be quite comfortable down there. But just then a message came to say that they must make less noise, so the assembly broke up, the old people going home, and the young ones dispersing in couples according to the friendships of the moment. Lasse and Pelle went to bed. "What's Christmas really for?" asked Pelle. Lasse rubbed his thigh reflectively. "It has to be," he answered hesitatingly. "Yes, and then it's the time when the year turns round and goes upward, you see! And of course it's the night when the Child Jesus was born, too!" It took him a long time to produce this last reason, but when it did come it was with perfect assurance. "Taking one thing with another, you see," he added, after a short pause. On the day after Christmas Day there was a kind of subscription merrymaking at an enterprising crofter's down in the village; it was to cost two and a half krones a couple for music, sandwiches, and spirits in the middle of the night, and coffee toward morning. Gustav and Bodil were going. Pelle at any rate saw a little of Christmas as it passed, and was as interested in it as if it concerned himself; and he gave Lasse no rest from his questions that day. So Bodil was still faithful to Gustav, after all! When they got up the next morning, they found Gustav lying on the ground by the cow-stable door, quite helpless, and his good clothes in a sad state. Bodil was not with him. "Then she's deceived him," said Lasse, as they helped him in. "Poor boy! Only seventeen, and a wounded heart already! The women'll be his ruin one of these days, you'll see!" At midday, when the farm-laborers' wives came to do the milking, Lasso's supposition was confirmed: Bodil had attached herself to a tailor's apprentice from the village, and had left with him in the middle of the night. They laughed pityingly at Gustav, and for some time after he had to put up with their gibes at his ill-success; but there was only one opinion about Bodil. She was at liberty to come and go with whomsoever she liked, but as long as Gustav was paying for her amusements, she ought to have kept to him. Who but the neighbor would keep the hens that ate their grain at home and laid their eggs at the neighbor's? There had as yet been no opportunity to visit Lasse's brother beyond the stone-quarry, but it was to be done on the second day of the new year. Between Christmas and the New Year the men did nothing after dark, and it was the custom everywhere to help the herdsman with his evening occupations. There was nothing of that here; Lasse was too old to assert himself, and Pelle too little. They might think themselves lucky they did not have to do the foddering for the men who went out as well as their own. But to-day it was to come off; Gustav and Long Ole had undertaken to do the evening work. Pelle began to look forward to it as soon as he was up--he was up every day by half-past three. But as Lasse used to say, if you sing before breakfast you'll weep before night. After dinner, Gustav and Ole were standing grinding chopping knives down in the lower yard. The trough leaked, and Pelle had to pour water on the grindstone out of an old kettle. His happiness could be seen on his face. "What are you so pleased about?" asked Gustav. "Your eyes are shining like the cat's in the dark." Pelle told him. "I'm afraid you won't get away!" said Ole, winking at Gustav. "We shan't get the chaff cut time enough to do the foddering. This grindstone's so confoundedly hard to turn, too. If only that handle-turner hadn't been broken!" Pelle pricked up his ears. "Handle-turner? What's that?" he asked. Gustav sprang round the grindstone, and slapped his thigh in enjoyment of the joke. "My goodness, how stupid you are! Don't you even know what a handle-turner is? It's a thing you only need to put on to the grindstone, and it turns it by itself. They've got one by-the-way over at Kaase Farm," he said, turning to Ole; "if only it wasn't so far away." "Is it heavy?" asked Pelle, in a low voice; everything depended upon the answer. "Can I lift it?" His voice trembled. "Oh, no, not so awfully heavy. You could carry it quite well. But you'd have to be very careful." "I can run over and fetch it; I'll carry it very carefully." Pelle looked at them with a face that could not but inspire confidence. "Very well; but take a sack with you to put it in. And you'll have to be as careful as the very devil, for it's an expensive thing." Pelle found a sack and ran off across the fields. He was as delighted as a young kid, plucking at himself and everything as he ran, and jumping aside to frighten the crows. He was overflowing with happiness. He was saving the expedition for himself and Father Lasse. Gustav and Ole were good men! He would get back as quickly as possible, so that they should not have to toil any more at the grindstone. "What, are you back already?" they would say, and open their eyes. "Then you must have smashed that precious machine on the way!" And they would take it carefully out of the sack, and it would be quite safe and sound. "Well, you are a wonder of a boy! a perfect prince!" they would say. When he got to Kaase Farm, they wanted him to go in to a Christmas meal while they were putting the machine into the sack; but Pelle said "No" and held to it: he had not time. So they gave him a piece of cold apple out on the steps, so that he should not carry Christmas away. They all looked so pleasant, and every one came out when he hoisted the sack on his back and set off home. They too recommended him to be very careful, and seemed anxious, as if he could hardly realize what he was carrying. It was a good mile between the farms, but it was an hour and a half before Pelle reached home, and then he was ready to drop. He dared not put down the sack to rest, but stumbled on step by step, only resting once by leaning against a stone fence. When at last he staggered into the yard, every one came up to see the neighbor's new handle-turner; and Pelle was conscious of his own importance when Ole carefully lifted the sack from his back. He leaned for a moment over toward the wall before he regained his balance; the ground was so strange to tread upon now he was rid of his burden; it pushed him away. But his face was radiant. Gustav opened the sack, which was securely closed, and shook out its contents upon the stone pavement. They were pieces of brick, a couple of old ploughshares, and other similar things. Pelle stared in bewilderment and fear at the rubbish, looking as if he had just dropped from another planet; but when laughter broke out on all sides, he understood what it all meant, and, crouching down, hid his face in his hands. He would not cry--not for the world; they should not have that satisfaction. He was sobbing in his heart, but he kept his lips tightly closed. His body tingled with rage. The beasts! The wicked devils! Suddenly he kicked Gustav on the leg. "Aha, so he kicks, does he?" exclaimed Gustav, lifting him up into the air. "Do you want to see a little imp from Smaaland?" Pelle covered his face with his arms and kicked to be let down; and he also made an attempt to bite. "Eh, and he bites, too, the little devil!" Gustav had to hold him firmly so as to manage him. He held him by the collar, pressing his knuckles against the boy's throat and making him gasp, while he spoke with derisive gentleness. "A clever youngster, this! He's scarcely out of long clothes, and wants to fight already!" Gustav went on tormenting him; it looked as if he were making a display of his superior strength. "Well, now we've seen that you're the strongest," said the head man at last, "so let him go!" and when Gustav did not respond immediately, he received a blow from a clenched fist between his shoulder-blades. Then the boy was released, and went over to the stable to Lasse, who had seen the whole thing, but had not dared to approach. He could do nothing, and his presence would only have done harm. "Yes, and then there's our outing, laddie," he explained, by way of excuse, while he was comforting the boy. "I could very well thrash a puppy like Gustav, but if I did we shouldn't get away this evening, for he wouldn't do our work. And none of the others, either, for they all stick together like burrs. But you can do it yourself! I verily believe you'd kick the devil himself, right on his club-foot! Well, well, it was well done; but you must be careful not to waste your powder and shot. It doesn't pay!" The boy was not so easily comforted now. Deep down in his heart the remembrance of his injury lay and pained him, because he had acted in such good faith, and they had wounded him in his ready, cheerful confidence. What had happened had also stung his pride; he had walked into a trap, made a fool of himself for them. The incident burnt into his soul, and greatly influenced his subsequent development. He had already found out that a person's word was not always to be relied upon, and he had made awkward attempts to get behind it. Now he would trust nobody straight away any more; and he had discovered how the secret was to be found out. You only had to look at people's eyes when they said anything. Both here and at Kaase Farm the people had looked so strange about the handle-turner, as if they were laughing inside. And the bailiff had laughed that time when he promised them roast pork and stewed rhubarb every day. They hardly ever got anything but herring and porridge. People talked with two tongues; Father Lasse was the only one who did not do it. Pelle began to be observant of his own face. It was the face that spoke, and that was why it went badly with him when he tried to escape a thrashing by telling a white lie. And to-day's misfortune had been the fault of his face; if you felt happy, you mustn't show it. He had discovered the danger of letting his mind lie open, and his small organism set to work diligently to grow hard skin to draw over its vital parts. After supper they set off across the fields, hand in hand as usual. As a rule, Pelle chattered unceasingly when they were by themselves; but this evening he was quieter. The event of the afternoon was still in his mind, and the coming visit gave him a feeling of solemnity. Lasse carried a red bundle in his hand, in which was a bottle of black-currant rum, which they had got Per Olsen to buy in the town the day before, when he had been in to swear himself free. It had cost sixty-six ores, and Pelle was turning something over in his mind, but did not know whether it would do. "Father!" he said at last. "Mayn't I carry that a little way?" "Gracious! Are you crazy, boy? It's an expensive article! And you might drop it." "I wouldn't drop it. Well, only hold it for a little then? Mayn't I, father? Oh do, father!" "Eh, what an idea! I don't know what you'll be like soon, if you aren't stopped! Upon my word, I think you must be ill, you're getting so tiresome!" And Lasse went on crossly for a little while, but then stopped and bent down over the boy. "Hold it then, you little silly, but be very careful! And you mustn't move a single step while you've got it, mind!" Pelle clasped the bottle to his body with his arms, for he dared not trust his hands, and pushed out his stomach as far as possible to support it. Lasse stood with his hands extended beneath the bottle, ready to catch it if it fell. "There! That'll do!" he said anxiously, and took the bottle. "It _is_ heavy!" said Pelle, admiringly, and went on contentedly, holding his father's hand. "But why had he to swear himself free?" he suddenly asked. "Because he was accused by a girl of being the father of her child. Haven't you heard about it?" Pelle nodded. "Isn't he, then? Everybody says he is." "I can hardly believe it; it would be certain damnation for Per Olsen. But, of course, the girl says it's him and no one else. Ah me! Girls are dangerous playthings! You must take care when your time comes, for they can bring misfortune upon the best of men." "How do you swear, then? Do you say 'Devil take me'?" Lasse could not help laughing. "No, indeed! That wouldn't be very good for those that swear false. No, you see, in the court all God's highest ministers are sitting round a table that's exactly like a horseshoe, and beyond that again there's an altar with the crucified Christ Himself upon it. On the altar lies a big, big book that's fastened to the wall with an iron chain, so that the devil can't carry it off in the night, and that's God's Holy Word. When a man swears, he lays his left hand upon the book, and holds up his right hand with three fingers in the air; they're God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. But if he swears false, the Governor can see it at once, because then there are red spots of blood on the leaves of the book." "And what then?" asked Pelle, with deep interest. "Well, then his three fingers wither, and it goes on eating itself into his body. People like that suffer frightfully; they rot right away." "Don't they go to hell, then?" "Yes, they do that too, except when they give themselves up and take their punishment, and then they escape in the next life; but they can't escape withering away." "Why doesn't the Governor take them himself and punish them, when he can see in that book that they swore false?" "Why, because then they'd get off going to hell, and there's an agreement with Satan that he's to have all those that don't give themselves up, don't you see?" Pelle shuddered, and for a little while walked on in silence beside his father; but when he next spoke, he had forgotten all about it. "I suppose Uncle Kalle's rich, isn't he?" he asked. "He can't be rich, but he's a land-owner, and that's not a little thing!" Lasse himself had never attained to more than renting land. "When I grow up, I mean to have a great big farm," said Pelle, with decision. "Yes, I've no doubt you will," said Lasse, laughing. Not that he also did not expect something great of the boy, if not exactly a large farmer. There was no saying, however. Perhaps some farmer's daughter might fall in love with him; the men of his family generally had an attraction for women. Several of them had given proof of it--his brother, for instance, who had taken the fancy of a parson's wife. Then Pelle would have to make the most of his opportunity so that the family would be ashamed to oppose the match. And Pelle was good enough. He had that "cow's-lick" on his forehead, fine hair at the back of his neck, and a birth-mark on his hip; and that all betokened luck. Lasse went on talking to himself as he walked, calculating the boy's future with large, round figures, that yielded a little for him too; for, however great his future might be, it would surely come in time to allow of Lasse's sharing and enjoying it in his very old age. They went across country toward the stone-quarry, following stone dikes and snow-filled ditches, and working their way through the thicket of blackthorn and juniper, behind which lay the rocks and "the Heath." They made their way right into the quarry, and tried in the darkness to find the place where the dross was thrown, for that would be where the stone-breaking went on. A sound of hammering came from the upper end of the ground, and they discovered lights in several places. Beneath a sloping straw screen, from which hung a lantern, sat a little, broad man, hammering away at the fragments. He worked with peculiar vivacity--struck three blows and pushed the stones to one side, another three blows, and again to one side; and while with one hand he pushed the pieces away, with the other he placed a fresh fragment in position on the stone. It went as busily and evenly as the ticking of a watch. "Why, if that isn't Brother Kalle sitting there!" said Lasse, in a voice of surprise as great as if the meeting were a miracle from heaven. "Good evening, Kalle Karlsson! How are you?" The stone-breaker looked up. "Oh, there you are, brother!" he said, rising with difficulty; and the two greeted one another as if they had met only the day before. Kalle collected his tools and laid the screen down upon them while they talked. "So you break stones too? Does that bring in anything?" asked Lasse. "Oh, not very much. We get twelve krones a 'fathom' and when I work with a lantern morning and evening, I can break half a fathom in a week. It doesn't pay for beer, but we live anyhow. But it's awfully cold work; you can't keep warm at it, and you get so stiff with sitting fifteen hours on the cold stone--as stiff as if you were the father of the whole world." He was walking stiffly in front of the others across the heath toward a low, hump-backed cottage. "Ah, there comes the moon, now there's no use for it!" said Kalle, whose spirits were beginning to rise. "And, my word, what a sight the old dormouse looks! He must have been at a New Year's feast in heaven." "You're the same merry devil that you were in the old days," said Lasse. "Well, good spirits'll soon be the only thing to be had without paying for." The wall of the house stuck out in a large round lump on one side, and Pelle had to go up to it to feel it all over. It was most mysterious what there might be on the other side--perhaps a secret chamber? He pulled his father's hand inquiringly. "That? That's the oven where they bake their bread," said Lasse. "It's put there to make more room." After inviting them to enter, Kalle put his head in at a door that led from the kitchen to the cowshed. "Hi, Maria! You must put your best foot foremost!" he called in a low voice. "The midwife's here!" "What in the world does she want? It's a story, you old fool!" And the sound of milk squirting into the pail began again. "A story, is it? No, but you must come in and go to bed; she says it's high time you did. You are keeping up much too long this year. Mind what you say," he whispered into the cowshed, "for she is really here! And be quick!" They went into the room, and Kalle went groping about to light a candle. Twice he took up the matches and dropped them again to light it at the fire, but the peat was burning badly. "Oh, bother!" he said, resolutely striking a match at last. "We don't have visitors every day." "Your wife's Danish," said Lasse, admiringly. "And you've got a cow too?" "Yes, it's a biggish place here," said Kalle, drawing himself up. "There's a cat belonging to the establishment too, and as many rats as it cares to eat." His wife now appeared, breathless, and looking in astonishment at the visitors. "Yes, the midwife's gone again," said Kalle. "She hadn't time to-day; we must put it off till another time. But these are important strangers, so you must blow your nose with your fingers before you give them your hand!" "Oh, you old humbug! You can't take me in. It's Lasse, of course, and Pelle!" And she held out her hand. She was short, like her husband, was always smiling, and had bowed arms and legs just as he had. Hard work and their cheerful temperament gave them both a rotund appearance. "There are no end of children here," said Lasse, looking about him. There were three in the turn-up bedstead under the window--two small ones at one end, and a long, twelve-year-old boy at the other, his black feet sticking out between the little girls' heads; and other beds were made up on chairs, in an old kneading-trough, and on the floor. "Ye-es; we've managed to scrape together a few," said Kalle, running about in vain to get something for his visitors to sit upon; everything was being used as beds. "You'll have to spit on the floor and sit down on that," he said, laughing. His wife came in, however, with a washing-bench and an empty beer-barrel. "Sit you down and rest," she said, placing the seats round the table. "And you must really excuse it, but the children must be somewhere." Kalle squeezed himself in and sat down upon the edge of the turn-up bedstead. "Yes, we've managed to scrape together a few," he repeated. "You must provide for your old age while you have the strength. We've made up the dozen, and started on the next. It wasn't exactly our intention, but mother's gone and taken us in." He scratched the back of his head, and looked the picture of despair. His wife was standing in the middle of the room. "Let's hope it won't be twins this time too," she said, laughing. "Why, that would be a great saving, as we shall have to send for the midwife anyhow. People say of mother," he went on, "that when she's put the children to bed she has to count them to make sure they're all there; but that's not true, because she can't count farther than ten." Here a baby in the alcove began to cry, and the mother took it up and seated herself on the edge of the turn-up bedstead to nurse it. "And this is the smallest," he said, holding it out toward Lasse, who put a crooked finger down its neck. "What a little fatty!" he said softly; he was fond of children. "And what's its name?" "She's called Dozena Endina, because when she came we thought that was to be the last; and she was the twelfth too." "Dozena Endina! That's a mighty fine name!" exclaimed Lasse. "It sounds exactly as if she might be a princess." "Yes, and the one before's called Ellen--from eleven, of course. That's her in the kneading-trough," said Kalle. "The one before that again is Tentius, and then Nina, and Otto. The ones before that weren't named in that way, for we hadn't thought then that there'd be so many. But that's all mother's fault; if she only puts a patch on my working-trousers, things go wrong at once." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, trying to get out of it like that," said his wife, shaking her finger at him. "But as for that," she went on, turning to Lasse, "I'm sure the others have nothing to complain of either, as far as their names are concerned. Albert, Anna, Alfred, Albinus, Anton, Alma and Alvilda--let me see, yes, that's the lot. None of them can say they've not been treated fairly. Father was all for A at that time; they were all to rhyme with A. Poetry's always come so easy to him." She looked admiringly at her husband. Kalle blinked his eyes in bashfulness. "No, but it's the first letter, you see, and it sounds pretty," he said modestly. "Isn't he clever to think of a thing like that? He ought to have been a student. Now _my_ head would never have been any good for anything of that sort. He wanted, indeed, to have the names both begin and end with A, but that wouldn't do with the boys, so he had to give that up. But then he hasn't had any book-learning either." "Oh, that's too bad, mother! I didn't give it up. I'd made up a name for the first boy that had A at the end too; but then the priest and the clerk objected, and I had to let it go. They objected to Dozena Endina too, but I put my foot down; for I can be angry if I'm irritated too long. I've always liked to have some connection and meaning in everything; and it's not a bad idea to have something that those who look deeper can find out. Now, have you noticed anything special about two of these names?" "No," answered Lasse hesitatingly, "I don't know that I have. But I haven't got a head for that sort of thing either." "Well, look here! Anna and Otto are exactly the same, whether you read them forward or backward--exactly the same. I'll just show you." He took down a child's slate that was hanging on the wall with a stump of slate-pencil, and began laboriously to write the names. "Now, look at this, brother!" "I can't read," said Lasse, shaking his head hopelessly. "Does it really give the same both ways? The deuce! That _is_ remarkable!" He could not get over his astonishment. "But now comes something that's still more remarkable," said Kalle, looking over the top of the slate at his brother with the gaze of a thinker surveying the universe. "Otto, which can be read from both ends, means, of course, eight; but if I draw the figure 8, it can be turned upside down, and still be the same. Look here!" He wrote the figure eight. Lasse turned the slate up and down, and peered at it. "Yes, upon my word, it is the same! Just look here, Pelle! It's like the cat that always comes down upon its feet, no matter how you drop it. Lord bless my soul! how nice it must be to be able to spell! How did you learn it, brother?" "Oh," said Kalle, in a tone of superiority. "I've sat and looked on a little when mother's been teaching the children their ABC. It's nothing at all if your upper story's all right." "Pelle'll be going to school soon," said Lasse reflectively. "And then perhaps _I_ could--for it would be nice. But I don't suppose I've got the head for it, do you? No, I'm sure I haven't got the head for it," he repeated in quite a despairing tone. Kalle did not seem inclined to contradict him, but Pelle made up his mind that some day he would teach his father to read and write--much better than Uncle Kalle could. "But we're quite forgetting that we brought a Christmas bottle with us!" said Lasse, untying the handkerchief. "You _are_ a fellow!" exclaimed Kalle, walking delightedly round the table on which the bottle stood. "You couldn't have given us anything better, brother; it'll come in handy for the christening-party. 'Black Currant Rum'--and with a gold border--how grand!" He held the label up toward the light, and looked round with pleasure in his eyes. Then he hesitatingly opened the cupboard in the wall. "The visitors ought to taste what they brought," said his wife. "That's just what was bothering me!" said Kalle, turning round with a disconsolate laugh. "For they ought, of course. But if the cork's once drawn, you know how it disappears." He reached out slowly for the corkscrew which hung on a nail. But Lasse would not hear of it; he would not taste the beverage for the world. Was black-currant rum a thing for a poor beggar like him to begin drinking--and on a weekday, too? No, indeed! "Yes, and you'll be coming to the christening-party, you two, of course," said Kalle, relieved, putting the bottle into the cupboard. "But we'll have a 'cuckoo,' for there's a drop of spirits left from Christmas Eve, and I expect mother'll give us coffee." "I've got the coffee on," answered his wife cheerfully. "Did you ever know such a wife! You can never wish for anything but what it's there already!" Pelle wondered where his two herding-comrades, Alfred and Albinus, were. They were away at their summer places, taking their share of the good Christmas fare, and would not be back before "Knut." "But this fellow here's not to be despised," said Kalle, pointing to the long boy in the turn-up bed. "Shall we have a look at him?" And, pulling out a straw, he tickled the boy's nose with it. "Get up, my good Anton, and harness the horses to the wheelbarrow! We're going to drive out in state." The boy sat up and began to rub his eyes, to Kalle's great delight. At last he discovered that there were strangers present, and drew on his clothes, which had been doing duty as his pillow. Pelle and he became good friends at once, and began to play; and then Kalle hit upon the idea of letting the other children share in the merry-making, and he and the two boys went round and tickled them awake, all the six. His wife protested, but only faintly; she was laughing all the time, and herself helped them to dress, while she kept on saying: "Oh, what foolishness! Upon my word, I never knew the like of it! Then this one shan't be left out either!" she added suddenly, drawing the youngest out of the alcove. "Then that's the eight," said Kalle, pointing to the flock. "They fill the room well, don't they? Alma and Alvilda are twins, as you can see. And so are Alfred and Albinus, who are away now for Christmas. They're going to be confirmed next summer, so they'll be off my hands." "Then where are the two eldest?" asked Lasse. "Anna's in service in the north, and Albert's at sea, out with a whaler just now. He's a fine fellow. He sent us his portrait in the autumn. Won't you show it us, Maria?" His wife began slowly to look for it, but could not find it. "I think I know where it is, mother," said one of the little girls over and over again; but as no one heard what she said, she climbed up on to the bench, and took down an old Bible from the shelf. The photograph was in it. "He is a fine fellow, and no mistake!" said Lasse. "There's a pair of shoulders! He's not like our family; it must be from yours, Maria, that he's got that carriage." "He's a Kongstrup," said Kalle, in a low tone. "Oh, indeed, is he?" said Lasse hesitatingly, recollecting Johanna Pihl's story. "Maria was housemaid at the farm, and he talked her over as he has done with so many. It was before my time, and he did what he ought." Maria was standing looking from one to the other of them with a meaningless smile, but her forehead was flushed. "There's gentle blood in that boy," said Kalle admiringly. "He holds his head differently from the others. And he's good--so tremendously good." Maria came slowly up to him, leaned her arm upon his shoulder, and looked at the picture with him. "He is good, isn't he, mother?" said Kalle, stroking her face. "And so well-dressed he is too!" exclaimed Lasse. "Yes, he takes care of his money. He's not dissipated, like his father; and he's not afraid of parting with a ten-krone note when he's at home here on a visit." There was a rustling at the inner door, and a little, wrinkled old woman crept out onto the threshold, feeling her way with her feet, and holding her hands before her face to protect it. "Is any one dead?" she asked as she faced the room. "Why, there's grandmother!" said Kalle. "I thought you'd be in your bed." "And so I was, but then I heard there were strangers here, and one likes to hear the news. Have there been any deaths in the parish?" "No, grandmother, there haven't. People have something better to do than to die. Here's some one come to court you, and that's much better. This is mother-in-law," he said, turning to the others; "so you can guess what she's like." "Just you come here, and I'll mother-in-law you!" said the old lady, with a feeble attempt to enter into the gaiety. "Well, welcome to this house then," she said, extending her hand. Kalle stretched his out first, but as soon as she touched it, she pushed it aside, saying: "Do you think I don't know you, you fool?" She felt Lasse's and Pelle's hands for a long time with her soft fingers before she let them go. "No, I don't know you!" she said. "It's Brother Lasse and his son down from Stone Farm," Kalle informed her at last. "Aye, is it really? Well, I never! And you've come over the sea too! Well, here am I, an old body, going about here quite alone; and I've lost my sight too." "But you're not _quite_ alone, grandmother," said Kalle, laughing. "There are two grown-ups and half a score of children about you all day long." "Ah yes, you can say what you like, but all those I was young with are dead now, and many others that I've seen grow up. Every week some one that I know dies, and here am I still living, only to be a burden to others." Kalle brought in the old lady's arm-chair from her room, and made her sit down. "What's all that nonsense about?" he said reproachfully. "Why, you pay for yourself!" "Pay! Oh dear! They get twenty krones a year for keeping me," said the old woman to the company in general. The coffee came in, and Kalle poured brandy into the cups of all the elder people. "Now, grandmother, you must cheer up!" he said, touching her cup with his. "Where the pot boils for twelve, it boils for the thirteenth as well. Your health, grandmother, and may you still live many years to be a burden to us, as you call it!" "Yes, I know it so well, I know it so well," said the old woman, rocking backward and forward. "You mean so well by it all. But with so little wish to live, it's hard that I should take the food out of the others' mouths. The cow eats, and the cat eats, the children eat, we all eat; and where are you, poor things, to get it all from!" "Say 'poor thing' to him who has no head, and pity him who has two," said Kalle gaily. "How much land have you?" asked Lasse. "Five acres; but it's most of it rock." "Can you manage to feed the cow on it then?" "Last year it was pretty bad. We had to pull the roof off the outhouse, and use it for fodder last winter; and it's thrown us back a little. But dear me, it made the loft all the higher." Kalle laughed. "And now there'll always be more and more of the children getting able to keep themselves." "Don't those who are grown up give a hand too?" asked Lasse. "How can they? When you're young, you can use what you've got yourself. They must take their pleasures while there's time; they hadn't many while they were children, and once they're married and settled they'll have something else to think about. Albert is good enough when he's at home on a visit; last time he gave us ten krones and a krone to each of the children. But when they're out, you know how the money goes if they don't want to look mean beside their companions. Anna's one of those who can spend all they get on clothes. She's willing enough to do without, but she never has a farthing, and hardly a rag to her body, for all that she's for ever buying." "No, she's the strangest creature," said her mother. "She never can make anything do." The turn-up bedstead was shut to give room to sit round the table, and an old pack of cards was produced. Every one was to play except the two smallest, who were really too little to grasp a card; Kalle wanted, indeed, to have them too, but it could not be managed. They played beggar-my-neighbor and Black Peter. Grandmother's cards had to be read out to her. The conversation still went on among the elder people. "How do you like working for the farmer at Stone Farm?" asked Kalle. "We don't see much of the farmer himself; he's pretty nearly always out, or sleeping after a night on the loose. But he's nice enough in other ways; and it's a house where they feed you properly." "Well, there are places where the food's worse," said Kalle, "but there can't be many. Most of them, certainly, are better." "Are they really?" asked Lasse, in surprise. "Well, I don't complain as far as the food's concerned; but there's a little too much for us two to do, and then it's so miserable to hear that woman crying nearly the whole time. I wonder if he ill-treats her; they say not." "I'm sure he doesn't," said Kalle. "Even if he wanted to--as you can very well understand he might--he dursn't. He's afraid of her, for she's possessed by a devil, you know." "They say she's a were-wolf at night," said Lasse, looking as if he expected to see a ghost in one of the corners. "She's a poor body, who has her own troubles," said Maria, "and every woman knows a little what that means. And the farmer's not all kindness either, even if he doesn't beat her. She feels his unfaithfulness more than she'd feel anything else." "Oh, you wives always take one another's part," said Kalle, "but other people have eyes too. What do _you_ say, grandmother? You know that better than any one else." "Well, I know something about it at any rate," said the old woman. "I remember the time when Kongstrup came to the island as well as if it had been yesterday. He owned nothing more than the clothes he wore, but he was a fine gentleman for all that, and lived in Copenhagen." "What did he want over here?" asked Lasse. "What did he want? To look for a young girl with money, I suppose. He wandered about on the heath here with his gun, but it wasn't foxes he was after. She was fooling about on the heath too, admiring the wild scenery, and nonsense like that, and behaving half like a man, instead of being kept at home and taught to spin and make porridge; but she was the only daughter, and was allowed to go on just as she liked. And then she meets this spark from the town, and they become friends. He was a curate or a pope, or something of the sort, so you can't wonder that the silly girl didn't know what she was doing." "No, indeed!" said Lasse. "There's always been something all wrong with the women of that family," the old woman continued. "They say one of them once gave herself to Satan, and since then he's had a claim upon them and ill-treats them whenever the moon's waning, whether they like it or not. He has no power over the pure, of course; but when these two had got to know one another, things went wrong with her too. He must have noticed it, and tried to get off, for they said that the old farmer of Stone Farm compelled him with his gun to take her for his wife; and he was a hard old dog, who'd have shot a man down as soon as look at him. But he was a peasant through and through, who wore home-woven clothes, and wasn't afraid of working from sunrise to sunset. It wasn't like what it is now, with debts and drinking and card-playing, so people had something then." "Well, now they'd like to thresh the corn while it's still standing, and they sell the calves before they're born," said Kalle. "But I say, grandmother, you're Black Peter!" "That comes of letting one's tongue run on and forgetting to look after one's self!" said the old lady. "Grandmother's got to have her face blacked!" cried the children. She begged to be let off, as she was just washed for the night; but the children blacked a cork in the stove and surrounded her, and she was given a black streak down her nose. Every one laughed, both old and young, and grandmother laughed with them, saying it was a good thing she could not see it herself. "It's an ill wind," she said, "that blows nobody any good. But I should like to have my sight again," she went on, "if it's only for five minutes, before I die. It would be nice to see it all once more, now that the trees and everything have grown so, as Kalle says they have. The whole country must have changed. And I've never seen the youngest children at all." "They say that they can take blindness away over in Copenhagen," said Kalle to his brother. "It would cost a lot of money, wouldn't it?" asked Lasse. "It would cost a hundred krones at the very least," the grandmother remarked. Kalle looked thoughtful. "If we were to sell the whole blooming thing, it would be funny if there wasn't a hundred krones over. And then grandmother could have her sight again." "Goodness gracious me!" exclaimed the old woman. "Sell your house and home! You must be out of your mind! Throw away a large capital upon an old, worn-out thing like me, that has one foot in the grave! I couldn't wish for anything better than what I have!" She had tears in her eyes. "Pray God I mayn't bring about such a misfortune in my old age!" "Oh, rubbish! We're still young," said Kalle. "We could very well begin something new, Maria and me." "Have none of you heard how Jacob Kristian's widow is?" asked the old lady by way of changing the subject. "I've got it into my head that she'll go first, and then me. I heard the crow calling over there last night." "That's our nearest neighbor on the heath," explained Kalle. "Is she failing now? There's been nothing the matter with her this winter that I know of." "Well, you may be sure there's something," said the old woman positively. "Let one of the children run over there in the morning." "Yes, if you've had warning. Jacob Kristian gave good enough warning himself when he went and died. But we were good friends for many years, he and me." "Did he show himself?" asked Lasse solemnly. "No; but one night--nasty October weather it was--I was woke by a knocking at the outside door. That's a good three years ago. Maria heard it too, and we lay and talked about whether I should get up. We got no further than talking, and we were just dropping off again, when the knocking began again. I jumped up, put on a pair of trousers, and opened the door a crack, but there was no one there. 'That's strange!' I said to Maria, and got into bed again; but I'd scarcely got the clothes over me, when there was a knocking for the third time. "I was cross then, and lighted the lantern and went round the house; but there was nothing either to be seen or heard. But in the morning there came word to say that Jacob Kristian had died in the night just at that time." Pelle, who had sat and listened to the conversation, pressed close up to his father in fear; but Lasse himself did not look particularly valiant. "It's not always nice to have anything to do with the dead," he said. "Oh, nonsense! If you've done no harm to any one, and given everybody their due, what can they do to you?" said Kalle. The grandmother said nothing, but sat shaking her head very significantly. Maria now placed upon the table a jar of dripping and a large loaf of rye-bread. "That's the goose," said Kalle, merrily sticking his sheath-knife into the loaf. "We haven't begun it yet. There are prunes inside. And that's goose-fat. Help yourselves!" After that Lasse and Pelle had to think about getting home, and began to tie handkerchiefs round their necks; but the others did not want to let them go yet. They went on talking, and Kalle made jokes to keep them a little longer. But suddenly he turned as grave as a judge; there was a low sound of crying out in the little passage, and some one took hold of the handle of the door and let go of it again. "Upon my word, it's ghosts!" he exclaimed, looking fearfully from one to another. The sound of crying was heard again, and Maria, clasping her hands together, exclaimed: "Why, it's Anna!" and quickly opened the door. Anna entered in tears, and was attacked on all sides with surprised inquiries, to which her sobs were her only answer. "And you've been given a holiday to come and see us at Christmas time, and you come home crying! You are a nice one!" said Kalle, laughing. "You must give her something to suck, mother!" "I've lost my place," the girl at last got out between her sobs. "No, surely not!" exclaimed Kalle, in changed tones. "But what for? Have you been stealing? Or been impudent?" "No, but the master accused me of being too thick with his son." In a flash the mother's eyes darted from the girl's face to her figure, and she too burst into tears. Kalle could see nothing, but he caught his wife's action and understood. "Oh!" he said quietly. "Is that it?" The little man was like a big child in the way the different expressions came and went upon his good-natured face. At last the smile triumphed again. "Well, well, that's capital!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Shouldn't good children take the work off their parents' shoulders as they grow up and are able to do it? Take off your things, Anna, and sit down. I expect you're hungry, aren't you? And it couldn't have happened at a better time, as we've got to have the midwife anyhow!" Lasse and Pelle drew their neckerchiefs up over their mouths after taking leave of every one in the room, Kalle circling round them restlessly, and talking eagerly. "Come again soon, you two, and thanks for this visit and your present, Brother Lasse! Oh, yes!" he said suddenly at the outside door, and laughed delightedly; "it'll be something grand--brother-in-law to the farmer in a way! Oh, fie, Kalle Karlsson! You and I'll be giving ourselves airs now!" He went a little way along the path with them, talking all the time. Lasse was quite melancholy over it. Pelle knew quite well that what had happened to Anna was looked upon as a great disgrace, and could not understand how Uncle Kalle could seem so happy. "Ah, yes," said Lasse, as they stumbled along among the stones. "Kalle's just like what he always was! He laughs where others would cry." It was too dark to go across the fields, so they took the quarry road south to get down to the high-road. At the cross-roads, the fourth arm of which led down to the village, stood the country-shop, which was also a hedge-alehouse. As they approached the alehouse, they heard a great noise inside. Then the door burst open, and some men poured out, rolling the figure of a man before them on the ground. "The police have taken them by surprise!" said Lasse, and drew the boy with him out into the ploughed field, so as to get past without being seen. But at that moment some one placed a lamp in the window, and they were discovered. "There's the Stone Farm herdsman!" said a voice. "Hi, Lasse! Come here!" They went up and saw a man lying face downward on the ground, kicking; his hands were tied behind his back, and he could not keep his face out of the mud. "Why, it's Per Olsen!" exclaimed Lasse. "Yes, of course!" said the shopkeeper. "Can't you take him home with you? He's not right in his head." Lasse looked hesitatingly at the boy, and then back again. "A raving man?" he said. "We two can't alone." "Oh, his hands are tied. You've only got to hold the end of the rope and he'll go along quietly with you," said one of the men. They were quarrymen from the stone-quarry. "You'll go with them quietly, won't you?" he asked, giving the man a kick in the side with the toe of his wooden shoe. "Oh dear! Oh dear!" groaned Per Olsen. "What's he done?" asked Lasse. "And why have you ill-used him so?" "We had to thrash him a little, because he was going to chop off one of his thumbs. He tried it several times, the beast, and got it half off; and we had to beat him to make him stop." And they showed Lasse the man's thumb, which was bleeding. "Such an animal to begin cutting and hacking at himself because he's drunk half a pint of gin! If he wanted to fight, there were men enough here without that!" "It must be tied up, or he'll bleed to death, poor fellow!" said Lasse, slowly drawing out his red pocket-handkerchief. It was his best handkerchief, and it had just been washed. The shopkeeper came with a bottle and poured spirit over the thumb, so that the cold should not get into it. The wounded man screamed and beat his face upon the ground. "Won't one of you come with us?" asked Lasse. But no one answered; they wanted to have nothing to do with it, in case it should come to the ears of the magistrate. "Well, then, we two must do it with God's help," he said, in a trembling voice, turning to Pelle. "But you can help him up at any rate, as you knocked him down." They lifted him up. His face was bruised and bleeding; in their eagerness to save his finger, they had handled him so roughly that he could scarcely stand. "It's Lasse and Pelle," said the old man, trying to wipe his face. "You know us, don't you, Per Olsen? We'll go home with you if you'll be good and not hurt us; we mean well by you, we two." Per Olsen stood and ground his teeth, trembling all over his body. "Oh dear, oh dear!" was all he said. There was white foam at the corners of his mouth. Lasse gave Pelle the end of the rope to hold. "He's grinding his teeth; the devil's busy with him already," he whispered. "But if he tries to do any harm, just you pull with all your might at the rope; and if the worst comes to the worst, we must jump over the ditch." They now set off homeward, Lasse holding Per Olsen under the arm, for he staggered and would have fallen at almost every step. He kept on murmuring to himself or grinding his teeth. Pelle trudged behind, holding the rope. Cold shivers ran down his back, partly from fear, partly from secret satisfaction. He had now seen some one whom he knew to be doomed to perdition! So those who became devils in the next world looked like Per Olsen? But he wasn't unkind! He was the nicest of the farm men to Pelle, and he had bought that bottle for them--yes, and had advanced the money out of his own pocket until May-day! VIII Oh! what a pace she was driving at! The farmer whipped up the gray stallion, and sat looking steadily out over the fields, as if he had no suspicion that any one was following him; but his wife certainly did not mind. She whipped the bay as hard as she could, and did not care who saw her. And it was in broad daylight that they were playing the fool like this on the high-road, instead of keeping their quarrels within four walls as decent people did! It was true enough that gentle folks had no feeling of shame in them! Then she called out and stood up in the trap to beat the horse--with the handle even! Couldn't she let him drive out in peace to his fair charmer, whoever she was, and make it warm for him when he came home? How could she do the same thing over and over again for twenty years? Really women were persevering creatures! And how _he_ could be bothered! Having everlasting disturbances at home for the sake of some hotel landlady or some other woman, who could not be so very different to be with than his own wife! It would take a long-suffering nature to be a brute in that way; but that must be what they call love, properly speaking. The threshing-machine had come to a standstill, and the people at Stone Farm were hanging out of the doors and windows, enjoying it royally. It was a race, and a sight for the gods to see the bay mare gaining upon the stallion; why, it was like having two Sundays in one week! Lasse had come round the corner, and was following the mad race, his hand shading his eyes. Never had he known such a woman; Bengta was a perfect lamb compared to her! The farmer at Kaase Farm, who was standing at his gate when they dashed past, was secretly of the same opinion; and the workers in the fields dropped their implements, stared and were scandalized at the sight. At last, for very shame, he had to stop and turn round. She crawled over into his carriage, and the bay followed quietly with her empty vehicle. She put her arm about his shoulder, and looked happy and triumphant, exactly like the district policeman when he has had a successful chase; but he looked like a criminal of the worst kind. In this way they came driving back to the farm. One day Kalle came to borrow ten krones and to invite Lasse and Pelle to the christening-party on the following Sunday. Lasse, with some difficulty, obtained the money from the bailiff up in the office, but to the invitation they had to say "No, thank you," hard though it was; it was quite out of the question for them to get off again. Another day the head man had disappeared. He had gone in the night, and had taken his big chest with him, so some one must have helped him; but the other men in the room swore solemnly that they had noticed nothing, and the bailiff, fume as he might, was obliged to give up the attempt to solve the mystery. One or two things of this kind happened that made a stir for a day or two, but with these exceptions the winter was hard to get through. Darkness ruled for the greater part of the twenty-four hours, and it was never quite light in the corners. The cold, too, was hard to bear, except when you were in the comfortable stable. In there it was always warm, and Pelle was not afraid of going about in the thickest darkness. In the servants' room they sat moping through the long evenings without anything to occupy themselves with. They took very little notice of the girls, but sat playing cards for gin, or telling horrible stories that made it a most venturesome thing to run across the yard down to the stable when you had to go to bed. Per Olsen, on account of his good behavior, was raised to the position of head man when the other ran away. Lasse and Pelle were glad of this, for he took their part when they were put upon by any one. He had become a decent fellow in every respect, hardly ever touched spirits, and kept his clothes in good order. He was a little too quiet even for the old day-laborers of the farm and their wives; but they knew the reason of it and liked him because he took the part of the weak and because of the fate that hung over him. They said he was always listening; and when he seemed to be listening within to the unknown, they avoided as far as possible disturbing him. "You'll see he'll free himself; the Evil One'll have no claim upon him," was the opinion of both Lasse and the laborers' wives when they discussed Per Olsen's prospects at the Sunday milking. "There are some people that even the Almighty can't find anything to blame for." Pelle listened to this, and tried every day to peep at the scar on Per Olsen's thumb. It would surely disappear when God removed his judgment! During most of the winter Pelle drove the horse for the threshing- machine. All day he trotted round upon the horse-way outside the farm, over his wooden shoes in trodden-down snow and manure. It was the most intolerable occupation that life had yet offered him. He could not even carve, it was too cold for his fingers; and he felt lonely. As a herd-boy he was his own master, and a thousand things called to him; but here he had to go round and round behind a bar, always round. His one diversion was to keep count of the times he drove round, but that was a fatiguing employment and made you even duller than the everlasting going round, and you could not leave off. Time held nothing of interest, and short as it was the day seemed endless. As a rule, Pelle awoke happy, but now every morning when he woke he was weary of everything; it was to be that everlasting trudging round behind the bar. After a time doing this for about an hour used to make him fall into a state of half-sleep. The condition came of itself, and he longed for it before it came. It was a kind of vacuity, in which he wished for nothing and took no interest in anything, but only staggered along mechanically at the back of the bar. The machine buzzed unceasingly, and helped to maintain the condition; the dust kept pouring out at the window, and the time passed imperceptibly. Generally now dinner or evening surprised him, and sometimes it seemed to him that the horses had only just been harnessed when some one came out to help him in with them. He had arrived at the condition of torpor that is the only mercy that life vouchsafes to condemned prisoners and people who spend their lives beside a machine. But there was a sleepiness about him even in his free time; he was not so lively and eager to know about everything; Father Lasse missed his innumerable questions and little devices. Now and again he was roused for a moment out of his condition by the appearance at the window of a black, perspiring face, that swore at him because he was not driving evenly. He knew then that Long Ole had taken the place of Per Olsen, whose business it was to feed the machine. It sometimes happened, too, that the lash of the whip caught on the axle and wound round it, so that the whole thing had to be stopped and drawn backward; and that day he did not fall into a doze again. In March the larks appeared and brought a little life. Snow still lay in the hollows, but their singing reminded Pelle warmly of summer and grazing cattle. And one day he was wakened in his tramp round and round by seeing a starling on the roof of the house, whistling and preening its feathers in delight. On that day the sun shone brightly, and all heaviness was gone from the air; but the sea was still a pale gray down there. Pelle began to be a human being again. It was spring, and then, too, in a couple of days the threshing would be finished. But after all, the chief thing was that waistcoat-pocket of his; that was enough to put life into its owner. He ran round in a trot behind the bar; he had to drive quickly now in order to get done, for every one else was in the middle of spring ploughing already. When he pressed his hand against his chest, he could distinctly feel the paper it was wrapped in. For it was still there, wasn't it? It would not do to open the paper and look; he must find out by squeezing. Pelle had become the owner of fifty ores--a perfectly genuine fifty-ore piece. It was the first time he had ever possessed anything more than two and one ore pieces, and he had earned it by his own cleverness. It was on Sunday, when the men had had a visit from some quarrymen, and one of them had hit upon the idea of sending for some birch-fat to have with their dram. Pelle was to run to the village shop for it, and he was given a half-krone and injunctions to go in the back way, as it was Sunday. Pelle had not forgotten his experience at Christmas, and kept watch upon their faces. They were all doing their best to smooth them out and busy themselves with one thing and another; and Gustav, who gave him the money, kept turning his face away and looking at something out in the yard. When he stated his errand, the shopman's wife broke into a laugh. "I say, don't you know better than that?" she exclaimed. "Why, wasn't it you who fetched the handle-turner too? You've all found that very useful, haven't you?" Pelle turned crimson. "I thought they were making fun of me, but I didn't dare say no," he said in a low voice. "No, one has to play the fool sometimes, whether one is it or not," said the woman. "What is birch-fat, then?" asked Pelle. "Why, my gracious! You must have had it many a time, you little imp! But it shows how often you have to put up with things you don't know the name of." A light dawned upon Pelle. "Does it mean a thrashing with a birch-rod?" "Didn't I say you knew it?" "No, I've only had it with a whip--on my legs." "Well, well, you needn't mind that; the one may be just as good as the other. But now sit down and drink a cup of coffee while I wrap up the article for them." She pushed a cup of coffee with brown sugar toward him, and began ladling out soft soap on to a piece of paper. "Here," she said. "You give them that: it's the best birch-fat. And you can keep the money yourself." Pelle was not courageous enough for this arrangement. "Very well, then," she said. "I'll keep the money for you. They shan't make fools of us both. And then you can get it yourself. But now you must put on a bold face." Pelle did put on a bold face, but he was decidedly nervous. The men swore at the loss of the half-krone, and called him the "greatest idiot upon God's green earth"; but he had the satisfaction of knowing that that was because he had not been stupid enough. And the half-krone was his! A hundred times a day he felt it without wearing it out. Here at last was something the possession of which did not rob it of its lustre. There was no end to the purchases he made with it, now for Lasse, now for himself. He bought the dearest things, and when he lingered long enough over one purchase and was satiated with the possession of it, he set about buying something else. And all the while he kept the coin. At times he would be suddenly seized with an insane fear that the money was gone; and then when he felt it, he was doubly happy. Pelle had suddenly become a capitalist, and by his own cleverness; and he made the most of his capital. He had already obtained every desirable thing that he knew of--he had it all, at any rate, in hand; and gradually as new things made their appearance in his world, he secured for himself the right to their purchase. Lasse was the only person who knew about his wealth, and he had reluctantly to allow himself to be drawn into the wildest of speculations. He could hear by the sound that there was something wrong with the machine. The horses heard it too, and stopped even before some one cried "Stop!" Then one after another came the shouts: "Stop! Drive on! Stop! On again! Stop! Pull!" And Pelle pulled the bar back, drove on and pulled until the whole thing whizzed again. Then he knew that it was Long Ole feeding the machine while Per Olsen measured the grain: Ole was a duffer at feeding. It was going smoothly again, and Pelle was keeping an eye on the corner by the cow-stable. When Lasse made his appearance there, and patted his stomach, it meant that it was nearly dinner-time. Something stopped the bar, the horses had to pull hard, and with a jerk it cleared the invisible hindrance. There was a cry from the inside of the threshing-barn, and the sound of many voices shouting "Stop!" The horses stopped dead, and Pelle had to seize the bar to prevent it swinging forward against their legs. It was some time before any one came out and took the horses in, so that Pelle could go into the barn and see what was the matter. He found Long Ole walking about and writhing over one of his hands. His blouse was wrapped about it, but the blood was dripping through on to the floor of the barn. He was bending forward and stumbling along, throwing his body from side to side and talking incoherently. The girls, pale and frightened, were standing gazing at him while the men were quarreling as to what was the best thing to do to stop the flow of blood, and one of them came sliding down from the loft with a handful of cobwebs. Pelle went and peered into the machine to find out what there was so voracious about it. Between two of the teeth lay something like a peg, and when he moved the roller, the greater part of a finger dropped down on to the barn floor. He picked it up among some chaff, and took it to the others: it was a thumb! When Long Ole saw it, he fainted; it could hardly be wondered at, seeing that he was maimed for life. But Per Olsen had to own that he had left the machine at a fortunate moment. There was no more threshing done that day. In the afternoon Pelle played in the stable, for he had nothing to do. While he played, he suggested plans for their future to his father: they were engrossed in it. "Then we'll go to America, and dig for gold!" "Ye-es, that wouldn't be a bad thing at all. But it would take a good many more half-krones to make that journey." "Then we can set up as stone-masons." Lasse stood still in the middle of the foddering-passage, and pondered with bent head. He was exceedingly dissatisfied with their position; there were two of them toiling to earn a hundred krones, and they could not make ends meet. There was never any liberty either; they were simply slaves. By himself he never got any farther than being discontented and disappointed with everything; he was too old. The mere search for ways to something new was insuperable labor, and everything looked so hopeless. But Pelle was restless, and whenever he was dissatisfied with anything, made plans by the score, some of the wildest, and some fairly sensible; and the old man was carried away by them. "We might go to the town and work too," said Lasse meditatively. "They earn one bright krone after another in there. But what's to be done with you? You're too little to use a tool." This stubborn fact put a stop for the moment to Pelle's plans; but then his courage rose again. "I can quite well go with you to the town," he said. "For I shall----" He nodded significantly. "What?" asked Lasse, with interest. "Well, perhaps I'll go down to the harbor and be doing nothing, and a little girl'll fall into the water and I shall save her. But the little girl will be a gentleman's daughter, and so----" Pelle left the rest to Lasse's imagination. "Then you'd have to learn to swim first," said Lasse gravely. "Or you'd only be drowned." Screams were heard from the men's bedroom. It was Long Ole. The doctor had come and was busy with his maimed hand. "Just run across and find out what'll happen to it!" said Lasse. "Nobody'll pay any attention to you at such a time, if you make yourself small." In a little while Pelle came back and reported that three fingers were quite crushed and hanging in rags, and the doctor had cut them off. "Was it these three?" asked Lasse, anxiously, holding up his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger. Truth to tell, Pelle had seen nothing, but his imagination ran away with him. "Yes, it was his swearing-fingers," he said, nodding emphatically. "Then Per Olsen is set free," said Lasse, heaving a deep sigh. "What a _good_ thing it has been--quite providential!" That was Pelle's opinion too. The farmer himself drove the doctor home, and a little while after he had gone, Pelle was sent for, to go on an errand for the mistress to the village-shop. IX It was nothing for Pelle; if he were vanquished on one point, he rose again on two others: he was invincible. And he had the child's abundant capacity for forgiving; had he not he would have hated all grown-up people with the exception of Father Lasse. But disappointed he certainly was. It was not easy to say who had expected most--the boy, whose childish imagination had built, unchecked, upon all that he had heard, or the old man, who had once been here himself. But Pelle managed to fill his own existence with interest, and was so taken up on all sides that he only just had time to realize the disappointment in passing. His world was supersensual like that of the fakir; in the course of a few minutes a little seed could shoot up and grow into a huge tree that overshadowed everything else. Cause never answered to effect in it, and it was governed by another law of gravitation: events always bore him up. However hard reality might press upon him, he always emerged from the tight place the richer in some way or other; and no danger could ever become overwhelmingly great as long as Father Lasse stood reassuringly over and behind everything. But Lasse had failed him at the decisive moment more than once, and every time he used him as a threat, he was only laughed at. The old man's omnipotence could not continue to exist side by side with his increasing decrepitude; in the boy's eyes it crumbled away from day to day. Unwilling though he was, Pelle had to let go his providence, and seek the means of protection in himself. It was rather early, but he looked at circumstances in his own way. Distrust he had already acquired--and timidity! He daily made clumsy attempts to get behind what people said, and behind things. There was something more behind everything! It often led to confusion, but occasionally the result was conspicuously good. There were some thrashings that you could run away from, because in the meantime the anger would pass away, and other thrashings where it answered best to shed as many tears as possible. Most people only beat until the tears came, but the bailiff could not endure a blubberer, so with him the thing was to set your teeth and make yourself hard. People said you should speak the truth, but most thrashings could be avoided by making up a white lie, if it was a good one and you took care of your face. If you told the truth, they thrashed you at once. With regard to thrashing, the question had a subjective side as well as an objective one. He could beat Rud whenever he liked, but with bigger boys it was better to have right on his side, as, for instance, when his father was attacked. Then God helped him. This was a case in which the boy put the omnipotence quite aside, and felt himself to be the old man's protector. Lasse and Pelle were walking through life hand in hand, and yet each was going his own way. Lasse felt it to be so. "We've each got hold of an end," he sometimes said to himself despondently, when the difference was all too marked. "He's rising, the laddie!" This was best seen in the others. In the long run they had to like the boy, it could not be otherwise. The men would sometimes give him things, and the girls were thoroughly kind to him. He was in the fairest period of budding youth; they would often take him on their knees as he passed, and kiss him. "Ah, he'll be a lady's man, he will!" Lasse would say. "He's got that from his father." But they would laugh at that. There was always laughter when Lasse wanted to join the elders. Last time--yes, then he was good enough. It was always "Where's Lasse?" when gin was going round, or tricks were being played, or demonstrations made. "Call Lasse Karlsson!" He had no need to push himself forward; it was a matter of course that he was there. The girls were always on the look-out for him, married man though he was, and he had fun with them--all quite proper, of course, for Bengta was not good to quarrel with if she heard anything. But now! Yes--well, yes--he might fetch the gin for the others and do their work for them when they had a holiday, without their doing anything in exchange! "Lasse! Where's Lasse? Can you feed the horses for me this evening? Can you take my place at the chaff-cutting to-morrow evening?" There was a difference between then and now, and Lasse had found out the reason for himself: he was getting old. The very discovery brought further proof of its correctness, laid infirmity upon him, and removed the tension from his mind, and what was left of it from his body. The hardest blow of all was when he discovered that he was of no importance to the girls, had no place at all in their thoughts of men. In Lasse's world there was no word that carried such weight as the word "man"; and in the end it was the girls who decided whether you were one or not. Lasse was not one; he was not dangerous! He was only a few poor relics of a man, a comical remnant of some by-gone thing; they laughed at him when he tried to pay them attention. Their laughter crushed him, and he withdrew into his old-man's world, and despondently adapted himself to it. The only thing that kept life in him was his concern for the boy, and he clung despairingly to his position as his providence. There was little he could do for him, and therefore he talked all the bigger; and when anything went against the boy, he uttered still greater threats against the world than before. He also felt that the boy was in process of making himself independent, and fought a desperate battle to preserve the last appearance of power. But Pelle could not afford to give support to his fancy, nor had he the understanding to do it. He was growing fast, and had a use for all that he possessed himself. Now that his father no longer stood behind to shield him, he was like a small plant that has been moved out into the open, and is fighting hard to comprehend the nature of its surroundings, and adapt itself to them. For every root-fibre that felt its way into the soil, there fell to the ground one of the tender leaves, and two strong ones pushed forth. One after another the feelings of the child's defencelessness dropped and gave place to the harder ones of the individual. The boy was engaged in building himself up, in accordance with invisible laws. He assumed an attitude toward his surroundings at all points, but he did not imitate them. The farm men, for instance, were not kind to the animals. They often lashed the horses only as a vent for their ill-humor, and the girls were just the same to the smaller animals and the dairy-cows. From these considerations, Pelle taught himself sympathy. He could not bear cruelty to animals, and thrashed Rud for the first time when the latter had one day robbed a bird's nest. Pelle was like a kid that makes a plaything of everything. In his play he took up, without suspecting it, many of the serious phenomena of life, and gambolled with them in frolicsome bounds. He exercised his small mind as he exercised his body, twisted himself into everything and out of everything, imitated work and fun and shirking, and learned how to puff himself up into a very devil of a fellow where his surroundings were yielding, and to make himself almost invisible with modesty when they were hard. He was training himself to be that little Jack-of-all-trades, man. And it became more and more difficult to catch him unprepared. The first time he had to set about a thing in earnest, he was generally handy at it; he was as difficult to take unawares as a cat. * * * * * It was summer again. The heat stood still and played over the ground, sparkling, with indolent voluptuousness and soft movements like the fish in the stream. Far inland it quivered above the rocks that bounded the view, in a restless flicker of bluish white; below lay the fields beneath the broiling sun, with the pollen from the rye drifting over them like smoke. Up above the clover-field stood the cows of Stone Farm in long rows, their heads hanging heavily down, and their tails swinging regularly. Lasse was moving between their ranks, looking for the mallet, and now and then gazing anxiously down towards the meadow by the dunes, and beginning to count the young cattle and the bullocks. Most of them were lying down, but a few of them were standing with their heads close together, and munching with closed eyes. The boys were nowhere to be seen. Lasse stood wondering whether he should give Pelle a warning call; there would he no end of a row if the bailiff were to come now. But then the sound of voices came from among the young firs on the dunes, a naked boy appeared, and then another. Their bodies were like golden flashes in the air as they ran over the grass-wrack and across the meadow, each with his cap held closed in his hand. They sat down upon the edge of the stream with their feet in the water, and carefully uncovered their captives; they were dragon-flies. As the insects one by one crawled out at the narrow opening, the boys decapitated them and laid them in a row on the grass. They had caught nine, and nine times thirty-five--well, it would be more than three krones. The stupendous amount made Pelle skeptical. "Now isn't that only a lie?" he said, and licked his shoulder where he had been bitten by a mosquito. It was said that the chemist gave thirty-five ores apiece for dragon-flies. "A lie?" exclaimed Rud. "Yes, perhaps it is," he went on meekly. "It must be a lie, for anything like that always is. You might give me yours too!" But Pelle would not do that. "Then give me your half-krone, and I'll go to the town and sell them for you. They cost thirty-five ores, for Karl says so, and his mother washes the floor in the chemist's shop." Pelle got up, not to fetch the half-krone--he would not part with that for all the world--but to assure himself that it still lay in his waistcoat pocket. When he had gone a little way, Rud hastily lifted a piece of turf at the edge of the stream, pushed something in under it, and jumped into the water; and when Pelle came back with slow, ominous steps, he climbed up the other side and set off at a run. Pelle ran too, in short, quick leaps. He knew he was the quicker, and the knowledge made him frolicsome. He flapped at his naked body as he ran, as if he had no joints, swayed from side to side like a balloon, pranced and stamped on the ground, and then darted on again. Then the young firs closed round them again, only the movement of their tops showing where the boys ran, farther and farther, until all was still. In the meadow the cattle were munching with closed eyes and attentive ears. The heat played over the ground, flickering, gasping, like a fish in water. There was a heavy, stupefying humming in the air; the sound came from everywhere and nowhere. Down across the cornfields came a big, stout woman. She wore a skirt, a chemise, and a handkerchief on her head, and she shaded her eyes with her hand and looked about. She crossed the meadow obliquely, found Pelle's dinner-basket, took out its contents and put them in under her chemise upon her bare, perspiring bosom, and then turned in the direction of the sea. There was a sudden break in the edge of the fir-plantation, and out came Rud with Pelle hanging upon his back. Rud's inordinately large head hung forward and his knees gave way; his forehead, which receded above the eyes and projected just below the line of the hair, was a mass of bruises and scars, which became very visible now with his exertions. Both the boys had marks all over their bodies from the poison of the pine-needles. Pelle dropped on to the grass, and lay there on his face, while Rud went slowly to fetch the half-krone, and handed it reluctantly to its owner. He stooped like one vanquished, but in his eye the thought of a new battle lay awaiting its opportunity. Pelle gazed lovingly at the coin. He had had it now ever since April, from the time when he was sent to buy birch-fat. He had purchased with it everything that was desirable, and he had lost it twice: he loved that piece of money. It made his fingers itch, his whole body; it was always urging him on to spend it, now in one way and now in another. Roll, roll! That was what it was longing to do; and it was because it was round, Father Lasse said. But to become rich--that meant stopping the money as it rolled. Oh, Pelle meant to be rich! And then he was always itching to spend it--spend it in such a way that he got everything for it, or something he could have all his life. They sat upon the bank of the stream and wrangled in a small way. Rud did his best to inspire awe, and bragged to create an impression. He bent his fingers backward and moved his ears; he could move them forward in a listening position like a horse. All this irritated Pelle intensely. Suddenly he stopped. "Won't you give me the half-krone, then? You shall have ten krones when I grow up." Rud collected money--he was avaricious already--and had a whole boxful of coins that he had stolen from his mother. Pelle considered a little. "No," he said. "Because you'll never grow up; you're a dwarf!" The tone of his voice was one of sheer envy. "That's what the Sow says too! But then I'll show myself for money at the fairs and on Midsummer Eve on the common. Then I shall get frightfully rich." Pelle was inwardly troubled. Should he give him the whole fifty ores for nothing at all? He had never heard of any one doing such a thing. And perhaps some day, when Rud had become enormously rich, he would get half of it. "Will you have it?" he asked, but regretted it instantly. Rud stretched out his hand eagerly, but Pelle spat into it. "It can wait until we've had our dinner anyhow," he said, and went over to the basket. For a little while they stood gazing into the empty basket. "The Sow's been here," said Rud, putting out his tongue. Pelle nodded. "She _is_ a beast!" "A thief," said Rud. They took the sun's measure. Rud declared that if you could see it when you bent down and looked between your legs, then it was five o'clock. Pelle began to put on his clothes. Rud was circling about him. "I say!" he said suddenly. "If I may have it, I'll let you whip me with nettles." "On your bare body?" asked Pelle. Rud nodded. In a second Pelle was out of his trousers again, and running to a patch of nettles. He pulled them up with the assistance of a dock-leak, as many as he could hold, and came back again. Rud lay down, face downwards, on a little mound, and the whipping began. The agreement was a hundred strokes, but when Rud had received ten, he got up and refused to have any more. "Then you won't get the money," said Pelle. "Will you or won't you?" He was red with excitement and the exertion, and the perspiration already stood in beads down his slender back, for he had worked with a will. "Will you or won't you? Seventy-five strokes then!" Pelle's voice quivered with eagerness, and he had to dilate his nostrils to get air enough; his limbs began to tremble. "No--only sixty--you hit so hard! And I must have the money first, or you may cheat me." "I don't cheat," said Pelle gloomily. But Rud held to his point. Pelle's body writhed; he was like a ferret that has tasted blood. With a jerk he threw the coin at Rud, and grumbling, pushed him down. He wept inwardly because he had let him off forty strokes; but he made up his mind to lay into him all the harder for it. Then he beat, slowly and with all his might, while Rud burrowed with his head in the grass and clasped the money tightly to keep up his strength. There was hatred in every stroke that Pelle struck, and they went like shocks through his playmate's body, but he never uttered a cry. No, there was no point in his crying, for the coin he held in his hand took away the pain. But about Pelle's body the air burnt like fire, his arms began to give way with fatigue, and his inclination diminished with every stroke. It was toil, nothing but hard toil. And the money--the beautiful half-krone--was slipping farther and farther away, and he would be poor once more; and Rud was not even crying! At the forty-sixth stroke he turned his face and put out his tongue, whereat Pelle burst into a roar, threw down the frayed nettle-stalks, and ran away to the fir-plantation. There he sat for the rest of the day under a dune, grieving over his loss, while Rud lay under the bank of the stream, bathing his blistered body with wet earth. X After all, Per Olsen was not the sort of man they had thought him. Now that he had been set free in that way, the thing would have been for him to have given a helping hand to that poor fellow, Long Ole; for after all it was for his sake that Ole's misfortune had come upon him. But did he do it? No, he began to amuse himself. It was drinking and dissipation and petticoats all the summer through; and now at Martinmas he left and took work at the quarry, so as to be more his own master. There was not sufficient liberty for him at Stone Farm. What good there was left in him would find something to do up there. Long Ole could not, of course, remain at Stone Farm, crippled as he was. Through kindness on the part of the farmer, he was paid his half-wage; that was more than he had any claim to, and enough at any rate to take him home and let him try something or other. There were many kinds of work that at a pinch could be performed with one hand; and now while he had the money he ought to have got an iron hook; it could be strapped to the wrist, and was not bad to hold tools with. But Ole had grown weak and had great difficulty in making up his mind. He continued to hang about the farm, notwithstanding all that the bailiff did to get him away. At last they had to put his things out, to the west of the farm; and there they lay most of the summer, while he himself slept among the stacks, and begged food of the workers in the fields. But this could not go on when the cold set in. But then one day in the autumn, his things were gone. Johanna Pihl --commonly called the Sow--had taken him in. She felt the cold, too, in spite of her fat, and as the proverb says: It's easier for two to keep warm than one; but whatever was her reason for doing it, Long Ole might thank his Maker for her. There was always bacon hanging in her chimney. Lasse and Pelle looked forward to term-day with anxiety. What changes would it bring this time for people? So much depended on that. Besides the head man, they were to have new second and third men and some new maids. They were always changing at Stone Farm when they could. Karna, poor soul, was bound to stay, as she had set her mind upon youth, and would absolutely be where Gustav was! Gustav stayed because Bodil stayed, so unnaturally fond was he of that girl, although she was not worth it. And Bodil herself knew well enough what she was doing! There must be more in it than met the eye when a girl dressed, as she did, in expensive, town-bought clothes. Lasse and Pelle _remained_, simply because there was no other place in the world for them to go to. All through the year they made plans for making a change, but when the time for giving notice approached, Lasse became quiet and let it go past. Of late he had given no little thought to the subject of marrying again. There was something God-forsaken about this solitary existence for a man of his age; you became old and worn out before your time, when you hadn't a wife and a house. On the heath near Brother Kalle's, there was a house that he could have without paying anything down. He often discussed it with Pelle, and the boy was ready for anything new. It should be a wife who could look after everything and make the house comfortable; and above all she must be a hard-working woman. It would not come amiss either if she had a little of her own, but let that be as it might, if only she was good-natured. Karna would have suited in all respects, both Lasse and Pelle having always had a liking for her ever since the day she freed Pelle from the pupil's clutches; but it was nothing to offer her as long as she was so set upon Gustav. They must bide their time; perhaps she would come to her senses, or something else might turn up. "Then there'd be coffee in bed on Sunday mornings!" said Pelle, with rapture. "Yes, and perhaps we'd get a little horse, and invite Brother Kalle for a drive now and then," added Lasse solemnly. At last it was really to be! In the evening Lasse and Pelle had been to the shop and bought a slate and pencil, and Pelle was now standing at the stable-door with a beating heart and the slate under his arm. It was a frosty October morning, but the boy was quite hot after his wash. He had on his best jacket, and his hair had been combed with water. Lasse hovered about him, brushing him here and there with his sleeve, and was even more nervous than the boy. Pelle had been born to poor circumstances, had been christened, and had had to earn his bread from the time he was a little boy--all exactly as he had done himself. So far there was no difference to be seen; it might very well have been Lasse himself over again, from the big ears and the "cow's-lick" on the forehead, to the way the boy walked and wore out the bottoms of his trouser-legs. But this was something strikingly new. Neither Lasse nor any of his family had ever gone to school; it was something new that had come within the reach of his family, a blessing from Heaven that had fallen upon the boy and himself. It felt like a push upward; the impossible was within reach; what might not happen to a person who had book-learning! You might become master of a workshop, a clerk, perhaps even a schoolmaster. "Now do take care of the slate, and see that you don't break it!" he said admonishingly. "And keep out of the way of the big boys until you can hold your own with them. But if any of them simply won't let you alone, mind you manage to hit first! That takes the inclination out of most of them, especially if you hit hard; he who hits first hits twice, as the old proverb says. And then you must listen well, and keep in mind all that your teacher says; and if anyone tries to entice you into playing and larking behind his back, don't do it. And remember that you've got a pocket-handkerchief, and don't use your fingers, for that isn't polite. If there's no one to see you, you can save the handkerchief, of course, and then it'll last all the longer. And take care of your nice jacket. And if the teacher's lady invites you in to coffee, you mustn't take more than one piece of cake, mind." Lasse's hands trembled while he talked. "She's sure not to do that," said Pelle, with a superior air. "Well, well, now go, so that you don't get there too late--the very first day, too. And if there's some tool or other wanting, you must say we'll get it at once, for we aren't altogether paupers!" And Lasse slapped his pocket; but it did not make much noise, and Pelle knew quite well that they had no money; they had got the slate and pencil on credit. Lasse stood looking after the boy as long as he was in sight, and then went to his work of crushing oilcakes. He put them into a vessel to soak, and poured water on them, all the while talking softly to himself. There was a knock at the outside stable-door, and Lasse went to open it. It was Brother Kalle. "Good-day, brother!" he said, with his cheerful smile. "Here comes his Majesty from the quarries!" He waddled in upon his bow legs, and the two exchanged hearty greetings. Lasse was delighted at the visit. "What a pleasant time we had with you the other evening!" said Lasse, taking his brother by the hand. "That's a long time ago now. But you must look in again one evening soon. Grandmother looks upon both of you with a favorable eye!" Kalle's eyes twinkled mischievously. "How is she, poor body? Has she at all got over the hurt to her eye? Pelle came home the other day and told me that the children had been so unfortunate as to put a stick into her eye. It quite upset me. You had to have the doctor, too!" "Well, it wasn't quite like that," said Kalle. "I had moved grandmother's spinning-wheel myself one morning when I was putting her room to rights, and then I forgot to put it back in its place. Then when she was going to stoop down to pick up something from the floor, the spindle went into her eye; of course she's used to have everything stand exactly in its place. So really the honor's due to me." He smiled all over his face. Lasse shook his head sympathetically. "And she got over it fairly well?" he asked. "No; it went altogether wrong, and she lost the sight of that eye." Lasse looked at him with disapproval. Kalle caught himself up, apparently very much horrified. "Eh, what nonsense I'm talking! She lost the _blindness_ of that eye, I ought to have said. _Isn't_ that all wrong, too? You put somebody's eye out, and she begins to see! Upon my word, I think I'll set up as an eye-doctor after this, for there's not much difficulty in it." "What do you say? She's begun to--? Now you're too merry! You oughtn't to joke about everything." "Well, well, joking apart, as the prophet said when his wife scratched him--she can really see with that eye now." Lasse looked suspiciously at him for a little while before he yielded. "Why, it's quite a miracle!" he then said. "Yes, that's what the doctor said. The point of the spindle had acted as a kind of operation. But it might just as easily have taken the other direction. Yes, we had the doctor to her three times; it was no use being niggardly." Kalle stood and tried to look important; he had stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. "It cost a lot of money, I suppose?" "That's what I thought, too, and I wasn't very happy when I asked the doctor how much it would be. Twenty-five krones, he said, and it didn't sound anything more than when any of us ask for a piece of bread-and-dripping. 'Will the doctor be so kind as to wait a few days so that I can get the cow property sold?' I asked. 'What!' he says, and glares at me over his spectacles. 'You don't mean to sell the cow so as to pay me? You mustn't do that on any account; I'll wait till times are better.' 'We come off easily, even if we get rid of the cow,' I said. 'How so?' he asks, as we go out to the carriage --it was the farmer of Kaase Farm that was driving for me. So I told him that Maria and I had been thinking of selling everything so that grandmother might go over and be operated. He said nothing to that, but climbed up into the carriage; but while I was standing like this, buttoning up his foot-bag, he seizes me by the collar and says: 'Do you know, you little bow-legged creature!' (Kalle imitated the doctor's town speech), 'You're the best man I've ever met, and you don't owe me a brass farthing! For that matter, it was you yourself that performed the operation.' 'Then I ought almost to have had the money,' I said. Then he laughed and gave me a box on the ears with his fur cap. He's a fine man, that doctor, and fearfully clever; they say that he has one kind of mixture that he cures all kinds of illness with." They were sitting in the herdsman's room upon the green chest, and Lasse had brought out a little gin. "Drink, brother!" he said again and again. "It takes something to keep out this October drizzle." "Many thanks, but you must drink! But I was going to say, you should see grandmother! She goes round peeping at everything with her one eye; if it's only a button, she keeps on staring at it. So that's what that looks like, and that! She's forgotten what the things look like, and when she sees a thing, she goes to it to feel it afterward --to find out what it is, she actually says. She would have nothing to do with us the first few days; when she didn't hear us talk or walk, she thought we were strangers, even though she saw us there before her eyes." "And the little ones?" asked Lasse. "Thank you, Anna's is fat and well, but our own seems to have come to a standstill. After all, it's the young pigs you ought to breed with. By the bye"--Kalle took out his purse--"while we're at it, don't let me forget the ten krones I got from you for the christenings." Lasse pushed it away. "Never mind that," he said. "You may have a lot to go through yet. How many mouths are there now? Fourteen or fifteen, I suppose?" "Yes; but two take their mother's milk, like the parson's wife's chickens; so that's all saved. And if things became difficult, one's surely man enough to wring a few pence out of one's nose?" He seized his nose and gave it a rapid twist, and held out his hand. A folded ten-krone note lay in it. Lasse laughed at the trick, but would not hear of taking the money; and for a time it passed backward and forward between them. "Well, well!" said Kalle at last, keeping the note; "thank you very much, then! And good-bye, brother! I must be going." Lasse went out with him, and sent many greetings. "We shall come and look you up very soon," he called out after his brother. When after a little while he returned to his room, the note lay upon the bed. Kalle must have seen his opportunity to put it there, conjurer that he was. Lasse put it aside to give to Kalle's wife, when an occasion presented itself. Long before the time, Lasse was on the lookout for Pelle. He found the solitude wearisome, now that he was used to having the boy about him from morning till night. At last he came, out of breath with running, for he had longed to get home too. Nothing either terrible or remarkable had happened at school. Pelle had to give a circumstantial account, point by point, "Well, what can you do?" the master had asked, taking him by the ear--quite kindly, of course. "I can pull the mad bull to the water without Father Lasse helping at all," Pelle had answered, and then the whole class had laughed. "Yes, yes, but can you read?" No, Pelle could not do that--"or else I shouldn't have come here," he was on the point of adding. "It was a good thing you didn't answer that," said Lasse; "but what more then?" Well, then Pelle was put upon the lowest bench, and the boy next him was set to teach him his letters. "Do you know them, then?" No, Pelle did not know them that day, but when a couple of weeks had passed, he knew most of them, and wrote them with chalk on the posts. He had not learned to write, but his hand could imitate anything he had seen, and he drew the letters just as they stood in print in the spelling-book. Lasse went and looked at them during his work, and had them repeated to him endlessly; but they would not stick properly. "What's that one there?" he was perpetually asking. Pelle answered with a superior air: "That? Have you forgotten it already? I knew that after I'd only seen it once! That's M." "Yes, of course it is! I can't think where my head is to-day. M, yes--of course it's M! Now what can that be used for, eh?" "It's the first letter in the word 'empty,' of course!" said Pelle consequentially. "Yes, of course! But you didn't find that out for yourself; the master told you." "No, I found it out by myself." "Did you, now? Well, you've become clever--if only you don't become as clever as seven fools." Lasse was out of spirits; but very soon he gave in, and fell into whole-hearted admiration of his son. And the instruction was continued while they worked. It was fortunate for Pelle that his father was so slow, for he did not get on very fast himself, when once he had mastered all that was capable of being picked up spontaneously by a quick intelligence. The boy who had to teach him--Sloppy, he was called--was the dunce of the class and had always been bottom until now Pelle had come and taken his place. Two weeks of school had greatly changed Pelle's ideas on this subject. On the first few days he arrived in a state of anxious expectation, and all his courage forsook him as he crossed the threshold of the school. For the first time in his life he felt that he was good for nothing. Trembling with awe, he opened his perceptions to this new and unfamiliar thing that was to unveil for him all the mysteries of the world, if only he kept his ears open; and he did so. But there was no awe-inspiring man, who looked at them affectionately through gold-rimmed spectacles while he told them about the sun and the moon and all the wonders of the world. Up and down the middle passage walked a man in a dirty linen coat and with gray bristles projecting from his nostrils. As he walked he swung the cane and smoked his pipe; or he sat at the desk and read the newspaper. The children were noisy and restless, and when the noise broke out into open conflict, the man dashed down from his desk, and hit out indiscriminately with his cane. And Pelle himself, well he was coupled--for good, it appeared--to a dirty boy, covered with scrofulous sores, who pinched his arm every time he read his b-a--ba, b-e--be wrong. The only variation was an hour's daily examination in the tedious observations in the class-book, and the Saturday's uncouth hymn-repeating. For a time Pelle swallowed everything whole, and passed it on faithfully to his father; but at last he tired of it. It was not his nature to remain long passive to his surroundings, and one fine day he had thrown aside all injunctions and intentions, and dived into the midst of the fun. After this he had less information to impart, but on the other hand there were the thousands of knavish tricks to tell about. And father Lasse shook his head and comprehended nothing; but he could not help laughing. XI "A safe stronghold our God is still, A trusty shield and wea--pon; He'll help us clear from all the ill That hath us now o'erta--ken. The ancient prince of hell Hath risen with purpose fell; Strong mail of craft and power He weareth in this hour; On earth is not his fel--low." The whole school sat swaying backward and forward in time to the rhythm, grinding out hymns in endless succession. Fris, the master, was walking up and down the middle passage, smoking his pipe; he was taking exercise after an hour's reading of the paper. He was using the cane to beat time with, now and then letting it descend upon the back of an offender, but always only at the end of a line--as a kind of note of admiration. Fris could not bear to have the rhythm broken. The children who did not know the hymn were carried along by the crowd, some of them contenting themselves with moving their lips, while others made up words of their own. When the latter were too dreadful, their neighbors laughed, and then the cane descended. When one verse came to an end, Fris quickly started the next; for the mill was hard to set in motion again when once it had come to a standstill. "With for--!" and the half-hundred children carried it on-- "With force of arms we nothing can, Full soon were we downrid--den;" Then Fris had another breathing-space in which to enjoy his pipe and be lulled by this noise that spoke of great and industrious activity. When things went as they were now going, his exasperation calmed down for a time, and he could smile at his thoughts as he paced up and down, and, old though he was, look at the bright side of life. People in passing stopped to rejoice over the diligence displayed, and Fris beat more briskly with the cane, and felt a long-forgotten ideal stirring within him; he had this whole flock of children to educate for life, he was engaged in creating the coming generation. When the hymn came to an end, he got them, without a pause, turned on to "Who puts his trust in God alone," and from that again to "We all, we all have faith in God." They had had them all three the whole winter through, and now at last, after tremendous labor, he had brought them so far that they could say them more or less together. The hymn-book was the business of Fris's life, and his forty years as parish-clerk had led to his knowing the whole of it by heart. In addition to this he had a natural gift. As a child Fris had been intended for the ministry, and his studies as a young man were in accordance with that intention. Bible words came with effect from his lips, and his prospects were of the best, when an ill-natured bird came all the way from the Faroe Islands to bring trouble upon him. Fris fell down two flights from spiritual guide to parish-clerk and child-whipper. The latter office he looked upon as almost too transparent a punishment from Heaven, and arranged his school as a miniature clerical charge. The whole village bore traces of his work. There was not much knowledge of reading and writing, but when it was a question of hymns and Bible texts, these fishermen and little artisans were bad to beat. Fris took to himself the credit for the fairly good circumstances of the adults, and the receipt of proper wages by the young men. He followed each one of them with something of a father's eyes, and considered them all to be practically a success. And he was on friendly terms with them once they had left school. They would come to the old bachelor and have a chat, and relieve their minds of some difficulty or other. But it was always another matter with the confounded brood that sat upon the school benches for the time being; it resisted learning with might and main, and Fris prophesied it no good in the future. Fris hated the children. But he loved these squarely built hymns, which seemed to wear out the whole class, while he himself could give them without relaxing a muscle. And when it went as it was doing to-day, he could quite forget that there were such things as children, and give himself up to this endless procession, in which column after column filed past him, in the foot-fall of the rhythm. It was not hymns, either; it was a mighty march-past of the strong things of life, in which there stretched, in one endless tone, all that Fris himself had failed to attain. That was why he nodded so happily, and why the loud tramp of feet rose around him like the acclamations of armies, an _Ave Caesar_. He was sitting with the third supplement of his newspaper before him, but was not reading; his eyes were closed, and his head moved gently to the rhythm. The children babbled on ceaselessly, almost without stopping for breath; they were hypnotized by the monotonous flow of words. They were like the geese that had been given leave by the fox to say a prayer before they were eaten, and now went on praying and praying forever and ever. When they came to the end of the three hymns, they began again by themselves. The mill kept getting louder, they kept the time with their feet, and it was like the stroke of a mighty piston, a boom! Fris nodded with them, and a long tuft of hair flapped in his face; he fell into an ecstasy, and could not sit still upon his chair. "And were this world all devils o'er, And watching to devour--us, We lay it not to heart so sore; Not they can overpower us." It sounded like a stamping-mill; some were beating their slates upon the tables, and others thumping with their elbows. Fris did not hear it; he heard only the mighty tramp of advancing hosts. "And let the prince of ill Look grim as e'er he will,"-- Suddenly, at a preconcerted signal, the whole school stopped singing. Fris was brought to earth again with a shock. He opened his eyes, and saw that he had once more allowed himself to be taken by surprise. "You little devils! You confounded brats!" he roared, diving into their midst with his cane. In a moment the whole school was in a tumult, the boys fighting and the girls screaming. Fris began hitting about him. He tried to bring them back to the patter. "Who puts his trust in God alone!" he shouted in a voice that drowned the clamor; but they did not take it up--the little devils! Then he hit indiscriminately. He knew quite well that one was just as good as another, and was not particular where the strokes fell. He took the long-haired ones by the hair and dragged them to the table, and thrashed them until the cane began to split. The boys had been waiting for this; they had themselves rubbed onion into the cane that morning, and the most defiant of them had on several pairs of trousers for the occasion. When the cracked sound proclaimed that the cane was in process of disintegration, the whole school burst into deafening cheers. Fris had thrown up the game, and let them go on. He walked up and down the middle passage like a suffering animal, his gall rising. "You little devils!" he hissed; "You infernal brats!" And then, "Do sit still, children!" This last was so ridiculously touching in the midst of all the rest, that it had to be imitated. Pelle sat farthest away, in the corner. He was fairly new at this sort of thing, but did his best. Suddenly he jumped on to the table, and danced there in his stockinged feet. Fris gazed at him so strangely, Pelle thought; he was like Father Lasse when everything went wrong; and he slid down, ashamed. Nobody had noticed his action, however; it was far too ordinary. It was a deafening uproar, and now and then an ill-natured remark was hurled out of the seething tumult. Where they came from it was difficult to say; but every one of them hit Fris and made him cower. False steps made in his youth on the other side of the water fifty years ago, were brought up again here on the lips of these ignorant children, as well as some of his best actions, that had been so unselfish that the district put the very worst interpretation upon them. And as if that were not enough--but hush! He was sobbing. "Sh--sh! Sh--sh!" It was Henry Bodker, the biggest boy in the school, and he was standing on a bench and sh--ing threateningly. The girls adored him, and became quiet directly; but some of the boys would not obey the order; but when Henry held his clenched fist up to one eye, they too became quiet. Fris walked up and down the middle passage like a pardoned offender. He did not dare to raise his eyes, but they could all see that he was crying. "It's a shame!" said a voice in an undertone. All eyes were turned upon him, and there was perfect silence in the room. "Play-time!" cried a boy's voice in a tone of command: it was Nilen's. Fris nodded feebly, and they rushed out. Fris remained behind to collect himself. He walked up and down with his hands behind his back, swallowing hard. He was going to send in his resignation. Every time things went quite wrong, Fris sent in his resignation, and when he had come to himself a little, he put it off until the spring examinations were over. He would not leave in this way, as a kind of failure. This very winter he had worked as he had never done before, in order that his resignation might have somewhat the effect of a bomb, and that they might really feel it as a loss when he had gone. When the examination was held, he would take the hymn-book for repetition in chorus--right from the beginning. Some of the children would quickly drop behind, but there were some of them, into whom, in the course of time, he had hammered most of its contents. Long before they had run out, the clergyman would lift his hand to stop them, and say: "That's enough, my dear clerk! That's enough!" and would thank him in a voice of emotion; while the school committee and the parents would whisper together in awed admiration. And then would be the time to resign! The school lay on the outskirts of the fishing-village, and the playground was the shore. When the boys were let out after a few hours' lessons, they were like young cattle out for the first time after the long winter. They darted, like flitting swallows, in all directions, threw themselves upon the fresh rampart of sea-wrack and beat one another about the ears with the salt wet weeds. Pelle was not fond of this game; the sharp weed stung, and sometimes there were stones hanging to it, grown right in. But he dared not hold himself aloof, for that would attract attention at once. The thing was to join in it and yet not be in it, to make himself little and big according to the requirements of the moment, so as to be at one time unseen, and at another to exert a terrifying effect. He had his work cut out in twisting and turning, and slipping in and out. The girls always kept together in one corner of the playground, told tittle-tattle and ate their lunch, but the boys ran all over the place like swallows in aimless flight. A big boy was standing crouching close to the gymnastic apparatus, with his arm hiding his face, and munching. They whirled about him excitedly, now one and now another making the circle narrower and narrower. Peter Kofod --Howling Peter--looked as if the world were sailing under him; he clung to the climbing-pole and hid his face. When they came close up to him, they kicked up behind with a roar, and the boy screamed with terror, turned up his face and broke into a long-drawn howl. Afterward he was given all the food that the others could not eat. Howling Peter was always eating and always howling. He was a pauper child and an orphan; he was big for his age, but had a strangely blue and frozen look. His frightened eyes stood half out of his head, and beneath them the flesh was swollen and puffy with crying. He started at the least sound, and there was always an expression of fear on his face. The boys never really did him any harm, but they screamed and crouched down whenever they passed him--they could not resist it. Then he would scream too, and cower with fear. The girls would sometimes run up and tap him on the back, and then he screamed in terror. Afterward all the children gave him some of their food. He ate it all, roared, and was as famished as ever. No one could understand what was wrong with him. Twice he had made an attempt to hang himself, and nobody could give any reason for it, not even he himself. And yet he was not altogether stupid. Lasse believed that he was a visionary, and saw things that others could not see, so that the very fact of living and drawing breath frightened him. But however that might be, Pelle must on no account do anything to him, not for all the world. The crowd of boys had retired to the shore, and there, with little Nilen at their head, suddenly threw themselves upon Henry Bodker. He was knocked down and buried beneath the swarm, which lay in a sprawling heap upon the top of him, pounding down with clenched fists wherever there was an opening. But then a pair of fists began to push upward, tchew, tchew, like steam punches, the boys rolled off on all sides with their hands to their faces, and Henry Bodker emerged from the heap, kicking at random. Nilen was still hanging like a leech to the back of his neck, and Henry tore his blouse in getting him thrown off. To Pelle he seemed to be tremendously big as he stood there, only breathing a little quickly. And now the girls came up, and fastened his blouse together with pins, and gave him sweets; and he, by way of thanking them, seized them by their pigtails and tied them together, four or five of them, so that they could not get away from one another. They stood still and bore it patiently, only gazing at him with eyes of devotion. Pelle had ventured into the battle and had received a kick, but he bore no malice. If he had had a sweet, he, like the girls, would have given it to Henry Bodker, and would have put up with ungentle treatment too. He worshipped him. But he measured himself by Nilen --the little bloodthirsty Nilen, who had no knowledge of fear, and attacked so recklessly that the others got out of his way! He was always in the thickest of the crowd, jumped right into the worst of everything, and came safely out of it all. Pelle examined himself critically to find points of resemblance, and found them--in his defence of Father Lasse the first summer, when he kicked a big boy, and in his relations with the mad bull, of which he was not in the least afraid. But in other points it failed. He was afraid of the dark, and he could not stand a thrashing, while Nilen could take his with his hands in his pockets. It was Pelle's first attempt at obtaining a general survey of himself. Fris had gone inland, probably to the church, so it would be a playtime of some hours. The boys began to look about for some more lasting ways of passing the time. The "bulls" went into the schoolroom, and began to play about on the tables and benches, but the "blennies" kept to the shore. "Bulls" and "blennies" were the land and the sea in conflict; the division came naturally on every more or less serious occasion, and sometimes gave rise to regular battles. Pelle kept with the shore boys; Henry Bodker and Nilen were among them, and they were something new! They did not care about the land and animals, but the sea, of which he was afraid, was like a cradle to them. They played about on the water as they would in their mother's parlor, and had much of its easy movement. They were quicker than Pelle, but not so enduring; and they had a freer manner, and made less of the spot to which they belonged. They spoke of England in the most ordinary way and brought things to school that their fathers and brothers had brought home with them from the other side of the world, from Africa and China. They spent nights on the sea on an open boat, and when they played truant it was always to go fishing. The cleverest of them had their own fishing-tackle and little flat-bottomed prams, that they had built themselves and caulked with oakum. They fished on their own account and caught pike, eels, and tench, which they sold to the wealthier people in the district. Pelle thought he knew the stream thoroughly, but now he was brought to see it from a new side. Here were boys who in March and April--in the holidays--were up at three in the morning, wading barefoot at the mouth of the stream to catch the pike and perch that went up into the fresh water to spawn. And nobody told the boys to do it; they did it because they liked it! They had strange pleasures! Now they were standing "before the sea" --in a long, jubilant row. They ran out with the receding wave to the larger stones out in the water, and then stood on the stones and jumped when the water came up again, like a flock of sea birds. The art consisted in keeping yourself dryshod, and yet it was the quickest boys who got wettest. There was of course a limit to the time you could keep yourself hovering. When wave followed wave in quick succession, you had to come down in the middle of it, and then sometimes it went over your head. Or an unusually large wave would come and catch all the legs as they were drawn up in the middle of the jump, when the whole row turned beautifully, and fell splash into the water. Then with, a deafening noise they went up to the schoolroom to turn the "bulls" away from the stove. Farther along the shore, there were generally some boys sitting with a hammer and a large nail, boring holes in the stones there. They were sons of stone-masons from beyond the quarries. Pelle's cousin Anton was among them. When the holes were deep enough, powder was pressed into them, and the whole school was present at the explosion. In the morning, when they were waiting for the master, the big boys would stand up by the school wall with their hands in their pockets, discussing the amount of canvas and the home ports of vessels passing far out at sea. Pelle listened to them open-mouthed. It was always the sea and what belonged to the sea that they talked about, and most of it he did not understand. All these boys wanted the same thing when they were confirmed--to go to sea. But Pelle had had enough of it when he crossed from Sweden; he could not understand them. How carefully he had always shut his eyes and put his fingers in his ears, so that his head should not get filled with water when he dived in the stream! But these boys swam down under the water like proper fish, and from what they said he understood that they could dive down in deep water and pick up stones from the bottom. "Can you see down there, then?" he asked, in wonder. "Yes, of course! How else would the fish be able to keep away from the nets? If it's only moonlight, they keep far outside, the whole shoal!" "And the water doesn't run into your head when you take your fingers out of your ears?" "Take your fingers out of your ears?" "Yes, to pick up the stone." A burst of scornful laughter greeted this remark, and they began to question him craftily; he was splendid--a regular country bumpkin! He had the funniest ideas about everything, and it very soon came out that he had never bathed in the sea. He was afraid of the water --a "blue-bag"; the stream could not do away with that. After that he was called Blue-bag, notwithstanding that he one day took the cattle-whip to school with him and showed them how he could cut three-cornered holes in a pair of trousers with the long lash, hit a small stone so that it disappeared into the air, and make those loud reports. It was all excellent, but the name stuck to him all the same; and all his little personality smarted under it. In the course of the winter, some strong young men came home to the village in blue clothes and white neck-cloths. They had laid up, as it was called, and some of them drew wages all through the winter without doing anything. They always came over to the school to see the master; they came in the middle of lessons, but it did not matter; Fris was joy personified. They generally brought something or other for him--a cigar of such fine quality that it was enclosed in glass, or some other remarkable thing. And they talked to Fris as they would to a comrade, told him what they had gone through, so that the listening youngsters hugged themselves with delight, and quite unconcernedly smoked their clay pipes in the class--with the bowl turned nonchalantly downward without losing its tobacco. They had been engaged as cook's boys and ordinary seamen, on the Spanish main and the Mediterranean and many other wonderful places. One of them had ridden up a fire-spouting mountain on a donkey. And they brought home with them lucifer matches that were as big, almost, as Pomeranian logs, and were to be struck on the teeth. The boys worshipped them and talked of nothing else; it was a great honor to be seen in the company of such a man. For Pelle it was not to be thought of. And then it came about that the village was awaiting the return of one such lad as this, and he did not come. And one day word came that bark so-and-so had gone to the bottom with all on board. It was the winter storms, said the boys, spitting like grown men. The brothers and sisters were kept away from school for a week, and when they came back Pelle eyed them curiously: it must be strange to have a brother lying at the bottom of the sea, quite young! "Then you won't want to go to sea?" he asked them. Oh, yes, they wanted to go to sea, too! Another time Fris came back after an unusually long playtime in low spirits. He kept on blowing his nose hard, and now and then dried his eyes behind his spectacles. The boys nudged one another. He cleared his throat loudly, but could not make himself heard, and then beat a few strokes on his desk with the cane. "Have you heard, children?" he asked, when they had become more or less quiet. "No! Yes! What?" they cried in chorus; and one boy said: "That the sun's fallen into the sea and set it on fire!" The master quietly took up his hymn-book. "Shall we sing 'How blessed are they'?" he said; and they knew that something must have happened, and sang the hymn seriously with him. But at the fifth verse Fris stopped; he could not go on any longer. "Peter Funck is drowned!" he said, in a voice that broke on the last word. A horrified whisper passed through the class, and they looked at one another with uncomprehending eyes. Peter Funck was the most active boy in the village, the best swimmer, and the greatest scamp the school had ever had--and he was drowned! Fris walked up and down, struggling to control himself. The children dropped into softly whispered conversation about Peter Funck, and all their faces had grown old with gravity. "Where did it happen?" asked a big boy. Fris awoke with a sigh. He had been thinking about this boy, who had shirked everything, and had then become the best sailor in the village; about all the thrashings he had given him, and the pleasant hours they had spent together on winter evenings when the lad was home from a voyage and had looked in to see his old master. There had been much to correct, and things of grave importance that Fris had had to patch up for the lad in all secrecy, so that they should not affect his whole life, and-- "It was in the North Sea," he said. "I think they'd been in England." "To Spain with dried fish," said a boy. "And from there they went to England with oranges, and were bringing a cargo of coal home." "Yes, I think that was it," said Fris. "They were in the North Sea, and were surprised by a storm; and Peter had to go aloft." "Yes, for the _Trokkadej_ is such a crazy old hulk. As soon as there's a little wind, they have to go aloft and take in sail," said another boy. "And he fell down," Fris went on, "and struck the rail and fell into the sea. There were the marks of his sea-boats on the rail. They braced--or whatever it's called--and managed to turn; but it took them half-an-hour to get up to the place. And just as they got there, he sank before their eyes. He had been struggling in the icy water for half-an-hour--with sea-boots and oilskins on--and yet--" A long sigh passed through the class. "He was the best swimmer on the whole shore!" said Henry. "He dived backward off the gunwale of a bark that was lying in the roads here taking in water, and came up on the other side of the vessel. He got ten rye rusks from the captain himself for it." "He must have suffered terribly," said Fris. "It would almost have been better for him if he hadn't been able to swim." "That's what my father says!" said a little boy. "He can't swim, for he says it's better for a sailor not to be able to; it only keeps you in torture." "My father can't swim, either!" exclaimed another. "Nor mine, either!" said a third. "He could easily learn, but he won't." And they went on in this way, holding up their hands. They could all swim themselves, but it appeared that hardly any of their fathers could; they had a superstitious feeling against it. "Father says you oughtn't to tempt Providence if you're wrecked," one boy added. "Why, but then you'd not be doing your best!" objected a little faltering voice. Fris turned quickly toward the corner where Pelle sat blushing to the tips of his ears. "Look at that little man!" said Fris, impressed. "And I declare if he isn't right and all the rest of us wrong! God helps those that help themselves!" "Perhaps," said a voice. It was Henry Bodker's. "Well, well, I know He didn't help here, but still we ought always to do what we can in all the circumstances of life. Peter did his best--and he was the cleverest boy I ever had." The children smiled at one another, remembering various things. Peter Funck had once gone so far as to wrestle with the master himself, but they had not the heart to bring this up. One of the bigger boys, however, said, half for the purpose of teasing: "He never got any farther than the twenty-seventh hymn!" "Didn't he, indeed?" snarled Fris. "Didn't he, indeed? And you think perhaps you're clever, do you? Let's see how far you've got, then!" And he took up the hymn-book with a trembling hand. He could not stand anything being said against boys that had left. The name Blue-bag continued to stick to Pelle, and nothing had ever stung him so much; and there was no chance of his getting rid of it before the summer came, and that was a long way off. One day the fisher-boys ran out on to the breakwater in playtime. A boat had just come in through the pack-ice with a gruesome cargo --five frozen men, one of whom was dead and lay in the fire-engine house, while the four others had been taken into various cottages, where they were being rubbed with ice to draw the frost out of them. The farmer-boys were allowed no share in all this excitement, for the fisher-boys, who went in and out and saw everything, drove them away if they approached--and sold meagre information at extortionate prices. The boat had met a Finnish schooner drifting in the sea, covered with ice, and with frozen rudder. She was too heavily laden, so that the waves went right over her and froze; and the ice had made her sink still deeper. When she was found, her deck was just on a level with the water, ropes of the thickness of a finger had become as thick as an arm with ice, and the men who were lashed to the rigging were shapeless masses of ice. They were like knights in armor with closed visor when they were taken down, and their clothes had to be hacked off their bodies. Three boats had gone out now to try and save the vessel; there would be a large sum of money to divide if they were successful. Pelle was determined not to be left out of all this, even if he got his shins kicked in, and so kept near and listened. The boys were talking gravely and looked gloomy. What those men had put up with! And perhaps their hands or feet would mortify and have to be cut off. Each boy behaved as if he were bearing his share of their sufferings, and they talked in a manly way and in gruff voices. "Be off with you, bull!" they called to Pelle. They were not fond of Blue-bags for the moment. The tears came to Pelle's eyes, but he would not give in, and wandered away along the wharf. "Be off with you!" they shouted again, picking up stones in a menacing way. "Be off to the other bumpkins, will you!" They came up and hit at him. "What are you standing there and staring into the water for? You might turn giddy and fall in head first! Be off to the other yokels, will you! Blue-bag!" Pelle turned literally giddy, with the strength of the determination that seized upon his little brain. "I'm no more a blue-bag than you are!" he said. "Why, you wouldn't even dare to jump into the water!" "Just listen to him! He thinks you jump into the water for fun in the middle of winter, and get cramp!" Pelle just heard their exultant laughter as he sprang off the breakwater, and the water, thick with ground-up ice, closed above his head. The top of his head appeared again, he made two or three strokes with his arms like a dog, and sank. The boys ran in confusion up and down and shouted, and one of them got hold of a boat-hook. Then Henry Bodker came running up, sprang in head first without stopping, and disappeared, while a piece of ice that he had struck with his forehead made ducks and drakes over the water. Twice his head appeared above the ice-filled water, to snatch a breath of air, and then he came up with Pelle. They got him hoisted up on to the breakwater, and Henry set to work to give him a good thrashing. Pelle had lost consciousness, but the thrashing had the effect of bringing him to. He suddenly opened his eyes, was on his legs in a trice, and darted away like a sandpiper. "Run home!" the boys roared after him. "Run as hard as ever you can, or you'll be ill! Only tell your father you fell in!" And Pelle ran. He needed no persuasion. When he reached Stone Farm, his clothes were frozen quite stiff, and his trousers could stand alone when he got out of them; but he himself was as warm as a toast. He would not lie to his father, but told him just what had happened. Lasse was angry, angrier than the boy had ever seen him before. Lasse knew how to treat a horse to keep it from catching cold, and began to rub Pelle's naked body with a wisp of straw, while the boy lay on the bed, tossing about under the rough handling. His father took no notice of his groans, but scolded him. "You mad little devil, to jump straight into the sea in the middle of winter like a lovesick woman! You ought to have a whipping, that's what you ought to have--a good sound whipping! But I'll let you off this time if you'll go to sleep and try to sweat so that we can get that nasty salt water out of your body. I wonder if it wouldn't be a good thing to bleed you." Pelle did not want to be bled; he was very comfortable lying there, now that he had been sick. But his thoughts were very serious. "Supposing I'd been drowned!" he said solemnly. "If you had, I'd have thrashed you to within an inch of your life," said Lasse angrily. Pelle laughed. "Oh, you may laugh, you word-catcher!" snapped Lasse. "But it's no joke being father to a little ne'er-do-weel of a cub like you!" Saying which he went angrily out into the stable. He kept on listening, however, and coming up to peep in and see whether fever or any other devilry had come of it. But Pelle slept quietly with his head under the quilt, and dreamed that he was no less a person than Henry Bodker. * * * * * Pelle did not learn to read much that winter, but he learned twenty and odd hymns by heart only by using his ears, and he got the name Blue-bag, as applied to himself, completely banished. He had gained ground, and strengthened his position by several bold strokes; and the school began to take account of him as a brave boy. And Henry, who as a rule took no notice of anybody, took him several times under his wing. Now and then he had a bad conscience, especially when his father in his newly-awakened thirst for knowledge, came to him for the solution of some problem or other, and he was at a loss for an answer. "But it's you who ought to have the learning," Lasse would then say reproachfully. As the winter drew to an end, and the examination approached, Pelle became nervous. Many uncomfortable reports were current of the severity of the examination among the boys--of putting into lower classes and complete dismissal from the school. Pelle had the misfortune not to be heard independently in a single hymn. He had to give an account of the Fall. The theft of the apple was easy to get through, but the curse--! "And God said unto the serpent: Upon thy belly shalt thou go, upon thy belly shalt thou go, upon thy belly shalt thou go!" He could get no further. "Does it still do that, then?" asked the clergyman kindly. "Yes--for it has no limbs." "And can you explain to me what a limb is?" The priest was known to be the best examiner on the island; he could begin in a gutter and end in heaven, people said. "A limb is--is a hand." "Yes, that is one. But can't you tell me something that distinguishes all limbs from other parts of the body? A limb is--well?--a?--a part of the body that can move by itself, for instance? Well!" "The ears!" said Pelle, perhaps because his own were burning. "O-oh? Can you move your ears, then?" "Yes." By dint of great perseverance, Pelle had acquired that art in the course of the previous summer, so as not to be outdone by Rud. "Then, upon my word, I should like to see it!" exclaimed the clergyman. So Pelle worked his ears industriously backward and forward, and the priest and the school committee and the parents all laughed. Pelle got "excellent" in religion. "So it was your ears after all that saved you," said Lasse, delighted. "Didn't I tell you to use your ears well? Highest marks in religion only for moving your ears! Why, I should think you might become a parson if you liked!" And he went on for a long time. But wasn't he the devil of a laddie to be able to answer like that! XII "Come, cubby, cubby, cubby! Come on, you silly little chicken, there's nothing to be afraid of!" Pelle was enticing his favorite calf with a wisp of green corn; but it was not quite sure of him to-day, for it had had a beating for bad behavior. Pelle felt very much like a father whose child gives him sorrow and compels him to use severe measures. And now this misunderstanding --that the calf would have nothing to do with him, although it was for its own good that he had beaten it! But there was no help for it, and as long as Pelle had them to mind, he intended to be obeyed. At last it let him come close up to it, so that he could stroke it. It stood still for a little and was sulky, but yielded at last, ate the green food and snuffed in his face by way of thanks. "Will you be good, then?" said Pelle, shaking it by its stumps of horns. "Will you, eh?" It tossed its head mischievously. "Very well, then you shan't carry my coat to-day." The strange thing about this calf was that the first day it was let out, it would not stir, and at last the boy left it behind for Lasse to take in again. But no sooner was it behind him than it followed of its own accord, with its forehead close to his back; and always after that it walked behind him when they went out and came home, and it carried his overcoat on its back when it looked as if there would be rain. Pelle's years were few in number, but to his animals he was a grown man. Formerly he had only been able to make them respect him sufficiently to obey him at close quarters; but this year he could hit a cow at a distance of a hundred paces with a stone, and that gave him power over the animals at a distance, especially when he thought of calling out the animal's name as he hit it. In this way they realized that the pain came from him, and learned to obey the mere call. For punishment to be effectual, it must follow immediately upon the misdeed. There was therefore no longer any such thing as lying in wait for an animal that had offended, and coming up behind it when later on it was grazing peacefully. That only caused confusion. To run an animal until it was tired out, hanging on to its tail and beating it all round the meadow only to revenge one's self, was also stupid; it made the whole flock restless and difficult to manage for the rest of the day. Pelle weighed the end and the means against one another; he learned to quench his thirst for revenge with good practical reasons. Pelle was a boy, and he was not an idle one. All day, from five in the morning until nine at night, he was busy with something or other, often most useless things. For hours he practiced walking on his hands, turning a somersault, and jumping the stream; he was always in motion. Hour after hour he would run unflaggingly round in a circle on the grass, like a tethered foal, leaning toward the center as he ran, so that his hand could pluck the grass, kicking up behind, and neighing and snorting. He was pouring forth energy from morning till night with open-handed profusion. But minding the cattle was _work_, and here he husbanded his energy. Every step that could be saved here was like capital acquired; and Pelle took careful notice of everything, and was always improving his methods. He learned that punishment worked best when it only hung as a threat; for much beating made an animal callous. He also learned to see when it was absolutely necessary to interfere. If this could not be done in the very act, he controlled himself and endeavored upon the strength of his experience to bring about exactly the same situation once more, and then to be prepared. The little fellow, unknown to himself, was always engaged in adding cubits unto his stature. He had obtained good results. The driving out and home again no longer gave him any difficulty; he had succeeded for a whole week in driving the flock along a narrow field road, with growing corn on both sides, without their having bitten off so much as a blade. And there was the still greater task of keeping them under control on a hot, close day--to hedge them in in full gallop, so that they stood in the middle of the meadow stamping on the ground with uplifted tails, in fear of the gad-flies. If he wanted to, he could make them tear home to the stable in wild flight, with their tails in the air, on the coldest October day, only by lying down in the grass and imitating the hum of gad-flies. But that was a tremendous secret, that even Father Lasse knew nothing about. The amusing thing about the buzzing was that calves that were out for the first time, and had never made the acquaintance of a gad-fly, instantly set off running, with tail erect, when they heard its angry buzz. Pelle had a remote ideal, which was to lie upon some elevated place and direct the whole flock by the sole means of his voice, and never need to resort to punishment. Father Lasse never beat either, no matter how wrong things went. There were some days--well, what did become of them? Before he had any idea of it, it was time to drive home. Other days were long enough, but seemed to sing themselves away, in the ring of scythes, the lowing of cattle, and people's voices far away. Then the day itself went singing over the ground, and Pelle had to stop every now and then to listen. Hark! there was music! And he would run up on to the sandbanks and gaze out over the sea; but it was not there, and inland there was no merrymaking that he knew of, and there were no birds of passage flying through the air at this time of year. But hark! there was music again! far away in the distance, just such a sound of music as reaches the ear from so far off that one cannot distinguish the melody, or say what instruments are playing. Could it be the sun itself? The song of light and life streamed through him, as though he were a fountain; and he would go about in a dreamy half-consciousness of melody and happiness. When the rain poured down, he hung his coat over a briar and lay sheltered beneath it, carving or drawing with a lead button on paper--horses, and bulls lying down, but more often ships, ships that sailed across the sea upon their own soft melody, far away to foreign lands, to Negroland and China, for rare things. And when he was quite in the mood, he would bring out a broken knife and a piece of shale from a secret hiding-place, and set to work. There was a picture scratched on the stone, and he was now busy carving it in relief. He had worked at it on and off all through the summer, and now it was beginning to stand out. It was a bark in full sail, sailing over rippling water to Spain--yes, it was going to Spain, for grapes and oranges, and all the other delightful things that Pelle had never tasted yet. On rainy days it was a difficult matter to keep count of the time, and required the utmost exertion. On other days it was easy enough, and Pelle could tell it best by the feeling. At certain times of the day there were signs at home on the farm that told him the time, and the cattle gave him other hours by their habits. At nine the first one lay down to chew the morning cud, and then all gradually lay down one by one; and there was always a moment at about ten when they all lay chewing. At eleven the last of them were upon their legs again. It was the same in the afternoon between three and five. Midday was easy to determine when the sun was shining. Pelle could always feel it when it turned in its path. And there were a hundred other things in nature that gave him a connection with the times of day, such as the habits of the birds, and something about the fir-trees, and much besides that he could not lay his finger upon and say it was there, because it was only a feeling. The time to drive home was given by the cattle themselves. When it drew near, they grazed slowly around until their heads pointed in the direction of the farm; and there was a visible tension in their bodies, a homeward yearning. * * * * * Rud had not shown himself all the week, and no sooner had he come today than Pelle had to give him a blowing-up for some deceitfulness. Then he ran home, and Pelle lay down at the edge of the fir-plantation, on his face with the soles of his feet in the air, and sang. All round him there were marks of his knife on the tree-stems. On the earliest ships you saw the keel, the deck was perpendicular to the body. Those had been carved the first summer. There was also a collection of tiny fields here on the edge of the stream, properly ploughed, harrowed, and sown, each field about two feet square. Pelle was resting now after the exertion with Rud, by making the air rock with his jubilant bawling. Up at the farm a man came out and went along the high-road with a bundle under his arm. It was Erik, who had to appear in court in answer to a summons for fighting. Then the farmer drove out at a good pace toward the town, so he was evidently off on the spree. Why couldn't the man have driven with him, as they were both going the same way? How quickly he drove, although she never followed him now. She consoled herself at home instead! Could it be true that he had spent five hundred krones in drinking and amusement in one evening? "The war is raging, the red blood streams, Among the mountains ring shouts and screams! The Turk advances with cruel rage, And sparing neither youth nor age. They go--" "Ho!" Pelle sprang to his feet and gazed up over the clover field. The dairy cows up there for the last quarter of an hour had been looking up at the farm every other moment, and now Aspasia lowed, so his father must soon be coming out to move them. There he came, waddling round the corner of the farm. It was not far to the lowest of the cows, so when his father was there, Pelle could seize the opportunity just to run across and say good-day to him. He brought his animals nearer together and drove them slowly over to the other fence and up the fields. Lasse had moved the upper half, and was now crossing over diagonally to the bull, which stood a little apart from the others. The bull was growling and kicking up the earth; its tongue hung out at one side of its mouth, and it tossed its head quickly; it was angry. Then it advanced with short steps and all kinds of antics; and how it stamped! Pelle felt a desire to kick it on the nose as he had often done before; it had no business to threaten Lasse, even if it meant nothing by it. Father Lasse took no notice of it, either. He stood hammering away at the big tether-peg, to loosen it. "Good-day!" shouted Pelle. Lasse turned his head and nodded, then bent down and hammered the peg into the ground. The bull was just behind him, stamping quickly, with open mouth and tongue hanging out; it looked as if it were vomiting, and the sound it made answered exactly to that. Pelle laughed as he slackened his pace. He was close by. But suddenly Father Lasse turned a somersault, fell, and was in the air again, and then fell a little way off. Again the bull was about to toss him, but Pelle was at its head. He was not wearing wooden shoes, but he kicked it with his bare feet until he was giddy. The bull knew him and tried to go round him, but Pelle sprang at its head, shouting and kicking and almost beside himself, seized it by the horns. But it put him gently on one side and went forward toward Lasse, blowing along the ground so that the grass waved. It took hold of him by the blouse and shook him a little, and then tried to get both his horns under him to send him up into the air; but Pelle was on his feet again, and as quick as lightning had drawn his knife and plunged it in between the bull's hind legs. The bull uttered a short roar, turned Lasse over on one side, and dashed off over the fields at a gallop, tossing its head as it ran, and bellowing. Down by the stream it began to tear up the bank, filling the air with earth and grass. Lasse lay groaning with his eyes closed, and Pelle stood pulling in vain at his arm to help him up, crying: "Father, little Father Lasse!" At last Lasse sat up. "Who's that singing?" he asked. "Oh, it's you, is it, laddie? And you're crying! Has any one done anything to you? Ah, yes, of course, it was the bull! It was just going to play fandango with me. But what did you do to it, that the devil took it so quickly? You saved your father's life, little though you are. Oh, hang it! I think I'm going to be sick! Ah me!" he went on, when the sickness was past, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "If only I could have had a dram. Oh, yes, he knew me, the fellow, or I shouldn't have got off so easily. He only wanted to play with me a little, you know. He was a wee bit spiteful because I drove him away from a cow this morning; I'd noticed that. But who'd have thought he'd have turned on me? He wouldn't have done so, either, if I hadn't been so silly as to wear somebody else's clothes. This is Mons's blouse; I borrowed it of him while I washed my own. And Mr. Bull didn't like the strange smell about me. Well, we'll see what Mons'll say to this here slit. I'm afraid he won't be best pleased." Lasse talked on for a good while until he tried to rise, and stood up with Pelle's assistance. As he stood leaning on the boy's shoulder, he swayed backward and forward. "I should almost have said I was drunk, if it hadn't been for the pains!" he said, laughing feebly. "Well, well, I suppose I must thank God for you, laddie. You always gladden my heart, and now you've saved my life, too." Lasse then stumbled homeward, and Pelle moved the rest of the cows on the road down to join his own. He was both proud and affected, but most proud. He had saved Father Lasse's life, and from the big, angry bull that no one else on the farm dared have anything to do with. The next time Henry Bodker came out to see him, he should hear all about it. He was a little vexed with himself for having drawn his knife. Every one here looked down upon that, and said it was Swedish. He wouldn't have needed to do it either if there'd been time, or if only he had had on his wooden shoes to kick the bull in the eyes with. He had very often gone at it with the toes of his wooden shoes, when it had to be driven into its stall again after a covering; and it always took good care not to do anything to him. Perhaps he would put his finger in its eye and make it blind, or take it by the horns and twist its head round, like the man in the story, until its neck was wrung. Pelle grew and swelled up until he overshadowed everything. There was no limit to his strength while he ran about bringing his animals together again. He passed like a storm over everything, tossed strong Erik and the bailiff about, and lifted--yes, lifted the whole of Stone Farm merely by putting his hand under the beam. It was quite a fit of berserker rage! In the very middle of it all, it occurred to him how awkward it would be if the bailiff got to know that the bull was loose. It might mean a thrashing both for him and Lasse. He must go and look for it; and for safety's sake he took his long whip with him and put on his wooden shoes. The bull had made a terrible mess down on the bank of the stream, and had ploughed up a good piece of the meadow. It had left bloody traces along the bed of the stream and across the fields. Pelle followed these out toward the headland, where he found the bull. The huge animal had gone right in under the bushes, and was standing licking its wound. When it heard Pelle's voice, it came out. "Turn round!" he cried, flicking its nose with the whip. It put its head to the ground, bellowed, and moved heavily backward. Pelle continued flicking it on the nose while he advanced step by step, shouting determinedly: "Turn round! Will you turn round!" At last it turned and set off at a run, Pelle seizing the tether-peg and running after. He kept it going with the whip, so that it should have no time for evil thoughts. When this was accomplished, he was ready to drop with fatigue, and lay crouched up at the edge of the fir-plantation, thinking sadly of Father Lasse, who must be going about up there ill and with nobody to give him a helping hand with his work. At last the situation became unbearable: he had to go home! _Zzzz! Zzzz!_ Lying flat on the ground, Pelle crept over the grass, imitating the maddening buzz of the gad-fly. He forced the sound out between his teeth, rising and falling, as if it were flying hither and thither over the grass. The cattle stopped grazing and stood perfectly still with attentive ears. Then they began to grow nervous, kicking up their legs under their bodies, turning their heads to one side in little curves, and starting; and then up went their tails. He made the sound more persistently angry, and the whole flock, infecting one another, turned and began to stamp round in wild panic. Two calves broke out of the tumult, and made a bee-line for the farm, and the whole flock followed, over stock and stone. All Pelle had to do now was to run after them, making plenty of fuss, and craftily keep the buzzing going, so that the mood should last till they reached home. The bailiff himself came running to open the gate into the enclosure, and helped to get the animals in. Pelle expected a box on the ears, and stood still; but the bailiff only looked at him with a peculiar smile, and said: "They're beginning to get the upper hand of you, I think. Well, well," he went on, "it's all right as long as you can manage the bull!" He was making fun of him, and Pelle blushed up to the roots of his hair. Father Lasse had crept into bed. "What a good thing you came!" he said. "I was just lying here and wondering how I was going to get the cows moved. I can scarcely move at all, much less get up." It was a week before Lasse was on his feet again, and during that time the field-cattle remained in the enclosure, and Pelle stayed at home and did his father's work. He had his meals with the others, and slept his midday sleep in the barn as they did. One day, in the middle of the day, the Sow came into the yard, drunk. She took her stand in the upper yard, where she was forbidden to go, and stood there calling for Kongstrup. The farmer was at home, but did not show himself, and not a soul was to be seen behind the high windows. "Kongstrup, Kongstrup! Come here for a little!" she called, with her eyes on the pavement, for she could not lift her head. The bailiff was not at home, and the men remained in hiding in the barn, hoping to see some fun. "I say, Kongstrup, come out a moment! I want to speak to you!" said the Sow indistinctly--and then went up the steps and tried to open the door. She hammered upon it a few times, and stood talking with her face close to the door; and when nobody came, she reeled down the steps and went away talking to herself and not looking round. A little while after the sound of weeping began up there, and just as the men were going out to the fields, the farmer came rushing out and gave orders that the horse should be harnessed to the chaise. While it was being done, he walked about nervously, and then set off at full speed. As he turned the corner of the house, a window opened and a voice called to him imploringly: "Kongstrup, Kongstrup!" But he drove quickly on, the window closed, and the weeping began afresh. In the afternoon Pelle was busying himself about the lower yard when Karna came to him and told him to go up to mistress. Pelle went up hesitatingly. He was not sure of her and all the men were out in the fields. Fru Kongstrup lay upon the sofa in her husband's study, which she always occupied, day or night, when her husband was out. She had a wet towel over her forehead, and her whole face was red with weeping. "Come here!" she said, in a low voice. "You aren't afraid of me, are you?" Pelle had to go up to her and sit on the chair beside her. He did not know what to do with his eyes; and his nose began to run with the excitement, and he had no pocket-handkerchief. "Are you afraid of me?" she asked again, and a bitter smile crossed her lips. He had to look at her to show that he was not afraid, and to tell the truth, she was not like a witch at all, but only like a human being who cried and was unhappy. "Come here!" she said, and she wiped his nose with her own fine handkerchief, and stroked his hair. "You haven't even a mother, poor little thing!" And she smoothed down his clumsily mended blouse. "It's three years now since Mother Bengta died, and she's lying in the west corner of the churchyard." "Do you miss her very much?" "Oh, well, Father Lasse mends my clothes!" "I'm sure she can't have been very good to you." "Oh, yes!" said Pelle, nodding earnestly. "But she was so fretful, she was always ailing; and it's better they should go when they get like that. But now we're soon going to get married again--when Father Lasse's found somebody that'll do." "And then I suppose you'll go away from here? I'm sure you aren't comfortable here, are you?" Pelle had found his tongue, but now feared a trap, and became dumb. He only nodded. Nobody should come and accuse him afterward of having complained. "No, you aren't comfortable," she said, in a plaintive tone. "No one is comfortable at Stone Farm. Everything turns to misfortune here." "It's an old curse, that!" said Pelle. "Do they say so? Yes, yes, I know they do! And they say of me that I'm a devil--only because I love a single man--and cannot put up with being trampled on." She wept and pressed his hand against her quivering face. "I've got to go out and move the cows," said Pelle, wriggling about uneasily in an endeavor to get away. "Now you're afraid of me again!" she said, and tried to smile. It was like a gleam of sunshine after rain. "No--only I've got to go out and move the cows." "There's still a whole hour before that. But why aren't you herding to-day? Is your father ill?" Then Pelle had to tell her about the bull. "You're a good boy!" said the mistress, patting his head. "If I had a son, I should like him to be like you. But now you shall have some jam, and then you must run to the shop for a bottle of black-currant rum, so that we can make a hot drink for your father. If you hurry, you can be back before moving-time." Lasse had his hot drink, even before the boy returned; and every day while he kept his bed he had something strengthening--although there was no black-currant rum in it. During this time Pelle went up to the mistress nearly every day. Kongstrup had gone on business to Copenhagen. She was kind to him and gave him nice things to eat; and while he ate, she talked without ceasing about Kongstrup, or asked him what people thought about her. Pelle had to tell her, and then she was upset and began to cry. There was no end to her talk about the farmer, but she contradicted herself, and Pelle gave up trying to make anything of it. Besides, the good things she gave him were quite enough for him to think about. Down in their room he repeated everything word for word, and Lasse lay and listened, and wondered at this little fellow who had the run of high places, and was in the mistress's confidence. Still he did not quite like it. "... She could scarcely stand, and had to hold on to the table when she was going to fetch me the biscuits, she was so ill. It was only because he'd treated her badly, she said. Do you know she hates him, and would like to kill him, she says; and yet she says that he's the handsomest man in the world, and asked me if I've seen any one handsomer in all Sweden. And then she cries as if she was mad." "Does she?" said Lasse thoughtfully. "I don't suppose she knows what she's saying, or else she says it for reasons of her own. But all the same, it's not true that he beats her! She's telling a lie, I'm sure." "And why should she lie?" "Because she wants to do him harm, I suppose. But it's true he's a fine man--and cares for everybody except just her; and that's the misfortune. I don't like your being so much up there; I'm so afraid you may come to some harm." "How could I? She's so good, so very good." "How am I to know that? No, she isn't good--her eyes aren't good, at any rate. She's brought more than one person into misfortune by looking at them. But there's nothing to be done about it; the poor man has to risk things." Lasse was silent, and stumbled about for a little while. Then he came up to Pelle. "Now, see here! Here's a piece of steel I've found, and you must remember always to have it about you, especially when you go up _there_! And then--yes, then we must leave the rest in God's hand. He's the only one who perhaps looks after poor little boys." Lasse was up for a short while that day. He was getting on quickly, thank God, and in two days they might be back in their old ways again. And next winter they must try to get away from it all! On the last day that Pelle stayed at home, he went up to the mistress as usual, and ran her errand for her. And that day he saw something unpleasant that made him glad that this was over. She took her teeth, palate, and everything out of her mouth, and laid them on the table in front of her! So she _was_ a witch! XIII Pelle was coming home with his young cattle. As he came near the farm he issued his commands in a loud voice, so that his father might hear. "Hi! Spasianna! where are you going to? Dannebrog, you confounded old ram, will you turn round!" But Lasse did not come to open the gate of the enclosure. When he had got the animals in, he ran into the cow-stable. His father was neither there nor in their room, and his Sunday wooden shoes and his woollen cap were gone. Then Pelle remembered that it was Saturday, and that probably the old man had gone to the shop to fetch spirits for the men. Pelle went down into the servants' room to get his supper. The men had come home late, and were still sitting at the table, which was covered with spilt milk and potato-skins. They were engrossed in a wager; Erik undertook to eat twenty salt herrings with potatoes after he had finished his meal. The stakes were a bottle of spirits, and the others were to peel the potatoes for him. Pelle got out his pocket-knife and peeled himself a pile of potatoes. He left the skin on the herring, but scraped it carefully and cut off the head and tail; then he cut it in pieces and ate it without taking out the bones, with the potatoes and the sauce. While he did so, he looked at Erik--the giant Erik, who was so strong and was not afraid of anything between heaven and earth. Erik had children all over the place! Erik could put his finger into the barrel of a gun, and hold the gun straight out at arm's length! Erik could drink as much as three others! And now Erik was sitting and eating twenty salt herrings after his hunger was satisfied. He took the herring by the head, drew it once between his legs, and then ate it as it was; and he ate potatoes to them, quite as quickly as the others could peel them. In between whiles he swore because the bailiff had refused him permission to go out that evening; there was going to be the devil to pay about that: he'd teach them to keep Erik at home when he wanted to go out! Pelle quickly swallowed his herring and porridge, and set off again to run to meet his father; he was longing immensely to see him. Out at the pump the girls were busy scouring the milkpails and kitchen pans; and Gustav was standing in the lower yard with his arms on the fence, talking to them. He was really watching Bodil, whose eyes were always following the new pupil, who was strutting up and down and showing off his long boots with patent-leather tops. Pelle was stopped as he ran past, and set to pump water. The men now came up and went across to the barn, perhaps to try their strength. Since Erik had come, they always tried their strength in their free time. There was nothing Pelle found so exciting as trials of strength, and he worked hard so as to get done and go over there. Gustav, who was generally the most eager, continued to stand and vent his ill-nature upon the pupil. "There must be money there!" said Bodil, thoughtfully. "Yes, you should try him; perhaps you might become a farmer's wife. The bailiff won't anyhow; and the farmer--well, you saw the Sow the other day; it must be nice to have that in prospect." "Who told you that the bailiff won't?" answered Bodil sharply. "Don't imagine that we need you to hold the candle for us! Little children aren't allowed to see everything." Gustav turned red. "Oh, hold your jaw, you hussy!" he muttered, and sauntered down to the barn. "Oh, goodness gracious, my poor old mother, Who's up on deck and can't stand!" sang Mons over at the stable door, where he was standing hammering at a cracked wooden shoe. Pelle and the girls were quarreling, and up in the attic the bailiff could be heard going about; he was busy putting pipes in order. Now and then a long-drawn sound came from the high house, like the distant howling of some animal, making the people shudder with dreariness. A man dressed in his best clothes, and with a bundle under his arm, slipped out of the door from the men's rooms, and crept along by the building in the lower yard. It was Erik. "Hi, there! Where the devil are you going?" thundered a voice from the bailiff's window. The man ducked his head a little and pretended not to hear. "Do you hear, you confounded Kabyle! _Erik_!" This time Erik turned and darted in at a barn-door. Directly after the bailiff came down and went across the yard. In the chaff-cutting barn the men were standing laughing at Erik's bad luck. "He's a devil for keeping watch!" said Gustav. "You must be up early to get the better of _him_." "Oh, I'll manage to dish him!" said Erik. "I wasn't born yesterday. And if he doesn't mind his own business, we shall come to blows." There was a sudden silence as the bailiff's well-known step was heard upon the stone paving. Erik stole away. The form of the bailiff filled the doorway. "Who sent Lasse for gin?" he asked sternly. They looked at one another as if not understanding. "Is Lasse out?" asked Mons then, with the most innocent look in the world. "Ay, the old man's fond of spirits," said Anders, in explanation. "Oh, yes; you're good comrades!" said the bailiff. "First you make the old man go, and then you leave him in the lurch. You deserve a thrashing, all of you." "No, we don't deserve a thrashing, and don't mean to submit to one either," said the head man, going a step forward. "Let me tell you--" "Hold your tongue, man!" cried the bailiff, going close up to him, and Karl Johan drew back. "Where's Erik?" "He must be in his room." The bailiff went in through the horse-stable, something in his carriage showing that he was not altogether unprepared for an attack from behind. Erik was in bed, with the quilt drawn up to his eyes. "What's the meaning of this? Are you ill?" asked the bailiff. "Yes, I think I've caught cold, I'm shivering so." He tried to make his teeth chatter. "It isn't the rot, I hope?" said the bailiff sympathetically. "Let's look at you a little, poor fellow." He whipped off the quilt. "Oho, so you're in bed with your best things on--and top-boots! It's your grave-clothes, perhaps? And I suppose you were going out to order a pauper's grave for yourself, weren't you? It's time we got you put underground, too; seems to me you're beginning to smell already!" He sniffed at him once or twice. But Erik sprang out of bed as if shot by a spring, and stood erect close to him. "I'm not dead yet, and perhaps I don't smell any more than some other people!" he said, his eyes flashing and looking about for a weapon. The bailiff felt his hot breath upon his face, and knew it would not do to draw back. He planted his fist in the man's stomach, so that he fell back upon the bed and gasped for breath; and then held him down with a hand upon his chest. He was burning with a desire to do more, to drive his fist into the face of this rascal, who grumbled whenever one's back was turned, and had to be driven to every little task. Here was all the servant-worry that embittered his existence --dissatisfaction with the fare, cantankerousness in work, threats of leaving when things were at their busiest--difficulties without end. Here was the slave of many years of worry and ignominy, and all he wanted was one little pretext--a blow from this big fellow who never used his strength for work, but only to take the lead in all disturbances. But Erik lay quite still and looked at his enemy with watchful eye. "You may hit me, if you like. There is such a thing as a magistrate in the country," he said, with irritating calm. The bailiff's muscles burned, but he was obliged to let the man go for fear of being summoned. "Then remember another time not to be fractious!" he said, letting go his hold, "or I'll show you that there is a magistrate." "When Lasse comes, send him up to me with the gin!" he said to the men as he passed through the barn. "The devil we will!" said Mons, in an undertone. Pelle had gone to meet his father. The old man had tasted the purchase, and was in good spirits. "There were seven men in the boat, and they were all called Ole except one, and he was called Ole Olsen!" he said solemnly, when he saw the boy. "Yes, wasn't it a strange thing, Pelle, boy, that they should every one of them be called Ole--except the one, of course; for his name was Ole Olsen." Then he laughed, and nudged the boy mysteriously; and Pelle laughed too, for he liked to see his father in good spirits. The men came up to them, and took the bottles from the herdsman. "He's been tasting it!" said Anders, holding the bottle up to the light. "Oh, the old drunkard! He's had a taste at the bottles." "No, the bottles must leak at the bottom!" said Lasse, whom the dram had made quite bold. "For I've done nothing but just smell. You've got to make sure, you know, that you get the genuine thing and not just water." They moved on down the enclosure, Gustav going in front and playing on his concertina. A kind of excited merriment reigned over the party. First one and then another would leap into the air as they went; they uttered short, shrill cries and disconnected oaths at random. The consciousness of the full bottles, Saturday evening with the day of rest in prospect, and above all the row with the bailiff, had roused their tempers. They settled down below the cow-stable, in the grass close to the pond. The sun had long since gone down, but the evening sky was bright, and cast a flaming light upon their faces turned westward; while the white farms inland looked dazzling in the twilight. Now the girls came sauntering over the grass, with their hands under their aprons, looking like silhouettes against the brilliant sky. They were humming a soft folk-song, and one by one sank on to the grass beside the men; the evening twilight was in their hearts, and made their figures and voices as soft as a caress. But the men's mood was not a gentle one, and they preferred the bottle. Gustav walked about extemporizing on his concertina. He was looking for a place to sit down, and at last threw himself into Karna's lap, and began to play a dance. Erik was the first upon his feet. He led on account of his difference with the bailiff, and pulled Bengta up from the grass with a jerk. They danced a Swedish polka, and always at a certain place in the melody, he tossed her up into the air with a shout. She shrieked every time, and her heavy skirts stood out round her like the tail of a turkey-cock, so that every one could see how long it was till Sunday. In the middle of a whirl he let go of her, so that she stumbled over the grass and fell. The bailiff's window was visible from where they sat, and a light patch had appeared at it. "He's staring! Lord, how he's staring! I say, can you see this?" Erik called out, holding up a gin-bottle. Then, as he drank: "Your health! Old Nick's health! He smells, the pig! Bah!" The others laughed, and the face at the window disappeared. In between the dances they played, drank, and wrestled. Their actions became more and more wild, they uttered sudden yells that made the girls scream, threw themselves flat upon the ground in the middle of a dance, groaned as if they were dying, and sprang up again suddenly with wild gestures and kicked the legs of those nearest to them. Once or twice the bailiff sent the pupil to tell them to be quiet, but that only made the noise worse. "Tell him to go his own dog's errands!" Erik shouted after the pupil. Lasse nudged Pelle and they gradually drew farther and farther away. "We'd better go to bed now," Lasse said, when they had slipped away unnoticed. "One never knows what this may lead to. They all of them see red; I should think they'll soon begin to dance the dance of blood. Ah me, if I'd been young I wouldn't have stolen away like a thief; I'd have stayed and taken whatever might have come. There was a time when Lasse could put both hands on the ground and kick his man in the face with the heels of his boots so that he went down like a blade of grass; but that time's gone, and it's wisest to take care of one's self. This may end in the police and much more, not to mention the bailiff. They've been irritating him all the summer with that Erik at their head; but if once he gets downright angry, Erik may go home to his mother." Pelle wanted to stay up for a little and look at them. "If I creep along behind the fence and lie down--oh, do let me, father!" he begged. "Eh, what a silly idea! They might treat you badly if they got hold of you. They're in the very worst of moods. Well, you must take the consequences, and for goodness' sake take care they don't see you!" So Lasse went to bed, but Pelle crawled along on the ground behind the fence until he came close up to them and could see everything. Gustav was still sitting on Karna's open lap and playing, and she was holding him fast in her arms. But Anders had put his arm around Bodil's waist. Gustav discovered it, and with an oath flung away his concertina, sending it rolling over the grass, and sprang up. The others threw themselves down in a circle on the grass, breathing hard. They expected something. Gustav was like a savage dancing a war-dance. His mouth was open and his eyes bright and staring. He was the only man on the grass, and jumped up and down like a ball, hopped upon his heels, and kicked up his legs alternately to the height of his head, uttering a shrill cry with each kick. Then he shot up into the air, turning round as he did so, and came down on one heel and went on turning round like a top, making himself smaller and smaller as he turned, and then exploded in a leap and landed in the lap of Bodil, who threw her arms about him in delight. In an instant Anders had both hands on his shoulders from behind, set his feet against his back, and sent him rolling over the grass. It all happened without a pause, and Gustav himself gave impetus to his course, rolling along in jolts like an uneven ball. But suddenly he stopped and rose to his feet with a bound, stared straight in front of him, turned round with a jerk, and moved slowly toward Anders. Anders rose quickly, pushed his cap on one side, clicked with his tongue, and advanced. Bodil spread herself out more comfortably on the ground, and looked proudly round the circle, eagerly noting the envy of the others. The two antagonists stood face to face, feeling their way to a good grasp. They stroked one another affectionately, pinched one another in the side, and made little jesting remarks. "My goodness me, how fat you are, brother!" This was Anders. "And what breasts you've got! You might quite well be a woman," answered Gustav, feeling Anders' chest. "Eeh, how soft you are!" Scorn gleamed in their faces, but their eyes followed every movement of their opponent. Each of them expected a sudden attack from the other. The others lay stretched around them on the grass, and called out impatiently: "Have done with that and look sharp about it!" The two men continued to stand and play as if they were afraid to really set to, or were spinning the thing out for its still greater enjoyment. But suddenly Gustav had seized Anders by the collar, thrown himself backward and flung Anders over his head. It was done so quickly that Anders got no hold of Gustav; but in swinging round he got a firm grasp of Gustav's hair, and they both fell on their backs with their heads together and their bodies stretched in opposite directions. Anders had fallen heavily, and lay half unconscious, but without loosening his hold on Gustav's hair. Gustav twisted round and tried to get upon his feet, but could not free his head. Then he wriggled back into this position again as quickly as a cat, turned a backward somersault over his antagonist, and fell down upon him with his face toward the other's. Anders tried to raise his feet to receive him, but was too late. Anders threw himself about in violent jerks, lay still and strained again with sudden strength to turn Gustav off, but Gustav held on. He let himself fall heavily upon his adversary, and sticking out his legs and arms to support him on the ground, raised himself suddenly and sat down again, catching Anders in the wind. All the time the thoughts of both were directed toward getting out their knives, and Anders, who had now fully recovered his senses, remembered distinctly that he had not got his. "Ah!" he said aloud. "What a fool I am!" "You're whining, are you?" said Gustav, bending his face him. "Do you want to ask for mercy?" At that moment Anders felt Gustav's knife pressing against his thigh, and in an instant had his hand down there and wrenched it free. Gustav tried to take it from him, but gave up the attempt for fear of being thrown off. He then confined himself to taking possession of one of Anders' hands, so that he could not open the knife, and began sitting upon him in the region of his stomach. Anders lay in half surrender, and bore the blows without trying to defend himself, only gasping at each one. With his left hand he was working eagerly to get the knife opened against the ground, and suddenly plunged it into Gustav just as the latter had risen to let himself fall heavily upon his opponent's body. Gustav seized Anders by the wrist, his face distorted. "What the devil are you up to now, you swine?" he said, spitting down into Anders' face. "He's trying to sneak out by the back door!" he said, looking round the circle with a face wrinkled like that of a young bull. They fought desperately for the knife, using hands and teeth and head; and when Gustav found that he could not get possession of the weapon, he set to work so to guide Anders' hand that he should plunge it into his own body. He succeeded, but the blow was not straight, and the blade closed upon Anders' fingers, making him throw the knife from him with an oath. Meanwhile Erik was growing angry at no longer being the hero of the evening. "Will you soon be finished, you two cockerels, or must I have a bite too?" he said, trying to separate them. They took firm hold of one another, but then Erik grew angry, and did something for which he was ever after renowned. He took hold of them and set them both upon their feet. Gustav looked as if he were going to throw himself into the battle again, and a sullen expression overspread his face; but then he began to sway like a tree chopped at the roots, and sank to the ground. Bodil was the first to come to his assistance. With a cry she ran to him and threw her arms about him. He was carried in and laid upon his bed, Karl Johan poured spirit into the deep cut to clean it, and held it together while Bodil basted it with needle and thread from one of the men's lockers. Then they dispersed, in pairs, as friendship permitted, Bodil, however, remaining with Gustav. She was true to him after all. * * * * * Thus the summer passed, in continued war and friction with the bailiff, to whom, however, they dared do nothing when it came to the point. Then the disease struck inward, and they set upon one another. "It must come out somewhere," said Lasse, who did not like this state of things, and vowed he would leave as soon as anything else offered, even if they had to run away from wages and clothes and everything. "They're discontented with their wages, their working-hours are too long, and the food isn't good enough; they pitch it about and waste it until it makes one ill to see them, for anyhow it's God's gift, even if it might be better. And Erik's at the bottom of it all! He's forever boasting and bragging and stirring up the others the whole day long. But as soon as the bailiff is over him, he daren't do anything any more than the others; so they all creep into their holes. Father Lasse is not such a cowardly wind-bag as any of them, old though he is. "I suppose a good conscience is the best support. If you have it and have done your duty, you can look both the bailiff and the farmer --and God the Father, too--in the face. For you must always remember, laddie, not to set yourself up against those that are placed over you. Some of us have to be servants and others masters; how would everything go on if we who work didn't do our duty? You can't expect the gentlefolk to scrape up the dung in the cow-stable." All this Lasse expounded after they had gone to bed, but Pelle had something better to do than to listen to it. He was sound asleep and dreaming that he was Erik himself, and was thrashing the bailiff with a big stick. XIV In Pelle's time, pickled herring was the Bronholmer's most important article of food. It was the regular breakfast dish in all classes of society, and in the lower classes it predominated at the supper- table too--and sometimes appeared at dinner in a slightly altered form. "It's a bad place for food," people would say derisively of such-and-such a farm. "You only get herring there twenty-one times a week." When the elder was in flower, well-regulated people brought out their salt-boxes, according to old custom, and began to look out to sea; the herring is fattest then. From the sloping land, which nearly everywhere has a glimpse of the sea, people gazed out in the early summer mornings for the homeward-coming boats. The weather and the way the boats lay in the water were omens regarding the winter food. Then the report would come wandering up over the island, of large hauls and good bargains. The farmers drove to the town or the fishing-village with their largest wagons, and the herring-man worked his way up through the country from cottage to cottage with his horse, which was such a wretched animal that any one would have been legally justified in putting a bullet through its head. In the morning, when Pelle opened the stable doors to the field, the mist lay in every hollow like a pale gray lake, and on the high land, where the smoke rose briskly from houses and farms, he saw men and women coming round the gable-ends, half-dressed, or in shirt or chemise only, gazing out to sea. He himself ran round the out-houses and peered out toward the sea which lay as white as silver and took its colors from the day. The red sails were hanging motionless, and looked like splashes of blood in the brightness of day; the boats lay deep in the water, and were slowly making their way homeward in response to the beat of the oars, dragging themselves along like cows that are near their time for bearing. But all this had nothing to do with him and his. Stone Farm, like the poor of the parish, did not buy its herring until after the autumn, when it was as dry as sticks and cost almost nothing. At that time of year, herring was generally plentiful, and was sold for from twopence to twopence-halfpenny the fourscore as long as the demand continued. After that it was sold by the cartload as food for the pigs, or went on to the dungheap. One Sunday morning late in the autumn, a messenger came running from the town to Stone Farm to say that now herring was to be had. The bailiff came down into the servants' room while they were at breakfast, and gave orders that all the working teams were to be harnessed. "Then you'll have to come too!" said Karl Johan to the two quarry drivers, who were married and lived up near the quarry, but came down for meals. "No, our horses shan't come out of the stable for that!" said the drivers. "They and we drive only stone and nothing else." They sat for a little while and indulged in sarcasms at the expense of certain people who had not even Sunday at their own disposal, and one of them, as he stretched himself in a particularly irritating way, said: "Well, I think I'll go home and have a nap. It's nice to be one's own master once a week, at any rate." So they went home to wife and children, and kept Sunday holiday. For a little while the men went about complaining; that was the regular thing. In itself they had no objection to make to the expedition, for it would naturally be something of a festivity. There were taverns enough in the town, and they would take care to arrange about that herring so that they did not get home much before evening. If the worst came to the worst, Erik could damage his cart in driving, and then they would be obliged to stay in town while it was being mended. They stood out in the stable, and turned their purses inside out --big, solid, leather purses with steel locks that could only be opened by pressure on a secret mechanism; but they were empty. "The deuce!" said Mons, peering disappointedly into his purse. "Not so much as the smell of a one-ore! There must be a leak!" He examined the seams, held it close up to his eyes, and at last put his ear to it. "Upon my word, I seem to hear a two-krone talking to itself. It must be witchcraft!" He sighed and put his purse into his pocket. "You, you poor devil!" said Anders. "Have you ever spoken to a two-krone? No, I'm the man for you!" He hauled out a large purse. "I've still got the ten-krone that the bailiff cheated me out of on May Day, but I haven't the heart to use it; I'm going to keep it until I grow old." He put his hand into the empty purse and pretended to take something out and show it. The others laughed and joked, and all were in good spirits with the thought of the trip to town. "But Erik's sure to have some money at the bottom of his chest!" said one. "He works for good wages and has a rich aunt down below." "No, indeed!" whined Erik. "Why, I have to pay for half a score of young brats who can't father themselves upon any one else. But Karl Johan must get it, or what's the good of being head man?" "That's no use," said Karl Johan doubtfully. "If I ask the bailiff for an advance now when we're going to town, he'll say 'no' straight out. I wonder whether the girls haven't wages lying by." They were just coming up from the cow-stable with their milk-pails. "I say, girls," Erik called out to them. "Can't one of you lend us ten krones? She shall have twins for it next Easter; the sow farrows then anyhow." "You're a nice one to make promises!" said Bengta, standing still, and they all set down their milk-pails and talked it over. "I wonder whether Bodil hasn't?" said Karna. "No," answered Maria, "for she sent the ten krones she had by her to her mother the other day." Mons dashed his cap to the floor and gave a leap. "I'll go up to the Old Gentleman himself," he said. "Then you'll come head first down the stairs, you may be sure!" "The deuce I will, with my old mother lying seriously ill in the town, without a copper to pay for doctor or medicine! I'm as good a child as Bodil, I hope." He turned and went toward the stone steps, and the others stood and watched him from the stable-door, until the bailiff came and they had to busy themselves with the carts. Gustav walked about in his Sunday clothes with a bundle under his arm, and looked on. "Why don't you get to work?" asked the bailiff. "Get your horses put in." "You said yourself I might be free to-day," said Gustav, making a grimace. He was going out with Bodil. "Ah, so I did! But that'll be one cart less. You must have a holiday another day instead." "I can't do that." "What the dee--And why not, may I ask?" "Well, because you gave me a holiday to-day." "Yes; but, confound it, man, when I now tell you you can take another day instead!" "No, I can't do that." "But why not, man? Is there anything pressing you want to do?" "No, but I have been given a holiday to-day." It looked as if Gustav were grinning slyly, but it was only that he was turning the quid in his mouth. The bailiff stamped with anger. "But I can go altogether if you don't care to see me," said Gustav gently. The bailiff did not hear, but turned quickly. Experience had taught him to be deaf to that kind of offer in the busy season. He looked up at his window as if he had suddenly thought of something, and sprang up the stairs. They could manage him when they touched upon that theme, but his turn came in the winter, and then they had to keep silence and put up with things, so as to keep a roof over their heads during the slack time. Gustav went on strutting about with his bundle, without putting his hand to anything. The others laughed at him encouragingly. The bailiff came down again and went up to him. "Then put in the horses before you go," he said shortly, "and I'll drive yours." An angry growl passed from man to man. "We're to have the dog with us!" they said in undertones to one another, and then, so that the bailiff should hear: "Where's the dog? We're to have the dog with us." Matters were not improved by Mons coming down the steps with a beautifully pious expression, and holding a ten-krone note over his chest. "It's all one now," said Erik; "for we've got to have the dog with us!" Mons' face underwent a sudden change, and he began to swear. They pulled the carts about without getting anything done, and their eyes gleamed with anger. The bailiff came out upon the steps with his overcoat on. "Look sharp about getting the horses in!" he thundered. The men of Stone Farm were just as strict about their order of precedence as the real inhabitants of the island, and it was just as complicated. The head man sat at the top of the table and helped himself first, he went first in mowing and reaping, and had the first girl to lay the load when the hay was taken in; he was the first man up, and went first when they set out for the fields, and no one might throw down his tools until he had done so. After him came the second man, the third, and so on, and lastly the day- laborers. When no great personal preference interfered, the head man was as a matter of course the sweetheart of the head girl, and so on downwards; and if one of them left, his successor took over the relation: it was a question of equilibrium. In this, however, the order of precedence was often broken, but never in the matter of the horses. Gustav's horses were the poorest, and no power in the world would have induced the head man or Erik to drive them, let alone the farmer himself. The bailiff knew it, and saw how the men were enjoying themselves when Gustav's nags were put in. He concealed his irritation, but when they exultantly placed Gustav's cart hindmost in the row, it was too much for him, and he ordered it to be driven in front of the others. "My horses aren't accustomed to go behind the tail-pullers!" said Karl Johan, throwing down his reins. It was the nickname for the last in the row. The others stood trying not to smile, and the bailiff was almost boiling over. "If you're so bent upon being first, be it by all means," he said quietly. "I can very well drive behind you." "No, my horses come after the head man's, not after the tail-puller's," said Erik. This was really a term of abuse in the way in which they used it, one after the other, with covert glances. If he was going to put up with this from the whole row, his position on the farm would be untenable. "Yes, and mine go behind Erik's," began Anders now, "not after-- after Gustav's," he corrected himself quickly, for the bailiff had fixed his eyes upon him, and taken a step forward to knock him down. The bailiff stood silent for a moment as if listening, the muscles of his arms quivering. Then he sprang into the cart. "You're all out of your senses to-day," he said. "But now I'm going to drive first, and the man who dares to say a word against it shall have one between the eyes that will send him five days into next week!" So saying he swung out of the row, and Erik's horses, which wanted to turn, received a cut from his whip that made them rear. Erik stormed at them. The men went about crestfallen, and gave the bailiff time to get well ahead. "Well, I suppose we'd better see about starting now," said Karl Johan at length, as he got into his wagon. The bailiff was already some way ahead; Gustav's nags were doing their very best to-day, and seemed to like being in front. But Karl Johan's horses were displeased, and hurried on; they did not approve of the new arrangement. At the village shop they made a halt, and consoled themselves a little. When they started again, Karl Johan's horses were refractory, and had to be quieted. The report of the catch had spread through the country, and carts from other farms caught them up or crossed them on their way to the fishing-villages. Those who lived nearer the town were already on their way home with swaying loads. "Shall we Meet in the town for a drink?" cried one man to Karl Johan as he passed. "I'm coming in for another load." "No, we're driving for the master to-day!" answered Karl Johan, pointing to the bailiff in front. "Yes, I see him. He's driving a fine pair to-day! I thought it was King Lazarus!" An acquaintance of Karl Johan's came toward them with a swaying load of herring. He was the only man on one of the small farms. "So you've been to the town too for winter food," said Karl Johan, reining in his horse. "Yes, for the pigs!" answered the other. "It was laid in for the rest of us at the end of the summer. This isn't food for men!" And he took up a herring between his fingers, and pretended to break it in two. "No, I suppose not for such fine gentlemen," answered Karl Johan snappishly. "Of course, you're in such a high station that you eat at the same table as your master and mistress, I've heard." "Yes, that's the regular custom at our place," answered the other. "We know nothing about masters and dogs." And he drove on. The words rankled with Karl Johan, he could not help drawing comparisons. They had caught up the bailiff, and now the horses became unruly. They kept trying to pass and took every unlooked-for opportunity of pushing on, so that Karl Johan nearly drove his team into the back of the bailiff's cart. At last he grew tired of holding them in, and gave them the rein, when they pushed out over the border of the ditch and on in front of Gustav's team, danced about a little on the high-road, and then became quiet. Now it was Erik's horses that were mad. At the farm all the laborers' wives had been called in for the afternoon, the young cattle were in the enclosure, and Pelle ran from cottage to cottage with the message. He was to help the women together with Lasse, and was delighted with this break in the daily routine; it was a whole holiday for him. At dinner-time the men came home with their heavy loads of herring, which were turned out upon the stone paving round the pump in the upper yard. There had been no opportunity for them to enjoy themselves in the town, and they were in a bad temper. Only Mons, the ape, went about grinning all over his face. He had been up to his sick mother with the money for the doctor and medicine, and came back at the last minute with a bundle under his arm in the best of spirits. "That was a medicine!" he said over and over again, smacking his lips, "a mighty strong medicine." He had had a hard time with the bailiff before he got leave to go on his errand. The bailiff was a suspicious man, but it was difficult to hold out against Mons' trembling voice when he urged that it would be too hard on a poor man to deny him the right to help his sick mother. "Besides, she lives close by here, and perhaps I shall never see her again in this life," said Mons mournfully. "And then there's the money that the master advanced me for it. Shall I go and throw it away on drink, while she's lying there without enough to buy bread with?" "Well, how was your mother?" asked the bailiff, when Mons came hurrying up at the last moment. "Oh, she can't last much longer!" said Mons, with a quiver in his voice. But he was beaming all over his face. The others threw him angry glances while they unloaded the herring. They would have liked to thrash him for his infernal good luck. But they recovered when they got into their room and he undid the bundle. "That's to you all from my sick mother!" he said, and drew forth a keg of spirits. "And I was to give you her best respects, and thank you for being so good to her little son." "Where did you go?" asked Erik. "I sat in the tavern on the harbor hill all the time, so as to keep an eye on you; I couldn't resist looking at you, you looked so delightfully thirsty. I wonder you didn't lie down flat and drink out of the sea, every man Jack of you!" In the afternoon the cottagers' wives and the farm-girls sat round the great heaps of herring by the pump, and cleaned the fish. Lasse and Pelle pumped water to rinse them in, and cleaned out the big salt-barrels that the men rolled up from the cellar; and two of the elder women were entrusted with the task of mixing. The bailiff walked up and down by the front steps and smoked his pipe. As a general rule, the herring-pickling came under the category of pleasant work, but to-day there was dissatisfaction all along the line. The women chattered freely as they worked, but their talk was not quite innocuous--it was all carefully aimed; the men had made them malicious. When they laughed, there was the sound of a hidden meaning in their laughter. The men had to be called out and given orders about every single thing that had to be done; they went about it sullenly, and then at once withdrew to their rooms. But when there they were all the gayer, and sang and enjoyed themselves. "They're doing themselves proud in there," said Lasse, with a sigh to Pelle. "They've got a whole keg of spirits that Mons had hidden in his herring. They say it's so extra uncommon good." Lasse had not tasted it himself. The two kept out of the wrangling; they felt themselves too weak. The girls had not had the courage to refuse the extra Sunday work, but they were not afraid to pass little remarks, and tittered at nothing, to make the bailiff think it was at him. They kept on asking in a loud voice what the time was, or stopped working to listen to the ever-increasing gaiety in the men's rooms. Now and then a man was thrown out from there into the yard, and shuffled in again, shamefaced and grinning. One by one the men came sauntering out. They had their caps on the back of their heads now, and their gaze was fixed. They took up a position in the lower yard, and hung over the fence, looking at the girls, every now and then bursting into a laugh and stopping suddenly, with a frightened glance at the bailiff. The bailiff was walking up and down by the steps. He had laid aside his pipe and become calmer; and when the men came out, he was cracking a whip and exercising himself in self-restraint. "If I liked I could bend him until both ends met!" he heard Erik say aloud in the middle of a conversation. The bailiff earnestly wished that Erik would make the attempt. His muscles were burning under this unsatisfied desire to let himself go; but his brain was reveling in visions of fights, he was grappling with the whole flock and going through all the details of the battle. He had gone through these battles so often, especially of late; he had thought out all the difficult situations, and there was not a place in all Stone Farm in which the things that would serve as weapons were not known to him. "What's the time?" asked one of the girls aloud for at least the twentieth time. "A little longer than your chemise," answered Erik promptly. The girls laughed. "Oh, nonsense! Tell us what it really is!" exclaimed another. "A quarter to the miller's girl," answered Anders. "Oh, what fools you are! Can't you answer properly? You, Karl Johan!" "It's short!" said Karl Johan gravely. "No, seriously now, I'll tell you what it is," exclaimed Mons innocently, drawing a great "turnip" out of his pocket. "It's--" he looked carefully at the watch, and moved his lips as if calculating. "The deuce!" he exclaimed, bringing down his hand in amazement on the fence. "Why, it's exactly the same time as it was this time yesterday." The jest was an old one, but the women screamed with laughter; for Mons was the jester. "Never mind about the time," said the bailiff, coming up. "But try and get through your work." "No, time's for tailors and shoemakers, not for honest people!" said Anders in an undertone. The bailiff turned upon him as quick as a cat, and Anders' arm darted up above his head bent as if to ward off a blow. The bailiff merely expectorated with a scornful smile, and began his pacing up and down afresh, and Anders stood there, red to the roots of his hair, and not knowing what to do with his eyes. He scratched the back of his head once or twice, but that could not explain away that strange movement of his arm. The others were laughing at him, so he hitched up his trousers and sauntered down toward the men's rooms, while the women screamed with laughter, and the men laid their heads upon the fence and shook with merriment. So the day passed, with endless ill-natured jesting and spitefulness. In the evening the men wandered out to indulge in horse-play on the high-road and annoy the passersby. Lasse and Pelle were tired, and went early to bed. "Thank God we've got through this day!" said Lasse, when he had got into bed. "It's been a regular bad day. It's a miracle that no blood's been shed; there was a time when the bailiff looked as if he might do anything. But Erik must know far he can venture." Next morning everything seemed to be forgotten. The men attended to the horses as usual, and at six o'clock went out into the field for a third mowing of clover. They looked blear-eyed, heavy and dull. The keg lay outside the stable-door empty; and as they went past they kicked it. Pelle helped with the herring to-day too, but he no longer found it amusing. He was longing already to be out in the open with his cattle; and here he had to be at everybody's beck and call. As often as he dared, he made some pretext for going outside the farm, for that helped to make the time pass. Later in the morning, while the men were mowing the thin clover, Erik flung down his scythe so that it rebounded with a ringing sound from the swaths. The others stopped their work. "What's the matter with you, Erik?" asked Karl Johan. "Have you got a bee in your bonnet?" Erik stood with his knife in his hand, feeling its edge, and neither heard nor saw. Then he turned up his face and frowned at the sky; his eyes seemed to have sunk into his head and become blind, and his lips stood out thick. He muttered a few inarticulate sounds, and started up toward the farm. The others stood still and followed him with staring eyes; then one after another they threw down their scythes and moved away, only Karl Johan remaining where he was. Pelle had just come out to the enclosure to see that none of the young cattle had broken their way out. "When he saw the men coming up toward the farm in a straggling file like a herd of cattle on the move, he suspected something was wrong and ran in. "The men are coming up as fast as they can, father!" he whispered. "They're surely not going to do it?" said Lasse, beginning to tremble. The bailiff was carrying things from his room down to the pony- carriage; he was going to drive to the town. He had his arms full when Erik appeared at the big, open gate below, with distorted face and a large, broad-bladed knife in his hand. "Where the devil is he?" he said aloud, and circled round once with bent head, like an angry bull, and then walked up through the fence straight toward the bailiff. The latter started when he saw him and, through the gate, the others coming up full speed behind him. He measured the distance to the steps, but changed his mind, and advanced toward Erik, keeping behind the wagon and watching every movement that Erik made, while he tried to find a weapon. Erik followed him round the wagon, grinding his teeth and turning his eyes obliquely up at his opponent. The bailiff went round and round the wagon and made half movements; he could not decide what to do. But then the others came up and blocked his way. His face turned white with fear, and he tore a whiffletree from the wagon, which with a push he sent rolling into the thick of them, so that they fell back in confusion. This made an open space between him and Erik, and Erik sprang quickly over the pole, with his knife ready to strike; but as he sprang, the whiffletree descended upon his head. The knife-thrust fell upon the bailiff's shoulder, but it was feeble, and the knife just grazed his side as Erik sank to the ground. The others stood staring in bewilderment. "Carry him down to the mangling-cellar!" cried the bailiff in a commanding tone, and the men dropped their knives and obeyed. The battle had stirred Pelle's blood into a tumult, and he was standing by the pump, jumping up and down. Lasse had to take a firm hold of him, for it looked as if he would throw himself into the fight. Then when the great strong Erik sank to the ground insensible from a blow on the head, he began to jump as if he had St. Vitus's Dance. He jumped into the air with drooping head, and let himself fall heavily, all the time uttering short, shrill bursts of laughter. Lasse spoke to him angrily, thinking it was unnecessarily foolish behavior on his part; and then he picked him up and held him firmly in his hands, while the little fellow trembled all over his body in his efforts to free himself and go on with his jumping. "What can be wrong with him?" said Lasse tearfully to the cottagers' wives. "Oh dear, what shall I do?" He carried him down to their room in a sad state of mind, because the moon was waning, and it would never pass off! Down in the mangling-cellar they were busy with Erik, pouring brandy into his mouth and bathing his head with vinegar. Kongstrup was not at home, but the mistress herself was down there, wringing her hands and cursing Stone Farm--her own childhood's home! Stone Farm had become a hell with its murder and debauchery! she said, without caring that they were all standing round her and heard every word. The bailiff had driven quickly off in the pony-carriage to fetch a doctor and to report what he had done in defence of his life. The women stood round the pump and gossiped, while the men and girls wandered about in confusion; there was no one to issue orders. But then the mistress came out on to the steps and looked at them for a little, and they all found something to do. Hers were piercing eyes! The old women shook themselves and went back to their work. It reminded them so pleasantly of old times, when the master of the Stone Farm of their youth rushed up with anger in his eyes when they were idling. Down in their room, Lasse sat watching Pelle, who lay talking and laughing in delirium, so that his father hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry. XV "She must have had right on her side, for he never said a cross word when she started off with her complaints and reproaches, and them so loud that you could hear them right through the walls and down in the servants' room and all over the farm. But it was stupid of her all the same, for she only drove him distracted and sent him away. And how will it go with a farm in the long run, when the farmer spends all his time on the high-roads because he can't stay at home? It's a poor sort of affection that drives the man away from his home." Lasse was standing in the stable on Sunday evening talking to the women about it while they milked. Pelle was there too, busy with his own affairs, but listening to what was said. "But she wasn't altogether stupid either," said Thatcher Holm's wife. "For instance when she had Fair Maria in to do housemaid's work, so that he could have a pretty face to look at at home. She knew that if you have food at home you don't go out for it. But of course it all led to nothing when she couldn't leave off frightening him out of the house with her crying and her drinking." "I'm sure he drinks too!" said Pelle shortly. "Yes, of course he gets drunk now and then," said Lasse in a reproving tone. "But he's a man, you see, and may have his reasons besides. But it's ill when a woman takes to drinking." Lasse was cross. The boy was beginning to have opinions of his own pretty well on everything, and was always joining in when grown people were talking. "I maintain"--he went on, turning again to the women--"that he'd be a good husband, if only he wasn't worried with crying and a bad conscience. Things go very well too when he's away. He's at home pretty well every day, and looks after things himself, so that the bailiff's quite upset, for _he_ likes to be king of the castle. To all of us, the master's like one of ourselves; he's even forgotten the grudge he had against Gustav." "There can't be very much to bear him a grudge for, unless it is that he'll get a wife with money. They say Bodil's saved more than a hundred krones from her two or three months as housemaid. Some people can--they get paid for what the rest of us have always had to do for nothing." It was one of the old women who spoke. "Well, we'll just see whether he ever gets her for a wife. I doubt it myself. One oughtn't to speak evil of one's fellow-servant, but Bodil's not a faithful girl. That matter with the master must go for what it was--as I once said to Gustav when he was raging about it; the master comes before his men! Bengta was a good wife to me in every way, but she too was very fond of laying herself out for the landlord at home. The greatest take first; that's the way of the world! But Bodil's never of the same mind for long together. Now she's carrying on with the pupil, though he's not sixteen yet, and takes presents from him. Gustav should get out of it in time; it always leads to misfortune when love gets into a person. We've got an example of that at the farm here." "I was talking to some one the other day who thought that the mistress hadn't gone to Copenhagen at all, but was with relations in the south. She's run away from him, you'll see!" "That's the genteel thing to do nowadays, it seems!" said Lasse. "If only she'll stay away! Things are much better as they are." * * * * * An altogether different atmosphere seemed to fill Stone Farm. The dismal feeling was gone; no wailing tones came from the house and settled upon one like horse flies and black care. The change was most apparent in the farmer. He looked ten or twenty years younger, and joked good-humoredly like one freed from chains and fetters. He took an interest in the work of the farm, drove to the quarry two or three times a day in his gig, was present whenever a new piece of work was started, and would often throw off his coat and take a hand in it. Fair Maria laid his table and made his bed, and he was not afraid of showing his kindness for her. His good humor was infectious and made everything pleasanter. But it could not be denied that Lasse had his own burden to bear. His anxiety to get married grew greater with the arrival of very cold weather as early as December; he longed to have his feet under his own table, and have a woman to himself who should be everything to him. He had not entirely given up thoughts of Karna yet, but he had promised Thatcher Holm's wife ten krones down if she could find some one that would do for him. He had really put the whole matter out of his head as an impossibility, and had passed into the land of old age; but what was the use of shutting yourself in, when you were all the time looking for doors through which to slip out again? Lasse looked out once more, and as usual it was Pelle who brought life and joy to the house. Down in the outskirts of the fishing-village there lived a woman, whose husband had gone to sea and had not been heard of for a good many years. Two or three times on his way to and from school, Pelle had sought shelter from the weather in her porch, and they had gradually become good friends; he performed little services for her, and received a cup of hot coffee in return. When the cold was very bitter, she always called him in; and then she would tell him about the sea and about her good-for-nothing husband, who kept away and left her to toil for her living by mending nets for the fishermen. In return Pelle felt bound to tell her about Father Lasse, and Mother Bengta who lay at home in the churchyard at Tommelilla. The talk never came to much more, for she always returned to her husband who had gone away and left her a widow. "I suppose he's drowned," Pelle would say. "No, he isn't, for I've had no warning," she answered decidedly, always in the same words. Pelle repeated it all to his father, who was very much interested. "Well, did you run in to Madam Olsen to-day?" was the first thing he said when the boy came in from school; and then Pelle had to tell him every detail several times over. It could never be too circumstantially told for Lasse. "You've told her, I suppose, that Mother Bengta's dead? Yes, of course you have! Well, what did she ask about me to-day? Does she know about the legacy?" (Lasse had recently had twenty-five krones left him by an uncle.) "You might very well let fall a word or two about that, so that she shouldn't think we're quite paupers." Pelle was the bearer of ambiguous messages backward and forward. From Lasse he took little things in return for her kindness to himself, such as embroidered handkerchiefs and a fine silk kerchief, the last remnants of Mother Bengta's effects. It would be hard to lose them if this new chance failed, for then there would be no memories to fall back upon. But Lasse staked everything upon one card. One day Pelle brought word that warning had come to Madam Olsen. She had been awakened in the night by a big black dog that stood gasping at the head of her bed. Its eyes shone in the darkness, and she heard the water dripping from its fur. She understood that it must be the ship's dog with a message for her, and went to the window; and out in the moonlight on the sea she saw a ship sailing with all sail set. She stood high, and you could see the sea and sky right through her. Over the bulwark hung her husband and the others, and they were transparent; and the salt water was dripping from their hair and beards and running down the side of the ship. In the evening Lasse put on his best clothes. "Are we going out this evening?" asked Pelle in glad surprise. "No--well, that's to say I am, just a little errand. If any one asks after me, you must say that I've gone to the smith about a new nose-ring for the bull." "And mayn't I go with you?" asked Pelle on the verge of tears. "No, you must be good and stay at home for this once. Lasse patted him on the head. "Where are you going then?" "I'm going--" Lasse was about to make up a lie about it, but had not the heart to do it. "You mustn't ask me!" he said. "Shall I know another day, then, without asking?" "Yes, you shall, for certain--sure!" Lasse went out, but came back again. Pelle was sitting on the edge of the bed, crying; it was the first time Father Lasse had gone out without taking him with him. "Now you must be a good boy and go to bed," he said gravely. "Or else I shall stay at home with you; but if I do, it may spoil things for us both." So Pelle thought better of it and began to undress; and at last Lasse got off. When Lasse reached Madam Olsen's house, it was shut up and in darkness. He recognized it easily from Pelle's descriptions, and walked round it two or three times to see how the walls stood. Both timber and plaster looked good, and there was a fair-sized piece of ground belonging to it, just big enough to allow of its being attended to on Sundays, so that one could work for a daily wage on weekdays. Lasse knocked at the door, and a little while after a white form appeared at the window, and asked who was there. "It's Pelle's father, Lasse Karlsson," said Lasse, stepping out into the moonlight. The door was unbolted, and a soft voice said: "Come inside! Don't stand out there in the cold!" and Lasse stepped over the threshold. There was a smell of sleep in the room, and Lasse had an idea where the alcove was, but could see nothing. He heard the breathing as of a stout person drawing on stockings. Then she struck a match and lighted the lamp. They shook hands, and looked at one another as they did so. She wore a skirt of striped bed-ticking, which kept her night-jacket together, and had a blue night-cap on her head. She had strong-looking limbs and a good bust, and her face gave a good impression. She was the kind of woman that would not hurt a fly if she were not put upon; but she was not a toiler--she was too soft for that. "So this is Pelle's father!" she said. "It's a young son you've got. But do sit down!" Lasse blinked his eyes a little. He had been afraid that she would think him old. "Yes, he's what you'd call a late-born child; but I'm still able to do a man's work in more ways than one." She laughed while she busied herself in placing on the table cold bacon and pork sausage, a dram, bread and a saucer of dripping. "But now you must eat!" she said. "That's what a man's known by. And you've come a long way." It only now occurred to Lasse that he must give some excuse for his visit. "I ought really to be going again at once. I only wanted to come down and thank you for your kindness to the boy." He even got up as if to go. "Oh, but what nonsense!" she exclaimed, pushing him down into his chair again. "It's very plain, but do take some." She pressed the knife into his hand, and eagerly pushed the food in front of him. Her whole person radiated warmth and kind-heartedness as she stood close to him and attended to his wants; and Lasse enjoyed it all. "You must have been a good wife to your husband," he said. "Yes, that's true enough!" she said, as she sat down and looked frankly at him. "He got all that he could want, and almost more, when he was on shore. He stayed in bed until dinner, and I looked after him like a little child; but he never gave me a hand's turn for it, and at last one gets tired." "That was wrong of him," said Lasse; "for one good action deserves another. I don't think Bengta would have anything like that to say of me if she was asked." "Well, there's certainly plenty to do in a house, when there's a man that has the will to help. I've only one cow, of course, for I can't manage more; but two might very well be kept, and there's no debt on the place." "I'm only a poor devil compared to you!" said Lasse despondently. "Altogether I've got fifty krones, and we both have decent clothes to put on; but beyond that I've only got a pair of good hands." "And I'm sure that's worth a good deal! And I should fancy you're not afraid of fetching a pail of water or that sort of thing, are you?" "No, I'm not. And I'm not afraid of a cup of coffee in bed on a Sunday morning, either." She laughed. "Then I suppose I ought to have a kiss!" she said. "Yes, I suppose you ought," said Lasse delighted, and kissed her. "And now we may hope for happiness and a blessing for all three of us. I know you're fond of the laddie." There still remained several things to discuss, there was coffee to be drunk, and Lasse had to see the cow and the way the house was arranged. In the meantime it had grown late. "You'd better stay here for the night," said Madam Olsen. Lasse stood wavering. There was the boy sleeping alone, and he had to be at the farm by four o'clock; but it was cold outside, and here it was so warm and comfortable in every way. "Yes, perhaps I'd better," he said, laying down his hat and coat again. * * * * * When at about four he crept into the cow-stable from the back, the lantern was still burning in the herdsman's room. Lasse thought he was discovered, and began to tremble; it was a criminal and unjustifiable action to be away from the herd a whole night. But it was only Pelle, who lay huddled up upon the chest asleep, with his clothes on. His face was black and swollen with crying. All that day there was something reserved, almost hostile, about Pelle's behavior, and Lasse suffered under it. There was nothing for it; he must speak out. "It's all settled now, Pelle," he said at last. "We're going to have a house and home, and a nice-looking mother into the bargain. It's Madam Olsen. Are you satisfied now?" Pelle had nothing against it. "Then may I come with you next time?" he asked, still a little sullen. "Yes, next time you shall go with me. I think it'll be on Sunday. We'll ask leave to go out early, and pay her a visit." Lasse said this with a peculiar flourish; he had become more erect. Pelle went with him on Sunday; they were free from the middle of the afternoon. But after that it would not have done to ask for leave very soon again. Pelle saw his future mother nearly every day, but it was more difficult for Lasse. When the longing to see his sweetheart came over him too strongly, he fussed over Pelle until the boy fell asleep, and then changed his clothes and stole out. After a wakeful night such as one of these, he was not up to his work, and went about stumbling over his own feet; but his eyes shone with a youthful light, as if he had concluded a secret treaty with life's most powerful forces. XVI Erik was standing on the front steps, with stooping shoulders and face half turned toward the wall. He stationed himself there every morning at about four, and waited for the bailiff to come down. It was now six, and had just begun to grow light. Lasse and Pelle had finished cleaning out the cow-stable and distributing the first feed, and they were hungry. They were standing at the door of the stable, waiting for the breakfast-bell to ring; and at the doors of the horse-stables, the men were doing the same. At a quarter-past the hour they went toward the basement, with Karl Johan at their head, and Lasse and Pelle also turned out and hurried to the servants' room, with every sign of a good appetite. "Now, Erik, we're going down to breakfast!" shouted Karl Johan as they passed, and Erik came out of his corner by the steps, and shuffled along after them. There was nothing the matter with his digestive powers at any rate. They ate their herring in silence; the food stopped their mouths completely. When they had finished, the head man knocked on the table with the handle of his knife, and Karna came in with two dishes of porridge and a pile of bread-and-dripping. "Where's Bodil to-day?" asked Gustav. "How should I know? Her bed was standing untouched this morning," answered Karna, with an exulting look. "It's a lie!" cried Gustav, bringing down his spoon with a bang upon the table. "You can go into her room and see for yourself; you know the way!" said Karna tartly. "And what's become of the pupil to-day, as he hasn't rung?" said Karl Johan. "Have any of you girls seen him?" "No, I expect he's overslept himself," cried Bengta from the wash-house. "And so he may! _I_ don't want to run up and shake life into him every morning!" "Don't you think you'd better go up and wake him, Gustav?" said Anders with a wink. "You might see something funny." The others laughed a little. "If I wake him, it'll be with this rabbit-skinner," answered Gustav, exhibiting a large knife. "For then I think I should put him out of harm's way." At this point the farmer himself came down. He held a piece of paper in his hand, and appeared to be in high good humor. "Have you heard the latest news, good people? At dead of night Hans Peter has eloped with Bodil!" "My word! Are the babes and sucklings beginning now?" exclaimed Lasse with self-assurance. "I shall have to look after Pelle there, and see that he doesn't run away with Karna. She's fond of young people." Lasse felt himself to be the man of the company, and was not afraid of giving a hit at any one. "Hans Peter is fifteen," said Kongstrup reprovingly, "and passion rages in his heart." He said this with such comical gravity that they all burst into laughter, except Gustav, who sat blinking his eyes and nodding his head like a drunken man. "You shall hear what he says. This lay upon his bed." Kongstrup held the paper out in a theatrical attitude and read: "When you read this, I shall have gone forever. Bodil and I have agreed to run away to-night. My stern father will never give his consent to our union, and therefore we will enjoy the happiness of our love in a secret place where no one can find us. It will be doing a great wrong to look for us, for we have determined to die together rather than fall into the wicked hands of our enemies. I wet this paper with Bodil's and my own tears. But you must not condemn me for my last desperate step, as I can do nothing else for the sake of my great love. "HANS PETER." "That fellow reads story-books," said Karl Johan. "He'll do great things some day." "Yes, he knows exactly what's required for an elopement," answered Kongstrup merrily. "Even to a ladder, which he's dragged up to the girl's window, although it's on a level with the ground. I wish he were only half as thorough in his agriculture." "What's to be done now? I suppose they must be searched for?" asked the head man. "Well, I don't know. It's almost a shame to disturb their young happiness. They'll come of their own accord when they get hungry. What do you think, Gustav? Shall we organize a battue?" Gustav made no answer, but rose abruptly and went across to the men's rooms. When the others followed him, they found him in bed. All day he lay there and never uttered a syllable when any one came in to him. Meanwhile the work suffered, and the bailiff was angry. He did not at all like the new way Kongstrup was introducing--with liberty for every one to say and do exactly as they liked. "Go in and pull Gustav out of bed!" he said, in the afternoon, when they were in the threshing-barn, winnowing grain. "And if he won't put his own clothes on, dress him by force." But Kongstrup, who was there himself, entering the weight, interfered. "No, if he's ill he must be allowed to keep his bed," he said. "But it's our duty to do something to cure him." "How about a mustard-plaster?" suggested Mons, with a defiant glance at the bailiff. Kongstrup rubbed his hands with delight. "Yes, that'll be splendid!" he said. "Go you across, Mons, and get the girls to make a mustard- plaster that we can stick on the pit of his stomach; that's where the pain is." When Mons came back with the plaster, they went up in a procession to put it on, the farmer himself leading. Kongstrup was well aware of the bailiff's angry looks, which plainly said, "Another waste of work for the sake of a foolish prank!" But he was inclined for a little fun, and the work would get done somehow. Gustav had smelt a rat, for when they arrived he was dressed. For the rest of the day he did his work, but nothing could draw a smile out of him. He was like a man moonstruck. A few days later a cart drove up to Stone Farm. In the driving-seat sat a broad-shouldered farmer in a fur coat, and beside him, wrapped up from head to foot, sat Hans Peter, while at the back, on the floor of the cart, lay the pretty Bodil on a little hay, shivering with cold. It was the pupil's father who had brought back the two fugitives, whom he had found in lodgings in the town. Up in the office Hans Peter received a thrashing that could be heard, and was then let out into the yard, where he wandered about crying and ashamed, until he began to play with Pelle behind the cow-stable. Bodil was treated more severely. It must have been the strange farmer who required that she should be instantly dismissed, for Kongstrup was not usually a hard man. She had to pack her things, and after dinner was driven away. She looked good and gentle as she always did; one would have thought she was a perfect angel--if one had not known better. Next morning Gustav's bed was empty. He had vanished completely, with chest, wooden shoes and everything. Lasse looked on at all this with a man's indulgent smile--children's tricks! All that was wanting now was that Karna should squeeze her fat body through the basement window one night, and she too disappear like smoke--on the hunt for Gustav. This did not happen, however; and she became kindly disposed toward Lasse again, saw after his and Pelle's clothes, and tried to make them comfortable. Lasse was not blind; he saw very well which way the wind blew, and enjoyed the consciousness of his power. There were now two that he could have whenever he pleased; he only had to stretch out his hand, and the women-folk snatched at it. He went about all day in a state of joyful intoxication, and there were days in which he was in such an elevated condition of mind that he had inward promptings to make use of his opportunity. He had always trodden his path in this world so sedately, done his duty and lived his life in such unwavering decency. Why should not he too for once let things go, and try to leap through the fiery hoops? There was a tempting development of power in the thought. But the uprightness in him triumphed. He had always kept to the one, as the Scriptures commanded, and he would continue to do so. The other thing was only for the great--Abraham, of whom Pelle had begun to tell him, and Kongstrup. Pelle, too, must never be able to say anything against his father in that way; he must be clean in his child's eyes, and be able to look him in the face without shrinking. And then--well, the thought of how the two women would take it in the event of its being discovered, simply made Lasse blink his red eyes and hang his head. * * * * * Toward the middle of March, Fru Kongstrup returned unexpectedly. The farmer was getting along very comfortably without her, and her coming took him rather by surprise. Fair Maria was instantly turned out and sent down to the wash-house. Her not being sent away altogether was due to the fact that there was a shortage of maids at the farm now that Bodil had left. The mistress had brought a young relative with her, who was to keep her company and help her in the house. They appeared to get on very well together. Kongstrup stayed at home upon the farm and was steady. The three drove out together, and the mistress was always hanging on his arm when they went about showing the place to the young lady. It was easy to see why she had come home; she could not live without him! But Kongstrup did not seem to be nearly so pleased about it. He had put away his high spirits and retired into his shell once more. When he was going about like this, he often looked as if there was something invisible lying in ambush for him and he was afraid of being taken unawares. This invisible something reached out after the others, too. Fru Kongstrup never interfered unkindly in anything, either directly or in a roundabout way; and yet everything became stricter. People no longer moved freely about the yard, but glanced up at the tall windows and hurried past. The atmosphere had once more that oppression about it that made one feel slack and upset and depressed. Mystery once again hung heavy over the roof of Stone Farm. To many generations it had stood for prosperity or misfortune--these had been its foundations, and still it drew to itself the constant thoughts of many people. Dark things--terror, dreariness, vague suspicions of evil powers--gathered there naturally as in a churchyard. And now it all centered round this woman, whose shadow was so heavy that everything brightened when she went away. Her unceasing, wailing protest against her wrongs spread darkness around and brought weariness with it. It was not even with the idea of submitting to the inevitable that she came back, but only to go on as before, with renewed strength. She could not do without him, but neither could she offer him anything good; she was like those beings who can live and breathe only in fire, and yet cry out when burnt. She writhed in the flames, and yet she herself fed them. Fair Maria was her own doing, and now she had brought this new relative into the house. Thus she herself made easy the path of his infidelity, and then shook the house above him with her complaining. An affection such as this was not God's work; powers of evil had their abode in her. XVII Oh, how bitterly cold it was! Pelle was on his way to school, leaning, in a jog-trot, against the wind. At the big thorn Rud was standing waiting for him; he fell in, and they ran side by side like two blown nags, breathing hard and with heads hanging low. Their coat-collars were turned up about their ears, and their hands pushed into the tops of their trousers to share in the warmth of their bodies. The sleeves of Pelle's jacket were too short, and his wrists were blue with cold. They said little, but only ran; the wind snatched the words from their mouths and filled them with hail. It was hard to get enough breath to run with, or to keep an eye open. Every other minute they had to stop and turn their back to the wind while they filled their lungs and breathed warm breath up over their faces to bring feeling into them. The worst part of it was the turning back, before they got quite up against the wind and into step again. The four miles came to an end, and the boys turned into the village. Down here by the shore it was almost sheltered; the rough sea broke the wind. There was not much of the sea to be seen; what did appear here and there through the rifts in the squalls came on like a moving wall and broke with a roar into whitish green foam. The wind tore the top off the waves in ill-tempered snatches, and carried salt rain in over the land. The master had not yet arrived. Up at his desk stood Nilen, busily picking its lock to get at a pipe that Fris had confiscated during lessons. "Here's your knife!" he cried, throwing a sheath-knife to Pelle, who quickly pocketed it. Some peasant boys were pouring coal into the stove, which was already red-hot; by the windows sat a crowd of girls, hearing one another in hymns. Outside the waves broke without ceasing, and when their roar sank for a moment, the shrill voices of boys rose into the air. All the boys of the village were on the beach, running in and out under the breakers that looked as if they would crush them, and pulling driftwood upon shore. Pelle had hardly thawed himself when Nilen made him go out with him. Most of the boys were wet through, but they were laughing and panting with eagerness. One of them had brought in the name-board of a ship. _The Simplicity_ was painted on it. They stood round it and wrangled about what kind of vessel it was and what was its home-port. "Then the ship's gone down," said Pelle gravely. The others did not answer; it was so self-evident. "Well," said a boy hesitatingly, "the name-board may have been torn away by the waves; it's only been nailed on." They examined it carefully again; Pelle could not discover anything special about it. "I rather think the crew have torn it off and thrown it into the sea. One of the nails has been pulled out," said Nilen, nodding with an air of mystery. "But why should they do that?" asked Pelle, with incredulity. "Because they've killed the captain and taken over the command themselves, you ass! Then all they've got to do is to christen the ship again, and sail as pirates." The other boys confirmed this with eyes that shone with the spirit of adventure; this one's father had told him about it, and that one's had even played a part in it. He did not want to, of course, but then he was tied to the mast while the mutiny was in progress. On a day like this Pelle felt small in every way. The raging of the sea oppressed him and made him feel insecure, but the others were in their element. They possessed themselves of all the horror of the ocean, and represented it in an exaggerated form; they heaped up all the terrors of the sea in play upon the shore: ships went to the bottom with all on board or struck on the rocks; corpses lay rolling in the surf, and drowned men in sea-boots and sou'westers came up out of the sea at midnight, and walked right into the little cottages in the village to give warning of their departure. They dwelt upon it with a seriousness that was bright with inward joy, as though they were singing hymns of praise to the mighty ocean. But Pelle stood out side all this, and felt himself cowardly when listening to their tales. He kept behind the others, and wished he could bring down the big bull and let it loose among them. Then they would come to him for protection. The boys had orders from their parents to take care of themselves, for Marta, the old skipper's widow, had three nights running heard the sea demand corpses with a short bark. They talked about that, too, and about when the fishermen would venture out again, while they ran about the beach. "A bottle, a bottle!" cried one of them suddenly, dashing off along the shore; he was quite sure he had seen a bottle bob up out of the surf a little way off, and disappear again. The whole swarm stood for a long time gazing eagerly out into the seething foam, and Kilen and another boy had thrown off their jackets to be ready to jump out when it appeared again. The bottle did not appear again, but it had given a spur to the imagination, and every boy had his own solemn knowledge of such things. Just now, during the equinoctial storms, many a bottle went over a ship's side with a last message to those on land. Really and truly, of course, that was why you learned to write--so as to be able to write your messages when your hour came. Then perhaps the bottle would be swallowed by a shark, or perhaps it would be fished up by stupid peasants who took it home with them to their wives to put drink into--this last a good-natured hit at Pelle. But it sometimes happened that it drifted ashore just at the place it was meant for; and, if not, it was the finder's business to take it to the nearest magistrate, if he didn't want to lose his right hand. Out in the harbor the waves broke over the mole; the fishermen had drawn their boats up on shore. They could not rest indoors in their warm cottages; the sea and bad weather kept them on the beach night and day. They stood in shelter behind their boats, yawning heavily and gazing out to sea, where now and then a sail fluttered past like a storm-beaten bird. "In, in!" cried the girls from the schoolroom door, and the boys sauntered slowly up. Pris was walking backward and forward in front of his desk, smoking his pipe with the picture of the king on it, and with the newspaper sticking out of his pocket. "To your places!" he shouted, striking his desk with the cane. "Is there any news?" asked a boy, when they had taken their places. Fris sometimes read aloud the Shipping News to them. "I don't know," answered Fris crossly. "You can get out your slates and arithmetics." "Oh, we're going to do sums, oh, that's fun!" The whole class was rejoicing audibly as they got out their things. Fris did not share the children's delight over arithmetic; his gifts, he was accustomed to say, were of a purely historical nature. But he accommodated himself to their needs, because long experience had taught him that a pandemonium might easily arise on a stormy day such as this; the weather had a remarkable influence upon the children. His own knowledge extended only as far as Christian Hansen's Part I.; but there were two peasant boys who had worked on by themselves into Part III., and they helped the others. The children were deep in their work, their long, regular breathing rising and falling in the room like a deep sleep. There was a continual passing backward and forward to the two arithmeticians, and the industry was only now and then interrupted by some little piece of mischief that came over one or another of the children as a reminder; but they soon fell into order again. At the bottom of the class there was a sound of sniffing, growing more and more distinct. Fris laid down his newspaper impatiently. "Peter's crying," said those nearest. "Oh-o!" said Fris, peering over his spectacles. "What's the matter now?" "He says he can't remember what twice two is." Fris forced the air through his nostrils and seized the cane, but thought better of it. "Twice two's five!" he said quietly, at which there was a laugh at Peter's expense, and work went on again. For some time they worked diligently, and then Nilen rose. Fris saw it, but went on reading. "Which is the lightest, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead? I can't find it in the answers." Fris's hands trembled as he held the paper up close to his face to see something or other better. It was his mediocrity as a teacher of arithmetic that the imps were always aiming at, but he would _not_ be drawn into a discussion with them. Nilen repeated his question, while the others tittered; but Fris did not hear--he was too deep in his paper. So the whole thing dropped. Fris looked at his watch; he could soon give them a quarter of an hour's play, a good long quarter of an hour. Then there would only be one little hour's worry left, and that school-day could be laid by as another trouble got through. Pelle stood up in his place in the middle of the class. He had some trouble to keep his face in the proper folds, and had to pretend that his neighbors were disturbing him. At last he got out what he wanted to say, but his ears were a little red at the tips. "If a pound of flour costs twelve ores, what will half a quarter of coal cost?" Fris sat for a little while and looked irresolutely at Pelle. It always hurt him more when Pelle was naughty than when it was one of the others, for he had an affection for the boy. "Very well!" he said bitterly, coming slowly down with the thick cane in his hand. "Very well!" "Look out for yourself!" whispered the boys, preparing to put difficulties in the way of Fris's approach. But Pelle did one of those things that were directly opposed to all recognized rules, and yet gained him respect. Instead of shielding himself from the thrashing, he stepped forward and held out both hands with the palms turned upward. His face was crimson. Fris looked at him in surprise, and was inclined to do anything but beat him; the look in Pelle's eyes rejoiced his heart. He did not understand boys as boys, but with regard to human beings his perceptions were fine, and there was something human here; it would be wrong not to take it seriously. He gave Pelle a sharp stroke across his hands, and throwing down the cane, called shortly, "Playtime!" and turned away. The spray was coming right up to the school wall. A little way out there was a vessel, looking very much battered and at the mercy of the storm; she moved quickly forward a little way, and stood still and staggered for a time before moving on again, like a drunken man. She was going in the direction of the southern reef. The boys had collected behind the school to eat their dinner in shelter, but suddenly there was the hollow rattling sound of wooden-soled boots over on the shore side, and the coastguard and a couple of fishermen ran out. Then the life-saving apparatus came dashing up, the horses' manes flying in the wind. There was something inspiriting in the pace, and the boys threw down everything and followed. The vessel was now right down by the point. She lay tugging at her anchor, with her stern toward the reef, and the waves washing over her; she looked like an old horse kicking out viciously at some obstacle with its hind legs. The anchor was not holding, and she was drifting backward on to the reef. There were a number of people on the shore, both from the coast and from inland. The country-people must have come down to see whether the water was wet! The vessel had gone aground and lay rolling on the reef; the people on board had managed her like asses, said the fishermen, but she was no Russian, but a Lap vessel. The waves went right over her from end to end, and the crew had climbed into the rigging, where they hung gesticulating with their arms. They must have been shouting something, but the noise of the waves drowned it. Pelle's eyes and ears were taking in all the preparations. He was quivering with excitement, and had to fight against his infirmity, which returned whenever anything stirred his blood. The men on the beach were busy driving stakes into the sand to hold the apparatus, and arranging ropes and hawsers so that everything should go smoothly. Special care was bestowed upon the long, fine line that the rocket was to carry out to the vessel; alterations were made in it at least twenty times. The foreman of the trained Rescue Party stood and took aim with the rocket-apparatus; his glance darted out and back again to measure the distance with the sharpness of a claw. "Ready!" said the others, moving to one side. "Ready!" he answered gravely. For a moment all was still, while he placed it in another position and then back again. Whe-e-e-e-ew! The thin line stood like a quivering snake in the air, with its runaway head boring through the sodden atmosphere over the sea and its body flying shrieking from the drum and riding out with deep humming tones to cut its way far out through the storm. The rocket had cleared the distance capitally; it was a good way beyond the wreck, but too far to leeward. It had run itself out and now stood wavering in the air like the restless head of a snake while it dropped. "It's going afore her," said one fisherman. The others were silent, but from their looks it was evident that they were of the same opinion. "It may still get there," said the foreman. The rocket had struck the water a good way to the north, but the line still stood in an arch in the air, held up by the stress. It dropped in long waves toward the south, made a couple of folds in the wind, and dropped gently across the fore part of the vessel. "That's it! It got there, all right!" shouted the boys, and sprang on to the sand. The fishermen stamped about with delight, made a sideways movement with their heads toward the foreman and nodded appreciatively at one another. Out on the vessel a man crawled about in the rigging until he got hold of the line, and then crept down into the shrouds to the others again. Their strength could not be up to much, for except for that they did not move. On shore there was activity. The roller was fixed more firmly to the ground and the cradle made ready; the thin line was knotted to a thicker rope, which again was to draw the heavy hawser on board: it was important that everything should hold. To the hawser was attached a pulley as large as a man's head for the drawing-ropes to run in, for one could not know what appliances they would have on board such an old tub. For safety's sake a board was attached to the line, upon which were instructions, in English, to haul it until a hawser of such-and-such a thickness came on board. This was unnecessary for ordinary people, but one never knew how stupid such Finn-Lapps could be. "They may haul away now as soon as they like, and let us get done with it," said the foreman, beating his hands together. "Perhaps they're too exhausted," said a young fisherman. "They must have been through a hard time!" "They must surely be able to haul in a three-quarter-inch rope! Fasten an additional line to the rope, so that we can give them a hand in getting the hawser on board--when they get so far." This was done. But out on the wreck they hung stupidly in the rigging without ever moving; what in the world were they thinking about? The line still lay, motionless on the sand, but it was not fast to the bottom, for it moved when it was tightened by the water; it must have been made fast to the rigging. "They've made it fast, the blockheads," said the foreman. "I suppose they're waiting for us to haul the vessel up on land for them--with that bit of thread!" He laughed in despair. "I suppose they don't know any better, poor things!" said "the Mormon." No one spoke or moved. They were paralyzed by the incomprehensibility of it, and their eyes moved in dreadful suspense from the wreck down to the motionless line and back again. The dull horror that ensues when men have done their utmost and are beaten back by absolute stupidity, began to creep over them. The only thing the shipwrecked men did was to gesticulate with their arms. They must have thought that the men on shore could work miracles--in defiance of them. "In an hour it'll be all up with them," said the foreman sadly. "It's hard to stand still and look on." A young fisherman came forward. Pelle knew him well, for he had met him occasionally by the cairn where the baby's soul burned in the summer nights. "If one of you'll go with me, I'll try to drift down upon them!" said Niels Koller quietly. "It'll be certain death, Niels!" said the foreman, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "You understand that, I suppose! I'm not one to be afraid, but I won't throw away my life. So you know what I think." The others took the same view. A boat would be dashed to pieces against the moles. It would be impossible to get it out of the harbor in this weather, let alone work down to the wreck with wind and waves athwart! It might be that the sea had made a demand upon the village--no one would try to sneak out of his allotted share; but this was downright madness! With Niels Koller himself it must pass; his position was a peculiar one--with the murder of a child almost on his conscience and his sweetheart in prison. He had his own account to settle with the Almighty; no one ought to dissuade him! "Then will none of you?" asked Niels, and looked down at the ground. "Well, then I must try it alone." He went slowly up the beach. How he was going to set about it no one knew, nor did he himself; but the spirit had evidently come over him. They stood looking after him. Then a young sailor said slowly: "I suppose I'd better go with him and take the one oar. He can do nothing by himself." It was Nilen's brother. "It wouldn't sound right if I stopped you from going, my son," said "the Mormon." "But can two of you do more than one?" "Niels and I were at school together and have always been friends," answered the young man, looking into his father's face. Then he moved away, and a little farther off began to run to catch up Niels. The fishermen looked after them in silence. "Youth and madness!" one of them then said. "One blessing is that they'll never be able to get the boat out of the harbor." "If I know anything of Karl, they will get the boat out!" said "the Mormon" gloomily. Some time passed, and then a boat appeared on the south side of the harbor, where there was a little shelter. They must have dragged it in over land with the women's help. The harbor projected a little, so that the boat escaped the worst of the surf before emerging from its protection. They were working their way out; it was all they could do to keep the boat up against the wind, and they scarcely moved. Every other moment the whole of the inside of the boat was visible, as if it would take nothing to upset it; but that had one advantage, in that the water they shipped ran out again. It was evident that they meant to work their way out so far that they could make use of the high sea and scud down upon the wreck--a desperate idea! But the whole thing was such sheer madness, one would never have thought they had been born and bred by the water. After half an hour's rowing, it seemed they could do no more; and they were not more than a couple of good cable-lengths out from the harbor. They lay still, one of them holding the boat up to the waves with the oars, while the other struggled with something--a bit of sail as big as a sack. Yes, yes, of course! Now if they took in the oars and left themselves at the mercy of the weather--with wind and waves abaft and beam!--they would fill with water at once! But they did not take in the oars. One of them sat and kept a frenzied watch while they ran before the wind. It looked very awkward, but it was evident that it gave greater command of the boat. Then they suddenly dropped the sail and rowed the boat hard up against the wind--when a sea was about to break. None of the fishermen could recollect ever having seen such navigation before; it was young blood, and they knew what they were about. Every instant one felt one must say Now! But the boat was like a living thing that understood how to meet everything; it always rose above every caprice. The sight made one warm, so that for a time one forgot it was a sail for life or death. Even if they managed to get down to the wreck, what then? Why, they would be dashed against the side of the vessel! Old Ole Koller, Niels's father, came down over the sandbanks. "Who's that out there throwing themselves away?" he asked. The question sounded harsh as it broke in upon the silence and suspense. No one looked at him--Ole was rather garrulous. He glanced round the flock, as though he were looking for some particular person. "Niels--have any of you seen Niels?" he asked quietly. One man nodded toward the sea, and he was silent and overcome. The waves must have broken their oars or carried them away, for they dropped the bit of sail, the boat burrowed aimlessly with its prow, and settled down lazily with its broadside to the wind. Then a great wave took them and carried them in one long sweep toward the wreck, and they disappeared in the breaking billow. When the water sank to rest, the boat lay bottom upward, rolling in the lee of the vessel. A man was working his way from the deck up into the rigging. "Isn't that Niels?" said Ole, gazing until his eyes watered. "I wonder if that isn't Niels?" "No; it's my brother Karl," said Nilen. "Then Niels is gone," said Ole plaintively. "Then Niels is gone." The others had nothing to answer; it was a matter of course that Niels would be lost. Ole stood for a little while shrinkingly, as if expecting that some one would say it was Niels. He dried his eyes, and tried to make it out for himself, but they only filled again. "Your eyes are young," he said to Pelle, his head trembling. "Can't you see that it's Niels?" "No, it's Karl," said Pelle softly. And Ole went with bowed head through the crowd, without looking at any one or turning aside for anything. He moved as though he were alone in the world, and walked slowly out along the south shore. He was going to meet the dead body. There was no time to think. The line began to be alive, glided out into the sea, and drew the rope after it. Yard after yard it unrolled itself and glided slowly into the sea like an awakened sea-animal, and the thick hawser began to move. Karl fastened it high up on the mast, and it took all the men--and boys, too--to haul it taut. Even then it hung in a heavy curve from its own weight, and the cradle dragged through the crests of the waves when it went out empty. It was more under than above the water as they pulled it back again with the first of the crew, a funny little dark man, dressed in mangy gray fur. He was almost choked in the crossing, but when once they had emptied the water out of him he quite recovered and chattered incessantly in a curious language that no one understood. Five little fur-clad beings, one by one, were brought over by the cradle, and last of all came Karl with a little squealing pig in his arms. "They _were_ a poor lot of seamen!" said Karl, in the intervals of disgorging water. "Upon my word, they understood nothing. They'd made the rocket-line fast to the shrouds, and tied the loose end round the captain's waist! And you should just have seen the muddle on board!" He talked loudly, but his glance seemed to veil something. The men now went home to the village with the shipwrecked sailors; the vessel looked as if it would still keep out the water for some time. Just as the school-children were starting to go home, Ole came staggering along with his son's dead body on his back. He walked with loose knees bending low and moaning under his burden. Fris stopped him and helped him to lay the dead body in the schoolroom. There was a deep wound in the forehead. When Pelle saw the dead body with its gaping wound, he began to jump up and down, jumping quickly up, and letting himself drop like a dead bird. The girls drew away from him, screaming, and Fris bent over him and looked sorrowfully at him. "It isn't from naughtiness," said the other boys. "He can't help it; he's taken that way sometimes. He got it once when he saw a man almost killed." And they carried him off to the pump to bring him to himself again. Fris and Ole busied themselves over the dead body, placed something under the head, and washed away the sand that had got rubbed into the skin of the face. "He was my best boy," said Fris, stroking the dead man's head with a trembling hand. "Look well at him, children, and never forget him again; he was my best boy." He stood silent, looking straight before him, with dimmed spectacles and hands hanging loosely. Ole was crying; he had suddenly grown pitiably old and decrepit. "I suppose I ought to get him home?" he said plaintively, trying to raise his son's shoulders; but he had not the strength. "Just let him lie!" said Fris. "He's had a hard day, and he's resting now." "Yes, he's had a hard day," said Ole, raising his son's hand to his mouth to breathe upon it. "And look how he's used the oar! The blood's burst out at his finger-tips!" Ole laughed through his tears. "He was a good lad. He was food to me, and light and heat too. There never came an unkind word out of his mouth to me that was a burden on him. And now I've got no son, Fris! I'm childless now! And I'm not able to do anything!" "You shall have enough to live upon, Ole," said Fris. "Without coming on the parish? I shouldn't like to come upon the parish." "Yes, without coming on the parish, Ole." "If only he can get peace now! He had so little peace in this world these last few years. There's been a song made about his misfortune, Fris, and every time he heard it he was like a new-born lamb in the cold. The children sing it, too." Ole looked round at them imploringly. "It was only a piece of boyish heedlessness, and now he's taken his punishment." "Your son hasn't had any punishment, Ole, and neither has he deserved any," said Fris, putting his arm about the old man's shoulder. "But he's given a great gift as he lies there and cannot say anything. He gave five men their lives and gave up his own in return for the one offense that he committed in thoughtlessness! It was a generous son you had, Ole!" Fris looked at him with a bright smile. "Yes," said Ole, with animation. "He saved five people--of course he did--yes, he did!" He had not thought of that before; it would probably never have occurred to him. But now some one else had given it form, and he clung to it. "He saved five lives, even if they were only Finn-Lapps; so perhaps God will not disown him." Fris shook his head until his gray hair fell over his eyes. "Never forget him, children!" he said; "and now go quietly home." The children silently took up their things and went; at that moment they would have done anything that Fris told them: he had complete power over them. Ole stood staring absently, and then took Fris by the sleeve and drew him up to the dead body. "He's rowed well!" he said. "The blood's come out at his finger-ends, look!" And he raised his son's hands to the light. "And there's a wrist, Fris! He could take up an old man like me and carry me like a little child." Ole laughed feebly. "But I carried him; all the way from the south reef I carried him on my back. I'm too heavy for you, father! I could hear him say, for he was a good son; but I carried him, and now I can't do anything more. If only they see that!"--he was looking again at the blood-stained fingers. "He did do his best. If only God Himself would give him his discharge!" "Yes," said Fris. "God will give him his discharge Himself, and he sees everything, you know, Ole." Some fishermen entered the room. They took off their caps, and one by one went quietly up and shook hands with Ole, and then, each passing his hand over his face, turned questioningly to the schoolmaster. Fris nodded, and they raised the dead body between them, and passed with heavy, cautious steps out through the entry and on toward the village, Ole following them, bowed down and moaning to himself. XVIII It was Pelle who, one day in his first year at school, when he was being questioned in Religion, and Fris asked him whether he could give the names of the three greatest festivals in the year, amused every one by answering: "Midsummer Eve, Harvest-home and--and----" There was a third, too, but when it came to the point, he was shy of mentioning it--his birthday! In certain ways it was the greatest of them all, even though no one but Father Lasse knew about it--and the people who wrote the almanac, of course; they knew about simply everything! It came on the twenty-sixth of June and was called Pelagius in the calendar. In the morning his father kissed him and said: "Happiness and a blessing to you, laddie!" and then there was always something in his pocket when he came to pull on his trousers. His father was just as excited as he was himself, and waited by him while he dressed, to share in the surprise. But it was Pelle's way to spin things out when something nice was coming; it made the pleasure all the greater. He purposely passed over the interesting pocket, while Father Lasse stood by fidgeting and not knowing what to do. "I say, what's the matter with that pocket? It looks to me so fat! You surely haven't been out stealing hens' eggs in the night?" Then Pelle had to take it out--a large bundle of paper--and undo it, layer after layer. And Lasse would be amazed. "Pooh, it's nothing but paper! What rubbish to go and fill your pockets with!" But in the very inside of all there was a pocket- knife with two blades. "Thank you!" whispered Pelle then, with tears in his eyes. "Oh, nonsense! It's a poor present, that!" said Lasse, blinking his red, lashless eyelids. Beyond this the boy did not come in for anything better on that day than usual, but all the same he had a solemn feeling all day. The sun never failed to shine--was even unusually bright; and the animals looked meaningly at him while they lay munching. "It's my birthday to-day!" he said, hanging with his arms round the neck of Nero, one of the bullocks. "Can you say 'A happy birthday'?" And Nero breathed warm breath down his back, together with green juice from his chewing; and Pelle went about happy, and stole green corn to give to him and to his favorite calf, kept the new knife--or whatever it might have been--in his hand the whole day long, and dwelt in a peculiarly solemn way upon everything he did. He could make the whole of the long day swell with a festive feeling; and when he went to bed he tried to keep awake so as to make the day longer still. Nevertheless, Midsummer Eve was in its way a greater day; it had at any rate the glamour of the unattainable over it. On that day everything that could creek and walk went up to the Common; there was not a servant on the whole island so poor-spirited as to submit to the refusal of a holiday on that day--none except just Lasse and Pelle. Every year they had seen the day come and go without sharing in its pleasure. "Some one must stay at home, confound it!" said the bailiff always. "Or perhaps you think I can do it all for you?" They had too little power to assert themselves. Lasse helped to pack appetizing food and beverages into the carts, and see the others off, and then went about despondently--one man to all the work. Pelle watched from the field their merry departure and the white stripe of dust far away behind the rocks. And for half a year afterward, at meals, they heard reminiscences of drinking and fighting and love-making--the whole festivity. But this was at an end. Lasse was not the man to continue to let himself be trifled with. He possessed a woman's affection, and a house in the background. He could give notice any day he liked. The magistrate was presumably busy with the prescribed advertising for Madam Olsen's husband, and as soon as the lawful respite was over, they would come together. Lasse no longer sought to avoid the risk of dismissal. As long ago as the winter, he had driven the bailiff into a corner, and only agreed to be taken on again upon the express condition that they both took part in the Midsummer Eve outing; and he had witnesses to it. On the Common, where all lovers held tryst that day, Lasse and she were to meet too, but of this Pelle knew nothing. "To-day we can say the day after to-morrow, and to-morrow we can say to-morrow," Pelle went about repeating to his father two evenings before the day. He had kept an account of the time ever since May Day, by making strokes for all the days on the inside of the lid of the chest, and crossing them out one by one. "Yes, and the day after to-morrow we shall say to-day," said Lasse, with a juvenile fling. They opened their eyes upon an incomprehensibly brilliant world, and did not at first remember that this was the day. Lasse had anticipated his wages to the amount of five krones, and had got an old cottager to do his work--for half a krone and his meals. "It's not a big wage," said the man; "but if I give you a hand, perhaps the Almighty'll give me one in return." "Well, we've no one but Him to hold to, we poor creatures," answered Lasse. "But I shall thank you in my grave." The cottager arrived by four o'clock, and Lasse was able to begin his holiday from that hour. Whenever he was about to take a hand in the work, the other said: "No, leave it alone! I'm sure you've not often had a holiday." "No; this is the first real holiday since I came to the farm," said Lasse, drawing himself up with a lordly air. Pelle was in his best clothes from the first thing in the morning, and went about smiling in his shirt-sleeves and with his hair plastered down with water; his best cap and jacket were not to be put on until they were going to start. When the sun shone upon his face, it sparkled like dewy grass. There was nothing to trouble about; the animals were in the enclosure and the bailiff was going to look after them himself. He kept near his father, who had brought this about. Father Lasse was powerful! "What a good thing you threatened to leave!" he kept on exclaiming. And Lasse always gave the same answer: "Ay, you must carry things with a high hand if you want to gain anything in this world!"--and nodded with a consciousness of power. They were to have started at eight o'clock, but the girls could not get the provisions ready in time. There were jars of stewed gooseberries, huge piles of pancakes, a hard-boiled egg apiece, cold veal and an endless supply of bread and butter. The carriage boxes could not nearly hold it all, so large baskets were pushed in under the seats. In the front was a small cask of beer, covered with green oats to keep the sun from it; and there was a whole keg of spirits and three bottles of cold punch. Almost the entire bottom of the large spring-wagon was covered, so that it was difficult to find room for one's feet. After all, Fru Kongstrup showed a proper feeling for her servants when she wanted to. She went about like a kind mistress and saw that everything was well packed and that nothing was wanting. She was not like Kongstrup, who always had to have a bailiff between himself and them. She even joked and did her best, and it was evident that whatever else there might be to say against her, she wanted them to have a merry day. That her face was a little sad was not to be wondered at, as the farmer had driven out that morning with her young relative. At last the girls were ready, and every one got in--in high spirits. The men inadvertently sat upon the girls' laps and jumped up in alarm. "Oh, oh! I must have gone too near a stove!" cried the rogue Mons, rubbing himself behind. Even the mistress could not help laughing. "Isn't Erik going with us?" asked his old sweetheart Bengta, who still had a warm spot in her heart for him. The bailiff whistled shrilly twice, and Erik came slowly up from the barn, where he had been standing and keeping watch upon his master. "Won't you go with them to the woods to-day, Erik man?" asked the bailiff kindly. Erik stood twisting his big body and murmuring something that no one could understand, and then made an unwilling movement with one shoulder. "You'd better go with them," said the bailiff, pretending he was going to take him and put him into the cart. "Then I shall have to see whether I can get over the loss." Those in the cart laughed, but Erik shuffled off down through the yard, with his dog-like glance directed backward at the bailiff's feet, and stationed himself at the corner of the stable, where he stood watching. He held his cap behind his back, as boys do when they play at "Robbers." "He's a queer customer!" said Mons. Then Karl Johan guided the horses carefully through the gate, and they set off with a crack of the whip. Along all the roads, vehicles were making their way toward the highest part of the island, filled to overflowing with merry people, who sat on one another's laps and hung right over the sides. The dust rose behind the conveyances and hung white in the air in stripes miles in length, that showed how the roads lay like spokes in a wheel all pointing toward the middle of the island. The air hummed with merry voices and the strains of concertinas. They missed Gustav's playing now--yes, and Bodil's pretty face, that always shone so brightly on a day like this. Pelle had the appetite of years of fasting for the great world, and devoured everything with his eyes. "Look there, father! Just look!" Nothing escaped him. It made the others cheerful to look at him--he was so rosy and pretty. He wore a newly-washed blue blouse under his waistcoat, which showed at the neck and wrists and did duty as collar and cuffs; but Fair Maria bent back from the box-seat, where she was sitting alone with Karl Johan, and tied a very white scarf round his neck, and Karna, who wanted to be motherly to him, went over his face with a corner of her pocket-handkerchief, which she moistened with her tongue. She was rather officious, but for that matter it was quite conceivable that the boy might have got dirty again since his thorough morning wash. The side roads continued to pour their contents out on to the high-roads, and there was soon a whole river of conveyances, extending as far as the eye could see in both directions. One would hardly have believed that there were so many vehicles in the whole world! Karl Johan was a good driver to have; he was always pointing with his whip and telling them something. He knew all about every single house. They were beyond the farms and tillage by now; but on the heath, where self-sown birch and aspen trees stood fluttering restlessly in the summer air, there stood desolate new houses with bare, plastered walls, and not so much as a henbane in the window or a bit of curtain. The fields round them were as stony as a newly-mended road, and the crops were a sad sight; the corn was only two or three inches in height, and already in ear. The people here were all Swedish servants who had saved a little--and had now become land-owners. Karl Johan knew a good many of them. "It looks very miserable," said Lasse, comparing in his own mind the stones here with Madam Olsen's fat land. "Oh, well," answered the head man, "it's not of the very best, of course; but the land yields something, anyhow." And he pointed to the fine large heaps of road-metal and hewn stone that surrounded every cottage. "If it isn't exactly grain, it gives something to live on; and then it's the only land that'll suit poor people's purses." He and Fair Maria were thinking of settling down here themselves. Kongstrup had promised to help them to a farm with two horses when they married. In the wood the birds were in the middle of their morning song; they were later with it here than in the sandbanks plantation, it seemed. The air sparkled brightly, and something invisible seemed to rise from the undergrowth; it was like being in a church with the sun shining down through tall windows and the organ playing. They drove round the foot of a steep cliff with overhanging trees, and into the wood. It was almost impossible to thread your way through the crowd of unharnessed horses and vehicles. You had to have all your wits about you to keep from damaging your own and other people's things. Karl Johan sat watching both his fore wheels, and felt his way on step by step; he was like a cat in a thunderstorm, he was so wary. "Hold your jaw!" he said sharply, when any one in the cart opened his lips. At last they found room to unharness, and a rope was tied from tree to tree to form a square in which the horses were secured. Then they got out the curry-combs--goodness, how dusty it had been! And at last--well, no one said anything, but they all stood expectant, half turned in the direction of the head man. "Well, I suppose we ought to go into the wood and look at the view," he said. They turned it over as they wandered aimlessly round the cart, looking furtively at the provisions. "If only it'll keep!" said Anders, lifting a basket. "I don't know how it is, but I feel so strange in my inside to-day," Mons began. "It can't be consumption, can it?" "Perhaps we ought to taste the good things first, then?" said Karl Johan. Yes--oh, yes--it came at last! Last year they had eaten their dinner on the grass. It was Bodil who had thought of that; she was always a little fantastic. This year nobody would be the one to make such a suggestion. They looked at one another a little expectant; and they then climbed up into the cart and settled themselves there just like other decent people. After all, the food was the same. The pancakes were as large and thick as a saucepan-lid. It reminded them of Erik, who last year had eaten ten of them. "It's a pity he's not here this year!" said Karl Johan. "He was a merry devil." "He's not badly off," said Mons. "Gets his food and clothes given him, and does nothing but follow at the bailiff's heels and copy him. And he's always contented now. I wouldn't a bit mind changing with him." "And run about like a dog with its nose to the ground sniffing at its master's footsteps? Oh no, not I!" "Whatever you may say, you must remember that it's the Almighty Himself who's taken his wits into safekeeping," said Lasse admonishingly; and for a little while they were quite serious at the thought. But seriousness could not claim more than was its due. Anders wanted to rub his leg, but made a mistake and caught hold of Lively Sara's, and made her scream; and this so flustered his hand that it could not find its way up, but went on making mistakes, and there was much laughter and merriment. Karl Johan was not taking much part in the hilarity; he looked as if he were pondering something. Suddenly he roused himself and drew out his purse. "Here goes!" he said stoutly. "I'll stand beer! Bavarian beer, of course. Who'll go and fetch it?" Mons leaped quickly from the cart. "How many?" "Four." Karl Johan's eye ran calculating over the cart. "No; just bring five, will you? That'll be a half each," he said easily. "But make sure that it's real Bavarian beer they give you." There was really no end to the things that Karl Johan knew about; and he said the name "Bavarian beer" with no more difficulty than others would have in turning a quid in their mouth. But of course he was a trusted man on the farm now and often drove on errands into the town. This raised their spirits and awakened curiosity, for most of them had never tasted Bavarian beer before. Lasse and Pelle openly admitted their inexperience; but Anders pretended he had got drunk on it more than once, though every one knew it was untrue. Mons returned, moving cautiously, with the beer in his arms; it was a precious commodity. They drank it out of the large dram-glasses that were meant for the punch. In the town, of course, they drank beer out of huge mugs, but Karl Johan considered that that was simply swilling. The girls refused to drink, but did it after all, and were delighted. "They're always like that," said Mons, "when you offer them something really good." They became flushed with the excitement of the occurrence, and thought they were drunk. Lasse took away the taste of his beer with a dram; he did not like it at all. "I'm too old," he said, in excuse. The provisions were packed up again, and they set out in a body to see the view. They had to make their way through a perfect forest of carts to reach the pavilion. Horses were neighing and flinging up their hind legs, so that the bark flew off the trees. Men hurled themselves in among them, and tugged at their mouths until they quieted down again, while the women screamed and ran hither and thither like frightened hens, with skirts lifted. From the top they could form some idea of the number of people. On the sides of the hill and in the wood beyond the roads--everywhere carts covered the ground; and down at the triangle where the two wide high-roads met, new loads were continually turning in. "There must be far more than a thousand pairs of horses in the wood to-day," said Karl Johan. Yes, far more! There were a million, if not more, thought Pelle. He was quite determined to get as much as possible out of everything to-day. There stood the Bridge Farm cart, and there came the people from Hammersholm, right out at the extreme north of the island. Here were numbers of people from the shore farms at Dove Point and Ronne and Nekso--the whole island was there. But there was no time now to fall in with acquaintances. "We shall meet this afternoon!" was the general cry. Karl Johan led the expedition; it was one of a head man's duties to know the way about the Common. Fair Maria kept faithfully by his side, and every one could see how proud she was of him. Mons walked hand in hand with Lively Sara, and they went swinging along like a couple of happy children. Bengta and Anders had some difficulty in agreeing; they quarrelled every other minute, but they did not mean much by it. And Karna made herself agreeable. They descended into a swamp, and went up again by a steep ascent where the great trees stood with their feet in one another's necks. Pelle leaped about everywhere like a young kid. In under the firs there were anthills as big as haycocks, and the ants had broad trodden paths running like foothpaths between the trees, on and on endlessly; a multitude of hosts passed backward and forward upon those roads. Under some small fir-trees a hedgehog was busy attacking a wasps' nest; it poked its nose into the nest, drew it quickly back, and sneezed. It looked wonderfully funny, but Pelle had to go on after the others. And soon he was far ahead of them, lying on his face in a ditch where he had smelt wild strawberries. Lasse could not keep pace with the younger people up the hill, and it was not much better with Karna. "We're getting old, we two," she said, as they toiled up, panting. "Oh, are we?" was Lasse's answer. He felt quite young in spirit; it was only breath that he was short of. "I expect you think very much as I do; when you've worked for others for so many years, you feel you want something of your own." "Yes, perhaps," said Lasse evasively. "One wouldn't come to it quite empty-handed, either--if it should happen." "Oh, indeed!" Karna continued in this way, but Lasse was always sparing with his words, until they arrived at the Rockingstone, where the others were standing waiting. That was a block and a half! Fifty tons it was said to weigh, and yet Mons and Anders could rock it by putting a stick under one end of it. "And now we ought to go to the Robbers' Castle," said Karl Johan, and they trudged on, always up and down. Lasse did his utmost to keep beside the others, for he did not feel very brave when he was alone with Karna. What a fearful quantity of trees there were! And not all of one sort, as in other parts of the world. There were birches and firs, beech and larch and mountain ash all mixed together, and ever so many cherry-trees. The head man lead them across a little, dark lake that lay at the foot of the rock, staring up like an evil eye. "It was here that Little Anna drowned her baby --she that was betrayed by her master," he said lingeringly. They all knew the story, and stood silent over the lake; the girls had tears in their eyes. As they stood there silent, thinking of Little Anna's sad fate, an unspeakably soft note came up to them, followed by a long, affecting sobbing. They moved nearer to one another. "Oh, Lord!" whispered Fair Maria, shivering. "That's the baby's soul crying!" Pelle stiffened as he listened, and cold waves seemed to flow down his back. "Why, that's a nightingale," said Karl Johan, "Don't you even know that? There are hundreds of them in these woods, and they sing in the middle of the day." This was a relief to the older people, but Pelle's horror was not so easily thrown off. He had gazed into the depths of the other world, and every explanation glanced off him. But then came the Robbers' Castle as a great disappointment. He had imagined it peopled with robbers, and it was only some old ruins that stood on a little hill in the middle of a bog. He went by himself all round the bottom of it to see if there were not a secret underground passage that led down to the water. If there were, he would get hold of his father without letting the others know, and make his way in and look for the chests of money; or else there would be too many to share in it. But this was forgotten as a peculiar scent arrested his attention, and he came upon a piece of ground that was green with lily-of-the-valley plants that still bore a few flowers, and where there were wild strawberries. There were so many that he had to go and call the others. But this was also forgotten as he made his way through the underwood to get up. He had lost the path and gone astray in the damp, chilly darkness under the cliff. Creeping plants and thorns wove themselves in among the overhanging branches, and made a thick, low roof. He could not see an opening anywhere, and a strange green light came through the matted branches, the ground was slippery with moisture and decaying substances; from the cliff hung quivering fern-fronds with their points downward, and water dripping from them like wet hair. Huge tree-roots, like the naked bodies of black goblins writhing to get free, lay stretched across the rocks. A little further on, the sun made a patch of burning fire in the darkness, and beyond it rose a bluish vapor and a sound as of a distant threshing-machine. Pelle stood still, and his terror grew until his knees trembled; then he set off running as if he were possessed. A thousand shadow- hands stretched out after him as he ran; and he pushed his way through briars and creepers with a low cry. The daylight met him with the force of a blow, and something behind him had a firm grasp on his clothes; he had to shout for Father Lasse with all his might before it let go. And there he stood right out in the bog, while high up above his head the others sat, upon a point of rock all among the trees. From up there it looked as if the world were all tree-tops, rising and falling endlessly; there was foliage far down beneath your feet and out as far as the eye could see, up and down. You were almost tempted to throw yourself into it, it looked so invitingly soft. As a warning to the others, Karl Johan had to tell them about the tailor's apprentice, who jumped out from a projecting rock here, just because the foliage looked so temptingly soft, Strange to say, he escaped with his life; but the high tree he fell through stripped him of every stitch of clothing. Mons had been teasing Sara by saying that he was going to jump down, but now he drew back cautiously. "I don't want to risk my confirmation clothes," he said, trying to look good. After all, the most remarkable thing of all was the Horseman Hill with the royal monument. The tower alone! Not a bit of wood had been used in it, only granite; and you went round and round and round. "You're counting the steps, I suppose?" said Karl Johan admonishingly. Oh, yes, they were all counting to themselves. It was clear weather, and the island lay spread out beneath them in all its luxuriance. The very first thing the men wanted to do was to try what it was like to spit down; but the girls were giddy and kept together in a cluster in the middle of the platform. The churches were counted under Karl Johan's able guidance, and all the well- known places pointed out. "There's Stone Farm, too," said Anders, pointing to something far off toward the sea. It was not Stone Farm, but Karl Johan could say to a nicety behind which hill it ought to lie, and then they recognized the quarries. Lasse took no part in this. He stood quite still, gazing at the blue line of the Swedish coast that stood out far away upon the shining water. The sight of his native land made him feel weak and old; he would probably never go home again, although he would have dearly liked to see Bengta's grave once more. Ah yes, and the best that could happen to one would be to be allowed to rest by her side, when everything else was ended. At this moment he regretted that he had gone into exile in his old age. He wondered what Kungstorp looked like now, whether the new people kept the land cultivated at all. And all the old acquaintances--how were they getting on? His old-man's reminiscences came over him so strongly that for a time he forgot Madam Olsen and everything about her. He allowed himself to be lulled by past memories, and wept in his heart like a little child. Ah! it was dreary to live away from one's native place and everything in one's old age; but if it only brought a blessing on the laddie in some way or other, it was all as it should be. "I suppose that's the King's Copenhagen [Footnote: Country-people speak of Copenhagen as "the King's Copehagen."] we see over there?" asked Anders. "It's Sweden," said Lasse quietly. "Sweden, is it? But it lay on that side last year, if I remember rightly." "Yes, of course! What else should the world go round for?" exclaimed Mons. Anders was just about to take this in all good faith when he caught a grimace that Mons made to the others. "Oh, you clever monkey!" he cried, and sprang at Mons, who dashed down the stone stairs; and the sound of their footsteps came up in a hollow rumble as out of a huge cask. The girls stood leaning against one another, rocking gently and gazing silently at the shining water that lay far away round the island. The giddiness had made them languid. "Why, your eyes are quite dreamy!" said Karl Johan, trying to take them all into his embrace. "Aren't you coming down with us?" They were all fairly tired now. No one said anything, for of course Karl Johan was leading; but the girls showed an inclination to sit down. "Now there's only the Echo Valley left," he said encouragingly, "and that's on our way back. We must do that, for it's well worth it. You'll hear an echo there that hasn't its equal anywhere." They went slowly, for their feet were tender with the leather boots and much aimless walking; but when they had come down the steep cliff into the valley and had drunk from the spring, they brightened up. Karl Johan stationed himself with legs astride, and called across to the cliff: "What's Karl Johan's greatest treat?" And the echo answered straight away: "Eat!" It was exceedingly funny, and they all had to try it, each with his or her name--even Pelle. When that was exhausted, Mons made up a question which made the echo give a rude answer. "You mustn't teach it anything like that," said Lasse. "Just suppose some fine ladies were to come here, and he started calling that out after them?" They almost killed themselves with laughing at the old man's joke, and he was so delighted at the applause that he went on repeating it to himself on the way back. Ha, ha! he wasn't quite fit for the scrap-heap yet. When they got back to the cart they were ravenously hungry and settled down to another meal. "You must have something to keep you up when you're wandering about like this," said Mons. "Now then," said Karl Johan, when they had finished, "every one may do what they like; but at nine sharp we meet here again and drive home." Up on the open ground, Lasse gave Pelle a secret nudge, and they began to do business with a cake-seller until the others had got well ahead. "It's not nice being third wheel in a carriage," said Lasse. "We two'll go about by ourselves for a little now." Lasse was craning his neck. "Are you looking for any one?" asked Pelle. "No, no one in particular; but I was wondering where all these people come from. There are people from all over the country, but I haven't seen any one from the village yet." "Don't you think Madam Olsen'll be here to-day?" "Can't say," said Lasse; "but it would be nice to see her, and there's something I want to say to her, too. Your eyes are young; you must keep a lookout." Pelle was given fifty ore to spend on whatever he liked. Round the ground sat the poor women of the Heath at little stalls, from which they sold colored sugar-sticks, gingerbread and two-ore cigars. In the meantime he went from woman to woman, and bought of each for one or two ore. Away under the trees stood blind Hoyer, who had come straight from Copenhagen with new ballads. There was a crowd round him. He played the tune upon his concertina, his little withered wife sang to it, and the whole crowd sang carefully with her. Those who had learnt the tunes went away singing, and others pushed forward into their place and put down their five-ore piece. Lasse and Pelle stood on the edge of the crowd listening. There was no use in paying money before you knew what you would get for it; and anyhow the songs would be all over the island by to-morrow, and going gratis from mouth to mouth. "A Man of Eighty--a new and pleasant ballad about how things go when a decrepit old man takes a young wife!" shouted Hoyer in a hoarse voice, before the song began. Lasse didn't care very much about that ballad; but then came a terribly sad one about the sailor George Semon, who took a most tender farewell of his sweetheart-- "And said, When here I once more stand, We to the church will go hand in hand." But he never did come back, for the storm was over them for forty-five days, provisions ran short, and the girl's lover went mad. He drew his knife upon the captain, and demanded to be taken home to his bride; and the captain shot him down. Then the others threw themselves upon the corpse, carried it to the galley, and made soup of it. "The girl still waits for her own true love, Away from the shore she will not move. Poor maid, she's hoping she still may wed, And does not know that her lad is dead." "That's beautiful," said Lasse, rummaging in his purse for a five-ore. "You must try to learn that; you've got an ear for that sort of thing." They pushed through the crowd right up to the musician, and began cautiously to sing too, while the girls all round were sniffing. They wandered up and down among the trees, Lasse rather fidgety. There was a whole street of dancing-booths, tents with conjurers and panorama-men, and drinking-booths. The criers were perspiring, the refreshment sellers were walking up and down in front of their tents like greedy beasts of prey. Things had not got into full swing yet, for most of the people were still out and about seeing the sights, or amusing themselves in all seemliness, exerting themselves in trials of strength or slipping in and out of the conjurers' tents. There was not a man unaccompanied by a woman. Many a one came to a stand at the refreshment-tents, but the woman pulled him past; then he would yawn and allow himself to be dragged up into a roundabout or a magic-lantern tent where the most beautiful pictures were shown of the way that cancer and other horrible things made havoc in people's insides. "These are just the things for the women," said Lasse, breathing forth a sigh at haphazard after Madam Olsen. On a horse on Madvig's roundabout sat Gustav with his arm round Bodil's waist. "Hey, old man!" he cried, as they whizzed past, and flapped Lasse on the ear with his cap, which had the white side out. They were as radiant as the day and the sun, those two. Pelle wanted to have a turn on a roundabout. "Then blest if I won't have something too, that'll make things go round!" said Lasse, and went in and had a "cuckoo"--coffee with brandy in it. "There are some people," he said, when he came out again, "that can go from one tavern to another without its making any difference in their purse. It would be nice to try--only for a year. Hush!" Over by Max Alexander's "Green House" stood Karna, quite alone and looking about her wistfully. Lasse drew Pelle round in a wide circle. "There's Madam Olsen with a strange man!" said Pelle suddenly. Lasse started. "Where?" Yes, there she stood, and had a man with her! And talking so busily! They went past her without stopping; she could choose for herself, then. "Hi, can't you wait a little!" cried Madam Olsen, running after them so that her petticoats crackled round her. She was round and smiling as usual, and many layers of good home-woven material stood out about her; there was no scrimping anywhere. They went on together, talking on indifferent matters and now and then exchanging glances about the boy who was in their way. They had to walk so sedately without venturing to touch one another. He did not like any nonsense. It was black with people now up at the pavilion, and one could hardly move a step without meeting acquaintances. "It's even worse than a swarm of bees," said Lasse. "It's not worth trying to get in there." At one place the movement was outward, and by following it they found themselves in a valley, where a man stood shouting and beating his fists upon a platform. It was a missionary meeting. The audience lay encamped in small groups, up the slopes, and a man in long black clothes went quietly from group to group, selling leaflets. His face was white, and he had a very long, thin red beard. "Do you see that man?" whispered Lasse, giving Pelle a nudge. "Upon my word, if it isn't Long Ole--and with a glove on his injured hand. It was him that had to take the sin upon him for Per Olsen's false swearing!" explained Lasse, turning to Madam Olsen. "He was standing at the machine at the time when Per Olsen ought to have paid the penalty with his three fingers, and so his went instead. He may be glad of the mistake after all, for they say he's risen to great things among the prayer-meeting folks. And his complexion's as fine as a young lady's--something different to what it was when he was carting manure at Stone Farm! It'll be fun to say good-day to him again." Lasse was quite proud of having served together with this man, and stationed himself in front of the others, intending to make an impression upon his lady friend by saying a hearty: "Good-day, Ole!" Long Ole was at the next group, and now he came on to them and was going to hold out his tracts, when a glance at Lasse made him drop both hand and eyes; and with a deep sigh he passed on with bowed head to the next group. "Did you see how he turned his eyes up?" said Lasse derisively. "When beggars come to court, they don't know how to behave! He'd got a watch in his pocket, too, and long clothes; and before he hadn't even a shirt to his body. And an ungodly devil he was too! But the old gentleman looks after his own, as the saying is; I expect it's him that helped him on by changing places at the machine. The way they've cheated the Almighty's enough to make Him weep!" Madam Olsen tried to hush Lasse, but the "cuckoo" rose within him together with his wrath, and he continued: "So _he's_ above recognizing decent people who get what they have in an honorable way, and not by lying and humbug! They do say he makes love to all the farmers' wives wherever he goes; but there was a time when he had to put up with the Sow." People began to look at them, and Madam Olsen took Lasse firmly by the arm and drew him away. The sun was now low in the sky. Up on the open ground the crowds tramped round and round as if in a tread-mill. Now and then a drunken man reeled along, making a broad path for himself through the crush. The noise came seething up from the tents--barrel-organs each grinding out a different tune, criers, the bands of the various dancing-booths, and the measured tread of a schottische or polka. The women wandered up and down in clusters, casting long looks into the refreshment-tents where their men were sitting; and some of them stopped at the tent-door and made coaxing signs to some one inside. Under the trees stood a drunken man, pawing at a tree-trunk, and beside him stood a girl, crying with her black damask apron to her eyes. Pelle watched them for a long time. The man's clothes were disordered, and he lurched against the girl with a foolish grin when she, in the midst of her tears, tried to put them straight. When Pelle turned away, Lasse and Madam Olsen had disappeared in the crowd. They must have gone on a little, and he went down to the very end of the street. Then he turned despondingly and went up, burrowing this way and that in the stream of people, with eyes everywhere. "Haven't you seen Father Lasse?" he asked pitifully, when he met any one he knew. In the thickest of the crush, a tall man was moving along, holding forth blissfully at the top of his voice. He was a head taller than anybody else, and very broad; but he beamed with good-nature, and wanted to embrace everybody. People ran screaming out of his way, so that a broad path was left wherever he went. Pelle kept behind him, and thus succeeded in getting through the thickest crowds, where policemen and rangers were stationed with thick cudgels. Their eyes and ears were on the watch, but they did not interfere in anything. It was said that they had handcuffs in their pockets. Pelle had reached the road in his despairing search. Cart after cart was carefully working its way out through the gloom under the trees, then rolling out into the dazzling evening light, and on to the high-road with much cracking of whips. They were the prayer-meeting people driving home. He happened to think of the time, and asked a man what it was. Nine! Pelle had to run so as not to be too late in getting to the cart. In the cart sat Karl Johan and Fair Maria eating. "Get up and have something to eat!" they said, and as Pelle was ravenous, he forgot everything while he ate. But then Johan asked about Lasse, and his torment returned. Karl Johan was cross; not one had returned to the cart, although it was the time agreed upon. "You'd better keep close to us now," he said, as they went up, "or you might get killed." Up at the edge of the wood they met Gustav running. "Have none of you seen Bodil?" he asked, gasping. His clothes were torn and there was blood on the front of his shirt. He ran on groaning, and disappeared under the trees. It was quite dark there, but the open ground lay in a strange light that came from nowhere, but seemed to have been left behind by the day as it fled. Faces out there showed up, some in ghostly pallor, some black like holes in the light, until they suddenly burst forth, crimson with blood-red flame. The people wandered about in confused groups, shouting and screaming at the top of their voices. Two men came along with arms twined affectionately round one another's necks, and the next moment lay rolling on the ground in a fight. Others joined the fray and took sides without troubling to discover what it was all about, and the contest became one large struggling heap. Then the police came up, and hit about them with their sticks; and those who did not run away were handcuffed and thrown into an empty stable. Pelle was quite upset, and kept close to Karl Johan; he jumped every time a band approached, and kept on saying in a whimpering tone: "Where's Father Lasse? Let's go and find him." "Oh, hold your tongue!" exclaimed the head man, who was standing and trying to catch sight of his fellow-servants. He was angry at this untrustworthiness. "Don't stand there crying! You'd do much more good if you ran down to the cart and see whether any one's come." Pelle had to go, little though he cared to venture in under the trees. The branches hung silently listening, but the noise from the open ground came down in bursts, and in the darkness under the bushes living things rustled about and spoke in voices of joy or sorrow. A sudden scream rang through the wood, and made his knees knock together. Karna sat at the back of the cart asleep, and Bengta stood leaning against the front seat, weeping. "They've locked Anders up," she sobbed. "He got wild, so they put handcuffs on him and locked him up." She went back with Pelle. Lasse was with Karl Johan and Fair Maria; he looked defiantly at Pelle, and in his half-closed eyes there was a little mutinous gleam. "Then now there's only Mons and Lively Sara," said Karl Johan, as he ran his eye over them. "But what about Anders?" sobbed Bengta. "You surely won't drive away without Anders?" "There's nothing can he done about Anders!" said the head man. "He'll come of his own accord when once he's let out." They found out on inquiry that Mons and Lively Sara were down in one of the dancing-booths, and accordingly went down there. "Now you stay here!" said Karl Johan sternly, and went in to take a survey of the dancers. In there blood burnt hot, and faces were like balls of fire that made red circles in the blue mist of perspiring heat and dust. Dump! Dump! Dump! The measure fell booming like heavy blows; and in the middle of the floor stood a man and wrung the moisture out of his jacket. Out of one of the dancing-tents pushed a big fellow with two girls. He had an arm about the neck of each, and they linked arms behind his back. His cap was on the back of his head, and his riotous mood would have found expression in leaping, if he had not felt himself too pleasantly encumbered; so he opened his mouth wide, and shouted joyfully, so that it rang again: "Devil take me! Deuce take me! Seven hundred devils take me!" and disappeared under the trees with his girls. "That was Per Olsen himself," said Lasse, looking after him. "What a man, to be sure! He certainly doesn't look as if he bore any debt of sin to the Almighty." "His time may still come," was the opinion of Karl Johan. Quite by chance they found Mons and Lively Sara sitting asleep in one another's arms upon a bench under the trees. "Well, now, I suppose we ought to be getting home?" said Karl Johan slowly. He had been doing right for so long that his throat was quite dry. "I suppose none of you'll stand a farewell glass?" "I will!" said Mons, "if you'll go up to the pavilion with me to drink it." Mons had missed something by going to sleep and had a desire to go once round the ground. Every time a yell reached them he gave a leap as he walked beside Lively Sara, and answered with a long halloo. He tried to get away, but she clung to his arm; so he swung the heavy end of his loaded stick and shouted defiantly. Lasse kicked his old limbs and imitated Mons's shouts, for he too was for anything rather than going home; but Karl Johan was determined--they _were_ to go now! And in this he was supported by Pelle and the women. Out on the open ground a roar made them stop, and the women got each behind her man. A man came running bareheaded and with a large wound in his temple, from which the blood flowed down over his face and collar. His features were distorted with fear. Behind him came a second, also bareheaded, and with a drawn knife. A ranger tried to bar his way, but received a wound in his shoulder and fell, and the pursuer ran on. As he passed them, Mons uttered a short yell and sprang straight up into the air, bringing down his loaded stick upon the back of the man's neck. The man sank to the ground with a grunt, and Mons slipped in among the groups of people and disappeared; and the others found him waiting for them at the edge of the wood. He did not answer any more yells. Karl Johan had to lead the horses until they got out onto the road, and then they all got in. Behind them the noise had become lost, and only one long cry for help rang through the air and dropped again. Down by a little lake, some forgotten girls had gathered on the grass and were playing by themselves. The white mist lay over the grass like a shining lake, and only the upper part of the girls' bodies rose above it. They were walking round in a ring, singing the mid-summer's-night song. Pure and clear rose the merry song, and yet was so strangely sad to listen to, because they who sang it had been left in the lurch by sots and brawlers. "We will dance upon hill and meadow, We will wear out our shoes and stockings. Heigh ho, my little sweetheart fair, We shall dance till the sun has risen high. Heigh ho, my queen! Now we have danced upon the green." The tones fell so gently upon the ear and mind that memories and thoughts were purified of all that had been hideous, and the day itself could appear in its true colors as a joyful festival. For Lasse and Pelle, indeed, it had been a peerless day, making up for many years of neglect. The only pity was that it was over instead of about to begin. The occupants of the cart were tired now, some nodding and all silent. Lasse sat working about in his pocket with one hand. He was trying to obtain an estimate of the money that remained. It was expensive to keep a sweetheart when you did not want to be outdone by younger men in any way. Pelle was asleep, and was slipping farther and farther down until Bengta took his head onto her lap. She herself was weeping bitterly about Anders. The daylight was growing rapidly brighter as they drove in to Stone Farm. XIX The master and mistress of Stone Farm were almost always the subject of common talk, and were never quite out of the thoughts of the people. There was as much thought and said about Kongstrup and his wife as about all the rest of the parish put together; they were bread to so many, their Providence both in evil and good, that nothing that they did could be immaterial. No one ever thought of weighing them by the same standards as they used for others; they were something apart, beings who were endowed with great possessions, and could do and be as they liked, disregarding all considerations and entertaining all passions. All that came from Stone Farm was too great for ordinary mortals to sit in judgment upon; it was difficult enough to explain what went on, even when at such close quarters with it all as were Lasse and Pelle. To them as to the others, the Stone Farm people were beings apart, who lived their life under greater conditions, beings, as it were, halfway between the human and the supernatural, in a world where such things as unquenchable passion and frenzied love wrought havoc. What happened, therefore, at Stone Farm supplied more excitement than the other events of the parish. People listened with open- mouthed interest to the smallest utterance from the big house, and when the outbursts came, trembled and went about oppressed and uncomfortable. No matter how clearly Lasse, in the calm periods, might think he saw it all, the life up there would suddenly be dragged out of its ordinary recognized form again, and wrap itself around his and the boy's world like a misty sphere in which capricious powers warred--just above their heads. It was now Jomfru Koller's second year at the farm, in spite of all evil prophecies; and indeed things had turned out in such a way that every one had to own that his prognostications had been wrong. She was always fonder of driving with Kongstrup to the town than of staying at home to cheer Fru Kongstrup up in her loneliness; but such is youth. She behaved properly enough otherwise, and it was well known that Kongstrup had returned to his old hotel-sweethearting in the town. Fru Kongstrup herself, moreover, showed no distrust of her young relative--if she had ever felt any. She was as kind to her as if she had been her own daughter; and very often it was she herself who got Jomfru Koller to go in the carriage to look after her husband. Otherwise the days passed as usual, and Fru Kongstrup was continually giving herself up to little drinking-bouts and to grief. At such times she would weep over her wasted life; and if he were at home would follow him with her accusations from room to room, until he would order the carriage and take flight, even in the middle of the night. The walls were so saturated with her voice that it penetrated through everything like a sorrowful, dull droning. Those who happened to be up at night to look after animals or the like, could hear her talking incessantly up there, even if she were alone. But then Jomfru Koller began to talk of going away. She suddenly got the idea that she wanted to go to Copenhagen and learn something, so that she could earn her own living. It sounded strange, as there was every prospect of her some day inheriting the farmer's property. Fru Kongstrup was quite upset at the thought of losing her, and altogether forgot her other troubles in continually talking to her about it. Even when everything was settled, and they were standing in the mangling-room with the maids, getting Jomfru Koller's things ready for her journey, she still kept on--to no earthly purpose. Like all the Stone Farm family, she could never let go anything she had once got hold of. There was something strange about Jomfru Koller's obstinacy of purpose; she was not even quite sure what she was going to do over there. "I suppose she's going over to learn cooking," said one and another with a covert smile. Fru Kongstrup herself had no suspicion. She, who was always suspecting something, seemed to be blind here. It must have been because she had such complete trust in Jomfru Koller, and thought so much of her. She had not even time to sigh, so busy was she in putting everything into good order. Much need there was for it, too; Jomfru Koller must have had her head full of very different things, judging from the condition her clothes were in. "I'm glad Kongstrup's going over with her," said Fru Kongstrup to Fair Maria one evening when they were sitting round the big darning-basket, mending the young lady's stockings after the wash. "They say Copenhagen's a bad town for inexperienced young people to come to. But Sina'll get on all right, for she's got the good stock of the Kollers in her." She said it all with such childish simplicity; you could tramp in and out of her heart with great wooden shoes on, suspicious though she was. "Perhaps we'll come over to see you at Christmas, Sina," she added in the goodness of her heart. Jomfru Koller opened her mouth and caught her breath in terror, but did not answer. She bent over her work and did not look at any one all the evening. She never looked frankly at any one now. "She's ashamed of her deceitfulness!" they said. The judgment would fall upon her; she ought to have known what she was doing, and not gone between the bark and the wood, especially here where one of them trusted her entirely. In the upper yard the new man Paer was busy getting the closed carriage ready. Erik stood beside him idle. He looked unhappy and troubled, poor fellow, as he always did when he was not near the bailiff. Each time a wheel had to come off or be put on, he had to put his giant's back under the big carriage and lift it. Every now and then Lasse came to the stable-door to get an idea of what was going on. Pelle was at school, it being the first day of the new half-year. She was going away to-day, the false wretch who had let herself be drawn into deceiving one who had been a mother to her! Fru Kongstrup must be going with them down to the steamer, as the closed carriage was going. Lasse went into the bedroom to arrange one or two things so that he could slip out in the evening without Pelle noticing it. He had given Pelle a little paper of sweets for Madam Olsen, and on the paper he had drawn a cross with a lead button; and the cross meant in all secrecy that he would come to her that evening. While he took out his best clothes and hid them under some hay close to the outer door, he hummed:-- "Love's longing so strong It helped me along, And the way was made short with the nightingales' song." He was looking forward so immensely to the evening; he had not been alone with her now for nearly a quarter of a year. He was proud, moreover, of having taken writing into his service, and that a writing that Pelle, quick reader of writing though he was, would not be able to make out. While the others were taking their after-dinner nap, Lasse went out and tidied up the dung-heap. The carriage was standing up there with one large trunk strapped on behind, and another standing on one edge on the box. Lasse wondered what such a girl would do when she was alone out in the wide world and had to pay the price of her sin. He supposed there must be places where they took in such girls in return for good payment; everything could be got over there! Johanna Pihl came waddling in at the gate up there. Lasse started when he saw her; she never came for any good. When she boldly exhibited herself here, she was always drunk, and then she stopped at nothing. It was sad to see how low misfortune could drag a woman. Lasse could not help thinking what a pretty girl she had been in her youth. And now all she thought of was making money out of her shame! He cautiously withdrew into the stable, so as not to be an eye-witness to anything, and peered out from there. The Sow went up and down in front of the windows, and called in a thick voice, over which she had not full command: "Kongstrup, Kongstrup! Come out and let me speak to you. You must let me have some money, for your son and I haven't had any food for three days." "That's a wicked lie!" said Lasse to himself indignantly, "for she has a good income. But she wastes God's gifts, and now she's out to do some evil." He would have liked to take the fork and chase her out through the gate, but it was not well to expose one's self to her venomous tongue. She had her foot upon the step, but did not dare to mount. Fuddled though she was, there was something that kept her in check. She stood there groping at the handrail and mumbling to herself, and every now and then lifting her fat face and calling Kongstrup. Jomfru Koller came inadvertently up from the basement, and went toward the steps; her eyes were on the ground, and she did not see the Sow until it was too late, and then she turned quickly. Johanna Pihl stood grinning. "Come here, miss, and let me wish you good-day!" she cried. "You're too grand, are you? But the one may be just as good as the other! Perhaps it's because you can drive away in a carriage and have yours on the other side of the sea, while I had mine in a beet-field! But is that anything to be proud of? I say, just go up and tell my fine gentleman that his eldest's starving! I daren't go myself because of the evil eye." Long before this Jomfru Koller was down in the basement again, but Johanna Pihl continued to stand and say the same thing over and over again, until the bailiff came dashing out toward her, when she retired, scolding, from the yard. The men had been aroused before their time by her screaming, and stood drowsily watching behind the barn-doors. Lasse kept excited watch from the stable, and the girls had collected in the wash-house. What would happen now? They all expected some terrible outbreak. But nothing happened. Now, when Fru Kongstrup had the right to shake heaven and earth--so faithlessly had they treated her--now she was silent. The farm was as peaceful as on the days when they had come to a sort of understanding, and Kongstrup kept himself quiet. Fru Kongstrup passed the windows up there, and looked just like anybody else. Nothing happened! Something must have been said, however, for the young lady had a very tear-stained face when they got into the carriage, and Kongstrup wore his confused air. Then Karl Johan drove away with the two; and the mistress did not appear. She was probably ashamed for what concerned the others. Nothing had happened to relieve the suspense; it oppressed every one. She must have accepted her unhappy lot, and given up standing out for her rights, now, just when every one would have supported her. This tranquillity was so unnatural, so unreasonable, that it made one melancholy and low-spirited. It was as though others were suffering on her behalf, and she herself had no heart. But then it broke down, and the sound of weeping began to ooze out over the farm, quiet and regular like flowing heart's blood. All the evening it flowed; the weeping had never sounded so despairing; it went to the hearts of all. She had taken in the poor child and treated her as her own, and the poor child had deceived her. Every one felt how she must suffer. During the night the weeping rose to cries so heart-rending that they awakened even Pelle--wet with perspiration. "It sounds like some one in the last agonies!" said Lasse, and hastily drew on his trousers with trembling, clumsy hands. "She surely hasn't laid hands upon herself?" He lighted the lantern and went out into the stable, Pelle following naked. Then suddenly the cries ceased, as abruptly as if the sound had been cut off with an axe, and the silence that followed said dumbly that it was forever. The farm sank into the darkness of night like an extinguished world. "Our mistress is dead!" said Lasse, shivering and moving his fingers over his lips. "May God receive her kindly!" They crept fearfully into bed. But when they got up the next morning, the farm looked as it always did, and the maids were chattering and making as much noise as usual in the wash-house. A little while after, the mistress's voice was heard up there, giving directions about the work. "I don't understand it," said Lasse, shaking his head. "Nothing but death can stop anything so suddenly. She must have a tremendous power over herself!" It now became apparent what a capable woman she was. She had not wasted anything in the long period of idleness; the maids became brisker and the fare better. One day she came to the cow-stable to see that the milking was done cleanly. She gave every one his due, too. One day they came from the quarry and complained that they had had no wages for three weeks. There was not enough money on the farm. "Then we must get some," said the mistress, and they had to set about threshing at once. And one day when Karna raised too many objections she received a ringing box on the ear. "It's a new nature she's got," said Lasse. But the old workpeople recognized several things from their young days. "It's her family's nature," they said. "She's a regular Koller." The time passed without any change; she was as constant in her tranquillity as she had before been constant in her misery. It was not the habit of the Kollers to change their minds once they had made them up about anything. Then Kongstrup came home from his journey. She did not drive out to meet him, but was on the steps to greet him, gentle and kind. Everybody could see how pleased and surprised he was. He must have expected a very different reception. But during the night, when they were all sound asleep, Karna came knocking at the men's window. "Get up and fetch the doctor!" she cried, "and be quick!" The call sounded like one of life and death, and they turned out headlong. Lasse, who was in the habit of sleeping with one eye open, like the hens, was the first man on the spot, and had got the horses out of the stable; and in a few minutes Karl Johan was driving out at the gate. He had a man with him to hold the lantern. It was pitch-dark, but they could hear the carriage tearing along until the sound became very distant; then in another moment the sound changed, as the vehicle turned on to the metalled road a couple of miles off. Then it died away altogether. On the farm they went about shaking themselves and unable to rest, wandering into their rooms and out again to gaze up at the tall windows, where people were running backward and forward with lights. What had happened? Some mishap to the farmer, evidently, for now and again the mistress's commanding voice could be heard down in the kitchen--but what? The wash-house and the servants' room were dark and locked. Toward morning, when the doctor had come and had taken things into his own hands, a greater calm fell upon them all, and the maids took the opportunity of slipping out into the yard. They would not at once say what was the matter, but stood looking in an embarrassed way at one another, and laughing stupidly. At last they gradually got it out by first one telling a little and then another: in a fit of delirium or of madness Kongstrup had done violence to himself. Their faces were contorted with a mixture of fear and smothered laughter; and when Karl Johan said gravely to Fair Maria: "You're not telling a lie, are you?" she burst into tears. There she stood laughing and crying by turns; and it made no difference that Karl Johan scolded her sharply. But it was true, although it sounded like the craziest nonsense that a man could do such a thing to himself. It was a truth that struck one dumb! It was some time before they could make it out at all, but when they did there were one or two things about it that seemed a little unnatural. It could not have happened during intoxication, for the farmer never drank at home, did not drink at all, as far as any one knew, but only took a glass in good company. It was more likely to have been remorse and contrition; it was not impossible considering the life he had led, although it was strange that a man of his nature should behave in such a desperate fashion. But it was not satisfactory! And gradually, without it being possible to point to any origin, all thoughts turned toward her. She had changed of late, and the Koller blood had come out in her; and in that family they had never let themselves be trodden down unrevenged! XX Out in the shelter of the gable-wall of the House sat Kongstrup, well wrapped up, and gazing straight before him with expressionless eyes. The winter sun shone full upon him; it had lured forth signs of spring, and the sparrows were hopping gaily about him. His wife went backward and forward, busying herself about him; she wrapped his feet up better, and came with a shawl to put round his shoulders. She touched his chest and arms affectionately as she spread the shawl over him from behind; and he slowly raised his head and passed his hand over hers. She stood thus for a little while, leaning against his shoulder and looking down upon him like a mother, with eyes that were tranquil with the joy of possession. Pelle came bounding down across the yard, licking his lips. He had taken advantage of his mistress's preoccupation to steal down into the dairy and get a drink of sour cream from the girls, and tease them a little. He was glowing with health, and moved along as carelessly happy as if the whole world were his. It was quite dreadful the way he grew and wore out his things; it was almost impossible to keep him in clothes! His arms and legs stuck far out of every article of clothing he put on, and he wore things out as fast as Lasse could procure them. Something new was always being got for him, and before you could turn round, his arms and legs were out of that too. He was as strong as an oak-tree; and when it was a question of lifting or anything that did not require perseverence, Lasse had to allow himself to be superseded. The boy had acquired independence, too, and every day it became more difficult for the old man to assert his parental authority; but that would come as soon as Lasse was master of his own house and could bring his fist down on his own table. But when would that be? As matters now stood, it looked as if the magistrate did not want him and Madam Olsen to be decently married. Seaman Olsen had given plain warning of his decease, and Lasse thought there was nothing to do but put up the banns; but the authorities continued to raise difficulties and ferret about, in the true lawyers' way. Now there was one question that had to be examined into, and now another; there were periods of grace allowed, and summonses to be issued to the dead man to make his appearance within such and such a time, and what not besides! It was all a put-up job, so that the pettifoggers could make something out of it. He was thoroughly tired of Stone Farm. Every day he made the same complaint to Pelle: "It's nothing but toil, toil, from morning till night--one day just like another all the year round, as if you were in a convict-prison! And what you get for it is hardly enough to keep your body decently covered. You can't put anything by, and one day when you're worn out and good for nothing more, you can just go on the parish." The worst of it all, however, was the desire to work once more for himself. He was always sighing for this, and his hands were sore with longing to feel what it was like to take hold of one's own. Of late he had meditated cutting the matter short and moving down to his sweetheart's, without regard to the law. She was quite willing, he knew; she badly needed a man's hand in the house. And they were being talked about, anyhow; it would not make much difference if he and the boy went as her lodgers, especially when they worked independently. But the boy was not to be persuaded; he was jealous for his father's honor. Whenever Lasse touched upon the subject he became strangely sullen. Lasse pretended it was Madam Olsen's idea, and not his. "I'm not particularly in favor of it, either," he said. "People are sure to believe the worst at once. But we can't go on here wearing ourselves to a thread for nothing. And you can't breathe freely on this farm--always tied!" Pelle made no answer to this; he was not strong in reasons, but knew what he wanted. "If I ran away from here one night, I guess you'd come trotting after me." Pelle maintained a refractory silence. "I think I'll do it, for this isn't to be borne. Now you've got to have new school-trousers, and where are they coming from?" "Well, then, do it! Then you'll do what you say." "It's easy for you to pooh-pooh everything," said Lasse despondingly, "for you've time and years before you. But I'm beginning to get old, and I've no one to trouble about me." "Why, don't I help you with everything?" asked Pelle reproachfully. "Yes, yes, of course you do your very best to make things easier for me, and no one could say you didn't. But, you see--there are certain things you don't--there's something--" Lasse came to a standstill. What was the use of explaining the longings of a man to a boy? "You shouldn't be so obstinate, you know!" And Lasse stroked the boy's arm imploringly. But Pelle _was_ obstinate. He had already put up with plenty of sarcastic remarks from his schoolfellows, and fought a good many battles since it had become known that his father and Madam Olsen were sweethearts. If they now started living together openly, it would become quite unbearable. Pelle was not afraid of fighting, but he needed to have right on his side, if he was to kick out properly. "Move down to her, then, and I'll go away!" "Where'll you go to?" "Out into the world and get rich!" Lasse raised his head, like an old war-horse that hears a signal; but then it dropped again. "Out into the world and get rich! Yes, yes," he said slowly; "that's what I thought, too, when I was your age. But things don't happen like that--if you aren't born with a caul." Lasse was silent, and thoughtfully kicked the straw in under a cow. He was not altogether sure that the boy was not born with a caul, after all. He was a late-born child, and they were always meant for the worst or the best; and then he had that cow's-lick on his forehead, which meant good fortune. He was merry and always singing, and neat-handed at everything; and his nature made him generally liked. It was very possible that good fortune lay waiting for him somewhere out there. "But the very first thing you need for that is to be properly confirmed. You'd better take your books and learn your lesson for the priest, so that you don't get refused! I'll do the rest of the foddering." Pelle took his books and seated himself in the foddering-passage just in front of the big bull. He read in an undertone, and Lasse passed up and down at his work. For some time each minded his own; but then Lasse came up, drawn by the new lesson-books Pelle had got for his confirmation-classes. "Is that Bible history, that one there?" "Yes." "Is that about the man who drank himself drunk in there?" Lasse had long since given up learning to read; he had not the head for it. But he was always interested in what the boy was doing, and the books exerted a peculiar magic effect upon him. "Now what does that stand for?" he would ask wonderingly, pointing to something printed; or "What wonderful thing have you got in your lesson to-day?" Pelle had to keep him informed from day to day. And the same questions often came again, for Lasse had not a good memory. "You know--the one whose sons pulled off his trousers and shamed their own father?" Lasse continued, when Pelle did not answer. "Oh, Noah!" "Yes, of course! Old Noah--the one that Gustav had that song about. I wonder what he made himself drunk on, the old man?" "Wine." "Was it wine?" Lasse raised his eyebrows. "Then that Noah must have been a fine gentleman! The owner of the estate at home drank wine, too, on grand occasions. I've heard that it takes a lot of that to make a man tipsy--and it's expensive! Does the book tell you, too, about him that was such a terrible swindler? What was his name again?" "Laban, do you mean?" "Laban, yes of course! To think that I could forget it, too, for he was a regular Laban, [Footnote: An ordinary expression in Danish for a mean, deceitful person.] so the name suits him just right. It was him that let his son-in-law have both his daughters, and off their price on his daily wage too! If they'd been alive now, they'd have got hard labor, both him and his son-in-law; but in those days the police didn't look so close at people's papers. Now I should like to know whether a wife was allowed to have two husbands in those days. Does the book say anything about that?" Lasse moved his head inquisitively. "No, I don't think it does," answered Pelle absently. "Oh, well, I oughtn't to disturb you," said Lasse, and went to his work. But in a very short time he was back again. "Those two names have slipped my memory; I can't think where my head could have been at the moment. But I know the greater prophets well enough, if you like to hear me." "Say them, then!" said Pelle, without raising his eyes from his book. "But you must stop reading while I say them," said Lasse, "or you might go wrong." He did not approve of Pelle's wanting to treat it as food for babes. "Well, I don't suppose I could go wrong in the four greater!" said Pelle, with an air of superiority, but nevertheless shutting the book. Lasse took the quid out from his lower lip with his forefinger, and threw it on the ground so as to have his mouth clear, and then hitched up his trousers and stood for a little while with closed eyes while he moved his lips in inward repetition. "Are they coming soon?" asked Pelle. "I must first make sure that they're there!" answered Lasse, in vexation at the interruption, and beginning to go over them again. "Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel!" he said, dashing them off hastily, so as not to lose any of them on the way. "Shall we take Jacob's twelve sons, too?" "No, not to-day. It might be too much for me all at once. At my age you must go forward gently; I'm not as young as you, you know. But you might go through the twelve lesser prophets with me." Pelle went through them slowly, and Lasse repeated them one by one. "What confounded names they did think of in those days!" he exclaimed, quite out of breath. "You can hardly get your tongue round them! But I shall manage them in time." "What do you want to know them for, father?" asked Pelle suddenly. "What do I want to know them for?" Lasse scratched one ear. "Why, of course I--er--what a terrible stupid question! What do _you_ want to know them for? Learning's as good for the one to have as for the other, and in my youth they wouldn't let me get at anything fine like that. Do you want to keep it all to yourself?" "No, for I wouldn't care a hang about all this prophet business if I didn't _have_ to." Lasse almost fainted with horror. "Then you're the most wicked little cub I ever knew, and deserve never to have been born into the world! Is that all the respect you have for learning? You ought to be glad you were born in an age when the poor man's child shares in it all as well as the rich. It wasn't so in my time, or else--who knows--perhaps I shouldn't be going about here cleaning stables if I'd learned something when I was young. Take care you don't take pride in your own shame!" Pelle half regretted his words now, and said, to clear himself: "I'm in the top form now!" "Yes, I know that well enough, but that's no reason for your putting your hands in your trouser-pockets; while you're taking breath, the others eat the porridge. I hope you've not forgotten anything in the long Christmas holidays?" "Oh, no, I'm sure I haven't!" said Pelle, with assurance. Lasse did not doubt it either, but only made believe he did to take the boy in. He knew nothing more splendid than to listen to a rushing torrent of learning, but it was becoming more and more difficult to get the laddie to contribute it. "How can you be sure?" he went on. "Hadn't you better see? It would be such a comfort to know that you hadn't forgotten anything--so much as you must have in your head." Pelle felt flattered and yielded. He stretched out his legs, closed his eyes, and began to rock backward and forward. And the Ten Commandments, the Patriarchs, the Judges, Joseph and his brethren, the four major and the twelve minor prophets--the whole learning of the world poured from his lips in one long breath. To Lasse it seemed as if the universe itself were whizzing round the white- bearded countenance of the Almighty. He had to bend his head and cross himself in awe at the amount that the boy's little head could contain. "I wonder what it costs to be a student?" said Lasse, when he once more felt earth beneath his feet. "It must be expensive--a thousand krones, I suppose, at least," Pelle thought. Neither of them connected any definite idea with the number; it merely meant the insurmountably great. "I wonder if it would be so terrible dear," said Lasse. "I've been thinking that when we have something of our own--I suppose it'll come to something some day--you might go to Fris and learn the trade of him fairly cheap, and have your meals at home. We ought to be able to manage it that way." Pelle did not answer; he felt no desire to be apprenticed to the clerk. He had taken out his knife, and was cutting something on a post of one of the stalls. It represented the big bull with his head down to the ground, and its tongue hanging out of one corner of its mouth. One hoof right forward at its mouth indicated that the animal was pawing up the ground in anger. Lasse could not help stopping, for now it was beginning to be like something. "That's meant to be a cow, isn't it?" he said. He had been wondering every day, as it gradually grew. "It's Volmer that time he took you on his horns," said Pelle. Lasse could see at once that it was that, now that he had been told. "It's really very like," he said; "but he wasn't so angry as you've made him! Well, well, you'd better get to work again; that there fooling can't make a living for a man." Lasse did not like this defect in the boy--making drawings with chalk or his penknife all over; there would soon not be a beam or a wall in the place that did not bear marks of one or the other. It was useless nonsense, and the farmer would probably be angry if he came into the stable and happened to see them. Lasse had every now and then to throw cow-dung over the most conspicuous drawings, so that they should not catch the eye of people for whom they were not intended. Up at the house, Kongstrup was just going in, leaning on his wife's arm. He looked pale but by no means thin. "He's still rather lame," said Lasse, peeping out; "but it won't be long before we have him down here, so you'd better not quite destroy the post." Pelle went on cutting. "If you don't leave off that silly nonsense, I'll throw dirt over it!" said Lasse angrily. "Then I'll draw you and Madam Olsen on the big gate!" answered Pelle roguishly. "You--you'd better! I should curse you before my face, and get the parson to send you away--if not something worse!" Lasse was quite upset, and went off down to the other end of the cow-stable and began the afternoon's cleaning, knocking and pulling his implements about. In his anger he loaded the wheelbarrow too full, and then could neither go one way nor the other, as his feet slipped. Pelle came down with the gentlest of faces. "Mayn't I wheel the barrow out?" he said. "Your wooden shoes aren't so firm on the stones." Lasse growled some reply, and let him take it. For a very short time he was cross, but it was no good; the boy could be irresistible when he liked. XXI Pelle had been to confirmation-class, and was now sitting in the servants' room eating his dinner--boiled herring and porridge. It was Saturday, and the bailiff had driven into the town, so Erik was sitting over the stove. He never said anything of his own accord, but always sat and stared; and his eyes followed Pelle's movements backward and forward between his mouth and his plate. He always kept his eyebrows raised, as if everything were new to him; they had almost grown into that position. In front of him stood a mug of beer in a large pool, for he drank constantly and spilt some every time. Fair Maria was washing up, and looked in every now and then to see if Pelle were finished. When he licked his horn spoon clean and threw it into the drawer, she came in with something on a plate: they had had roast loin of pork for dinner upstairs. "Here's a little taste for you," she said. "I expect you're still hungry. What'll you give me for it?" She kept the plate in her hand, and looked at him with a coaxing smile. Pelle was still very hungry--ravenous; and he looked at the titbit until his mouth watered. Then he dutifully put up his lips and Maria kissed him. She glanced involuntarily at Erik, and a gleam of something passed over his foolish face, like a faint reminiscence. "There sits that great gaby making a mess!" she said, scolding as she seized the beer-mug from him, held it under the edge of the table, and with her hand swept the spilt beer into it. Pelle set to work upon the pork without troubling about anything else; but when she had gone out, he carefully spat down between his legs, and went through a small cleansing operation with the sleeve of his blouse. When he was finished he went into the stable and cleaned out the mangers, while Lasse curried the cows; it was all to look nice for Sunday. While they worked, Pelle gave a full account of the day's happenings, and repeated all that the parson had said. Lasse listened attentively, with occasional little exclamations. "Think of that!" "Well, I never!" "So David was a buck like that, and yet he walked in the sight of God all the same! Well, God's long-suffering is great--there's no mistake about that!" There was a knock at the outer door. It was one of Kalle's children with the message that grandmother would like to bid them good-bye before she passed away. "Then she can't have long to live," exclaimed Lasse. "It'll be a great loss to them all, so happy as they've been together. But there'll be a little more food for the others, of course." They agreed to wait until they were quite finished, and then steal away; for if they asked to be let off early, they would not be likely to get leave for the funeral. "And that'll be a day's feasting, with plenty of food and drink, if I know anything of Brother Kalle!" said Lasse. When they had finished their work and had their supper, they stole out through the outside door into the field. Lasse had heaped up the quilt, and put an old woolly cap just sticking out at the pillow-end; in a hurry it could easily be mistaken for the hair of a sleeper, if any one came to see. When they had got a little way, Lasse had to go back once more to take precautions against fire. It was snowing gently and silently, and the ground was frozen so that they could go straight on over everything. Now that they knew the way, it seemed no distance at all; and before they knew where they were, the fields came to an end and the rock began. There was a light in the cottage. Kalle was sitting up waiting for them. "Grandmother hasn't long to live," he said, more seriously than Lasse ever remembered to have heard him speak before. Kalle opened the door to grandmother's room, and whispered something, to which his wife answered softly out of the darkness. "Oh, I'm awake," said the old woman, in a slow, monotonous voice. "You can speak out, for I am awake." Lasse and Pelle took off their leather shoes and went in in their stockings. "Good evening, grandmother!" they both said solemnly, "and the peace of God!" Lasse added. "Well, here I am," said the old woman, feebly patting the quilt. She had big woollen gloves on. "I took the liberty of sending for you for I haven't long to live now. How are things going on in the parish? Have there been any deaths?" "No, not that I know of," answered Lasse. "But you look so well, grandmother, so fat and rosy! We shall see you going about again in two or three days." "Oh, I dare say!" said the old woman, smiling indulgently. "I suppose I look like a young bride after her first baby, eh? But thank you for coming; it's as if you belonged to me. Well, now I've been sent for, and I shall depart in peace. I've had a good time in this world, and haven't anything to complain of. I had a good husband and a good daughter, not forgetting Kalle there. And I got my sight back, so that I saw the world once more." "But you only saw it with one eye, like the birds, grandmother," said Kalle, trying to laugh. "Yes, yes, but that was quite good enough; there was so much that was new since I lost my sight. The wood had grown bigger, and a whole family had grown up without my quite knowing it. Ah! yes, it has been good to live in my old age and have them all about me-- Kalle and Maria and the children. And all of my own age have gone before me; it's been nice to see what became of them all." "How old are you now, grandmother?" asked Lasse. "Kalle has looked it up in the church-book, and from that I ought to be almost eighty; but that can scarcely be right." "Yes, it's right enough," said Kalle, "for the parson looked it up for me himself." "Well, well, then the time's gone quickly, and I shouldn't at all mind living a little longer, if it was God's will. But the grave's giving warning; I notice it in my eyelids." The old woman had a little difficulty in breathing, but kept on talking. "You're talking far too much, mother!" said Maria. "Yes, you ought to be resting and sleeping," said Lasse. "Hadn't we better say good-bye to you?" "No, I really must talk, for it'll be the last time I see you and I shall have plenty of time to rest. My eyes are so light thank God, and I don't feel the least bit sleepy." "Grandmother hasn't slept for a whole week, I think," said Kalle doubtfully. "And why should I sleep away the last of the time I shall have here, when I shall get plenty of time for that afterward? At night when you others are asleep, I lie and listen to your breathing, and feel glad that you're all so well. Or I look at the heather-broom, and think of Anders and all the fun we had together." She lay silent for a little while, getting her breath, while she gazed at a withered bunch of heather hanging from a beam. "He gathered that for me the first time we lay in the flowering heather. He was so uncommonly fond of the heather, was Anders, and every year when it flowered, he took me out of my bed and carried me out there--every year until he was called away. I was always as new for him as on the first day, and so happiness and joy took up their abode in my heart." "Now, mother, you ought to be quiet and not talk so much!" said Maria, smoothing the old woman's pillow. But she would not be silenced, though her thoughts shifted a little. "Yes, my teeth were hard to get and hard to lose, and I brought my children into the world with pain, and laid them in the grave with sorrow, one after another. But except for that, I've never been ill, and I've had a good husband. He had an eye for God's creations, and we got up with the birds every summer morning, and went out onto the heath and saw the sun rise out of the sea before we set about our days work." The old woman's slow voice died away, and it was as though a song ceased to sound in their ears. They sat up and sighed. "Ah, yes," said Lasse, "the voice of memory is pleasant!" "What about you, Lasse?" said the old woman suddenly, "I hear you're looking about for a wife!" "Am I?" exclaimed Lasse, in alarm. Pelle saw Kalle wink at Maria, so they knew about it too. "Aren't you soon coming to show us your sweetheart?" asked Kalle. "I hear it's a good match." "I don't in the least know what you're talking about," said Lasse, quite confused. "Well, well, you might do worse than that!" said the grandmother. "She's good enough--from what I know. I hope you'll suit one another like Anders and me. It was a happy time--the days when we went about and each did our best, and the nights when the wind blew. It was good then to be two to keep one another warm." "You've been very happy in everything, grandmother," exclaimed Lasse. "Yes, and I'm departing in peace and can lie quiet in my grave. I've not been treated unfairly in any way, and I've got nothing to haunt any one for. If only Kalle takes care to have me carried out feet first, I don't expect I shall trouble you." "Just you come and visit us now and then if you like! We shan't be afraid to welcome you, for we've been so happy together here," said Kalle. "No, you never know what your nature may be in the next life. You must promise to have me carried out feet first! I don't want to disturb your night's rest, so hard as you two have to work all day. And, besides, you've had to put up with me long enough, and it'll be nice for you to be by yourselves for once; and there'll be a bit more for you to eat after this." Maria began to cry. "Now look here!" exclaimed Kalle testily. "I won't hear any more of that nonsense, for none of us have had to go short because of you. If you aren't good, I shall give a big party after you, for joy that you're gone!" "No, you won't!" said the old woman quite sharply. "I won't hear of a three days' wake! Promise me now, Maria, that you won't go and ruin yourselves to make a fuss over a poor old soul like me! But you must ask the nearest neighbors in in the afternoon, with Lasse and Pelle, of course. And if you ask Hans Henrik, perhaps he'd bring his concertina with him, and you could have a dance in the barn." Kalle scratched the back of his head. "Then, hang it, you must wait until I've finished threshing, for I can't clear the floor now. Couldn't we borrow Jens Kure's horse, and take a little drive over the heath in the afternoon?" "You might do that, too, but the children are to have a share in whatever you settle to do. It'll be a comfort to think they'll have a happy day out of it, for they don't have too many holidays; and there's money for it, you know." "Yes, would you believe it, Lasse--grandmother's got together fifty krones that none of us knew anything about, to go toward her funeral-party!" "I've been putting by for it for twenty years now, for I'd like to leave the world in a decent way, and without pulling the clothes off my relations' backs. My grave-clothes are all ready, too, for I've got my wedding chemise lying by. It's only been used once, and more than that and my cap I don't want to have on." "But that's so little," objected Maria. "Whatever will the neighbors say if we don't dress you properly?" "I don't care!" answered the old woman decidedly. "That's how Anders liked me best, and it's all I've worn in bed these sixty years. So there!" And she turned her head to the wall. "You shall have it all just as you like, mother!" said Maria. The old woman turned round again, and felt for her daughter's hand on the quilt. "And you must make rather a soft pillow for my old head, for it's become so difficult to find rest for it." "We can take one of the babies' pillows and cover it with white," said Maria. "Thank you! And then I think you should send to Jacob Kristian's for the carpenter to-morrow--he's somewhere about, anyhow--and let him measure me for the coffin; then I could have my say as to what it's to be like. Kalle's so free with his money." The old woman closed her eyes. She had tired herself out, after all. "Now I think we'll creep out into the other room, and let her be quiet," whispered Kalle, getting up; but at that she opened her eyes. "Are you going already?" she asked. "We thought you were asleep, grandmother," said Lasse. "No, I don't suppose I shall sleep any more in this life; my eyes are so light, so light! Well, good-bye to you, Lasse and Pelle! May you be very, very happy, as happy as I've been. Maria was the only one death spared, but she's been a good daughter to me; and Kalle's been as good and kind to me as if I'd been his sweetheart. I had a good husband, too, who chopped firewood for me on Sundays, and got up in the night to look after the babies when I was lying-in. We were really well off--lead weights in the clock and plenty of firing; and he promised me a trip to Copenhagen. I churned my first butter in a bottle, for we had no churn to begin with; and I had to break the bottle to get it out, and then he laughed, for he always laughed when I did anything wrong. And how glad he was when each baby was born! Many a morning did he wake me up and we went out to see the sun come up out of the sea. 'Come and see, Anna,' he would say, 'the heather's come into bloom in the night.' But it was only the sun that shed its red over it! It was more than two miles to our nearest neighbor, but he didn't care for anything as long as he had me. He found his greatest pleasures in me, poor as I was; and the animals were fond of me too. Everything went well with us on the whole." She lay moving her head from side to side, and the tears were running down her cheeks. She no longer had difficulty in breathing, and one thing recalled another, and fell easily in one long tone from her lips. She probably did not now know what she was saying, but could not stop talking. She began at the beginning and repeated the words, evenly and monotonously, like one who is carried away and _must_ talk. "Mother!" said Maria anxiously, putting her hands on her mother's shaking head. "Recollect yourself, mother!" The old woman stopped and looked at her wonderingly. "Ah, yes!" she said. "Memories came upon me so fast! I almost think I could sleep a little now." Lasse rose and went up to the bed. "Good-bye, grandmother!" he said, "and a pleasant journey, in case we shouldn't meet again!" Pelle followed him and repeated the words. The old woman looked at them inquiringly, but did not move. Then Lasse gently took her hand, and then Pelle, and they stole out into the other room. "Her flame's burning clear to the end!" said Lasse, when the door was shut. Pelle noticed how freely their voices rang again. "Yes, she'll be herself to the very end; there's been extra good timber in her. The people about here don't like our not having the doctor to her. What do you think? Shall we go to the expense?" "I don't suppose there's anything more the matter with her than that she can't live any longer," said Lasse thoughtfully. "No, and she herself won't hear of it. If he could only keep life in her a little while longer!" "Yes, times are hard!" said Lasse, and went round to look at the children. They were all asleep, and their room seemed heavy with their breathing. "The flock's getting much smaller." "Yes; one or two fly away from the nest pretty well every year," answered Kalle, "and now I suppose we shan't have any more. It's an unfortunate figure we've stopped at--a horrid figure; but Maria's become deaf in that ear, and I can't do anything alone." Kalle had got back his roguish look. "I'm sure we can do very well with what we've got," said Maria. "When we take Anna's too, it makes fourteen." "Oh, yes, count the others too, and you'll get off all the easier!" said Kalle teasingly. Lasse was looking at Anna's child, which lay side by side with Kalle's thirteenth. "She looks healthier than her aunt," he said. "You'd scarcely think they were the same age. She's just as red as the other's pale." "Yes, there is a difference," Kalle admitted, looking affectionately at the children. "It must be that Anna's has come from young people, while _our_ blood's beginning to get old. And then the ones that come the wrong side of the blanket always thrive best--like our Albert, for instance. He carries himself quite differently from the others. Did you know, by-the-by, that he's to get a ship of his own next spring?" "No, surely not! Is he really going to be a captain?" said Lasse, in the utmost astonishment. "It's Kongstrup that's at the back of that--that's between ourselves, of course!" "Does the father of Anna's child still pay what he's bound to?" asked Lasse. "Yes, he's honest enough! We get five krones a month for having the child, and that's a good help toward expenses." Maria had placed a dram, bread and a saucer of dripping on the table, and invited them to take their places at it. "You're holding out a long time at Stone Farm," said Kalle, when they were seated. "Are you going to stay there all your life?" he asked, with a mischievous wink. "It's not such a simple matter to strike out into the deep!" said Lasse evasively. "Oh, we shall soon be hearing news from you, shan't we?" asked Maria. Lasse did not answer; he was struggling with a crust. "Oh, but do cut off the crust if it's too much for your teeth!" said Maria. Every now and then she listened at her mother's door. "She's dropped off, after all, poor old soul!" she said. Kalle pretended to discover the bottle for the first time. "What! Why, we've got gin on the table, too, and not one of us has smelt it!" he exclaimed, and filled their glasses for the third time. Then Maria corked the bottle. "Do you even grudge us our food?" he said, making great eyes at her--what a rogue he was! And Maria stared at him with eyes that were just as big, and said: "Yah! you want to fight, do you?" It quite warmed Lasse's heart to see their happiness. "How's the farmer at Stone Farm? I suppose he's got over the worst now, hasn't he?" said Kalle. "Well, I think he's as much a man as he'll ever be. A thing like that leaves its mark upon any one," answered Lasse. Maria was smiling, and as soon as they looked at her, she looked away. "Yes, you may grin!" said Lasse; "but I think it's sad!" Upon which Maria had to go out into the kitchen to have her laugh out. "That's what all the women do at the mere mention of his name," said Kalle. "It's a sad change. To-day red, to-morrow dead. Well, she's got her own way in one thing, and that is that she keeps him to herself--in a way. But to think that he can live with her after that!" "They seem fonder of one another than they ever were before; he can't do without her for a single minute. But of course he wouldn't find any one else to love him now. What a queer sort of devilment love is! But we must see about getting home." "Well, I'll send you word when she's to be buried," said Kalle, when they got outside the house. "Yes, do! And if you should be in want of a ten-krone note for the funeral, let me know. Good-bye, then!" XXII Grandmother's funeral was still like a bright light behind everything that one thought and did. It was like certain kinds of food, that leave a pleasant taste in the mouth long after they have been eaten and done with. Kalle had certainly done everything to make it a festive day; there was an abundance of good things to eat and drink, and no end to his comical tricks. And, sly dog that he was, he had found an excuse for asking Madam Olsen; it was really a nice way of making the relation a legitimate one. It gave Lasse and Pelle enough to talk about for a whole month, and after the subject was quite talked out and laid on one side for other things, it remained in the background as a sense of well-being of which no one quite knew the origin. But now spring was advancing, and with it came troubles--not the daily trifles that could be bad enough, but great troubles that darkened everything, even when one was not thinking about them. Pelle was to be confirmed at Easter, and Lasse was at his wits' end to know how he was going to get him all that he would need--new clothes, new cap, new shoes! The boy often spoke about it; he must have been afraid of being put to shame before the others that day in church. "It'll be all right," said Lasse; but he himself saw no way at all out of the difficulty. At all the farms where the good old customs prevailed, the master and mistress provided it all; out here everything was so confoundedly new-fangled, with Prompt payments that slipped away between one's fingers. A hundred krones a year in wages seemed a tremendous amount when one thought of it all in one; but you only got them gradually, a few ores at a time, without your being able to put your finger anywhere and say: You got a good round sum there! "Yes, yes, it'll be all right!" said Lasse aloud, when he had got himself entangled in absurd speculations; and Pelle had to be satisfied with this. There was only one way out of the difficulty--to borrow the money from Madam Olsen; and that Lasse would have to come to in the end, loth as he was to do it. But Pelle must not know anything about it. Lasse refrained as long as he possibly could, hoping that something or other would turn up to free him from the necessity of so disgraceful a proceeding as borrowing from his sweetheart. But nothing happened, and time was passing. One morning he cut the matter short; Pelle was just setting out for school. "Will you run in to Madam Olsen's and give her this?" he said, handing the boy a packet. "It's something she's promised to mend for us." Inside on the paper, was the large cross that announced Lasse's coming in the evening. From the hills Pelle saw that the ice had broken up in the night. It had filled the bay for nearly a month with a rough, compact mass, upon which you could play about as safely as on dry land. This was a new side of the sea, and Pelle had carefully felt his way forward with the tips of his wooden shoes, to the great amusement of the others. Afterward he learned to walk about freely on the ice without constantly shivering at the thought that the great fish of the sea were going about just under his wooden shoes, and perhaps were only waiting for him to drop through. Every day he went out to the high rampart of pack-ice that formed the boundary about a mile out, where the open water moved round in the sunshine like a green eye. He went out because he would do what the others did, but he never felt safe on the sea. Now it was all broken up, and the bay was full of heaving ice-floes that rubbed against one another with a crackling sound; and the pieces farthest out, carrying bits of the rampart, were already on their way out to sea. Pelle had performed many exploits out there, but was really quite pleased that it was now packing up and taking its departure, so that it would once more be no crime to stay on dry land. Old Fris was sitting in his place. He never left it now during a lesson, however badly things might go down in the class, but contented himself with beating on the desk with his cane. He was little more than a shadow of his former self, his head was always shaking, and his hands were often incapable of grasping an object. He still brought the newspaper with him, and opened it out at the beginning of the lesson, but he did not read. He would fall into a dream, sitting bolt upright, with his hands on the desk and his back against the wall. At such times the children could be as noisy as they liked, and he did not move; only a slight change in the expression of his eyes showed that he was alive at all. It was quieter in school now. It was not worth while teasing the master, for he scarcely noticed it, and so the fun lost most of its attraction. A kind of court of justice had gradually formed among the bigger boys; they determined the order of the school-lessons, and disobedience and disputes as to authority were respectively punished and settled in the playground--with fists and tips of wooden shoes. The instruction was given as before, by the cleverer scholars teaching what they knew to the others; there was rather more arithmetic and reading than in Fris's time, but on the other hand the hymns suffered. It still sometimes happened that Fris woke up and interfered in the instruction. "Hymns!" he would cry in his feeble voice, and strike the desk from habit; and the children would put aside what they were doing to please the old man, and begin repeating some hymn or other, taking their revenge by going through one verse over and over again for a whole hour. It was the only real trick they played the old man, and the joke was all on their side, for Fris noticed nothing. Fris had so often talked of resigning his post, but now he did not even think of that. He shuffled to and from school at the regular times, probably without even knowing he did it. The authorities really had not the heart to dismiss him. Except in the hymns, which came off with rather short measure, there was nothing to say against him as teacher; for no one had ever yet left his school without being able both to write his name and to read a printed book--if it were in the old type. The new-fashioned printing with Latin letters Fris did not teach, although he had studied Latin in his youth. Fris himself probably did not feel the change, for he had ceased to feel both for himself and for others. None now brought their human sorrows to him, and found comfort in a sympathetic mind; his mind was not there to consult. It floated outside him, half detached, as it were, like a bird that is unwilling to leave its old nest to set out on a flight to the unknown. It must have been the fluttering mind that his eyes were always following when they dully gazed about into vacancy. But the young men who came home to winter in the village, and went to Fris as to an old friend, felt the change. For them there was now an empty place at home; they missed the old growler, who, though he hated them all in the lump at school, loved them all afterward, and was always ready with his ridiculous "He was my best boy!" about each and all of them, good and bad alike. The children took their playtime early, and rushed out before Pelle had given the signal; and Fris trotted off as usual into the village, where he would be absent the customary two hours. The girls gathered in a flock to eat their dinners, and the boys dashed about the playground like birds let loose from a cage. Pelle was quite angry at the insubordination, and pondered over a way of making himself respected; for to-day he had had the other big boys against him. He dashed over the playground like a circling gull, his body inclined and his arms stretched out like a pair of wings. Most of them made room for him, and those who did not move willingly were made to do so. His position was threatened, and he kept moving incessantly, as if to keep the question undecided until a possibility of striking presented itself. This went on for some time; he knocked some over and hit out at others in his flight, while his offended sense of power grew. He wanted to make enemies of them all. They began to gather up by the gymnastic apparatus, and suddenly he had the whole pack upon him. He tried to rise and shake them off, flinging them hither and thither, but all in vain; down through the heap came their remorseless knuckles and made him grin with pain. He worked away indefatigably but without effect until he lost patience and resorted to less scrupulous tactics--thrusting his fingers into eyes, or attacking noses, windpipes, and any vulnerable part he could get at. That thinned them out, and he was able to rise and fling a last little fellow across the playground. Pelle was well bruised and quite out of breath, but contented. They all stood by, gaping, and let him brush himself down; he was the victor. He went across to the girls with his torn blouse, and they put it together with pins and gave him sweets; and in return he fastened two of them together by their plaits, and they screamed and let him pull them about without being cross; it was all just as it should be. But he was not quite secure after his victory. He could not, like Henry Boker in his time, walk right through the whole flock with his hands in his pockets directly after a battle, and look as if they did not exist. He had to keep stealing glances at them while he strolled down to the beach, and tried with all his might to control his breathing; for next to crying, to be out of breath was the greatest disgrace that could happen to you. Pelle walked along the beach, regretting that he had not leaped upon them again at once while the flush of victory was still upon him: it was too late now. If he had, it might perhaps have been said of him too that he could lick all the rest of the class together; and now he must be content with being the strongest boy in the school. A wild war-whoop from the school made him start. The whole swarm of boys was coming round the end of the house with sticks and pieces of wood in their hands. Pelle knew what was at stake if he gave way, and therefore forced himself to stand quietly waiting although his legs twitched. But suddenly they made a wild rush at him, and with a spring he turned to fly. There lay the sea barring his way, closely packed with heaving ice. He ran out on to an ice-floe, leaped from it to the next, which was not large enough to bear him--had to go on. The idea of flight possessed him and made the fear of what lay behind overpoweringly great. The lumps of ice gave way beneath him, and he had to leap from piece to piece; his feet moved as fast as fingers over the notes of a piano. He just noticed enough to take the direction toward the harbor breakwater. The others stood gaping on the beach while Pelle danced upon the water like a stone making ducks and drakes. The pieces of ice bobbed under as soon as he touched them, or turned up on edge; but Pelle came and slid by with a touch, flung himself to one side with lightning rapidity, and changed his aim in the middle of a leap like a cat. It was like a dance on red-hot iron, so quickly did he pick up his feet, and spring from one place to another. The water spurted up from the pieces of ice as he touched them, and behind him stretched a crooked track of disturbed ice and water right back to the place where the boys stood and held their breath. There was nobody like Pelle, not one of them could do what he had done there! When with a final leap he threw himself upon the breakwater, they cheered him. Pelle had triumphed in his flight! He lay upon the breakwater, exhausted and gasping for breath, and gazed without interest at a brig that had cast anchor off the village. A boat was rowing in--perhaps with a sick man to be put in quarantine. The weather-beaten look of the vessel told of her having been out on a winter voyage, in ice and heavy seas. Fishermen came down from the cottages and strolled out to the place where the boat would come in, and all the school-children followed. In the stern of the boat sat an elderly, weather-beaten man with a fringe of beard round his face; he was dressed in blue, and in front of him stood a sea-chest. "Why, it's Boatswain Olsen!" Pelle heard one fisherman say. Then the man stepped ashore, and shook hands with them all; and the fisherman and the school-children closed round him in a dense circle. Pelle made his way up, creeping along behind boats and sheds; and as soon as he was hidden by the school-building, he set off running straight across the fields to Stone Farm. His vexation burnt his throat, and a feeling of shame made him keep far away from houses and people. The parcel that he had had no opportunity of delivering in the morning was like a clear proof to everybody of his shame, and he threw it into a marl-pit as he ran. He would not go through the farm, but thundered on the outside door to the stable. "Have you come home already?" exclaimed Lasse, pleased. "Now--now Madam Olsen's husband's come home!" panted Pelle, and went past his father without looking at him. To Lasse it was as if the world had burst and the falling fragments were piercing into his flesh. Everything was failing him. He moved about trembling and unable to grasp anything; he could not talk, everything in him seemed to have come to a standstill. He had picked up a piece of rope, and was going backward and forward, backward and forward, looking up. Then Pelle went up to him. "What are you going to do with that?" he asked harshly. Lasse let the rope fall from his hand and began to complain of the sadness and poverty of existence. One feather fell off here, and another there, until at last you stood trampling in the mud like a featherless bird--old and worn-out and robbed of every hope of a happy old age. He went on complaining in this way in an undertone, and it eased him. Pelle made no response. He only thought of the wrong and the shame that had come upon them, and found no relief. Next morning he took his dinner and went off as usual, but when he was halfway to school he lay down under a thorn. There he lay, fuming and half-frozen, until it was about the time when school would be over, when he went home. This he did for several days. Toward his father he was silent, almost angry. Lasse went about lamenting, and Pelle had enough with his own trouble; each moved in his own world, and there was no bridge between; neither of them had a kind word to say to the other. But one day when Pelle came stealing home in this way, Lasse received him with a radiant face and weak knees. "What on earth's the good of fretting?" he said, screwing up his face and turning his blinking eyes upon Pelle--for the first time since the bad news had come. "Look here at the new sweetheart I've found! Kiss her, laddie!" And Lasse drew from the straw a bottle of gin, and held it out toward him. Pelle pushed it angrily from him. "Oh, you're too grand, are you?" exclaimed Lasse. "Well, well, it would be a sin and a shame to waste good things upon you." He put the bottle to his lips and threw back his head. "Father, you shan't do that!" exclaimed Pelle, bursting into tears and shaking his father's arm so that the liquid splashed out. "Ho-ho!" said Lasse in astonishment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "She's uncommonly lively, ho-ho!" He grasped the bottle with both hands and held it firmly, as if it had tried to get away from him. "So you're obstreperous, are you?" Then his eye fell upon Pelle. "And you're crying! Has any one hurt you? Don't you know that your father's called Lasse--Lasse Karlsson from Kungstorp? You needn't he afraid, for Lasse's here, and he'll make the whole world answer for it." Pelle saw that his father was quickly becoming more fuddled, and ought to be put to bed for fear some one should come and find him lying there. "Come now, father!" he begged. "Yes, I'll go now. I'll make him pay for it, if it's old Beelzebub himself! You needn't cry!" Lasse was making for the yard. Pelle stood in front of him. "Now you must come with me, father! There's no one to make pay for anything." "Isn't there? And yet you're crying! But the farmer shall answer to me for all these years. Yes, my fine landed gentleman, with your nose turned up at every one!" This made Pelle afraid. "But father, father!" he cried. "Don't go up there! He'll be in such a rage, he'll turn us out! Remember you're drunk!" "Yes, of course I'm drunk, but there's no harm in me." He stood fumbling with the hook that fastened the lower half of the door. It was wrong to lay a hand upon one's own father, but now Pelle was compelled to set aside all such scruples. He took a firm hold of the old man's collar. "Now you come with me!" he said, and drew him along toward their room. Lasse laughed and hiccupped and struggled; clutched hold of everything that he could lay hands on--the posts and the animals' tails--while Pelle dragged him along. He had hold of him behind, and was half carrying him. In the doorway they stuck fast, as the old man held on with both hands; and Pelle had to leave go of him and knock his arms away so that he fell, and then drag him along and on to the bed. Lasse laughed foolishly all the time, as if it were a game. Once or twice when Pelle's back was turned, he tried to get up; his eyes had almost disappeared, but there was a cunning expression about his mouth, and he was like a naughty child. Suddenly he fell back in a heavy sleep. The next day was a school holiday, so there was no need for Pelle to hide himself. Lasse was ashamed and crept about with an air of humility. He must have had quite a clear idea of what had happened the day before, for suddenly he touched Pelle's arm. "You're like Noah's good son, that covered up his father's shame!" he said; "but Lasse's a beast. It's been a hard blow on me, as you may well believe! But I know quite well that it doesn't mend matters to drink one's self silly. It's a badly buried trouble that one has to lay with gin; and what's hidden in the snow comes up in the thaw, as the saying is." Pelle made no answer. "How do people take it?" asked Lasse cautiously. He had now got so far as to have a thought for the shameful side of the matter. "I don't think they know about it yet here on the farm; but what do they say outside?" "How should I know?" answered Pelle sulkily. "Then you've heard nothing?" "Do you suppose I'll go to school to be jeered at by them all?" Pelle was almost crying again. "Then you've been wandering about and let your father believe that you'd gone to school? That wasn't right of you, but I won't find fault with you, considering all the disgrace I've brought upon you. But suppose you get into trouble for playing truant, even if you don't deserve it? Misfortunes go hand in hand, and evils multiply like lice in a fur coat. We must think what we're about, we two; we mustn't let things go all to pieces!" Lasse walked quickly into their room and returned with the bottle, took out the cork, and let the gin run slowly out into the gutter. Pelle looked wonderingly at him. "God forgive me for abusing his gifts!" said Lasse; "but it's a bad tempter to have at hand when you've a sore heart. And now if I give you my word that you shall never again see me as I was yesterday, won't you have a try at school again to-morrow, and try and get over it gradually? We might get into trouble with the magistrate himself if you keep on staying away; for there's a heavy punishment for that sort of thing in this country." Pelle promised and kept his word; but he was prepared for the worst, and secretly slipped a knuckle-duster into his pocket that Erik had used in his palmy days when he went to open-air fetes and other places where one had to strike a blow for one's girl. It was not required, however, for the boys were entirely taken up with a ship that had had to be run aground to prevent her sinking, and now lay discharging her cargo of wheat into the boats of the village. The wheat already lay in the harbor in great piles, wet and swollen with the salt water. And a few days later, when this had become stale, something happened which put a stop forever to Pelle's school attendance. The children were busy at arithmetic, chattering and clattering with their slates, and Fris was sitting as usual in his place, with his head against the wall and his hands resting on the desk. His dim eyes were somewhere out in space, and not a movement betrayed that he was alive. It was his usual position, and he had sat thus ever since playtime. The children grew restless; it was nearly time for them to go home. A farmer's son who had a watch, held it up so that Pelle could see it, and said "Two" aloud. They noisily put away their slates and began to fight; but Fris, who generally awoke at this noise of departure, did not stir. Then they tramped out, and in passing, one of the girls out of mischief stroked the master's hand. She started back in fear. "He's quite cold!" she said, shuddering and drawing back behind the others. They stood in a semicircle round the desk, and tried to see into Fris's half-closed eyes; and then Pelle went up the two steps and laid his hand upon his master's shoulder. "We're going home," he said, in an unnatural voice. Fris's arm dropped stiffly down from the desk, and Pelle had to support his body. "He's dead!" the words passed like a shiver over the children's lips. Fris was dead--dead at his post, as the honest folks of the parish expressed it. Pelle had finished his schooling for good, and could breathe freely. He helped his father at home, and they were happy together and drew together again now that there was no third person to stand between them. The gibes from the others on the farm were not worth taking notice of; Lasse had been a long time on the farm, and knew too much about each of them, so that he could talk back. He sunned himself in Pelle's gently childlike nature, and kept up a continual chatter. One thing he was always coming back to. "I ought to be glad I had you, for if you hadn't held back that time when I was bent upon moving down to Madam Olsen's, we should have been in the wrong box. I should think he'd have killed us in his anger. You were my good angel as you always have been." Lasse's words had the pleasant effect of caresses on Pelle; he was happy in it all, and was more of a child than his years would have indicated. But one Saturday he came home from the parson's altogether changed. He was as slow about everything as a dead herring, and did not go across to his dinner, but came straight in through the outer door, and threw himself face downward upon a bundle of hay. "What's the matter now?" asked Lasse, coming up to him. "Has any one been unkind to you?" Pelle did not answer, but lay plucking at the hay. Lasse was going to turn his face up to him, but Pelle buried it in the hay. "Won't you trust your own father? You know I've no other wish in the world but for your good!" Lasse's voice was sad. "I'm to be turned out of the confirmation-class," Pelle managed to say, and then burrowed into the hay to keep back his tears. "Oh, no, surely not!" Lasse began to tremble. "Whatever have you done?" "I've half killed the parson's son." "Oh, that's about the worst thing you could have done--lift your hand against the parson's son! I'm sure he must have deserved it, but--still you shouldn't have done it. Unless he's accused you of thieving, for no honest man need stand that from any one, not even the king himself." "He--he called you Madam Olsen's concubine." Pelle had some difficulty in getting this out. Lasse's mouth grew hard and he clenched his fists. "Oh, he did! Oh, did he! If I had him here, I'd kick his guts out, the young monkey! I hope you gave him something he'll remember for a long time?" "Oh, no, it wasn't very much, for he wouldn't stand up to me--he threw himself down and screamed. And then the parson came!" For a little while Lasse's face was disfigured with rage, and he kept uttering threats. Then he turned to Pelle. "And they've turned you out? Only because you stood up for your old father! I'm always to bring misfortune upon you, though I'm only thinking of your good! But what shall we do now?" "I won't stay here any longer," said Pelle decidedly. "No, let's get away from here; nothing has ever grown on this farm for us two but wormwood. Perhaps there are new, happy days waiting for us out there; and there are parsons everywhere. If we two work together at some good work out there, we shall earn a peck of money. Then one day we'll go up to a parson, and throw down half a hundred krones in front of his face, and it 'u'd be funny if he didn't confirm you on the spot--and perhaps let himself be kicked into the bargain. Those kind of folk are very fond of money." Lasse had grown more erect in his anger, and had a keen look in his eyes. He walked quickly along the foddering passage, and threw the things about carelessly, for Pelle's adventurous proposal had infected him with youth. In the intervals of their work, they collected all their little things and packed the green chest. "What a surprise it'll be to-morrow morning when they come here and find the nest empty!" said Pelle gaily. Lasse chuckled. Their plan was to take shelter with Kalle for a day or two, while they took a survey of what the world offered. When everything was done in the evening, they took the green chest between them, and stole out through the outside door into the field. The chest was heavy, and the darkness did not make walking easier. They moved on a little way, changed hands, and rested. "We've got the night before us!" said Lasse cheerfully. He was quite animated, and while they sat resting upon the chest talked about everything that awaited them. When he came to a standstill Pelle began. Neither of them had made any distinct plans for their future; they simply expected a fairy-story itself with its inconceivable surprises. All the definite possibilities that they were capable of picturing to themselves fell so far short of that which must come, that they left it alone and abandoned themselves to what lay beyond their powers of foresight. Lasse was not sure-footed in the dark, and had more and more frequently to put down his burden. He grew weary and breathless, and the cheerful words died away upon his lips. "Ah, how heavy it is!" he sighed. "What a lot of rubbish you do scrape together in the course of time!" Then he sat down upon the chest, quite out of breath. He could do no more. "If only we'd had something to pick us up a little!" he said faintly. "And it's so dark and gloomy to-night." "Help me to get it on my back," said Pelle, "and I'll carry it a little way." Lasse would not at first, but gave in, and they went on again, he running on in front and giving warning of ditches and walls. "Suppose Brother Kalle can't take us in!" he said suddenly. "He's sure to be able to. There's grandmother's bed; that's big enough for two." "But suppose we can't get anything to do, then we shall be a burden on him." "Oh, we shall get something to do. There's a scarcity of laborers everywhere." "Yes, they'll jump at you, but I'm really too old to offer myself out." Lasse had lost all hope, and was undermining Pelle's too. "I can't do any more!" said Pelle, letting the chest down. They stood with arms hanging, and stared into the darkness at nothing particular. Lasse showed no desire to take hold again, and Pelle was now tired out. The night lay dark around them, and its all- enveloping loneliness made it seem as if they two were floating alone in space. "Well, we ought to be getting on," exclaimed Pelle, taking a handle of the chest; but as Lasse did not move, he dropped it and sat down. They sat back to back, and neither could find the right words to utter, and the distance between them seemed to increase. Lasse shivered with the night cold. "If only we were at home in our good bed!" he sighed. Pelle was almost wishing he had been alone, for then he would have gone on to the end. The old man was just as heavy to drag along as the chest. "Do you know I think I'll go back again!" said Lasse at last in crestfallen tone. "I'm afraid I'm not able to tread uncertain paths. And you'll never be confirmed if we go on like this! Suppose we go back and get Kongstrup to put in a good word for us with the parson." Lasse stood and held one handle of the chest. Pelle sat on as if he had not heard, and then he silently took hold, and they toiled along on their weary way homeward across the fields. Every other minute Pelle was tired and had to rest; now that they were going home, Lasse was the more enduring. "I think I could carry it a little way alone, if you'd help me up with it," he said; but Pelle would not hear of it. "Pee-u-ah!" sighed Lasse with pleasure when they once more stood in the warmth of the cow-stable and heard the animals breathing in indolent well-being--"it's comfortable here. It's just like coming into one's old home. I think I should know this stable again by the air, if they led me into it blindfold anywhere in the world." And now they were home again, Pelle too could not help thinking that it really was pleasant. XXIII On Sunday morning, between watering and midday feed, Lasse and Pelle ascended the high stone steps. They took off their wooden shoes in the passage, and stood and shook themselves outside the door of the office; their gray stocking-feet were full of chaff and earth. Lasse raised his hand to knock, but drew it back. "Have you wiped your nose properly?" he asked in a whisper, with a look of anxiety on his face. Pelle performed the operation once more, and gave a final polish with the sleeve of his blouse. Lasse lifted his hand again; he looked greatly oppressed. "You might keep quiet then!" he said irritably to Pelle, who was standing as still as a mouse. Lasse's knuckles were poised in the air two or three times before they fell upon the door; and then he stood with his forehead close to the panel and listened. "There's no one there," he whispered irresolutely. "Just go in!" exclaimed Pelle. "We can't stand here all day." "Then you can go first, if you think you know better how to behave!" said Lasse, offended. Pelle quickly opened the door and went in. There was no one in the office, but the door was open into the drawing-room, and the sound of Kongstrup's comfortable breathing came thence. "Who's there?" he asked. "It's Lasse and Pelle," answered Lasse in a voice that did not sound altogether brave. "Will you come in here?" Kongstrup was lying on the sofa reading a magazine, and on the table beside him stood a pile of old magazines and a plateful of little cakes. He did not raise his eyes from his book, not even while his hand went out to the plate for something to put in his mouth. He lay nibbling and swallowing while he read, and never looked at Lasse and Pelle, or asked them what they wanted, or said anything to give them a start. It was like being sent out to plough without knowing where. He must have been in the middle of something very exciting. "Well, what do you want?" asked Kongstrup at last in slow tones. "Well--well, the master must excuse us for coming like this about something that doesn't concern the farm; but as matters now stand, we've no one else to go to, and so I said to the laddie: 'Master won't be angry, I'm sure, for he's many a time been kind to us poor beggars--and that.' Now it's so in this world that even if you're a poor soul that's only fit to do others' dirty work, the Almighty's nevertheless given you a father's heart, and it hurts you to see the father's sin standing in the son's way." Lasse came to a standstill. He had thought it all out beforehand, and so arranged it that it should lead up, in a shrewd, dignified way, to the matter itself. But now it was all in a muddle like a slattern's pocket-handkerchief, and the farmer did not look as if he had understood a single word of it. He lay there, taking a cake now and then, and looking helplessly toward the door. "It sometimes happens too, that a man gets tired of the single state," began Lasse once more, but at once gave up trying to go on. No matter how he began, he went round and round the thing and got no hold anywhere! And now Kongstrup began to read again. A tiny question from him might have led to the very middle of it; but he only filled his mouth full and began munching quite hard. Lasse was outwardly disheartened and inwardly angry, as he stood there and prepared to go. Pelle was staring about at the pictures and the old mahogany furniture, making up his mind about each thing. Suddenly energetic steps sounded through the rooms; the ear could follow their course right up from the kitchen. Kongstrup's eyes brightened, and Lasse straightened himself up. "Is that you two?" said Fru Kongstrup in her decided way that indicated the manager. "But do sit down! Why didn't you offer them a seat, old man?" Lasse and Pelle found seats, and the mistress seated herself beside her husband, with her arm leaning upon his pillow. "How are you getting on, Kongstrup? Have you been resting?" she asked sympathetically, patting his shoulder. Kongstrup gave a little grunt, that might have meant yes, or no, or nothing at all. "And what about you two? Are you in need of money?" "No, it's the lad. He's to be dismissed from the confirmation- class," answered Lasse simply. With the mistress you couldn't help being decided. "Are you to be dismissed?" she exclaimed, looking at Pelle as at an old acquaintance. "Then what have you been doing?" "Oh, I kicked the parson's son." "And what did you do that for?" "Because he wouldn't fight, but threw himself down." Fru Kongstrup laughed and nudged her husband. "Yes, of course. But what had he done to you?" "He'd said bad things about Father Lasse." "What were the things?" Pelle looked hard at her; she meant to get to the bottom of everything. "I won't tell you!" he said firmly. "Oh, very well! But then we can't do anything about it either." "I may just as well tell you," Lasse interrupted. "He called me Madam Olsen's concubine--from the Bible story, I suppose." Kongstrup tried to suppress a chuckle, as if some one had whispered a coarse joke in his ear, and he could not help it. The mistress herself was serious enough. "I don't think I understand," she said, and laid a repressing hand upon her husband's arm. "Lasse must explain." "It's because I was engaged to Madam Olsen in the village, who every one thought was a widow; and then her husband came home the other day. And so they've given me that nickname round about, I suppose." Kongstrup began his suppressed laughter again, and Lasse blinked in distress at it. "Help yourselves to a cake!" said Fru Kongstrup in a very loud voice, pushing the plate toward them. This silenced Kongstrup, and he lay and watched their assault upon the cake-plate with an attentive eye. Fru Kongstrup sat tapping the table with her middle finger while they ate. "So that good boy Pelle got angry and kicked out, did he?" she said suddenly, her eyes flashing. "Yes, that's what he never ought to have done!" answered Lasse plaintively. Fru Kongstrup fixed her eyes upon him. "No, for all that the poorer birds are for is to be pecked at! Well, I prefer the bird that pecks back again and defends its nest, no matter how poor it is. Well, well, we shall see! And is that boy going to be confirmed? Why, of course! To think that I should be so forgetful! Then we must begin to think about his clothes." "That's two troubles got rid of!" said Lasse when they went down to the stable again. "And did you notice how nicely I let her know that you were going to be confirmed? It was almost as if she'd found it out for herself. Now you'll see, you'll be as fine as a shop-boy in your clothes; people like the master and mistress know what's needed when once they've opened their purse. Well, they got the whole truth straight, but confound it! they're no more than human beings. It's always best to speak out straight." Lasse could not forget how well it had turned out. Pelle let the old man boast. "Do you think I shall get leather shoes of them too?" he asked. "Yes, of course you will! And I shouldn't wonder if they made a confirmation-party for you too. I say _they_, but it's her that's doing it all, and we may be thankful for that. Did you notice that she said _we_--_we_ shall, and so on--always? It's nice of her, for he only lies there and eats and leaves everything to her. But what a good time he has! I think she'd go through fire to please him; but upon my word, she's master there. Well, well, I suppose we oughtn't to speak evil of any one; to you she's like your own mother!" Fru Kongstrup said nothing about the result of her drive to the parson; it was not her way to talk about things afterward. But Lasse and Pelle once more trod the earth with a feeling of security; when she took up a matter, it was as good as arranged. One morning later in the week, the tailor came limping in with his scissors, tape-measure, and pressing-iron, and Pelle had to go down to the servants' room, and was measured in every direction as if he had been a prize animal. Up to the present, he had always had his clothes made by guess-work. It was something new to have itinerant artisans at Stone Farm; since Kongstrup had come into power, neither shoemaker nor tailor had ever set foot in the servants' room. This was a return to the good old farm-customs, and placed Stone Farm once more on a footing with the other farms. The people enjoyed it, and as often as they could went down into the servants' room for a change of air and to hear one of the tailor's yarns. "It's the mistress who's at the head of things now!" they said to one another. There was good peasant blood in her hands, and she brought things back into the good old ways. Pelle walked into the servants' room like a gentleman; he was fitted several times a day. He was fitted for two whole suits, one of which was for Rud, who was to be confirmed too. It would probably be the last thing that Rud and his mother would get at the farm, for Fru Kongstrup had carried her point, and they were to leave the cottage in May. They would never venture to set foot again in Stone Farm. Fru Kongstrup herself saw that they received what they were to have, but she did not give money if she could help it. Pelle and Rud were never together now, and they seldom went to the parson together. It was Pelle who had drawn back, as he had grown tired of being on the watch for Rud's continual little lies and treacheries. Pelle was taller and stronger than Rud, and his nature --perhaps because of his physical superiority--had taken more open ways. In ability to master a task or learn it by heart, Rud was also the inferior; but on the other hand he could bewilder Pelle and the other boys, if he only got a hold with his practical common sense. On the great day itself, Karl Johan drove Pelle and Lasse in the little one-horse carriage. "We're fine folk to-day!" said Lasse, with a beaming face. He was quite confused, although he had not tasted anything strong. There was a bottle of gin lying in the chest to treat the men with when the sacred ceremony was over; but Lasse was not the man to drink anything before he went to church. Pelle had not _touched_ food; God's Word would take best effect in that condition. Pelle was radiant too, in spite of his hunger. He was in brand-new twill, so new that it crackled every time he moved. On his feet he wore elastic-sided shoes that had once belonged to Kongstrup himself. They were too large, but "there's no difficulty with a sausage that's too long," as Lasse said. He put in thick soles and paper in the toes, and Pelle put on two pairs of stockings; and then the shoes fitted as if they had been cast for his foot. On his head he wore a blue cap that he had chosen himself down at the shop. It allowed room for growing, and rested on his ears, which, for the occasion, were as red as two roses. Round the cap was a broad ribbon in which were woven rakes, scythes, and flails, interlaced with sheaves all the way round. "It's a good thing you came," said Pelle, as they drove up to the church, and found themselves among so many people. Lasse had almost had to give up thought of coming, for the man who was going to look after the animals while he was away had to go off at the last moment for the veterinary surgeon; but Karna came and offered to water and give the midday feed, although neither could truthfully say that they had behaved as they ought to have done to her. "Have you got that thing now?" whispered Lasse, when they were inside the church. Pelle felt in his pocket and nodded; the little round piece of lignum-vitae that was to carry him over the difficulties of the day lay there. "Then just answer loud and straight out," whispered Lasse, as he slipped into a pew in the background. Pelle did answer straight out, and to Lasse his voice sounded really well through the spacious church. And the parson did absolutely nothing to revenge himself, but treated Pelle exactly as he did the others. At the most solemn part of the ceremony, Lasse thought of Karna, and how touching her devotion was. He scolded himself in an undertone, and made a solemn vow. She should not sigh any longer in vain. For a whole month indeed, Lasse's thoughts had been occupied with Karna, now favorably, now unfavorably; but at this solemn moment when Pelle was just taking the great step into the future, and Lasse's feelings were touched in so many ways, the thought of Karna's devotion broke over him as something sad, like a song of slighted affection that at last, at last has justice done to it. Lasse shook hands with Pelle. "Good luck and a blessing!" he said in a trembling voice. The wish also embraced his own vow and he had some difficulty in keeping silence respecting his determination, he was so moved. The words were heard on all sides, and Pelle went round and shook hands with his comrades. Then they drove home. "It all went uncommonly well for you to-day," said Lasse proudly; "and now you're a man, you know." "Yes, now you must begin to look about for a sweetheart," said Karl Johan. Pelle only laughed. In the afternoon they had a holiday. Pelle had first to go up to his master and mistress to thank them for his clothes and receive their congratulations. Fru Kongstrup gave him red-currant wine and cake, and the farmer gave him a two-krone piece. Then they went up to Kalle's by the quarry. Pelle was to exhibit himself in his new clothes, and say good-bye to them; there was only a fortnight to May Day. Lasse was going to take the opportunity of secretly obtaining information concerning a house that was for sale on the heath. XXIV They still talked about it every day for the short time that was left. Lasse, who had always had the thought of leaving in his mind, and had only stayed on and on, year after year, because the boy's welfare demanded it--was slow to move now that there was nothing to hold him back. He was unwilling to lose Pelle, and did all he could to keep him; but nothing would induce him to go out into the world again. "Stay here!" he said persuasively, "and we'll talk to the mistress and she'll take you on for a proper wage. You're both strong and handy, and she's always looked upon you with a friendly eye." But Pelle would not take service with the farmer; it gave no position and no prospects. He wanted to be something great, but there was no possibility of that in the country; he would be following cows all his days. He would go to the town--perhaps still farther, across the sea to Copenhagen. "You'd better come too," he said, "and then we shall get rich all the quicker and be able to buy a big farm." "Yes, yes," said Lasse, slowly nodding his head; "that's one for me and two for yourself! But what the parson preaches doesn't always come to pass. We might become penniless. Who knows what the future may bring?" "Oh, I shall manage!" said Pelle, nodding confidently. "Do you mean to say I can't turn my hand to anything I like?" "And I didn't give notice in time either," said Lasse to excuse himself. "Then run away!" But Lasse would not do that. "No, I'll stay and work toward getting something for myself about here," he said, a little evasively. "It would be nice for you too, to have a home that you could visit now and then; and if you didn't get on out there, it wouldn't be bad to have something to fall back upon. You might fall ill, or something else might happen; the world's not to be relied upon. You have to have a hard skin all over out there." Pelle did not answer. That about the home sounded nice enough, and he understood quite well that it was Karna's person that weighed down the other end of the balance. Well, she'd put all his clothes in order for his going away, and she'd always been a good soul; he had nothing against that. It would be hard to live apart from Father Lasse, but Pelle felt he must go. Away! The spring seemed to shout the word in his ears. He knew every rock in the landscape and every tree--yes, every twig on the trees as well; there was nothing more here that could fill his blue eyes and long ears, and satisfy his mind. The day before May Day they packed Pelle's things. Lasse knelt before the green chest; every article was carefully folded and remarked upon, before it was placed in the canvas bag that was to serve Pelle as a traveling-trunk. "Now remember not to wear your stockings too long before you mend them!" said Lasse, putting mending wool on one side. "He who mends his things in time, is spared half the work and all the disgrace." "I shan't forget that," said Pelle quietly. Lasse was holding a folded shirt in his hand. "The one you've got on's just been washed," he said reflectively. "But one can't tell. Two shirts'll almost be too little if you're away, won't they? You must take one of mine; I can always manage to get another by the time I want a change. And remember, you must never go longer than a fortnight! You who are young and healthy might easily get vermin, and be jeered at by the whole town; such a thing would never be tolerated in any one who wants to get on. At the worst you can do a little washing or yourself; you could go down to the shore in the evening, if that was all!" "Do they wear wooden shoes in the town?" asked Pelle. "Not people who want to get on! I think you'd better let me keep the wooden shoes and you take my boots instead; they always look nice even if they're old. You'd better wear them when you go to-morrow, and save your good shoes." The new clothes were laid at the top of the bag, wrapped in an old blouse to keep them clean. "Now I think we've got everything in," said Lasse, with a searching glance into the green chest. There was not much left in it. "Very well, then we'll tie it up in God's name, and pray that, you may arrive safely--wherever you decide to go!" Lasse tied up the sack; he was anything but happy. "You must say good-bye nicely to every one on the farm, so that they won't have anything to scratch my eyes out for afterward," said Lasse after a little. "And I should like you to thank Karna nicely for having put everything in such good order. It isn't every one who'd have bothered." "Yes, I'll do that," said Pelle in a low voice. He did not seem to be able to speak out properly to-day. * * * * * Pelle was up and dressed at daybreak. Mist lay over the sea, and prophesied well for the day. He went about well scrubbed and combed, and looked at everything with wide-open eyes, and with his hands in his pockets. The blue clothes which he had gone to his confirmation- classes in, had been washed and newly mangled, and he still looked very well in them; and the tabs of the old leather boots, which were a relic of Lasse's prosperous days, stuck out almost as much as his ears. He had said his "Good-bye and thank-you for all your kindness!" to everybody on the farm--even Erik; and he had had a good meal of bacon. Now he was going about the stable, collecting himself, shaking the bull by the horns, and letting the calves suck his fingers; it was a sort of farewell too! The cows put their noses close up to him, and breathed a long, comfortable breath when he passed, and the bull playfully tossed its head at him. And close behind him went Lasse; he did not say very much but he always kept near the boy. It was so good to be here, and the feeling sank gently over Pelle every time a cow licked herself, or the warm vapor rose from freshly- falling dung. Every sound was like a mother's caress, and every thing was a familiar toy, with which a bright world could be built. Upon the posts all round there were pictures that he had cut upon them; Lasse had smeared them over with dirt again, in case the farmer should come and say that they were spoiling everything. Pelle was not thinking, but went about in a dreamy state; it all sank so warmly and heavily into his child's mind. He had taken out his knife, and took hold of the bull's horn, as if he were going to carve something on it. "He won't let you do that," said Lasse, surprised. "Try one of the bullocks instead." But Pelle returned his knife to his pocket; he had not intended to do anything. He strolled along the foddering-passage without aim or object. Lasse came up and took his hand. "You'd better stay here a little longer," he said. "We're so comfortable." But this put life into Pelle. He fixed his big, faithful eyes upon his father, and then went down to their room. Lasse followed him. "In God's name then, if it has to be!" he said huskily, and took hold of the sack to help Pelle get it onto his back. Pelle held out his hand. "Good-bye and thank you, father--for all your kindness!" he added gently. "Yes, yes; yes, yes!" said Lasse, shaking his head. It was all he was able to say. He went out with Pelle past the out-houses, and there stopped, while Pelle went on along the dikes with his sack on his back, up toward the high-road. Two or three times he turned and nodded; Lasse, overcome, stood gazing, with his hand shading his eyes. He had never looked so old before. Out in the fields they were driving the seed-harrow; Stone Farm was early with it this year. Kongstrup and his wife were strolling along arm-in-arm beside a ditch; every now and then they stopped and she pointed: they must have been talking about the crop. She leaned against him when they walked; she had really found rest in her affection now! Now Lasse turned and went in. How forlorn he looked! Pelle felt a quick desire to throw down the sack and run back and say something nice to him; but before he could do so the impulse had disappeared upon the fresh morning breeze. His feet carried him on upon the straight way, away, away! Up on a ridge the bailiff was stepping out a field, and close behind him walked Erik, imitating him with foolish gestures. On a level with the edge of the rocks, Pelle came to the wide high- road. Here, he knew, Stone Farm and its lands would be lost to sight, and he put down his sack. _There_ were the sand-banks by the sea, with every tree-top visible; _there_ was the fir-tree that the yellowhammer always built in; the stream ran milk-white after the heavy thaw, and the meadow was beginning to grow green. But the cairn was gone; good people had removed it secretly when Niels Koller was drowned and the girl was expected out of prison. And the farm stood out clearly in the morning light, with its high white dwelling-house, the long range of barns, and all the out-houses. Every spot down there shone so familiarly toward him; the hardships he had suffered were forgotten, or only showed up the comforts in stronger relief. Pelle's childhood had been happy by virtue of everything; it had been a song mingled with weeping. Weeping falls into tones as well as joy, and heard from a distance it becomes a song. And as Pelle gazed down upon his childhood's world, they were only pleasant memories that gleamed toward him through the bright air. Nothing else existed, or ever had done so. He had seen enough of hardship and misfortune, but had come well out of everything; nothing had harmed him. With a child's voracity he had found nourishment in it all; and now he stood here, healthy and strong--equipped with the Prophets, the Judges, the Apostles, the Ten Commandments and one hundred and twenty hymns! and turned an open, perspiring, victor's brow toward the world. Before him lay the land sloping richly toward the south, bounded by the sea. Far below stood two tall black chimneys against the sea as background, and still farther south lay the Town! Away from it ran the paths of the sea to Sweden and Copenhagen! This was the world-- the great wide world itself! Pelle became ravenously hungry at the sight of the great world, and the first thing he did was to sit down upon the ridge of the hill with a view both backward and forward, and eat all the food Karna had given him for the whole day. So his stomach would have nothing more to trouble about! He rose refreshed, got the sack onto his back, and set off downward to conquer the world, pouring forth a song at the top of his voice into the bright air as he went:-- "A stranger I must wander Among the Englishmen; With African black negroes My lot it may be thrown. And then upon this earth there Are Portuguese found too, And every kind of nation Under heaven's sky so blue." 
60145	----	THE CONQUEST OF A CONTINENT THE CONQUEST OF A CONTINENT OR THE EXPANSION OF RACES IN AMERICA BY MADISON GRANT PRESIDENT, NEW YORK ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY TRUSTEE, AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY PRESIDENT, BOONE AND CROCKETT CLUB COUNCILLOR, AMERICAN GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY AUTHOR, "PASSING OF THE GREAT RACE" WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY PROF. HENRY FAIRFIELD OSBORN CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK · LONDON MCMXXXIII Copyright, 1933, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Printed in the United States of America _All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons_ [Illustration] To MY BROTHER DE FOREST GRANT INTRODUCTION The character of a country depends upon the racial character of the men and women who dominate it. I welcome this volume as the first attempt to give an authentic racial history of our country, based on the scientific interpretation of race as distinguished from language and from geographic distribution. The most striking induction arising through research into the prehistory of man is that racial characters and predispositions, governing racial reactions to certain old and new conditions of life, extend far back of the most ancient civilizations. For example, the characteristics which Homer, in the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_, attributed to his heroes and to his imaginary gods and goddesses were not the product of the civilization which existed in his time in Greece; they were the product of creative evolution long prior even to the beginnings of Greek culture and government. This creative principle--the most mysterious of the recently discovered phenomena of evolution, to which I have devoted the researches of nearly half a century--is that racial preparation for various expressions of civilization--art, law, government, etc.--is long antecedent to these institutions. Ripley missed this point in his superb researches into the racial constitution of the peoples of Europe. Grant partly based his _Passing of the Great Race_ on Ripley's researches, but did not carry out the purely anatomical analysis to its logical end-point, namely, that moral, intellectual, and spiritual traits are just as distinctive and characteristic of different races as are head-form, hair and eye color, physical stature, and other data of anthropologists. In the present volume, which I regard as an entirely original and essential contribution to the history of the United States of America, Grant goes much further and in tracing back the racial origins of the majority of our people he lays the foundation for an understanding of the peculiar characteristics of American civilization, which, all agree, is of a very new type, something the world has never before seen. Grant supports Ripley in his distinction between three great European stocks--Nordic, Alpine, Mediterranean. He gives very strong additional reasons for one of his own earlier inductions, namely, that the Aryan language was invented by primitive peoples of the Nordic race before its dispersal, in the third millennium B.C., from the Steppe country in the southeast of Russia. This superb and flexible language doubtless aided the Nordic race in its conquest of Europe, in its ever-westward journey across the Atlantic, in its Anglo-Saxon occupation of our continent, in its stamping of Anglo-Saxon institutions on American government and civilization. We all recognize that, like all other languages, Aryan is purely a linguistic and not a racial term, just as French is spoken equally by the Norman Nordics of the north of France, by the Alpines of the center, and by the Mediterraneans of the south. My faith is unshaken in the ultimately beneficial recognition of racial values and in the stimulating and generous emulation aroused by racial consciousness. Let this stimulation be without prejudice to other racial values--which should be duly recognized and evaluated--values we Anglo-Saxons do not naturally possess. Moreover, I set great store by the great mass of documentary evidence assembled by Grant in the present volume. I think it explodes the bubble, of the opponents of racial values, that they are merely myths. The theme of the present work is that America was made by Protestants of Nordic origin and that their ideas about what makes true greatness should be perpetuated. That this is a precious heritage which we should not impair or dilute by permitting the entrance and dominance of alien values and peoples of alien minds and hearts. Finally I would like to define clearly my own position on these very important racial questions which arouse so much heat, so much bad feeling, so much misrepresentation. I object strongly to the assumption that one race is "superior" or "inferior" to another, just as I object to the assumption that all races are alike or even equal. Such assumptions are wholly unwarranted by facts. Equality or inequality, superiority and inferiority, are all relative terms. For example, around the Equator the black races and certain of the colored and tinted races are "superior" to the white races and may be capable under certain conditions of creating great civilizations. In a torrid climate and under a burning sun witness the marvellous achievements of the Mediterranean race in Mesopotamia, Egypt, North Africa, Cambodia, and India between 4000 B.C. and 1250 A.D. Or, coming nearer home to the cool mountain regions, witness the great achievements of the Alpine race in engineering, in mathematics, and in astronomy. It follows that racial superiority and inferiority are partly matters of the intellectual and spiritual evolution which guides one race after another into periods of great ascent too often followed by sad and catastrophic decline. In this as in all other interminglings of science and sentiment, let us not extenuate nor write in malice, but always in broad-mindedness and a truly generous spirit. It is with the greatest pleasure that I have written a few words endorsing this book as the first racial history of America, or, in fact, of any nation. I stand with the author not only in nailing his colors to the mast but in giving an entirely indisputable historic, patriotic, and governmental basis to the fact that in its origin and evolution our country is fundamentally Nordic. Henry Fairfield Osborn. August, 1933. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS First and foremost, the author desires to express his appreciation of the assistance of his research associate, Doctor Paul Popenoe, who collected authorities and statistics during an intensive study lasting over four years. He also desires to express his appreciation for the sympathy and aid of Professor Henry Fairfield Osborn, and of Charles Stewart Davison, Esq. The latter carefully revised the text and made many valuable suggestions. The author owes a special debt of gratitude to Doctor Clarence G. Campbell for much assistance and to Doctor Harry H. Laughlin for many of the statistics and analyses used in this book. His thanks are due also to Captain John B. Trevor, whose masterly study of the early population has been a great help, as have the studies of Messrs. Howard F. Barker and Marcus L. Hansen. He also wishes to acknowledge the assistance of Mr. A.E. Hamilton. Colonel William Wood, of Quebec, has been of great assistance in the data given regarding the origin of the French "Habitants" in Canada. The writer is also obligated to Professor E. Prokosch, of Yale University, for his assistance on several critical points. The American Geographical Society and Mr. Ray R. Platt were instrumental in providing the maps used in this volume and the author takes this opportunity to express his thanks to them both. CONTENTS PAGE Introduction, by Prof. Henry Fairfield Osborn vii CHAPTER I. Foreword 1 II. The Cradle of Mankind 17 III. The Nordic Conquest of Europe 39 IV. The Nordic Settlement of America 65 V. The Puritans in New England 81 VI. The Gateways to the West from New England and Virginia 102 VII. Virginia and Her Neighbors 130 VIII. The Old Northwest Territory 158 IX. The Mountaineers Conquer the Southwest 183 X. From the Mississippi to the Oregon 195 XI. The Spoils of the Mexican War 208 XII. The Alien Invasion 223 XIII. The Transformation of America 235 XIV. Checking the Alien Invasion 268 XV. The Legacy of Slavery 281 XVI. Our Neighbors on the North 296 XVII. Our Neighbors on the South 320 XVIII. The Nordic Outlook 347 Bibliography 359 Index 379 MAPS FACING PAGE Ireland 68 Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland 82 Ulster Scot and New England Origins 84 Puritan Emigration from England, 1620-1640 86 Territorial Growth of the United States 122 The Thirteen Colonies 144 Roman Catholics, 1930 160 Congregational Churches 218 Negro Population, 1930 282 Negro Population: Increase and Decrease, 1920-1930 286 Dominion of Canada and Newfoundland 300 Mexico, Central America, and the West Indies 324 Distribution of Mexicans by States 328 South America 334 THE CONQUEST OF A CONTINENT I FOREWORD American public sentiment regarding the admission of aliens has undergone recently a profound change. At the end of the nineteenth century a fatuous humanitarianism prevailed and immigrants of all kinds were welcomed to "The Refuge of the Oppressed," regardless of whether they were needed in our industrial development or whether they tended to debase our racial unity. The "Myth of the Melting Pot" was, at that time, deemed by the unthinking to be a part of our national creed. This general attitude was availed of and encouraged by the steamship companies, which felt the need of the supply of live freight. The leading industrialists and railroad builders were equally opposed to any check on the free entry of cheap labor. Restrictionists were active, but in number they were relatively few, until the World War aroused the public to the danger of mass migration from the countries of devastated and impoverished Europe. As a result of the problems raised by the World War, a stringent immigration law was passed in 1924 and is now in force. This law[1] has for its basic principle a provision that the total number of persons allowed to enter the United States from countries to which quotas have been assigned shall be so apportioned as to constitute a cross section of the then existent white population of the United States. This is the so-called National Origins provision. A controversy immediately arose over this new basis, as it was to the interest of every national and religious group of aliens now here to exaggerate the importance and size of its contribution to the population of our country, especially in Colonial times. This was particularly true of immigrants from those nations, such as Germany and Ireland, the quotas of which were greatly reduced under the new law. The purpose of this opposition was to warp public opinion in regard to the merits of various national groups and to exaggerate the non-Anglo-Saxon elements in the old Colonial population. This book is an effort to make an estimate of the various elements, national and racial, existing in the present population of the United States and to trace their arrival and subsequent spread. In the days of our fathers the white population of the United States was practically homogeneous. Racially it was preponderantly English and Nordic. At the end of the Colonial period we had a population about 90 per cent Nordic and over 80 per cent British in origin. In spite of the intrusion of two foreign elements of importance, both nevertheless chiefly Nordic, our population and our institutions remained overwhelmingly Anglo-Saxon down to the time of the Civil War. Since that time there has been an ever-increasing tendency to change the nature of this once "American" people into a mosaic of national, racial, and religious groups. The question to what extent this transformation has gone deserves careful study. The draft lists for the American army in the large cities during the World War showed an amazing collection of foreign names. These lists are most dramatic indications of the substantial modifications of the original Anglo-Saxon character of the population which have occurred. A vivid illustration is found in a war poster issued by an enthusiastic clerk of foreign extraction in the Treasury Department during one of the appeals for Liberty Loans. A Howard Chandler Christy girl of pure Nordic type was shown pointing with pride to a list of names, saying "Americans All." The list was: DuBois Smith O'Brien Ceika Haucke Pappandrikopulous Andrassi Villotto Levy Turovich Kowalski Chriczanevicz Knutson Gonzales Apparently the one native American, so far as he figures at all, is hidden under the sobriquet of Smith, and there is possibly the implied suggestion that the beautiful lady was herself the product of this remarkable mélange. Similar foreign names are beginning to appear and sometimes predominate in the list of college graduates, successful athletes, and minor politicians. In the words of the late President Theodore Roosevelt, we are becoming a polyglot boarding house. The modification of the religious complexion of the nation also is very striking. In Colonial times Americans were almost unanimously Protestants. Now the claim is made that one in seven is a Catholic and one in thirty a Jew. To what extent this change is due to immigration and to what extent to the differential birth rate should be carefully considered. In dealing with racial admixture, we should be certain that we are not considering merely nationality, religion, or language. In popular thought there is such a racial entity as the German, the Russian, the Frenchman, or the Italian. These, however, are not racial, but national terms. In a few cases of still unmixed peoples, like those of Sweden and Norway, nationality, language, religion, and race coincide. But in Germany, for instance, the Germans along the North Sea and the Baltic coasts are Protestant Nordics, while those of Bavaria, of Austria, and of other parts of the south are Catholic Alpines. Italy north of the Apennines is largely Alpine, slightly mixed with Nordic, while Naples and Sicily in the South are purely Mediterranean by race. In France, where there is a mixed Nordic, Mediterranean, and Alpine population, a single language and an ancient tradition have created an intense unity of national feeling, and in recent decades there has been a marked transfer of political control from the Nordic to the Alpine element, as evidenced by the names and features of the present political leaders. In Belgium there are two languages, in Switzerland four, to say nothing of the medley of languages in the old Austrian Empire. Only in Switzerland is there national unity, in spite of a diversity of tongue. In America the events of the last hundred years, especially the vast tide of immigration, have greatly impaired our purity of race and our unity of religion and even threatened our inheritance of English speech. If our English language is saved it will be due in no small degree to the growing world power of the language itself and of its literature, as well as to the world-wide ocean commerce of Great Britain and her overseas empire. In the United States today this unity of language is vigorously opposed by the foreign-language press. In all probability, however, this foreign press is doomed to die out as the older generation of immigrants passes from the scene. The fact that this non-English press represents a score or more of different languages makes it impossible for it in the long run to oppose successfully the English language. In Canada the fact that the French language is officially recognized in Quebec and, for that matter, in the Parliament at Ottawa, makes the problem there more difficult. It may be here noted that the French language as spoken in Quebec is sneered at and ridiculed by the European French. The use of French speech in Quebec, like the attempted use of Erse in Ireland and Czechish in Bohemia, is merely serving to keep those speaking such language out of touch with modern literature and culture. The absurdity of attempting to revive an obsolete language such as Erse is shown by its lack of literature of modern type. Sir Harry H. Johnston once said to the author that Erse was a perfectly good language, except for two facts--first, that nobody could pronounce it and, second, that nobody could spell it. In Louisiana French is still spoken by the Creoles of New Orleans and by the French and Negro mixture called "Cajans." This linguistic diversity will in due course of time also disappear. More serious is the retention and use in New Mexico of the Spanish language by its Mexican-Indian population. Few people know that New Mexico is officially bi-lingual. Sooner or later this must be stopped, as it has greatly hindered the development of the State. As to race, as distinct from language, religion, and nationality, we must consider our country today as being in large part a heterogeneous mixture of racial groups and individuals. Since America's first duty is to herself and to the people already here, she must weigh the effect upon the present, as well as upon the future, of such racial admixture as has already occurred and which promises to spread indefinitely. A striking example of this was shown during the Washington Bicentennial in 1932, when some historians, in their efforts to placate the assertive groups of aliens in our midst, endeavored to show the existence in the colonies of substantial groups of these same aliens. For instance, they claimed that most of the Revolutionary personages of Irish descent were the same as the South Irish Catholics of today. That is wholly error. The so-called "Irish" of the Revolution were Ulster Scots either from the Lowlands of Scotland or from North England, who came to the colonies by way of the North of Ireland after having lived there for two or three generations. These Ulster Scots were reinforced by Protestant English who emigrated from Leinster and both were widely removed, religiously and culturally, from the South Irish Catholics, who did not come to this country in any numbers until the potato famine in Ireland in the 1840's drove them across the seas. To take an example: In the Convention of 1787, which formulated the Constitution, certain individuals were put down as "Irish." These were Protestant Ulster Scots. In the Senate of today, a few of the senators are put down as "Irish." These are South Irish Catholics. To use the same term for these two different types of population is erroneous. They were widely separated religiously, racially, and culturally. The same thing is true of that part of our population which was referred to as "French." The French of the American Revolution and of our Constitutional Convention were Huguenot French, who, though few in numbers, took a prominent part in public affairs at the time of the Revolution. They were, for the most part, Nordic and were English-speaking. They were a distinguished group which had nothing whatever in common with the "Habitant" French of Quebec, who are Catholic Alpines. To call them both "French" is erroneous. A similar, but less marked distinction, exists between the North Germans and the Palatines, and they both differ from the South Germans in America, who are mostly Catholic Alpines. In this connection it should be clearly understood that in discussing the various European races we are concerned only with such individuals of those races as came to America, and not with the populations which remained in the original homeland. In Colonial times the Anglo-Saxon American avoided the danger arising from intermarriage with natives, which ruined the Spanish and Portuguese colonies in the New World and threatened the destruction of the French colonies in Quebec. There was some crossbreeding between Englishmen and Indian squaws along the frontier, but the offspring was everywhere regarded as an Indian, just as a mulatto in the English colonies was regarded as belonging to the Negro race. This racial prejudice kept the white race in America pure, while its absence and the scarcity of white women ultimately destroyed European supremacy in the Spanish and Portuguese colonies. At the time of the settlement of the Spanish and Portuguese colonies, the Roman Church was dominant. Its chief motive was to save souls for heaven rather than to perpetuate the control of Europeans. That church, therefore, favored marriage of the Europeans, Spaniard and Portuguese, with the native women and considered the children to be white. The same was true of the mixtures of French and Indians in Quebec, and the church recognized the resulting half-breed offspring as French and not native. This policy of the church was aided by the lack of race dignity which is even today found sometimes among the French, the Spaniards, and the Portuguese. For example, in the South of Portugal there was a large Negro slave element introduced in the sixteenth century which is now absorbed into the surrounding population. Similar conditions exist in South Italy, where there is a substantial Negroid element, probably descended from the Negro slaves introduced by the Romans from Africa some two thousand years ago. One of the unfortunate results of racial mixture, or miscegenation between diverse races, is disharmony in the offspring, and the more widely separated the parent stocks, the greater is this lack of harmony likely to be in both mental and physical characters. Herbert Spencer, in response to a request for advice, writing in 1892 to the Japanese statesman, Baron Keneko Kentaro, stated this biological fact very clearly when he said: "To your remaining question respecting the intermarriage of foreigners and Japanese, which you say is 'now very much agitated among our scholars and politicians' and which you say is 'one of the most difficult problems,' my reply is that, as rationally answered, there is no difficulty at all. It should be positively forbidden. It is not at root a question of social philosophy. It is at root a question of biology. There is abundant proof, alike furnished by the intermarriages of human races and by the interbreeding of animals, that when the varieties mingled diverge beyond a certain slight degree the _result is inevitably a bad one in the long run_.... When, say of the different varieties of sheep, there is an interbreeding of those which are widely unlike, the result, especially in the second generation, is a bad one--there arises an incalculable mixture of traits, and what may be called a chaotic constitution. And the same thing happens among human beings--the Eurasians in India, the half-breeds in America, show this. The physiological basis of this experience appears to be that any one variety of creature in course of many generations acquires a certain constitutional adaptation to its particular form of life, and every other variety similarly acquires its own special adaptation. The consequence is that, if you mix the constitution of two widely divergent varieties which have severally become adapted to widely divergent modes of life, you get a constitution which is adapted to the mode of life of neither--a constitution which will not work properly, because it is not fitted for any set of conditions whatever. By all means, therefore, peremptorily interdict marriages of Japanese with foreigners." The relative diminution of Anglo-Saxon blood in America and the present check to the expansion of the British Empire are due partly to a curious sentimental quality of the Anglo-Saxon mind, the effect of which is almost suicidal. It is a striking fact that tragic and even fatal consequences may arise from the noblest motives. The abolition of the obsolete institution of slavery occupied the minds of some of the best men of the nineteenth century and serfdom was only stamped out finally at immense cost to the finest elements of our Anglo-Saxon stock. Looking back over these events at a distance of a half-century there appear many considerations which were neglected by those who were too close to the conflict to see into the future. Let us consider the consequences in the world at large of the abolition of slavery and of the breaking down of the barrier maintained by that institution between the Whites and the Blacks. For instance, in the British Empire, the abolition of slavery a hundred years ago contributed in large part to the decline and finally to the almost complete disappearance of pure Nordic blood in the West Indies, where previously there had been rich and flourishing colonies of white men employing black slaves. In South Africa the revolt and outtrekking of Boers beyond the Vaal River were due largely to the abolition of slavery and to the sentimental treatment of the slaves by the Home Government. The passions engendered at that time ultimately led to two bloody and useless wars between the Nordic peoples of South Africa. Other European nations suffered similarly from the abolition of slavery in their American colonies. Undiluted white blood has almost disappeared in Jamaica and Puerto Rico, while the natives of the Virgin Islands are nearly all Negroes and Mulattoes. The most tragic result of the loss of White control of the Blacks was shown in the history of Haiti and Santo Domingo. The freeing of the slaves and the disturbances resulting from the French Revolution had as a consequence the massacre or exile of practically every white person in the island. The French doctrinaires were responsible to some extent for this. Even Lafayette was President of the "Société des Amis des Noirs." Today the black inhabitants of this great island have reverted almost to barbarism. The islands and coasts of the entire Caribbean Sea with much of the coasts of the Gulf of Mexico are fast becoming Negro Land and apparently in the near future the European element will be more and more in a hopeless minority. In the United States we have a startling example of the effect of sentimentalism upon Nordic survival. The North was entirely right in endeavoring to keep slavery out of Kansas and the new States of the West, to that extent avoiding the color problem there. The sentimental interference with slavery, however, on the part of the Northern Abolitionists helped to precipitate the bloody Civil War and to destroy a very large portion of the best stock of the nation, especially in the South. The Southerners also were greatly to blame for their utter folly in seceding as a means of maintaining their peculiar institution, as they termed it. If the question of slavery had been left alone, the issue of the preservation of the Union would have been postponed for at least a generation. In time the overwhelming numbers and wealth of the North would have made any serious question of secession an absurdity. As a consequence of the Civil War hundreds of thousands of men of Nordic stock were cut off in the full vigor of manhood, who otherwise would have lived to propagate their kind and populate the West. Besides this, slavery as an institution was outside of the pale of civilization long before the Civil War and it would have been peacefully abolished in a few decades through economic causes. The Blacks themselves were raised by slavery from sheer savagery to a feeble imitation of white civilization, and they made more advance in America in two centuries than in as many thousand years in Africa. The presence of slaves, however, was injurious to the Whites. Serfdom has been a curse wherever it has flourished in the New World and it has had a profoundly demoralizing effect on the masters. American democracy at the start rested on a base of population that was, as already said, homogeneous in race, religion, tradition, and language, and in a relative equality of wealth. All these features are things of the past and democracy has virtually broken down in spite of the fatuous ecstasy which characterizes the utterances of sentimentalists, who even claimed that the World War was fought "to make the World Safe for Democracy." It seems strange that this so-called liberal point of view is so short-sighted that we have in our midst today organizations and groups who, with the best intentions, are encouraging the Negro within and the black, brown, and yellow men without, to dispute the dominance over the world at large of Christian Europeans and Americans. Throughout the world, there has gone forth a challenge to white supremacy and this movement in Asia, Africa, and elsewhere has been fostered by the Christian missionaries. It has even gone so far that it is openly stated that any assertion of race supremacy, or even discussion of race distinctions in this country, should be suppressed in the interests of the spread of Christianity in foreign countries--notably Japan. In the long run, however, these doctrines will work great injury to the Protestant churches if they persist in taking an anti-national point of view. While many of the individual ministers are well-meaning and kindly, their education is undeveloped in world affairs and their advice in such matters, on which they are uninstructed, is often very dangerous. Sentimental sympathy for other races of mankind is manifest today all over the world, but especially among Anglo-Saxons. It received a great impetus from President Wilson's doctrine of the right of Self Determination. The fruits of this doctrine can be seen in the rise of so-called nationalism everywhere, as in Ireland, Bohemia, Poland, Egypt, the Philippines, China, and India. The racially suicidal result of all this is the undermining of the control of the Nordic races over the natives. The upper classes and, in many cases, the peasantry in eastern Germany, for example, are Nordics. One of the tragic consequences of the World War was the taking of political power in this region from the Nordics and transferring it, under the guise of democratic institutions, to Alpine Slavs. In Soviet Russia, also, through the massacre and exile of the Nordic upper classes, political power has passed into the hands of Alpines, exactly as in France during the Revolution the Alpine lower classes destroyed the Nordic nobility and assumed control of the state. The Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars which followed killed off an undue proportion of Nordics in France and are said to have greatly shortened the stature of the French soldiers. The revolt against European control, especially in the Orient, is becoming more and more pronounced. As said above it has been encouraged unintentionally by the missionaries, who, in educating the natives, succeed only in arousing them to assert their equality with the European races. Probably the greatest tragedy in the world today is the corrosive jealousy of the fair skin of the white races felt by those whose skin is black, yellow, or brown. The world will hear more of this as the revolt of the lower races spreads. One of the manifestations of this jealousy of the fair skin of the Nordics is shown in those numerous cases where members of the colored races, or even dark-skinned members of the Nordic race regard the possession of a blonde woman as an assertion and proof of race equality. This has been true historically since the earliest times. It is more than ever in evidence at the present day. All the foregoing points to the value of a critical consideration of the racial composition of the original thirteen colonies and an analysis of the situation as it is today. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: This bill was framed and passed through the efforts of Honorable Albert Johnson of Washington. "A new Declaration of Independence," it has been happily called.] II THE CRADLE OF MANKIND Man is an immensely ancient animal. Over a million years have elapsed since he first made fire and more millions since he became a bipedal prehuman. He left the forests, at the latest, at the end of the Miocene, not less than seven million years ago and ventured out into the plains of Central Asia as a savage, powerful, clever biped, hunting in packs, or by sheer wit securing his prey single handed by pitfalls and other devices, the invention of which marks the development of growing intelligence. Man's initial differentiation from his simian ancestry probably began when he came down from the trees and began to walk erect. The hand was then liberated from its use as an instrument of locomotion and was devoted primarily to defense, attack, discovery, and invention. It is by means of the opportunities afforded by the hand that the human brain has evolved into man's most important factor in racial survival. Clear evidence of man's remote arboreal ancestry is offered by his stereoscopic or double-eyed vision. The great majority of ground animals, especially those living in the forest, have eyes on the sides of their heads; but in man's arboreal ancestors, by the recession of the intervening nasal and facial bones, the eyes were brought around to the front of the face. The resulting stereoptic vision enabled him to judge distance far more accurately than most mammals. Such power of determining distance is of course vital to an arboreal animal. Failure to judge accurately the length of a leap from branch to branch would be fatal. One often hears it stated that man has lost his sense of smell; but this sense was probably never better developed within the human period than it is now. In the trees a sense of smell is not of much value. The monkey can sit on a branch and jabber with impunity at the leopard on the ground below. To forest animals, like the deer or boar, however, the sense of smell is the surest protection against attack and is much more highly developed than the sense of sight, which latter is often quite feeble. In fact, in the thick jungle it is almost useless (and at "black night" completely so). Eurasia, where it is probable that mankind originated, was the greatest land mass on the globe in Tertiary times. Modern Europe and North Africa formed relatively small peninsulas in the extreme west of this Tertiary land mass. It is probably from Eurasia that man spread out to the uttermost parts of the habitable globe, carrying with him his language and such cultural features as had developed at the time of each successive migration. No race or language or cultural invention seems to have entered Eurasia from adjoining land areas. All went out. None came in. While the original center of dispersal of the Hominidæ or human family was probably Eurasia, it was at a later date also the center of the evolution of the higher types of man. To the northeast of Eurasia lay the ancient land connection with North America via Alaska, over which various species of animals passed back and forth, some of them having their origin in Asia and others in western North America. It was undoubtedly over this land connection that man first entered America at a relatively recent period and probably he came in successive waves. The American Indians appear to have been derived from the Mongoloid tribes of northeastern Asia before the latter had developed some of those extreme specializations which characterize the typical Mongols of Central Asia and China proper today. Judging from the culture which these American Indians brought with them, this migration began before 10,000 B.C. The existing races of mankind, and those either entirely extinct or now absorbed in other races, had their distinctive areas of differentiation and periods of radiation from Eurasia over the habitable globe. The most primitive types are now found farthest from this original centre of distribution in countries where through isolation they escaped competition with the higher types which evolved later. The weight of evidence appears to show that Africa, or Ethiopia, lying far to the southwest of Eurasia, was peopled in earliest times, by way of Arabia, by a most primitive negroid type of mankind. While north of the Sahara migrations from Asia have continued until recent times, the south was left for a vast period in possession of the Negro. Even today, aside from the recent infiltration of Whites and Browns, Africa south of the Sahara belongs to three negroid groups; the Negroes proper, the Pigmies or Negrillos, and the Bushmen and Hottentots. These three human types are characterized by very dark or yellow skin, tightly curled hair, very scanty body hair, flaring nostrils, flattened noses and an absence of supraorbital ridges. Again, Australia, Tasmania, and some of the adjoining islands are, or recently were, inhabited by what used to be considered one of the great divisions of mankind, the Australoids. These people have the black skin and certain features of the Negro; but differ from him in the possession of abundant body hair and of marked supraorbital ridges. Also the Australoid head hair is wavy, and not closely curled, a most important characteristic. The profound cleavage between the Negroes and the Australoids is now questioned in some quarters. The differentiation of the human species into types so distinctly contrasted as Whites and Blacks and the problems of the evolution of higher types of man from original stocks bring us to a new classification of the genus Homo. Some anthropologists still maintain that all human beings are included in the species _Homo sapiens_; but this is an old-fashioned grouping. Sooner or later a new system must be formulated based on the same fundamental rules that are applied to the classification of other mammals. For instance, the physical differences between the Nordics and the Negroes, the Australoids and the Mongols, if found among the lower mammals, would be much more than sufficient to constitute not only separate species, but even subgenera, and they are now so regarded by some anthropologists. Race is hard to define. It consists in the presence of a collection of hereditary characters common to the great majority of individuals in a given group. It lies in the preponderance of such characters as color of skin, hair, and eyes, facial and nasal contour, shape of skull, and even mental characteristics, which are more difficult to classify, but which are distinctly typical of specific human groups. Many individuals possess all the hereditary characters of a given race. But man is so ancient a being and intermixture has been so widespread that nearly every race shows signs of blending with others. This is especially true in Europe, where the intermingling of peoples has been extensive during the past twenty centuries. Just as the classification of man according to race needs revision in the light of recent discoveries, so the definition of race must be understood anew in the light of genetics. Thirty years ago we talked glibly about the Aryan or Indo-European race, or the Caucasian or Germanic race. All these terms must be discarded. Aryan, Indo-European, and Germanic are only linguistic terms and Caucasian has no meaning except as used in America to distinguish between whites and colored. Language or culture may spread quickly and widely among the peoples of the earth irrespective of race. For example, the bow and arrow may have originated with some specific race of mankind, yet we find this invention in use all over the globe and in the hands of the most diverse peoples. The use of firearms and of horses by the American Indians indicates nothing more than their contact with the Whites. It is unsafe to attribute the inception of any cultural feature to a given race. Civilization itself, that is, agriculture and the domestication of animals, probably arose in West Central Asia, spreading east, south, southwest, and west. Although the earliest remains of the dog, the first animal tamed, are found in the Maglemose in Denmark approximately 8000 B.C., it may have been domesticated far earlier in Asia. There were two centers of the development of civilization--two foci. The first was in southwestern Eurasia: the Valley of the Syr-Daria; Mesopotamia and its city states; Chaldea, Babylonia, Assyria; then Egypt, Crete, Greece, Rome, and modern Europe. There is the possibility, or even the probability, of finding in the unexplored portions of southern Arabia, connecting links of early culture between the Valley of the Euphrates and the Valley of the Nile. Recent discoveries indicate a very early civilization in the Valley of the Indus, which apparently had been brought down from the north. All these regions formed a single group and were the first center. The second focus was an independent, but similar and parallel expansion of civilization in southeastern Asia, now China. There was apparently little intercourse until modern times between the Far East and the Far West of Eurasia, except by caravan routes across Central Asia. The Romans knew the silk of China and there was a certain amount of trade in jewels, precious metals, and spices down through the Middle Ages, but the extraordinary fact that these two cultures developed independently with slight mutual influence of the one on the other is little appreciated. Both cultures seem, as said, to have had their origin in West Central Asia and to have radiated southwest, south, and east. One of the periodic cycles of drought desiccated the central area, and separated the Western and Eastern worlds by an almost impassable series of deserts, like the Gobi Desert of Mongolia. In the west, even as late as the time of Alexander the Great, Bactria and Sogdiana, northwest of India, were populous and flourishing states. Here it is that future exploration may uncover the first beginnings of agriculture and the domestication of animals--perhaps, also, the first written language. Language, like culture, is not identical or co-extensive with race to any great degree. Witness the neighboring islands in the West Indies where Negroes speak Spanish in one, French in another, and English in a third. The language of a given group at a given time, however, being possibly a much more recent acquirement than its cultural inventions, does show either that it was originated by those who speak it or that it was imposed upon them by another race long in contact with them. Since we are to deal principally with the racial groups of Europe, namely the Nordic, Mediterranean, and Alpine, we might glance for a moment in more detail at this distinction between race and language. The Mediterraneans of Arabia speak a Semitic language, while the Berbers of North Africa, also a people of Mediterranean stock, speak a Hamitic language. This same Hamitic tongue was probably spoken all around the coast of the inland sea and up the west coast of Europe to the British Islands before Aryan speech was brought there by Nordic invaders from the north and east. Meanwhile the Alpines spoke languages related to Turki, a Ural-Altaic language--of course, non-Aryan--as they still do in Turkestan, Hungary, and Finland. As to the Nordics, it would appear that this race originated the so-called Aryan or Indo-European group of languages. The Aryan tongue was probably developed in South Russia before the long isolation from Asia had been broken. At a period in the third millennium B.C. the Aryan language split into two groups: one, the Western or Centum group, which pushed west and north; the other, the Eastern or Satem group which pushed south and east. The Centum group included the Greek, Latin, Celtic, and Germanic languages. Curiously enough, an outlying member of this group, the Tokarian, was spoken in Turkestan as late as the seventh century A.D. The Satem group, sometimes called Iranian, included the Lithuanian, all the Slavic languages and those of ancient and modern Persia and the various forms of Sanscrit spoken in India and Burma. Light-skinned invaders from the northwest appear to have entered India in successive waves and to have introduced the Aryan language known as Sanscrit. They were probably the Sacae or Scythians from South Russia. These Nordics in India can properly be called "Aryans." As used otherwise, however, the term Aryan is purely linguistic. Originally all the tribes who spoke the languages of the Centum and Satem groups were members of the Nordic race. According to recent discoveries in the Valley of the Indus, a very elaborate civilization flourished at least five thousand years ago at Mohenjo-Daro, four hundred miles north of the mouth of the river. This civilization was as elaborate as the corresponding culture of Mesopotamia or of Egypt. The racial characters found in the bodies in the burials indicate that the mass of the population was then, as now, of Mediterranean race, but that the ruling class was long-headed and long-faced, and of a tall stature and sturdy build--a type clearly Nordic. In the earliest graves of Ur, in Mesopotamia, the skulls are very clearly of a race akin to those on the Indus. All this would tend to throw back the date of the invasion of men from the north by another thousand years or more. The same appears to be true of the invasions into Greece of the Achæans and of the Osco-Umbrians into Italy. The wide distribution of the Satem or Iranian group to the south and west of Asia shows that the Nordics in great numbers conquered the aboriginal inhabitants of these countries and imposed on them the Aryan speech. They invented the caste system to maintain the purity of their blood. In fact, the Hindu word "varna" means both color and caste. In spite of all their efforts, however, the conquering invaders died out almost completely in India and Persia--leaving behind them only their language, and, in some cases, their religion. With this brief review of the essential difference between race and language or culture, we may return to a consideration of humanity in terms of essentially racial characters. The world as a whole can be roughly mapped racially according to the most obvious human differentiation--namely, color: white, yellow, red, black, and brown. The white race at the present day dominates Europe, northern Asia in part, Australia, and North America as far south as Mexico, with outposts scattered all over the globe. Eastern Asia is yellow. Southern Asia and northern Africa are brown. Africa south of the Sahara Desert is black, and there is a black tinge across southern Asia, as we shall see. The red men, or Amerinds, with but a small remnant in the United States and Canada, inhabit Latin America, where in some cases their blood is mixed with that of the descendants of Negro slaves, and, of course, to a still larger extent with that of South Europeans. Color, however, is not the only character upon which a racial map of the world could be based. Perhaps a more satisfactory division could be made according to the cross section of human hair. However, in dealing with the racial groupings of Eurasia, we find different types of humanity arranged in definite zones according to certain outstanding physical characters. Farthest south on the great land area of Eurasia lies a belt of Negroids, extending from Ethiopia with intervals through Arabia to the South Seas. The principal racial characteristics of these people are very dark or black skin, dark eyes, tightly curled black hair, and long, _i.e._, dolichocephalic skulls. In southern Persia the population shows a Negro admixture, and a distinctly Negroid type is numerous among the Pre-Dravidians of India. The Hindus themselves are very dark brown with wavy black hair. A few decades ago there was much talk of the English officer and the Hindu in the ranks being of the same Aryan blood, because they both spoke widely diverse forms of the great group of Aryan languages. This, of course, did not imply the slightest trace of blood relationship--the Aryan speech of the Hindu had been imposed upon him by his conquerors from the north. Such fallacies were common a generation ago. To the eastward we find remnants of Negro types in the Malay Peninsula and in the large islands to the east as far as the Philippines. This Negroid type extends also eastward through Melanesia. From this discontinuous distribution it would appear that the Negroes and Negritos were the original population of southern Eurasia. It is probable that from this region the true Negroes migrated westward into Ethiopia. At a date far earlier than this hypothetical migration westward, an earlier type of Negroid pushed southeast to Tasmania, which was thereafter cut off from the land mass of Australia. In Australia itself these Tasmanians were absorbed or exterminated by the later coming Australoids from whom they differed materially. The racial tangle in Australia, Papua, and the islands of Melanesia presents great difficulties in classification, but the basic element appears to be Negro with a large admixture of later Mongoloids coming from Asia. The next zone of human population, superimposed in many cases upon the Negroids, but south of the great central mountain ranges of Eurasia, is constituted by the Mediterranean race. This race is characterized by black, wavy hair, very dark eyes, oval face with fairly regular features, dark olive skin, relatively short stature, and a somewhat slight skeletal and muscular structure. This last character is in sharp contrast with the powerful and sturdy build of the next two races to be considered, the Alpine and the Nordic. The principal character of the Mediterranean race, however, is its long (dolichocephalic) skull. The Negroes, as we have said, have long skulls, but of quite a different type. The range of the Mediterraneans extends from the western part of the British Isles, through Spain and along both coasts of the Mediterranean Sea, down the east coast of Africa to Somaliland. In Asia it embraces the Arabs, South Persians, most of the Hindus, with an eastward extension. In Northeast Africa and India it is strongly mixed with Negro. Spreading everywhere throughout Europe north of the territory dominated by the Mediterranean race, and often mixed with it, we find the Alpines. This race is characterized by a somewhat short, stocky build much sturdier than the Mediterranean, abundant dark, but not straight, head and body hair, dark eyes and round (brachycephalic) skull. The center of origin of the Alpines was somewhere in Central Asia west of the true Mongols, north of the Mediterraneans, and east of the Nordics--possibly in Turkestan. The Alpines and Mongols are both characterized by a round skull but, as in the case of the long-skulled Mediterraneans and the long-skulled Negroes, the type of skull differs appreciably. The Mongols and Alpines have been in close contact for ages. The Mongols have issued again and again from East and Central Asia and submerged the Alpines, driving them westward into Central Europe. There has been a great deal of intermixture and the Slavic Alpine population of eastern Europe frequently shows distinctive Mongol traits. However, the two races, while perhaps remotely connected, differ widely. The Alpines, like the Australoids and to a less extent like the Nordics, have abundant body hair and copious beard, while the Mongols (like their derivatives, the American Indians) are beardless and without body hair. Alpine hair is wavy, that of the Mongols and Mongoloids straight. Alpine features are rather coarse, often with a large prominent nose, while true Mongols have an exceedingly flat face, depressed nose, and a broad space between the eyes. This depressed nose, in adult Mongols, is the retention of an infantile character, as babies of all races are born with bridgeless noses. As to stature, most Alpines are of moderate height, although those from the Tyrol to Albania, the so-called Dinaric race, are decidedly tall. It was a branch of tall Mongols, with a slight admixture of Alpines, that crossed into America from Asia and became the ancestors of the American Indians, who are of substantial height, often with prominent, almost hawklike noses and high cheek bones. We might mention here the Malays, who are essentially Mongols and who pushed down into Indo-China and throughout the Malay Peninsula. There are many traces of their blood in Polynesia. This expansion was relatively recent and in those localities there are everywhere indications of earlier races, especially of the very ancient Negroid types known as Negritos. These Malays extended through the Philippines as far north as Japan, where they met and mingled with a stream of northern Mongoloid immigrants from Korea. The Alpine domain at the present time extends from the center of France eastward in an ever widening wedge as far as the Himalayas. It includes the bulk of the population of Central France, North Italy, South Germany, Switzerland, the provinces of the recent Austrian Empire, and extends through the Balkan states, Russia, Asia Minor, and far into Asia. This race penetrated into and overran Central Europe during relatively recent times, probably at about the beginning of the Bronze Age, approximately 1800 B.C. East and north of the Carpathians, about 400 A.D., the Alpines had a period of great expansion, chiefly at the expense of the Nordic race, whose distribution we shall discuss presently. As the Nordic tribes moved into the Roman provinces, the lands they vacated were occupied by Alpine Slavs. All these movements may have been caused by the pressure from the east of Asiatic Mongols, who, like the Huns, were beginning their drive toward Europe. Our word slave coming from Slav reveals the social relation of these Alpines to West Europeans. The westernmost of the Alpine Slavs were called Wends. In Charlemagne's time they occupied what is now Germany as far west as the Elbe. In its easternmost range these Alpines were called Turanians and were confused with the Mongols of Central Asia, who had again and again conquered them. The remnant of Wends in East Germany, the Bohemians, most Poles and South Slavs are all Alpines. The great mass of Russians are of this type, as well as the ancient Avars, Hunagars, Magyars, Cumans, and the Bulgars, all more or less mixed with Mongols. The Armenians are Alpines of an especially pronounced type and are probably descended from the ancient Hittites. The East European Alpines are saturated everywhere with Mongol blood, dating for the most part from their conquest by the Tatars during the thirteenth century. The fact that Asia, north of the main mountain ranges, is pre-eminently the home of round skulls is very significant and suggests remote relationship between Alpine and Mongol. The Alpine skull reaches a most extreme form among the Armenians, who have a very high skull, greatly flattened behind and somewhat like a sugar loaf in shape. The division of the races of mankind based on long and round skulls is extremely ancient. We find both types among the fossil and semi-fossil skulls at the end of the Paleolithic. The first definite appearance of round skulls mixed with long skulls is found in the burials at Offnet in Bavaria in the Azilian period at the very end of the Paleolithic, some twelve thousand years ago. From that day to this in France, Bavaria, and elsewhere in western Europe as well as in eastern Europe the round skulls have expanded their range. This steady increase of round-skull Alpines everywhere in Central Europe in recent centuries is one of the most ominous racial facts that confront us. The great French anthropologist, deLapouge, stated in a recent letter to the author that in France the cranial index has risen two points a century since the Middle Ages, so that France is no longer a Nordic land. This transformation is due, in the opinion of some observers, to a mixture of race in which round-headedness is dominant over long-headedness. In the opinion of the writer, however, it is due to the replacement of one race, the Nordic, by another, the Alpine. The Nordics not only incur disproportionate loss in war, but are also highly nomadic in habit, while the Alpines, on the other hand, stick close to the land and breed persistently. Of the European races, there remains to be considered the Nordics, a people greatly specialized, who have developed a fair skin, light-colored eyes, tall stature of sturdy build, and long, _i.e._, dolichocephalic skulls, and definite mental traits. The slow but long-continued physical development of the Nordics has culminated in a powerful skeleton and musculature in sharp contrast to that of the Mediterranean race, to which the Nordic is more closely related than to any other. In fact, the mixture of Nordic and Mediterranean in the British Islands may possibly be one of the few advantageous racial crossings. As to the homeland of the original Nordic race, we have as yet only guesswork on the part of the anthropologist. When we shall know more about the condition of Central Eurasia during the glacial period and immediately thereafter, we may get nearer to an answer to the question of where and how this race originated and developed. It is certain, however, that the Nordics were originally located west of the Alpines and Mongols and north of the Mediterraneans. We have fossil records of five or six extinct species or genera of man and more are constantly coming to light in Asia and outlying regions of the Old World. The impulse that forced the ancestors of man to develop his high energy and intelligence probably arose from the onset of the Pleistocene glaciation a million or more years ago. Mankind was then forced apart into widely separated areas where specific characters developed in isolation. The Nordics were most likely cut off from Asia by the Caspian and Aral Seas, which extended far to the north, where they met the oncoming ice. It was west of this barrier that the Nordic race developed its peculiar characters. Later, when the ice retreated and this watery barrier disappeared, the Nordics were inundated again and again by floods of Asiatics, first Alpines and then Mongols. Sometimes the Nordics became the aggressors and expanded eastward in turn, conquering Persia, India, and Burma. Blond invaders of East Asia, called "the green-eyed devils," attacked the Great Wall of China as late as 200 B.C. They were also called "Wusuns," a Tatar word meaning "the tall ones." In the long run, however, the Nordics were forced westward. When the retreating glaciers left habitable land in Scandinavia, it was into this region that the first westward migration of the Nordics found its way. This was probably as early as 8000 B.C. There it was, through the fogs and long winters of the north, that they developed in complete isolation their great stature and musculature, their fair or flaxen hair, and their blue eyes. The continental Nordics, however, who moved westward to settle around the Baltic and North Seas, retained the more generalized characters of brown hair of various shades, and eyes which tend to either brown, gray, or, to a less extent, blue. The light eyes of the Nordics include light brown or hazel, and may be of any and all shades of gray and green to the deepest violet blue. The racial characters which most noticeably distinguish the Nordics are the colors of the skin, hair, and eyes. As sharply contrasted with the skin of the Mediterranean peoples, the color of the blood shows through the fair Nordic skin except when tanned by exposure to the sun. The light-colored hair is almost always blond in youth, turning darker with age, although in many individuals extreme blondness is retained through life. The brown hair, characteristic of the Nordics of the British Isles and America, runs from light to very dark brown; but blue-black hair, so rare in England and among native Americans, is never Nordic. The blond hair may tend towards golden red. In fact, in classic times, red hair seems to have been more common than now and may be more characteristic of the Celtic Nordics than of the Teutonic Nordics. In race mixtures between blond and black-haired peoples, the blondness tends to be lost. On the other hand, light-colored eyes are much more persistent, and this sign of Nordic admixture is found about ten times more frequently than is blond hair among such peoples as the Albanians, where all other Nordic characters except stature seem to have been lost. For thousands of years, Europe has been an arena of racial mixtures. Over great territories, as we shall see, the Nordic race has been dominant for the past thirty centuries, so that the majority of Alpine and Mediterranean types shows the impress of Nordic characters. For example, in Bavaria are found short, stocky, round-skulled Alpines with extremely blond hair and blue eyes. The French, who are today preponderantly Alpine, show outcroppings of profound Nordic characters throughout the population. Thus, while pure types exist everywhere in sufficient numbers to enable us to define race, nevertheless there has been so much intermixture in the past that it is hard sometimes to assign a given individual to a specific race. The definition of race, in fact, cannot be based on any one character, but on a preponderance of many racial characters which make up the resultant type. We have now considered the main races of mankind, but should devote space to the Mongols and their derivatives. The Mongol is undoubtedly a very ancient and major subdivision of the Hominidæ, but appears to be intrusive in much of its present range. In Southeast Asia and in the Malay countries and islands it arrived later than the ancient Negroids. The Mongoloids, as stated above, are characterized by a short, stocky build and generally a round skull, very straight black hair with a round cross section, a broad flat face with projecting malar bones, and a slanting eye often marked by the Mongol fold. The last characters distinguish them from the Alpine race, but are sometimes to be found in such members of that race as have a Mongoloid admixture. These Mongolian characters occur often in Bohemia, in Moravia, and especially in Galicia, in which last province they probably date from the Mongol invasions of the thirteenth century. Such traits, however, are not found among the Alpines of southern Germany or France. In the American Indians, Mongoloid blood undoubtedly predominates but the high-bridged nose of some of the tribes and their high stature undoubtedly point to admixture with other races. The Mongol is not inferior to the Nordic in intelligence, as is the Negro, but represents such a divergent type that the mixture between Nordics and Chinese or Japanese is not a good one. The overflow of these Asiatics into our Pacific Coast might have Mongolized the States there, had not the American laboring man taken alarm and secured legislation forbidding their immigration. With the foregoing as a simple and generalized description of the primitive races of mankind as we know them today, and with special emphasis on the three principal European variants of the "white" race, we shall proceed to consider the distribution and racial influence of the Nordics in western Europe. III THE NORDIC CONQUEST OF EUROPE About 1300 B.C. a blond, blue-eyed race of Libyans appears in Egyptian sculptures. Whence these blonds came or how they got into Libya is not known, but it is interesting to note that blond Berbers are to be found today in the Atlas Mountains of North Africa. These, however, are probably more recent arrivals from the north. About 1800 B.C. traces of Nordic infiltration appeared among the Hittites. These Nordic conquerors later entered Mesopotamia as the Mitanni and the Kassites, although it may be that they were only the ruling classes of these peoples. In recorded history the Nordics first appear in the West as Achæans. They came from the North from the Dacian Plains and conquered Greece and Phrygia about 1400 or 1500 B.C. About 1200 or 1300 B.C. a Nordic people, the Osco-Umbrians, sweeping down from the northeast, entered Italy. They were kindred to the Achæans and were the ancestors of the Latin tribes, including the early Romans. The aboriginal Mediterraneans were driven into southern Italy, where, in Calabria and Apulia, they persist to this day. The contrast between the peoples of North and South Italy is still profound.[2] The Continental Nordics, as Celtic tribes, entered Gaul in the ninth century B.C. From the evidence of place names, they passed through South Germany. All Gaul except Aquitania, in the southwest, was overwhelmed. Spain was conquered by Celtic Nordics about 600 B.C., but their domination was never complete and they soon mingled with the natives. The mixed inhabitants of the peninsula were called Celtiberians by the Romans. During this same period the British Isles were overrun and thoroughly occupied by Celtic Nordics named Goidels and the Celtic tongue was imposed upon the Mediterranean population, although the latter survived as a race in large numbers, especially in the western parts of England and Ireland. These Celtic-speaking Mediterraneans were, until recently, called "Iberians"; but fifteen hundred years ago the invading Saxons called all the people they found in England "Welsh." In about 300 B.C. a new wave of Celts entered Gaul and Britain. This time they came from the German plains, speaking a somewhat different form of Celtic. On the Continent they were known as the Belgæ and in the British Isles as the Brythons. They gave their name to the British Islands. By Cæsar's time they had conquered the northern third of Gaul and all of England; but the Roman armies put an end to their farther advance. They did not reach Ireland. Roman writers describe the Celts in Gaul as pure Nordics and speak of them as forming the ruling classes and military aristocracy until their virtual destruction by Julius Cæsar in his ten years of conquest. His campaigns in Gaul are said to have destroyed a million men, chiefly of the warrior caste. At the time of their greatest expansion the Gauls sacked Rome (387 B.C.). They pressed no farther south and soon retreated to and remained in Cisalpine Gaul, that is, the valley of the Po and the country north of the Apennines. The Nordic Gauls or Galatians--to use the Greek form of their name--devastated Greece about 297 B.C. and passed over into Asia Minor. There they settled in what was long known as Galatia, now Angora, the present seat of the Turkish Government. These Galatians were the last Nordics to enter Asia Minor, if we except the armies of the Crusaders. From the description of the physical characters of the Celtic-speaking tribes they closely resembled the Germanic tribes that followed them into the Roman Empire. Some French anthropologists find that the present-day population of France is nearly four-fifths Alpine and they have decided to call the Alpines "Celts," to avoid admitting that the Celts were physically the same as the hated Germans. This error is not shared by the leading French anthropologists, such as deLapouge, but it has been accepted by some anthropologists. Careful study of the references to the Celts by classic writers leaves no doubt that the Gauls, Galatians, Belgæ, and Brythons were Nordics as were their successors the Visigoths, Suevi, Alemanni, Burgundians, and, above all, the Franks. In fact, France down to the time of the Reformation was a Nordic land. Soon after the time when the Belgæ first appear in Europe, Nordic tribes speaking a Germanic dialect are mentioned in history. The first of these tribes to come in conflict with the Romans were the Teutones and Cimbri, who after defeating several Roman armies, were utterly destroyed in 103 B.C. These people were the forerunners of many tribes and nations which emerged, one after another, from the swamps and forests of the north. The original home of most of them seems to have been in Scandinavia, where they had been developing for several thousand years. These newcomers were the latest and final linguistic group to appear in the history of Europe. As Teutonic Nordics they have dominated the scene ever since. The use of the word Teutonic is here purely linguistic in order to distinguish these late comers from the earlier, Celtic-speaking Nordic tribes. The Teutonic Nordics formed a substantial element among the Belgæ and Brythons and their expansion may well have been the cause of the westward thrust of the latter. The Teutons began to press southward on the Roman Empire early in the Christian era and this pressure continued for some three centuries until the Empire collapsed under their successive invasions. As said above, the Celts and the Teutons were identical physically and the use of the word "Celtic" cannot be justified as a racial term at the present day. Among living Nordics, those of Celtic origin cannot be distinguished physically from those of German or Scandinavian extraction. Possibly red hair and the psychical peculiarities associated with it may be rather more Celtic than Scandinavian. We find in classical writers the names and description of the barbarians beyond the borders of the Empire. They were all described as blue-eyed, fair or red-haired giants. Height, however, must be considered as relative to that of the Romans, whose legions in the later years of the empire were apparently composed of small men. With each generation the names applied to the barbarian tribes change, but the description of physical characters remains the same. The finest of these Teutonic barbarians were the Goths who, according to their historian, Jordanes, crossed over from Sweden about 300 B.C. and settled on the banks of the Vistula, whence they expanded into South Russia, which they occupied for centuries. In fact, a remnant of their language (Krim Götisch) was spoken in the Crimea until the seventeenth century. The Gepidæ were a branch of the Goths who lay to the west of the main body, and the Alans, a closely related tribe, were located well to the east. It is interesting to note that some of the Alans, fleeing from the Huns, took refuge in the Caucasus where the Ossetes to this day show occasional Nordic physical characters. The main body of the Gothic nation was split in two in 375 A.D. by the invasion of the Huns, a Tatar people from Central Asia. Those who took refuge in the west, in South Germany and Gaul, were called Visigoths. A part of the Visigoths, however, fled across the Danube, devastated the provinces of the Byzantine Empire and slew the reigning emperor, Valens, in 378 A.D. The eastern branch, or Ostrogoths, were conquered by the Huns and remained in Dacia. Later, after Attila's death and the disruption of his empire, the Ostrogoths, under the great Theodoric, invaded Italy and came near to building a unified Italian nation nearly fourteen hundred years ago. The Visigoths, who had been long in contact with Roman civilization, occupied Gaul. When Attila crossed the Rhine in 451 A.D. they fought on the side of the Romans at Chalons, one of the decisive battles of history, and their king, the Visigothic Theodoric, fell in the battle. The Ostrogoths, on the other hand, were the best troops of the Hunnish host. The Visigoths entered Spain in 412 A.D. Their allies, the Suevi, conquered and ruled Galicia and the provinces on the Atlantic which now constitute Portugal. The invasion of Spain by the Visigoths resulted in the expulsion of a closely related Teutonic people, the Vandals, who, with their allies, a remnant of the Alans, crossed over into Africa in 428 A.D. On the site of Carthage the Vandals erected a kingdom which lasted a hundred years. They ruled the African coast westward to the Atlantic, conquered and settled in Corsica and under their king, Genseric, sacked Rome in 455 A.D. These Vandals, originally from Sweden, first appear in history on the Baltic coast, thence they passed down through Central Europe and westward into France and thence into Spain, where they settled and remained until they were driven into Africa. They may have left behind some of their blood to mingle with the later-coming Germanic tribes in Spain. It is possible also, though not probable, that to them are due some of the blond characters still found in the Atlas Mountains. As a race, however, their disappearance is complete. The Visigoths maintained their control in Spain until 711 A.D. when the Mohammedan Arabs crossed the Straits of Gibraltar and completely defeated the Visigothic armies. Why the power of this people collapsed so suddenly and completely is one of the mysteries of history, but after the great seven days' battle on the Guadalquivir in which their king, Roderick, was slain, the whole peninsula was easily conquered by the Arabs. At this time, it is true, the blood of the Visigoths had been greatly mixed with that of the subject races, resulting perhaps in a weakening of their fighting power. One of the reasons for the easy conquest of the Visigoths by the Moors lay in the hatred for them as Arians by the old Orthodox Catholic population who regarded their conquerors as heretics, and the assistance rendered by the Jews whom the Visigoths had treated harshly and who are reputed to have induced the Moors to make their invasion. A remnant of the Visigoths fled northerly into southern Gaul, which was called Gothia Septimania. There the name Visigoths was corrupted into Vigot or Bigot, which was a term of reproach used by the orthodox natives. It is important to note that the relations between the populations of the Roman Empire and the invading Teutonic Nordics were greatly affected by the fact that the latter were the followers of the schismatic monk Arius who, about 350 A.D., converted the Goths to a Unitarian form of Christianity. The denial of the Trinity by the Barbarians roused a fierce hatred among their subject peoples. Ostrogoths and Visigoths, Vandals and Alans, Burgundians and Lombards, all were Arians. The Franks alone among the Barbarians were converted directly to Orthodox Christianity. This greatly facilitated their conquest of Gaul. In consequence, France for more than a thousand years was regarded as the eldest son of the church. Down to our time, the aristocracy of Spain, and more especially that of Portugal, shows a marked inheritance of blondness coming down largely from Visigothic and Suevic ancestry. The province of Galicia still retains very appreciable marks of Gothic blood, especially in a high percentage of light-colored eyes. The Visigoths left behind them in Spain a legacy of names which now are regarded as most typically Spanish, as for instance Rodrigo, Alfonso, Alvarez, Guzman, and Velasquez. In the same manner we find a Nordic legacy of names reaching from Italy into France even where little Nordic blood is left. In other words, while blood dies out, names persist. At the time of Spanish greatness the predominant blood in the peninsula was still Gothic,[3] and the adventurers who went overseas and were lost to the race were of this blood. In Portugal, the one great poet, Camoens,[4] and in Spain Cervantes, who was his contemporary, were descendants of the old Gothic nobility and had marked Nordic characteristics, as had the Cid Campeador. The case was the same in Italy[5] at this period. The great men were from the northern part of the peninsula. Dante, Michaelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, and virtually all of the leading men of the Renaissance were blond Nordics. Columbus himself, supposed to have come from Genoa, is described as having blue eyes and fair hair. In southern France, in the so-called Gothic Septimania and in the country around Toulouse, the home of the Troubadours, Gothic names abound.[6] A similar condition prevails throughout France. French names are Gothic, Frankish, or Burgundian today, though disguised by their spelling, as, for example, Joffre from Gotfrid. In the opinion of Count deLapouge, France as late as the settlement of America was more Nordic than is the Germany of today. The main body of the Visigoths who survived the conquest by the Arabs took refuge in the northwestern part of Spain where they maintained some small kingdoms which ultimately coalesced and became the nucleus of a Christian Spain, which in the course of a seven-hundred-year crusade gradually reconquered the peninsula and finally expelled the Moors in 1492. The Arabs who conquered Spain, and the Islamized Persians and Moors, had a wonderful period of intellectual expansion during the seventh and following centuries. This amazing outburst of genius, which preserved for us much of the science and learning of the Greeks, came to an end when the Mediterranean Mohammedans began mixing their blood with that of their Negro slaves. Mohammedanism has always appealed to the lower races, especially the Negro, because when they became followers of the Prophet they were admitted to social and racial equality with the superior race. This and the lure of the Negro women ruined the Arab race. Today, all through Africa and Egypt and in parts of Arabia, the so-called Arabs are often Negroid in appearance. In this case polygamy was a racial curse because the richer and abler men had the most slave women and left a larger progeny of half-breed children than did their poorer countrymen. The exact reverse happened in the case of the Turks, who were originally Alpines from Central Asia strongly mixed with Mongol. They conquered Asia Minor and the nations of Southeast Europe up to and including Hungary. Everywhere they seized the most beautiful women and, being polygamists, the ablest Turks had the most children by the finest women of the subject countries. Thus the Turks bred up as the Arabs bred down. To this day the Turks are the superior race in Asia Minor and have eliminated, at least from the ruling classes, practically all the physical traces of their Asiatic origin. The women of the Caucasus, especially the Circassians and Georgians, who retain some remnants of the Nordic Alans, have always been noted for their physical beauty. They were in great demand in Turkish Harems. Incidentally the Kurds are, or rather were, Nordic and it is interesting to note that Saladin, of Crusading fame, was a Kurd. Concerning other Teutonic Nordics, we need mention only those whose blood enters largely into modern nations. Of these, one of the most interesting peoples were the Burgundians, who settled on the western bank of the upper Rhine in what is now Alsace, and in Burgundian France and French-speaking Switzerland. They were a very promising and flourishing nation until their overthrow in the middle of the fifth century by Attila and his Huns, a tragedy which supplies the subject matter of the Niebelungenlied. Appollonius Sidonius refers to the Burgundians as being seven feet high; while this is an obvious exaggeration, it is interesting to note that in the old Burgundian provinces we find the tallest stature in France today. When the Lombards first appear in history about 165 A.D. they were in northern Germany. They entered Italy in 568 A.D. and conquered the Peninsula even more thoroughly than had their predecessors, the Ostrogoths. They not only occupied Italy north of the Apennines for three hundred years, but also established several large duchies in the south. The valley of the Po, where they settled, had been for centuries Cisalpine Gaul, and this Lombard territory is today the backbone of modern Italy. The percentage of light-colored eyes around Milan is high, and blondness through this district is as common a characteristic of the peasantry as it is of the aristocracy throughout the rest of Italy. The Lombards were Arians and were in constant conflict with the Popes and their Orthodox followers and were consequently generally maligned. Just as a similar situation facilitated the conquest of Spain by the Moors, so the destruction of the Lombard Kingdom by the Franks was made the easier by this antagonism. In passing, we need only remark that there were small bands of other Nordics, who entered Italy as Saxons, Alemanni, and Suevi, and who entered France as Alans and Saxons. These small bands differed in few respects from the larger Nordic peoples and were quickly absorbed in them. All these barbarian tribes were closely related racially. Before we leave the Alemanni who occupied southwest Germany with Alsace and German-speaking Switzerland, we may note that their name, Alemanni, did not mean 'All Men' in the sense of a mixed company, but rather _The Men_ "par excellence,"--the German "_All_" being the analogous of the Greek "_Pan_." We come next to the Franks, who appear in history about the time of the Battle of Chalons in 451 A.D. in which they took an unimportant part, but in the following centuries they rapidly gained the ascendency throughout Gaul and western Germany. The conquests by the Franks were the most important and enduring of those of the Teutonic Nordics in Continental Europe. We know very little about the Franks from the Romans, although they may have been the Varini, who were located in northwestern Germany in classic times. As a result of the Crusades, Roman Orthodox, as contrasted with Greek Christians, are known as "Ferangi" to this day in the Levant. Being Orthodox Christians and not Arians, the Franks had the support of the Roman Church in all their conquests. The Flemings of Belgium are remnants of the original Franks who retained their own language. Most of these invaders, like the Franks, Visigoths, Lombards, and Normans, adopted the Latin language of their subject peoples when they settled within the confines of the Roman Empire. Except in eastern England and northern France the numbers of the conquering Nordics were not sufficient entirely to evict and replace the conquered populations, but they everywhere formed the upper classes and land-owning aristocracy and to this day these same classes in all European nations continue to show, in more or less purity, the physical characters of the Nordic race. During the Middle Ages, the dominating and war-like Nordics paused long enough from fighting each other to carry on the Crusades and to beat back the onrush of the Saracens at Tours in 732 A.D. They saved Europe from the Mongols in 1241 A.D. at the Battle of Liegnitz (now Wahlstatt) in Silesia where the Duke of Liegnitz and the Nordic nobility, outnumbered five to one, lay dead upon the field of battle; but checked the advance of the Asiatic hordes and saved the budding civilization of Europe from the fate of Asia. This race supplied the navigators of the expansion period, when the world was for the first time opened up in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and since then they have formed the fighting men, soldiers, sailors, explorers, hunters, adventurers, and frontiersmen of Europe and her colonies. After mastering the north of France, the Franks subjugated the remnants of the Burgundians and destroyed the Visigothic kingdom which still flourished in the south of Gaul. They also conquered the country on the east bank of the Rhine known as Franconia, and under Charlemagne seized northern Italy. In 800 _A.D._ Charlemagne revived the Western Roman Empire, which under various guises lasted down to 1807. Charlemagne's greatest and most difficult conquest, however, was that of the Saxons, who were pure Nordics. They occupied the districts of northwest Germany, centering in Hanover, and even today this part of Germany is still the most Nordic portion of that country. When Charlemagne reached the Elbe in his conquests he found beyond it the heathen Alpine Wends and from his day down to the World War, the history of Central Europe has been the pushing back of the frontier of Alpine Asia from the Elbe eastward toward the Urals. These eastern lands were conquered and little by little Christianized and civilized from the west. This process went on as far as the Vistula, where it met the culture, and Greek Orthodox religion, of the Byzantine Empire, which had followed up the rivers of Russia from the Black Sea and had given to Moscovia and to the Ukraine their religion, alphabet, and art. The Northmen were the last of the Nordic barbarians to appear on the scene. In the ninth and tenth centuries they raided the coasts of Europe from England to Greece. They established themselves as permanent settlers on all the Scottish islands and on many parts of the Scottish coast. In Caithness, the northernmost corner of Scotland, Norse was spoken as late as the seventeenth century. They formed settlements and left place names all around the coasts of Wales and England. In the tenth century as Danes they subjugated northeastern England and imposed their rule east of the line of Watling Street, which runs from London to Chester. These Danes had barely been overcome by the Saxons when a new group of Nordics arrived as Normans from France and conquered England in 1066. Ireland was attacked by the Norse who came in from the north and by the Danes who entered from the south. The island was overrun by these two peoples who have left many traces in the place names and in the blood of Ireland. On the Continent the coasts of France and Germany were harried by the Northmen and the country since called Normandy was conquered by them in 911 A.D. The Danish conquest of England, referred to above, must have been largely Norse while, in France, Rollo's followers were probably to an overwhelming extent Danes. The Norman element in England and to some extent in America down to this very day has supplied a very large proportion of the conquerors, seamen, explorers, and frontiersmen. This same ruling and restless strain showed itself in the individual adventurers who went to South Italy and Sicily, which they thoroughly conquered in the twelfth century. They even attacked the Byzantine Empire. To this day blue eyes in Sicily are called "Norman eyes" and are to some extent characteristic of the upper classes there. It was in this period that the Norse rovers under Leif Ericson discovered the northeast mainland of America about 1000 A.D., nearly five hundred years before Columbus, who probably knew of their voyages, crossed the Atlantic. At the time of this Norwegian and Danish expansion, there was a similar outpouring of Swedes who, as Varangians, crossed the Baltic into Russia, which they conquered and ruled for many centuries. The name Varangian is strongly suggestive of Varini or Franks and the name "Russian" means "rowers." The Varangians came across the seas precisely as their ancestors, the Goths, had done a thousand years earlier. After the expansion of this so-called Viking period, Scandinavian activities came to an end. * * * * * Man undoubtedly crossed back and forth on dry land from Europe to England in Neolithic and earlier times. In fact, some of the earliest records of man have been found in England and the recent discoveries in Norfolk of chipped implements and hearths show that man made tools and used fire in England before the appearance of the first glaciers--something over a million years ago. These early species and genera of men largely died out or were exterminated and were succeeded at the beginning of Neolithic times by invasions of the small, dark, long-skulled Mediterranean race which for many thousands of years formed the basis of the population of England, Scotland, and Ireland. About the beginning of the Bronze Age, some 1800 B.C., a tall, round-skulled type from the Continent called the Beaker Makers appeared on the scene in England. They resembled somewhat the present Dinaric race, a tall, round-skulled branch of the Alpines now found from the Tyrol southward to Albania on the east side of the Adriatic. It is clear that the Beaker Makers entered from the east across the narrow seas and their remains indicate a tall, masterful type which seems to have disappeared to a large extent, although some of the round-skulled, heavily built Englishmen, found numerously among the commercial classes, may be their representatives today. The racial composition of the British Isles when the Nordic first appeared on the scene may be safely said to have been composed of small, brunet Mediterraneans interspersed with a small number of round-skulled types and including, very probably, remnants of still earlier races. The Celtic-speaking Nordics appear to have crossed the Rhine into France and the countries to the southwest about 800 B.C. At about the same time they forced their way into the British Isles which they thoroughly conquered. These Nordics were called Goidels or "Q" Celts and their language is represented today by the remnants of Erse in Ireland, Gaelic in Scotland, and Manx on the Isle of Man. These "Q" Celts, as contrasted with the later coming "P" Celts, are now represented by the Macs (meaning son) just as the later Cymric or Brythonic Celts are called "P" Celts because in their language Ap means son. The aborigines were called Picts in Scotland. These Mediterranean Picts spoke a language related to Hamitic or Egyptian, and many place names of this origin are still to be found. It is not definitely known whether the Gaelic speech of Scotland is a remnant of early Goidel invasion or whether it was reintroduced from Ireland in the early centuries of our era. The latter appears probable, because the second conquest by the Celts was nearly complete throughout Britain, although it did not reach Ireland. This second subjugation of Britain was by the "P" Celts or Brythons, speaking a Cymric form of Celtic. It occurred in the fourth century B.C. and was so thorough that it is not probable that remnants of the earlier Goidelic speech could have survived in Scotland. These Brythons were represented on the continent by the Belgæ, who, in Cæsar's time, occupied Gaul between the Rhine and the Seine. A remnant of their speech survives in Brittany as Armorican. The "P" Celts gave their speech to all England and remnants of it are found in the recently extinct Cornish in Cornwall and in the Cymric of Wales. Both the "Q" Celts and the "P" Celts were, on their arrival in Britain, pure Nordics, but in many cases they soon merged with the aboriginal population. They were everywhere the ruling military class, in Britain as well as in Gaul. Having imposed their language on the conquered people, they died out almost completely, leaving, as in Wales, their speech on the lips of the little Mediterranean native. Whatever truth there is in the legends of King Arthur and his resistance to the Saxons they clearly indicate a blond, Celtic aristocracy ruling over an underclass of small Mediterraneans. The same condition is indicated in Irish legends where the Celts appear as a distinct, fair-haired military class. The next Nordic invasion of Britain was by the Saxons from the country around the present duchy of Holstein and by the Angles and Jutes from farther north on the mainland of Denmark or Jutland. These tribes which entered England in the fifth century were probably more purely Nordic than the continental Teutons and this also was true of the Norse and Varangians of a later date. Their conquest was almost completed during the century after their arrival but there was sufficient resistance in the western part of England to postpone its final subjugation for several centuries. However, gradually the population of practically all England and the lowlands of Scotland became purely Nordic. This racial stock was reinforced by the invasion of Danes, who occupied most of northeast England. The Norsemen settled around the coasts of Ireland, Scotland, England, and, especially, Wales, and added a very considerable contribution to the pure Nordic element of the population. The next and last invasion of Britain by the Nordics was the Norman conquest in 1066. The Norman leaders and soldiers were pure Nordics from the most Nordic part of France. In fact, the Normans were heathen Danes speaking a Teutonic tongue when they arrived in Normandy in 911 A.D. so that on coming to England they had been in France only a little over one hundred and fifty years. In those years they had accepted Christianity, had learned French, and had become the exponents of the highest culture in Europe. Into England they brought with them many followers of Alpine origin, and the clergy whom they imported was also composed very largely of Latinized Alpines. At this point we may remark that Wales, especially along the coasts, has a very large Nordic population. It is absurd to distinguish between England, Scotland, North Ireland, and Wales as is done in the census of the United States. We might just as well distinguish between North England and South England on the ground that the first is Anglian and Danish and the other Saxon and Jutish. The lowlands of Scotland are pure English territory and have been such for a thousand years. The Ulster Scots who came to America were only two or three generations removed from the Scottish and English borderers and had not mixed with the native Irish. It is also to be remarked that the Norman conquest of England was that of one Nordic people by another, and that Great Britain and Ireland constitute a group, the membership of which is overwhelmingly Nordic in its racial inheritance. At the time of the discovery of America, all Europe was far more Nordic than it is today. Germany at that time had not witnessed the expansion of the Alpines of the south and east which is characteristic of the present era. In England, before the industrial revolution created a demand for little brunet Mediterraneans to drive spindles, the Nordic had the field to himself. As farmer, soldier, sailor, explorer, and pioneer he was pre-eminent. The brunet Mediterranean element, formerly called Iberians, had been forced back into the extreme west of England and into Wales, and was not an important economic or political factor. Nor was there any considerable immigration of that racial stock into the American colonies. These were settled primarily by the descendants of the Normans, Saxons, Anglians, and Danes coming from the distinctly Nordic districts of the mother land. Norfolk and Suffolk were settled by the Angles and afterwards formed a part of the Danish kingdom. As said above the lowlands of Scotland and the English borders were Anglian and Dane, while the coasts and islands of Scotland were everywhere Norse. The Highlands were Celtic with an admixture of Norse, Anglian, and Norman. There were also remnants of the old Mediterranean populations, probably Picts. Curiously enough these Mediterraneans contributed their dark eyes and hair color, but not their short stature. The population of West Scotland has the greatest height of all the peoples of Europe. Ireland, like England, was settled as we have seen originally by the Neolithic Mediterraneans. They in turn were conquered by the Goidelic or "Q" Celts, blond Nordics who imposed their language on the aborigines. In the ninth century, Ireland was overrun by the Norse and Danes, whose descendants today constitute a very considerable portion of the population. The very name Ireland is Danish. Most of the big blond Irish of today, although they like to claim "Celtic" descent, are, in fact, of Norse, Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Scotch derivation. The Nordic elements in Ireland were reinforced again and again by the English and Normans, who, from the days of their original entry into the island down to our day have formed the great majority of the nobility and upper classes of the country. The Celtic Goidel in Ireland today is a negligible quantity which cannot be racially identified. The brunet elements in western Ireland, though to some extent Celtic in speech, are descended from the old Neolithic or Mediterranean population of the British Isles, mixed with a primitive, aboriginal race of great antiquity, the Firbolgs. Ireland has shown a singular power of absorbing its conquerors. The descendants of Danish, Norman, and English settlers consider themselves pure Irish "Celts." It is a strange fact that the English, Scotch, Norman, Danish, and even the French Huguenots who have settled in Ireland have acquired and have handed down an extraordinary temperamental unity. As to language, by the time of Elizabeth the English Pale constituted a part of eastern Leinster, and there English was uniformly spoken. The English language ultimately spread over the whole of Ireland, leaving only a few remnants of Celtic speech in the extreme west. From the times of James I to those of William III, large numbers of English and Scotch borderers passed over to the northeast corner of the island into the province of Ulster. They were fervent Presbyterians and hated the native Catholic Irish. It was the sons and grandsons of these immigrants who came to America in the eighteenth century and are sometimes miscalled the "Scotch Irish." They had special grievances of their own against England on account of economic restrictions imposed upon their industries. Before this time a large number of Cromwellian soldiers had settled in Leinster, but not having their own women with them they intermarried with the Catholic Irish and their descendants today are most intensely Irish in national feeling. The Reformation never had much hold on Ireland, so that the Catholic Irish today represent the mixed population of Ireland before the sixteenth century, together with numerous converts from the Scotch and English immigrants. With this brief survey of the distribution of the Nordic race in Europe down to the time of the discovery of America and the beginning of emigration to the colonies of the New World, we can pass on to one of the most dramatic mass-migrations of man. From West Central Asia where it was in contact with the Mongoloids on the _east_, the Nordic race pushed across Europe to the extreme western coasts. We shall show how it traversed the Atlantic Ocean and then in three centuries subdued a continent. Generation after generation it fought its way westward, until it reached the Pacific Ocean, where today it stands confronting Asia and its immemorial rivals, the Mongols, this time on the _west_. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 2: In _Geographical Lore of the Time of the Crusades_, by J.K. Wright of the American Geographic Society, p. 320, the author says: "In these authorities we find that the differences between the inhabitants of the northern and southern parts of Italy were fully appreciated in the twelfth century. 'The Lombards,' Gunther says, 'are a keen, skillful, and active people; foresighted in counsel; expert in justice; strong in body and spirit, full of life and handsome to look upon, with slight, supple bodies that give them great power of endurance; economical and always moderate in eating and drinking; masters of their hands and mouths; honorable in every business transaction; mighty in the arts and always striving for the new; lovers of freedom and ready to face death for freedom's sake. These people have never been willing to submit to kings.... But what a contrast the people of Apulia in the south present to the Lombards. Dirty, lazy, weak, good-for-nothing idlers that they are.'"] [Footnote 3: The Spanish popular heroes, Don Rodrigo and the Cid Campeador, were Gothic, to judge by their names, as was the brave crusader, Count Raymund of Toulouse. L. Wilser has called attention to the number of Gothic names still in use in the Iberian peninsula: Alfonso or Affonso, Alonzo (Gothic Athalafuns); Alvaro and Alvarez (Gothic Alavair); Bermuy (Gothic Berimud); Bertran (Gothic Bairhtram); Diego and Diaz (Gothic Thiudareiks, Dietrich); Esmeralda; Fernando and its genitive Fernandez (Gothic Ferdinanths); Froilaz and Fruela (Gothic Fravila); Gelmirez (Gelimer); Gomez (Gothic Guma); Gonzalo and Gonzalez (Gothic Gunthimir, Gundemar); Guilfonso (Gothic Viljafuns); Guzman (Gothic Godaman, Gutmann); Ildefonso (Gothic Hildifuns); Isabella; Marques (Gothic Markja); Menendez (Gothic Herminanths); Mundiz and Munnez (Gothic Mundila); Pizarro (Gothic Pitzas); Ramiro (Gothic Radomir or Ragnimir); Ramon and Renmondez (Gothic Ragnimund); Rodrigo and Rodriguez; Ruiz (Gothic Rudoreiks); Sesnandes (Gothic Sisenand); Vasco and Vasquez (Nordic Wasce); Velasquez (Gothic Vilaskja?). See p. 107, vol. II, of book _Die Germanen_, by Doctor Ludwig Wilser.] [Footnote 4: Describing Camoens, George Edward Woodberry (_The Torch_, pp. 203-4; New York, 1920) says: "He was of the old blue blood of the Peninsula, the Gothic blood, the same that gave birth to Cervantes. He was blond, and bright-haired, with blue eyes, large and lively, the face oval and ruddy--and in manhood the beard short and rounded, with long untrimmed mustachios--the forehead high, the nose aquiline; in figure agile and robust; in action 'quick to draw and slow to sheathe,' and when he was young, he writes that he had seen the heels of many, but none had seen his heels. Born about the year 1524, of a noble and well-connected family, educated at Coimbra, a university famous for the classics, and launched in life about the court at Lisbon, he was no sooner his own master than he fell into troubles."] [Footnote 5: Wilser cites Woltmann's essay, "Have the Goths disappeared in Italy?," which shows that even in the latter part of the Middle Ages many people lived according to Gothic law; that in some cities there even existed Gothic sections; and that many Gothic names can be traced, as Stavila, Nefila, Leuuia, Hermia, Hilpja, Ansefrida, Gilliefredus, Totila, Vila.] [Footnote 6: In fact, almost all the names of the Troubadours are Teutonic, says Wilser, giving the following examples of French names, with the Teutonic original in parentheses: Arnaut (Arnold); Aimeric (Emerich); Bernart (Bernhard); Bertrand (Bertram); Gaucelm (Walchelm); Gautier (Walther); Guillem (Wilhelm); Guiraut (Gerold); Gunot (Wido); Jaufre or Joffre (Gotfrid); Raimon (Raginmund); Rambaut (Raginbald); Rudel (Rudolf); Savaric (Sabarich). See p. 107, vol. II, of _Die Germanen_, by Doctor Ludwig Wilser.] IV THE NORDIC SETTLEMENT OF AMERICA Before considering the question of the origin of the English settlers of the Atlantic seaboard, it is important to understand the motives that actuated the newcomers. The impelling motive of the settlers who crossed the ocean to America from the earliest Colonial times down to 1880 was land hunger, and just as we speculate in stocks today, so down to one hundred years ago our ancestors speculated in lands on the frontier. It is difficult to realize the extent to which the ownership of the land in Europe was monopolized, largely through the exercise of Royal favor, by the upper classes in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This established English tradition and practice, brought to America by the early settlers, coupled with the favoritism of the royal governors in land grants, was one of the causes which led to the Revolution. After the American victory much land was confiscated on the plea that the owners were Loyalists. The distribution of free land in the United States came substantially to an end about 1880, when the public domain became exhausted. Up to that date, the immigration into America had been assimilated readily. Certain exceptions will be dealt with later. Practically all of it was from northwestern Europe, and the immigrants came mostly of their own volition. It took some degree of enterprise to leave home, cross the Atlantic, and establish oneself in a new country amid strange surroundings. Settling new land meant clearing the forests and destroying the game, as well as buying off or fighting the Indians, whose ideas about land ownership were vague. To the frontiersman in early days, the term "a clearing" was synonymous with "a settlement." Religious motives and the desire for political and economic independence, of course, were also great factors in the Pilgrim and Puritan migration to New England from 1620 to 1640. The New England Puritans represented only a part and relatively a small part of the exodus from England. They were pure English from the most Anglo-Saxon part of England and consisted largely of yeomen and the lesser gentry, who found the religious and political conditions in England under the Stuarts intolerable for freemen. They were essentially dissenters, who refused to bend the knee to prelate or to king. In 1640, under the Commonwealth the Puritans seized the reins of government in England and only permitted the return of royalty in 1660 under conditions which established for all time the supremacy of Parliament. In fact, during the Commonwealth the power of Parliament had become so great that many of the best minds of England felt that a restoration of the monarchy was needed as a check. The settlers of New England may be regarded as essentially rebels against established religion and established authority when the religion and authority were not of their own choosing. This non-conformist spirit persisted in the successive new frontiers as they were settled by New Englanders. The early New England settlers of western New York and the old Northwest Territory gave birth to an astonishing number of new sects, religions, "isms," and communities, ranging all the way from Mormonism to Shakers and the Oneida Community. They were, however, law-abiding in their own way and murders and crimes of violence were relatively infrequent. This is in sharp contrast to the southern frontiersmen, who were and are addicted to killings and physical violence. That, however, is chiefly true of the inhabitants of the Appalachian valleys, who always have been lawless. The dissent and predisposition to rebellion among the New Englanders dates back to the Puritans in England and the lawlessness and violence of the Ulster Scots to the endless border warfare on the Scottish frontier. The southern frontiersman was originally a Presbyterian, but he found his religion too intellectual for isolated communities and turned in many cases to the more emotional creeds of the Methodist and Baptist. The hatred of England by the Ulster Scotch frontiersmen dated back to the unjust and oppressive interference with their industries in the north of Ireland, as well as to a deep-seated impatience of all authority. After the Revolution this hatred of authority was transferred to the tidewater aristocrats and was accentuated by the debtor complex, which has characterized all our frontiers. The character of the frontier from the very beginning remained the same. Each generation of the restless, the discontented and the failures pushed West, carrying with them some of the fine qualities of the original settlers of the seaboard, but more often developing a new complex of intolerance for the restraints and usages of the older communities. There is an amusing and significant evolution of these traits in families who settled around Massachusetts Bay and then moved to the Connecticut Valley; thence to Vermont, western New York, Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, and Los Angeles, where they now flourish. At the time of the Revolution the intense hatred in New England of the mother country was due partly to a desire to confiscate the lands of the Loyalists and partly to that which they considered unfair restrictions on their overseas trade, as well as to an unwillingness to being taxed to pay a part of the great cost of conquering Canada. The net result of these forces was a widespread anti-British and, later, anti-governmental complex, which has characterized our country ever since. In contrast to England and to Canada, we are an essentially lawless people. [Illustration: Ireland.] In the North the Revolution was largely a movement of various Calvinist communities. The few Episcopalians in New England and the more numerous adherents of that church in New York, Pennsylvania, and Maryland were almost all Loyalists. In Virginia, however, and further to the south the numerous Church of England planter class took the American side and as a result retained their leadership as an aristocracy down to the time of the Civil War. Even at the time of the Revolution this church contributed more than its quota of leaders. Of fifty-six signers of the Declaration of Independence, thirty-four are classified as Episcopalians, twelve as Congregationalists, five as Presbyterians, two Quakers, one Baptist and one Roman Catholic. Of the Continental Congress which ratified this Declaration, nearly two-thirds are said to have been Episcopalians. In the North following the expulsion of the Loyalists, the Church of England was left prostrate, and it was some time after the Revolution before it was successfully reorganized and was definitely designated as the _Protestant_ Episcopal Church to become, after a century, the fashionable church of the Atlantic seaboard. The Protestant Episcopal Church has never had any substantial hold in the Middle or Far West and even today it is there largely a missionary church with a tendency towards ritualism, which has checked its normal development. The Roman Catholic population of the colonies was negligible. In 1790 out of a white population of a little over 3,000,000, there were not more than 35,000 Catholics in the United States. This number included 5000 Negroes and some Germans. They were located for the most part in Maryland and Pennsylvania, showing that the South Irish Catholics had not come over in appreciable numbers during Colonial times. Many of the colonies legislated against Roman Catholics. The Revolution itself was political and social, carrying to an extreme development the political theories of the English Whigs. The distrust of officialdom in power, engendered by the Revolution, led to all manner of constitutional and legal restrictions, in place of a reliance on the personal character of office holders as in England. During Colonial times two distinct types of population developed. First, the older communities along the tidewater districts, closely in touch with Europe and having a long tradition of culture and wealth. Second, a type grew up on the frontier which from the very beginning showed itself intolerant of the control of the older and richer settlements. This found its expression in Shays's Rebellion in West Massachusetts in 1786-87, in the Whiskey Rebellion in Pennsylvania in 1794, and, still earlier, in 1770, when the "Regulators" in North Carolina were in open rebellion. After the Revolution this tendency became more and more marked until the then West under Andrew Jackson took over the control of the country and, with many unfortunate results, carried Jefferson's ideals to an extreme. The Revolution emphasized this second attitude of mind and resulted in the loss, by expulsion, of some of the best Nordic blood in the country. The Loyalists from Boston, for instance, comprised many of the oldest and most distinguished families. The representative families of that city today are not descended wholly from the aristocratic Colonial families, but largely from the population of the small towns and villages in its neighborhood. It is said that a total of eighty to a hundred thousand Loyalists left the colonies and went to Canada and England and to the English West Indies. New England to a greater extent than any other colony had been at war with France and her Canadian Indians for the best part of one hundred and fifty years, but the memory of this prolonged and bloody struggle was obliterated by the Revolution. In its place there arose in America a sentiment for France, caused largely by the romantic personality of Lafayette, which survives to this day. The Jeffersonian emotional sympathy with the French Revolution also played a large part. The fact nevertheless is that we had a naval war in 1798 with the French, although no formal war was declared. It was caused by French depredations on American commerce, resulting in several duels between American and French frigates. All this is conveniently forgotten or ignored in some of our school text-books. * * * * * The earliest permanent settlements of importance in New England were around Massachusetts Bay, and in Virginia along navigable streams. From such centers settlements spread up and down the coast until all the desirable lands accessible to salt water became occupied. In New England the coasts of southern Maine, of Rhode Island, and of Connecticut were quickly occupied. Migration then went overland from Massachusetts Bay, westward to the Connecticut River. This was our first real northern frontier, and it took more than a century to populate southern and western New England. The settlement of Connecticut westward was blocked by the colony of New York, while the Indians delayed the advance of Massachusetts to the north. Connecticut in turn threw out colonies at an early date, such as Newark in New Jersey in 1666. Vermont was not settled until just before the Revolution, owing to the danger from the Indians and a serious dispute between New Hampshire and New York as to its ownership. At the time of the Revolution it was a typical frontier with all of its bad features. At that time it was about as rough and tough as Kentucky or Tennessee. After the Revolution some of the best of its population migrated to western New York, along with settlers from all over New England who went for the most part through Vermont. Early in the eighteenth century nearly all the desirable lands within reach of salt water had been occupied from New Jersey southward, and later coming immigrants were forced back into the uplands of the West beyond the so-called Fall Line at which the Atlantic rivers cease to be navigable. New York interposed an absolute bar to westward migration because the Iroquois Indians held almost all the fertile lands to the west of the Hudson River. The east bank of the Hudson was more or less filled up with New Englanders and the west bank with its undesirable lands was turned over to late coming immigrants, chiefly Germans. The Dutch population of New York was but small. The total population of the colony at the time of its seizure by England in 1664 was little more than 10,000 and there were already many English among them. The English settlers occupied both banks of the Delaware around Philadelphia, forcing the later-coming Germans and Ulster Scots to the west. The Swedish settlement along the river was trifling and was soon absorbed. There is very little trace of it left in place or personal names. On the upper reaches of the Delaware River, in Pennsylvania, and in New York, there were some small settlements of French Huguenots, who suffered severely from Indian depredations during the Revolution. Delaware and the country east of Chesapeake Bay are purely English, as was Maryland, except that western Maryland was really part of western Pennsylvania and western Virginia. Virginia itself was the mother of States and in Colonial times extended in fact, as other colonies did in theory, to the Mississippi, without mentioning claims to the South Sea. The tidewater population of Virginia differed profoundly from that of the western part of the State, including the Shenandoah Valley, which was settled largely from western Pennsylvania. There was a marked difference between the settlement of New England and that of Virginia. To New England the earliest settlers brought their women and families, while in Virginia the early arrivals were nearly all males. Women were afterwards sent over by the shipload, but this was only during the early days of the colony. Like Virginia, North Carolina in Colonial times extended nominally to the Mississippi. Its population lacked the tidewater aristocrats of the Old Dominion and contained many Scots, straight from the Highlands, who, strangely, took the British side during the Revolution, as well as a very large number of Ulster Scots in the western mountains, and in the counties which were afterwards Tennessee. Kentucky and Tennessee were both settled from the colonies immediately to the east, but largely by the Ulster Scots, coming from western Pennsylvania through the mountainous districts of Virginia and North Carolina. These Ulster Scots came south along the Appalachian valleys, which trend in a southwesterly direction. They were reinforced by the numerous groups of the same people, who came up from South Carolina. Kentucky was much more purely English than Tennessee. It is a fact but little understood, that the frontier was not much reinforced from the coast but extended itself. In other words, the frontier from the beginning was pushed onward by the backwoodsmen, each generation advancing a little farther westward and making new clearings. The people along the coast, after a couple of generations of severe privation, became relatively rich as compared with the frontiersmen. The inhabitants of the coast cities for the most part preferred a sea-faring life rather than the hewing out of a homestead in the wilderness. There have been many cases in our Colonial history where men went from the coast towns to the wilderness, but for the most part they were content to stay at home. As to the original racial complexion of the colonies, New England was purely Nordic and English. The handful of Ulster Scots in New Hampshire was not to be distinguished from the English, and the individual Huguenot families around Boston were only trifling in number. This remained true of all New England during the Colonial period. In New York, however, conditions were different. Dutch New Amsterdam, afterwards English New York City, was always an important port and attracted to itself from the earliest times a substantial number of foreigners. In addition to the Dutch founders a considerable number of French Huguenots were among the earlier settlers. There were also a few Germans and Portuguese. The west bank of the Hudson was less accessible and desirable than the east bank, but there were some substantial colonies of Palatine Germans settled there and up the valleys of the Mohawk and its connecting streams. These last played a creditable part in the heavy fighting which raged in this district with the British settlers, who were for the most part Loyalists. There were also some small colonies of pure Scotch along the Mohawk. One of the results of the Revolution was the expulsion of the Iroquois Indians, who had occupied New York westward from near Albany to Buffalo. They had sided with the British and had committed many atrocities. Their lands were immediately occupied by New Englanders, coming chiefly from or through Vermont, so that New York State west of Albany became little more than an extension of New England, except that the settlers had become Presbyterians. Many of the colonists who came to New York from Holland were refugees from the provinces now included in Belgium--in other words, they were either Flemings or French Huguenots. The real Dutch in the province came from the north of Holland and were mostly Nordic Frisians. In addition to the large migration from Ulster very many English Protestants from Leinster came to America by way of New York immediately after the Revolution. The Catholic Irish did not come in any numbers until after 1845. The Huguenots were pre-dominantly Nordic. For example, New Rochelle in New York was settled directly from Old Rochelle which is, even today, one of the purest Nordic districts remaining in France. It is entirely safe to say that the Huguenots from Brittany, Normandy, and Picardy, who came to the American colonies by way of England and Holland were overwhelmingly Nordic. Some of those from southern France were probably Mediterranean. Outside of the Port of New York the Dutch population was confined to the Hudson River towns, chiefly on the east bank, up to and including Albany and Schenectady. The Dutch element of New Jersey was very small. New Jersey was almost all English, except a few Scotch settlements. It was settled directly from England by way of Perth Amboy, Elizabeth, and Freehold in the north. South Jersey was settled from Pennsylvania. There were a few German communities scattered throughout the north-central part of New Jersey, but, on the whole, the State can be counted as purely English. The case of Pennsylvania was somewhat different. The original settlers on the west bank of the Delaware, around Philadelphia, were English Quakers with a certain number of Welsh, who probably were for the most part Nordic. This section was the most cultured and important part of Pennsylvania. Philadelphia was the port of entry of two important migrations in the eighteenth century. First, the Ulster Scots, who came in great numbers after 1720. In fact, most of the Ulster Scots in America entered the colonies through Philadelphia and, to a less extent, through Charleston, South Carolina. These late comers found the desirable land along the Delaware had been taken up, so they moved westward to the Indian frontier. They were a restless, brave, and pugnacious people, and immediately assumed the burden of the Indian fighting, often without the support or even the sympathy of the Philadelphia Quakers. They were numerous and soon spread along the foothills and valleys of the Appalachians southwestward through western Maryland and Virginia into North and South Carolina, whence they again crossed the ridges westward, until, by the time of the Revolution, they had laid the foundations of Kentucky and of Tennessee. They were, of course, pure Nordics and of North England and Lowland Scotch origin. They had resided for two or three generations in North Ireland. Being fervent Presbyterians, they had not mingled with the Catholic Irish. In 1790 these Ulster Scots in the colonies numbered about 200,000 and the pure Scots about 300,000 and taken together they were, next to the English, the most important element. They were, as said above, pre-eminently pioneers and Indian fighters and the same fact appears in the history of practically every frontier of British colonies during the next century. They were a highly selected group when they first went to Ireland, which was at that time to all intents a frontier. Since that time the Scots and the Ulster Scots have everywhere shown the characteristics of the ideal pioneer. They played a predominant part in the settlement of the southern part of the Middle West. The next most important racial element was the Germans. In fact, it was the only non-British element of importance in the colonies. At the time of the Revolution the Germans numbered about a quarter of a million and by 1790 they have been computed to have been about 9 per cent of the total population of the colonies. They settled in the districts of Pennsylvania immediately west of Philadelphia around York and Lancaster, where they are to be found today. They were a peaceful and industrious people, and have to some extent retained their language and customs down to the present time. A very few of them joined their neighbors, the Ulster Scots, in the migration to the Southwest. They were not particularly loyal to the American cause during the Revolution nor in the preceding French Wars, and their presence in the colonies excited much hostility. They were refugees, who had fled down the Rhine from Alsace and the Palatinate to escape the French when Louis XIV invaded and devastated their country. With them were many refugees from German-speaking Switzerland together with Hussites from Moravia. While there were some Lutherans and Calvinists among them, most of the "Pennsylvania Dutch," as they were called by the English colonists, belonged to small and obscure sects. Dunkards, Schwankenfelders, Amish, and Mennonites still maintain their special religious communities. Their language is Alemannish and this German dialect is still spoken in Alsace and Switzerland. In addition to their colonies in Pennsylvania, there was a small settlement of Moravian Brothers in the western part of North Carolina. Maryland was originally settled under a charter to Lord Baltimore as a refuge for English Catholics, but from the beginning these latter were very few in number and by 1690 were so thoroughly outnumbered that they were deprived of the franchise. Virginia, the most important of the colonies next to New England, if the latter be taken as a whole, was pure English in the tidewater district, that is, as far west as Richmond. Beyond were many Ulster Scots, who, it must be remembered, were very largely English. North Carolina was much the same, except that the Ulster Scots were relatively more numerous. South Carolina had an English planter aristocracy and was much purer English and had less Ulster Scotch than her northern neighbor. It had also a considerable French Huguenot element, by far the largest and most influential in the colonies. These Huguenots, while not very numerous, were nearly all men of culture and social standing and played a large part in the development of the country. Georgia was substantially of the same racial complexion as South Carolina. V THE PURITANS IN NEW ENGLAND Taking up the settlement of the colonies more in detail, we may commence with New England. The first inhabitants of Massachusetts were pre-dominantly from the eastern half of England. This contains the counties in which Nordic influence had probably been the strongest, and the early settlement of Massachusetts was by an overwhelmingly Nordic stock, judging alike by place of origin and by family and personal names. A study of the origin of the pioneers of Plymouth, Watertown, and Dedham shows that two-thirds of them came from a region along the English coast between London and the Wash and mostly from the southern part of that stretch of territory. Although given an important position by historians because of its priority and the romantic incidents connected with its founding, Plymouth Colony, because of its small size, played only a minor part in the early development of the American nation. Its settlers, as shown by the detailed accounts available concerning many of them, were people of the lower and middle classes, mostly of good character but attracting to their numbers also adventurers and men of more doubtful quality. Within five or six years after the landing at Plymouth Rock, the Plymouth settlers were already outnumbered by other settlers in New England, while Plymouth itself was the parent of a number of other settlements that outstripped it. During the decade 1630-40 it became a province of eight small towns, seven of them stretching for fifty miles along the shore of Cape Cod Bay, from Scituate to Yarmouth, with Taunton lying twenty-five miles inland. The entire colony would probably have moved to the Connecticut River valley, had not the competition of settlers from Massachusetts Bay been too strong. Two generations after the original settlement there the number of inhabitants of Plymouth was no greater than it was at the start. In the decade of 1620-30 there was a rapid but sporadic settlement of small towns on or near the Massachusetts coast, but the first great migration was that represented by the arrival of Governor Winthrop's fleet in Massachusetts Bay in 1630. The new arrivals settled Boston, Charlestown, Medford, Watertown, Roxbury, Lynn, and Dorchester. During the next decade the Puritan emigration from England continued, again largely from the northern and eastern counties, overwhelmingly of as nearly pure Nordic stock as Great Britain could show. [Illustration: Showing Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland.] The difference in antecedents of the Massachusetts Bay Colony from that of Plymouth is reflected in the differences in geographical and social origin. The Pilgrim Fathers, as every one knows, took their start from Scrooby in Yorkshire at the point where this county joins Lincolnshire and Northamptonshire, under the leadership of Bradford, the local postmaster and Robinson the clergyman. The capital for the enterprise was almost all subscribed in London, and only one-third of the first settlers were members of Robinson's congregation. The part of Scrooby and Holland in that colony has therefore often been exaggerated. The English founders of the Massachusetts Bay Colony were on the other hand not merely religious dissenters, but powerful members of the Puritan nobility. The group attracted to their enterprise was therefore one of a somewhat wider social outlook. It was distinguished for the same reason from most of the later emigration. The people who settled in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the decade of 1630-40 doubtless had every desire to better their condition, and their zeal in seizing land from the Indians showed that they were able to put this desire into effect successfully. Their motive in emigrating, however, was more political than was that of many later colonists, most of whom came frankly to find fortune in a new country. There were among them a sprinkling of members of the important county families and even a few representatives of the Puritan gentry. Alumni of Cambridge were liberally represented among the clergy, together with a few from Oxford, although few other professional men seem to have been in the group. Many of the settlers were from families of merchants, among whom Puritanism had made great progress in England. The bulk, however, consisted of more or less well-to-do yeomen and artisans. Since a large part of this Puritan migration, which probably amounted to 20,000 between 1620 and 1640, came in groups often following their local clergymen, it is fairly easy to determine from what parts of Great Britain the early population of Massachusetts came. The evidence all indicates that little of it was from the far north of England where Puritanism had made comparatively slight progress. The greater proportion of the settlers came from the Puritan stronghold of East Anglia comprising the counties of Suffolk, Essex, Norfolk, and eastern Hereford. Next to this was the emigration from Wessex including Dorset, Somerset, and eastern Devon. Following came contributions from Kent, from the midland counties of Buckingham, Northampton, and Leicester, a considerable group from the borders of Wiltshire, Hampshire, and western Berkshire with some from as far west as Gloucestershire near the Welsh border. A large Boston group came from Lincolnshire (which was the home of the ancestors of the Boston-born Benjamin Franklin) and of course there was a strong contingent from London, which was largely Puritan and Presbyterian. Towns in Massachusetts tended to be settled by people who were all from the same region in England; and as the expansion of Massachusetts was very largely in the form of congregations from given towns, these populations often kept together for a long time. Frequently the town's name indicates the old home. Thus Gloucester was settled by men from that county and Dorchester was named for the town in Dorset from which its early settlers came with the Rev. John Maverick, although it contained an element of Lancashire people from the neighborhood of Preston, Liverpool, and Manchester. [Illustration: Ulster Scot and New England origins--1, heaviest; 2, heavy; 3, light; 4, very light; 5, uncertain; 6, English definitely present.] Along with the desire of these settlers to better themselves, to acquire the ownership of land, and to seek fortune in new countries, the disturbed political conditions in Great Britain particularly urged Puritans to migrate. British documents of the period throw many sidelights on the nature and scope of this movement. Thus Lord Maynard, in a memorandum to Archbishop Laud in 1638, laments "the intention of divers clothiers of great trading to go suddenly into New England." He hears daily of incredible numbers of persons of very good abilities who have sold their lands to depart and says there is danger of divers parishes being impoverished. Since some of them liked the Massachusetts government no better than the one at home, the tide of emigration turned strongly toward the West Indies, the British islands of which were rapidly filled with Nordic stock. The history of Nordic settlement in the West Indies is little known and is exceedingly instructive in connection with a study of the peopling of the New World. Bermuda was colonized in 1612, Saint Kitts in 1623, Barbadoes and Saint Croix in 1625, and Nevis three years later. By 1640 Massachusetts had about 14,000 settlers; but Saint Kitts had almost as many and Barbadoes decidedly more. The number of Englishmen who migrated to the West Indies was perhaps three times as large as the number who went to all New England. Down to the end of the eighteenth century the West Indies were flourishing, populous, and wealthy, but these islands then ceased to have any world-wide importance--not merely because of economic and agricultural changes, such as affected the sugar industry, but because the white man in the tropics could not compete on even terms with the Negro. It will be pointed out later that these islands are now virtually Negro territory, and they have become centers of emigration into the United States of a black population of low economic and social status--the Nordics having died out, or lost their original characteristics, or gone elsewhere. From 1640 the emigration from Great Britain to New England almost stopped and the tide turned the other way; many settlers in Massachusetts either returning to England or going to the West Indies. The natural increase of the population from then on accounts for most of the growth of the New England colonies. Even here, however, the Bay State fell behind Virginia in rate of increase of white population. [Illustration: PURITAN EMIGRATION FROM ENGLAND 1620 TO 1640 SHOWING A TOTAL OF ABOUT 67,300 _New England 17,800_ _Maryland and Virginia 9500_ _West Indies including Bermuda about 40,000_] Almost as soon as they had established themselves around Massachusetts Bay, groups of settlers began to push out in all directions, partly to get better or cheaper land, and partly to get greater independence of action. In this way the settlement of Connecticut was begun as early as 1634. In the next year emigrants arrived in Connecticut from Dorchester and Watertown in Massachusetts and in 1636 from Newton. They established settlements in the Connecticut River valley bearing the names of the Massachusetts towns from which they came until the names of Windsor, Wethersfield, and Hartford were substituted. In 1638 came the settlements at New Haven, Guilford, Milford, and elsewhere. Stratford, Fairfield, Norwalk, and Stamford were established not many months later as a challenge to the Dutch from New York who regarded that part of Connecticut as their own domain. By 1640, at least a couple of thousand settlers were in Connecticut; Hartford, New Haven, and New London becoming in their turn the main gateways of immigration into the whole back country. The settlement of New England was, in general, however, from south to north, proceeding along the river valleys. The fisheries and the excellent supply of timber for naval construction led to scattered settlements on the coast of Maine even earlier. The lack of navigable rivers delayed penetration into the interior--but during the seventeenth century the Massachusetts people had settled along most of the river valleys. Even to this day the interior of Maine is very largely backwoods. This territory was claimed by Massachusetts as a part of its own dominion, from which it did not separate until in 1820 when it was admitted as an independent State to offset Missouri in Henry Clay's famous compromise. As Indians were gradually dispossessed, the population of Massachusetts continued to push westward. In 1676 the end of King Philip's War removed the fear of Indians for a time and led to particularly active movements of population inland. Meanwhile settlements had been made in New Hampshire and Rhode Island. The first settlement in New Hampshire had been made by David Thomson, a Scotsman who established himself on the coast; but its population came from Plymouth Colony and later from other parts of Massachusetts. The spread of the English in the New Hampshire mountains and forests, where the Indians continued hostile for a long time, was slow, and even at the time of the Revolution, New Hampshire contained few settlements of any size. The greatest development came toward the end of the period here considered. In 1700 it held but 5000 or 6000 souls. Up to 1760 only the coast towns had any considerable population, but the peace of 1763, which finally removed the French and Indian menace, resulted in a rapid penetration of settlers largely from Connecticut. In the next fifteen years 30,000 people are said to have entered New Hampshire from Connecticut alone, and a hundred new towns had been planted. Rhode Island already had a few settlers before Roger Williams founded Providence (1636), though that is generally regarded as the beginning of the colony. Portsmouth was founded in 1638, Newport and Warwick in 1639, and in 1644 these settlements were united under one government. Because of its small size, Rhode Island plays in a sense only a minor part in the history of the formation of the early population of North America. But it served as a place of entry for colonists from all sources, and it likewise attracted settlers from the other colonies, due to its conspicuous policy of political and religious toleration. In another way the small size of Rhode Island led to its being a source of colonization. Its available land resources were so small that large families soon exhausted them and there was no recourse except to get out of the colony. It was therefore an incubator for colonists and furnished more emigrants in proportion to its population than did other colonies which had greater resources wherewith to care for their own people. It may be said that while Massachusetts is the parent of all New England, the whole of New England is in some sense a parent of Rhode Island. In either case, the racial homogeneity of the population is conspicuous, the little groups of settlers who represented other than Nordic stock being insignificant in numbers however much they may appeal through sentiment to the pride of their descendants. Vermont was settled late, its main occupation not coming until after the Revolution. At first a part of New Hampshire, it attracted occasional settlers from that State and its neighbors, but there could hardly be said to have been a permanent settlement until Brattleboro was founded in 1740. The settlement of Massachusetts west of the Connecticut River began in 1725, when the Berkshires were invaded and Sheffield established. Settlers steadily pressed north and west, and gradually took possession of the territory between the Connecticut River and Lake Champlain. The Connecticut River was the first American frontier, as Alaska was the last. At the time of the Revolution Vermont was very much of a frontier, in which a lawless and defiant lot known as the Green Mountain Boys held possession and yielded allegiance to no one. Within six weeks after the collapse of Shays's Rebellion, more than 700 families are said to have migrated from western Massachusetts into Vermont. Many New England soldiers who had fought over this ground in the Revolution had marked it as offering desirable home sites, and came into it to take up land and clear it, to bring their families, and establish isolated settlements which gradually coalesced into something like a settled country. The increasing influx of New Englanders led to the surrender of New York's claims on the territory, so that it took its place as an independent State in 1791, the first to be added to the original thirteen. The picture of New England then is that of a community which received the bulk of its foundation stock in a very short period of time, 1620 to 1640, and almost wholly from a single source; that is, England, and specifically from the most Nordic districts of England. It was no mere figure of speech when Captain John Smith bestowed upon the region the prophetic name of New England. During the eighteenth century, scattered groups of other origins came to add themselves to the descendants of these early settlers; but in most cases they represented only drops in the bucket. Doubtless one of the reasons why the study of genealogy and the pride of ancestry have flourished most conspicuously in New England is that so large a proportion of the old population traces its ancestry back to the same period and to the same group of people. Even as early as the Revolution, the great bulk of the settlers of New England represented families that had been four or five generations on American soil. If there was a conspicuous absence of immigrants of very distinguished families into New England at that time, it may be said, on the other hand, that the general level was sound and intelligent. The immigrant population of New England was composed of a small group of families dominant in business and the professions, and an overwhelming proportion of representatives of the English yeomanry, owners of small freeholds, whose sons often sailed ships or went to the fisheries. This same type made up the bulk of the population of the middle colonies and peopled the back country of the southern colonies. As most of the settlers in New England in the early migration were men who brought their families, the foundation stock thus established was on a better level than that in some other colonies where men arrived without bringing wives and therefore were forced to marry women of any kind whom the colony could furnish. The definitely Nordic character of New England stock, its early establishment, and the survival of the able and vigorous in a region where nature took a heavy toll of weaklings, have produced in New England a population that has left its stamp on subsequent American history as has no other group. As to the Ulster Scots we must bear in mind that the Irish question was as serious a thorn in the side of English statesmen in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as it was before or since, and numerous attempts were made to alleviate the situation, if not to end it, by the colonization of Protestant people in Ireland. In 1611, James I began to encourage the emigration of people from the lowlands of Scotland, particularly from the western part, and from the north of England, into Ulster. He looked forward to establishing in Ireland a staunch Protestant population that might ultimately outnumber the Catholics and become the controlling element politically. For this reason the settlers were picked with some care. The plan succeeded so well that in a generation or a little more, about 300,000 people had been colonized in the northern part of the island, and by the end of a century their number had risen to nearly a million. These are the "Scotch Irish" of American history. The name is a grotesque misnomer suggesting to the popular mind a sort of hybrid origin and hybrid character which has no basis in reality. They were not Irish in any sense of the word, and while most of them were Scotch a great many were English. They are designated in this book as "Ulster Scots." Following the planting of Ulster in the north of Ireland, there was a heavy British emigration into the east of Ireland. This was due partly to economic factors and partly to the desire of Cromwell, in his turn, to solve the Irish problem by colonization, after the precedent which James I had established. These English Protestants in eastern Ireland have too often been ignored. They, too, had nothing in common with the older Roman Catholic population of the eastern part of the Island. Many of the Protestant "Irish" were Quakers. These adopted children of Ireland also migrated freely to the American colonies and have been assumed far too easily to have been Roman Catholics. While it is extremely difficult to arrive at exact figures on this point, there is some reason to believe that the number of Protestant English in the east of Ireland during the seventeenth century was as large as the number of Protestant Scotch in the north, and this former group contributed its quota of English population to the colonies. It was this group which imposed the English language on the Irish. Until the later 1840's the Leinster Protestants and the Ulster Presbyterians were practically the only immigrants from Ireland to this country. The great movement of Ulster Scots to America, although of an entirely different degree of magnitude, has been perhaps second only to that from the English counties in its influence on the subsequent history of the Continent. It began in the latter part of the seventeenth century but did not reach its height until the first quarter of the eighteenth. Five shiploads arrived in the summer of 1718, giving Cotton Mather the chance to note in his diary with anticipatory pleasure the merit that would accrue to him from showing "kindness to ye indigent." Thereafter, one finds in most histories such items as "In 1719 there came one hundred and twenty Presbyterian families from the north of Ireland who settled in Massachusetts" or "In the years 1719 and 1720 more than one hundred Presbyterian families came from the north of Ireland and settled at Londonderry in New Hampshire," and so on. The Congregationalists of the seaboard were not too hospitable to these Presbyterians, and forced them to move inland in almost every case, away from the long-settled territory over which the Boston theocracy attempted to maintain its rule, and mostly to New Hampshire and Connecticut. Londonderry recalls its origin by its name and the Scotch who settled it not only introduced their manufactures into New Hampshire but brought along with them a still more valuable importation, the so-called Irish potato, which, having been taken from South America to Ireland long before, had, in this round-about way, been brought back to its own hemisphere. Other groups went to Worcester, to Pelham, to Palmer, to Andover, and to other communities in small numbers; while many others went to Maine. The total numbers, however, were very small. Massachusetts had a definite policy at this time of encouraging, if not requiring, immigrants of this sort to settle on the frontiers. They furnished less competition in this way and played a useful part in keeping off the Indians. The emigration of the Scotch and North English who had been in Ulster for a generation or two or at the most for three generations, was due to discontent with their situation there. They had built up an important manufacture of woollens and linens which has ever since been famous throughout the world; but in 1698 the jealousy of rival industrialists in England led to Parliamentary legislation which crippled the industries in Ulster and threw many men out of employment. In 1704 and the following years a religious persecution of these Presbyterians was also carried on. These economic and religious handicaps were so great that after a few years of patient waiting the population gave up hope, and within half a century about half of the entire number had moved to the New World. The most important stream went into the middle and southern colonies and will be traced later. This exodus was a cause of alarm in the old country as well as in the new. "The rumour [of going to America] has spread like a contagious distemper," laments an Irish letter writer in 1728; "and the worst is that it affects only Protestants, and reigns chiefly in the North"; while another laments that "there are now seven ships at Belfast, that are carrying off about 1000 passengers thither; and if we knew how to stop them, as most of them can get neither victuals nor work at home, it would be cruel to do it." Reference will recur frequently to this immigration of Ulster Scots. At this point it is necessary to emphasize in the first place that it was little different in racial background from the preceding English settlement, both groups being definitely Nordic in their make-up. In the second place it was a valuable addition to the colonies in the quality and energy of its members. In the third place it was always small in proportion to the English element. New England in 1790, regardless of numerous non-English groups, many of them of good individual quality though insignificant in total numbers, is to be considered definitely as a transplanted English population, most of which had been settled in North America so long that its habits of thought and action had become differentiated--one might say definitely American rather than English. A third source of New England settlers during this period, small in numbers but valuable in quality, is represented by the French Huguenots who arrived for the most part in the decade or two following the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. The Huguenot migration to America falls in two general epochs. From 1555, when Admiral Coligny had a vision of a Protestant France in the New World, to the Revocation in 1685 of the Edict of Nantes, the French charter of Protestant liberty, is the first epoch, during which the immigration was scattering. From 1685 up to about 1750 is the second epoch, when the Huguenots, fleeing from oppression and death, sought refuge in many countries. During this period their immigration to North America reached considerable proportions. Providence and Boston were points of entry for many, though more went to the Southern colonies, and to them many an American family of the present day is proud to trace its ancestry. These French Huguenots seem to have come pre-dominantly from the middle class or artisan stratum of the population with a mixture of the lesser gentry. But their energy, ability, and character earned for them an important rôle in their adopted country, out of proportion to their small numbers. Unlike some of the other non-English groups they did not tend to establish colonies or settlements of their own, but scattered widely and merged freely into the general population. This was the less difficult in that they came from the most Nordic parts of France and in racial composition are scarcely to be distinguished from the English. In the same way those northern and eastern counties of England, which supplied a large part of the migration to America, had, during the preceding century, received a continuous infusion of continental Huguenots to a total sometimes estimated as high as 250,000, who there also became by admixture and hereditary similitude indistinguishable from their neighbors. The Indian population of New England though never great was largely exterminated by war, disease, whiskey, and the breaking up of their cultural and economic background. In the century before the settlement of Plymouth, smallpox, introduced from the Spanish Main, had flickered up and down the New England coast and had so decimated the natives that only a weakened remnant remained to oppose the Whites. In contrast, in the eleventh century the Norsemen who attempted to found settlements on the New England coast had met with savage resistance from the natives, whom they called Skrellings. Intermarriage between Whites and Indians was almost unknown save in the occasional case in which a colonist was carried into captivity. The antipathy of the English settlers to the Indians was far too great to lead to the sort of miscegenation which was encouraged by the French in their part of the continent, and to which reference will be made later. In the British colonies the half-breed was looked upon as an Indian, whereas in the French colonies, as generally in all Colonial countries that had the Roman imperial tradition and the Roman Catholic religion, the half-breed was assimilated to the European group. Some of the remaining Indians along the Atlantic coast mixed with the runaway Negro slaves, but few of them contributed to the white population, and the term "half-breed" was in general a term of contempt. It was not until within the life-time of those now living that an infusion of Indian blood became a subject of pride, particularly in Oklahoma, unless one makes exception for such isolated tales as the somewhat grotesque Pocahontas tradition in Virginia. The predominant influence of Massachusetts at the time of the Revolution is easy to understand. It possessed, to an unusual degree, unity in the various fields in which unity is most valuable to a nation--unity of race, unity of language, unity of culture, unity of religion, unity of institutions--and, more than anywhere else in the United States, its unity was attained through a long-continued, independent growth on American soil. The French and Indian menace held back the rapidly multiplying population of New England for at least a generation. The agricultural areas were carrying more population than they could support, and they were waiting for a favorable opportunity to spread out. This opportunity came in the overthrow of Montcalm at Quebec in 1759. The Peace of Paris in 1763 left the road open, and the New England population began to push north, west, and south with a vigor that was reflected in the activity of the communities at home. The succeeding half-century is correctly regarded as the golden age of New England. Its country districts were more densely populated when the first census of the United States was taken in 1790 than they have been since. The decline, which will be traced in the next section, then began and decade after decade thereafter the New England towns and villages are found in a surprisingly large percentage of cases either standing still or actually declining in number of inhabitants. The history of American colonization is usually written only in terms of the additions to population. The subtractions from it may be no less important. Subtractions by migration westward were less significant because in many cases the frontier merely proliferated itself by sending its surplus out without diminishing its own standards or numbers. The first national loss of population occurred after 1640 when the changing political conditions in England, and the tyranny of the Massachusetts Bay authorities, drove many people out of Massachusetts. This loss, serious as it was, is insignificant compared with the tremendous loss of superior stock at the time of the Revolution. The Loyalists made up an undetermined part of the population, perhaps as much as one-third. Those who had been most conspicuous or most active were obliged in many cases to flee, and persecution with the confiscation of their property was carried on even after the war. Most of the Loyalists who left the colonies went either to Canada or to the West Indies. Altogether the loss from this source may have been as great as 100,000 people representing on the whole a superior selection of the population. It is comparable in the racial damage done the American population with the loss which France suffered from the expulsion of the Huguenots. By the Revolution, the colonizing impulse of New England had not merely begun to fill up western New York, as will be described shortly, but had led to the formation of speculative land companies for settlement in the Wyoming Valley of Pennsylvania, and even on the lower Mississippi. The hard times following the Revolution led to a great increase in migration, which, in general, has been rapid in hard times, slower in periods of prosperity. Vermont, as already said, felt the impulse markedly. Maine also seems to have grown most rapidly in the decade or two following the Declaration of Independence, though Portland and Falmouth were the only towns worthy of the name. New Hampshire, likewise, slower in its development than other parts of New England, had begun to catch up by attracting those ready to better themselves by a change of location. Connecticut had made a steady growth and had fewer non-English elements than almost any other of the New England colonies, small as these elements were everywhere. The growth of Massachusetts had been largely in the interior, Boston having made less progress than many other cities. People were moving from Massachusetts to other colonies. Many were moving through Boston but not staying there. Politically and culturally important, the Hub of the Universe stagnated industrially until the beginning of the manufacturing era. VI THE GATEWAYS TO THE WEST FROM NEW ENGLAND AND VIRGINIA In 1609, the English navigator, Henry Hudson, had explored the river which now bears his name, acting on behalf of the Dutch East India Company. During the next decade, small Dutch settlements, trading posts, were established along the river; but the first real settlement is generally dated 1623 when thirty families of Walloons arrived. These were people from northern France and the southern Netherlands who had been driven into Holland by religious persecution and wanted to escape from the unsympathetic treatment which they were receiving in the southern part of Holland. Their language was not Dutch but French. Speaking at large the Dutch settlement of New Netherland was, at the beginning, a trading venture and was based on a stronghold at the mouth of the river and another one at the head of navigation. For many years the latter settlement, originally called Fort Orange and later Albany, was much more important than the little town of New Amsterdam on Manhattan Island. Restrictions on land tenure held back colonization, and at no time during the Dutch occupation did its reach extend much beyond the fertile farm lands of the Hudson valley northerly to Fort Orange, though an outpost to the west was established at Schenectady and scattering settlements had also been made in New Jersey and on Long Island. In all these outlying regions, the pressure of New England migrants was too strong for the scanty Dutch population to withstand, and even in Manhattan the New Englanders had become early an important part of the population. The immigration of respectable Dutch families did not begin in general until after 1638 when the monopoly of the West India Company was abolished. Many of the families who became great land owners in the northern part of the Hudson River valley were from Gelderland, east of the Zuyder Zee, the town of Myjerka being one of the principal centers of emigration. While many of these Dutch families were of excellent mercantile stock, it is a mistake to suppose that they represented the social élite of the home country. Although the Dutch have left a permanent mark on the Hudson River valley, the contribution which they made to the future population of the State was small. When England captured the colony in 1664 and the Dutch immigration ceased, there were probably not many more than 10,000 inhabitants in the whole region, and of these from a quarter to a third were English. Holland at the time was not at all a colonizing nation. Its overseas ventures were for the purpose of trade, and it had not sufficient surplus population to settle colonies permanently. The amount of Dutch and Huguenot blood that was perpetuated in the later history of the colonies was, therefore, small by comparison with the English, but was for the most part of the same racial stock. Six or seven thousand Dutch in the present State of New York in 1664 are to be compared with 35,000 English in Virginia and 50,000 in New England at the same date. There was no further general and organized emigration from Holland to America until the close of the Revolution. At that time some of the Amsterdam bankers, who had loaned millions of dollars to the Revolutionary government, decided to try to capitalize their investments and bought nearly 4,000,000 acres of land in New York and Pennsylvania. Most of the settlers on this tract were not Dutch; and while Dutch names may still play an important part in the Social Registers of New York and Albany, Dutch blood is insignificant in the present make-up of the population of the United States. The southerly tide of New Englanders, which washed over the Dutch colony and others to the South, was in the first instance made up largely of those who did not find the religious convictions of their associates in Massachusetts and Connecticut to their liking. The little "Forts" of the Dutch in the Connecticut valley were swamped shortly after 1630, and by 1639 the Connecticut people of English ancestry had established themselves at Greenwich within thirty miles of New Amsterdam and in other towns even nearer. Long Island was settled from the same source, and Thomas Belcher took up a tract upon the present site of the City of Brooklyn in the same year in which the English began to build at Greenwich. Brooklyn, until the twentieth century, has been a typically New England community, entirely distinct from the other boroughs of Greater New York. The eastern end of Long Island was long separated from the western end and was settled directly from Connecticut. The Hamptons are virtually still a part of New England. The development of the southern part of New York State, and particularly of the Hudson River valley, was delayed indefinitely by the great land holdings of the so-called "patroons" or great landlords. New York City continued to be a cosmopolitan and nondescript town, built up on commerce and trade and without any particular racial complexion. Even at the time of the Revolution, it was inferior alike in size and in influence to Philadelphia and Boston, and New York State was but seventh in population among the thirteen colonies. The real foundation of the greatness of the Empire State was the New England colonization of northern and western New York, which created a territory that was, and has ever since remained, quite distinct in political complexion and economic and social interests from the Hudson River valley and the metropolis at its mouth. The commercial greatness of the City of New York dates from the opening of the Erie Canal in 1825, which made New York the outlet of the lake States. Meanwhile, however, several other foreign invasions had taken place. The French Huguenots, racially Nordic and almost identical with the British, began to arrive in Colonial New York after 1685, founding the town of New Rochelle to commemorate the French city from which so many of them had come. Here, as elsewhere, their influence was far in excess of their proportionately small number. In 1711, Governor Hunter of New York became imbued with grandiose ideas about developing the resources of his Province and began to look for a source of cheap labor for its exploitation. He found this in the German districts on the Rhine, broadly known as the Palatinate, where various national elements, not merely German and Alsatian, but French, Swiss, Moravian, and miscellaneous, were gathered, and where the religious persecution to which they were subjected as Protestants, and the excessive hardships which they were compelled to endure from invasions of the armies of Louis XIV, had reduced them to great misery. The population was ripe for emigration and furnished the only substantial element of non-Nordic origin in the Colonial history of America. It is not necessary to trace in detail the innumerable petty sects and national elements, often two or three times removed from their original home, of which this "Palatine" emigration was composed. For the present purpose it was pre-dominantly German-speaking, and largely of the round-headed Alpine stock in racial make-up. About 1709, these Palatines began frantic efforts to escape from their misfortunes, and within a few years some 30,000 had gone over into Holland and even into England, where they were not welcome. The British Government was only too glad to subsidize their further emigration, and several thousand of them were transported to the Hudson River valley. They soon became discontented there and were finally colonized on the Schoharie River in New York. Here, in turn, they were ousted by what they considered political jobbery and many of them moved on to the Mohawk River, a tributary of the Hudson, while others continued down the Susquehanna River to Pennsylvania. On the whole, therefore, the Palatines are to be considered merely temporary inhabitants of New York State. Although a good many of them remained, the reports they sent out as to their treatment were so unsatisfactory that thenceforth the Palatine immigration mostly avoided New York and landed in Pennsylvania, where it will be encountered later. The next influx, particularly after 1719, was of Ulster Scots, similar to that already mentioned as invading New England. Much of Orange County on the west of the Hudson River was settled by these Ulstermen, beginning as early as 1729, and for the next half-century the infiltration of this Nordic element was continuous, although more of it came through New England than directly into New York harbor. By the time of the Revolution the Ulster Scots had spread over much of the eastern part of northern New York, having enough representatives in Albany in 1760 to establish a Presbyterian church there. At about the same time Sir William Johnson, who had received a grant of 100,000 acres of land north of the Mohawk River for his valor in defending the colonies against the French at Crown Point and Lake George in 1755, began to look about for suitable tenants and hit upon the idea of importing Scotch Highlanders of Roman Catholic faith. Some hundreds of these arrived just before the Revolution, and like Sir John Johnson, son of Sir William, espoused the cause of the Loyalists. After the Revolution, they moved northward to Ontario where the town of Glengarry recalls their earlier home in Inverness. There, such families as the MacDonnells, McDougalls, Camerons, McIntyres, and Fergusons became an important element of strength to Canada. As noted, New York State at the time of the Revolution was still distinctly an unimportant colony, and its greatness dates from the invasion of New Englanders immediately after the war. Connecticut, by virtue of its proximity, was the principal source of these settlers, although almost every part of New England contributed. The crossing over of the Ulster Scots has already been mentioned, but it must not be inferred that that was the principal element in the settlement of the State. The main immigration was of the old Puritan English stock which still dominates all of upper New York, except where subsequent colonies of recent immigrants in some of the larger industrial cities have altered the local scene. The western shores of Lake Champlain and some of the older towns of the Hudson River valley could scarcely be recognized, after a few years, by those who had known them previously. A mere Dutch farm in 1784 had been changed in four years to the thriving city of Hudson, a typical New England commercial town with warehouses, wharves, Yankee shipping, and stores filled with Yankee notions. A visitor to Whitesborough on the Mohawk River, in 1788, reported that "settlers are continually pouring in from the Connecticut hive." Binghamton was settled jointly by Connecticut and Massachusetts. The same spirit caused a mixing up of the population within the limits of New England so that, to take a single illustration, the men of Middlefield, a small hill town in western Massachusetts, were found on inquiry to come from nearly sixty different towns in Massachusetts and Connecticut. After the Revolution the more enterprising young men of Massachusetts and Connecticut began to leave their home towns. Of those who departed, a half went to other places in New England, a quarter to western New York, and a quarter to Ohio and other points in the then "Far West." The extreme western part of New York State had not begun to develop as early as the period of which we are speaking. Canandaigua was the largest town in 1790, and it had but a hundred inhabitants. Pioneers came from New Jersey and Pennsylvania by way of the Susquehanna and Tioga Rivers, went to Seneca Lake, and thence to Cayuga; others from Connecticut had entered the valley of the Mohawk by way of Albany and Fort Schuyler. Small settlements sprang up at Bath, Naples, Geneva, Aurora, Seneca Falls, Palmyra, Richmond, Fort Stanwix, and Marcellus. The Erie Canal was as yet undreamt of. The population picture of New York State in 1790 is then a double one. The great bulk of the State, so far as area is concerned, was a colony of Anglo-Saxon origin almost identical with the New England States. The Hudson valley formed a less important appendage to this, with New York City at its mouth--a miscellaneous settlement of people of all sorts whose interests were largely commercial. New York was one of the States that lost most heavily by the Loyalist migration at the end of the Revolution. This superior Nordic element left in two great streams; one by sea to Nova Scotia, and the other overland to Canada. Long Island was a particularly heavy loser, 3000 people going in one fleet in 1783. The influx of Loyalists into Nova Scotia, amounting to some 35,000, was a severe burden on that little colony. Those who went into Canada overland from New York were more easily assimilated, and many of the important settlements along the northern shores of Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, such as Kingston, date from that time. To these Ontario settlers was given, by Order in Council in 1789, the honorary name of "United Empire Loyalists," and they formed the backbone of Upper Canada, as the Province of Ontario was then called, and were a main element in defeating the plans of American strategists in 1812 to capture Canada and annex it to the Union. Although New York is generally credited with having more Loyalists during the Revolution than any other colony, she also furnished more troops for the patriot army than did any other State except Massachusetts. New Jersey, in contrast to its neighbors on either side, was one of the most thoroughly English of all the colonies. The settlements of the Dutch in the north, and the squabbles of a few hundred Dutch, Swedes, and Finlanders in the south, left little trace on the population when colonization once started in earnest. The real history of the colony begins in 1664 when the English proprietors, to whom it had been granted, began to colonize it seriously. Northern New Jersey was a chaos of rugged hills and forests which offered little to the settler and is still largely waste land. The southern part of the State is also largely waste land, consisting chiefly of pine barrens so that early settlement was virtually limited to two areas. On the North River, as the Hudson was called, the lands along the meadows opposite Manhattan Island were inviting, and on the South River, as the Delaware was originally designated, there was a broad strip of fertile farm land which attracted the early settlers. Among other centers New Haven had established a colony there about 1640, but had been driven off by the Dutch. There was also some extremely fertile land around Freehold and other towns on the line between New York and Philadelphia. Since these two areas were so inaccessible to each other by direct communication, the State grew up in two distinct settlements; that along the western side of New York harbor, then known as East Jersey, and that on the Delaware, known as West Jersey. While these two were consolidated administratively in 1702, they have never been wholly consolidated in actual character, and the two ends of the State are, even today, diverse enough to show their somewhat divergent origin. The land along the Delaware was colonized, for the most part, directly from England by the Quakers who had secured an interest in it, and who established the only two towns of importance in West Jersey during the Colonial period--Burlington in 1667 and Salem in 1675. Those who established Burlington were mostly from Yorkshire with a large group also from London, and they took opposite sides of the town, the Yorkshire people spreading north and the London people spreading south. Geographical difficulties checked the southward spread so that Cape May was settled separately by people from Connecticut and from Long Island. Later, some of the French Huguenots went down into West Jersey, but it always remained essentially an English colony, largely of Quaker complexion and influenced by the close proximity of co-religionists in Pennsylvania. East Jersey, like western New York, represents more directly a New England outpost. Elizabethtown had been established in 1665 by emigrants sent direct from Great Britain, but Newark had at almost the same time been colonized by people from Connecticut, who at first gave to it the name of their old home, Milford. The Elizabethtown Association somewhat later sold part of its territory to people from New Hampshire and Massachusetts who established the two hamlets of Woodbridge and Piscataqua, now New Brunswick. In 1666, Connecticut Puritans also established on the Passaic River first Guilford, and later Branford, both of which with Milford merged in the town of Newark. The New England overflow continued until the shores of Newark Bay had become another New England colony. Such communities as the Oranges were chiefly transplanted Puritan towns. The proprietorship of East Jersey shortly passed into the hands of Scotsmen and a steady immigration of these began about 1684. The capital of East Jersey, Perth Amboy, was named for one of the proprietors, James Drummond, the Earl of Perth. The colony soon became, and has ever since remained, one of the strongholds of Scotch Presbyterianism in America, which found its intellectual center in the establishment of Princeton University. For a long time the two sections of New Jersey were of about equal size and importance. As the country between them gradually filled up, the State grew slowly until at the time of the Revolution its population was estimated at about 120,000. Another fifteen years saw a healthy growth, the first census, in 1790, showing 184,139 inhabitants. The somewhat complicated details of its development should not obscure the fact that New Jersey was one of the most purely white, Protestant, Nordic settlements in the colonies. Although prior to the arrival of William Penn there were several thousand settlers on the Delaware River, in the territory now covered by Pennsylvania and Delaware, the real settlement of that region is generally dated from the beginning of his operations in 1681, when Upland, now Chester, was settled as his headquarters. A year later Philadelphia was founded, and in spite of this late start grew so rapidly that William Penn, the Quaker, at his death, had the satisfaction of knowing that the City of Brotherly Love was the largest in North America. While the foundation stock was made up of English Quakers, Penn had ambitious ideas of establishing a headquarters for other like-minded persons, and with this idealism was apparently mixed a solid commercial ambition which led him and his agents to advertise the merits of the colony widely. The land system, unlike that of Virginia or New Netherlands, favored the settler with small means. English and Welsh farmers rapidly appropriated to themselves the country along the west side of the Delaware River from Trenton to Wilmington. Penn maintained friendly relations with the Protestant leaders in southern Germany, and he and his agents seem to have had an extraordinary flair for finding obscure and peculiar sects and getting them to emigrate to the new colony. A mere list of the odd religious denominations that soon flourished in Pennsylvania is bewildering, and an attempt to define the characteristics, which to them seemed more than matters of life and death, is quite beyond the capacity of the present-day student not steeped in the knowledge of seventeenth-century theology. Germantown was established in October, 1673, the first outpost of the Alpine race in the present territory of the United States. Its founders were Mennonites; but they were later joined by Dunkards or Tunkers, that is, Dippers, who held to the efficacy of baptism by immersion. Generally speaking, the Germans who came to Pennsylvania during the first quarter-century of its settlement belong to these distinctive sects, while after that time the immigration was made up of a somewhat more uniform mass of adherents of either the Lutheran or the Reformed Church. This difference soon became a recognized one for an easy division of "the Pennsylvania Dutch," as this mixed group of Alpines came to be called, not very correctly, from an assimilation of _Pennsylvanische Deutsche_. One would ask, on hearing such a person mentioned, "Does he belong to the sects or to the church people?" A few of these such as the Labadists from Friesland who settled in New Castle County, Delaware, were either from Holland or parts of Germany bordering Holland, but the great bulk of the "Pennsylvania Dutch" came from the Rhine Provinces, particularly from Alsace and the Palatinate, with a liberal sprinkling of northern French Protestants who had been forced over the border, while others came from Austria and Prussia and even from northern Italy. As a matter of fact, down to the time of the World War, Americans called, colloquially, all Germans "Dutchmen." While the Palatinate furnished only a part of the immigration its name was soon given to all similar newcomers, so that the term Palatine became a general description for a German-speaking immigrant; and one even finds in the old records such anomalies as an allusion to "a Palatine from Hamburg." An important centre of their dispersion was the town of Crefeld near the border of Holland. The colonies in general, being overwhelmingly and typically British, looked with suspicion on any alien groups, and New England, in particular, probably would not have encouraged these Alpines to enter at all. Virginia with its Church of England establishment and its self-conscious English attitude was likewise not disposed to be hospitable to such a large group of foreigners. Governor Oglethorpe attracted some of them to Georgia, but not very successfully, as will be mentioned later. One important group of his settlers, in particular, the Moravians, left Georgia about 1739 because they were required to take up arms against the neighboring Spanish in Florida. They moved to Pennsylvania where they founded, in 1741, the town of Bethlehem, which has been their headquarters ever since. While New York originally welcomed the Palatines, it soon treated them so badly that thereafter almost all the vessels bearing German immigrants came directly from Dutch ports to the Delaware, and if by chance an occasional ship was forced to make a landing in New York, its passengers quickly made their way across the Jerseys into more hospitable territory. Even in Pennsylvania the invasion of the Germans eventually began to cause alarm among the English-speaking and dominant part of the population. In Virginia this attitude of exclusion of supposedly alien races had been maintained ever since the first permanent settlement. Inspired by visions of building up a great industry, the proprietors of that colony had sent out with their "second supply" a little group of eight artisans from Germany and Poland who were skilled glassmakers. The English colonists charged them with treasonable dealings with the Indians and the Chronicler of the settlement refers to them disgustedly as those "damned Dutchmen." Benjamin Franklin, who, in 1753, expressed his opinion of some of his fellow citizens in a letter to Peter Collinson, was merely reflecting an attitude which the English stock had more or less generally taken when he declared: "Those who come hither are generally the most stupid of their own nation, and, as ignorance is often attended with credulity when knavery would mislead it, and with suspicion when honesty would set it right; and as few of the English understand the German language, and so cannot address them either from the press or the pulpit, it is almost impossible to remove any prejudices they may entertain. Their clergy have very little influence on the people, who seem to take a pleasure in abusing and discharging the minister on every trivial occasion. Not being used to liberty, they know not how to make a modest use of it. And as Holben says of the young Hottentots, that they are not esteemed men until they have shown their manhood by beating their mothers, so these seem not to think themselves free, till they can feel their liberty in abusing and insulting their teachers. Thus they are under no restraint from ecclesiastical government; they behave, however, submissively enough at present to the civil government, which I wish they may continue to do, for I remember when they modestly declined intermeddling in our elections, but now they come in droves and carry all before them, except in one or two counties.[7] "Few of their children in the country know English. They import many books from Germany; and of the six printing-houses in the province, two are entirely German, two half German, half English, and but two entirely English. They have one German newspaper, and one half-German. Advertisements, intended to be general, are now printed in Dutch and English. The signs in our streets have inscriptions in both languages, and in some places only German. They begin of late to make all their bonds and other legal instruments in their own language, which (though I think it ought not to be) are allowed in our courts, where the German business so increases that there is continued need of interpreters; and I suppose in a few years they will also be necessary in the Assembly, to tell one-half our legislators what the other half say. "In short, unless the stream of their importation could be turned from this to other colonies, as you very judiciously propose, they will soon so outnumber us that we will, in my opinion, be not able to preserve our language, and even our government will become precarious. The French, who watch all advantages, are now themselves making a German settlement, back of us, in the Illinois country, and by means of these Germans they may in time come to an understanding with ours; and, indeed, in the last war,[8] our Germans showed a general disposition, that seemed to bode us no good. For, when the English, who were not Quakers, alarmed by the danger arising from the defenseless state of our country, entered unanimously into an association, and within this government, and the Lower Counties raised, armed, and disciplined near ten thousand men, the Germans, except a very few in proportion to their number, refused to engage in it, giving out, one amongst another, and even in print, that, if they were quiet, the French, should they take the country, would not molest them; at the time abusing the Philadelphians for fitting out privateers against the enemy, and representing the trouble, hazard, and expense of defending the province, as a greater inconvenience than any that might be expected from a change of government. Yet I am not for refusing to admit them entirely into our colonies. All that seems to me necessary is, to distribute them more equally, mix them with the English schools, where they are not too thickly settled, and take some care to prevent the practice, lately fallen into by some of the shipowners, of sweeping the German gaols to make up the number of their passengers. I say I am not against the admission of Germans in general, for they have their virtues. Their industry and frugality are exemplary. They are excellent husbandmen, and contribute greatly to the improvement of a country." By 1727, the English in Pennsylvania had become sufficiently alarmed over the proportions of the Palatine invasion to demand a careful record of the numbers arriving each year so that from then on there is full official record of all foreigners entered at the port of Philadelphia. By that time there were probably fifteen or twenty thousand Germans already in the province, and the record mentioned indicates that between 1727 and 1745 approximately 22,000 arrived by ships. To this number should, of course, be added the high natural increase of those already settled. Since the English had pre-empted much of the desirable land along the Delaware and around Philadelphia, the Germans, with whom the acquisition of farming land was a dominant passion, mostly went westward of the English settlement and formed a belt where their language was and, in scattered groups to this day, is spoken. They filled the Lehigh and Schuylkill valleys and occupied a band of fertile soil beginning in eastern Pennsylvania on the Delaware, passing westward toward the Susquehanna through the towns of Allentown, Reading, Lebanon, Lancaster, and thence down to the Cumberland valley on the Maryland border where they had a natural outlet to western Virginia and to the south. The tier of counties north of this belt and along the borders of New York was comparatively neglected by them, and was filled largely by settlers from Connecticut. The influx of English and German sectaries was so rapid that within three years from its founding, Penn's province had made a growth as great as that of New Netherlands in its first half-century. The early Quakers who belonged to the privileged group grew prosperous, and many of them finding the strict ordinances of their sect somewhat oppressive became Anglicans. Thus the Church of England gained an important position in Philadelphia which it retained up to the Revolution. In general, it represented the Loyalist element and therefore partly disintegrated when they left at the end of the war. The Revolution was largely Calvinistic, and the Established Church was in most of the northern colonies regarded with disfavor as "loyalist." The invasion of Ulster Scots into Pennsylvania began shortly after the German immigration was well under way. Within a few years the great majority of the Ulster immigrants to America were making directly for the Delaware shores. Presbyterian congregations existed in the important towns of the colony about 1700, and within the next decade the Scotch had made numerous settlements in New Castle County, Delaware, and on both sides of the Pennsylvania-Maryland boundary at its intersection with the Delaware line. When the great tide of emigration from Ulster set in about 1720, the Scotch found the best and most accessible soil in Pennsylvania occupied by the English and the next belt held firmly by the Germans. In general, therefore, they were obliged to pass over these two territories and settle still farther west, particularly in the Cumberland valley of which Gettysburg, York, and Carlisle are now important centers. In this district geographical isolation led later to the establishment farther south of a distinct church, the Cumberland Presbyterian, somewhat different in its tenets from the Presbyterianism of the Philadelphia region and Delaware. The number of Scotch who thus left Ulster for Pennsylvania is uncertain, but may have exceeded 40,000 or 50,000. Taken in connection with the Palatine immigration at the same period the influx to Pennsylvania in the 1730's formed the largest migration from Europe to the New World that ever took place until the steamship era arrived. [Illustration: TERRITORIAL GROWTH of the UNITED STATES] Seeking newer and freer land, the Scotch together with some Germans began to follow the mountain valleys trending southwestward from Pennsylvania. They not only filled the Shenandoah Valley in a few years, but filtered down to the back country of the southern colonies and to the eastern portion of what is now Tennessee. A good illustration of this migration is Daniel Boone, himself of English stock, who was born on the Delaware only a few miles above Philadelphia. The Boone family soon moved to Reading. Thence drifting southwestward with his compatriots, Daniel Boone settled in the North Carolina uplands, along the valley of the Yadkin, then passed beyond into Kentucky, and, after that location began to be civilized, went on as a pioneer to Missouri. His son appears a little later as one of the early settlers of Kansas, his grandson as a pioneer in Colorado. When the land west of the Alleghanies was opened for settlement about 1768, the Ulster Scots began to throng the mountain passes. In addition to their aptitude for frontier life, and the insatiable desire to find new and cheap land, they wanted to get away from their neighbors, the Pennsylvania Dutch, with whom they usually did not live on very good terms. Pittsburgh rapidly became a Nordic territory settled mainly by the Ulster Scots. These streams of immigration were sufficient by 1740 to enable Pennsylvania to overtake and pass the population of every other colony except Maryland, Massachusetts, and Virginia, although most of them had been started a generation earlier than Penn's settlement. A decade later Maryland was passed and just after the Revolution Massachusetts was outstripped, while Philadelphia remained the metropolis of the United States until finally excelled by New York City in the first half of the nineteenth century. Benjamin Franklin's offhand estimate that at the end of the Colonial period one-third of the population of his adopted State was English, one-third Scotch, and one-third German, was not far from the truth. Though the population was then by a safe majority British in origin and English-speaking, the Germans remained an element impossible to assimilate, so long as they continued to be segregated in their own communities of which Lancaster was the largest inland town in the thirteen colonies. Such of the Germans as went to the frontier States were assimilated by the Nordic groups without much difficulty; but the experience of the Pennsylvania Dutch farming communities is like that of some of the city slum districts of the last century, in presenting groups almost impossible to Americanize. Even at the present time this Alpine island of population still retains many of its alien characteristics. For this, among other reasons, the German element in Pennsylvania at the time of the Revolution played a relatively unimportant part in the affairs of the State, as suggested by the quotation from Franklin above. The dominant element was formed by the group around Philadelphia composed mainly of the original English Quakers; but the Pennsylvania-Dutch, on their farms, and the Scots on the frontier, furnished a large contingent with which the politicians had to deal, though they were seldom represented in the government and leadership of the colony. The German element was inclined to follow the leadership of the Quakers under whose invitation it had come to Pennsylvania. The Scots, on the other hand, were apt to be in a state of rebellion when occasion arose, as conspicuously in the Whiskey Rebellion, which formed one of the first tests of the power of the Federal Government under Washington's presidency. The claim that half of the Ulstermen were adherents of the Established Church, rather than Presbyterians, is doubtless extreme, but emphasizes the typically non-Irish and Protestant character of this whole element of the population, as also the fact that many of the Ulstermen were not Scots, nor even Lowland Scots, whose ancestors had moved northward across the border from England; but were direct emigrants from England to Ireland, some indeed as late as and even after the time of Cromwell. Delaware has been dealt with incidentally in what has been said concerning Pennsylvania, because it was part of Pennsylvania during the first period of colonization. Unimportant attempts had been made by the Dutch and Swedes, of whom the Swedes are the best known, to settle there but the population of the region when Penn arrived was mainly composed of English who had moved in under the regime of the Duke of York. In 1633, an English nobleman, Lord Baltimore, who had for years been seeking favor with the Stuart monarchy, announced that he had become a convert to the papacy, and, with the zeal of a new convert, desired to establish a colony in the New World where Catholics, then laboring under heavy disabilities in Great Britain, could enjoy religious freedom. He applied for, and Charles I granted, a charter for the foundation of a semi-feudal proprietorship, with the stipulation that freedom of worship should prevail. If one stops to consider what a howl of outraged virtue would have been raised by the people of Great Britain, and what a hurricane would have descended upon the head of the monarch, had he granted the Catholics a charter without stipulating for freedom of worship, it will be realized that the much-vaunted "toleration" of Lord Baltimore's colony was not entirely an evidence of his own broad-mindedness. However, this toleration had its limits. Disbelief in the doctrine of the Trinity was a capital offense. In 1634, the little town of St. Mary was established as the center for the new colony. Few Catholics of the home country seem to have been anxious to take advantage of the opportunities offered, and Lord Baltimore began to seek tenants elsewhere. As early as 1634, he was writing to Boston and urging Massachusetts people to emigrate, but the first great invasion of Puritans came in 1649. Inspired by enthusiasm for the cause of the King, after he had lost his head, the Virginians under the leadership of Governor Berkeley passed ordinances expelling non-conformists from their colony, and a thousand of these who had previously gone from New England to Virginia were driven out and took refuge in Maryland, establishing the settlement which later became Annapolis. During the next generation most of the arrivals in Maryland were either Puritans or Quakers. The policy of tolerance was not held to apply to Quakers, who, by a law of 1659, were to be whipped out of any town which they entered, but this measure does not seem to have been enforced very long, and English Quakers from other colonies soon formed an important part of the population. In 1689, word reached the New World of the expulsion of James II, and the occupation of the British throne by the uncompromisingly Protestant House of Orange. While James II was on the throne a general alarm had arisen throughout the colonies over the prospects of Catholic aggression. Many of the colonies contained a sprinkling of the Huguenot refugees who had been driven out of France only a few years before because of their Protestantism, and there were thus in every colony men who knew the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes and the terrible persecution which followed. The tragedy of the Thirty Years War was also still fresh in the minds of many. There was no disposition in America, therefore, to look upon the Catholics as a group who, if in power, would distinguish themselves by a policy of broad toleration, and the one colony in which there was any appreciable number of Catholics, namely, Maryland, naturally felt the situation most keenly. The number of Catholics in the colony at that time, however, even including Negroes, was only a few thousand, and their capital of St. Mary was a hamlet of scarcely sixty houses. Probably eleven-twelfths of the population of Maryland were Protestants, and of them a majority were Puritans. These lost no time in taking steps to protect their freedom which they knew the Catholic church would never tolerate if able to do otherwise, and by a homemade revolution turned out the proprietary government and set up a staunch Protestant regime. Under this new rule, however, the few Catholic residents were subjected to no harm, but were placed under approximately the same disabilities as they had long lived under in Great Britain. Thereupon the little Roman Catholic principality in the United States was at an end, and the then Lord Baltimore, fourth of that title, shortly conformed by returning to his ancestral Protestant faith. The Revolution of 1689 cost St. Mary its existence, for the Puritans transferred the capital to their own town of Providence (rebaptized Annapolis), and the headquarters of the Roman Catholics soon relapsed into the wilderness. Maryland continued to be almost wholly an English colony, with more than its share of Negroes and transported convicts, and with a very slight sprinkling of aliens, much as all the colonies had. When the Acadians were transported from Nova Scotia in 1755, a considerable number of them were landed in Maryland. Baltimore, founded in 1729, languished for a quarter of a century, but in the decade before the Revolution it began to grow with such rapidity that in a few years it was one of the half dozen most considerable towns of the continent. The back country of Maryland was settled independently from Pennsylvania, to a considerable extent by Ulster Scots and Palatines, though there was also a steady encroachment on this cheap land by men from the tidewater who could not get possession of farms in the more expensive and fashionable as well as prosperous region. By the Revolution, Maryland had reached a population of 250,000. Perhaps one-seventh of this was in Frederick County, where Palatines had begun to settle as early as 1710, and into which they began to enter in large numbers after about 1730. Despite this back-country element, Maryland must be recognized as being, at the time of the first census, an Anglo-Saxon colony in culture, in traditions, in language, and in population. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 7: He is writing of Pennsylvania.] [Footnote 8: The French and Indian War.] VII VIRGINIA AND HER NEIGHBORS The settlement of Virginia, beginning with Jamestown in 1607, was of a different character from that of the northern and middle colonies. It was not a colonization project undertaken by families, but an exploitation by adventurers. In a sense it may be compared with the Klondike Gold Rush at the end of the nineteenth century. Men went forth seeking fortune and expecting to return in a few years with newly acquired wealth. The motley array of colonists sent to Jamestown by the Company during the first decade of activity seems to have been drawn from every part of the British Isles and every stratum of society. After ten or a dozen years, the proprietors recognized that the wealth of their plantations would not consist in gold and pearls but that they were facing an actual colonization project, which could only be built upon the foundations of family life. An early recognition of this fact has been one of the principal sources of strength in all British colonization, and the proprietors of the Virginia colony, while continuing to encourage men of all sorts to go to their settlement on the James River, undertook one of the famous eugenic enterprises of history by sending over several shiploads of young women to make homes for their settlers. The undertaking seems to have been carried out in good faith and with good judgment and the result was notably successful. A little later, however, the continuing demand for wives led to a sort of traffic that probably produced a less carefully selected feminine population for the plantations. On the whole, it would probably be fair to say that the "First Families of Virginia" represented a higher social standard in the male than in the female lines. The year 1619 was racially eventful. It saw the arrival at Jamestown both of the first shipload of "uncorrupt maydes for wives," and the landing of the first cargo of Negroes. The next half-century brought the development of the plantation system and the spread of Negro slavery and the problem of miscegenation between Negro women and the lowest and most unintelligent type of white servant came into prominence. In this way originated the mulatto group which has ever since been a characteristic feature of the Negroes in the United States. Those admirers of the Mulatto who boast that he carries in his veins the blue blood of the aristocratic families of the South, would do well to read the actual records of Virginia and other colonies during the seventeenth century and see what sort of white stock actually formed the foundation of that half of this hybrid group. The colony continued to grow for the first quarter of a century by attracting voluntary adventurers from whom the rule of the survival of the fittest exacted so heavy a toll that probably the survivors were a fairly fit lot. The abandonment of the original proprietary company in 1624 led to a marked change in the manner of populating the colony, and for the next generation the bulk of the immigrants were assisted in one way or another to get to Virginia and allowed to work out the money advanced them by their labor after their arrival. At its best, there was little difference in the colonization plans that British colonies have always used to get desirable settlers from "home." In the case of Virginia it brought a vigorous population of all sorts, and the name of "indentured servant" covers not merely the domestic in the kitchen and the laborer in the tobacco field but artisans' apprentices and medical students. Under the extremely trying conditions many of these immigrants were unable to survive. Governor Berkeley asserted that four out of five died during the first year of residence, while Evelyn, the diarist, declared that five out of six succumbed. Such statements at least point to an excessively high mortality which must have spared most frequently those who were physically and mentally superior and well adapted to be among the founders of a new colony. Hence it seems clear that the importance of these indentured servants in the later development of Virginia, as of other colonies, is not to be reckoned in proportion to the number who arrived, but to be estimated upon the much smaller number who survived and founded families. Another type of assisted immigrant of which a great deal has been heard was the deported convict. Some of these were evidently men who had cheated the gallows, for the Virginians continually protested against their arrival. Apparently much the larger number, however, were men of superior quality in many respects. When nearly three hundred offenses were punishable by the death penalty in England, many of those convicted were not persons marked by great moral turpitude, and the so-called "transported convict" might have been equally well a pirate, or a preacher who persisted in expounding the gospel without proper license from the ecclesiastical authorities so to do. Large numbers were political prisoners who found themselves temporarily on the losing side; still more were mere prisoners of war. During the Protectorate, victories like Dunbar and Worcester and the suppression of the Irish Rebellion by Cromwell in 1652 were followed by deportations of prisoners of war to the colonies, and the government felt fully justified in recovering part of the expense of transportation by selling the services of these able-bodied and intelligent men for seven years to the highest bidder. Unquestionably most of the foundation stock of this kind that survived to perpetuate itself would be entirely fit for colonization. During the same period many cavaliers took refuge in Virginia. When the royalists were again in power after 1660, a similar stream of Commonwealth soldiers and non-conformists began to come into the colonies. The Scotch Rebellion of 1670 brought another accession to Virginia, and in 1685 many of the captives at the Battle of Sedgmoor were exiled here. Such labor was welcomed by the Virginians in marked distinction to the real criminals, of whom there were apparently only a few thousand in all. After about 1700 the spread of Negro slavery reduced the demand for white indentured labor and less of it arrived. In the great diversity of men and women brought over in these and other ways, there are some who figure in the ancestry of the best families of Virginia at the present time, and others who, from the beginning, were misfits in the colony. Such of the latter as survived the trying ordeal of the tobacco fields either ran away, or, when their term of service expired, drifted out to the borders of the settlement. The Virginia holdings were large and far beyond the reach of an ordinary man without capital, in marked contrast to conditions in New England, where the great majority of the settlers were small landowners. The freed bondsmen therefore had to go to the frontier or drift down into North Carolina or some other region where they were not handicapped by their lack of funds. The most shiftless and least intelligent of them tended to collect in the less valuable lands at the fringe of civilization, or to drift along to other similar settlements farther west and south. In this way originated one of the peculiar elements of the Southern population, the "poor white trash." Their numbers were recruited generation after generation by others of the same sort while the able, enterprising, and imaginative members were continually drained off to the cities or sought better land elsewhere. These "poor whites" in the Alleghanies and through the swamp lands of North and South Carolina have been an interesting feature of the population for three centuries. Largely of pure Nordic stock, they are a striking example to the eugenist of the results of isolation and undesirable selection. During the Stuart period Virginia was the refuge of many Puritans. They were, however, looked upon with disfavor by the prevailing royalist sentiment and the activities of Sir William Berkeley as Governor were such that not less than a thousand left the colony. Their place was taken by Royalists, invited by the Governor to find a refuge in Virginia as soon as news arrived of the execution of Charles I. Within the next twelve months probably a thousand Royalists appeared bringing many of the family names which have been conspicuous in the Old Dominion ever since. Richard Lee came a little earlier, in 1642, but it is after the death of Charles I that one begins to meet in Virginia such names as Randolph, Cary, Parke, Robinson, Marshall, Washington, and Ludwell. The place of origin in Great Britain of most of the Royalists is not so easily traced as is that of the Massachusetts Puritans who came to America in groups, sometimes as entire congregations, but random samples of families which afterwards furnished distinguished leadership show that they came from practically all over England and Scotland: Washingtons from Northamptonshire, Marshalls and Jeffersons from Wales, Lees from the part of Shropshire adjoining Wales, and Randolphs from Warwickshire. James Monroe's ancestors were Scotch and Patrick Henry's father was born in Aberdeen. They had at least one thing in common, that they were of English and Nordic stock. Examination of lists in the land office at Richmond indicates that fully 95 per cent of the names of landowners during the seventeenth century were unmistakably Anglo-Saxon. The tidewater population was fecund and spread steadily up to the fall-line of the rivers, by its own multiplication. Men and women married early. Colonel Byrd described his daughter, Evelyn, as an "antique virgin" when she was twenty. "Either our young fellows are not smart enough for her or she seems too smart for them," he moaned. With a high death rate second marriages were common. It has been the custom of late for sentimental feminists to refer to the large families of the Colonial period as having been produced by husbands who thus killed off one wife after another. Such nonsense is easily refuted by an examination of genealogies and of tombstones. Many a husband had to marry several wives because of the high death rate, but equally many wives had to marry several husbands apiece for the same reason. The toll taken by hard work, unhygienic conditions, and childbirth without proper care among pioneer women, was no greater than the toll taken by hard work, unhygienic conditions, and Indian warfare among the men. If Colonel John Carter married five wives successively, in an age when divorce was unknown, Elizabeth Mann married six husbands. While a purely Nordic population was thus occupying tidewater Virginia east of the Blue Ridge, another Nordic invasion from a wholly different source was entering upland Virginia on the other side of the mountains. The Shenandoah Valley is virtually an extension of the interior valleys of Pennsylvania; and while an occasional pioneer pushed his way to it through the mountains from the eastern front, the real settlement came through the side door beginning about 1725 and reaching the proportions of an invasion about 1732. Ulster Scots coming down through Pennsylvania began that penetration of the Piedmont from north to south which is such a striking feature of the history of the South Atlantic coast during the next century. With them were some Alpines, mostly Germans from the Palatine, representative of the so-called Pennsylvania Dutch stock. When General Braddock, whose army was nearly wiped out by the French and Indians in 1755, sighed, "Who would have thought it?" and expired, he nevertheless had cleared a road for the rapid spread of this immigration along the mountain valleys, not merely into Virginia but on through the Carolinas and to Georgia. His road was followed a few years later by General Forbes' road through the same country, and the way was open. The upland and mountain sections of Virginia therefore came to be represented by a group with a very different outlook from those of the tidewater, dominated as it was by large landholders. This diversity of original settlement, which was of sufficient importance to effect in the Civil War a cleavage of the State and establish West Virginia as free soil, is still apparent and makes itself felt in the twentieth century. * * * * * North Carolina represents an overflowing from Virginia to the South. It was a frontier for the Old Dominion where landless men could find new homes more easily than to the westward, where they encountered the Blue Ridge. In 1653 a settlement was begun at Albemarle by Virginians who were not in accord either with the established religion or else with the political control of their colony. Most of these were Quakers. By adopting a remarkably liberal code of laws, which welcomed insolvent debtors by cancelling their indebtedness, this colony attracted an element which the more conservative Virginians regarded with suspicion. A continual infiltration of landseekers led to steady colonization, and gradually the tidewater section of North Carolina developed as a separate region, not very thickly settled, not very prosperous, not very distinguished in any way. A few French Huguenots drifted in after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. In 1710 a group of Palatines, who had left their German homes because of religious persecution, and had sought refuge in England, was passed on to North Carolina through the enterprise of a couple of Swiss promoters who were looking for colonists. As a courtesy to the promoters the settlement was given the name of New Bern, which has led to a general supposition that the population were Swiss. In fact, they were nearly all German Alpines. Another immigration, this time of Nordics, began a few years later when Scotch Highlanders, disappointed at the results of the 1715 uprising on behalf of the Old Pretender, fled the country and came to North Carolina, starting a settlement on the Cape Fear River. Later, following the collapse of the Young Pretender in 1745, the Highlanders again found themselves in a bad situation at home. Shipload after shipload landed at Wilmington in 1746 and 1747. This emigration of Scotch Highlanders continued until the Revolution, during which time they showed themselves, strangely enough, loyal to the Hanoverian dynasty and mostly fought as Loyalists against the Continentals. The general breakup of the clan system with the accompanying distress in the Highlands caused most of this emigration, although some of the Scots were deported as prisoners of war. Campbelltown was the centre of their settlement, and it is unfortunate that its present name of Fayetteville conceals its interesting history. Some of the Highlanders are said to have brought cattle with them, and they pushed on into the interior of the State because of the great areas of succulent grass and peavine stretching toward the mountains which provided excellent fodder for their herds. The sympathetic patronage of Gabriel Johnston, the Governor of the Province from 1734 to 1752, was largely responsible for the welcome extended to these Highlanders. Himself a Scotchman, he was under strong suspicion of not being too loyal to the Crown. At any rate, his hospitality to the Highlanders brought to North Carolina the largest group of Highland Scotch that came to the colonies. These men of the purest Nordic blood form a selected group anthropologically. It is no mere coincidence that the tallest average height of a population in the United States at the present time is in these North Carolina counties that were settled by the Scotch Highlanders after "Bonnie Prince Charlie" ceased to be a political possibility. While the back country of North Carolina was thus being penetrated from the seacoast by the Highland Scots, the Lowland Scots were drifting into it along the foot of the mountains from Pennsylvania and Maryland through Virginia. This was the principal source of increase of the population during the eighteenth century, and still gives to the State its characteristic complexion. Along with the Ulster Scots came, as said above, some of the German settlers, thus bringing a small Alpine element to the State. The southern tidewater region also developed at the same time as a northern extension of settlement from South Carolina. * * * * * South Carolina was settled only a little later than North Carolina by the establishment of Old Charles Town in 1665. This settlement, shortly moved across and up the river to a better location, prospered and expanded until it became South Carolina. Originally a sort of offshoot from the West Indies, this region caught the attention of the Huguenot refugees a few years later, perhaps because Coligny had marked it out a century before as a desirable home for them. It attracted a larger proportion of the French refugees than any other colony; and although they were unwelcome at first to the English who were in possession, they soon assimilated themselves to the Anglo-Saxon population with which they were racially identical and became an important element in the upbuilding of the State. In Colonial and Revolutionary times, Gendron, Huger, LeSerrurier, deSaussure, Laurens, Lanier, Sevier, and Ravenel were all Huguenots who distinguished themselves in the service of the State. The establishment of large-scale agriculture with plantations devoted to rice or indigo sharply limited the possibilities of settlement in the tidewater region of South Carolina, and it became a country of large holdings worked by Negro slaves in charge of overseers. Meanwhile the owners largely made their homes in or near Charleston, and brought it to the position of the fourth city of the colonies in importance. The growth of the colony would have been slow had it not been for the influx of the Ulster Scots coming along the foot of the mountains from the north after the middle of the eighteenth century. The upcountry thus became quite different from the tidewater, so different, that in South Carolina as in North Carolina and Virginia it was a question whether the State might not split on slavery a few years before the Civil War, and the Upland population was only whipped into line for secession by sharp practice on the part of the political leaders in the slave-holding regions. Other small elements were incorporated easily in the Nordic population of the State, but the loss to the colony was heavy when the Loyalists left after the Revolution. On the 13th and 14th of December, 1782, 300 ships set sail from Charleston carrying not merely the soldiery but more than 9000 civilians and slaves. Half of these went to the West Indies, and most of the others to Florida where such of them as had not subsequently removed were presumably reincorporated into the United States a generation later. On the other hand, hundreds of Hessian deserters stayed in the community, as also occurred in others of the colonies, thus introducing the first noticeable immigration of Nordic Germans into the State. As previously noted, most of the so-called Palatine immigration of Germans in the eighteenth century was Alpine, in sharp contrast to the North German Nordics, who came to this country in large numbers in the middle of the nineteenth century after the futile revolutions of 1848. * * * * * Georgia was the last of the thirteen colonies to be settled. Even at the Revolution it was so weak that it was regarded by many of the Colonial leaders as more of a liability than an asset to the confederation. Its establishment in 1732 by Oglethorpe was on a basis appealing more to sentiment than to practical views. As in the case of some other similar schemes in contemporary times, Parliament was persuaded to appropriate nearly a hundred thousand pounds to aid the oppressed of all countries. Most of the few thousand persons who were settled by the original trustees were English, and were selected with as much care as possible from among those who were apparently "down on their luck," and who might prosper if relieved of their debts and put back on land. Many of these insolvent debtors were doubtless victims of political and economic changes, but it soon transpired that in too many cases the man who did not have sufficient capacity to make a living in England, likewise lacked sufficient capacity to make a living in the newer and more difficult conditions of Georgia. In addition to these English debtors, Oglethorpe enlisted on the Continent small bodies of oppressed Protestants and established several other little settlements. Waldenses from Piedmont in Italy were settled in one place, a colony of Scots in another, German Moravians at still a third point, and a few French families elsewhere, as well as a colony from Salzburg, made up of a pre-dominantly Alpine stock that had suffered for its religious principles enough to deserve all the sympathy it received. The hardy Nordics (Scotch Presbyterian Highlanders) who had been settled on the southern frontier, to afford protection for Georgia from the Spaniards and Indians, were almost exterminated by the Spaniards and of all these various undertakings Savannah was the only one that prospered. It was necessary to abandon the attempt to create a prosperous colony by means of establishing a refuge for the oppressed. Unfortunately the change was accompanied by the introduction of Negro slavery. Nevertheless, when Georgia became open to outside settlers, there was a valuable accession from colonies to the north, one of the most interesting of the groups being the Dorchester Society, which came in 1752. This Protestant congregation had left England in 1630 and founded Dorchester in Massachusetts. In 1695 a part of them had moved to South Carolina and, two generations later, some of these went still farther south to midland Georgia. Their example was followed, or perhaps indeed preceded, by many other Carolina planters, so that the influx from this source became a real element of strength to the more southerly colony. Shortly thereafter the flood of Ulster Scots, rolling along the Piedmont, began to reach the uplands of Georgia and assured its future. [Illustration: THE THIRTEEN COLONIES] The Georgians of the present day are descendants of the Oglethorpe colonists in only insignificant proportions. The Nordic settlers who came in through North Carolina, English from the tidewater region, and Ulster Scots from the Uplands, are the real founders of the State. After the Revolution, Georgia benefited by the prevalent unrest and the tide of migration that flowed in all directions. It received settlers from all of the Southern States and some of the Northern ones, as well as new arrivals direct from Europe. * * * * * Kentucky for a generation prior to the Revolution had become known through hunters of game bringing back glowing accounts of the beauty and fertility of the level lands of central Kentucky. Access in the one case was down the Ohio River by boat, and in the other by a long and hazardous trip through the mountains, entering by the Cumberland Gap, the most practicable of several difficult passes. The danger from Indians was so great on the Ohio River that most of the invaders preferred those dangers of a different type to be encountered by the Cumberland Gap entry. It was the route which Daniel Boone, acting for a land company, had blazed: the narrow trail, six hundred miles long, that has become famous as the Wilderness Road. By the time of the Revolution several hundred people were in Kentucky, and more were coming each year from the inland portion of Virginia, and, to a less extent, from Pennsylvania. During the Revolution the population rose and fell in accordance with local conditions on the frontier and the ravages of the Indians. With the end of the Revolution a great tide of immigration set in, composed in part of soldiers who were given land grants by the Virginia Government. With them was an element of Loyalists, as well as many families from Maryland, both seeking to get away from unpleasant associations in the East. From 1780 onward the route down the Ohio began to be more used. The Indians were driven back or the boatmen learned how to cope with their ruses, and the annual migration began to be counted in thousands. In the year 1786 as many as 3000 went down the river, in 1788, 10,000, and in 1789, 20,000. Meanwhile, the immigration through the Cumberland Gap continued steadily. The growth of Kentucky was on a scale unparalleled in North America up to that time. Within a few decades from the day when the first cabins were erected in the region, a population of 70,000 people had entered the State, and it had half as many inhabitants as Massachusetts. Compared with the Scotch tone of Tennessee, Kentucky was overwhelmingly English in aspect. Virginia was definitely its progenitor, a large part of its early population having come through the Shenandoah Valley. Next as feeders were Pennsylvania and North Carolina, while other regions contributed but small minorities, those from Maryland being probably the most numerous. The government of Virginia was seriously concerned by its losses of population from this cause. After the Revolution, officers who had served with the Virginia forces were compensated by allotments of land in the Kentucky region. The State attracted other settlers of a superior social and economic status. These gave a tone to its society and laid the foundation of a local aristocracy. Kentucky long remained distinctive because of its conspicuously English atmosphere and the social refinements which it showed in contrast to some of its neighbors. Kentucky remained part of Virginia until 1792 when it was admitted as a State. * * * * * Tennessee was, in fact, only the western part of North Carolina which originally stretched beyond the Appalachians as far as the Mississippi. The French had established a trading post on the site of Nashville as early as 1714. But the State was actually settled from the East rather than from the West, and, indeed, its western third was not settled until well into the nineteenth century. The first area of settlement was in the river valleys near the North Carolina border, and this remained the principal area during the period here considered. A second and less important point of growth was in the center of the State. In northeastern Tennessee the earlier settlements were from Virginia, and the settlers supposed that they were still within the limits of the Old Dominion. The settlers from North Carolina soon began to push through the mountain passes and established the groupings that go in history by the name of the Holston and Watauga settlements. Many of the early settlers, of whom some hundreds were present before the Revolution, were, as noted, from the upland portion of Virginia, and were Presbyterians from Scotland, often by way of Ulster, while the principal early influx from North Carolina was connected with the uprising in the Piedmont section of that colony about 1770. An insurgent element known as the Regulators put itself in opposition to the royal governor, and, being beaten, fled over the mountains for safety. A large proportion of these were from Wake County. They brought in an element of Baptists contrasting with the Presbyterianism which, on the whole, characterized the State from the beginning and still does so owing to the predominance of the Scotch in its settlement. While the eastern community was growing, settlement began in the central portion of the State in what is known as the Cumberland district. This was for years almost isolated from the neighboring settlement to the east, the center of which was Nashville, while the eastern settlement headed in Knoxville, which became the capital. During the Revolution the settlement of this territory continued steadily until the State had 10,000 or 12,000 inhabitants. North Carolina made liberal allotments of Tennessee lands to its soldiers who had fought in the Revolution, and this continued the stream of immigration. By the time that President Washington was inaugurated the eastern section of the State had some 30,000 inhabitants, the Cumberland district about 7000, and both were growing steadily. Western Tennessee was still Indian territory. The population of Tennessee in 1790 was typical of the upland population of the South in its racial make-up. It is definitely a mere extension of the western part of North Carolina, though its inhabitants were often born in Virginia, and to a less extent in other States, as was true of the inhabitants of North Carolina itself. In the Mississippi Valley at this period there were a few settlements established under the French and Spanish regimes, which had attracted a miscellaneous crowd of adventurers and traders. Since this territory did not become part of the United States until the Louisiana Purchase of 1803, it will be dealt with more fully in the next section. In this period we are dealing with comparatively small numbers for this entire region. Of nearly 4,000,000 people, both white and black, in the United States in 1790, at the time of the first census, 95 per cent were living east of the Appalachians. In territories of the present United States other than the settlements already covered, there were three little islands of population. One lay along the Mississippi in southwest Illinois, a remnant of the old French settlements with some English and American additions. A second was around Vincennes, Indiana, with a population like that of the Illinois settlements but more strongly American. A third was in Ohio, where settlement was just beginning, the first serious colonization being that made in 1788 at Marietta by New Englanders. Although the Revolution grew out of economic and political causes, it represents primarily one of those costly and unfortunate internecine wars in which the Nordics have been prone to indulge at intervals for two or three thousand years, and which have done so much to weaken them as a race. Had there been no complications the effects of the Revolutionary War might have been less permanent. Winner and loser would have lived on terms of peace with each other, as they did in England after the Civil War and in the United States after the Rebellion. But the hard feeling that goes with any conflict was intensified by several factors. The Ulster Scots, in particular, had reason to feel themselves badly treated by England, and they carried into, and through, the Revolution, an unusual animosity. This feeling of resentment was shared and kept alive by many other Americans through the injudicious behavior in Canada of a number of the English governments after the Revolution. The tradition of one hundred and fifty years of common action of the colonies and the mother country in opposing France was forgotten overnight and a sentimental attitude for which there was astonishingly little actual basis led to a glorification of France and everything French for a generation or more--an attitude that has not entirely disappeared to this day. The antagonism toward Great Britain was maintained for political reasons during the next century mostly by Irish agitators. This ill feeling prevented the close co-operation between the two greatest sections of the English-speaking races, which would have meant so much for world peace and harmony, and which would have laid the basis for a closer co-operation of all the nations of predominant Nordic stock, in the interest of the progressive evolution of mankind. A first object of statesmanship should now be to regain that solidarity of the Nordics, in the interests not merely of world progress, but of the very survival of civilization. Denominational questions in the United States were scarcely an issue after the Revolution, for the bitter sectarian feeling that had existed earlier was rapidly disappearing, and the Roman Catholics had not yet been able to raise the issue of bigotry, for the country was overwhelmingly Protestant. Of approximately 4,000,000 persons in the United States in 1790, Catholic writers make varying claims running as high as 35,000 or 45,000 persons of their faith. Without stopping to inquire how many of those claimed for Rome were merely nominal adherents, and how many were Negroes, one may remark that at the most, about one American in each one hundred might have had some affiliation with the Roman Church. When the Catholic hierarchy was established for the first time in the United States by the appointment of the Jesuit John Carroll as bishop of Baltimore in 1789, he reported to his superiors that there were about 16,000 Catholics in Maryland, including children and Negroes; something over 7000 in Pennsylvania, some 3000 French around Detroit, and about 4000 scattered through the rest of the country. To this total of 30,000 might be added the unknown but small number of nominal Catholics on the frontier, in the Mississippi Valley, and in other regions where there were no priests to minister to them, and where their children, at least, were fairly sure to grow up outside the church. It is probably accurate to say that there never has been a nation which was so completely and definitely Protestant as well as Nordic as was the United States just after the American Revolution. The total white population found in the United States by the first census (1790) was 3,172,444. To this should be added, for the present purpose, the population of parts of the continent that are now, but were not then, in the United States, that is Louisiana and Florida. The latter had but a few thousand inhabitants. The Louisiana Purchase territory may be credited with 36,000, of whom nearly one-half were Negroes. The French are estimated at about 12,000. Professor Hansen gives the figure of Whites only for the Louisiana Purchase area in 1790 as 20,000. The addition of Negroes would probably increase these population figures considerably. Texas may be allotted 5000 (Spanish) Whites, New Mexico and Arizona 15,000, and California 1000 at this period. But it will be shown later that the use of the word "White" in these Spanish-American lands is frequently largely a "courtesy title." Finally, the census enumerators did not reach the Old Northwest Territory, where there were already some 11,000 residents, about equally divided between American and French. The total white population of the territory now comprised in the continental United States may therefore be put at approximately 3,250,000 in 1790. Disregarding the French and Spanish in the outlying regions, the only race, aside from the Nordic, that was important enough to be counted at this period was the Alpine, represented by the Germans. In Maine one in a hundred of the population might have been German, but in the other New England states the Alpines were negligible.[9] In the middle colonies they were an important element, perhaps one in every ten or twelve in such States as New York, New Jersey, and Maryland, and one-third of the whole population in Pennsylvania. Through the Southern States they formed perhaps one in twenty of the population, confined mainly to the upland regions and, having spread over from these uplands and from Pennsylvania into the west, they amounted to about one in seven in Kentucky and Tennessee. Nine-tenths of the whole white population of 1790 was therefore Nordic in race, and ninety-nine hundredths of it Protestant in religion. It was all English-speaking, save for the little island of Pennsylvania Dutch, and for the French and Spanish on the frontiers. It was all living under a political and cultural tradition that was characteristically British. At the time of the Revolution there were about 6,000,000 people in England and about half that number in the colonies. * * * * * The preceding pages have been devoted to describing the conditions in the English colonies at the end of the Colonial Period. Let us now consider the situation of the continent as a whole. Never before in the history of the Nordic race had there been an event comparable in importance to this occupation of North America, north of the Rio Grande, by the English and Scotch. The Canadian French were too few to be a serious obstacle to the development of the country and, as will be seen in the following pages, the rest of Canada was in race, language, religion, and cultural traditions identical with the original British colonies. Thus we have the most vigorous race in existence, with a few outside elements which were entirely in sympathy with the dominant type, in possession of the richest and most salubrious continent in the world. That this country was healthy and well fitted to breed a highly selected race is shown by the comparison of the fate of the colonists who went to the West Indies with those who went to New England. These Puritan migrations were in their general nature identical, but the enervating climate of the Caribbean Sea proved fatal to the Nordics who went there, while the vigor of the New Englanders as a body was increased by the elimination of weaklings through a harsh but beneficent climate. To appreciate how highly selected a race the Americans were at that time, one has only to consider the extraordinary group of men of talent and ability, some fifty-five in number, who represented the colonies at the Convention of 1787 at Philadelphia. Those men framed the Constitution of the United States, which after a hundred and fifty years of stress and strain still remains the model for such documents throughout the world. Let the reader consider whether our 110,000,000 whites of today could produce the same number of men with corresponding ability and equally high motive, in spite of the fact that our population is more than thirty times as large as in 1787. So we find in 1790 a practically empty continent, its eastern half buried under a mantle of forest, with a coast line broken by ports and short navigable rivers. Across low mountain ranges we first find a vast central valley traversed for hundreds of miles by wide rivers; then a belt of treeless plains covered with succulent buffalo grass; next a region long called the "Great American Desert"; then a range of mountains dimly known to the Colonials as the "Stony Mountains"; beyond them a great alkaline desert, next the Sierra range, and lastly the genial Pacific Coast. The western half of the continent abounded in mineral wealth, while in the central valley the virgin soil awaited the plow. These conditions had their counterpart in Canada. Wild game abounded, inviting the fur traders to explore the remoter places and enabling the settler to find ready food, while he built his log cabin and planted his crop. Such was the continent and such the opportunity. In the following pages we shall see what has been done with these opportunities by the British race. * * * * * Before leaving the Colonial Period, it is well to call attention, once more, to the history of the frontier. For a hundred years and more the frontier was beset by savages often instigated by the French in Canada. The Indians killed and tortured the lonely settlers and burned their log cabins. This desultory warfare cost the English many hundreds, if not thousands of lives along the frontiers of New England as well as of Pennsylvania and Virginia. The Indians found by English settlers on their arrival in America were probably, as to many of their tribes, the most formidable fighting men of any native race encountered by the Whites. Not only were they redoubtable warriors in their own surroundings, but they were beyond question the cruelest of mankind. The Assyrians, of all ancient peoples, were reputed to be the most fiendishly cruel, but bad as they were, they did not compare with the American Indian. The details of the torture of prisoners taken in open warfare are too revolting to describe. These tortures were carried out by the squaws while the bucks sat around and laughed at the agony of their victims. There is nothing like it in history in any part of the world and the result was that the aboriginal Indians were regarded as ravening wolves or worse and deprived of all sympathy, while the Whites stole their lands and killed their game. No one who knew the true nature of the Indian felt any regret that they were driven off their hunting grounds. This attitude was found wherever the Whites came in conflict with them and explains why they were scarcely regarded as human beings. The effect of the existence of the Indians on the frontier was to slow down the advance westward of the settlements and to compel the backwoodsman to keep in touch with his countrymen in the rear. If there had been no hostile Indians, the settlers would have scattered widely and would have established independent communities, such as were attempted in Kentucky and Tennessee after the Revolution. In this respect the Indians were a benefit to the Whites. At the close of the period ending in 1790, despite the loss of many valuable elements at the time of the Revolution, the American race was homogeneous and Scotch and English to the core. It was bursting the bonds of the old frontier and ready to pour a human deluge over the mountains and inundate the West. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 9: Studying the percentage of various nationalities in Colonial times, and later, one is guided partly by records of immigration, partly by the names of the inhabitants, as recorded in census and other returns. There was always a tendency, in an Anglo-Saxon region, to corrupt names of other nationalities, occasionally in such a way as to make them appear English. This fact must be allowed for in all calculations in this field.] VIII THE OLD NORTHWEST TERRITORY The second period to be dealt with covers the years from the first census, 1790, to the eve of the Civil War, 1860, and deals with the organization of our government and the extension of settlement westward to the Pacific. Free land and a very high birthrate among native Americans led to a great increase of the population, so that the white inhabitants of the United States, about three millions and a quarter in 1790, became twenty-seven millions and a half, in 1860, though immigration during the seventy-year period was not over four and a quarter million. From 1790 to 1820, no official record of immigrant arrivals was kept. Thousands certainly arrived during those thirty years, but it seems probable that they were nearly all English and Scotch. Just as the termination in 1790 of the preceding period was marked by a racial loss, caused by the expulsion of the Loyalists, so this later period was terminated by an internecine Civil War, costing the country three-fourths of a million Nordic lives, counting killed and died of wounds only. The descendants of those men who gave their lives for their country on both sides would have filled up the West, instead of its being largely populated by the immigrants we recklessly invited to our shores. During the period referred to (1790-1860), there was, as said, no heavy immigration except from two sources, Ireland and Germany, and both of these occurred in the later portion of the period. The displacement of agriculture by sheep in Scotland at the beginning of the nineteenth century dispossessed thousands of farmers who moved to America, sometimes with the active assistance of their landlords. The population of some districts, as Perthshire, Argyllshire, and Inverness-shire, fell sharply, because the people, no longer able to make a living, moved away. North America was the favorite destination. Southern England experienced a similar movement. The price of agricultural products, which had been forced up during the Napoleonic wars, fell steadily for a long time. Farmers could not make a living. The counties of Kent, Hampshire, Somerset, and Surrey were the chief centers of emigration. These people also turned their faces toward North America. Ireland, too, was in perpetual ferment and the emigration from that island was increased as the result of the abortive revolutionary attempts of the United Irishmen in 1798 and 1803. After the leader of the latter, Robert Emmet, was executed, his elder brother, Thomas A. Emmet, came to New York, practised law, and within a decade became the attorney-general of the state. The Emmets, like most others of these Irish refugees, were Protestants in religion. Later, in 1845, the potato crop failed in Ireland, and soon after the starving peasantry, many of them from the lower types of western Ireland, swarmed over here. The women became domestic servants and the men day laborers, doing the heavy work of ditch digging and railroad building. They were Roman Catholic and that fact excited animosity in many sections of the country. They were not welcome in the West when they drifted there. It was not unusual to see on the frontier railroad stations and in advertisements in New York newspapers, "No Irish need apply." There was some violence and an American party was organized to check their entrance into local politics, for which they showed great aptitude. Since then, these Irish have been forced upward in the social scale by later arriving immigrants over whom they had the advantage of speaking English. They became the nucleus in America of the present Roman Catholic Church, which has spread rapidly in this country. The Irish did not take to agriculture and have never shown much liking for the larger industries. The total number of Irish immigrants during the forties and fifties amounted to more than a million and a half, and that first migration has been followed by a continuous stream of southern Irish down to the last few years when the quota restrictions went into effect. [Illustration: ROMAN CATHOLICS 1930] As soon as they secured a certain amount of wealth and rose in the social scale, they established schools and colleges of their own, the teachings and, indeed, the existence of which conflict with those of the public-school system of the United States, and to that extent they have impaired the unity of the nation. Some regiments of Irish fought on the Northern side in the Civil War, but the draft riots of New York were caused by the Irish who did not want to fight for the Union. In addition to the shanty Irish there came over some middle-class families of importance. The second immigration of importance occurred a few years later when a large number of Germans were forced over here by the failure of the Revolution in Germany in 1848. These Germans were very different from those who migrated to Pennsylvania in the eighteenth century. Many of them were from northern Germany and were Nordics, including individuals of some culture and distinction. They settled in certain cities of the West, notably in Cincinnati, Milwaukee, and Saint Louis. For the most part, however, they took up public land and became hard-working farmers. They did not in the mass improve the population already here intellectually, racially, or physically, and they impaired our national unity, at least for the time being, by the introduction of their own language. At the end of the period here considered there were in the United States more than one and a quarter millions of German-born, of whom about one-fourth were Roman Catholics. This church, which in 1790 controlled not one in a hundred of the population, could in 1860 count upon one in every nine of the Whites. Outside of the Irish and Germans, who were preponderantly Nordic, there was not much immigration of importance. The census of 1860 enumerated 4,138,697 foreign-born persons out of a total of nearly 27,000,000 Whites. England, Scotland, and Canada accounted for most of those who were neither Irish nor German. Thus at the end of this period the racial unity of the United States was still virtually unimpaired. The French in the old Northwest Territory were negligible in number, amounting to but a few thousands. The number of Mexicans in Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico when we took over those countries was but a few thousand more. These Mexicans considered themselves Spanish; but as a matter of fact, the veneer of religion, language, and culture was very thin, and racially most of them were at least seven-eighths Indian. The same condition prevailed in California in 1846; the number of Mexicans being even smaller than in Texas. * * * * * Many of the original Colonial charters granted by the English kings provided for a north and south boundary by latitude, but the western boundary was often defined as the "South Sea," and not unnaturally many of these boundaries overlapped. After the Revolution, the original colonies were induced to cede to the Federal Government their indefinite and conflicting claims to the western lands. This general and important cession of territory had two results: it gave the impoverished Federal Government lands which could be sold for its own benefit, and it led to the establishment of communities which looked to the Federal Government for everything they needed, which in itself was a long step toward unity of government. In 1787 the western boundaries of New York and Pennsylvania were fixed as they are at present, and out of the country south of the Great Lakes, north of the Ohio River, and east of the Mississippi was erected the Northwest Territory under the special guardianship of the Federal Government. This "Northwest Territory" had been seized during the Revolution by an extraordinary group of adventurers and frontiersmen under General George Rogers Clark. Thereby the Thirteen Colonies were in physical possession of these districts south of the Great Lakes when the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783. Without such actual possession of the Old Northwest, it would have remained part of Canada, an outcome which would have limited the growth of the United States westward or, more probably, have led to another war. The reluctance of the British authorities in charge of the outposts in this territory to surrender their forts in accordance with the terms of the treaty, and their alleged backing of the Indians, were among the causes underlying the War of 1812. As population increased, new States were created in succession out of this territory--Ohio (1803), Indiana (1816), Illinois (1818), Michigan (1837), and Wisconsin (1848). * * * * * Ohio's first straggling settlers had pushed northwesterly across the Ohio River during the Revolution, but the first real, permanent settlement was by the New England Company which established Marietta in 1788. This New England immigration, though soon swamped by that from other States, played an important part in the organization of the territory and in the shaping of its future policies. Scarcely had the Massachusetts group, led by General Rufus Putnam, taken possession of its vast grant around Marietta, when a new group led by Judge J.C. Symmes of Kentucky occupied a grant of a million acres between the Great and Little Miami Rivers, including the sites of Cincinnati, Dayton, and many of the most important of the early settlements of the territory. Virginia had reserved a military district of more than four million acres to reward its soldiers of the Revolution, and this quickly began to be settled largely by veterans from Kentucky which was at that time, it will be remembered, still a part of Virginia. Connecticut on the other hand had stipulated for its own Western Reserve of nearly 3,000,000 acres, extending in an oblong, 120 miles, from the boundary of Pennsylvania along Lake Erie, and the settlement of Cleveland marked its nucleus. Thus Ohio, within a few years after the Revolution, started with four different growing points. The Virginia element increased the most rapidly, partly because of its proximity to Kentucky, partly because of its easy access by the Ohio River, so that the English and Ulster Scots of the southern part of the State soon dominated the whole. A similar element was continually coming across the Pennsylvania border from the Monongahela country, and before long the Pennsylvania emigration to Ohio became the greatest from any one State, filling up the central part which comprised the great wheat belt. Even as late as the Mexican War, one-fourth of the members of the Ohio Legislature were natives of Pennsylvania, exceeding the members born in any other State, or in all the New England States combined, or in Ohio itself. Through Kentucky came not merely Virginians but a steady stream of Ulster Scots from North Carolina, many of whom, however, had previously been Virginians. The southern parts of the State, therefore, took on some of the complexion of the slave-holding States, while the northern part was tinged by the culture of New England and the Central States, many coming in from western New York, which from the present point of view is to be regarded as merely an extension of New England. Thus for a score of years the population of the States to the south and east of Ohio, which, dammed back by hostile Indians, had been ready to overflow for some time, poured into the new territory. Then the flood slackened until after the close of the War of 1812, when it was renewed with vigor. Men from all parts of the United States who had served with the western and northern forces in the War of 1812 had seen the beauties of the new country and determined to settle there as soon as peace was declared and they could dispose of their holdings at home. So far as New England was concerned this tendency was accentuated by two remarkably cold winters in 1816 and 1817, which surpassed the memories of the oldest inhabitants. General economic and social conditions were favorable for a widespread movement of population. The northwestern part of Ohio had been cleared of Indians and was then thrown open to settlement. This second great flood of immigration into Ohio was in general of the same character as the first, bringing into the State from all sides an almost purely Nordic population of British ancestry, except for the small element of Pennsylvania Dutch who for a while kept much to themselves, maintained their own customs and their own language, and thus cut themselves off largely from the march of progress. Their Alemannish dialect was rapidly becoming almost as far out of line with the literary language of Germany as it was with the English language of their adopted home. Later Ohio received a quarter of a million of German and Irish immigrants. But of the 2,339,511 inhabitants whom the State contained in 1860, a million and a half were born in the State itself. * * * * * Indiana, a typical American State, owes nothing worth mentioning to the original French population. In early days it must be considered little more than an extension of Kentucky. Virginia had set aside a large tract for rewarding the men of George Rogers Clark's expedition and these were the original land agents, so to speak, for the territory. But all along the border a frontier population drifted there across the Ohio River. As late as 1850 there were twice as many Southern people in Indiana as there were from the Middle States and New England put together. A good share of these were from Kentucky, which means that they or their parents were previously from Virginia or North Carolina. That Indiana was in sympathy a Northern State bears testimony to the fact that these migrants had little in common except original racial stock with the older slave-holding population. The Ulster Scots were the largest element, although there were also many Quakers from North and South Carolina, some of whom were of Huguenot descent. It was this element which made of Indiana a principal route of the "Underground Railroad," as the system of smuggling runaway slaves out of the slave States was called. But in the southern part of the State there was much sympathy with the slaveholders. The settlement of Indiana falls almost entirely in the nineteenth century, the number of people there prior to 1800 being negligible and confined for the most part to lands under the protection of the little post of Vincennes. On the northerly side of the Ohio River, at the Falls, the settlement of the tract of 149,000 acres, which Virginia had conveyed in 1786 to General Clark and his soldiers, was well under way. The rapid settlement of Indiana was a part of the great westward movement beginning with the panic of 1819, and the hard times that followed. The price of cotton was steadily declining in the South and it was easy for the poorer farmer heavily in debt to sell out or simply pack up and quit, moving on to free and richer land in a new country. Many of the Ulster Scots in the South were hostile to slavery, while others of them, strongly Jacksonian in politics, were opposed to nullification and shared the reputed death-bed regret of the hero of New Orleans that he had not hanged John C. Calhoun. South Carolina therefore sent a large contingent of Ulster Scots to the new territory, in addition to the general immigration which has already been mentioned. The Southern stream was met in the old Northwest Territory by the stream of New Englanders coming over the line of the Erie Canal after crossing the Hudson at the great break in the highlands near Albany. Many of the settlers of northern Indiana had tarried for a season in Ohio and moved westward as they had a chance to harvest the unearned increment by selling their farms at a profit and migrating to take up cheaper land and start again. Indiana missed the main flood of foreign immigration in the generation before the Civil War. The Germans were going elsewhere because of clannishness, while the Irish avoided Indiana because of its lack of great cities. By the time the Scandinavian flood began to come in, land values in Indiana were already high and the new settlers went farther west and north. Indiana, therefore, of the States in the Northwest Territory is the most nearly Nordic in population and the most nearly American, and, at the end of the period under consideration, it represented an overwhelmingly native-born population originating, in not very unequal parts, from the Northern and Southern States, respectively. Though the foreign element was rapidly gaining ground, it had not begun to make itself felt even as late as 1833 when northern Indiana was a wilderness, while southern Indiana was already well peopled from Kentucky, Tennessee and the Carolinas. The development of internal improvements together with the general migration from Northern States to all points west brought a complete change in the political complexion of the State. In 1836, alone, land sales in Indiana amounted to 3,000,000 acres and in the decade from 1840 to 1850 the population of counties bordering the new Ohio canal increased 400 per cent, while the State began to look to New York as an outlet for its products rather than to New Orleans. From 1820, the date of the founding of Indianapolis, to 1860, Indiana had twice quadrupled her population and from almost purely American stock. During these forty years, it is calculated that a million people came to the Northwest from the slave States of the South. At the outbreak of the Civil War, Indiana had a population of 1,350,000 of which only about one in eleven was foreign-born. More than half of the aliens were from Germany, and Indiana seems to have attracted particularly the Nordic element, since Prussia contributed the largest quota. Ireland was represented by only 24,000 persons at that time and like the smaller French and English groups, they were scattered through the State and soon became lost in the general mass. This distinctive character of Indiana, almost purely American, Protestant, and Nordic in 1860, gives the key to much of its history since then. As elsewhere the immediate surrounding States had contributed the bulk of the population. The census returns showed that the ten States constituting the birthplace of the largest number of Hoosiers in that year were, in order of importance: Ohio, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, Virginia, New York, North Carolina, Tennessee, Maryland, New Jersey, and Illinois. So far as the New England element was represented, it had come almost wholly through other States. * * * * * Illinois, like Ohio, had attracted a few settlers before the Revolution, mainly to the neighborhood of the half-dozen little French trading posts. The French population of this district had never been large, and when it was taken over by Great Britain in 1763, most of the French inhabitants who could get away hastened to do so, either returning to Canada or going down the river to Saint Louis or New Orleans. With the withdrawal of the little French garrisons only a few hundred persons of French ancestry were left in the territory. These were of two different origins. Part had come down from Canada and represented the "Habitant" French, who were largely Alpine. The remainder had come up the river from New Orleans and represented a more heterogeneous and probably inferior group. Some of the Canadians brought their families; but for the most part the French element was made up of single men who formed loose alliances with Indian squaws. For these various reasons the French influence on the subsequent population of the region is too negligible to justify consideration. The raid made by the Kentuckians under George Rogers Clark during the Revolution had given the Americans a more detailed knowledge of this region, and by 1800 several thousand of them had already drifted across the border and started settlements. This immigration increased up to the outbreak of Indian hostilities in 1811 followed by the War of 1812 which almost completely checked settlement along the old western frontier. After the declaration of peace and the opening up of land sales in 1814 and 1816, Illinois began to have a real boom. By this time the choicest locations in Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky had either been taken by settlers or bought by speculators, so that the new arrival looking for a bonanza turned to Illinois or Missouri. Following the general rule of migration in the United States, which was not broken until the gold rush to California in 1849 introduced new conditions, the settlement of Illinois was mostly from the States closest to it, and at the beginning was almost wholly from the South, particularly from Kentucky, Tennessee, and Virginia. Insignificant little Shawneetown, on the Ohio River just below the mouth of the Wabash, gave easy access to the lower end of Illinois--that "Egypt" which is still a Southern Democratic stronghold. For a short time it was even the seat of government. In this population the presence of a sprinkling of Northerners from Pennsylvania was resented and an occasional stray Yankee was scarcely tolerated. The settlement of the northern part of the State by New Englanders was made to a marked extent by colonies or organized groups, and from the early thirties one reads continually of the movement of caravans from all the New England States and western New York. Here again the opening of the Erie Canal gave easy access to northern Illinois by water. Prior to that time the lead mines in the northwestern part of Illinois and the southwestern part of Wisconsin had been the main attraction, and had been developed almost entirely by the Southerners. In general, it may be said that up to that time three-fourths of the population of Illinois came from south of the Mason and Dixon line, with Kentucky making the largest single contribution, although a small foreign element was already arriving, mainly from the British Isles. At the date of Statehood in 1818, Illinois may be said to have been dominated by the Ulster Scots who had come in from the southern Piedmont. These represented, on the whole, a class which for lack of wealth and other reasons had not been slaveholders, and had no particular sympathy with slavery, having found by personal experience that the presence of slave labor was disadvantageous to a large part of the white population. As a matter of fact, probably not more than one Southern family in four ever owned a slave. The population required of a new State for admission to the Union in 1818 was 40,000. By the beginning of the Civil War the population of Illinois had increased to a million and three quarters. Obviously this change in little more than a generation represented only in small part the natural increase of the original settlers from Kentucky and Virginia. So rapidly, indeed, did the forces of progress act in Illinois that many of the old-timers packed up and moved on, as had happened during the previous generation among their parents, and Illinois in the following generation will be found strongly represented in the early migration to California, Kansas, Nebraska, and Colorado. To show how little slave-holding sentiment there was in the early Illinois population, in spite of its Southern origin, it is interesting to note that most of the Illinois contingent in Kansas were Free-State men whom the South regarded as enemies to its cause. For every one of the old-timers who moved farther west, a dozen Yankees arrived along with many Pennsylvanians, while the Southern immigration almost entirely stopped, having been diverted to Texas or to territories beyond the Mississippi. The people who left the slave-holding States in the decade prior to the Civil War were largely seeking free soil themselves. This movement of some of the best Nordic stock out of the South just before and at the beginning of the Civil War has not been given as much importance as it deserves. It was a factor in the weakening of the South and the strengthening of the North. While slavery was a curse in the opinion of many an owner of a great plantation, he was caught in the system and felt that he could not get away. The poor man, on the other hand, found conditions less and less to his liking and many of the more intelligent decided to get out of a country where they were obliged to compete with Negro slaves and were looked down upon by their white neighbors. In this way the lands along the Illinois Central Railway became a lode-stone for ambitious and dissatisfied farmers from Tennessee, Alabama, and even from Georgia. With the outbreak of hostilities this trickle became temporarily a torrent as political refugees who did not care to remain in a slave-holding republic at war with the American Union began to seek freer air. The railroads developed a new specialty in transporting whole families with their furniture and agricultural implements to points in Illinois, Iowa, and Wisconsin, while steamers made their way up the Mississippi crowded with refugees and great numbers of Missourians crossed the river to Illinois with all their worldly goods. Many of the latter returned home after Missouri was cleared of secession, but their place was taken by new streams of Southerners released by the victories of Union armies and coming to join friends and relatives in southern and central Illinois. The decline of leadership in the South after the war was not due entirely to the loss of its men on the battle-field. Although this was by far the principal factor, another important one was the flight from the South of many of those who were not in sympathy with the fire-eating politicians who had forced secession upon often unwilling communities. Before this time, however, the streams of foreign-born which poured into the Mississippi Valley had already begun to influence the composition of the population of Illinois, so that even in 1850 one in four was of alien birth. The largest element was German, who formed farming communities, mainly in the northern and central part of the State. By 1860 there were 130,000 of them in Illinois, together with others who had also come from Pennsylvania. Ireland sent the group of second importance, and the great internal improvements in this period were largely the product of their labor. As elsewhere the Irish showed little inclination for farming, which had proved so ruinous to them in Ireland, and they made a restless floating population in the large cities. In 1860 they represented four times as large a proportion of the population of Chicago as they did of the State as a whole. The State attracted a large English immigration. The Illinois Central Railroad had been built to a considerable extent with English capital, and the stockholders saw a chance to increase the value of their shares by promoting emigration to the lands owned by the company, so that by 1860 there were 41,000 English-born in the State. Another large element of English descent, which had come into the State in an extraordinary way, had already left. This was the group of Mormon converts who were brought over from 1840 onward. By 1844 it was estimated that of the 16,000 Mormon arrivals, 10,000 were English. Most of these went west to Utah later, or were scattered within a few years. The last important Nordic element in the State was that of the Scandinavians who had only begun to come before the Civil War, at which time there were little more than 10,000 of them in the State as against 87,000 Irish. * * * * * Michigan, owing to its proximity to Canada, and the importance of Detroit as a headquarters, had a distinct French atmosphere in its early days. Unlike those in some of the more distant settlements, the French inhabitants at Detroit did not intermarry frequently with the Indians, and they represent therefore a relatively pure French Canadian stock. American immigration was slow, and not until 1805 did the inhabitants become numerous enough to warrant a separate territory. As late as the beginning of the War of 1812 four-fifths of the 5000 people in Michigan were French. In 1817 the first steamboat appeared on the waters of Lake Erie and the Erie Canal was begun, and from that time the Americanization of the territory was rapid. By 1830 a hundred ships, both steam and sail, were on the Lakes, and a daily line ran between Buffalo and Detroit. In 1836 when the State Constitution was adopted the population was nearly 100,000, mainly from New England and its extension in western New York. The Empire State can very definitely be called the parent of Michigan. Many of the New England farmers who had bought farms from the great land companies in western New York found themselves unable or unwilling to complete their payments and sold their equities for enough to buy government land in Michigan and move their families, while from the rocky hills of Vermont a steady stream came without any intervening stop. By this time many of the French Canadians had moved out, and of eighty-nine names signed to the Constitution of 1835, not more than three can be identified as French. The tide of alien immigration at this period was late in reaching Michigan. A group not found elsewhere was that of Dutchmen who came like some of the earlier settlers, seeking religious tolerance and freedom. The town of Holland has been a centre for them since 1847. Of the 749,113 inhabitants of the State in 1860, one-fifth were foreign-born, divided not unequally between English, Irish, Germans, and mixed Canadians. * * * * * Wisconsin's first settlement was at the lead mines of the southwestern part and attracted largely Ulster Scots from Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. A little later these were reinforced by another Nordic group of Englishmen from Cornwall who formed an important element in that region. The second migration scattered agricultural communities throughout the southeastern part of Wisconsin along the lake shore. This immigration was almost wholly from the New England States and the New England part of New York State, and was accomplished roughly in the years 1835 to 1850. By 1847 when Statehood was achieved the territory had a population of nearly 250,000 and was virtually a New England colony. Of the seventy-six men who composed the second Constitutional Convention, one-third came from New York, one-third from New England, and the rest were a scattering. During the decade which ended with the Federal Census of 1850, the growth of the State had been nearly 900 per cent, a record rarely exceeded in America. This extraordinary surge was due largely to the sudden arrival of a foreign element which has ever since made Wisconsin a State apart from all the others. Even as early as 1850 one-third of the population was actually foreign-born. Of the foreign-born who came to the State during the territorial period, the British Isles contributed about one-half and foreign-language groups the other half. The English-speaking immigrants soon blended with the native population, with the exception of the Roman Catholic Irish who were less easily assimilated. In the decade before the Civil War there was a stream of Belgian immigrants amounting to at least 15,000. Some hundreds of Russians also came in and the Scandinavians had begun to arrive, although they did not play an important part until after the Civil War. Danes and Norwegians were beginning to come in some numbers but few Swedes as yet. The great immigration of this period was the German, which introduced another partly Alpine element into the overwhelmingly Nordic population of the United States. These had begun to come after 1830, when the Revolution in France had stirred up similar, but less successful, political upheavals in the parts of South Germany adjoining France. Many of the politically discontented decided to leave the country or were obliged to do so, and they found in Wisconsin conditions particularly to their liking. In the first place the State offered a variety of climate and soil that was not dissimilar to that in which they were brought up. In the second place land was cheap and good and there was much forest land for which the Germans showed a notable preference. Not only was the possession of timber an asset, but it was to the German immigrant a mark of social status. Forests had largely disappeared in Germany, except on the great estates of the nobility. Hence, to own a piece of forest land was a mark of superiority. Only the few could afford the forest land in Germany but in Wisconsin every small farmer could feel himself as good as the Duke or Prince whose yoke he had renounced. A third important attraction after Statehood was a provision that the alien could vote after only one year's residence. This gave the Germans a political importance without delay which they lost no time in using. German settlement in the United States follows a belt beginning with Pennsylvania and running due west through Ohio, Indiana, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Missouri. This was partly due to an avoidance of the Southern States with whose products they were not familiar and with whose land system and slave labor they were not sympathetic. Being in this belt Wisconsin immediately took and retained such a prominence that patriots from the "Fatherland" seriously urged that it become a genuine German colony. The Pennsylvania Dutch had already shown how little disposed the German-speaking peoples were to become citizens of a new country with a whole heart, and the new tide of immigration followed this example. They attacked the public-school system from the beginning and insisted on having their own schools and on having their children taught German in the American schools. They kept their own social organization and even went so far as to get the State laws published in the German language in Indiana in 1858. This tendency toward hyphenation has made the Germans a less valuable element in the American population up to the present time than they should have been. The early German immigration to Wisconsin was on the whole from southern and central Germany, and was pre-dominantly Alpine in race and Roman Catholic in religion. Statehood in Wisconsin coincided with the unsuccessful Revolution of 1848 in Germany which started the real flood of German immigration that reached its maximum numbers in 1854, and continued with noticeable strength for more than a generation longer. The principal Nordic emigration in the '40s was from Pomerania and Brandenburg, and many of the South Germans, while largely Alpine, were Protestants rather than Catholics. In 1863, just after the end of the period here considered, the church authorities reported that Wisconsin contained 225,000 German Lutherans as against 105,000 German Catholics. After that the Germans pressed more and more into the northern and central regions of the State. Wisconsin then at the end of the period here considered (1860) had probably the largest non-Nordic population of any of the American States, although even here the Nordics were in a great majority. With one-third of its population foreign-born, it was surpassed in this respect only by California. IX THE MOUNTAINEERS CONQUER THE SOUTHWEST Meanwhile the States of the lower Mississippi Valley were coming into existence at a rapid rate. * * * * * Alabama had no American settlement until after the Revolution, save for the sporadic appearance of adventurers or traders. But in 1798, when the Mississippi territory was formed, including the present State of Alabama, there was already a movement of settlers from the adjoining States on the east and north, and this continued rapidly until checked by the war with the Creek Indians in 1813 and 1814. This war advertised the territory. Its termination threw the land open to settlement, and more than 100,000 people located in Alabama within five years. The slight French and Spanish element in Mobile and two or three other places was soon reduced to insignificant proportions. The State was settled either by those who came down some of the rivers of that region, particularly from Tennessee, or by those who came through Georgia, stopping long enough at the land office in Milledgeville (then the State capital) to make the necessary arrangements for acquiring title to real estate. An unimproved but passable trail ran thence through Montgomery to Natchez, and over this "Three Notch Road" (so-called from the blaze which marked it) a stream of settlers from the Atlantic seaboard States passed into the broad belt of rich blackland which quickly made Alabama and Mississippi the heart of the Cotton Kingdom. Alabama is, for the most part, the offspring of Virginia, North and South Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee, and therefore represents almost entirely Scotch and English blood. Its foreign-born population was negligible in 1860, amounting to little more than 12,000, almost half of whom were Irish, in a total of virtually a million. * * * * * Mississippi: As in most others of this group of States, the supposed influence of the earlier French and Spanish settlements is more sentimental than real. American settlers began to filter in after 1763, some coming even from New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and New England. A few Loyalists drifted down to the Mississippi country during the Revolution, joining the British who were attached to the district at that time in military or administrative capacities. One of the elements of this Loyalist immigration consisted of Scotch Highlanders from North Carolina. The census of 1850 furnished the first opportunity to ascertain the origin of the population. The main immigration naturally was from other Southern States which contributed 145,000 against 5000 from the Northern States. In the same year 18,000 natives of Mississippi were residing in other Southern States, principally in Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas, Alabama, and Tennessee. At the census ten years later the Mississippi natives, then located in other Southern States, had almost doubled in number. The enumeration gives an interesting picture of the way in which population was flowing backward and forward between adjoining States at that time as it has in almost every other period in American history. Since the population of Mississippi before the Civil War was almost identical in composition with the population of the other Mississippi Valley slave States, most of which owed their inhabitants originally to Virginia and subsequently to the States which Virginia had colonized, it was not surprising that these people found it easy to move from one part of this region to another. Of nearly 800,000 population at the outbreak of the Civil War, the foreign-born, still mainly Irish, constituted only one in a hundred. But nearly half of the population of the State was colored, and thus no element of racial strength. In this respect Mississippi's record was surpassed only by Georgia and South Carolina. This latter State was the only one in which Negroes actually outnumbered Whites at that time. Other Southern States later reached the same unenviable situation, and it continued in South Carolina until after the shift of Negro population which followed the World War. * * * * * Louisiana at the time of the Purchase in 1803 presented among its 50,000 residents a more varied group than could be found in any other American State. The foundation of this population was French, the Spanish element never having been important. These French seem to have represented a much more heterogeneous lot than did the early French-Canadians. One colonization scheme after another had been launched in Paris, and settlers had been recruited by all sorts of means, many of them of more than doubtful merit. Here, however, as in other colonies, it must be remembered that the final population represented not those who arrived, but those who both survived and left posterity. This fact has too often been disregarded in the accounts of the origins of the American population. If France shipped prostitutes to New Orleans to provide wives for its soldiers, nevertheless this is now of importance only in so far as such persons left descendants. In one case, of which the details exist, forty-four girls were sent out from France in 1722. They all married, but only one left offspring. Another element in the population was the Acadian refugees, who, uprooted by the New England militia in 1758, were driven to almost every part of the colonies. Some made their way to Louisiana, as Longfellow has described, though drawing a very erroneous picture, in _Evangeline_. Others were scattered through Maryland, Virginia, and the Carolinas, in fact on almost every part of the Atlantic coast. The total number of persons expelled from Nova Scotia at this time probably did not exceed 6000, and many of these certainly died from hardships. In any case only a minority was directed to Louisiana, so that the original settlement of Acadians must represent a very small part of the population. The so-called "Cajan" population of some of the southern parishes of Louisiana is, at the present time, largely of other origins, chiefly Negro. Another group of French refugees came from Haiti by way of Cuba after 1800, when the Negro uprising there drove out the Whites. Many of these were persons of good quality but as many as could do so went elsewhere after peace returned. Still another source of population was the notorious Mississippi Bubble sponsored by the Scotchman John Law about 1717. This was the period at which the Germans from the Palatine and adjacent regions were emigrating in large numbers, as has been previously set forth in detail, and 10,000 or more of them were persuaded to go to Louisiana. According to accepted accounts, not more than 2000 of these Alpines actually arrived, and when the bubble burst, they settled along the Mississippi above Baton Rouge in a region which is still known as the German Coast. An ill-natured English traveller, John Davis, visiting Louisiana in the year before the Purchase of 1803, has left the following picture of these two elements as they appeared to him: "The Acadians are the descendants of French colonists, transported from the province of Nova Scotia. The character of their fore-fathers is strongly marked in them; they are rude and sluggish, without ambition, living miserable on their sorry plantations, where they cultivate Indian corn, raise pigs, and get children. Around their houses one sees nothing but hogs, and before their doors great rustic boys, and big strapping girls, stiff as bars of iron, gaping for want of thought, or something to do, at the stranger who is passing. "The Germans are somewhat numerous, and are easy to be distinguished by their accent, fair and fresh complexion, their inhospitality, brutal manners and proneness to intoxication. They are, however, industrious and frugal." A small Spanish settlement, New Iberia, was made in 1779 of colonists largely from Andalusia and the Canary Islands. At least the former element doubtless contained Moorish blood. Finally, there was an immigration from the American colonies which had been coming in for a generation previous to the Purchase. One of the first groups was from North Carolina. From time to time other small bodies of settlers crossed the mountains to the Tennessee River, where they constructed flat boats and floated down to the Ohio and thence to the Mississippi. A few years later a group of Scotch Highlanders from North Carolina arrived, settling near Natchez. The early American immigration to Louisiana came on the whole from the upland parts of the Southern States, and was therefore Scotch and English. After the Purchase a similar immigration increased greatly in numbers. The census of 1860, which credited the State with 708,002 people, revealed that only 81,000 of these were foreign-born, the Germans and Irish being in about equal numbers. Nearly all of the remainder who were not natives of the State were born in adjacent States of the Mississippi Valley, the Whites being made up in about equal proportions of native-born and those born in nearby States. The former contained much of the old French and mixed stock; the latter was almost entirely of British antecedents. * * * * * Arkansas, at the time of the Louisiana Purchase, did not contain 500 white people. The current of immigration down the Mississippi had gone past the Post at the mouth of the Arkansas River without taking the trouble to turn aside. Settlement can scarcely be said to have begun before 1807, and at the census three years later there were only 1000 people in the territory. It was not until after the passage by Congress in 1818 of the Land Act that the pioneers, each carrying in a leather wallet a certificate which entitled him to a homestead, began to work their boats up the current of the Arkansas River. There was a steady though not rapid arrival of settlers from Virginia, the Carolinas, Kentucky, and particularly Tennessee--which has often been regarded as the original parent of Arkansas. Attempts have been made to trace a line of migration from the first settlement in North Carolina, the undesirable character of which was mentioned earlier, through Tennessee and down into Arkansas, and to attribute to this element of the population the backwardness of some parts of the last-named State. A few settlers came from Georgia or Alabama up the Mississippi River but this involved a long struggle with a strong current and it was easier for them to settle in the blacklands of Mississippi or Louisiana. There were about 14,000 persons in Arkansas in 1817 when it was created a Territory. Thereafter it made a steady growth, derived generally from all the Southern States of the Mississippi Valley, until nearly the time of the Civil War when Indiana and Kentucky began to contribute some settlers. Its population therefore was in general made up almost wholly of British stock. Its 1860 population of 435,350 was one-fourth black, the Whites being almost wholly native-born, a thousand Germans and a thousand Irish being lost in the mass. * * * * * Missouri must be considered from a double point of view. As a French outpost, St. Louis had become the refuge of much of the French population of the whole Northwest Territory when that passed under English control, and for many years the city remained a foreign settlement. Scattered settlers began to occupy the river banks after or even during the Revolution. In the westward march of population down the eastern slope of the Mississippi Valley small groups soon began to enter Missouri, until at the census of 1810, they amounted to 20,000 persons occupying a strip of land along the Mississippi with a small isolated settlement at the lead mines. On the other hand, as a territory where slavery was permitted, Missouri naturally attracted emigrants from Virginia and North Carolina, Kentucky and Tennessee. Within ten years after the Louisiana Purchase it was estimated that four-fifths of the people in Missouri were Americans and they were rapidly moving from the river back into the interior. The Missouri River was naturally an avenue of access for these people. The interior of the State soon began to have the collective name of "Boone's Lick" because the Boones had made salt in that district in 1807. A real rush into this region began about 1817, and Kentucky showed its loyalty to its adopted son (who it will be remembered was a Pennsylvanian by birth) by contributing 90 per cent of the immigration. The State has been called the daughter of Kentucky and within limits this is not inappropriate. Tennessee, however, was strongly represented. The whole population was in general of the upland element originally from Virginia and North Carolina, largely Ulster Scotch in its more remote origin. By 1830 the movement of population had reached the western border of the State. Until this time the settlement was purely British in character save for the now negligible remnant of French on the Mississippi. Missouri then began to get a part of the immigration of German Alpines which makes Saint Louis still one of the American cities with a most marked German tinge. At the same time some of the old American stock who objected to slavery and its influences were passing north and west of Missouri into Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska. On the whole, however, at the close of this period Missouri remained a Nordic community mostly of Virginian stock going back eventually to Great Britain. Its population of well over a million was nine-tenths white and eight-tenths American-born, the Germans outnumbering the Irish two to one among the foreigners. Kentucky had been by far the largest contributor, Tennessee came next, followed by Virginia, while Ohio, Illinois, and Indiana together accounted for only about as many as Kentucky alone, that is, 100,000. This Missouri population, with its Ulster Scotch tinge, played an important part in the settlement of the trans-Missouri West. It contributed a large percentage of the plainsmen and mountain men of later date, as well as of the cowboys on the cattle ranges, to say nothing of the gun-men and bad men of the frontier. * * * * * Florida missed the establishment of one of the earliest and what might have been one of the greatest of Nordic colonies in North America when Coligny's settlement of Huguenots was massacred by the Spanish on September 20, 1565. The latter made no effective use of the territory which was looked upon by the government of Mexico probably in about the same light as the Virgin Islands are now looked upon by the government in Washington. In 1763 Spain ceded Florida to England in return for Havana, which had been captured during the Seven Years' War. A second Nordic invasion of Florida occurred at the time of the American Revolution when the English Loyalists from the Southern colonies sought refuge there to the number of more than 13,000. If these had remained as permanent settlers the State would have benefited immensely, but most of them left in 1784, when the Spaniards reoccupied the territory and abolished religious freedom. Some went to England and others to the West Indies or Nova Scotia. The development of the peninsula was thereby long delayed. East and West Florida became part of the United States in 1819. A Florida colonization scheme, of little importance numerically, deserves mention in passing because it represented the first real establishment in American territory of the Mediterranean peoples who have formed such an important element in the immigration of the last half-century. This was a colony established by British promoters to which they brought 1,500 Greeks, Italians, and Minorcans about 1767. Sickness soon greatly reduced their numbers, but a few of the descendants of these people are in the State at the present time. As late as the Civil War, Florida was one of the weakest of the American States, with but 140,000 population, of which well over a third was colored. Nearly all of the Whites represented a southward thrust of the Atlantic seaboard states, from or through Georgia. Foreigners were a scattered lot, constituting but one in twenty-five of the white population. X FROM THE MISSISSIPPI TO THE OREGON After the Old Northwest Territory was filled up, it began to overflow into the territories across the Mississippi which the Louisiana Purchase had provided. * * * * * Minnesota's early settlers were French and half-breeds, who came over the border from Canada, together with a small number of Scots escaping from the breakup of the Red River Colony in Manitoba in the first quarter of the last century. This Red River is, of course, the Red River of the North which forms the present boundary between Minnesota and the Dakotas. Beginning in 1837 treaties were made with the Indians which gradually opened up the land to settlement; but in 1849, when a territorial organization was effected and the first official census taken, there were less than 5000 persons in the region. Meanwhile the flood of immigration was reaching the nearby States, and Wisconsin and Iowa were growing with tremendous spurts. The tide soon began to flow up to Minnesota, coming by four principal routes. Some of the invaders came from Milwaukee across Wisconsin by land. Others from Chicago by land through northern Illinois and southwestern Wisconsin. Still others from Chicago to Galena, embarking there on the river steamers. Another group embarked at Saint Louis and came 800 miles up the Mississippi to Fort Snelling, the nucleus around which the Twin Cities began to develop. When the Rock Island and Pacific Railway was built through to the Mississippi in the early summer of 1854, the gateways really opened. The next season saw 50,000 persons in the territory of Minnesota. That number was doubled in 1856. In 1854 the sales of public land had amounted to 300,000 acres, in 1856 to 2,300,000. Most of this population, which evidently came to stay, was from the Middle States. The States of the Old Northwest and New England were not far behind, but little of the Southern emigration came this far north. The years 1855, 1856, and 1857 marked the high tide of the flood of immigration of territorial days which has not since been duplicated. The Scandinavian immigration, which has colored Minnesota so strongly, began in this decade, and brought a steady stream of hardy Nordics who avoided the cities, their objective being to acquire land, establish a home, develop a farm, and become American citizens. A substantial part of the German migration also reached Minnesota, so that in the census of 1860 one-third of the foreign-born population was German. By this time the Canadian elements had been completely swamped. The Federal Census of 1860, three years after the territory had been admitted to Statehood, found 170,000 inhabitants, of whom 58,000 were foreign-born. The Germans at this time still somewhat exceeded the Scandinavians in number. The native-born were overwhelmingly of British ancestry and represented a prolongation of the westward movement of population from New England that had been going on for more than two centuries. Minnesota at this time had a Nordic population and was pre-dominantly Anglo-Saxon in character. * * * * * Dakota was included in Minnesota in 1860 when a few settlers had already begun to enter the region. Dakota Territory, however, scarcely deserves consideration until the final period is herein reviewed. * * * * * Iowa had no real settlement until the spring of 1833, when several companies of Americans from Illinois and elsewhere settled in the vicinity of Burlington, although John Dubuque established a settlement in 1788 on the site of the city which now bears his name, and, with his descendants, carried on a business of mining lead and trading with the Indians for a generation or more. Settlements then began to be made at other points along the Mississippi, and in 1838 the country was cut off from Wisconsin and established as a separate territory. As in the States of the Old Northwest Territory, the early population of Iowa was made up principally from the Southern States; and when Dubuque was formally declared to be a town in 1834 its 500 citizens were mostly from Tennessee, Kentucky, and North Carolina. The delay in the settlement of Iowa, as compared with that of the States east of the Mississippi, was due mainly to the fact that it was held by the Indians. The Black Hawk War kept the country disturbed for three years. At the end of that time the chief was utterly routed and ultimately captured, and in September, 1832, a treaty was signed in which the Indians relinquished what was afterward known as the Black Hawk Purchase, comprising about one-third of the present State of Iowa. At that time there were probably not fifty white men in Iowa, but thenceforward the settlement was extraordinarily rapid. The pioneers from the South came up the Mississippi, while those from the East could go down the Ohio. But since the purpose of most of the settlers was to take up farm land and since the livestock and implements necessary for this purpose could not be transported easily on the small river boats, the great bulk of the immigration was overland in wagons drawn by oxen, horses, or mules. In 1836 there were 10,000 Southerners in the territory. In the following two years this number had more than doubled and the census of 1840 made it 43,000. Foreign immigrants began to appear in small numbers, but the new arrivals were still largely of Southern upland stock, mainly of Scottish ancestry. By the Federal Census of 1850 Iowa had nearly 200,000 people and, although the settlement had begun at the most only seventeen years before, one-fourth of the population was Iowa-born. As in the Old Northwest Territory, the direct contribution of New England was small. Most of the settlers came from adjoining States, and, while many of them went back to New England in pedigree, a still larger number in the early years came from the Southern States. This was true in Iowa nearly up to the time of the Civil War. The ebb and flow of population in these States was so rapid as to make the task of tracing its details difficult. Thus in 1843 meetings were held in various points in Iowa to form companies of emigrants for Oregon. In 1849 the territory contributed its share to the California gold rush. Whole communities were depopulated almost as fast as they had been populated a few years previously, but many of these travellers probably returned after failing to find fortune ready to hand in the Golden State. Ohio was sending on settlers to the three States beyond her. Indiana and Illinois were attracting large bodies of settlers from Ohio but sending on others to Iowa. Iowa itself was contributing heavily to the population of Utah and Oregon. But these were all of the old native English Nordic stock. By 1860 Iowa had a population of 674,913. The foreign-born made up nearly one-sixth of the total, two-thirds were German or Irish, and the remainder English or Scandinavian. Iowa, by the outbreak of the Civil War, had become a Northern State, not so much from the direct New England immigration (only 25,000 of its people were New England born) as from the general drift of population, and from the fact that, as pointed out previously, many of the Southerners who came into the Northwest Territory had very little sympathy with the slave-holding point of view. Iowa then entered the Union as a State almost completely Nordic and overwhelmingly Anglo-Saxon, populated by settlers from all parts of the original States who were moving westward in the hope of finding an advantage. What an immigrant of the 1830's said about Iowa pioneers he encountered, holds good of most of the westward movement--that it was made up of three classes: "men with families seeking to ameliorate fortune, men with families seeking to retrieve fortune, and young men attempting fortune." While the first pioneer surge into a new territory often contained a surplus of bachelors, the permanent settlement was made by men who brought their families. * * * * * Kansas-Nebraska's settlement in the decade before the Civil War is a familiar episode to every one who remembers his American history. Daniel Morgan Boone, a son of the Kentucky Pathfinder, is often alleged to have been the first American settler in Kansas, having been sent there by the government in 1819 to aid the Indians in agriculture. But the settlement of the State did not begin seriously until 1854, when treaties were made with the tribes of what was at that time an Indian territory. Missouri, adjoining Kansas to the east, had then nearly 600,000 inhabitants, and the counties bordering on the Kansas line contained a population of some 80,000 whites, as shown by the census of 1850. These naturally were the most available material for settlement of the new land and in a short time they had staked out the best claims in the river bottoms. While they do not bear a good reputation in the Kansas histories, where they generally go by the name of "border ruffians," they represented, worthily or not, pure Nordic American stock. Most of the Missourians who had moved into Kansas at that time were simply seeking new homes and were not even in favor of slavery. The trouble that was made on the border was due to small organized gangs of quite a different complexion. Kansas represented a real battleground for the slavery and free-soil elements, and colonies were organized in a number of the Southern States, but particularly in Alabama and Kentucky, to move to the new territory and insure its retention for the cause. Most of the Southern settlers naturally stayed as close to the Missouri border as possible. The Free-State settlers on the other hand tended to get away from the border, to leave the belt of pro-slavery settlers behind, and to stake out their claims well within the interior of the territory. The New England Emigrant Aid Company was the principal crusader in the campaign to make Kansas free soil, and proclaimed widely that it would send 10,000 men into the region. Its funds, however, were scanty, and beyond advertising the opportunities of the country, it gave little substantial aid to the emigration. Contrary to what is generally supposed, the number of settlers who came directly from New England to Kansas was small. As had been the history elsewhere in this country, most of the settlers came from nearby States such as Illinois; though often of New England ancestry. In the first census of the territory, in 1855, more than half of the population was found to be from the South, although the Slave States' representatives made strong protests against the manner of taking the census which was sudden and in mid-winter when many of the Missouri settlers had returned to their old homes. The high-water mark of the Southern immigration was in 1856. Thereafter the emigration from the Free States increased until by 1860 it outnumbered the Slave-State natives nearly three to one. That year's census, crediting Kansas with 107,000 population, also revealed that Missouri and Kentucky were the principal sources of the pro-slavery immigration, while the main sources of the free-soil immigration were in the following order: Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and New York, with only 3000 direct from all the New England States together. Indeed, there were almost as many natives of North Carolina in Kansas as there were natives of Massachusetts. Kansas was at the end of this period a western State, of almost wholly British complexion. The streams of Scandinavians and Germans which afterward entered the State had scarcely begun at this period. Kansas was, to a marked degree, the offspring of New England through the Central States, while not much more than one-fourth of its population, arriving from the border States, had ancestral lines running back to Virginia. * * * * * Nebraska, like many other Western States, was first settled by trappers, traders, missionaries, and soldiers. In 1845 the Mormons, driven out of Illinois and Iowa, stopped in the Nebraska country, but most of them afterward moved on to Utah. Meanwhile, the State was being traversed each year by hundreds of emigrant trains on their way to the Pacific Coast, and thus became known to people from all parts of the Union. During the years 1849 and 1850 it was estimated that more than 100,000 people crossed the Nebraska plains in this way. Some of them would stop there for various reasons, while others came into the section to cater to the needs of the emigrants. Thus Nebraska was gradually built up out of the overland traffic. The early migration to Utah and to Oregon was succeeded by the rush to California, and that had scarcely died down when the boom days in Colorado brought new contingents to the region. Before this had disappeared the Transcontinental Railway opened up the territory in real earnest. The first boom year in the territory was in 1856 when a large number of permanent settlers came in. In 1860 the population numbered 28,841, and even at this time relatively few of the settlers depended upon agriculture, most of them still "living off of the tourists," which became a recognized profession in some States half a century later. * * * * * Utah, when Brigham Young led his Saints there in 1847, was a desert as to the region of the Great Salt Lake, with scarcely even a population of Indians. The early population was almost wholly Nordic, made up of people from the New England States, New York, and those States in which the Mormon Church had temporarily settled, or through which it had moved successively to Illinois, Iowa, Missouri, and Nebraska. The Mormon authorities made a determined effort from the outset to bring converts from Europe, the first one arriving from Liverpool in 1849. At that time the English mission was said to have 30,000 members. In the fall of 1849 the Mormon leaders established the famous Perpetual Emigrating Fund which was used thenceforth to aid the transport of converts. The Mormon Utah settlement by 1850 had a population of 11,000. The number of converts brought from abroad during the first ten years is put at 17,000, mostly from England. By 1887 the Mormons are said to have brought more than 85,000 of the working classes from England and northern Europe to the Great Basin of the Rocky Mountains. Brigham Young in 1849 organized his territory as "The Provisional State of Deseret," including what is now Utah and Nevada, and parts of Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and California. This had but a short existence even on paper, for in 1850 Congress passed a law organizing the territory of Utah which also included what is now Nevada. Toward the end of this period the discovery of rich silver mines in the Nevada section began to attract a miscellaneous population from all parts of the West. By 1863 a Mormon census of Utah gave the territory a population of 88,206, of whom probably a majority were foreigners. The great bulk of these were English, particularly from the factory towns, but Brigham Young boasted that fifty nationalities were represented in his territory a few years later. On the whole, however, the population was almost entirely Nordic. * * * * * Idaho's first settlement is supposed to have been made by a party of Mormons in 1855 when it was still a part of Washington territory. At the close of the period here considered it was still a part of Washington and was just beginning to get a population of its own because of a gold rush in 1860. Its early settlers were from Oregon, Washington, and northern California, and included an unusual proportion of men bred in the Southern and Southwestern States. * * * * * Montana had scarcely begun to receive settlers at this time. Meanwhile the tides of colonization were flowing over the "great plains" to deposit their load on the Pacific Coast. * * * * * Oregon's settlement may be conveniently dated from the expedition of Marcus Whitman in 1836. The few trappers and traders who had arrived in early days may be disregarded. Thus began the short-lived race between the United States and Great Britain to colonize the country and to have their claims to possession based on effective occupation. American immigration did not commence in earnest until 1842 or 1843, but continued steadily, until the discovery of gold in California diverted many to that territory. Most of the early American settlers came from Missouri or Iowa, and represented therefore either the Southern or New England pioneer stock. In general it may be said that Oregon at that time was settled from the Mississippi Valley, and mainly by men who came as genuine settlers with their families, in striking contrast to the adventurers who invaded California. Meanwhile, the British colonizers were coming from Canada, many of them French-Canadians, while the rest were mostly of Scotch ancestry. But the American population grew so much more rapidly that by 1846, when the Treaty was made defining the parallel of 49° as the boundary between the two nations, there were nearly 8000 American settlers in the Oregon territory as against about 1500 of British allegiance. In 1860, of the 30,500 native immigrants in the State 40 per cent were of Southern birth. Nearly half of these were from Missouri, and a large part of the others from Kentucky or Tennessee. The remainder represented principally the New England stock which has always been considered to be the foundation of Oregon. The actual permanent settlement of the Puget Sound country began in 1845, but progress for some years was slow. Scarcely had a start been made here when the gold rush turned everyone's attention to California. Following this came the Indian war of 1855 to 1856, and shortly afterward the Civil War upset all plans, leaving the few scattered inhabitants of the Puget Sound region in the midst of a wilderness, surrounded by hostile savages, and inevitably neglected by the government to which they naturally looked for attention. * * * * * Washington was separated from Oregon and established as an independent territory in 1853. The census found there only 3965 white persons, a small number to assume the responsibilities of a separate political existence. Walla Walla Valley was opened up in 1859, when the removal of a military interdict and a survey of public lands allowed a waiting population of some 2000 to rush in and spread over the whole of eastern Washington within a short time. XI THE SPOILS OF THE MEXICAN WAR It has been remarked often that it was a mere accident that gave North America to the Nordics instead of to the King of Spain, when Columbus turned from his course to follow a flock of birds and thus sighted the West Indies instead of the mainland, but several other incidents played an equally important part in giving this empire to the British. The defeat of the Invincible Armada by the captains of Elizabeth stopped the expansion of Spain and thus gave the British an opportunity to begin their colonization, and the Louisiana Purchase by Thomas Jefferson's administration virtually made certain that by far the larger part of the North American continent should belong to British stock, rather than to French or Spanish. Jefferson himself, who believed that the Purchase was illegal, saw its tremendous possibilities, but no one in his day could realize just what this action would mean in extending a Nordic civilization to the Pacific Ocean. The settlement of the Louisiana Purchase by Americans made certain the conquest of Texas, which was extraordinarily aided by the fact that in the period after the War of 1812 there were not many more than 5000 Mexicans in that vast territory. The great Plains stretched southward as a wide-open domain, inviting settlement by those who were far-sighted and aggressive enough to possess themselves of it. The beginning of the American settlement of Texas is always dated from 1820, when the Connecticut Yankee, Moses Austin, started his colonization scheme. Austin himself had lived for some years in Missouri, but most of his settlers, like most of the other early pioneers of Texas, came from the lower Mississippi Valley or from Tennessee and Kentucky, with a sprinkling of adventurers from the Central and New England States and even from Europe. By 1835, when the Americans so outnumbered the Mexicans that the throwing off of the Mexican yoke was inevitable, there were 30,000 or 35,000 Nordics settled in the territory. The original background of these can easily be remembered from what has been said before in these pages about the settlement of their respective States. They were overwhelmingly English and Scotch and pre-dominantly from the trans-Appalachian part of the United States. The idea that most of these settlers went to Texas as a deliberate plan to acquire this region for the extension of the slave-holding States seems to have little basis. Most of them went, just as most of them or their fathers had gone to Tennessee or to Louisiana a few decades previously, in search of better and cheaper land, freer opportunities, and a possible fortune. It was the accident of geographical location that gave to Texas its importance as slave-holding territory, and that led indirectly to the war with Mexico. On technical grounds there was little justification for a declaration of war in 1846, but from a larger point of view it was one of the most important and most beneficial acts ever taken by the American Government, in spite of the feeling of the Abolitionists, because it formed the final procedure in the spread of American sovereignty to the Pacific Ocean. The United States was indeed deprived a few years later, at the time of the Gadsden Purchase, of the outlet to the Gulf of California which it should have had. Whether this was due to the climate of that region which made the surveyors shirk their duty, as one story goes, or to the drunkenness of the mapmakers which led them to draw the boundary line crooked, as another story has it, the result is unfortunate and might yet perhaps be rectified by a further purchase. The Southwest should have an outlet on the Gulf in the logic of the case. This does not involve any desire to take over Lower California which is a peninsula of negligible value for Nordic purposes, and contains a Mexican population which under no circumstances should be incorporated in the United States. From a racial point of view it is indeed fortunate that the desire of James K. Polk's Administration to include the whole peninsula of Lower California in the transfer of sovereignty was not accomplished. Still more disastrous would have been a realization of the wishes of an important element in Congress which desired to annex a large part of northern Mexico. Similarly, one can scarcely avoid being grateful nowadays that Cuba did not get its independence in the first quarter of the nineteenth century instead of at the end. Henry Clay and others, encouraging the Cuban patriots, had virtually arranged to have the island taken over by the United States. In this instance abolitionist sentiment in the North, which prevented an extension of slave territory, was more beneficial to the true interests of America than it was a generation later--for the acquisition of Cuba would have brought into the union an indigestible mass of Mediterraneans and blacks. When the suspicions and jealousies of international relations abate somewhat, it may be possible to make a slight rectification of the Arizona boundary which will give the Southwest its intended outlet on the Gulf of California. Such a step would doubtless promote the prosperity of the adjoining Mexican territory in every way. If Mexico could be persuaded to accept a gift of some of the United States' possessions in the West Indies, in return for this favor, the whole transaction would be most satisfactory. It is now easy to see that Mexico could not have retained Texas under any circumstances, but the catastrophe (from the Mexican point of view) was made quick and certain by the encouragement of American immigration, in spite of refusals to discuss a sale of the whole territory to the United States, and by an attempt to fasten an objectionable State religion on the immigrants they had invited. In the days of the Lone Star Republic, immigration increased rapidly. The Mexican War not only gave unlimited advertising to the region but furnished many Northerners with an opportunity to see something of it first-hand, and by the close of that conflict there were some 200,000 Americans in Texas. During the decade from 1850 to 1860 the growth of the State was exceeded by few in the Union. Unfortunately much of this population was made up of Negroes who have ever since formed one of the real handicaps of this immense American Empire. As we have seen, the great bulk of the population of eastern and southern Texas came from the adjoining slave States, and it was not until the time of the Civil War that the northern counties had begun to attract settlers from Illinois, Missouri, and Arkansas. The war put a stop to this movement, but it was resumed later. Meanwhile southern and western Texas had been attracting a German emigration made up largely of Alpines from the States along the Upper Rhine. This reached serious proportions as early as 1842, when a group of noblemen with uncertain motives fostered an Emigration Society Land Company. The movement continued in force up to the Civil War and indeed had not ceased altogether until the outbreak of the World War. Though Texas had but 20,000 German-born in 1860, these were so concentrated that half of the entire population of the southern part of the State, in the region surrounding San Antonio, was German. Here, as elsewhere, the Germans greatly diminished their value to their adopted country by an unwise insistence on retaining the customs and the language of the Fatherland. The history of any country demonstrates that national unity is a necessary condition of national survival. Those who have come to the United States of their own will, to profit by what opportunities they find may well be expected to yield a whole-hearted allegiance to the country which thus benefits them, or to move elsewhere. * * * * * New Mexico, when it became a part of the territory of the United States, had a population made up of native and Mexican Indians, some of the latter having enough Spanish blood to cause them to consider themselves white men. The self-styled Spanish-American population of the present day is, properly speaking, composed of those whose ancestors were in the territory at the time of the Mexican War. The Spanish part of the description must be considered largely a courtesy title, for the amount of real Spanish blood in this hybrid population was always from a biological point of view nearly negligible, and the American part must be understood to mean native American Indians. The persistence of the Spanish language and culture is of course only a passing phase. The Federal Census of 1850 credited New Mexico with 61,000 population not counting Indians, but the territory at that time included all of Arizona and Southeastern Colorado. By 1860 the population of the same territory was given at 82,979, plus 55,100 Indians. At this time there were less than 1200 natives of the United States in the whole territory. * * * * * Arizona had a fluctuating white population dependent upon the prosperity of the mining industry, but when the Federal troops were withdrawn at the outbreak of the Civil War most of the white men had to leave also. At that time the only real settlement was Tucson, where a few hundred Mexicans lived under mediæval conditions. * * * * * California had a population of Indians when the Spaniards coming from Mexico entered it. Most of them were of a very low order of intelligence and social development. The Spanish invaders were largely soldiers, and few of the members of these early expeditions brought their families. Hence, there was undoubtedly some mixing with the Indians from the very first days. In accordance with the custom elsewhere, those who had any white blood called themselves white, and the figures given by early writers for the number of Spanish in the colony must be understood in that light. The amount of real Spanish blood was extremely small and much of it was in the veins of missionaries who left no offspring. The permanent population was made up of ex-soldiers who had settled down, married Indian women, and taken up land, together with occasional traders, vagabond sailors, and adventurers. The population of 1820 other than Indian could hardly have represented more than 500 men. The Mexican administration made an effort to supply women of Spanish ancestry to the colony in order to prevent too much matrimonial mixture with the Indians, which, even at that time, was regarded as somewhat disgraceful; but the number of brides who could be sent into a colony of that sort was small. The population grew mainly by its own natural increase, and the small size of the Mexican population in California was one of the main factors that led to the incorporation of the territory in the United States. It has been computed that the "Spanish" population, most of which was of Indian blood, never exceeded 3000 persons. Prior to the American occupation there were not more than 1200 foreigners in California, three-fourths of whom were American and most of the remainder British. Thus this immense territory, which became a part of the United States in 1848 as a result of the Mexican War, was relatively empty. The amount of Spanish blood in the California population of today must therefore be quite negligible. The whole trend of migration was changed by the discovery of gold at the end of 1848. In February of that year there were not more than 2000 Americans in all California. By the end of December there were 6000. By July of 1849 this number had grown to 15,000 and six months later it had climbed to 53,000. The earliest arrivals naturally came from the nearby regions. Oregon alone contributed more than 5000 from its scanty population. But every seaport of the Pacific sent a contingent, and the stream of men that poured into the gold fields was the most cosmopolitan group that had ever been seen in North America. In _The New York Tribune_ for December 15, 1849, appears the following item from San Francisco: "Foreign flags in the harbor: English, French, Portuguese, Italian, Hamburg, Bremen, Belgium, New Granadian, Dutch, Swedish, Oldenburgh, Chilean, Peruvian, Russian, Mexican, Hanoverian, Norwegian, Hawaiian, and Tahitian." When the territory became a State, on September 9, 1850, its population was at least 150,000, and a year later had probably reached a quarter of a million. Many of the Argonauts stayed but a few months, and, failing to become rich at a stroke, went elsewhere, so that the composition of the population changed markedly from week to week. It was almost exclusively a population of males. Few brought their families; and while prostitutes went to San Francisco from all accessible seaports, they contributed little or nothing to the permanent population. The first Chinese immigrant found his way into California in 1847, but by the summer of 1852, 20,000 others had followed him. Probably 5000 Mexicans also had come into the territory which they had so recently lost. By the census of 1860 it appears that most of the riff-raff had drifted out of the State again, and the basis of the permanent population had been laid. The total population was 380,000 of which nearly 40 per cent was foreign-born; the percentage reaching this high mark partly because of the number of Chinese. California had a population more nearly representative of the entire Union than did any other State--about equal numbers were contributed by New England, by the Middle States, by the Northwest, and by the lower Mississippi Valley. This population, it will be remembered, was almost entirely in the northern half of the State. The more homogeneous settlement of the southern half did not get under way until about the middle of the next period. California differs profoundly from the other frontier regions of the United States in that it was settled from all sections of the country and not mostly from the adjoining States. The vast mineral wealth of the new State supplied it from the very beginning with abundant capital for local enterprises so that it was free from the debtor complex, so characteristic of the other frontier communities. California faces westward on the Pacific and has developed into a unique and more or less self-sufficient section with a definite self-reliant character of its own. * * * * * While the West was thus filling up and the United States was reaching the Pacific Ocean, the States on the Atlantic continued to grow in power and population, largely through their own natural increase, but partly through the immigration of the period. French Canadians began to drift down into New England, as they have continued to do to this day. The single State of New York had by the end of the period a million foreign-born in its population, of whom half were Irish and one-fourth German. New Jersey had become one-fifth foreign-born, Connecticut one-sixth, Pennsylvania one-seventh. The racial character of this immigration was not particularly harmful, as it was mostly Nordic, but the large Roman Catholic element excited widespread alarm. The arrival of large numbers of ignorant and destitute South Irish Catholics, who occupied the lowest social status here, led directly to the formation of a native American secret political party, nicknamed the "Know Nothings," because of their refusal to discuss or divulge their aims or actions. For the purpose of membership they defined the name Native American to mean a person all four of whose grandparents were born in this country. This party's policy, in the early stage of its career, was to act secretly, supporting the candidate who most nearly represented their views, regardless of his party affiliations. The party at once developed great strength, and in 1854 and 1855 carried State elections in Massachusetts, New York, Kentucky, California, and several other States. It played a large part in national politics in 1856, but its organization was disrupted by the increasing virulence of the slavery issue. [Illustration: CONGREGATIONAL CHURCHES Showing distribution of the 4447 Congregational Churches in the United States. Figures indicate number of churches in shaded areas in which there are too many to be shown by dots and circles. As the Congregational Church is largely identified with New England, the map shows in a general way the westward movement of people of New England origin.] The principle of the Know Nothing party was opposition to the political power of the large masses of newly arrived aliens. This was especially directed against the Catholic Church, because it was felt that their establishment of parochial schools was inimical to the public-school system, which the Americans of that time regarded as the palladium of their liberties. This hostility to Catholics was aggravated by the attempted use of public funds derived from general taxation for parochial schools and even more by the exemption claimed and often obtained from taxation of large ecclesiastical institutions as well as churches. Further opposition to aliens arose from their organization into compact political units which quickly demoralized our municipal governments, a scandal which has existed down to this day. All this led to the widespread belief that these immigrants, now arriving in large numbers, refused to accept wholeheartedly the customs, principles, and institutions of the country in which they had sought refuge. This belief still persists and has given rise in each generation since the days of the Know Nothing party, to similar powerful and secret anti-foreign organizations. Our alien elements are to this day extremely sensitive to the public discussion of any of these matters. In this respect, Americans probably have less freedom of speech and freedom of press than exist in any of the countries of Europe. * * * * * During the colonial period the natural increase of the Anglo-Saxon stock in New England had made it a continual source of population for the rapidly opening West. No one State, however, contributed such a large element of the population of the subsequent United States as did Virginia, the largest and most populous of the thirteen Colonies. One cannot read the history of the movement westward of the American frontier without being impressed by the importance of the Old Dominion in supplying settlers for the West, first to Kentucky, thence to the States of the upper and lower Mississippi Valley, later to the Great Plains, and finally to the Southwest and the Pacific Coast. But if Virginia has been the most fertile source of settlers, New England has more nearly put its stamp on American civilization; and this was made possible largely because there was an available emigrant stock in Massachusetts and her sister States, to carry this impress in person. Before the Civil War, however, the birth rate of the old white stock in New England had declined to the point where it was probably not replacing its own numbers. * * * * * In 1860 the religious unity of the United States had been somewhat impaired. The unity of language was as yet scarcely menaced. The unity of institutions, traditions, and culture was breached only temporarily. The racial unity of the country was little changed from 1790. The United States was still nine-tenths Nordic. * * * * * Earlier in these pages a description is given of the empty continent which lay open to settlement by the British stock on both sides of the Canadian border. Let us see what use was made of this opportunity in the period from the end of Colonial times to the Civil War. A continent was occupied and the territory of the Union was swept westward to the Pacific. The forests were cut down and the wild life destroyed. The Indians were evicted. The mineral wealth of the western mountains was ransacked. The coal was exploited, and the once fertile soil of the Southern States greatly depleted through the reckless growing of tobacco and cotton. Waste was the order of the day in America. All this was perhaps inevitable, but never since Cæsar plundered Gaul has so large a territory been sacked in so short a time. Probably no more destructive human being has ever appeared on the world stage than the American pioneer with his axe and his rifle. In 1860, at the end of this period, we find the essential elements of national unity still unchanged, but we were about to engage in a fratricidal war, which was to destroy the best blood of the nation. We had admitted large numbers of Irish and German immigrants who impaired, in the case of the Irish, our religious system and introduced certain undesirable racial elements. The Germans who came were largely Protestants and only temporarily disturbed our unity by clinging to their foreign language. Both of these elements, however, were pre-dominantly Nordic, and it was not until the next and final period that the unassimilable Alpines and Mediterraneans came here from southern and eastern Europe. The tragedy of the Civil War and the introduction of cheap labor were still to come, so that in 1860 the United States was at its high-water mark of national unity. The Indians had been ruthlessly swept aside, as was unavoidable because a few hunting tribes could not be allowed to possess a continent, but the Negro question could have been postponed, and the men who died needlessly on Southern battle-fields could have been used to populate the States of the Far West. In the next chapter we shall study the swamping of this American civilization, which reached its zenith in 1860. XII THE ALIEN INVASION The period 1860-1930, with which we are now dealing, is characterized by the end of free public land in the West about 1880. It is also marked by the great development of industries in the North and East, which created a demand for cheap labor, and attracted a mass immigration of non-British and non-Nordic workmen from southern and eastern Europe. This immigration for the most part went to the cities and industrial districts. The Southern States, which had not entered upon an industrial expansion before the Civil War, did not welcome immigrants of the low-grade factory type, hence the South has remained characteristically American. One of the strange results of the Civil War has been that while the victorious North sold its birthright of culture, religion, and racial purity for a mess of industrial pottage, the South, though defeated and impoverished, retained its racial inheritance unimpaired. Some of the earlier immigrants in this period sought the lands in the West, while they were still to be had. The land hunger having carried most of the energetic, ambitious, and able Nordic immigrants westward, the industrial expansion of New England, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and of some of the adjacent States resulted in an unfilled demand for low-grade factory labor in the East. This demand was quickly recognized by the steamship companies, which began scouring Europe for immigrants to transport to America. The most fertile recruiting ground for this type of humanity was in South Europe, Italy, the Balkan countries, and the provinces of the then Austrian Empire and Russia. Inducements were offered potential immigrants to come to America. There was no discrimination as to type or quality. Many criminals were rounded up, especially in southern Italy and Sicily, with the connivance if not the actual initiative of their governments. As to the ratio of criminals to the native American population, some interesting figures have been compiled through a first-hand survey of 242 State and federal prisons in the United States during 1931-32. Most of the criminals referred to were committed for serious offenses. The criminals from northwestern Europe were well under (sometimes only one-quarter) their ratio to the general population. South Europe and eastern Europe were very much higher. The Filipinos were over twice as many as the proper allowance, native-born Negroes were two-and three-quarters above their allowance and the Mexicans were six and one-half times as many as their ratio to the general population would entitle them to be. It was in this period that the Polish Jews began their tumultuous and frantic invasion, a flood which only recently has been checked, and that with the greatest difficulty. The great mass of immigrants from South Poland, Galicia, and Russia were Ashkanazim Jews, descendants in part of Alpine Khozars, with a Mongol admixture, who entered the eastern Ukraine from Asia in the early centuries of our era. Many of the Khozars and their Khan were converted by Jewish missionaries and they formally accepted Judaism in 740 A.D. It is doubtful whether there is a single drop of the old Palestinian, Semitic-speaking Hebrew blood among these East European Jews. They are essentially a non-European people. The language they speak, Jüdisch, or Yiddish, is a corrupt German of the Franconian dialect mixed with Slavic and Hebrew elements, which fact strengthens the tradition of a large migration of German Jews into Poland in the Middle Ages. It may be that the strain of these German Jews has died out, leaving only their language behind, but in any event the Polish Jews are now distinctly Alpine--a mixture of Slavs and of Asiatic invaders of Russia. Exact figures of Jewish immigration are not obtainable until 1899, when this group was listed separately. Prior to that year probably 500,000 Jews had arrived; after that date nearly 2,000,000. From the beginning of this century the Jews made up 10 per cent of the total immigration into this country, and there are now more than 4,000,000 of them here, half of the number being in New York City. This is more than one-fifth of the Jews of the world. Because they speak Yiddish, they are often colloquially referred to as "German Jews." But, in fact, the number who come from Germany is small, and, as said, the great bulk of them are more properly described as "Polish Jews" and are much despised socially by the true German Jews. Many of them are from those parts of Poland which were held by Russia prior to the World War. Immigration figures show the last place of residence of Jewish arrivals, 1899-1924, to be as follows: _Countries_ Russia and Poland 1,243,000 Austria-Hungary 260,000 Rumania 103,000 United Kingdom 73,000 Turkey 20,000 Germany 15,000 British North America 57,000 All other countries 67,000 --------- 1,838,000 Meanwhile the immigration from northern Europe declined, not only relatively but absolutely, and at the same time the native American, whose ancestry was pre-dominantly Nordic, began to be crowded to the wall. In certain sections of New England that progressive change soon became all too evident and has made them no longer American but foreign communities. The French Canadians, Irish, and Poles took over whole districts and occupied the abandoned farms. The Polish Jews, settling almost entirely in the larger cities, built up a Ghetto population similar in most respects to the congested urbanism of their homeland. Americans were so obsessed with the idea of a "Refuge for the Oppressed" that they even welcomed the draining into our country of that morass of human misery found in the Polish Ghettos. When the objection arose that there were already 1,000,000 Jews in New York City, an effort was made to divert this migration into Texas, where the wide-open spaces were supposed to provide room for the 7,000,000 Polish Jews. The German Jews, who also came into this country in smaller numbers at the end of the last century, were of the Alpine type, closely resembling those from Poland, Galicia, and Russia. All of these Jews are in sharp contrast to the Sephardim Jews, a superior group, largely Mediterranean in race, a very few of whom came from Holland to America in Colonial times. These latter had reached Spain by way of North Africa and later fled to Holland to escape the Inquisition. The immigration from Scandinavia was entirely Nordic. Sweden is purely Nordic, and Norway and Denmark are overwhelmingly so. Lithuania and North Poland are also Nordic lands, as are the German provinces along the Baltic; but South Poland and Galicia are Alpine, as are the majority of the immigrants who come from South Germany. Those from the provinces of the former Austrian Empire are mostly Alpine, although a few Nordics came from the Tyrol. The Balkans, Greece, Asia Minor, and Armenia sent over practically only Alpine immigrants. French-speaking Switzerland was originally Burgundian territory and contributed some very valuable Nordic racial elements to America. Those from German-speaking Switzerland were largely Alpine. The period of the great European migration to the United States covered just a century. Prior to that time, since the founding of the Union, most of the immigration had been English and Scotch. Up to 1860, as will be recalled, this British character of the immigration continued, except for the beginning of the great stream of Germans who have been, next to the English, the largest single element in our population. The early Germans in the United States were, as previously described, mostly Alpines from the upper Rhine--the Palatinate and Swabia. In the '40's the area of the German emigration spread. At first to the western states and provinces, which were much more Nordic in character (Hesse, the Rhineland, Westphalia, Thuringia). All this region had an easy outlet by the Rhine to the seaports; moreover emigration was stimulated by the result of revolutionary activities, which forced many to leave. After transportation began to be improved by railways, the main currents of emigration began to flow from central and eastern Germany. Emigration reached its first crest in the southwest and west of Germany in the middle of the '50's, its second in Central Germany toward the end of that decade, its third in the eastern part of the empire in the '70's and '80's. This later emigration was, on the whole, more Nordic than the earlier stream. After the World War, when business conditions in Germany brought about some years of active emigration with the United States as its main objective, the current of emigration shifted again to the northwestern and southwestern districts (the former Nordic, the latter mainly so) and away from the northeast, which was even more Nordic. The Scandinavian immigration, another main source of the Nordic population of the United States, dates almost entirely from the period since the Civil War. The largest volume was between 1877 and 1898, when more than 1,000,000 arrived. One-fifth of the entire population of Norway and Sweden moved to the New World, nearly all of them seeking farms in the States of the upper Mississippi Valley. There has been also an active immigration from Scandinavia since the end of the World War. In general, the United States was the only destination which a Scandinavian emigrant considered. Of those who left the homeland, not one Swede in fifty directed his course elsewhere than to America. No other emigrant population has shown such a single-minded interest in the United States, though the Norwegians have not been far behind, with 96 per cent of their departures destined to the United States; and the Danes, with 88 per cent. Arriving at New York or sometimes Quebec, the immigrants made their way to Chicago or Detroit, and thence were distributed to the States west of the Great Lakes. The Norwegian movement was the earlier, beginning with the southern and central counties of that kingdom and gradually working its way north until arrivals were giving as their birthplaces little towns far north of the Arctic Circle. In a few decades Norwegians owned six times as much farming land in the States of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, Illinois, Michigan, and the Dakotas (four-fifths of the immigration being found in the States named) as did all the farmers in the "Old Country." No nationality has sent such a small percentage of its people into the cities--one in five of the whole, as compared with a half of the Germans, and a still higher percentage of the Irish and Italians, who seek an urban life. This tendency to agricultural life and to prompt and whole-hearted Americanism has made the great body of Scandinavian immigrants one of the most valuable that America has received. Meanwhile there continued a steady immigration of English and Irish. The latter envenomed our political life up to the last few years, by introducing into the United States their old political and religious feuds with Great Britain, and endeavoring to involve this country in their plans for Irish freedom. As a consequence, the friendly relations which should exist between the two great Anglo-Saxon nations have been kept disturbed, and a systematic policy of twisting the lion's tail was pursued, not merely by the Fenian agitators, but by American demagogues anxious to cultivate the "Irish vote." Prior to 1880 only 5 per cent of the immigration was from southern and eastern Europe. Between 1860 and 1880 less than 250,000 immigrants from eastern and southern Europe came over. Then came the rush, and between 1890 and 1910 more than 8,000,000 immigrants reached our shores from southern and eastern Europe. A group not homogeneous with the old native American population is the Italian. It began arriving after 1870, but did not reach large proportions until after 1890. Then it soon became a flood. From 1900 until the World War cut down immigration, the Italians far outnumbered all other peoples arriving on our shores. Northern Italy has furnished us some fine types of immigrants. They are mostly Alpine with a Nordic admixture. Southern Italy, that is, Naples and Sicily, sent us almost exclusively a Mediterranean stock, which formed the great mass of Italian immigration and was of extremely inferior type. They are derived to some extent from the slaves whom the Romans gathered along the coasts of the Mediterranean from Syria to Morocco and employed on their large estates or latifundia. Among them, however, are to be found remnants of the pre-Nordic Mediterranean population of Italy. In earlier decades the emigration from Italy was mostly of North Italians, commonly spoken of as "Genoese," but mainly from the crowded Italian Riviera west of Genoa. These went to neighboring countries, particularly France, and to South America, few of them reaching the United States. When Italian mass emigration to this country began, it was from central and southern Italy and Sicily, who are of quite different racial stock from those of the more northerly districts. The northern Italians are well thought of in the countries to which they have gone. The southern Italians seem to be far inferior in quality. While the country of their origin, Magna Græcia, two thousand five hundred years ago was the source of a large part of the world's progress in civilization, it is doubtful whether the reader can name a single man produced in that region during the last two thousand years, whose ability or eminence was such as to give him a worthy place in the world's history. Add to this that the United States did not receive even the best of the southern Italian population, but in some instances rather the part that the local authorities were most happy to get rid of, and it is easy to understand how the Italian children in the American schools have shown themselves in almost every test to be a group apart, widely separated from every other white racial group and close to the Negro-Mulatto children in their ability. Of the non-English-speaking peoples who have arrived in the United States during the last century, the 4,500,000 of Italians are outnumbered by only one group, namely, the nearly 6,000,000 Germans. The Italians have been more inclined to return home than some others. In all the immigration, it has been observed that a considerable proportion of the immigrants stayed only temporarily, sometimes for a season of work, sometimes for a generation or until they had accumulated enough money to return to the "Old Country" and live on their investments. It is usually figured that the arrivals should be diminished by about one-third to give the net of permanent immigration. There are of course exceptions--thus it is relatively rare for a Jew who came to the United States to move out of the country later. During the sixteen years, 1908-23, the total alien emigration from the United States was 35 per cent of the total alien immigration, and the differences between the racial groups in respect to this tendency were immense.[10] This ebb and flow of migration is often overlooked. It is impossible to understand the population figures without bearing it in mind. While the departure of so many unassimilable aliens is highly favorable, the fact that migratory cheap labor thus floats into and out of the country to compete with the native white, may of course have most serious effects socially and economically on the older stock. Fortunately, this has now been stopped by suitable restrictions. Taking a long view over the whole history of immigration into the United States in the century and a half before 1930 one sees that approximately half of the total was from the countries of northern and western Europe, which are largely and some distinctly Nordic in population, and which sent us people who, in most cases, were easily assimilated by the Native Americans. Most of these came in during the first century of the Republic's life, as pointed out above. After 1890 the tide turned strongly to southern and eastern Europe, the countries of which in 1913 (the last year of unrestricted immigration) sent 85 per cent of the total as against 15 per cent from northern and western Europe. The main contributors to this later stream, often called the "new immigration" as distinct from the "old immigration" were, in order of importance, Italy, Austria-Hungary, and the Russian Empire. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 10: The Chinese stood at the head of the list, emigrants from here exceeding immigrants by 30 per cent--that is, none were coming in as permanent residents, because of legislative restrictions; and some of the earlier arrivals were going home to stay. In a number of groups the outflow was more than half of the inflow--Bulgarians, Serbians, Montenegrins, 89 per cent; Turkish, 86 per cent; Koreans, 73 per cent; Rumanians, 66 per cent; Magyars, 66 per cent; Italians (South), 60 per cent; Cubans, 58 per cent; Slovaks, 57 per cent; Russians, 52 per cent. The lowest rate of re-migration was that of the Jews, 5 per cent. The Irish showed 11 per cent; Scotch and Welsh, 13 per cent; Armenians, 15 per cent; Dutch and Flemish, 18 per cent; Mexican, 19 per cent; English and French, 21 per cent; Scandinavian, 22 per cent; Syrian, 24 per cent; Lithuanian, 25 per cent; and Finnish, 29 per cent.] XIII THE TRANSFORMATION OF AMERICA Under the impact of the "new immigration," most of it dating from the beginning of the present century, the complexion of the States which, as repeatedly shown, was almost wholly Nordic and Protestant, began to change rapidly. As concerned their native-born population, most of the States followed the rule, often mentioned in these pages, that a State is populated, in the first instance by its own increase, and secondly by movements from the States directly adjacent to it. Maine, according to the 1930 census, with about one-tenth of the population of New England, is only five-eighths native stock, _i.e._, native white of native parents. These were mostly people born in Maine, with a few from surrounding States. Of its foreign stock, three-fourths were French Canadians. New Hampshire presents a similar picture, with a slightly higher percentage of native Americans from nearby States. Vermont's native population, aside from that portion born in the State itself, came from New Hampshire or Massachusetts and even more from New York. As in the two States previously mentioned, most of the foreign stock is from French Canada, and that which was not from Quebec is mostly Irish. The Slavs and Italians have made little inroad in these three States. Massachusetts in 1930 was more cosmopolitan, with 300,000 residents from other New England States and nearly 100,000 from New York. The old white stock, however, now makes up but one-third of the population of the Bay State. French Canadians, Irish, Italians, Poles, Russians, and Scandinavians, in the order named, have completely overwhelmed the native stock--even such a small country as Lithuania is represented in Massachusetts by more than 50,000 people. Rhode Island's population, similarly, is now only one-third from the old stock. Its complexion is similar to that of Massachusetts. French Canadian Catholics control the government in many communities. Connecticut, like Rhode Island, has about one-third old American stock. Here the Italians are the dominant element in number, with Irish, Slavs, and French Canadians almost equally numerous. Thus New England, with its more than 8,000,000 population, has been virtually lost to the native Americans. Their birthrate in that area has long been far below the level necessary to prevent its dying out, and migration to the west is not now caused by the region's increase, as in Colonial times, but by an actual uprooting of families whose place is taken by others who in race, language, religion, culture, and institutions are quite out of harmony with American traditions. A similar picture is observed when one turns to the 26,000,000 inhabitants of the Middle Atlantic States--the most populous, the wealthiest, and in many ways the most powerful section of the country. The old stock makes up but one-third of New York's population. For its composition every State in the Union has been drawn on, with Pennsylvania and New Jersey furnishing the largest contingents. The State has well on to half a million Negroes--mostly in Manhattan, though the ratio of increase of Negroes in some of the other cities of the State vastly outstripped the ratio of increase of Whites between 1920 and 1930. Thus while the Whites of Buffalo increased 11 per cent in the decade, the Negroes increased 200 per cent; in Syracuse they increased twice, in Utica four times, in Rochester seven times, in Albany eight times, as fast as the whites--due, of course, to the migration of great numbers of mulattoes from the Southern States northward. With its two million Jews, its million and a half Italians, its million Germans, and its three-quarters of a million each of Poles and Irish, together with substantial contingents from almost every other country on the map, the Empire State is scarcely able to meet the requirements of the Founders of the Republic, who, like Thomas Jefferson, feared above everything else the formation of an alien, urban proletariat as creating a condition under which a democratic form of government could not function successfully. Three-eighths of New Jersey's population were still of the old native stock in 1930, though half of these were born in other States, particularly New York and Pennsylvania. The rest of the population was a heterogeneous mixture of half a million British (largely Irish), half a million southern Italians, a quarter of a million Poles, a somewhat larger number of Germans, and so on down the list. Pennsylvania makes a somewhat better showing, with more than half of its population still old native Americans. Of the later arrivals the largest number, well on to a million, was of British (including Irish) extraction. Italy and Poland each sent more than half a million, Germany not much less, Russia and Czechoslovakia each more than 200,000. In both these divisions, then, the New England and the Middle Atlantic States, containing as they do more than a third of the entire population of the United States, the old American stock is now reduced to a minority. Fortunately, this cannot be said of any of the other major divisions of the country, though it is true of a few other individual States--Wisconsin, Minnesota, and North Dakota--where the foreign-born or their offspring are in a slight majority, but of good Nordic stock. On the whole, it is the northern and central parts of the Atlantic Coast that have become the worst un-American parts of the Union. The South Atlantic States play a much less important part nowadays than they did a century ago, in furnishing population to the rest of the country; but they are still American. In the following discussion their Negro population is ignored, and consideration is limited to the Whites, unless otherwise stated. Delaware, with more than three-fifths of its people belonging to the old stock, has drawn no great additions in late years except from its neighbors on the west and south, Pennsylvania and Maryland. Its alien element is a cosmopolitan one in which no single group particularly preponderates. Maryland is three-fourths native. Its industrial and commercial life, centered in Baltimore, has drawn a population from an unusually wide area, and this tendency has been greatly accentuated because many of the cosmopolitan group in Washington, D.C., actually reside in Maryland. Thus in addition to the heavy contingents from Pennsylvania and Virginia, it has groups of a thousand or more each from half the States in the Union. The bulk of its foreign population is made up of Germans, Poles, Russians (including Jews), and Italians, in addition to the British. The District of Columbia, as the seat of the Federal Government, naturally draws its residents from every part of the United States, the largest element of what may be called its permanent population being from Virginia and Maryland. There is no large foreign element, but the Negroes, more than one-fourth of the whole, are nowhere more aggressive. It is generally understood that the reason Congress has never been willing to grant the residents of the district the right to vote, even in local affairs, is that it would be likely to put the political control in the hands of this Negro block, which would always find unscrupulous white politicians ready to forget their own birthright and truckle to it. Virginia is almost purely of old native stock, Virginian born. Its seaports and its proximity to the District of Columbia account for some residents from other States. After dealing in quarter millions and half millions to describe the foreign-born of the North Atlantic States, it is with something like incredulity that one notes only 23,000 foreign-born Whites of all sorts in the Old Dominion. The number who are native-born of foreign or mixed parentage, and therefore classified as "foreign stock," is twice as large; but many thereof are British. With Virginia, one reaches the region where the old native American holds his ground. North Carolina makes a still more striking picture. In its population of more than three million, the 1930 census enumerators found scarcely 25,000 foreign-born or of foreign parentage. North Carolina is an active industrial State, yet it has been able to attain to its modern development from its own resources. Its neighbors on the North and South, together, have supplied a hundred thousand citizens; other regions have contributed a few; but the old white American stock in this State, as in many others of the South, has been largely self-sufficing. South Carolina is not only of the American stock, but has had few outsiders, even from adjacent States. In addition to natives, a very few British and Germans, a very few Northerners, and moderate contingents from the nearby States make up its white population, which is still but slightly larger than the Negro element in the State. Georgia fits into the same pattern, though it has attracted a few more of the "new immigration"--Slavs and Italians; and a few more Yankees, so that its population, on the whole, is somewhat more cosmopolitan. Florida, on the other hand, has had an influx both of Northerners, who have almost changed the political complexion of the State; and of the foreign stock, largely Nordic, it is true, but with a West Indian element that is less assimilable. Of its million Whites, a sixth are of foreign stock, including almost every one of the nationalities found anywhere in the United States. But despite this somewhat cosmopolitan nature of its population, the State is overwhelmingly Nordic, like the other Southern commonwealths. West Virginia, cut off from the Old Dominion by a technically questionable move at the beginning of the Civil War, showed by this very "secession" of its own that its population differed widely from that of the Tidewater. As pointed out earlier, the latter region was English and the mountains were Ulster Scotch, with a widely different outlook on life. The western part of the State had never been a great slave-holding region, partly because of the sentiment of the people, partly because there was little for a slave to do there that a free white could not do much better. To this day only one in sixteen of the population of West Virginia is colored, and it is still largely native white, despite the coal mines, which in other regions have come to depend largely on the labor of Slavs. In the 10 per cent of its foreign-stock population West Virginia has a scattering of Slavs, as also of almost every other people, but the largest element is British, the next German. Kentucky offers no exception to the rule that the Southern States are still almost wholly native white. The only important foreign element is a small German one. It still retains a little of the tendency which made it, a century or more ago, one of the chief colonizing States, for it has more of its native sons scattered throughout the Union, than has almost any other Southern State. Virginia still sends out a surplus population, and Georgia notably has done so, though mainly to the States nearest at hand. Kentucky and Tennessee have sent out pioneers to more distant regions. At present, for instance, they have as many representatives on the Pacific Coast as have all the South Atlantic States together. Tennessee's racial make-up is very similar to that of Kentucky, although there is still the marked contrast in the "atmosphere" of the two States, which has existed from the beginning. Alabama's composition is not very dissimilar to the two just mentioned, save that the Italian element is a little larger. Its main foreign stocks, however, are British and German. What has been said of these States applies almost literally to Mississippi. The Whites, forming a little less than half of the total population, are almost all of the old native stock. The emigration of Whites (and of Negroes, too, for that matter) from the cotton States during the last fifteen or twenty years has been largely due to the ravages of the boll weevil, which made cotton less profitable and prevented many small farmers from making even their expenses. Georgia has been hit harder than any other State, probably, by this movement out of the State and thousands of acres of good farming land are now lying idle there, for lack of hands to work them. The same holds good to some extent in other States of the region. Many of the small farmers have moved westward, first perhaps to Texas or Oklahoma, and then on to the Pacific Coast, the automobile now taking the place of the covered wagon of their forebears. Arkansas differs in no important respect from Mississippi, save in having a much smaller proportion of Negroes. Its old white population has likewise begun to move, though more often northward, as to Missouri or Kansas. But Oklahoma and, also, Texas have been the great outlets for the Arkansas farmers. The climate and resources of Louisiana have attracted some 50,000 Italians--a small element compared with those in the Northeastern States, but large for the South. Louisiana has always been more cosmopolitan than any of the other Southern States, and this is still the case, yet 85 per cent of its Whites are of the old native stock. Most of those not born in the State have come from States directly adjoining. While to a certain extent there has been the usual interchange, Louisianians going to other nearby States, mainly Texas, nevertheless Louisiana has been relatively unimportant in settling other States since the Civil War. Its population is less homogeneous than most of the Southern States. The northern part of the State, with a majority of the inhabitants and with political control, is made up largely of Nordic Protestants who have come in from Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, or elsewhere, and who differ little from the inhabitants of those States. The southern part of Louisiana, on the contrary, is largely Roman Catholic in religion, and to a large extent French-speaking. In some towns there are no public schools. The parochial schools teach the children in French, and the Catholic Church has made particular efforts to perpetuate the use of that language. The State Convention which revised the constitution in 1921 made the literacy qualification for the exercise of the electoral franchise, the ability of a citizen to write his application for registration "in the English language _or his mother tongue_." The State has the highest rate of illiteracy of any in the Union, whether one considers the total population including Negroes, or limits the figures to the native Whites. It has been part of the United States for one hundred and thirty years, but United States officials, when going into many parts of it, still have to be accompanied by an interpreter. With only two or three exceptions, every bishop who has been in charge of Catholic interests in Louisiana since Thomas Jefferson's day has been foreign-born and foreign-trained. For such reasons the feeling of separate interests and lack of unity and national identity have tended to continue; and when the "Cajan" representatives attend the State legislature at Baton Rouge, they address the House in eloquent English, but among themselves, discuss their program in a French patois. Oklahoma, due to its peculiar history, is one of the cosmopolitan States. When the territory was thrown open to settlement in the great land rush of April 22, 1889, speculators from all parts of the United States were attracted to the scene. But most of the settlers in the northern part came from Kansas or Missouri and in the southern, from Texas or Arkansas. In the next year, when the territory was formally organized, one-third of its population was Indian or Negro. Subsequent land allotments and colonization tended to perpetuate this dual origin of the settlers, but after the State became a famous oil field, in the early years of the present century, the population became so mixed that this distinction was partly lost. Meanwhile the Indian population was not only swamped by the Whites, but largely intermarried with them, partly because Indian women had titles to valuable oil land. At present Oklahoma is still credited with nearly 30 per cent of all the Indians in the United States, though it is supposed that not more than one-fourth of these are full-blood, and many of those who are legally counted as Indians have but a negligible amount of Indian heredity. The Creeks and a few others have mixed to some extent with Negroes, but this has not been general. Texas, Missouri, Arkansas, and Kansas are still the principal sources of Oklahomans, in the order named; but there is not a State in the Union which is not represented here, many of them with large contingents. The foreign stock is of equally cosmopolitan background, but makes up only one-sixteenth of the whole. Considering the geographical location, it includes a surprisingly large number of Canadians. Texas contains nearly half a million people of foreign stock, the German element being by far the largest. Second in importance among the foreign stocks is a Czechoslovakian population which has settled largely in the southeastern part. The Germans are mainly to the west of them. The State began to attract Italians just before the World War. The British element is important, while Galveston has long been largely dominated by Jews. North Texas enjoyed a boom in 1875 and 1876 when a flood of homeseekers poured in with their emigrant wagons. Many of these were farmers from the Middle West who had been impoverished by the great grasshopper plague. Western Texas was settled late, and periods of drought, such as that at the time of the World War, largely depopulated some sections, farmers packing up what they could carry and abandoning everything else to move into a region where nature was less reluctant to aid them. Texas is still the offspring of the lower Mississippi Valley States, but commercial development and the oil industry have brought in many Northerners, particularly from the Central States. On the other hand, the State's contribution to Oklahoma dwarfs all the other streams that have gone out from it; but it has also contributed liberally to New Mexico and Arizona and in recent years to California. Turning back now to the East North Central States, which comprise those originally carved out of the Northwest Territory of 1787, one again encounters the full tide of the so-called "new immigration." Here the old native stock is scarcely more than a numerical majority--fourteen million out of twenty-five, to be more exact; a striking contrast to the Southern States, which we have just been considering, where it still forms nine-tenths or more of the total white population. Five millions of the later arrivals in the North Central States are Nordics, but a number almost equally large are Alpines. Half a million Mediterraneans are present in the Italian immigration, while the area from which the congress of the Confederation, as one of its last acts, declared that Negro slaves should be forever excluded, has acquired nearly a million free Negroes. Ohio is still two-thirds native, and its great industrial development has drawn population from all sides, though four out of five of its citizens still find their names on the birth records of the State itself. Besides giving population to all its neighbors it has, like the other States of this region, sent a stream westward, not merely to such places as Kansas and Colorado, but particularly to the Pacific Coast. While the German element in Ohio which, half a century ago, made such cities as Cincinnati centers of Teutonic kultur, is still the most important numerically, it is outnumbered by the Poles, Czechoslovaks, Hungarians, Yugoslavs, Lithuanians, and the like, if they are taken together. The easy access across the Great Lakes has given Ohio, like her sister States, an important Canadian element. Indiana, most American of States in its early period, still makes an excellent showing, with nearly 85 per cent of its population native white of native parentage. In the interchange of inhabitants it still continues, as it did in the days of its founding, to draw an important Southern element from across the Ohio River. The State of Ohio does the same. The population still tends to move westward, not eastward, from Indiana, taking with it some of the best of American family lines and the purest of American traditions. The half million of foreign stock within the borders of the State are at least half Nordic. No single group of the Slavs or Mediterraneans is represented heavily, although there are a few of all those national elements. The people of Indiana deserve recognition for the way they have preserved their heritage. It is no accident that the "Indiana school" of writers has long sounded the authentic American note in literature, in striking contrast to the decadent tone of the output in some of the Atlantic Coast centers where the dominant element is quite un-American. Illinois, by contrast, is barely more than half native, and the scandals of its politics in regions where the alien vote is self-conscious, have long been manifest to every newspaper reader. With 329,000 Negroes, according to the 1930 census, Illinois ranks in this respect only after Pennsylvania and New York, among the Northern States; but corrupt political rings have made of the Negro an important factor in the government of Chicago, as he has not been in New York or Philadelphia. Of its foreign-born stock, Nordics are far below a million, as compared with a million and a half of Alpines and a quarter of a million of Mediterraneans. Under the pressure of this competition, the old native stock has shown a strong tendency to move West and South. Texas and Arkansas, for example, have drawn more heavily from Illinois than they have from any other Northern State, and Illinois has also been the greatest single contributor to the development of the Pacific Coast. Michigan is now just half native. Its geographical location has attracted more than half a million Canadians, many of them belonging to the French Alpine stock there. In the foreign stock as a whole, Alpines outnumber Nordics not far from two to one. Among the 100,000 Italians are many Northerners in the copper mines--big fellows so unlike the Sicilian and Neapolitan to whom the American on the Atlantic Coast is accustomed, that he does not recognize them as Italians. These northern Italians, as previously noted, are not Mediterraneans, but mostly Alpine with remnants of Nordic blood from the days of the Lombards and Goths. Wisconsin has almost escaped the Negro invasion of the North, so its three million inhabitants are at least white; but the native stock is in a minority, due largely to the great German inrush of the last century. With this came many Scandinavians. From 1860 to 1880 the immigrant nationalities ranked in the order--German, Norwegian, Dane, and Swede. The only difference since then is that they rank in the order--German, Norwegian, Swede, and Dane. The great Swedish tide of immigration in the last half of the nineteenth century did not acquire full force until the Norwegian had passed its crest. As late as 1900, three-fourths of the people of Wisconsin were of foreign parentage, and the Germans made up half of these. Milwaukee, with its Socialist administration, had long been conspicuously the center of German influence in the United States. Up to 1843, was a Yankee village, earnestly trying to supplant Chicago as the center of the Midwest. By 1856 a third of its population was German. By 1890 one-half of its population was of German parentage and one-fourth actually of German birth. That census year, however, saw the high tide of Germanism in Milwaukee. Poles, Russians, Slovaks, and Italians have modified since then the racial character of the city, which is only one-third German at the present time. In the characteristic political color of the State some students profess to see evidence of the fact that many of the German immigrants were revolutionists fleeing from the Fatherland. In Minnesota, the Germans outnumber any single group, although less numerous than the three Scandinavian groups put together, so the State is correctly thought of as Scandinavian. Considerably less than half of its population is of the old American stock, but the State is overwhelmingly Nordic, the 150,000 Slavs who have invaded it in recent decades being of little account in its 2,500,000 population. Since the days of its founding, Minnesota has drawn from Canada a desirable element, and has given freely in exchange. Due partly to its relatively late settlement, the State has not been one of those which have contributed heavily to its neighbors. Its greatest outflow has been to the Pacific Coast, as its inhabitants became prosperous enough to move to a milder climate in their old age. Iowa, of about the same population as Minnesota, is two-thirds native and equally Nordic. It has contributed heavily to the prairie and mountain States, and also to the Pacific Coast, but the standing joke which ascribes to Iowa the parentage of all Southern Californians seems to be not quite exact--at least California as a whole has received more of its population during the past generation from Illinois, Missouri, New York, and Ohio, than from Iowa, which stands only fifth in the list. Iowa, being pre-dominantly agricultural, has felt particularly the unfavorable status of agriculture since the World War. During the decade 1920-30, three out of every five of the villages in the State actually lost in population, the people having either moved into the cities or "gone West." Here as elsewhere, the small village seems unable to meet the needs of the inhabitants. One of the real problems of statesmanship in the near future is to work out a social and economic system under which a larger part of the old native stock, and particularly the most intelligent portion of it, can live under the favorable biological conditions of the small village. Missouri has nearly a quarter of a million Negroes, in contrast with such States as the three last discussed, in which the colored population is negligible. But of its white population, three-fourths is native, the rest mostly German. Slavs and Italians have only begun to get a footing. On the whole, the State is strongly Nordic and sends out large contingents of Nordics to Illinois on the East, to Kansas and Oklahoma, and to the mountain and coast States westward. The importance of the Missouri stock, coming to a large extent from that of Virginia, has been much greater than is generally recognized, in the settlement of the whole West. The great rush into Dakota took place in the decade after 1875. The Red River country was opened up by the Northern Pacific Railway, and the model farms which were established were advertised far and wide, so that the population of 6000 in this district in 1875 increased more than 2000 per cent in the following ten years. In 1889 the territory of Dakota was divided on the 45° 55´ parallel, and North Dakota was admitted as a State with approximately 170,000 population. Its subsequent growth has kept it fairly homogeneous from a racial point of view, the State being almost wholly Nordic. Apart from the old native Americans the main elements have been British from Canada, Germans, and Scandinavians. The Norwegian immigration which began in the early '90's was particularly noteworthy. Norwegians now form about one-fourth of the total population of the State. An interesting small group is that of the Icelanders, representatives of one of the oldest, most highly cultured, and most stringently selected of all Nordic peoples. The Russians in the State, approaching a hundred thousand in number, are mostly German-speaking. They are farmers whose ancestors were invited to South Russia several centuries ago, but who retained their speech and culture to a marked degree. After the discovery of gold in the Black Hills, the country which is now South Dakota had a rush in 1876 and for some years following, much like that of Nevada and Montana during the Civil War and of California in 1849. This frequently does not result in a well-balanced permanent population, and the real settlement of South Dakota dates from the succeeding period when its prairie lands were taken up by wheat growers from the States of the upper Mississippi Valley. The wheat industry in Wisconsin gradually died during the decade of 1870-80, and many who found the ground unprofitable there moved farther west, as did others with similar motives from western New York and the States of the old Northwest Territory. South Dakota has a slightly higher percentage of old Americans than its sister to the north; otherwise the two differ remarkably little in size, composition, and resources. In 1920, half of the inhabitants of North Dakota claimed South Dakota as a birthplace; while half of the inhabitants of South Dakota claimed North Dakota as theirs. Of all the forty-eight States, these two are unmistakably the Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Nebraska after the Civil War continued to attract mainly the old American pioneer class, but it also became a haven for several foreign groups. It is said to contain about one-eighth of all the Bohemians in the United States. The serious permanent settlement of the State began in the early '70's. Many discharged soldiers seeking to make a new start went West with their families. It was only a few years later that the foreign tide began to reach these prairies and thereafter the State attracted large fractions of the Bohemian, Scandinavian, and German immigrations. Like some of the other prairie States it also received many settlers who were listed as Russian because of their nationality, but who, in fact, were Germans whose ancestors had gone to Russia and failed to prosper there. Nebraska, therefore, though less than three-fourths native, is overwhelmingly Nordic. Kansas is still four-fifths native and nine-tenths Nordic. It has received the same foreign contributions as Nebraska, but in much smaller quantities. At the same time it has continued to receive settlers from the Mississippi Valley, and even from Eastern States, such as New York and Pennsylvania. On the whole, the prairie States have been notably successful in assimilating their immigrants and maintaining an American tradition. The newcomers were not segregated in slums but scattered on farms. It was almost a necessity for them to learn the speech and adopt the customs of their hosts. While some of the Scandinavians, as in Minnesota, have tried to have their children learn the language and preserve the traditions of the "old country," these have at least been Nordic traditions, and any feeling of aloofness or separateness is rapidly disappearing. The mountain States date largely from the Civil War, when another of the country's waves of migration and settlement broke loose from its moorings and started westward. The first great migration of the American stock began immediately after the Revolution, and resulted in the creation of Kentucky and Tennessee by the Southerners, the transformation of western New York by the New Englanders, and a mingling of these two streams as they crossed the Ohio River to open up the Northwest Territory. The second great migration reached its crest with the panic of 1819. It completed the settlement of the Ohio Valley and of the States along the lower Mississippi and the Gulf. The third great migration reached its height with the feverish land speculation promoted by Andrew Jackson's experiments in banking and broke with the collapse of the prosperity which Martin Van Buren inherited from his predecessor. It witnessed the settlement of the Mississippi Valley throughout almost its entire length; together with the Nordic absorption of Texas. The fourth wave, slightly more diffuse, washed over the "great plains" and broke on the crests of the Rocky Mountains during the Civil War, though a heavy splash had meanwhile reached the Pacific Coast. It began with the settlement of Kansas, motivated in part by land hunger, but also by definite political calculations. Meanwhile the conquest of California, the discovery of gold there, the settlement of Oregon, and the Mormon appropriation of Utah, brought into existence an active traffic across the plains, which was the beginning of Nebraska's existence. The Rocky Mountain States grew up in the first place out of this traffic, then by the mining discoveries within their limits, and the fact that there was a restless population on the Pacific Coast, ready to surge back eastward, together with a footloose population to the East ready to move into any part of the West. This Eastern contingent received its impetus from the panic of 1857, when many men, bankrupt or dislocated, were prepared to make a new start. The mining activities in the Far West encouraged adventurers to try their hand at the gold pan, and the country was full of prospectors, some of them professional but mostly amateur. Men who had no jobs at home thought they might as well seek a fortune in this way; it would not cost them much to live, and they could at least see the country. A similar renaissance of prospecting and small-scale mining took place all over the mountains of the West when the depression of 1929 was well under way. To this element was shortly added another composed of people getting away from the Civil War. Some of these were actual deserters from military service; others went West to escape the pressure of public opinion toward enlistment; others in the border States, ruined by the conflict or unwilling to cast their lot with either combatant, simply started in motion as their fathers and grandfathers had done before them. The population of the mountain States varied remarkably from month to month, as the crowd moved from one reputed bonanza to another. The government at Washington showed itself unusually ready to set up new governments in that region, because it was on the whole of unquestioned Union loyalty and, if the South, at the close of the war, should be brought back into the Union on the old terms, as President Lincoln evidently planned, a dozen new senators from half as many new Western States could easily be secured, leaving the South in the minority and breaking that deadlock of almost half a century which had been the source of so many compromises and the occasion of so many conflicts. Colorado, at that time a part of Kansas, was an almost unknown "Indian territory" when prospectors struck gold in the neighborhood of Denver in 1858 and 1859. The rush from Kansas and Nebraska, when the legend "Pike's Peak or Bust," lettered on the sides of emigrant wagons, became traditional, disclosed how little was known of the country. Pike's Peak, though not near the gold diggings, was the only place in Colorado of which most Americans had ever heard. In 1861 there was enough population to justify territorial government. Statehood was not attained until 1876. From then on until the agricultural period, the history of Colorado was the history of its fluctuating mining camps. But by 1930 the State had reached a permanent basis and a population of more than a million, of which two-thirds was native and the other third a heterogeneous lot, partly Nordic but containing strong Slav, Italian, and Mexican elements. So far as the native American population was concerned, its geographical origin still represented a fan spreading out from Pike's Peak until it reached the Atlantic Ocean. In large or small proportions, emigrants from most of the older States had converged on the Rockies. Wyoming, first explored by trappers and fur traders, became important because it was traversed by the Oregon Trail; but it was merely a place to pass through, until the arrival of the Union Pacific Railway and the discovery of gold in the same year (1867) gave it a life of its own. Nearly 6000 persons spent the following winter in Cheyenne--a cosmopolitan crowd of adventurers and speculators. After its organization as a territory in 1859, agriculture had begun, stock raising became important, there were local gold rushes, and the region slowly developed until admitted to the Union in 1890. Wyoming's population, smaller than that of any other State with the single exception of Nevada, is less than two-thirds native stock, and this represents a blend from all parts of the United States. Iowa, Missouri, Illinois, have all contributed more inhabitants than either of its neighbors, Colorado and Utah. In these mountain States the general rule that a State is settled by its neighbors, quite breaks down. Its foreign stock is equally mixed; while much is Nordic the State has also attracted its quota of Slavs and Italians, and even of Mexicans. Idaho, after small Mormon settlements of farmers, owed most of its early population to its mines. During the Civil War it grew remarkably, but the fact that it could be reached more easily from the West than from the East, due to access by the Columbia River, made its settlement somewhat anomalous in American history, for it was settled largely by Westerners moving east from Oregon, Washington, and northern California. In Idaho the development of Mormon colonies has given Utah a strong influence in the State. Apart from this, its population is made up nowadays more from the Mississippi Valley than from the mountain and Pacific Coast States. It is only three-fourths native, but most of the remainder is Nordic, British and Scandinavians both having sought its opportunities. A territory in 1863 and a State in 1890, Idaho now has a population of nearly half a million. Montana, in the winter of 1862 and 1863 had a total population of 670 inhabitants of whom _The Chronicle_ complacently says: "Fifty-nine were evidently respectable women." Like Idaho, it attracted an element of Southern men escaping from the draft into the Confederate Army, but from then on a large part of its population was from the Northern States. Its growth of population was closely linked up with the fortunes of the mining industry. Territorial status was given Montana at the time of the great gold discoveries in 1864, and the character of its population fluctuated a good deal, both as to quantity and quality, between that date and 1889 when it was admitted to Statehood. It has now more than half a million inhabitants, nearly half of whom are of foreign stock and largely Roman Catholics. Most of the natives are from the Central States; most of the foreigners are Irish, Germans, or Canadians, though Montana has also attracted more than 50,000 Scandinavians. Utah's population is now about the size of that of Montana, and but slightly more native in character (three-fifths). These natives are to a large extent born in the State, the descendants of the Mormon pioneers. The "Gentiles" are of widely scattered origin. The foreign stock is mostly English or Scandinavian, the Mormon missionaries having worked diligently in those kingdoms. Utah, therefore, represents a Nordic population, and one with a high birthrate, whence it is evidently destined to continue spreading steadily in the Great Basin. Nevada sprang almost full grown from the desert, as Venus did from the waves. It scarcely existed, though on the maps as a transmontane part of California, until the gold rush of 1849 brought settlements into existence to take care of the travellers. Then it was attached administratively to Utah, which was also inconveniently distant. The discovery of silver in the fabulously rich Comstock Lode (1859) led to the establishment of Virginia City, and to the inrush of a torrent of miners, particularly from California, where the gold deposits were becoming exhausted. In 1861 Nevada was established as a separate territory, and Lincoln's administration pushed it through to Statehood in 1864 to get the advantage of two more friendly senators. With the exhausting of the silver deposits in a quarter of a century, Nevada had a severe decline, many of her inhabitants moving away. There was another mining boom in the first ten or fifteen years of this century, but the State has never made a steady and substantial growth, and the 1930 census credited it with no more than 91,058 inhabitants. Not much more than half of these were of the native stock. The foreigners were a scattered lot, with an unexpectedly large Italian contingent. Arizona was cut loose from New Mexico in 1863, and, after the Civil War, became a typical Western mining community, with a fluctuating frontier population. A district might be active one year and a few years later abandoned. The Mormons made some of the early settlements in the State and still form a significant part of its population. Like Colorado, Arizona has more than its share of Mexicans, while some of the other Western States, Utah and Nevada for instance, have only negligible numbers of them. The presence of more than 100,000 Mexicans in 1930 gave Arizona, with less than half a million inhabitants all told, a bad position as to its proportion of native stock. If one takes account only of the Whites, 80 per cent are natives of native parentage, the others mostly British or German, with again a surprisingly large Canadian contingent, considering how far removed the two regions are. The American population is of notably cosmopolitan origin, people having gone there from every State in the Union, in connection with mining, or for reasons of health. But Texas is by far the largest single contributor, with California a poor second. New Mexico stands in the anomalous position of having an almost unparalleled percentage of its population born not merely in the United States, but within its own borders; and yet of having an unparalleled proportion of its population speaking an alien language. An official interpreter is still required in its State legislature, so that the local statesmen who boast of their Americanism but cannot speak English, can make their views known to the Americans. Since the "Spanish-Americans" are classified by the census as white, three-fourths of the population are listed as native white of native parentage. There were also, in 1930, about 60,000 Mexicans born south of the line, hence aliens. The other residents of foreign stock are scattering, with no one nationality greatly predominating. California, which in 1860 had the highest percentage of foreigners, had not changed this situation strikingly in 1930, despite the great influx of old American stock from the Central States. Of its 5,677,251 residents, just over a half were native Whites of native parentage. The general character of the migration to California since the beginning of this century is too well known to require extended comment. Every part of the Union has contributed; even Florida is credited with a couple of thousand converts. On the whole, this influx has been of the purest Nordic stock, but if a constitutional convention were now to be called, its make-up would perhaps not differ greatly from that of 1849, which was attended by delegates born in thirty different States of the Union. The foreign element in California is equally heterogeneous, though largely Nordic, so far as it is white at all. Canada has sent a quarter of a million, nearly all of English ancestry. Italy has contributed nearly a quarter of a million, who make an important part of the population in the northern half of the State. Unlike their fellow nationals in the Atlantic States, these California Italians are mostly from the northern part of that kingdom. Between North and South Italians there is not great sympathy--representatives of the two groups avoid intermarriage. They also avoid migrating to the same territories and, if the Neapolitan occupies the Atlantic States, the Genoese will push on to the other side of the continent. These northern Italians have played a much more prominent rôle around San Francisco than one would anticipate who knows only the southern Italian in New York or Boston. The State has also attracted 150,000 Russians, partly refugees since the Bolshevik revolution, but mostly agriculturists of an earlier period; more than half a million British, including Irish, more than 300,000 Germans, more than 200,000 Scandinavians. It is the non-white element that has attracted attention most continuously from the outside world. California had nearly half a million Mexicans, until the exodus which began after the depression of 1929 had made their manual labor less valuable. It had 45,000 Filipinos, who created serious problems in some regions, both by competing with native labor, and by paying attention to white girls, which is resented by the Americans. The State's population of 37,000 Chinese is declining steadily. The memorable agitation of the '70's for Chinese exclusion is now only a historical event, but it was important as helping to lay the foundation for a wise immigration policy in the United States. Mining, war times, and the building of the transcontinental railway had kept up inflated conditions for years. Chinese were pouring in, partly to the mines, and partly to the railway, which used them in construction work. Some 15,000 of these Oriental laborers, turned out of work by the completion of the Central Pacific Railway, principally in 1869-70, poured into San Francisco and made their presence unmistakable. A decade of dissatisfaction followed, particularly among American workingmen. The most conspicuous agitator was the Irish drayman, Dennis Kearney. In 1879 the State voted against the further immigration of Chinese by a majority of 154,638 to 883. There have been few issues in American history carried by a more nearly unanimous vote. In the same year the Federal Congress passed an exclusion act which established the principle that an unassimilable people may be shut out entirely, if necessary to protect American standards. Agitation along similar lines sprang up about 1906-7, due to the rapid increase of Japanese in the State. It was settled, first by a "gentlemen's agreement" between the United States and Japan, by which the latter undertook to prevent the emigration of its laboring class to the Pacific Coast States; second, by a law later adopted in California, which prevented alien Japanese from owning land; third, by a final exclusion of all Orientals through national legislation. The hundred thousand Japanese shown in the 1930 census are no longer increasing rapidly, in spite of a fairly high birthrate. The existence of these second-generation Japanese (and the same is true, in proportion, of the Chinese) has, however, created a serious problem all its own, since they are not accepted by either race. They usually do not speak the Japanese language. They are inclined to look down upon its institutions, and admire those of America. Hence the real Japanese element both dislikes them, and does not employ them because of the language barrier. On the other hand, the American does not accept them as Americans, and they cannot be employed easily alongside of and in competition with white natives of the United States. The second-generation Oriental is practically a man without a country. Because of these special racial problems, California has had difficulties that some of the other States have not fully or sympathetically understood. Oregon's million inhabitants are two-thirds native Whites of the old stock. Canada, the British Isles, Germany, and Scandinavia, have been the other large contributors. The American population is largely from the Central States. Washington now has more than a million and a half inhabitants, 56 per cent of whom are of old native stock. Eastern Washington felt a boom in 1862 when it began to accumulate population attracted partly by mines and partly by farming possibilities, until it reached an equilibrium with the Puget Sound end of the State which has always been an important political factor. Many settlers at this time were immigrants from the "border States" of the Civil War, who became disgusted with the guerrilla warfare to which they were subjected, and who were not enthusiastically for either side. During the '80's, the rapid construction of railway lines brought the population of Washington up to a respectable figure in a very few years. The present Whites are mainly from the States of the upper Mississippi Valley. Canada has furnished 100,000 more of British ancestry, and a slightly larger number has come direct from the British Isles. Germany has contributed 100,000, Scandinavia 175,000. As against this, Italy is represented by less than 25,000, and the Slav countries altogether by not much more than 60,000. Hence Washington is entitled to claim that it is one of the most Nordic of the States. XIV CHECKING THE ALIEN INVASION During the earlier part of the immigration period, the tradition of an "Asylum for the Oppressed" of all nations was the ruling principle in the national attitude towards aliens, though even then there was occasional objection to the undesirable character of some of the immigrants. Various States adopted their own restrictions. Massachusetts, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and others tried to control the flow of new arrivals by head taxes and administrative regulations, while foreign governments sometimes opposed these measures, as in the case of Wurtemberg in 1855. The United States having sent back some paupers who had been dumped on its shores, public resolutions are said to have been passed by the Wurtembergers, protesting at this lack of hospitality. If the paupers were returned, they complained bitterly, "we shall have defrayed the expense of their journey in vain." But the right to deport undesirable aliens had been set forth by the famous Alien and Sedition Acts of 1798, and the Federal Government has never wavered in its assertion of this right. For a generation before the Civil War, the undesirability of unrestricted immigration was debated, but without definite action. The first federal restriction was the law of 1875, excluding foreign convicts and prostitutes. President Roosevelt in 1907 appointed an Immigration Commission which made a long investigation and a voluminous report that served as a base for future measures and by 1914 most of the undesirable classes, except illiterates, were formally excluded. The opposition to restriction was from the steamship companies, whose interest was obvious, and from the large employers of cheap labor, who were likewise not at all disinterested. It also arose among alien groups in the United States, that wished to get more of their own people into this country. The most active forces in its favor were, primarily, organized labor, which wished no more competition from floating aliens with a wholly un-American standard of living and, most of all, the native American groups, eugenists and others who were far-sighted and unwilling to see the racial character and national unity of America destroyed and republican ideals endangered and undermined. The first attempt at a general restriction to improve the quality of immigration was the adoption by Congress of the literacy test, which provided that those who could not read and write some language should be excluded. This was vetoed by President Wilson. Meanwhile the outbreak of the World War had, for the time, put a virtual stop to international movements of population, and the nation had a breathing space to consider its future policies. In 1917 the Burnett Act consolidated the existing provisions for excluding undesirables, and included the literacy test. President Wilson vetoed it also, but it was passed over his veto. At the close of the war, there was widespread apprehension that the unsettled and impoverished peoples of Europe would begin a new mass migration westward. Before the war we had been receiving a million immigrants a year; travellers and consular agents predicted that we might look forward to receiving two million or more annually. It was felt that the literacy test, and the provisions against mental and physical defectives, would not be enough to stop this flood. Congress met the emergency by the Quota Act of 1921, which provided that the number of aliens of any nationality admitted in any one year should be no more than 3 per cent of the number of foreign-born persons of such nationality residing in the United States in 1910. This law was intended to preserve the _status quo_. What the nation was in 1910, that it should be forever. Such a solution could not satisfy the native Americans, whose people had made the country great. Fortunately, the demand for a more scientific approach to regulation found an adequate representative in the Hon. Albert Johnson, a member of Congress from the State of Washington, under whose leadership the whole system was revised in the famous act of 1924. Administratively, the proceedings were made more workable and more intelligent by placing on the United States consuls abroad the duty of approving passports, without which no immigrant could enter. When the quota was exhausted, the consul was required to refuse his visa on passports until the next year. There was no longer any possibility of hardship and apparent injustice. Restrictively, the quota was reduced from 3 per cent to 2 per cent, and based not on the 1910 census, but on the 1890 census. The purpose of this was, frankly, to encourage new arrivals from the countries of the "old immigration,"--the countries of northern and western Europe who had contributed most to the American population and whose people were, therefore, most easily assimilable in the United States; and, conversely, to discourage immigration from the countries of southern and eastern Europe, most of whose nationals had come here since 1890. This law reduced the total possible immigration under quota to 167,750 as against 357,800 permitted by the act it supplanted, and favored the European Nordic whose people made the United States what it is, as against the European Alpine and the Mediterranean who were late comers and intrusive elements. Unfortunately it did not apply to the western hemisphere, hence offered no obstacle to the Indian peon from Mexico nor to the Negro from the West Indies, nor were the Filipinos barred. The most interesting provision of the law of 1924 and, in one sense, the reason for the existence of this present book, was a provision that the quotas should be based only temporarily on the 1890 census. That basis had been justly criticized on the ground that it made the immigrants of recent times, rather than the old native stock, the determinants of the future composition of the United States. The quotas, it was argued, should be based not on the number of aliens here in 1890, or in any other year; but on the ratio of these aliens to the whole population. The law therefore embodied the National Origins provision--one of the decisive events in the racial history of America. An investigation was ordered to find the proportions of the various national (not _racial_) groups in the United States at the time of the 1920 census. The general quota to apply from July 1, 1927 (later delayed one year), was fixed at a total of 150,000. Each nationality was to be assigned such proportion of this 150,000 as the number of its people here in 1920 bore to the total population. Thus, if it should transpire that 10 per cent of the total population in 1920 was of Swedish ancestry, Sweden would receive a quota of 10 per cent of 150,000 or 15,000. Or if it were found, for example, that 2 per cent of the total population in 1920 derived from France, the French quota would become 3000. While a committee of experts went to work on the necessary research for this purpose, an amusing competition began among the alien groups and hyphenates, to exaggerate as much as possible their claims so that their relatives and compatriots might benefit by an increase in their nation's quota. The Irish were perhaps the most industrious in this occupation, for they could take advantage of the confusion, due to the fact, pointed out in these pages time and again, that the territory now composing the Irish Free State had long taken credit for every one who has passed through Ireland. Actually the "Irish" immigration in Colonial times was, as already shown, not Irish at all, but for the most part Scotch, though taking shipping from Ulster; and the Free State Catholics had few representatives in America at the time of the Revolution. Such facts were conveniently ignored by the Irish patriots, who wrote books to demonstrate that the "Irish" not only fought and won the Revolution, but that they made up the predominant element at the present time. "It has been estimated by good authorities," affirmed one such enthusiast, "that at least 25,000,000 of our present population have more or less Irish blood coursing through their veins. We" (_i.e._, the population of the United States), he went on, warming up to his job, "are no more Anglo-Saxon than we are Hindu!" If the Irish Catholics were inclined to claim something like one-fourth of the total population, the Germans were prepared to claim anything up to one-third. The quota based on the 1890 census had, in fact, been extraordinarily favorable for the Germans, since they were the group that had been coming into the country in greatest number just before that date, hence they had the largest number of actual foreign-born here present in that year. Their allotment on that basis was almost one-third of the quota for the entire world. The obvious unfairness of basing future immigration on such conditions, and of ignoring almost entirely the English and Scotch stock which was the overwhelming element in the building of America, but which together received only 20 per cent of the quota, was generally recognized. Scarcely had this injustice been removed and the National Origins measure gone into effect, however, when business depression began to throw men out of work, and it was universally felt that no new seekers for jobs should be brought into the country to displace the workers already here. Administrative restrictions, therefore, cut down the incoming flow of aliens to almost nothing. At the same time, many recent arrivals went back home, thinking they could weather the storm better among their own people. A direct benefit from the depression, then, was that it practically stopped foreign immigration. When the time comes for consideration of the renewal of present administrative restrictions, the National Origins Act will be on the statute books as a protection. Meanwhile Americans can consider what further measures they need to take to extend the quota provision to the western hemisphere. The actual contribution of the alien groups to the population of the United States is based not merely on their net immigration, but also on their fecundity after they settle here. Many familiar studies show that, in general, the immigrant women are more fecund than the old stock. They marry earlier, show a lower percentage of sterility, and have larger families. The fact that women are in a minority among most of the recent immigrant groups has, however, tended to cut down their contribution. Of the whole foreign-born group, men and women have in late decades been in the ratio of about five to three. This means that the group, as a group, will make a smaller contribution than it would, had each man brought a wife with him. On the other hand, the surplus males usually marry women of other groups, their descendants being thus assimilated into the population more quickly, whether for good or for ill. Again, the increase of the foreign-born groups is cut down by the fact that for the most part they have a higher rate of infant mortality. Variations among the races are striking. Thus while the native white has an infant mortality rate of 94 per 1000 births, that of the American Negro is 154, that of the Poles about the same, that of the French Canadians 171, that of the Portuguese 200, as shown in some extensive studies made by the Federal Children's Bureau. In the second generation, the fecundity of the alien groups begins to decline. It is generally said that the immigrant's daughter bears one less child than did her mother. Hence if immigrants are let in slowly, they are not likely to swamp the native stock; and as to those already here, although some of them, particularly the Italians, have remarkably high birthrates, they will probably lose this advantage within the next couple of generations. The question is often raised, whether the population of the United States would not be just as large today, if immigration had been permanently excluded in 1790. In other words, if no alien had arrived since the founding of the United States, would the descendants of the Colonial population have produced as many citizens as there are now here? This hypothesis, often known as Walker's Law, assumes that the fecundity of a group is cut down by the competition of immigrants, and that the latter do no more than fill the places which would otherwise have been filled by natural increase. No one would claim that such a generalization is exact, but as a general tendency it seems to be near the truth. The United States would have grown large and strong, had immigration been shut off a century ago. It will continue to grow large and strong, with immigration shut off at the present time. That does not mean that the rate of growth which has been maintained during the last century will continue for another century. The Nordic civilization is at present near the end of a cycle of growth, and its rate of multiplication is slowing in every civilized country. In most of the Nordic nations, the population does not now replace itself. When the women now of child-bearing age pass from the scene, they will not leave enough daughters to take their places. The influence of the "newer immigration" and its offspring is great enough to carry forward the United States population expansion a little longer, but all signs indicate that, assuming _all_ immigration ceased, the numerical growth of the United States would come to a standstill at the end of two or three generations, probably at a figure not higher than 150,000,000 of population, and no more are needed. All the greater is the need, then, that this stock should be sound in quality. A memorable step toward this goal was taken by the Federal Supreme Court in 1923, when it held that only white persons and persons of African descent are eligible to citizenship. * * * * * In 1790 Congress enacted the first naturalization statute, the terms of which confined its benefits to "free white citizens." The restriction remained in force until extended in 1870 by statute giving the right of citizenship to persons of African descent. At present, then, only Whites and Negroes are eligible for naturalization. Interpreting the statute of 1790, the Supreme Court held that the term "free white" must be understood in its common meaning as used by the framers, and could not include a Hindu (Sikh) or, in another case, a Japanese. Meanwhile the immigration act of 1924 provides that "no alien ineligible to citizenship shall be admitted to the United States." The Supreme Court decisions in the cases mentioned mean that this law excludes all colored and Oriental races--all, in short, save "free Whites" and Negroes. Another safeguard is thus thrown around the American stock. The three millions of Whites of 1790 have increased to 109 millions in 1930. Of this number, one-third are either foreign-born or the children of such. One wonders how many of the 109 millions are the undiluted descendants of Colonial stock. While mathematical exactitude cannot be expected in such calculations, the census experts have figured that about one-third of the population is of such ancestry. There are many others who have one parent Colonial and the other going back perhaps to an immigrant of 1850. Such latter, these experts claim, is the equivalent of half of a Colonial descendant. Two of them together they count as equivalent to one Colonial descendant. By this device the experts calculated that the "numerical equivalent" of the Colonial stock amounts to nearly one-half of the entire white population. The investigations necessary to put the National Origins provision into effect, and to defend it from partisan criticism, brought out the salient facts concerning the composition of the population today--again, of course, subject to such margin of error as is inevitable. The white population of 1920 was apportioned as follows: England, Scotland, Wales, and North Ireland 39,242,733 Germany 14,833,588 Irish Free State 10,378,634 Poland[11] 3,626,692 Italy 3,566,396 Russia 2,108,283 Sweden 2,024,434 France 1,970,189 Netherlands 1,835,959 Czechoslovakia 1,623,438 Norway 1,431,292 Austria 976,248 Switzerland 961,406 Belgium 790,928 Denmark 735,083 Hungary 703,409 Yugoslavia 440,518 Finland 338,036 Lithuania 293,100 Portugal 272,104 Greece 185,836 Rumania 185,423 Spain 181,658 Latvia 144,844 Turkey 138,389 Danzig 81,522 All other quota countries 262,216 Non-quota countries[12] 5,488,757 ---------- 94,820,915 The United States is no longer 99 per cent Protestant, as it was in 1790; but it is still 80 per cent Protestant. Its white inhabitants are no longer 90 per cent Nordic, as after the Revolution; but they are still 70 per cent Nordic.[13][14] Its future course must be guided in the light of a consideration of these facts. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 11: It must be remembered that these figures show national origins, not _racial_. The numbers credited to such countries as Poland, Russia, and Austria-Hungary therefore include very large proportions of Jews.] [Footnote 12: These are the countries of the Western Hemisphere, of which Canada and Mexico have been the largest contributors.] [Footnote 13: This would, of course, include all Germany.] [Footnote 14: The Hoover Committee on Social Trends, in re National Origins, says that "about 85 per cent of the Whites in the United States in 1920 were from strains originating in northwestern Europe where Nordics predominate."] XV THE LEGACY OF SLAVERY The most essential element in nationality is unity. This unity can be based on race, on language, on religion, on a long tradition held in common, or on several or all of these. In the past century the United States has to some extent lost its unity of religion, of race, and of language. In the same period it has acquired a number of unassimilable elements brought in as cheap and docile labor to develop its industries or else allowed to enter through the false humanitarianism of the so-called Victorian Era. It had been forgotten that a cheap man makes a cheap job. In the South manual labor was performed by the Negroes, but in the North, where there were no slaves, manual labor was chiefly performed by Americans, and it still is in the districts where there are no aliens. The moment that cheap alien labor was introduced to build railroads or dig canals, such labor became distasteful to the native American, because it was done by lowly foreigners whom they despised. Among the various outland elements now in the United States which threaten in different degrees our national unity, the most important is the Negro. Unlike the other alien elements the blacks were brought into the country against their will. They brought with them no persisting language, religion, or other cultural attribute, but accepted these elements from their masters. At the time of the first census (1790) the Negroes numbered 757,208, being 19.3 per cent of the total population. They were naturally mostly in the Southern States. In 1860 the Negroes numbered 4,441,830 and constituted 14.1 per cent of the population. They were still in the South. In 1930 the Negroes numbered 11,891,143 and constituted 9.69 per cent of the population, but there had been a distinct migration from the agricultural districts of the South to the large cities of the North. When, after the Civil War, the Negroes were granted the franchise the Negro problem was greatly complicated. This ill-advised measure was forced on the country by a wave of feeling aroused by the wanton murder of Lincoln. The North feared to entrust the government of the country to those who had lately been in armed rebellion, so they conferred the voting power on the Negroes and thereby greatly increased the electoral vote of the South. If the franchise had been confined to the Whites only, the influence of the "Solid South" after the Civil War would have been much less than it now is. The purpose of the measure was to make the South Republican, its actual effect was to enhance the power of the South in Congress and in the Electoral College and make that section definitely Democratic. In the words of the late Chancellor Von Bismarck this was worse than a crime--it was a blunder. [Illustration: NEGRO POPULATION 1930 _11,891,143_] The Southerners understand how to treat the Negro--with firmness and with kindness--and the Negroes are liked below the Mason and Dixon line so so long as they keep to their proper relation to the Whites, but in the North the blocks of Negroes in the large cities, migrating from the South, have introduced new complications, which are certain to produce trouble in the future, especially if Communist propaganda makes headway among them. In the Negro section of Harlem a further problem is arising from crosses between Negroes and Jews and Italians. These and other Mulattoes are showing a tendency toward Communism. During the World War a Communistic and racial movement was started there and a situation developed which was controlled with some difficulty, though without publicity. The increase in the relative number of Mulattoes to Blacks is growing greater in the Northern States, as is obvious to any observer in the Negro districts of the larger cities. There can be seen many yellow and light-colored individuals, who are Negro in every other respect. Many of our dark immigrant Whites are themselves darker in color than the yellow Negroes and this enables some of these light Negroes to "pass" as Whites. This problem is one which will increase in gravity. Evidence does not exist to show whether the number of Mulattoes being produced by primary union of Whites and Negroes is now larger than it was fifty or one hundred years ago. But evidence does exist to show that the intelligence and ability of a colored person are in pretty direct proportion to the amount of white blood he has, and that most of the positions of leadership, influence, and prominence in the Negro race are held not by real Negroes but by Mulattoes, many of whom have very little Negro blood. This is so true that to find a black Negro in a conspicuous position is a matter of comment. E.B. Reuter has calculated that a Mulatto child has a better chance than a black child to achieve prominence in the ratio of thirty-four to one. Such a situation naturally puts a premium on white blood in the minds of Negroes, and therefore puts a prize on bastardy, discouraging any tendency to cultivate pure racial values on the part of the Blacks themselves. The black man who acquires wealth, at once wishes to show visible evidences of his affluence by acquiring a light yellow or "pink" wife, and the black girl is at a heavy discount matrimonially. Even in adoption the same tendency is found. Child-placing societies may seek in vain to find a home for the pickaninny with black skin and curly hair, but the light-colored baby, despite other disqualifications, is eagerly adopted by darker Negro parents. The religious world, the political world, and the educational world alike seem to have conspired to give all the rewards to the Negro with white blood and to make the bulk of the race feel that white blood is the greatest possible good for a Negro. Such a condonation of race mixture is an insidious and far-reaching menace to the racial and ethical standards of both races. How much white blood now circulates in the veins of our Negroes cannot be told. It is generally considered, however, that at least one-third of all those classed as Negroes in the United States have, in fact, some white blood and the proportion is probably larger. The "pass-for-white" does so purely by virtue of his physical characters which approximate those of his white ancestors. His intellectual and emotional traits may insidiously go back to his black ancestry, and may be brought into the White race in this way. Mentally and emotionally the Negro is the product of thousands of years of evolution under the most stringent natural selection in the hot lands of Africa. He is notably lacking in just those qualities necessary for success in a modern Nordic industrial civilization, as for instance in self-control and in capacity for co-operation. Physically he is the product of the same circumstances. His tough skin gives him an advantage over the White in resisting some diseases. His lower vital capacity puts him at a disadvantage in others. Thus the Negro is liable to succumb to tuberculosis or pneumonia, and is less prone to cancer and skin affections. With the aid of white sanitation and hygiene, the Negro is holding his own, even gaining ground in the Northern cities where it was formerly supposed he would die out. Natural selection, therefore, in view of the present vital statistics of the two races, can no longer be relied upon to solve the problem by a gradual elimination of the Negro in America. Comfort has been found in the fall of the ratio of the Negroes to the total population; but their absolute increase goes on just the same. No satisfactory solution of the problem has been suggested. At present, from a study of past history, there appear to be but three possible solutions. First, slow amalgamation with the Whites and an ever-increasing number of Mulattoes, who little by little will "pass" for Whites. This amalgamation might easily assume serious proportions in the near future, with an increase of mixed breeds all over the United States. But if the sentimental views about Negroes engendered by the Civil War can be lived down, it may be that the oncoming generation will resolutely face this Mulatto menace. Otherwise the absorption of 10 per cent Negroes and Mulattoes, to say nothing of East and South Europeans, in addition to Mexicans, Filipinos, and Japanese will produce a racial chaos such as ruined the Roman Empire. A second solution would be deportation, which was seriously suggested a hundred years ago. At that time it might have been possible to re-transport the then slaves to Africa, and such action would have involved only a fraction of the cost of the Civil War. This was considered as a possible remedy by some of the wisest statesmen in the years immediately preceding the Civil War. Today it is not possible, because Africa, with the exception of Liberia, is under the control of white states, which certainly would not welcome such an enormous addition to their own color problem, aside from all other practical considerations. [Illustration: NEGRO POPULATION INCREASE & DECREASE 1920-1930 Figures in each State show the percentage of increase and decrease.] Present-day advocates of repatriation argue that lack of native population is the principal factor likely to hold back the development of some of the healthiest and most fertile parts of interior Africa. The American Negro, they say, might well carry there the education he has received in the United States, and do better for himself than he could expect to do here, especially if, through a rising race consciousness among the Whites, they show themselves less hospitable to his claims for equality. The substantial following, gained by the Negro Garvey, who started a "Back to Africa" movement a few years ago, is cited as evidence that the Negroes in this country are not necessarily adverse to leaving it. But much more evidence will be needed before the repatriation of the Negro can be considered seriously. As a third possibility, segregation has been suggested. This would mean the abandonment by the Whites of whole sections of the country along the Gulf of Mexico. This has actually happened in some places along the lower Mississippi River, where the numbers of the Negroes have become so overwhelming that the few remaining Whites have simply moved out and abandoned the district to them. It has happened and is happening in the West Indies. Haiti and Santo Domingo have been entirely turned over to Negroes and other examples of West Indian Islands almost abandoned to Negroes can be found. Whatever be the final outcome, the Negro problem must be taken vigorously in hand by the Whites, without delay. States which have no laws preventing the intermarriage of white and black should adopt them. During the last quarter-century, many such bills, introduced in Northern legislatures, have been defeated by an organized pro-Negro lobby. The Christian churches in some parts of the North have also taken an unwise stand, in trying to break down the social barriers between Negro and White. This attitude goes back to the days of the abolitionists, who persuaded themselves that the Negro slave had all possible virtues and the Southern White man all possible vices. It was a primary factor in creating the tragedy of "reconstruction" after the Civil War. Senator Roscoe Conkling hit this attitude off neatly when some one asked him what had happened in the Senate that day. He replied: "We have been discussing Senator Sumner's annual bill entitled 'An act to amend the act of God whereby there is a difference between white and black.'" More necessary than legislation is a more vigorous and alert public opinion among the Whites, which will put a stop to social mixing of the two races. Social separation is the key to minimizing the evils of race mixture at the present time. Public opinion might well stop exalting the Mulatto and thereby putting its stamp of approval on miscegenation. Negroes should be encouraged to respect their own racial integrity. Finally, knowledge of methods of Birth Control now widespread among the Whites, should be made universally available to the Blacks. Compared with the Negro, the American Indian offers no serious problem to American unity. On the entire continent north of Mexico there are only about 432,000. The 1930 census gives the Indian population of the United States as 332,397. The distribution of these Indians is remarkably irregular. The West has the largest number; then comes the South, because of Oklahoma's 92,000, for the Gulf States have few. North Carolina, on the other hand, stands seventh in the list of States arranged according to Indian population. As against 137,000 in the West and 116,000 in the South, the North has but 78,000. These are widely scattered and often little known to the general public. New York State still has 7000 Indians, Michigan about the same number and North Dakota somewhat more; Wisconsin and Minnesota have 11,000 each, while South Dakota stands fourth on the list of all the States with its 22,000. In the West the Indian population is concentrated mainly in Arizona, New Mexico, California, Montana, and Washington, in the order named. These Indians now represent 371 tribes, or remnants of tribes. How large their numbers were at the time of the first white settlement in North America has been a matter of interesting conjecture. Most estimates are not much above a million, but the population may have been considerably greater a few hundred years earlier. Since white occupation a few tribes have increased in numbers. Most have diminished, and some have become extinct, more frequently from the white man's diseases and from whiskey than from the results of fighting. The densest Indian population at the time of the conquest was on the Pacific Coast, which did not come into close contact with the Whites until the last century. This Pacific Coast Indian population was also of a low scale of intelligence and culture, and remarkably broken up into distinct groups which could not understand each other. As many separate languages were spoken by the Indians of this region as by all the other Indians of the United States together. When the first mission on the West Coast was founded by the Spaniards, in 1769, the number of California Indians was computed at 220,000. This has decreased more than 90 per cent at this date. The policy of the Catholic missionaries was to corral the Indians around the missions. The church considered itself the owner of all the land, and the Indians worked it as tenants. When the Mexican Government confiscated the property of the church, it took title to all the land. Hence the Indians, who had always lived on it, found themselves illegal trespassers, and until about 1913 they were landless, starving fugitives. At that time the government began to provide land for the Indians. While their treatment has decimated them nine times, their isolation prevented intermarriage with the Whites, so the California Indians are of relatively pure blood. The revolt of the Pueblo Indians of Arizona and New Mexico against the Spanish in 1680-92 was the beginning of their decline. The Navajos and Apaches, on the contrary, have increased in numbers, at the same time avoiding white mixture. The Indians of the Atlantic Coast were destroyed partly by disease, partly by war; and their remnants were pushed westward year after year by the Whites until they are mostly now west of the Mississippi, many of them being in Oklahoma. The Iroquois are an exception, and have perhaps increased in numbers. They got hold of firearms before their tribal neighbors and were able to destroy many of the latter, incorporating the remnants in their own tribe. The Sioux of the great plains are also said to have increased. In the Gulf States, on the other hand, the Indians were largely exterminated before their remnants were moved to the Indian Territory. The Chickasaws told the French explorer, Iberville, in 1702, that in the preceding twelve years they had killed or captured for slave traders 2300 Choctaws, at a cost to themselves of 800 men. In the Northwest and Alaska, whiskey and disease have been leading factors in the reduction of the number of the natives. With this, in many regions, went a low fertility, due partly to starvation. Nearly all of the American Indians lived as hunters. When the Whites invaded the forests and drove off or killed the game, the Indian economic system was broken up, and they had little opportunity to meet the rapidly changing conditions. There has been, since early times, some intermarriage between Indians and Whites, but it has not been on a sufficiently large scale to be serious. The estimate however is sometimes made that one-half of the census population of Indians has white blood. Naturally, there is no way of proving or disproving such a conjecture. Only in Oklahoma has such mixing been looked on with favor, and even there some tribes held themselves largely aloof from white miscegenation and punished with death any interbreeding of their members with Negroes. The discovery of oil on Indian tribal lands made the claim to Indian blood a lucrative one and oil revenues unfortunately covered a multitude of sins. Throughout the West in general the term "squaw man" is a bitter reproach. Taking the country over, the Whites who have married Indians have not been of a high class. But the total number of Indians in the United States is so small that their future is probably that of being absorbed in the White race through miscegenation, unless it be for a few tribes cultivating a racial purity of their own and, with favorable economic conditions, perpetuating themselves for a long time to come. The Mexican population is found mainly in the Southwestern States, but has also assumed relatively large proportions in such States as Colorado, Kansas, Illinois, and Michigan. The character of this immigration has been described elsewhere in these pages. It has given the United States an alien element with a high birthrate and very low standards of living, with which white laborers cannot and will not compete. The census of 1930 found nearly a million and a half Mexicans in the United States. It was generally supposed that the number who had entered the country illegally was greater than those who came through the recognized routes. To prevent such a nullification of immigration regulations, mere registration of aliens is not sufficient, for that is likely to affect only those who have entered legally. Our entire population should be registered. The advantages of a universal system of proving identity are many, and extension of the system of registering births, on the one hand, and of registering voters, on the other, would take care of this without setting up much new and expensive machinery. The menace of Chinese and Japanese immigration has for the present been stopped by immigration laws which exclude any one not eligible to citizenship. A proper application of this rule as established by the Supreme Court might shut off much of the immigration of Indians from Mexico. Since the end of the World War the immigration of Filipino young men has become a disturbing problem on the Pacific Coast. The number of arrivals up to 1930 amounts to nearly 50,000. These, like the Greeks and some other European immigrant groups, bring but few women with them and therefore form a socially undesirable and racially threatening element wherever they are located. Unlike the Puerto Ricans and Hawaiians, the Filipinos are not citizens of the United States, with rights of entry that cannot be abrogated. They are citizens of the Philippine Islands, and permitted to enter the United States only by courtesy. Congress, therefore, has full right to adopt legislation which will exclude them, and it should make immediate use of its power to protect white America from this reservoir of 10,000,000 Malays and Mongoloids now under the American flag and at present potential immigrants. If this cannot be done effectively, the United States will have no alternative but to admit that its adoption of the islands and its attempt to salvage them after Spanish misrule was a mistake. As a safeguard to its own racial welfare, it may become necessary to give the Filipino his independence, commend him to the benevolence of Providence and the League of Nations, and have nothing more to do with him. In the same way there should be no thought of further acquisition of territory in the West Indies or in Central America. It is conceivable that the Central American countries might in a not too remote future be able to form a stable confederation and stand on their own feet more successfully than they have done during the last generation. If such a federation could include the West Indian Islands, the United States might well donate its possessions there. Hindu immigration has so far been nothing more than a threat. The present immigration restrictions will prevent the immigration of these people, except for travel and study. Experience in many parts of the world has shown the folly of allowing white countries to be overrun by Hindus, and Americans should sympathize with the British possessions that are trying to maintain white supremacy in their own borders in this respect. In Hawaii the United States has another possible source of undesirable immigration. The dominant element among its third of a million inhabitants is the Japanese, who have held themselves aloof from the other residents and shown little tendency to intermarry. Every Japanese child born in the islands is an American citizen, with the full right of entry to the mainland. The greater part of the rest of the population is a mongrel crowd. Chinese and native Hawaiians, until quite recently, have shown a marked tendency to intermarry. Every effort should be made to find some constitutional way by which Hawaii can be prevented from becoming a continuous source of supply of undesirable citizens of the United States. While the list of unassimilable elements in the United States is a long one, it must be borne in mind that most of them are still small. A wise population policy promptly adopted and maintained henceforth will give the republic an opportunity to grow along sound and fruitful lines. XVI OUR NEIGHBORS ON THE NORTH Before dealing with the countries to the north of us, it may be well to call attention to the fact that there are three major divisions of Canada. First, the Maritime Provinces, which were acquired by Great Britain at a later date than the other Atlantic Colonies, as they were originally claimed by the French. In this division Newfoundland should be considered. These territories lying east of the United States were settled directly from England or at the time of the Revolution by Loyalist refugees from New England. There is a large Scotch element in the population, which was lacking in New England. On the whole, the area is thoroughly Nordic, except on the shores of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence and the Bay of Chaleurs, where the Alpine French Habitants have infiltrated. The second division of the Dominion is French-speaking, Roman Catholic Quebec, with a fecund population of low cultural status. The French distrust of the New England Protestants, with whom they had been at war for one hundred and fifty years, was the predominant cause of their failure to join with the revolting American Colonies in 1776. Quebec was known as Lower Canada. Like the territories of the United States, the Dominion of Canada of today represents a part of the Nordic conquest of North America, the sole exception being the French population of Quebec Province. The country to the west of the Ottawa River constitutes the third major division and was, after the Revolution, known as Upper Canada. Its original population was composed chiefly of American Loyalists who fled there in numbers after the Revolution. The immigration into Upper Canada from Britain was later very largely Scotch, Scotch Irish, and North of England. This is true more or less of all English-speaking Canada, except possibly British Columbia. In a measure the Dominion is an offshoot of the United States, and its development proceeded along lines parallel to those of the States to the south of the boundary. The character of the population west of Quebec Province is much the same as that of the United States, lacking, fortunately for Canada, some of our immigrant elements. The country was settled without the terrible Indian wars that afflicted our frontier and without the lawless element so conspicuous in the history of our Far West. The French settlement of Quebec was contemporaneous with the first English settlement in North America at Jamestown. A majority of the emigrants were from northern France. So far as one can judge at the present time by the descendants of this population, the pure Nordic stock must have been rare among them. They are today in general a stocky, short-necked people, rather of the Alpine build, with eyes often rather dark. The blond hair and tall stature of the Nordic are so rare as to attract attention at once. The type suggests the Pre-Norman population of northwestern France, rather than its Nordic conquerors. Some of the seigneurs, the explorers, and the adventurers of the early period apparently were of Nordic stock, but they were probably always in a great minority and have left few descendants. Very little satisfactory research has been done as to the origin of the Habitants. A recent study of a typical group has given some indication of the general conditions in Quebec. In this group stature was found to be five feet and five inches, which is about the general average of the French. The cephalic index was over 83.0, which is about the mean for Brittany and is higher than that of Normandy. The hair was rather dark brown and straight, this straightness is slightly suggestive of Indian admixture. The eye color was more often brown than mixed blue and brown. Pure blue eyes were present only in 15 per cent. The tall burly build of the Norman peasant was very rare. The language spoken in Quebec is an archaic Norman patois of the time of Louis XIV. This fact has given rise to the general belief that the Habitants came from Normandy, but the more probable reason is that the Normans were the earliest immigrants and established their patois, which was accepted by later arrivals. The Normans appeared to have been far short of a majority of the total number of immigrants and Brittany supplied still fewer. The balance was divided among the provinces of the northern half of France. The physical type of the Habitants of today suggestive as it is of the peasants of the interior of Brittany finds confirmative evidence in their subserviency to the church. Throughout the French period the population consisted to a marked extent of soldiers, traders, administrators, priests, and others who did not bring their families with them. Efforts of the French Government to encourage family life were not always either well directed or successful. Colbert hoped for a large French population in Canada by intermarriage with the Indians. Administrative regulations penalized bachelors, who, for instance, were refused licenses to enter the fur trade, which was the main source of wealth in the country at that time. Many of these restrictions were directed by the priests, doubtless not so much for eugenic reasons as with the motive of protecting the morals of the young men by giving them wives. At an early date the colony fell under the domination of the Jesuits, and maintained for a long time a religious tone that in its own way was much more stern and uncompromising than that of the Puritan settlements in New England. Much of the wealth and effort that might have gone to strengthen the colony was sunk in sterile monastic foundations. Even today stone churches are a conspicuous feature of the landscape in the midst of poverty-stricken villages. At one time there was for some years a directed migration of young women from France, sent out to become the wives of the colonists and early in the history of the country a policy of bonuses for marriage, and for large families, which has been repeated at intervals ever since, was introduced. None the less, the colony grew but slowly and to the failure to establish it on a sound biological foundation is due the collapse of French rule. In 1665 the first census showed a population of 3215. In the next hundred years this had increased to somewhat more than 70,000, with an additional 20,000 in what are now the Maritime Provinces. That the French could maintain the contest for so long against British neighbors who outnumbered them twenty to one is to their credit, but their lack of recognition that their settlement could not be permanent unless based on a real migration of families ultimately cost them the country. One of the chief causes of the failure of French Canada to expand beyond the narrow limits of the banks of the Saint Lawrence River, during its first century of existence, was an obscure skirmish which occurred on the west side of Lake Champlain in 1609. Champlain was advancing toward the South in company with Canadian Algonquins, when he encountered a war party of the Mohawks. In the fighting that followed, some Mohawks were killed and captured. At that time and in that place began the bitter enmity of the Iroquois Five Nations and the Canadian French. It was a feud that was never allowed to rest and yearly war parties of Mohawks went north along Lake Champlain and the Richelieu River and devastated the lower portion of Quebec Province. At the same time war parties of the Senecas descended the Saint Lawrence and attacked the French from the West. As long as the power of the Iroquois lasted, which was all through the seventeenth century, they devastated a large part of New France. [Illustration: DOMINION OF CANADA & NEWFOUNDLAND] In the meantime, the Dutch and English were growing up in security to the South and East. Thus Champlain's skirmish with the Iroquois was the factor that delayed the expansion of France into the region of the Great Lakes and down the Mississippi Valley until relatively late in the eighteenth century. The French population still centers in Quebec Province, long known as Lower Canada, but it has spread to other parts of the continent both south and west of the Quebec boundary. Their expansion in Canada has been into the neighboring provinces. Emigration to New England began in the eighteenth century but was not considerable until the nineteenth century. While this French-Canadian population has remained so fecund as to furnish a stock example for every writer, it, too, has felt the trend of the times. For a long time the government of Quebec offered a grant of one hundred acres of land to every man who was the father of twelve living children by one wife. In less than a single year over 3000 heads of families availed themselves of this privilege and in 1907 there was published a list of 7000 families having at least twelve living children. In spite of this fecundity, the birthrate has been declining for almost the whole of the historical period. Two hundred and fifty years ago the average for all women of child-bearing age in Quebec Province was one child every two and one-half years. By 1850 this ratio had decreased to one in five years. At present it is one in seven and one-half years. Under this method of measurement, the rate of natural increase per head is only one-third of what it was in colonial times. Even the Roman Catholic "Habitant," therefore, has felt the effect of the general decline of birthrate throughout the western world in the period since the beginning of the industrial revolution. From the beginning of the nineteenth century there was a small but steady immigration from the British Isles into Upper Canada, though interrupted by the Napoleonic Wars. After the close of that conflict a larger movement of population took place, which brought in an extensive English population. Theretofore most of the arrivals had been Scotch or Americans, so that a visitor in 1810 commented on the fact that he met "scarcely any English and few Irish." In 1815 the government began to assist immigrants by giving free passage and a grant of one hundred acres of land after arrival with a promise of free rations for the first six or eight months and a like amount of land to each male child on his reaching the age of twenty-one. A wise restriction required a deposit of a little less than one hundred dollars by the immigrant, to be returned to him after two years if he had complied with the terms of the contract on his behalf. These provisions were availed of mainly by Scotchmen going to Ontario. The scheme, however, had the advantage for our present purpose of establishing for the first time records of immigration, which thenceforth can be traced in detail. In 1819 the emigration from British ports to Canada was in excess of 20,000, and continued for years at about this rate in spite of the booms which Australia and New Zealand were enjoying at the same time. There was a substantial movement of emigration toward Canada in the years 1830-34. In the nine years preceding 1837, more than a quarter of a million emigrants from the British Isles arrived at Quebec on their way westward, more than 50,000 of them in a single year. Primogeniture in England has been a powerful factor in building up the British Commonwealth. The oldest son of a landed family inherited the estate and the titles, if any, and stayed at home. The younger sons, left to shift for themselves, were ready to emigrate. The colonies have thus received a great many more settlers of first-class ability than would otherwise have been the case. At the same time, the perpetuation of family continuity, through the preservation of the ancestral home intact, has been a strong psychological factor in maintaining a vigorous family life in the upper classes of Great Britain. By 1840 the population of Canada was approximately a million and a half. During the next generation nearly a million more immigrants arrived from British ports--the great Irish migration changing the racial character of this movement markedly from about 1845. Prior to that time the newcomers were pre-dominantly English, with Wiltshire and Yorkshire largely represented. When the potato famine caused the Irish to seek refuge elsewhere, they naturally turned their steps to England, as the most easily and cheaply accessible of havens. Great Britain could absorb only a limited part of these and began to direct them to Canada, which, indeed, they preferred to the United States because the Catholic Church was strong there. The emigrants were weak and in 1849 one-sixth of those who started are said to have died on the voyage. The number of Irish who left the United Kingdom in that year was 215,000, of whom nearly half were bound for Quebec. Canada became alarmed at being made the dumping ground of an enfeebled and destitute population so much in excess of its capacity to absorb, and, by increased taxes and other means, slowed down this immigration, which then headed toward the United States. Thereafter many of the Irish who had already gone to Canada moved on down into the Union, so that in the end Canada received a smaller part of the Irish Catholic migration than might be thought. The census of 1871 furnishes a convenient point at which to take a review of the population. It then totalled 3,485,761 in the four original provinces (Ontario, Quebec, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia). British and French together, in the ratio of two to one, made up 92 per cent. The only foreign element which contributed as much as 1 per cent of the whole was the German, numbering more than 200,000 people, or 5.8 per cent. The French Habitants have always formed a somewhat indigestible mass, but half a century of struggle had resulted in a workable system of government and compromise in the administrative life of the country. The dominant element was the British, and save for the great mass of French there was no large foreign block to menace the country's unity. In sharp contrast to the settlement of the West of the United States, the occupation of the prairie and mountain provinces of Canada has been marked by law and order. In our West, especially in the mining districts, law was largely disregarded and its place taken by private justice, administered by individuals. In Canada the Mounted Police have played a most efficient rôle in controlling both the settlers and the Indians. At the time of the Klondike rush in 1898, when hordes of gold seekers scrambled over the passes to the head waters of the Yukon, a handful of Mounted Police maintained a discipline for which the Americans themselves were very grateful. In the same way the administration of the mining laws of the Klondike, which is in Canadian territory, was admired and envied by the Americans there. The Canadian treatment of the Indians in the western provinces was also marked by an absence of the bloody wars which characterized our westward advance. The only uprising against the Whites was the Riel Rebellion in Manitoba, in 1869, which was by the half-breeds rather than by the Indians and which had special underlying causes. All this has been accomplished without the Whites in any way fraternizing with the Indians. During the French period, the Canadian Indians always sided with the French against the English, because under the influence of the Catholic priests, the French Indian half-breed was regarded as a Frenchman and, as a result, influenced his mother's people in favor of the ruling race. There were plenty of offspring of white frontiersmen and Indian squaws all along our frontier, but these half breeds were everywhere kicked out and despised as Indians. This attitude toward the lower race has always characterized our American frontier and while very unpopular with the natives, has served to keep the White race unmixed, in sharp contrast to the French and Spanish colonies. Canada still has more than 100,000 Indians, four times as many in proportion to the whole population, as in the United States. * * * * * Newfoundland, for geographical reasons, even though it has politically no relation to Canada, is the most convenient starting point in reviewing in more detail the subdivisions of the country. Larger than Ireland, the island claims to be the "senior colony" of the British Commonwealth. John Cabot, a Genoese, sailing from Bristol, discovered it in 1497, according to the traditional account, and took possession of it in the name of Henry VII. Within a few years fishermen, not merely English but French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Basque, were landing there to dry and cure the enormous quantities of cod caught on the Great Banks, which still form the principal wealth of the colony. In fact, some writers believe that the island may have been discovered long before the time of Columbus, by fishermen. At any rate, the effective occupation, though scarcely the continuous settlement of Newfoundland, long antedated the colonization of Virginia and many of the original English residents came from Devonshire. The aboriginal inhabitants, the Beothics, disappeared half a century ago. They were probably Eskimos, or closely related to them, and are sometimes spoken of as "Red" Indians, in contrast to the "Black" Indians, the Micmacs, who have recently immigrated in small numbers from New Brunswick. Newfoundland has nearly a quarter of a million inhabitants, but its backward stage of development still makes it little known to the outside world. On the mainland a long strip of the Atlantic Coast and a large triangle of land behind it are attached to Newfoundland administratively, under the name of Labrador. Because of its scanty population it may well be disregarded in the present discussion. * * * * * Nova Scotia during Colonial days was almost a New England colony. It was known to the French as "Acadie" and was ceded to England in 1713. Interposed between New England and French Canada, Acadia suffered heavily from the warfare that went on between the two regions. The existence of a large French population was always a source of irritation, and of danger, to the English. Finally in 1758 the French were cleared out, about 6000 of them being distributed throughout the English colonies, and the remainder escaping to Canada. Those who came to the thirteen colonies suffered hardships, but on the whole were more humanely treated than were those who fled to their co-religionists in Quebec Province. The place of the exiled Acadians[15] was largely taken by New England emigrants. The American population of Nova Scotia was further greatly augmented at the time of the Revolution by an influx of Loyalists. These came in such numbers as to disturb the colony seriously, but formed an invaluable addition of the best sort of British stock. This general trend has continued so that, even in 1921, of the foreign-born population of Nova Scotia, that which originated in the United States was twice as large as all the rest of the foreign-born population put together. The Scotch immigration which has exercised such an important influence on the eastern counties of Nova Scotia began about 1760 with the arrival of Scots and Ulster Scots. In 1772 a contingent of Highlanders direct from Scotland took up land alongside an American group from Philadelphia. From then on until about 1820, a steady stream of Highlanders came into the region; Gaelic is still spoken in parts of the colony. Nova Scotia with the other Maritime Provinces still represents the most purely British of all the Canadian provinces, and as shown, an important part of its population came to it through the United States. * * * * * New Brunswick was established on August 16, 1784, out of a part of ancient Acadia. It also received an important number of Loyalists at the time of the Revolution--indeed it might be said to owe its existence to the arrival of some 10,000 expatriates from the United States. But the bulk of the population is Scottish with a strong Highland contingent. There are few foreign-born other than a small element from the United States. * * * * * Prince Edward Island is similar as to its population and is the most purely "native" of all, only one in each one hundred in this province being foreign-born. The Roman Catholics there include a considerable number of Scotch Highlanders and number nearly a half of the population. * * * * * Quebec is still the stronghold of the French-Canadians, more than half of whom are unable to speak the English language. The French stock still numbers one-fourth of the entire population of the entire Dominion of Canada. On the northern frontier of Quebec there was some mixture with the Indians, but the half-breeds are probably not numerous enough to form a substantial part of the old population. In addition to their great movement to New England the French-Canadians have spread into Ontario, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island to some extent. The French-Canadian stock is the most highly inbred of any of the large groups of the New World. It is based on original immigrants who numbered a good many less than 10,000. In the course of three centuries this nucleus has multiplied to 3,000,000, with virtually no additions of fresh arrivals from abroad. They have lived a New World life longer than have most of the Whites of the Western Hemisphere, and must be put in a class by themselves. They are not French, in spite of their language--an archaic speech at which the true Frenchman laughs. In every way they differ from the present-day French, more indeed than New Englanders of Colonial descent now differ from the present-day Englishman. From the cradle to the grave they are surrounded by the influence of the Roman Catholic Church to an extent almost as unknown to the present-day French as it is to the present-day Americans. Of late years not only those who have come to New England, but some of those living in Quebec Province have shown a disposition to break away from the church because of its heavy and inexorable taxation. The French-Canadians, in Quebec and the neighboring provinces, were, to an extent, disloyal to the British Empire in the Great War. Under the influence of their priests they resisted the draft in several instances and there was bloodshed in Quebec on this account. As has been said elsewhere, these Frenchmen would not fight for the British Empire, which had guaranteed them extraordinary privileges as to their language and religion, nor would they fight for France, which they claimed as motherland, but which they now regarded as atheistic. Neither would they fight for Belgium, which is pretty nearly as clerical as they are. In short, their conduct during the World War was contemptible and in sharp contrast to the militant and effective patriotism of the more westerly provinces of Canada. * * * * * Ontario, called Upper Canada in distinction to French-speaking Lower Canada, received its first important population from the United States when Loyalist refugees, including many Highland Scots, mainly from northern and western New York, settled there and became known as the United Empire Loyalists. Among these immigrants, were the disbanded frontier regiments which had been organized by Sir John Johnson, including abundant Macdonalds from Glengarry and Inverness, together with Camerons, Chisholms, Fergusons, MacIntyres, Russells, and Hamiltons, who opened up the region constituting the present counties of Glengarry, Stormont, and Dundas. In 1785, almost the entire parish of Knoydart, Glengarry, emigrated direct from Scotland and settled in a body in Upper Canada. In 1793 a contingent from Glenelg settled at Kirkhill. In 1799 came many Camerons from Lochiel, and in 1803 another delegation of Macdonalds arrived, with more people from Glenelg and Kintail. Thus Ontario, which in 1791 was set off from (French) Lower Canada and given its own government under the name of Upper Canada, became almost as much entitled to consider itself a "Nova Scotia," as did the Maritime Province of that name. At the end of the American Revolution, Upper Canada was supposed not to contain as many as 10,000 inhabitants. By 1811 it had 83,000 and by 1817 it was estimated to have 134,000. While many Irish came at a somewhat later period, most of these eventually went on to the United States. The interference with British immigration caused by the Napoleonic wars led to Upper Canada's offering special attraction to settlers from the United States. The lack of sympathy of these with the British Government during the War of 1812 was an embarrassment to Canada, just as the loyalty of the United Empire group, which prevented Canada from being conquered by the United States, was in turn a serious annoyance to the American Government. The later settlement of Ontario was largely from Scotland and the northern English counties, and was pre-dominantly Presbyterian. There were enough Ulster Scots to make it an active center of the American Protective Association of forty years ago and it is definitely, at the present time, a Nordic territory. During the present century it has received thousands of Austrians, Poles, and Italians, who introduced racial elements not easily assimilated. * * * * * Manitoba began to be settled shortly after the War of 1812, when Lord Selkirk established his Red River Colony. The Scotch Highlanders, Swiss, and others whom he planted there did not prosper, and many of them eventually drifted down into the United States, taking an active part in the formation of Minnesota. Around this nucleus, however, there gradually grew an incongruous and isolated settlement made up of three elements that had almost nothing in common; the Scotch, the French-Canadians, and the half-breeds. In 1849 the Red River Settlement was credited with 5391 people. With the establishment of steam navigation on the Red River, and the official creation of Winnipeg, both of which occurred in 1862, development began on a larger scale. A provisional government was given to the territory in 1869, and from time to time land was generously allotted to the early white settlers, to the half-breeds, and to the Hudson's Bay Company. Thereafter the province grew slowly, from the natural increase of its founders and from a Nordic migration from Ontario and from the neighboring parts of the United States, until the mixed European immigration of the last half-century changed somewhat the character of the population. These latter now account for one-third of the whole. The proportion of these non-Nordic Europeans, from southern or central Europe, is three times as great as the European immigration from either northern or western Europe. If this immigration continues in like proportions, Manitoba, like the other prairie provinces, is in danger of being lost to the Nordics. * * * * * Saskatchewan has a larger American-born population than Manitoba, one resident in every eight having first seen the light of day under the American flag. But it has a still larger recent European immigration amounting to nearly 40 per cent of the total population of the province. A bare half of the people of Saskatchewan are of British origin. * * * * * Alberta has both a somewhat smaller European element and the largest American-born contingent of any of the provinces, amounting to one in six. Many English of a fine type have settled there. * * * * * In all the Prairie Provinces the French-Canadian represents scarcely more than one in twenty of the population. * * * * * British Columbia has prided itself with justice on its British origin, and is exceeded in this respect only by the Maritime Provinces. Of its European immigrants (one in eleven of the whole), approximately equal numbers are Nordics from northern or western Europe, and Alpines or Mediterraneans from southeastern and central Europe. During the World War its young men showed great attachment to the mother country, and the loss from death was correspondingly great. Because of its great distance from the ports of entry, it was long avoided by immigrants. Not until about 1907 did it begin to get its fair share. Since then, it has held its own, about half of its new arrivals however coming from the United States. The province also has its Asiatic problem, which has been the source of hard feeling on several occasions. One of the great hindrances to its more rapid development was shortage of labor, and it was natural that the Orient, which could reach British Columbia more easily and cheaply than could either Europe or even the Atlantic provinces of Canada itself, should be called upon to meet the need. Chinese soon began to enter, until stopped by a head tax of $500. Japanese came in considerable numbers, not merely in the fisheries but for day labor in railway construction. Some 6000 Hindus likewise found their way there. Orientals now amount to one in every seven of the total population. There is a real Asiatic question here and the Whites are beginning to look to the United States for protection. * * * * * Canada's immense arctic area, the Yukon and the Northwest Territories, may be neglected in this discussion because of the lack of population. Those who see in the mosquito-infested tundra of "The Land of Little Sticks," with its months of winter darkness, a future populous area of agricultural and livestock industry are destined to wait long for the realization of their dream. * * * * * So far as the British element in Canada is concerned, it has been pointed out above in several places that the country is to a certain extent an offspring of the United States. This contribution has continued up to the present time. During the 1880's there was another great period of migration from the Union to the Dominion. At that time nearly twice as many entered Canada from this country as from Great Britain, and six times as many as from the continent of Europe. Not all of these Americans were of the old native stock. It has been calculated that at least half of this contingent was of British extraction, the other half being made up of various European nationalities who, after becoming acclimated to the New World in the United States, passed on to Canadian soil. Thus the contribution from the United States during that period did not represent a purely Nordic accession. The 1890's represented a period of British immigration. But, with the turn of the century, Canada began to share in the great influx of miscellaneous peoples who were already deluging the shores of the United States. During the first twelve years of the twentieth century, Canada received 2,000,000 people, of whom 800,000 were British. About 700,000 others came from the United States, but more than a third of these are calculated to have been Continental arrivals who merely passed through the United States for convenience. In 1901 there were in Canada some 650,000 of "foreign stock"--that is, of neither British nor French origin. In 1921 there were more than twice as many. Since the beginning of the century Canada has acquired more than 100,000 Jews. After the World War the Empire Settlement Act began to make itself felt, reducing markedly the proportion of immigrants from the United States into Canada while from 1900 onward Ireland began to figure heavily in the immigration statistics. In 1930 there were, on the other hand, over 1,200,000 Canadian-born, both of British and French stock, in the United States and during the preceding eight years 300,000 had returned to Canada. Not only have the western provinces, then, been thrown violently into a disequilibrium by the population changes of the last generation, but the stability of the whole Dominion has been menaced. Canada, like the United States, has taken on a great liability in the admission of the hundreds of thousands of non-Nordics, who will be hard to assimilate, even if it be assumed that they would become valuable when assimilated, which is by no means always the case. One of Canada's advantages, on the other hand, is the negligible proportion of Negroes, and it might well erect barriers even now against them, as it has already done against the Asiatics. With its immense territory and more than 10,000,000 inhabitants, Canada is still to be credited to the Nordics, though, if the population trends that began with this century should continue, the balance would change rapidly. While the United States has contributed by far the largest number of foreign-born, Russia has contributed the second largest number of immigrants, Saskatchewan receiving more of these than any other province. Ontario, Quebec, and Manitoba have received about equal numbers, in each case one-third less than went to Saskatchewan. Those of Austrian birth, who are third in the list, are concentrated in the two provinces of Manitoba and Saskatchewan in about equal numbers, each of these provinces having almost twice as many Austrian-born as Alberta or Ontario. The Chinese stand fourth in numbers among the foreign-born of the Dominion, but most of them are concentrated in British Columbia. Ontario has almost as many Italians as all the rest of Canada put together, and it has also the largest number of Poles. Because of the great body of French-Canadians, the Roman Catholic Church is proportionately twice as strong as in the United States. The 1921 census showed the population to be made up as follows: PER CENT British origin 55.40 French 27.91 Other European 14.16 Indian 1.26 Asiatic .75 This computation distributes the immigrants from the United States according to their racial stock; thus the main part would be classified with those of British origin, a smaller part as "other European," and so on. From the foregoing it is evident that Canada is now less than 60 per cent Nordic--probably less Nordic than the United States. Canada has been the great obstacle to extending the American immigration quotas to the countries of the Western Hemisphere. The majority of its inhabitants are our own kinsmen, many of whom have already contributed elements of great value to our population. Others would be most welcome if they chose to come. Our nation has been unwilling to put the slightest restriction on Canadian immigration, by applying a quota; and it was thought it would be invidious and discriminatory to apply a quota to the countries south of us, and not to the one to the north. That difficulty will have to be met firmly in the near future. One proposed solution has been to admit from Canada only those whose mother tongue is English. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 15: Acadie in the Micmac language means "place." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's pathetic poem, "Evangeline," embodies the anti-English sentiments of the early nineteenth century in New England and is founded largely on an error of spelling, which made "Arcadia" out of the Indian word. The expulsion of the French in 1758 was by Bostonians under Colonel John Winslow, and was justified by the refusal of the French to accept loyally the rule of the English.] XVII OUR NEIGHBORS ON THE SOUTH Unlike Canada on our north, the countries south of the Rio Grande have been relatively little influenced by Nordic culture, to say nothing of anything resembling a Nordic conquest. The outlying territories of Mexico which were annexed to the United States were nearly empty lands and present Mexican influences in the Southwest are matters of more recent date. Latin America is one of the major divisions of the World, and from the present point of view should no more be discussed as a unit than could Europe or Asia. Its original population represents one of the great racial divisions of mankind. Its twenty different nations now speak several different languages, and embrace representatives of all the important races of both hemispheres. The general area gets such unity as it possesses from the Latin and Roman Catholic aspect of its culture as contrasted with the Protestant, Anglo-Saxon culture of America north of the Mexican border. This Latin civilization was originally Spanish (in Brazil Portuguese), but since the era of the revolutions which threw off the Spanish yoke, the Spanish influence has become more and more negligible, and locally has been somewhat supplanted by the French, and, to a small extent, by the Italian influence. Latin America was never colonized at all in the sense that North America was colonized. English settlers with their families came to the New World to found homes, but the early history of Latin America was that of a series of plundering and proselyting expeditions, and such of the adventurers as tarried were usually men without families who had no desire to stay a day longer than was necessary to acquire a fortune and return to Europe. Add to these the military forces who came under compulsion, and the missionaries, administrators, and concessionaires of all kinds and one has the bulk of the early European immigration. Under these circumstances the number of women who came with their husbands was naturally small, and most of the Europeans took Indian wives, frequently several of them, thus laying the basis for the half-breed population of the present day. In Paraguay, for instance, some of the colonial rulers are said to have had fifty or a hundred native concubines. If every descendant of these matings carries the Spanish name but has married mainly with Indian stock in the ten or fifteen generations since, it is easy to understand that present-day families may bear the names of hidalgos, of whose genetic traits they have virtually none. The number of European immigrants was never large. During the sixteenth century, a period of active exploitation, the entire movement from Spain to America is thought to have represented only about 1000 or 1500 persons a year. With a high death rate, and the disposition on their part to return as soon as possible, there was no opportunity for the Spaniard to establish the basis of a civilization built upon his own race. By 1553 foundling half-breeds numbered thousands in Spanish America and the viceroy Mendoza was obliged to establish an orphan school for them. Even at the end of the eighteenth century, when Humboldt visited Mexico City, he remarked that of the European-born Spaniards there, not one-tenth were women. The proportion of women must certainly have been still smaller in the provincial towns and on the frontiers. So far as the present population goes back to the early days of Spanish dominion, it may be said to be Spanish by name and Indian by blood. The families, which in many Spanish American countries have social prestige because of descent from the conquerors and rulers of the Colonial Period, must therefore attach all importance to the family name, and little or none to the many other lines of descent which have entered into the composition of their present generation. Honorable exception should be made in almost every one of the Spanish American republics of a small group of Whites that has consistently maintained its racial integrity and upheld intelligent ideals of racial progress, under most difficult conditions. In many of the countries, too, there are groups of far-seeing intellectuals who are working for the adoption of wise immigration policies, presenting sound and constructive measures of eugenic reform, and striving to awaken their fellow countrymen to the fact that a nation's capital is, in the last analysis, biological, and that permanent and satisfactory progress is possible only to a people with a healthy family life. In many of the Latin American countries the Whites, or those who pass as such (for they have, in most cases, a large proportion of Indian blood) form an oligarchy or ruling caste occupying the higher positions in the political and ecclesiastical worlds. They also constitute the land-owning and professional classes, while commerce and industry are largely in the hands of foreigners or their descendants. In many cases these foreign immigrants marry into the best native families, and thus their children become a part of the ruling caste. * * * * * Mexico. The restriction of European immigration into the United States under the National Origins Quota cutting off what had been the principal source of unskilled labor had an unexpected and undesirable effect in encouraging immigration from nearby countries of the Western Hemisphere, which were not under the quota, and particularly from Mexico. Industries accustomed to depend upon cheap, ignorant, and docile workers from Mediterranean or Alpine countries turned to the illiterate Indians on the South as a ready substitute. The stream of arrivals across the border, more illegal than legal, soon brought into the United States more than a million Mexicans. Only the unexpected depression beginning in 1929 stemmed this tide and apparently prevented Mexico from reconquering peacefully, by an immigrant invasion, the territory it had lost by the decision of war in 1848. Since the sixteen million residents of Mexico are the nearest large body of people in a position to supply immigrants to the United States and ready to do so, a study of their composition is of the highest importance at the present time. Mexico at the time of the Spanish Conquest had seen the rise and fall of several relatively high native civilizations, and that of the Aztecs, which was destroyed by the Spaniards, had many noteworthy features. The combination of brutality and piety which dominated the conquerors led to the extermination as far as possible of every salient feature of the native culture. The country was, thereafter, exploited ruthlessly by the Spaniards, but the Spanish civilization, such as it was, did not succeed in establishing itself in this foreign soil. The history of the last four centuries has been a history of the gradual absorption of the foreigners by the Indian element. This is true alike of race and culture. [Illustration: MEXICO CENTRAL AMERICA AND THE WEST INDIES] The large native population found here by the Spaniards was quickly reduced in numbers. A Spanish priest enumerates ten plagues which had decimated the people during his time, that is, during the first quarter of a century after the conquest. First the smallpox, brought by a Negro in one of Narvaez' ships. It is said to have destroyed more than half of the people in many of the provinces. The others were: the slaughter in the capture of Mexico City, the famine resulting from the widespread warfare; the abuses of overseers of the towns given in vassalage; the heavy tributes; the tremendous abuses in connection with the mines; the reconstruction of Mexico City by forced labor; the traffic in branded slaves; the abuses of transportation, with Indians as human beasts of burden; and the factional warfare among the Spaniards themselves, in which the Indians bore the brunt of the fighting. To these should be added particularly the other infectious diseases that the Spaniards introduced, such as tuberculosis and syphilis, as to which the aboriginal inhabitants had not the slightest immunity or resistance, through previous racial experience. Under such conditions the native population of the hemisphere was probably reduced by 50 or 75 per cent in a few generations, and in the West Indies it was exterminated. Since then it has been steadily regaining ground on the mainland, though not in the islands, in many of which the Negro has replaced it. The number of Spaniards who came at any time to Mexico is placed at 300,000 at the outside. Many of these certainly did not remain in the country and few of them brought their families. Under the conditions that existed in Mexico and the other conquered territories, it was universally recognized that the situation was not suitable for a white woman. While the Spanish Government encouraged men to take their wives out from Spain, few of them cared to do so, and probably most of the men who came to the colonies were unmarried. Spain put insuperable difficulties in the way of unmarried women who wanted to emigrate, so that Spanish women throughout the history of Mexico were few. The resulting population is therefore made up of the offspring of the Indians and of a few Spanish men mated to Indian women. Most of the Mexican population is still pure or nearly pure Indian. There is a considerable hybrid element which does most of the talking, and a negligible element that can be considered white in the strict sense of the term. Mexican statistics commonly designate about 10 per cent of the population as white. But most of these have much Indian blood, and recent students doubt whether 3 per cent are properly to be described as white. Much of this genuine white element is in Mexico City, though the various states have their local and reputable white aristocracies, of which that in Yucatan is conspicuous for the maintenance of high standards of racial integrity. The Mexican revolution which began in 1810 dislodged the overseas Spanish and substituted exploitation by the local hybrid group. Since then the general trend has been toward the rise to control of the Indians. The last period of revolution, which began in 1910 and may be said to be still in progress, has been marked by attempts to take away from the hybrid oligarchy the immense land properties which it had obtained and to distribute them to the Indians. While this has met with many difficulties, and has been realized only to a small extent, it has been at least the avowed objective of most of the revolutionists in the past two or three decades. During recent years there has been a glorification of the Mexican Indian and his culture by North American writers. No doubt the Mexican Indian is well suited to his environment, and his traditional habits are well suited to him. This does not mean, however, that either has any important contribution to make to the United States which would be realized by a northward mass migration of agricultural and industrial serfs. On the contrary, the Mexican immigration to the United States, which is made up overwhelmingly of the poorer Indian element, has brought nothing but disadvantages. It has created, particularly in the Southwestern States, an exploited peasant class unconformable with the principles of American civilization. This population, neither physically nor mentally up to the prevailing standards, is producing a large contribution to the future American race, since every one of its numerous children born in the States becomes an American citizen by birth. Tests made in the schools of southern California, in which the language handicap was discounted as far as possible, indicate that the average Mexican child was about as far below the average Negro child in abstract intellect as the average Negro child was below the average white child. Physically, the race is conspicuous by its low resistance to tuberculosis, which has exterminated so large a part of the native population of the Western Hemisphere during the last four centuries. The New World had not been subject to tuberculosis and therefore offered a fertile field for the germs of this disease. The population of the Old World had been ravaged by it for many centuries, and in each generation the low resistants had been killed off so that a more immune stock had been gradually produced by natural selection. Such studies as have been made in the Southwestern States indicate that the average Mexican family is at least half again as large as the average white family. Thus there is every reason to expect that, without a sharp limitation of such immigration, the Southwest will become more and more Mexicanized. By 1928 Los Angeles County had more than a quarter of a million Mexicans, and the City of Los Angeles had the largest Mexican population of any city in the world, with the exception of Mexico City. Whole industries and whole agricultural areas had come to think themselves largely dependent on Mexican labor, while millions of American citizens were out of employment in every State of the Union. The dependence of agriculture in the Southwestern States on cheap Mexican labor, largely of a migratory nature, is particularly disastrous from a racial point of view, since the maintenance of American civilization depends largely on the maintenance of a healthy and prosperous farm population. [Illustration: DISTRIBUTION OF MEXICANS _The figures represent distribution of Mexicans by states per 100000 of population in 1930_ Distribution of Mexicans by States. Except in the border States Mexicans are chiefly concentrated in large urban centers.] Nearly all of the Mexicans who came to the United States were seeking to better themselves economically and to avoid the murder and plunder that had been going on in their country for a score of years under the guise of revolution. Most of them intended to return home as soon as conditions became more satisfactory, but as conditions from year to year failed to improve, the Mexican population tended to become a permanent one. At the same time few of the Mexicans became American citizens, and in every community where they settled in racial groups there were unsatisfactory standards of education and sanitation. Most of the Mexicans come with their families, thereby differing markedly from some of the other foreign groups, as the Bulgarians, Greeks, Spanish, and Filipinos, which consist mainly of unmarried men. These latter either return home after making money, or else intermarry with the other immigrant groups. The Mexican community, on the other hand, perpetuates itself and increases without much intermarriage with the other population. Since the depression beginning in 1929 there has been a repatriation of a portion of the Mexican immigration of unknown size but undoubtedly considerable. Lack of work has led many to go home where they can live more economically and be among friends, and at the same time American authorities began to offer free transportation back to Mexico for those dependent on public charity, and willing to leave. Thus trainload after trainload returned, and at the same time a tightening of the immigration restrictions and procedures on the border cut down the flow of immigrants to almost nothing. While the census of 1930 counted nearly a million and a half Mexicans in the United States, it is probable that the number has since then diminished, and it is of highest importance that it should not be allowed to increase. The Mexican Indian has no racial qualities to contribute to the United States population that are now needed, and if he has any cultural contribution to make it will not be made by the immigration of hundreds of thousands of illiterate and destitute laborers. * * * * * Guatemala. More than half of the population of Guatemala is still pure Indian, and the half breed class which plays such an important part in Mexico and other countries is relatively less conspicuous there. The inconsiderable white population is made up in part of the descendants of old Spanish families and in part from more recent immigrants, especially Germans. The proportion of Teutonic names among the rulers of Guatemala during the last generation has been growing steadily. With two million population Guatemala is the most powerful of the Central American countries, but the Indians tend to be little more than a subject race exploited by others, and the general progress of the country is therefore in some ways slow. * * * * * Honduras suffers partly from its tropical situation but still more from the mixture of races, and the large amount of Negro blood in the population of the lowlands. By contrast with Guatemala the Indian element is here unimportant, and the people are Negroes and half-breeds, or a little of each. With its 600,000 population largely of mongrel origin, the Republic has been a backward member of the Central American group throughout most of its history. British Honduras is an unimportant area with much the same characteristics. The so-called Caribs along the coast are now scarcely distinguishable from pure Negroes. * * * * * Salvador. Smaller than the State of New Jersey, Salvador has an importance out of proportion to its size because of the dense population and large amount of cultivable land together with a smaller amount of Negro mixture than in the adjoining Republics. With a population estimated at a million and a half (such a thing as a real census is almost unknown in Latin American countries), its people are largely of mixed blood with the Indian predominating, but the number of pure-blooded Indians is not large compared with Guatemala. * * * * * Nicaragua, a synonym for turbulence in the minds of Americans, has also a population of highly mixed character. The Indians did not remain a distinct group as in Guatemala, nor were they largely exterminated as in Costa Rica. They were absorbed into a half-breed population of more than 600,000 which has also in the lowlands a large Negro admixture. The upper classes of more or less remote European ancestry have maintained a semi-feudal political dominance that has been disastrous to the welfare of the country, and it is doubtful whether the Yankee influence, which during the last generation has been stronger in Nicaragua than in any of the other Latin American states except Panama, has been particularly useful. * * * * * Costa Rica has always prided itself on being the whitest of the Central American Republics, and its history of relative peace and prosperity reflects this fact. Apart from a fringe of Indians and Negroes in the lowlands, the population of nearly 500,000 is concentrated in a beautiful and healthful inland region. The Indians of the country having been driven out or destroyed at an early day, the settlers of Costa Rica were unable to live as parasites exploiting serfs as did the upper classes in some of the other Central American countries, but were forced to settle on the land and work out their own salvation. While they were therefore considered in colonial days to be in a pitiable situation, the result was highly advantageous in the long run, for it has given the country a more nearly genuine population of citizens prepared to contribute to the progress and welfare of the country. A large part of the Spanish blood in Costa Rica is supposed to be Galician, and therefore to have a considerable Nordic infusion. The Gallegos, as natives of this part of the Iberian Peninsula are called, are one of the most law-abiding and hard-working of the numerous peoples that comprise the Spanish Republic, and their descendants in Costa Rica reflect credit on their origin. In most of the other Latin American countries the Spanish element is supposed to be largely from Andalusia and therefore quite different in make-up, with a noteworthy Moorish element. * * * * * Panama with its hybrid population of half a million, largely Negro in composition, is unimportant in the picture of Latin America. North American influence has transformed it economically, but cannot change mongrels into a sound and vigorous stock. * * * * * Colombia has large numbers of Negroes in the hot lowlands, but the bulk of the six million population is Indian with a slight infusion of European blood. The upper class of Colombia represents the results of geographical isolation, the region until recently having been inaccessible; and by virtue of a sort of intellectual inbreeding it has long been the most conservative and least touched by foreign influence of all the Latin American "aristocracies." The upper-class Colombian prides himself with reason on the purity of his Spanish blood, and still lives to a large degree in the memories of the ancient colonial period. In Bogotá there is an intense anti-Negro social sentiment. The isolation of the half-breeds in Colombia has come nearer to producing a new racial group than is to be found elsewhere in Latin America. * * * * * Venezuela, in spite of its nearly three million inhabitants, is an unimportant country, largely hybrid with extensive Negro infiltrations. As in many other Latin American countries, the number of Whites is officially put down as about 10 per cent, but as in most such instances it is doubtful whether one resident in fifty can properly be called a white man, except by courtesy. * * * * * Guiana. The three Guianas, British, French, and Dutch, represent one of the least attractive parts of South America in almost every way. British Guiana has 300,000 inhabitants of whom one-third are Negroes, another third Orientals, mostly Hindu, and the remainder is largely made up of crosses between these two elements, of a few thousand native Indians, and of a handful of Whites. Dutch Guiana has a population well under a hundred thousand, largely Orientals imported to furnish coolie labor and including Hindus, Javanese, and Chinese. There are many Negroes and a couple of thousand Whites. [Illustration: SOUTH AMERICA] French Guiana differs from the Dutch settlement mainly in being smaller, its population being not much more than 30,000, including many convicts or ex-convicts, for this has long been a French penal settlement. * * * * * Brazil with a territory larger than the continental United States differs from its neighbors in many striking ways, apart from the fact that it was settled by Portuguese, not Spanish, and that its language and culture are therefore Portuguese rather than Spanish. The Indian population was killed off or driven westward by the early settlers just as in the United States, so that it is now confined largely to the untracked and almost unpopulated forests of the Amazonian Basin, where perhaps a couple of a million aborigines may still exist. To provide labor the Portuguese imported slaves from Africa, and then fused with them to produce the present-day pre-dominantly Negro population. The Portuguese here thus repeated the experience of the mother country. During the great years of Portuguese exploration and colonization in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries, it has been estimated that a million Portuguese, mainly young men, went to the tropics, and for the most part never came back. Negroes were imported to take their places and to do the work of the country. Intermarriage of these Negroes with the old population left Portugal with a larger amount of Negro blood than any other European country, and greatly impaired its ability to contribute to the progress of civilization. Thus Portugal, which, when dominated by the Nordics, had set an extraordinary example of progress in many ways, now contributes relatively little to such progress and only the rebirth of a reasonable pride of race, and the application of a sound eugenics program will enable it to regain a position of leadership. History has repeated itself in Brazil. The salvation of Brazil has been the arrival during the past century of European immigrants. Thousands of Germans poured into the Highlands of the Southern States where large regions have an almost Teutonic civilization at the present time. If a false interpretation of the Monroe Doctrine had not helped to interfere with this process, the results for South America might have been most beneficial. But the main currents of immigration have been from Latin countries of the Old World. During the past century Brazil has received more than four million foreigners, of whom a million and a half were Italians, a million and a quarter Portuguese, and half a million Spanish. Thus more than three-fourths of the immigration has been from the Latin countries, and only about a quarter of a million from Germany and Austria. Since the World War this overwhelming migration from the Latin countries has slowed down. The German migration has, on the contrary, increased. Brazil thus consists of two distinct areas: a relatively small, fertile, and healthful highland region in the south, where the main activities of the country are carried on largely under the influence of Mediterranean and Alpine immigrants; and a huge tropical area given over mainly to the Negro and Mulatto element and the Indians. With a population of somewhere around 30,000,000 Brazil is not only the largest of the South American republics, but nearly as large as all the rest of them put together. The future of Brazil depends largely on the nature of its immigration policy during the next generation or two and on the acceptance of a workable program of eugenics. Fortunately, no South American country has taken up such a policy with more interest than has this great republic. It still possesses an aristocracy which has maintained its racial purity, but this is probably too small a nucleus alone to regenerate the whole body politic. * * * * * Uruguay. Crossing the boundary from Brazil to Uruguay, one sees a new picture. Uruguay is almost entirely white. Indeed, this whole region of La Plata is one of the future dominant areas of the New World. It contains less Negro blood than does, relatively, the United States. Not only have Negroes been largely kept out, but the remnants of Indian tribes have become inconspicuous, as on the plains of the Mississippi Valley, where the Indians, mere nomads with a negligible culture, were driven back by the march of civilization. The striking parallel between the settlement of this region and that of the Western States of North America is often pointed out. Each was a sheep and cattle country, and then farmers took up land and developed it into a region of prosperity and great potentialities. Uruguay has a cosmopolitan population almost wholly of European origin. Since the World War it has attracted not only a large part of the Spanish emigration but also large numbers of Italians, French, Germans, and others. The earlier immigration was largely of North Italians, mainly of Alpine blood with slight Nordic infusion. The total population of the country is now well over a million and a half. A wise selection of immigration from now on will still further increase the influence of this small republic, and set a good example for all of South America. * * * * * Argentina represents one of the striking examples of a nation built up rapidly by foreign immigration. Nearly 85 per cent of its people are foreign-born or the descendants of recent immigration, with Italians forming by far the largest group. Moreover, the Argentine Republic has attracted the vigorous population of North Italy, which racially is mainly Alpine but still has a Nordic element, and forms a striking contrast to the population of South Italian and Sicilian immigrants that have filled up the slums of North American cities. The North Italians are more akin to the Swiss and the South Germans than they are to the South Italians. Non-whites do not amount to 5 per cent of the population. The total population of something like 10,000,000 makes the Argentine Republic second only to Brazil in size in South America, and in every respect, except size, it easily takes first rank. The racial composition of this extraordinary nation with its ultra-modern civilization, and its get-rich-quick atmosphere, deserves more extended treatment than can be given here. The English, though not the most numerous, have taken the first place in its financial world. French immigrants, though fewer in number, have become a very important factor in the progress of its civilization. A hundred thousand Germans have settled in the country and form the backbone of many regions. Since the war Argentina has been one of the principal destinations of citizens of the former Central Empires who were going overseas. The spirit of the civilization has attracted many Jews. More than 160,000 immigrants during the last two generations are credited to Russia, and almost an equal number to Turkey. These last, however, were Turks only by force and were actually Christian Syrians from the Lebanon who became so completely identified with the retail trade of the country that the colloquial name for a small grocery store is "Turco." All of these elements together do not begin to measure in importance with the Spanish and Italian elements. But in recent years new currents have set in which, if continued, will profoundly modify the character of the country by introducing a large number of Slavs, particularly Poles, Yugoslavs, Czechoslovaks, and Lithuanians, together with the Slavic element among the Germans. Before the World War the immigration to Argentina was about seven-eighths from the Latin countries, but since then these have furnished only about two-thirds. Argentina therefore represents a white population largely Alpine and Mediterranean with a considerable Nordic element. It is doubtful whether it stands to gain by allowing Alpines to increase, particularly if this brings in different types of culture and traditions. Argentina might well profit by the mistakes of the United States and immediately orient its immigration policy along sound logical and constructive lines. * * * * * Chile, unlike the Indo-Spanish countries just south of the United States, is also a white man's country. The pure Indians are a vanishing minority. The Spanish and dominant element is largely made up of Basques, but there has been a substantial addition of British, whose influence is important in commerce and industry, and of Germans, who have dominated the army and education, and have been an important factor in agriculture. Chile, with four million population, is therefore the least Latin of any of the countries south of the United States. The progressiveness and prosperity of the region have long attracted the attention of every traveller. * * * * * Bolivia is another of the pre-dominantly Indian countries which have made little contribution to the world. The number of Whites here is negligible. Immigration has never been important and the Bolivian has developed a provincial arrogance and hostility to foreigners which is as prejudicial to his own interests as it is unwarranted. Scarcely one-fifth of the people even speak Spanish in their daily life, and two-thirds are primitive Indians, the others being hybrids of varying degrees. * * * * * Paraguay is an Indian republic which has not only avoided the Negro influence common elsewhere but has almost escaped the infusion of white blood. There are scarcely any pure Whites. The Guarani Indians of this region were not highly civilized like the Mayas and Incas, and therefore took on a Spanish culture instead of retaining one of their own. It would have been extremely interesting to see what an Indian republic could amount to in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Unfortunately the course of experiment was obstructed by one of the most sanguinary wars in history (1864-69) in which Paraguay carried on a contest with Brazil and Argentina until the greater part of its male population was destroyed. At the beginning of the war, the population of Paraguay was officially said to be 1,337,437. Even if this were extraordinarily inaccurate and exaggerated, the figures afterward were no less so, for the calculation after the close of hostilities credited the country with a loss of more than a million. More exactly, the population was returned as 221,709, of which 86,079 were children, 106,254 women, and only 28,746 men. Nothing like this situation has ever before been recorded in a large population. Whole regiments had been made up of boys under sixteen. In more than half a century since then, the country has not begun to recover. Even now its population is less than a million. Immigrants from Europe have always avoided it. Paraguay is in a class by itself. * * * * * Peru's four or five million inhabitants are mostly pure Indians, while the remainder are nearly all hybrids. Chinese and Japanese as well as Negroes have contributed to the mongrelization of the mass, and not one in ten even claims to be white, which here, as elsewhere in Latin America, by no means guarantees anything more than a homoeopathic dose of European blood. The aboriginal civilization is often described as remarkably high but seems to have been the work of peoples who antedated the Spanish by a long period; and the Conquerors themselves apparently considered the Peruvian Indians to be less intelligent than those they had encountered in Mexico. The number of Indians decreased during the early Spanish regime until some districts were almost depopulated and the loss of leaders especially was irreparable. Whether or not the present inhabitants are the descendants of the Incas, they have not been able to develop a strong and progressive state. * * * * * Ecuador is an isolated and unimportant region inhabited largely by backward Indian tribes. Probably not less than two-thirds of the 2,000,000 population are pure Indian. The handful of Whites and the few hundred thousand hybrids rule the country. The Negro element, never large, is gradually being absorbed and is leaving its stamp on the whole population. * * * * * The West Indies are more important to the United States immigration policy than would be expected from their size, because of their close proximity to American ports of entry. * * * * * Cuba has always received its immigrants pre-dominantly from Spain, and the imported Negro element, numbering about 800,000 of its three millions of population, is not increasing in importance. The island is considered less white than Puerto Rico, but more than a quarter of a million of the inhabitants are Spanish-born, these comprising nearly three-quarters of all the foreigners. As in many other Latin-American countries, the Chinese have taken a strong hold, beginning nearly a century ago, and are intermarrying with the Whites. Cuba does not represent a desirable or needed source of immigration to the United States, and should be put under a proper quota. * * * * * Puerto Rico has a population of nearly a million and a half. The fact that this dense population cannot make a living under the present and backward conditions on the island, and that it is continually exercising its right of entry to the United States, is one of the most serious features of the present immigration policy. The Negro and Mulatto element makes up a majority of the population but is relatively losing ground--partly from high death rates and partly by absorption in the mass. The Indian stock is extinct. Immigration from abroad has been negligible for a long time. As the island is a territory, the inhabitants are citizens of the United States and cannot be prevented from coming freely into the mainland. The number of Puerto Ricans in New York City was at one time estimated as high as 100,000. If economic conditions are attractive there is nothing to prevent half a million of them from migrating to the continent and adding their traits to the much-overloaded "melting pot." It is now clear that the United States made a great mistake, after the war with Spain, in taking over territories that were already populated by aliens. Previously the territory that was acquired was largely empty and suitable for settlement by the old stock. What has been done is not easy to undo, but it may at least serve as an emphatic lesson against any further acquisitions of inhabited territory in the future. Meanwhile there is an embryonic movement for independence in Puerto Rico, which may have to, indeed should, be encouraged in order to give the United States protection from its own folly. * * * * * The Virgin Islands, which the United States bought from Denmark in 1917, have, like other West Indian islands, a population almost exclusively Negro or Mulatto. * * * * * The British West Indies are overwhelmingly black, though many of them, such as New Providence, Barbados, Bermuda, and the Bahamas, have substantial English aristocracies that guard jealously their racial heritage. These British islands, particularly Jamaica and Barbados (the latter one of the most densely populated spots in the whole world) have been fertile sources of black emigration to other islands and to the mainland. * * * * * Haiti is a purely Negro Republic, and offers a good illustration of what the Negro accomplishes if left to himself, even though given all the advantages of easy access to European civilization. The republic of Santo Domingo occupies the other part of the same island; its hybrid population has more Spanish and less Negro blood but it is not by any means civilized. In general the islands of the West Indies now contain nearly 8,000,000 people, the descendants of Negro slaves with a very small but undiscoverable admixture of Indian blood and a somewhat larger but still unimportant admixture of European stock. They present a standing menace to the United States immigration policy, and afford one of the principal arguments for extending stringent restrictions to the Western Hemisphere. The whole Caribbean is in the process of becoming a Negro territory. Such a result may be inevitable, but adjacent nations which desire to remain white must protect themselves while there is time. In broad outline, the picture of Latin-America is the picture of a diversified region occupied by some 80,000,000 people, mainly Indians, but with varying proportions of White and Negro blood, the former usually small in amount, the latter often large. The few countries that may properly be called white are not emigrant-exporting countries, and their inhabitants are for the most part non-Nordic, therefore not particularly well adapted to incorporation in the United States. In conclusion, it may be remarked at this point that each successive revolution in Latin America has tended toward hastening the elimination of European blood and influence. It is usually the half-breeds who revolt and they, in turn, are subject to the increasing self-assertion of the pure native. XVIII THE NORDIC OUTLOOK In the preceding chapters we have seen the unity of the nation greatly impaired in race and religion and threatened in language, but the country is still 70 per cent Nordic and 80 per cent Protestant, and no one foreign language seriously threatens our English speech. There are nearly 50 per cent of Old-Native American Whites in the country at large, although they have been swamped by aliens in New England and in the industrialized States of the Northeast. The great majority of the senators of the United States are still of old American stock and so are the members of the House of Representatives. The leaders of the nation in science, education, industry, and in the Army and Navy are still overwhelmingly Nordic, so that with these elements in our favor we are still in a position to check the increase of the other elements and contend against their deleterious effects upon our institutions. Much of the immigration during the last century has been identical with the old British stock in all respects. The English and the Scotch who have come over here, as well as the Scandinavians and most of the Germans, and perhaps some other elements, are to be regarded as reinforcements of the older stock. On the other hand, most of the people from southern and eastern Europe must be regarded as distinct menaces to our national unity. The remedy is first and foremost _the absolute_ suspension of all immigration from all countries; and the signs of the times indicate that such suspension is inevitable. Such a total suspension of immigration would remove all grounds for charges of discrimination against Asiatics, which now embarrass our foreign relations. At the very least, the same quota limitations should be imposed on the countries to the south of us as are enforced against Europe. In view of the fact that during the great depression which began in 1929 we had millions of unemployed of our own people here, we should be deaf to sentimental pleas for the admission of relatives of any kind. If families are separated, it has not been through the fault of the American people, and the immigrant can return whence he came, if he wishes to join his family. As a matter of fact, it is only one or two groups which are so vigorously clamoring for the admission of relatives. Not only should European immigration be entirely stopped but still more, all immigration of every sort from countries to the south of us should be barred. In the islands and on the coasts of the Caribbean, and in Mexico and in Central America, to say nothing of the countries farther south, we have a vast reservoir of Negroes, and of Indians in the interior, who sooner or later will be drawn toward the United States by the high wages of common labor. The strictest legislation at this time is necessary to prevent this impending invasion before it assumes the dimensions of a flood, such as has already happened in the case of the Mexican Indians. If immigration be not absolutely prohibited, at very least, no one should be allowed to enter the United States, unless a visitor or traveller, except white men of superior intellectual capacity distinctly capable of becoming valuable American citizens. The law of 1790 providing that no one could become a citizen of the United States except free Whites was the law until the aftermath of the Civil War added the word "black" or "of African descent" to those who could be naturalized. This last provision should be repealed and the blacks with the South American and Central American Indians put on the same footing as the Orientals. All Filipino immigration should be stopped before it becomes a serious menace. If possible, half-breeds from Hawaii should not be allowed entry and absolute restriction should be placed on the entrance of Negroes and Mulattoes from Puerto Rico. There are now swarms of them in the Harlem District of New York. This last is simple justice to the American Negroes. The increasing use of machines calls for less and less common labor, and even in normal times there will be a surplus of man power for the factories and the farms. Why should outsiders be allowed to come in and take the jobs and lower the living standards of American labor? This is one of the greatest questions before the American people and the depression following 1929 has brought this truth home. We have now in this country over five million aliens who are not citizens, more than a million of whom are said to be illegally here. These last should be deported as fast as they can be located and funds made available. There can be no better means of relieving unemployment present or future than by such wholesale deportation. We should begin with those aliens who have violated our laws or who have become public charges and all such, now in our penitentiaries and asylums, should be deported forthwith. When that has been done and done fully, it should be followed by the deportation of unemployed aliens. Registration is necessary for the carrying out of any proper system of deportation. Why any one should object to registration as a proper means of identification is a mystery, unless there is a sinister motive behind the desire to conceal identity. A storm of protest will arise from the vociferous and influential foreign blocs and from the radicals and half-breeds claiming to be Americans, who will all rush to the defense of their kind. It is strange to find how sensitive we are to any foreign criticism of things American, but how prone we are to listen respectfully to local aliens, who are urging their own interests at the expense of the national welfare. In order to curb the influence of these aliens and to prevent their pernicious control by politicians, it would also be wise to suspend all naturalization for a generation at least. Our citizenship in the past has been made of little value by the absurd way that it has been thrust upon foreigners. Nothing can be more ill-advised politically than the Americanization programs of some worthy people. An American is not made by conferring upon him the franchise, but by the alien's voluntary and genuine acceptance of our language, laws, institutions, and cultural traditions. Even though the foregoing program were put into effect, which would, possibly, be a "Counsel of Perfection," we would still have with us an immense mass of Negroes and nearly as many southern and eastern Europeans, intellectually below the standard of the average American. The proper extension to and use by these undesirable classes of a knowledge of birth control may be in the future of substantial benefit, and the practice of sterilization of the criminal and the intellectually unfit, now legally established in twenty-seven States, can be resorted to with good result. The fundamental question for this nation, as well as for the world at large, is for the community itself to regulate births by depriving the unfit of the opportunity of leaving behind posterity of their own debased type. Our civilization has mercifully put an end to the cruel, wasteful, and indiscriminate destruction of the unfit by Nature, wherefore it is our duty, as exponents of that civilization, to substitute scientific control, that civilization itself may be maintained. Down to date the American stock has only just begun to intermarry with the immigrant stock. When this process has gone further--and it will go further--it will be more difficult to control the destinies of the nation. It is therefore the duty of all Americans, and such of the immigrant stock as are in sympathy with them, to face the problem boldly and to take all eugenic means to encourage the multiplication of desirable types and abate drastically the increase of the unfit and miscegenation by widely diverse races. So much for our internal problems. The problems outside of our country are a different matter. In the last century the world has grown smaller, and, perhaps, in the long run America must take her part in international affairs. The White Man's Burden As Americans we are faced with the necessity of assuming our share of a burden which has been carried by Great Britain for the last three centuries--that is "the White Man's Burden,"--the duty of policing the world and maintaining the prestige of the white man throughout the Seven Seas. Due to the change in the industrial situation all over the world and to the spread of the fatal sentimentalism of the Anglo-Saxon, the lower races in Europe and elsewhere are beginning to assert themselves. Everywhere from one end of the world to the other is heard the cry of self-determination. Americans already have much the same problem in the Philippines. The attitude of the Imperial Government in London toward the native races in its various Dominions has been in the past and still is not unlike that of the Federal Government in Washington toward the Negroes in our Southern States. Americans must sympathize with the firm resolve of the handful of white men in South Africa (less than a million and a half) to control and regulate the Negro population there--numbering some seven millions and in the midst of which they live. The same problem arises in Australia and New Zealand where the Whites are determined that their civilization shall not be swamped by Orientals. We must also sympathize with the Whites in Kenya Colony in their opposition to a filling of their country with cheap Hindu labor. As Americans we can understand the Negro and recognize his cheerful qualities, but we can have little sympathy with the Hindu whom we have expressly barred from our Pacific Coast. These Hindus, with the Chinese, have ruined the native races of many of the Polynesian Islands. They have been for ages in contact with the highest civilizations, but have failed to benefit by such contact, either physically, intellectually, or morally. Similar dangers exist on the Pacific Coast of Canada. The struggle for the maintenance of the supremacy of the white man over the native, or for that matter over the non-European, until now has been maintained by Great Britain alone. Her ruling class has given the world the greatest example since the days of Rome, of a just, fearless, and unselfish government, but apparently the native does not desire such a government. The old imperial instinct that enabled Great Britain to retain control of the white man's world appears to be coming to an end. The weary Titan seems willing to turn over the burden of government to the Dominions as fast as the latter demand it. This is evidenced also by the proposal to give up the naval base at Singapore. If this base is ever actually abandoned, it means England's withdrawal from the supremacy of the Pacific. In such event, whether we Americans like it or not--whether we intend it or not--the burden of the control of the Pacific will pass in great measure to America. The future lies in the Pacific rather than in the Atlantic, and with the completion of the Panama Canal, America is brought face to face with Oriental problems. Australia and New Zealand, still more British Columbia, look for co-operation and leadership to the United States as well as to Great Britain, and we must be prepared to accept this responsibility. We have our own troubles in respect to the Philippines. The swarming of the Filipinos into the Pacific States brings with it a repetition of the Chinese problem of sixty years ago. California is determined that the white man there shall not be replaced by the Chinese, the Japanese, the Mexican, or the Filipino. The Eastern States should face this problem understandingly, and recognize the simple fact that the white men on the Pacific Coast of the United States and Canada are determined to maintain a white ownership of the country, even though the East has been willing to see New England swamped by French-Canadians and Polaks, and the industrial centers of the North filled to overflowing with southern and eastern Europeans. When we talk about the maintenance of the white man's ideals and culture and about the supremacy of the white man, we are talking about two distinct things. One is the determination of the white man to keep for himself his own countries, the United States, Great Britain, Canada, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, and many of the smaller islands. With this determination Americans sympathize and sooner or later we may be called on to help protect the White race and the English language in these countries. It seems to be a part of our destiny. The other phase of white supremacy is the white man's effort to benefit the backward races and raise them to civilization by instilling his language, his religion, and his culture into Asiatics and Africans. This is the tendency of foreign missions, and it leads sooner or later to a challenge by the natives of the control of the Whites. To rule justly, as the English have in India and Burma, is for the best interest of the native. For example, the United States should either firmly govern the Philippines, which, in the last analysis, is for the interest and enrichment of the Filipinos, or else abandon them to their own devices. If Japan ever gets hold of these islands, she will keep them without regard to the wishes or interests of the native, as that Empire is not greatly troubled with sentimentalists and native sympathizers such as flourish in the United States. The Japanese, the Chinese, the Hindus, and the Moslems have cultures, customs, religions, arts, literatures, and institutions of their own, which for them may be, and in many cases probably are, as good as our own. The writer does not see any gain in destroying these native elements of culture or replacing them indiscriminately with the institutions of the white man to which those races are, for the most part, unfitted. Democracy is an excellent example. It simply will not work among Asiatics. In fact, its success is yet fully to be proven in the Western World. But the other side of the problem--whether we, the White race, shall surrender our own culture, our own lands and our own traditions, good or bad, to another race--presents a very different question. Fortunately, in this case, Reason and Sentiment march hand in hand. The prestige and strength of Europe and Great Britain have been greatly impaired since the World War and Western civilization sooner or later may be forced to hand on the Torch to America. We see the Nordics again confronted across the Pacific by their immemorial rivals, the Mongols. This will be the final arena of the struggle between these two major divisions of man for world dominance and the Nordic race in America may find itself bearing the main brunt. In the meantime, the Nordic race, that has built up, protected, and preserved Western civilization, needs to realize the necessity of its own solidarity and close co-operation. Upon this mutual understanding rest the peace of the world and the preservation of its civilization. Let us take thought as to how we can best prepare for our share of the task before us--that is, bear our share of the White Man's Burden. BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbott, John S.C., _Peter Stuyvesant_. New York, Dodd, Mead & Co., 1898. Adams, Alexander A., _The Plateau Peoples of South America_. (An Essay in Ethnic Psychology.) New York, Geo. Routledge & Sons, Ltd., 1915. Adams, James Truslow, _The Founding of New England_. Boston, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1921. ----, _The March of Democracy_. New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1932-33. ----, _New England in the Republic, 1776-1850_. Boston, Little Brown, 1926. ----, _Provincial Society, 1690-1763_. New York, Macmillan Co., 1927. Vol. III of series entitled _A History of American Life_. ----, _Revolutionary New England, 1691-1776_. Boston, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1923. Alsina, Juan A., _European Immigration to the Argentine_, 1898. American Council of Learned Societies, _Report of the committee on linguistic and national stocks in the population of the United States_. Washington, D.C., 1932. (Reprint from annual report of the American Historical Association for 1931, pp. 107-441.) Arber, Edw. (ed.), _Story of the Pilgrim Fathers_. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1897. Arbois de Jubainville, M.H. d': 1. "Les Celts en Espagne," _Revue Celtique_, Vols. XIV and XV. ----, 2. "Les Celts et les langues celtiques," _Revue archéologique_, série 2, t. XLIII, pp. 87-96, 141-155. ----, 3. "Les Gaulois dans l'Italie du Nord," _Rev. Celt._, Vol. XI. Avebury, Lord (Sir John Lubbock), _Prehistoric Times_, 7th ed. New York, Henry Holt & Co.; London, Williams and Norgate, 1864-1913. Avery, Elroy McKendree, _A History of the United States and Its People_. Cleveland, Burroughs Bros., 1905. Babcock, Kendrick Charles, _The Scandinavian Element in the U.S._ Urbana, University of Illinois, 1914. Baily, John, Esq., _Central America_. London, Trelawney Saunders, 1850. Bancroft, Hubert Howe, _History of Arizona and New Mexico, 1530-1888_, Vol. XVII. San Francisco, The History Co., 1889. ----, _History of California_, 4 vols. San Francisco, A.L. Bancroft & Co., 1884, 1885, 1886. ----, _History of Oregon_, 2 vols. San Francisco, The History Co., 1886. ----, _History of Washington, Idaho, and Montana_. San Francisco, The History Co., 1890. Barker, Eugene C. (ed.), _Readings in Texas History_. Dallas, Southwest Press, 1929. Barker, Howard F., "The Founders of New England." American Historical Review 38 (4): 702-713. July, 1933. Bassanovitch, I., _Materials on the Anthropology of the Bulgars: The Lomsk District_, pp. 3-186, 1891. Beard, Charles and Mary, _Rise of American Civilization_. New York, Macmillan, 1927. Beddoe, John: 1. _The Anthropological History of Europe_, 1893. ----, 2. "The Kelts of Ireland," _Journal of Anthropology_, 1870-1871, pp. 117-131. ----, 3. "On the Stature and Bulk of Man in the British Isles," _Memoirs of the Anthropological Society_, Vol. III, pp. 384-573. London, 1867-1869. ----, 4. _The Races of Britain_. Bristol and London, 1885. Bertrand, Alexandre (with S. Reinach), _Les Celts dans les vallées du Pô et du Danube_. Paris, E. Leroux, 1894. Binder, Julius, _Die Plebs_. Leipzig, G. Bohme, Deichert, 1909. _Biographical and Historical Memoirs of Northeast Arkansas._ Chicago, Goodspeed, 1889. Blackmar, Frank W. (ed.), _Kansas_. Chicago, Standard Pub., 1912. Blegen, Theodore C., _Norwegian Migration to America_. Northfield, Minnesota, Norwegian American Historical Assn., 1931. Boam, Henry J., _British Columbia_. London, Sells Ltd., 1912. Boni, G. Roma, _Notizie degli Sclavi_; série 5, pp. 123 seq. and 375 seq., 1903. Bork, Ferdinand, _Die Mitanni Sprache_. Berlin, W. Peiser, 1909. Boule, M., "Essai de paléontologie stratigraphique de l'homme," _Revue d'anthropologie_, série 3, t. III, pp. 129-144, 272-297, 385-411, 647-680, 1888. Bourinot, Sir John G., _Canada under British Rule, 1760-1900_. Cambridge, Massachusetts, University Press, 1900. Bracq, Jean Charlemagne, _The Evolution of French Canada_. New York, The Macmillan Company, 1924. Breasted, James H.: 1. _Ancient Times, A History of the World_. Boston, Ginn & Co., 1916. ----, 2. "The Origins of Civilization," _Scientific Monthly_, vols. IX, nos. 4, 5, 6, and X, nos. 1, 2, 3. ----, 3. _A Survey of the Ancient World_. Boston, Ginn & Co., 1919. ----, 4. _History of Egypt_, and other writings. Bresette, Linna E., _Mexicans in the United States: Report of a Brief Survey_. Washington, D.C., Natl. Catholic Welfare Conf., 1929. Breuil, L'Abbé H., "Les peintures rupestres d'Espagne," (avec Serrano Gomez et Cabre Aguilo), _L'Anthropologie_, t. XXIII, 1912. Brewer, Daniel Chauncey, _The Conquest of New England by the Immigrant_. New York, Putnam's Sons, 1926. Brown, John Henry, _History of Texas_, 2 vols. St. Louis, L.E. Daniell. Browne, William Hand, _Maryland, The History of a Palatinate_. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1890. Bruce, Philip Alexander, LL.B., LL.D., _History of Virginia, 1607-1763_, vol. I. Chicago and New York, American Historical Society, 1924. ----, _Institutional History of Virginia_. New York, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1910. Bruhnes, Jean, "Race et nation," _Le Correspondant_. Paris, September, 1917. Bryce, George, _The Remarkable History of the Hudson Bay Company_. New York, Scribner, 1900. Bryce, James, _The Holy Roman Empire_. Macmillan, 1904. Buck, Solon, _Illinois in 1818_. Springfield, Illinois Centennial Commission, 1917. Bureau of the Census: Reports on Population. Burke, U.R., _A History of Spain_, 2d ed. London, Longmans, Green & Co., 1900. Burrage, Henry S., D.D., _The Beginnings of Colonial Maine_, Portland, Me., Marks Printing House, 1914. Bury, J.B., _A History of Greece_. Macmillan, 1917. Cable, George W., _The Creoles of Louisiana_. New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1889. Cahun, Léon, _Histoire de l'Asie_. Paris, Armand Colin et Cie., 1896. Caldwell, Bishop R., _A Comparative Grammar of the Dravidian or South Indian Family of Languages_, 2d ed. London, K. Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co., 1913. Campbell, Charles, _Introduction to the History of the Colony and Ancient Dominion of Virginia_. Richmond, B.B. Minor, 1847. Candolle, Alphonse de, _Histoire des sciences et des savants depuis deux siècles_, 2me éd. Genève, H. Georg, 1806-1893. Carpenter, Niles, _Immigrants and Their Children_. Census Monographs VII. Washington, D.C., Bureau of the Census, 1927. Cartailhac, Émile, _La France préhistorique d'après les sépultures et les monuments_, 2me éd. Paris, 1903. Castle, William E., _Genetics and Eugenics_. Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1930. 4th ed. Cattell, J. McKeen, "A Statistical Study of American Men of Science," _Science_, N.S., vol. XXIV, nos. 621-623, and vol. XXXII, nos. 827 and 828. Chambers, Henry E., _Mississippi Valley Beginnings_. New York, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1922. Chantre, Ernest, "Recherches anthropologiques dans l'Asie occidentale," _Extrait des Archives du musée d'histoire naturelle de Lyon_. Lyon, 1895. Claiborne, J.F.H., _Mississippi as a Province, Territory, and State_, vol. I. Jackson, Mississippi, Power & Barksdale, 1880. Clay, Albert T., _The Empire of the Amorites_. Yale University Press, 1919. Cleland, Robert Glass, Ph.D., _A History of California_ (The American Period). New York, The Macmillan Co., 1930. Clemenceau, Georges, _South America Today_. New York and London, G. Putnam & Sons, 1911. Coan, Charles F., Ph.D., _A History of New Mexico_, vol. I. Chicago and New York, The American Historical Society, Inc., 1925. Cobb, Sanford H., _The Story of the Palatines_. New York and London, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1897. Cole, Arthur Charles, _The Era of the Civil War_. Springfield, Illinois Centennial Commission, 1919. Cole, Cyrenus, _A History of the People of Iowa_. Cedar Rapids, Torch Press, 1921. Collignon, R.: 1. "L'anthropologie au conseil de révision, etc.," _Bulletin de la Société d'anthropologie_, pp. 736-805, 1890. Also _Bull. Soc. d'anth._, 1883. ----, 2. "Anthropologie de la France: Dordogne, Charente, Creuse, Corrèze, Haute-Vienne," _Mémoires de la Société d'anthropologie_, série 3, I, fasc. 3, pp. 3-79. ----, 3. "L'indice céphalique des populations françaises," _L'Anth._, série I, pp. 200-224, 1890. Committee on Immigration and Naturalization, House of Representatives. Hearings, especially 67th Cong., 3d session; 68th Cong., 1st session; 69th Cong., 1st session; 70th Cong., 1st session and 2d session; 72d Cong., 1st session. (A valuable series of reports, containing testimony of H.H. Laughlin and other experts.) Washington, D.C., Government Printing Office, 1923-1932. Conklin, Edwin G., _Heredity and Environment_. Princeton University Press, 1929. 6th ed. Cooke, John Esten, _Virginia, A History of the People_. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1887. Cotterill, R.S., _History of Pioneer Kentucky_. Cincinnati, Johnson & Hardin, 1917. Cowan, Helen I., _British Emigration to British North America, 1783-1837_. University of Toronto Library, 1928. Coy, Owen Cochran, _The Great Trek_. Chicago, Powell Pub. Co. Crawford, O.G.S., "Distribution of Early Bronze Age Settlements in Britain," _Geographical Journal_, XL, pp. 184 seq., 1912. Darwin, Charles, _The Descent of Man_, 2d ed. London, John Murray, 1901. Davenport, Charles B.: 1. _The Feebly Inhibited, Nomadism ... Inheritance of Temperament_. Washington, D.C., Carnegie Institution, 1915. ----, 2. _Heredity in Relation to Eugenics_. New York, Henry Holt & Co., 1911. Davidson, Alex., and Stuvé, Bernard, _A Complete History of Illinois_ from 1673 to 1873. Springfield, Illinois Journal Co., 1874. Davis, John, _Travels in Louisiana and the Floridas in the Year 1802_. New York, I. Riley Co., 1806. Davis, Walter B., _History of Missouri_. St. Louis, Hall & Co., 1876. Dawkins, W. Boyd, _Early Man in Britain_. London, Macmillan, 1880. Deniker, J., "Les races de l'Europe, Note préliminaire," _L'anthropologie_, vol. IX, pp. 113-133. Paris, 1898. Dill, Samuel, _Roman Society in the Last Century of the Western Empire_, 2d ed. Macmillan, 1906. Eginhard, _Life of Charlemagne_, Glaister translation. London, George Bell & Sons, 1877. Esarey, Logan, _A History of Indiana_, vol. II. Indianapolis, Bowen, 1918. ----, _A History of Indiana from Its Exploration to 1850_. Indianapolis, W.K. Stewart, 1915. Fairbanks, _History of Florida, 1512-1842_. Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1871. Fanning, John William, Negro Migration. Bull. Univ. Georgia, June, 1930. Farish, Thomas Edwin: 1. _History of Arizona_, vol. III. San Francisco, The Filmer Bros. Electrotype Co., 1916. ----, 2. _History of Arizona_, vol VI. San Francisco, The Filmer Bros. Electrotype Co., 1918. Faust, Albert Bernhardt, _The German Element in the United States_, 2 vols. Boston and New York, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1909. Feist, Sigismund, _Address to the International Congress at Gratz_. 1909. Ferrero, Guglielmo, _The Greatness and Decline of Rome_. New York, Putnam, 1909. Ferris, Jacob, _The States and Territories of the Great West_. New York, Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856. Fish, Carl Russell, _The Rise of the Common Man, 1830-1850_. New York, Macmillan, 1927. Fisher, George Park, _The Colonial Era_. New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1892. Fisher, H.A.L., _The Political History of England_, vol. IV. Edited by William Hunt and Reginald Poole. London, Longmans, Green & Co., 1906. Fisher, Sydney George: 1. _The Making of Pennsylvania_. Philadelphia, J.B. Lippincott Co., 1896. ----, 2. _The Quaker Colonies_. New Haven, Yale University Press, 1921. Fiske, John, _The Dutch and Quaker Colonies in America_, vols. I and II. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1899. Fleure, H.J. (with James, T.C.), "Anthropological Types in Wales," _Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland_, vol. XLVI, pp. 35-154. ----, (with L. Winstanley), "Anthropology and Our Older Histories," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XLVIII, pp. 155 _seq._ Flint, Timothy, _History and Geography of the Mississippi Valley_, 2 vols. Cincinnati, E.H. Flint, 1832. Flower and Lydekker, _Mammals, Living and Extinct_. London, Adam and Charles Black, 1891. Foerster, Robert F., _The Racial Problems Involved in Immigration from Latin America and the West Indies to the United States_. Washington, D.C., U.S. Dept. of Labor, 1925. Folwell, William Watts, _Minnesota_. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1908. Ford, Henry Jones, _The Scotch-Irish in America_. Princeton University Press, 1915. Fortier, Alcée, _A History of Louisiana_, 4 vols. New York, Manzi, Joyant & Co., 1904. Fosdick, Lucian J., _The French Blood in America_. New York, The Baker & Taylor Co., 1911. Frank, Tenney, "Race Mixture in the Roman Empire," _American Historical Review_, vol. XII, no. 4, July, 1916. Freeman, E.A.: 1. _A Historical Geography of Europe_. Edited by J.B. Bury, 3d ed. London, Longmans, Green & Co., 1912. ----, 2. _Race and Language_. Historical Essays, series 3, pp. 173-230. New York and London, Macmillan, 1879. Fritsch, Gustave, _Das Haupthaare und seiner Bildungsstätte bei den Rassen des Menschen_. Berlin, 1912. Fuller, George W., _A History of the Pacific Northwest_, 3 vols. New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1931. Galton, Sir Francis, _Hereditary Genius_. London and New York, Macmillan & Co., 1892. Gameau, F.X., _History of Canada_, vols. I and II. Montreal, John Lovell, 1862. Gayarre, Charles, _Louisiana, Its History as a French Colony_, vol. II. New York, Wiley, 1852. Geer, Baron Gerard de, "A Geochronology of the Last 12,000 Years," _Compte-Rendu de la session 1910, du Congrès Géol. Intern._, vol. XI, fasc. 1, pp. 241-257. Gibbon, Edward, _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. Gindley, Anton, _History of the Thirty Years' War_. New York, G. Putnam's Sons, 1884. Gjerset, Knut, _The History of the Norwegian People_. New York, Macmillan, 1915. Goodwin, John A., _The Pilgrim Republic_. Boston and New York, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1909. Gosnell, R.E., _The Year Book of British Columbia_. Victoria, B.C., Librarian Legislature Assembly, 1897. Gosney, E.S., and Popenoe, Paul, _Sterilization for Human Betterment_. New York, Macmillan, 1929. Grant, Madison, "The Origin and Relationships of North American Mammals," _Eighth Annual Report of the New York Zoological Society_. New York, 1904. ----, _The Passing of the Great Race_. 4th ed. New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1921. Green, John R., _A History of the English People_. New York, Harper, 1878. Greene, Evarts B., and Virginia D. Harrington, _American population before the federal census of 1790_. New York, Columbia University Press, 1932. Gregory, W.K.: 1. "The Dawn Man of Piltdown, England," _American Museum Journal_, vol. XIV. New York, May, 1914. ----, 2. "Facts and Theories of Evolution, with Special Reference to the Origin of Man," _Dental Cosmos_, pp. 3-19, March, 1920. ----, 3. "Studies on the Evolution of the Primates," _Bull. Amer. Mus. Nat. Hist._, vol. XXXV, article xix. New York, 1916. Griffis, William Elliot: 1. _The Story of New Netherland_. Boston and New York, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1909. ----, 2. _The Story of the Walloons_. Boston and New York, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1923. Gue, Benjamin F., _History of Iowa_. New York, Century History Co., 1903. Guillaume, H., F.R.G.S., _The Amazon Provinces of Peru_. London, Wyman & Sons, 1888. Haddon, A.C.: 1. _The Races of Man and Their Distribution_. London, Milner & Co. ----, 2. _The Study of Man_. New York, Putnam; and London, Bliss Sands, 1898. ----, 3. _The Wanderings of Peoples_. Cambridge University Press, 1912. Haeckel, Ernst, _The Riddle of the Universe_. Harper, 1901. Hale, Will, and Merritt, Dixon, _A History of Tennessee and Tennesseans_, vols. I and III. Chicago, Lewis Pub. Co., 1913. Hall, H.R., _The Ancient History of the Near East_, 3d ed. London, Methuen & Co., 1916. Hall, Prescott F.: 1. _Immigration_, 2d ed. New York, Henry Holt & Co., 1908. ----, 2. "Immigration Restriction and World Eugenics," _Journal of Heredity_, vol. X, no. 3, pp. 125-127. Washington, D.C., March, 1919. Hamilton, Peter Joseph, _The Colonization of the South_, vol. III of _The History of North America_, edited by Guy Carleton Lee. Philadelphia, George Barrie & Sons, 1904. Hanna, Charles A., _The Scotch-Irish_, or _The Scot in North Britain, Ireland, and America_, 2 vols. New York, G. Putnam's Sons, 1902. Harper, Roland M., _The Population of Mexico: an Analysis_. Pan-American Magazine 44 (4): 269-278. Apl., 1931. Harrison, J.P., "On the Survival of Racial Features in the Population of the British Isles," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XII, pp. 243-258. Hart, Albert B. (ed.), _Commonwealth History of Massachusetts_. New York, States History Co., 1927-28. Hawley, James H., _History of Idaho_, vol. I. Chicago, The S.J. Clarke Pub. Co., 1920. Henderson, Archibald, _Conquest of the Old Southwest_. New York, The Century Co., 1920. Herodotus, _History of the World_. Hewatt, _An Historical Account of the Rise and Progress of the Colonies of South Carolina and Georgia_, 2 vols. London, Alexander Donaldson, 1779. Hirt, Herman, _Die Indo-Germanen, ihre Verbreitung, ihre Urheimat und ihre Kultur_. Strassburg, Trübner, 1905. _History of Tennessee._ Nashville, Goodspeed Publishing Company, 1886. _History of Welsh in Minnesota._ Hughes, Edwards & Roberts, 1895. Hittell, Theodore H., _History of California_, vol. III. San Francisco, N.J. Stone & Co., 1897. Hodgkin, Thos., _Italy and Her Invaders_. Holmes, S.J., and S.L. Parker, "The Stabilized Natural Increase of the Negro." _Journal of the Amer. Statistical Asso._, June 1, 1930. Holmes, S.J., "The Biological Trend of the Negro." _Univ. of Calif. Chronicle_, Jan., 1930. Holmes, T. Rice, _Ancient Britain, and the Conquests of Julius Cæsar_. Oxford University Press, 1907. Homer, _The Iliad_; _the Odyssey_. Houck, Louis, _A History of Missouri_, vols. I, II, and III. Chicago, R.R. Donnelley & Sons, 1908. Hulbert, Archer Butler: 1. _The Ohio River_. New York, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1906. ----, 2. _Soil, Its Influence on the History of the United States_. New Haven, Yale University Press, 1930. Human Betterment Foundation, _Collected Papers on Eugenic Sterilization_. Pasadena, Calif., 1930. Huntington, Ellsworth: 1. _Civilization and Climate_. Yale University Press and Oxford University Press, 1915. ----, 2. _The Pulse of Asia_. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1907. Hooton, E.A.R., _Up from the Ape_. Macmillan, 1931. Jacobs, J., "On the Racial Characteristics of Modern Jews," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XV, pp. 23-62, 1885-1886. James, Bartlett Burleigh, _The Colonization of New England_, vol. V. Philadelphia, G. Barrie & Sons, 1904. James, T.C. (with Fleure, H.J.), "Anthropological Types in Wales," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XLVI, pp. 35-154, 1916. Janson, Florence Edith, _Background of Swedish Immigration_. University of Chicago Press, 1931. Jenks, Albert Ernest, _Indian-White Amalgamation_. Minneapolis, _Bulletin of Univ. Minnesota_, 1916. Johnson, Charles S., _The Negro in American Civilization_. New York, Henry Holt & Co., 1930. Johnson, Harrison, _History of Nebraska_. Omaha, 1880. Johnson, Stanley C., _A History of Emigration_ (from the _United Kingdom to North America_). London, George Routledge & Sons Limited, 1913. Johnston, Sir Harry H.: 1. _The Negro in the New World_. London, Methuen & Co., 1910. ----, 2. "On North African Animals, A Survey of the Ethnography of Africa," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XLIII, pp. 375-422. ----, 3. Various writings. ----, 4. _Views and Reviews._ London, Williams and Norgate, 1912. Jones, Frederick Robertson, _The Colonization of the Middle States and Maryland_; vol. IV of _The History of North America_. Philadelphia, George Barrie & Sons, 1904. Jones, Howard Mumford, _America and French Culture_. Chapel Hill, N.C., University N. Carolina Press, 1927. Jones, Sir J. Morris, "Pre-Aryan Syntax in Insular Celtic," Appendix B of Rhys and Jones, _The Welsh People_. London, Macmillan, 1900. Jordanes, _History of the Goths_, Mierow translation. Princeton University Press, 1915. Josephus, Flavius, _De Bello Judaico_, or _The Jewish War of Flavius Josephus_, translated by Robert Traill. London, Houlston & Stoneman, 1851. Keane, A.H.: 1. _Ethnology._ Cambridge University Press, 1896. ----, 2. _Man, Past and Present._ Also new edition by Ouiggin & Haddon. Cambridge University Press, 1900. Keary, C.F., _The Vikings in Western Christendom_. London, T. Fisher Unwin, 1891. Keith, Arthur: 1. _Ancient Types of Man._ Harper, 1911. ----, 2. _The Antiquity of Man._ London, Williams and Norgate, 1915. Kephart, Horace, _Our Southern Highlanders_. New York, Outing Publishing Co., 1913. King, Grace, _New Orleans: The Place and the People_. New York, Macmillan Co., 1920. Kingsford, William, _The History of Canada_, vol. I, 1608-1682; vol. II, 1679-1725. Rowsell & Hutchison, 1887. Kuhns, Oscar, _The German and Swiss Settlements of Colonial Pennsylvania_: Study of the So-Called Pennsylvania Dutch. New York, Henry Holt & Co., 1901. Levering, Julia H., _Historic Indiana_. New York, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1909. Lockley, Fred, _History of the Columbia River Valley_ (From The Dalles to the Sea). Chicago, The S.J. Clarke Pub. Co., 1928. Lodge, Henry Cabot, _Short History of the English Colonies in America_. New York, Harper & Bros., 1881. Louhi, E.A., _The Delaware Finns_. New York, Humanity Press, 1925. Lyman, Horace S., _History of Oregon_, 4 vols. New York, The North Pacific Pub. Society, 1903. MacDougall, D., _Scots and Scots' Descendants in America_, vol. I. New York, Caledonian Publishing Co., 1917. Martin, François-Xavier, _The History of Louisiana_. New York, James A. Gresham, publisher, 1882. Mathews, Lois Kimball, _The Expansion of New England_ (The Spread of New England Settlement and Institutions to the Mississippi River, 1620-1865). Boston and New York, Houghton Mifflin Co., The Riverside Press, Cambridge, 1909. Matthew, W.D.: 1. "Climate and Evolution." Published by the _New York Academy of Sciences_, vol. XXIV, pp. 171-318. New York, 1915. McMaster, John Bach, _History of the People of the U.S._ Merriam, John C., "The Beginnings of Human History Read from the Geological Record: The Emergence of Man," _Scientific Monthly_, vols. IX and X, 1919-20. Metchnikoff, Elie, _Nature of Man_. Putnam, 1903. Mexicans in California. Report of Gov. C.C. Young's Fact-Finding Committee. Sacramento, State Printer, 1930. Meyers, Albert Cook, _Narratives of Early Pennsylvania, West New Jersey, and Delaware_. New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1912. Miller, Gerrit S., "The Jaw of the Piltdown Man," _Smithsonian Miscellaneous Collections_, vol. LXV, no. 12. Washington, D.C., Nov., 1915. Minns, E.H., _Scythians and Greeks_. Cambridge University Press, 1913. Mommsen, Theodor, _A History of the Roman Provinces_, translated by William P. Dickson. Scribner, 1887. Montelius, Oscar: 1. "Die Chronologie der altesten Bronzezeit," _Arch. f. Anth._, Bd. 25, pp. 443 seq. 1900. ----, 2. _The Civilization of Sweden in Heathen Times_, translated by F.H. Woods. London, Macmillan, 1888. ----, 3. _La Civilisation primitive en Italie._ Stockholm, 1895. ----, 4. _L' Anthropologie_, série XVII, 1906. Mortillet, G. de, _Formation de la nation française_. Paris, 1897. Much, Mathæus, _Die Heimat der Indo-Germanen im Lichte der urgeschichtlichen Forschung_. Berlin, 1902. Müller, Friedrich: 1. _Grundriss der Sprachwissenschaft._ Wien, 1884. ----, 2. _Reise der österreichischen Fregatte Novara um die Erde in den Jahren 1857-9, unter den Befehlen des Commodore B. von Wiellerstorf._ Wien, Ubair-Linguistischer Theil, 1867. Müller, Sophus: 1. _L'Europe préhistorique_, tr. du Danois, ... par Emmanuel Philipot. Paris, J. Lamarre, 1907. ----, 2. _Nordische Alterthumskunde._ Strassburg, 1897. Munro, Dana Carleton, _A Source Book of Roman History_. Boston, New York and Chicago, D.C. Heath & Co., 1904. Munro, John, _The Story of the British Race_. New York, D. Appleton & Co., 1907. Munro, R.: 1. _The Lake-Dwellings of Europe._ London, Cassell & Co., 1890. ----, 2. _Palæolithic Man and the Terramara Settlements._ Macmillan, 1912. ----, 3. Discussion in _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._ for 1890. Myres, J.L., "A History of the Pelasgian Theory," _Jour. of Hellenic Studies_, vol. XXVII, pp. 170-226, 1907. Nansen, Fridtjof, _In Northern Mists_. New York, Frederick A. Stokes, 1911. Nason, Elias, _A Gazetteer of the State of Massachusetts_. B. B. Russell, 1874. Nordenskiöld, Erland, "Finland: The Land and the People," _Geographical Review_, vol. VII, no. 6, pp. 361-375, June 1919. Oman, Sir Charles: 1. _The Dark Ages._ London, Rivington's Press, 1905. ----, 2. _England before the Norman Conquest._ London, Methuen & Co.; or New York, Putnam, 1913. Origin, Birthplace, Nationality, and Language of the Canadian People. Dominion Bureau of Statistics, Ottawa, 1929. Osborn, Henry Fairfield: 1. _Men of the Old Stone Age_, 2d edition. New York, Scribner, 1918. ----, 2. _The Origin of Life._ New York, Scribner, 1917. Owen, Thomas M., _History of Alabama_, vol. II. Chicago, Clarke Publishing Co., 1921. Palfrey, John Gorham, _A Compendious History of New England_, vol. IV. Boston, Houghton Mifflin, 1893. Palgrave, Sir Francis, _The Rise and Progress of the English Commonwealth_. London, 1832. Parkman, Francis, _The Old Régime in Canada_. Boston, Little, Brown & Co., 1905. Parrish, Randall, _Historic Illinois_. Chicago, A.C. McClurg, 1905. Parsons, F.G., "Anthropological Observations on German Prisoners of War," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XLIX, 1919. Paxson, Frederic L., _History of the American Frontier_. Boston, Houghton Mifflin & Co., 1924. Payne, Edward John, _A History of the New World Called America_. Oxford Press, vol. I, 1892; vol. II, 1899. Peake, H.J.E., _Memorials of Old Leicestershire_. 1911. Pearl, Raymond, "The Sterilization of Degenerates," _Eugenics Review_, April, 1919. Peck, J.M., _A New Guide for Emigrants to the West_. Boston, Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, 1836. Penck, Albrecht, "Das Alter des Menschengeschlechts," _Zeitschr. f. Eth._, Jahrg. 40, Heft 3, pp. 390-407. 1908. Penka, K., _Die Herkunft der Arier_. Wien, 1886. Petrie, W.M.F., "Migrations," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XXXVI, pp. 189-233. 1906. Pickett, Albert James, _History of Alabama_, vol. II. Charleston, Walker & James, 1851. Pliny, _Natural History_. Plutarch's _Lives_, Langhorne translation. London, Frederick Warne & Co. Pollard, A.F., _A Political History of England_, vol. IV. London, Longmans, Green & Co., 1915. Polybius, _History_. Popenoe, Paul, "One Phase of Man's Modern Evolution," _19th International Congress of Americanists_, pp. 617 seq. Washington, D.C., 1915. Popenoe, Paul, and Johnson, Roswell H., _Applied Eugenics_. 2d ed. New York, Macmillan, 1933. _Popular History of New England_, 2 vols. Boston, Crocker & Co., 1881. Priestly, Herbert Ingram, _The Coming of the White Man, 1492-1848_; A History of American Life, vol. I. New York, The Macmillan Co., 1929. Procopius, _A History of the Wars_, translated by H.B. Dewing, Loeb Classical Library. New York, Putnam; and London, Wm. Heinemann, 1919. Pumpelly, Raphael, _Explorations in Turkestan_. Washington, D.C., Carnegie Inst., 1905 and 1908. Ramsey, J.G. M., _The Annals of Tennessee_. Kingsport, Tenn., Kingsport Press, 1853. Ranke, Johannes, _Der Mensch_. Leipsig, 1866-7. Ratzel, Friedrich, _The History of Mankind_. Macmillan, 1908. Reade, Arthur, _Finland and the Finns_. New York, 1915. Reid, Sir G. Archdall: 1. _The Laws of Heredity_. London, Methuen & Co., 1910. ----, 2. _The Principles of Heredity_. London, Chapman & Hall, 1905. Reinach, Salomon, "Inscription attique relative à l'invasion des Galates en Grèce," _Rev. Celtique_, série 11, pp. 80-85. Reisner, George A., _The Early Dynastic Cemeteries of Naga ed-Dêr_. University of California publications, 1908; Leipsig, J.C. Hinrichs, 1905. Retzius, G.: 1. _Anthropologia Suecica, Beiträge zur Anthropologie der Schweden_. Stockholm, 1902. ----, 2. _Crania Suecica Antiqua_. Stockholm, 1900. ----, 3. "The So-Called North European Race of Mankind," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XXXIX, pp. 277-314. 1909. Rice, Holmes T.: 1. _Ancient Britain and the Conquests of Julius Cæsar_. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1907. ----, 2. _Cæsar's Conquest of Gaul_. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1911. Ridgeway, Sir William: 1. _The Early Age of Greece_. Cambridge, 1901. ----, 2. _The Origin and Influence of the Thoroughbred Horse_. Cambridge University Press, 1905. ----, 3. "Who Were the Romans?" _Proceedings of the British Academy_, 1907-1908. Riegel, Robert E., _America Moves West_. New York, Henry Holt & Co., 1930. Ripley, William Z., _The Races of Europe_. New York, D. Appleton & Co., 1899. Robinson, Edward, _University of Minnesota Studies in Social Sciences_, no. 3. Robinson, Will H., _Story of Arizona_. Phoenix, The Berryhill Co., 1926. Roosevelt, Theodore, _Winning of the West_, vol. IV. New York, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1896. Rossiter, William S., _Increase of Population in the United States, 1910-1920_. Washington, D.C., Bureau of the Census, 1922. Rowland, Dunbar, _Mississippi, the Heart of the South_, vol. II. Chicago, S.J. Clarke, 1925. ----, _Mississippi, the Heart of the South_, vol. I. Chicago, S.J. Clarke, 1925. Savigny, Friedrich Karl, _Geschichte des römischen Rechtes im Mittelalter_. Sayce, Archibald Henry, _The Ancient Empires of the East_. Scribner, 1898. Scharf, J. Thomas, _History of Delaware_ (1609-1888), vol. I. Philadelphia, L.J. Richards & Co., 1888. Schrader, Oscar, _Die Indo-Germanen_. Leipsig, 1911. Sclater, W.L. and P.L., _The Geography of Mammals_. London, Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co., 1899. _Secret History, or The Horrors of Santo Domingo, in a series of Letters Written by a Lady at Cape François to Colonel Burr (late Vice-President of the United States) Principally during the Command of General Rochambeau._ Philadelphia, Bradford & Inskeep, R. Carr, printer, 1808. Sergi, G.: 1. _Africa: Antropologia della Stirpe Cannitica (Specie Eurafricana)_. Torino, 1897. ----, 2. _Arii e Italici_. Torino, 1898. ----, 3. _Italia: le Origini_. Torino, Fratelli Bocca, Editori, 1919. ----, 4. _The Mediterranean Race._ New York, Scribner; and London, Walter Scott, 1901. Shaler, N.S., _Kentucky_. Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1893. Skeat, W.W., _The Wars of Alexander_, translated chiefly from _Historia Alexandra Magni de preliis_. London, N. Trübner & Co., 1886. Smith, G. Elliot: 1. _The Ancient Egyptians_. Harper, 1911. ----, 2. "Ancient Mariners," _Journal of the Manchester Geographical Society_, vol. XXXIII, parts 1-4, pp. 1-22, 1917. Manchester and London, April, 1918. Soane, E.B., _To Mesopotamia and Kurdistan in Disguise_. Boston, Small, Maynard & Co. Southern Historical Publication Society, _The South in the Building of the Nation--a History of the Southern States_. Richmond, Virginia, 1909. Spangler, J.M., _Civilization in Chile_. San Francisco, H.G. Parsons, 1885. Speranza, Gino, _Race or Nation?_ Stanard, Mary Newton, _The Story of Virginia's First Century_. Philadelphia, J.B. Lippincott Co., 1928. Stark, James H., _The Loyalists of Massachusetts_. W.B. Clark Co., 1910. Stella, Antonio M.D., _Some Aspects of Italian Immigration to the United States_. New York and London, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1924. Stoddard, Lothrop, _The French Revolution in San Domingo_. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1914. Sykes, Mark, "The Kurds," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XXVIII, pp. 45 _seq._, 1908. Tacitus, _Germania_, translated by M. Hutton, Loeb Classical Library. New York, Macmillan; and London, Wm. Heinemann, 1914. Taylor, Isaac Canon: 1. _The Origin of the Aryans_. London, Walter Scott, 1890. ----, 2. _Words and Places_, edited by A. Smythe Palmer. New York, E.P. Dutton & Co.; and London, Routledge & Son. Taylor, Paul S., _Mexican Labor in the United States: Migration Statistics_. Univ. of Calif. Pubs. in Econ. 6 (3): 237-255. Berkeley, 1929. Thomas, William Roscoe, _Life Among the Hills and Mountains of Kentucky_. Kentucky, Standard Printing Co. Thomson, J. Arthur, _Heredity_. New York, Putnam; and London, John Murray, 1926. 5th ed. Topinard, P.: 1. "Carte de la couleur des yeux et des cheveux en France," _Rev. d'anth._, série 3, IV, pp. 513-530. ----, 2. _Éléments d'anthropologie générale_. Paris, Delahaye et Lecrosnier, 1885. Trevelyan, Sir George, _George III and Charles Fox_. London, Longmans, Green & Co., 1914. Utley, Henry M., _Michigan as a Province, Territory and State_. The Publishing Society of Michigan, 1906. Van der Zee, _The British in Iowa_. Iowa City, State Hist. Society, 1922. Van Tramp, John C., _Prairie and Rocky Mountain Adventures_. Columbus, Segner & Condit, 1867. Villari, Pasquale, _The Barbarian Invasions of Italy_, translated by Linda Villari, 2 vols. Scribner, 1902. Von Luschan, F.: 1. "The Early Inhabitants of Western Asia," _Jour. Roy. Anth. Inst._, vol. XLI, pp. 221-244. ---- (with E. Petersen). _Reisen in Lykien, Milyas und Kibyratis._ Wien, 1889. Wallis, B.C.: 1. "The Rumanians in Hungary," _Geographical Review_, Aug., 1918. ----, 2. "The Slavs of Northern Hungary," _Geo. Rev._, Sept., 1918. ----,3. "The Slavs of Southern Hungary," _Geo. Rev._, Oct., 1918. ----, 4. "Central Hungary: Magyars and Germans," _Geo. Rev._, Nov., 1918. Weeden, William B., _Early Rhode Island_. New York, The Grafton Press, 1910. Wertenbaker, Thomas: 1. _Patrician and Plebeian in Virginia_. Virginia, The Michie Co., 1910. ----, 2. _The First Americans_ (1607-1690). New York, The Macmillan Co., 1927. Whitney, Orson F., _History of Utah_, vol. I. Utah, Geo. Q. Cannon & Sons Co., 1892. Willcox, Walter F., _International Migrations_, vols. I and II. New York, National Bureau of Economic Research, Inc., 1929 and 1931. Wilser, L., _Die Germanen_. Eisenach u. Leipsig, 1904. Wilstach, Paul, _Tidewater Virginia_. Indianapolis, The Bobbs-Merrill Co., 1929. Winsor, Justin: 1. _The Mississippi Basin. The Struggle in America between England and France_. Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1895. ----, 2. (ed.) _Narrative and Critical History of America_. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1894. _Wisconsin in Three Centuries_, 4 vols. New York, Century History Co., 1906. Wissler, Clark, _The American Indian_. New York, Douglas C. McMurtrie, 1917. Woodruff, C.E.: 1. _The Effect of Tropical Light on White Men_. New York and London, Rebman Co., 1905. ----, 2. _The Expansion of Races_. New York, Rebman Co., 1909. Woods, Frederick Adams: 1. _Heredity in Royalty_. New York, Henry Holt & Co., 1906. ----, 2. _The Influence of Monarchs_. Macmillan, 1913. ----, 3. "Significant Evidence for Mental Heredity," _Jour. of Hered._, vol. VIII, no. 13, pp. 106-112. Washington, D.C., 1917. Work, Monroe N., _Negro Year Book_, 1931-32 (Negro Census by States), vol. VIII. Tuskegee Institute, Ala. Ala. Negro Year Book Pub. Co. Wortham, Louis J., LL.D., _A History of Texas_ (From Wilderness to Commonwealth). Fort Worth, Wortham-Molyneaux Co., 1924. Yoakum, H., Esq., _History of Texas_ (Its First Settlement in 1685 to Its Annexation to the U.S. in 1846). New York, Redfield, 1856. Zaborowski, M.S.: 1. "Les peuples aryens d'Asie et d'Europe" (part of the _Encyclopédie scientifique_), Octave Doin, Éditeur. Paris, 1908. ----, 2. "Relations primitives des Germains et des Finnois," _Bull. Soc. d'anth._, pp. 174-79. Paris, 1897. ----, 3. _Les races de l'Italie_. Paris, 1897. Zeuss, J.K., _Die Deutschen und die Nachbarstamme_. München, 1837. INDEX Aberdeen, 136. Abolitionists, 210. Acadia, 308, 309. "Acadie" (Nova Scotia), 308. Achæans, invasions into Greece, 26; Nordics in West as, 39; Osco-Umbrians, kin to, 39. Africa, Negro slaves in, 9; Christianity in, 14; (Ethiopia) early races in, 19, 20. Alabama, settlement in, 183, 184; heart of Cotton Kingdom, 184; Scotch and English blood in, 184; 1930 census native population, 242. Alans, the, 44, 45, 46. Alaska, 90. Albanians, 36. Albany (N.Y.), 102, 110, 168; Ulster Scots in, 108; increase in Negroes in, 237. Albemarle, 138. Alberta, 314, 318. Alemanni, the, 42, 51, 52. Alemannish dialect, 79, 166. Alexander the Great, 23. Alien Act of 1798, 268. Aliens, public sentiment in America, 1; attitude toward, 268; restrictions of, 269; opposition to restrictions of, 269; literacy test for, 269; Quota Act of 1921, 270, 271; National Origins Act, 272, 274, 278. Alleghanies, Ulster Scots west of, 123; "poor whites" in, 135. Allentown (Pa.), 121. Alpine race, characteristics of, 29, 30; origin of, 29; similarity to Mongols, 29; extent of domain, 31; Turanians, 31, 32; Armenians, 32; increase in Central Europe, 33; in United States, 153. Alpine Slavs, 15. Alsace, 50, 116. Amazonian Basin, 335. America, Catholics in, 4; Jews in, 4, 224-227; South Germans in, 8; relative diminution of Anglo-Saxon blood in, 10; whites and blacks in, 12, 13; origin of American Indians in, 19; Norman element in, 55; Ulster Scots in, 60; sentiment for France in, 71; naval war with France in 1798, 71; motive of early settlers in, 65; migration from Leinster to, 76; "Scotch Irish" of, 92; emigration from Ireland to, 93; Huguenot migration to, 96; North German Nordics in, 143; opportunities for British race in, 156; migration toward Pacific Coast, 158; emigration of Scottish farmers to, 159; emigration of Southern England farmers to, 159; emigration of Irish to, 159; emigration of Germans to, 161, 162; South Irish Catholics in, 218; freedom of speech and press in, 219; waste in, 221; ratio of criminals in, 224; alien invasion in, 223-234; migration following the Revolution, 256; migration with panic of 1819, 256; migration at time of land speculation by Andrew Jackson, 256; minority of women among recent immigration groups in, 275; solutions of Negro elimination in, 285 ff. _See also under_ United States. American colonies, Nordics in, 77. American Indians, Mongols and Alpines ancestors of, 30; Mongolian blood in, 37. American Protective Association, 313. American Revolution, the influence of Massachusetts during, 99; loss of population during, 100; increase in migration following, 101; New York State after, 108; migration after, 109; troops from New York and Massachusetts, 111; Calvinistic, 121. Amerinds, 26, 27. Amish, 79. Andalusia, 188, 333. Andover, 94. Angles, the, 59. Anglicans, Quakers become, 121. Angora, 41. Annapolis, 127. Apache Indians, 291. Apennines, the, 41, 51. Appalachian valleys, 74, 78; lawlessness in, 67. Apulia, 39. Arabia, 22, 27; the Mediterraneans of, 24. Arabs, in Spain, 46, 49; race mixture among, 49; period of expansion, 49; ruined by Negro women, 49 Aral Sea, 34. Argentina, 338; racial composition of, 339, 340. Argonauts, the, 216. Argyllshire, 159. Arians, 46. Arius, 46. Arizona, 152, 213, 214; Mexicans in, 162, 262; separated from New Mexico, 262; Mormons in, 262; Texans in, 263; Indians in, 289. Arkansas, 243; settlement in, 189, 190; growth of, 190; British stock in, 190. Arkansas River, 189. Armenians, 32. Armorican language, 58. Aryan language, Centum group, 24-25; Satem group, 24-25. Ashkanazim Jews, 225. Asia, Christianity in, 14; Mongoloid tribes of northeastern, 19; expansion of civilization in southeastern, 23. Asia Minor, Nordic Gauls in, 41; Turks in, 50. Asiatics, 356. Assyria, 22. Assyrians, cruelty of, 156. "Asylum for the Oppressed," 268. Atlas Mountains, 45. Attila, 44, 51. Aurora (N.Y.), 110. Austin, Moses, 209. Australia, 20, 303, 353, 354; Negroids in, 28; racial tangle in, 28. Australoids, the, 20, 21, 28; compared to Alpines, 30. Austria, 116. Austrian Empire, languages in old, 5. Aztecs, the, 324. Babylonia, 22. Bactria, 23. Bahamas, the, 345. Baltic Sea, 35, 56. Baltimore (Md.), growth of, 129; cosmopolitan population in, 239. Baltimore, Lord, 125, 126, 128. Barbadoes, 85, 86, 345. Basques, 340. Bath (N.Y.), 110. Baton Rouge (La.), 187, 245. Bavaria, Alpines in, 36. Bay of Chaleurs, 296. Beaker Makers, 57. Belcher, Thomas, 105. Belfast, 95. Belgæ, the, 41, 42, 43, 58. Belgium, languages in, 5; the Flemings of, 52. Beothics, the, 307. Berbers, the, 24; in Atlas Mountains (North Africa), 39. Berkeley, Governor (Virginia), 126, 132, 135. Berkshire, 84. Bermuda, 85, 345. Bethlehem (Pa.), Moravians in, 117. Bigot, 46. Binghamton (N.Y.), 109. Black Hawk Purchase, 198. Black Hawk War, 198. Black Hills, gold in, 254. Blacks, the, 12, 20; advance in America, 13 Blue Ridge, the, 137, 138. Bogotá, 334. Bohemia, Czechish in, 5; rise of nationalism in, 14; Mongolian characters in, 37. Bolivia, population of, 341. "Bonnie Prince Charlie," 140. Boone, Daniel, 123, 145. Boone, Daniel Morgan, 200. "Boone's Lick," 191. Boston (Mass.), 71, 82, 101, 105; Huguenots in, 97. Braddock, General, 137. Bradford (postmaster), 83. Brandenburg, 181. Branford (N.J.), 113. Brattleboro (Vt.), 89. Brazil, Portuguese in, 335; European immigrants in, 336; size of, 337. Bristol, 307. Britain, Celts in, 41; invaded by Saxons, 59; invaded by Angles and Jutes, 59; Norman conquest in 1066, 60, 61. British Columbia, 297, 354; Asiatic problem in, 315, 316. British Commonwealth, 303. British Empire, abolition of slavery in, 11. British Honduras, 331. British Islands, mixture of Nordics and Mediterraneans in, 33. British Isles, racial composition of, 57. British West Indies, 345. Brittany, Armorican language in, 58. Bronze Age, 57; Alpines in, 31. Brooklyn (N.Y.), 105. Brythons, the, 41, 42, 43, 58. Buckingham, 84. Buffalo (N.Y.), 177; increase in Negroes in, 237. Burgundians, the, 42, 46, 50. Burlington (Iowa), 197. Burlington (N.J.), 112. Burma, Sanscrit in, 25; English rule in, 355. Burnett Act, 270. Bushmen, the, 20. Byrd, Colonel, 136. Byzantine Empire, 54. Cabot, John, 307. Cæsar, Julius, 221; campaigns in Gaul, 41. Caithness, 55. "Cajans," 6. Calabria, 39. Calhoun, John C., 168. California, 152, 173; Mexicans in, 162; Indians and Spaniards in, 214; annexed to United States, 215; Spanish blood in, 215; increase in Americans in, 215, 216; gold in, 215, 263; Chinese in, 216; contrasted with other United States frontiers, 217; foreigners in, 263-267; migration to, 263, 264; Nordic element in, 264; decline of Chinese in, 265; vote against Chinese immigration, 265; racial problems in, 265, 266; Indians in, 289. California gold rush, 199. Camoens, 48. Campbelltown, 139. Canada, French language in, 5; migration of Loyalists to, 100, 110; annexed to the Union, 111; divisions of, 296, 297; Maritime Provinces, 296, 300; Quebec, 297-301; Upper Canada, 297, 302; inducements to immigrants, 302; population in 1840, 304; Irish Catholics in, 304; population in 1871, 305; British and French in, 305; Mounted Police in, 305; Indians in, 306; migration from United States to, 316-319; British immigration in, 317; "foreign stock" in, 317, 318; Jews in, 317; few Negroes in, 318; Nordic element in, 318; strength of Roman Catholic Church in, 318; 1921 census, 319. Canandaigua (N.Y.), 109, 110. Canary Islands, 188. Cape Cod Bay, 82. Cape Fear River, 139. Cape May, 112. Caribbean Sea, 12, 155, 348. Caribs, 331. Carlisle (Pa.), 122. Carpathians, the, 31. Carroll, Jesuit John, 151. Carter, Colonel John, 137. Caspian Sea, 34. Caucasus, the, 44; beauty of women in, 50. Cayuga, 110. Celtiberians, 40. Celtic Nordics, 36; conquest of Spain by, 40; in British Isles, 40. Celtic-speaking tribes, 42. Celtic tribes, in Gaul and Britain, 40, 41; "Q" and "P," 57, 58. Central America, 294, 330 ff., 348. Central Asia, 17, 44. Central Pacific Railway, 265. Cervantes, 48. Chaldea, 22. Chalons, 44; Battle of, 52. Champlain, 300, 301. Charlemagne, 31; the Franks under, 54; conquest of Saxons, 54. Charles I, 126, 135. Charleston (S.C.), 41, 42; Ulster Scots enter colonies through, 77, 78. Charlestown (Mass.), 82. Chesapeake Bay, 73. Chester, 114. Cheyenne (Wyo.), 259. Chicago (Ill.), 196, 229. Chickasaw Indians, 291. Chile, white races in, 340. China, rise of nationalism in, 14; Mongols of, 19. Chinese, the, 353; in California, 265. Choctaws, 291. Christian Syrians, 339. Christianity, Unitarian form of, 46; orthodox, 46. Christy, Howard Chandler, 3. Cid Campeador, 48. Cimbri, 42. Cincinnati (Ohio), 161, 164, 248. Circassians, the, 50. Cisalpine Gaul, 41, 51. City of Brotherly Love (Philadelphia), 114. Civil War, 2, 3, 12, 138, 158, 169-176, 193, 199, 200, 207, 212, 214, 220, 223, 229, 241, 254, 262, 267, 349; Irish in, 161; influence of "Solid South" after, 282. Civilization, development of, 22 ff. Clark, General George Rogers, 163, 167, 168, 171. Clay, Henry, 87, 211. Cleveland (Ohio), 165. Coast cities, inhabitants richer than frontiersmen, 75. Colbert, 299. Coligny, 141, 192. Coligny, Admiral, 96. Collinson, Peter, 117. Colombia, population of, 333. Colonial times, racial population in, 2; religion in, 4; intermarriage during, 8. Colonies, original racial complexion of, 75; Ulster Scots in, 78. Color, 26, 27. Colorado, 173, 203; Daniel Boone's grandson in, 123; Southeastern, 213; gold in, 258; Nordics in, 259; Mexican population in, 292. Columbia River, 260. Columbus, Christopher, 48, 56, 208. Commonwealth, Puritans under the, 66. Comstock Lode, 261. Confederate Army, 260. Congregationalists, hostile to Presbyterians, 94. Conkling, Senator Roscoe (quoted), 288. Connecticut, 94, 108; early settlement of, 72, 86, 87; growth of, 101; Western Reserve of, 164, 165; foreign-born in, 218; 1930 census native population, 236. Connecticut River, 90; migration to, 72. Connecticut River Valley, 82; "forts" of Dutch in, 104. Constitution of the United States, 155. Constitution of 1835, 177. Continental Congress, religion of, 69. Continentals, the, 139. Convention of 1787, 7, 155. Cornwall, 58. Corsica, Vandals in, 45. Costa Rica, population of, 332, 333; Nordic infusion in, 333. Creek Indians, 183. Creeks, the, 246. Crefeld, 116. Creoles, French spoken by, 6. Crete, 22. Crimea, the, 44. Cromwell, Oliver, 93, 125; and Irish Rebellion, 133. Crown Point, 108. Crusades, the, 53. Cuba, 211; population of, 343. Cumberland Gap, 145, 146 Cumberland Presbyterian Church, 122. Cymric, 58. Dacia, 44. Dacian Plains, 39. Dakota, 197; rush into, 253. Dante, 48. Danube, the, 44. Da Vinci, Leonardo, 48. Davis, John (quoted), 187, 188. Dayton (Ohio), 164. Declaration of Independence, 101; religion of signers, 69. Dedham, 81. de Lapouge, Count, 33, 49. Delaware, 73, 125; 1930 census native population, 239. Delaware River, 111; English settlers along, 73; French Huguenots along, 73; surrounding land colonized by Quakers, 112. Democracy, 356. Denmark, 22, 59, 345. de Saussure, 141. Detroit (Mich.), 176, 229. Devonshire, 307. Dippers, 115. District of Columbia, residents of, 239; Negroes in, 239, 240. Dorchester (Mass.), 82, 87, 144. Dorchester Society, 144. Drummond, James, the Earl of Perth, 113. Dubuque, John, 197. Duke of Liegnitz, 53. Duke of York, 125. Dundas (Ontario), 312. Dunkards, 79. Dutch East India Company, 102. Dutch settlement, 102 ff. East Anglia, Puritan emigration from, 84. East Jersey, 112; stronghold of Scotch Presbyterians in, 113. Ecuador, Indian tribes in, 343. Edict of Nantes, 127, 139; revocation of, 96. Egypt, 22, 25; rise of nationalism in, 14; Libyans in, 39. Elbe, the, 31, 54. Electoral College, 282. Elizabeth (N.J.), 77. Elizabethtown (N.J.), 113. Elizabethtown Association, the, 113. Emigration Society Land Company, 212. Emmet, Robert, 159. Emmet, Thomas A., 159. Empire Settlement Act, 317. England, Norman element in, 55; Norsemen in, 59; Puritan emigration from, 82; Palatines in, 107; population at time of Revolution, 154. English Quakers, 77. English Whigs, 70. Episcopalians, strength of, 69. Ericson, Leif, 56. Erie Canal, 105, 106, 110, 168, 172, 177. Erse language, 57. Eskimos, 307. Ethiopia (Africa), 27; early races in, 19, 20; true Negroes in, 28. Euphrates, Valley of the, 22. Eurasia, 18, 19; development of civilization in southwestern, 22; racial groupings in, 27; Negroids in, 27; Negritos in, 28. Europe, intermingling of peoples in, 21; racial mixtures in, 36; saved from Mongols, 53; Nordics in, at time of discovery of America, 61; monopoly of land ownership in, 65. _Evangeline_ (Longfellow), 186. Fairfield (Conn.), 87. Fall Line, the, 73. Falmouth, 101. Fayetteville, 139. Federal Children's Bureau, 275. Federal Government, 163. Federal Supreme Court, 277. Filipinos, 224, 294. Finland, Ural-Altaic language in, 24. Finlanders, 111. Firbolgs, the, 62. Flemings, in New York, 76. Florida, 152; Spanish in, 117; South Carolinians in, 142; settlement in, 192-194; ceded by Spain to England, 193; second Nordic invasion of, 193; slow development of, 193; small population in, 193, 194; Negroes in, 193; 1930 census native population, 241. Forbes, General, 138. Foreign missions, 355. Fort Orange (N.Y.), 102. Fort Schuyler (N.Y.), 110. Fort Snelling, 196. Fort Stanwix (N.Y.), 110. Founders of the Republic, 237. France, races in, 4, 5; unity of national feeling in, 4; Alpines in, 15; decrease of Nordics in, 33, 49; Alpines in, 42; as a Nordic land, 42; eldest son of the church, 46, 47; (southern) Gothic names in, 48; variety of names in, 49. Franklin, Benjamin 84, 124; (quoted), 118-120. Franks, the, 42, 46; in Gaul and western Germany, 52; had support of Roman Church, 52; in Belgium, 52; in northern France, 53; conquer Franconia, 54; seize northern Italy, under Charlemagne, 54. Frederick County (Md.), 129. Free State Catholics, 273. Freehold (N.J.), 77, 112. French, the Nordics and Alpines among the, 36; in Quebec province, 301; emigration from Quebec to New England, 301. French Canadians, 355; influence of Roman Catholic Church on, 311. French Huguenots, in New England, 73; in New York, 76; in South Carolina, 80; in North Carolina, 139. Friesland, 116. Frontier, the, character of, 68; history of, 156, 157; effect of Indians on, 157. Gadsden Purchase, 210. Gaelic, spoken in Scotland, 58; spoken in Nova Scotia, 309. Galatia, 41, 45; Gothic blood in, 47. Galatians, 41, 42. Galena, 196. Galicia, Mongolian characters in, 37. Gallegos, the, 333. Garvey, the Negro, 287. Gaul, 221; Celts in, 41; remnant of Visigoths in, 46. Gauls, the, 42. Gelderland, 103. Gendron, 141. Geneva (N.Y.), 110. Genoa, 48, 231. "Genoese," 231, 264. Genseric, 45. "Gentiles," the, 261. Georgia, racial complexion in, 80; Palatines in, 116, 117; settlement of, 143, 144; benefited after Revolution, 145; 1930 census native population in, 241; idle farming in, 243. Georgians, the, 50, 145. Gepidæ, the, 44. German Jews, 226. Germans, among Roman Catholics in the colonies, 70; forced to the West, 73; in Pennsylvania, 73; in the colonies, 79. Germantown (Pa.), founded by Mennonites, 115. Germany, quota of immigrants from, 2; races in, 4; Nordics in eastern, 14; Revolution of 1848, 161, 181; immigrants in America, 161, 162; peak of emigration in, 228, 229. Gettysburg (Pa.), 122. Ghetto population, 227. Glenelg, 312. Glengarry (Ontario), 108, 312. Gloucestershire, 84. Gobi desert, 23. Goidelic, the, conquer the Neolithic Mediterraneans in Ireland, 62. Goidels, 40, 57. Gold, discovered in California, 215; caused increase in California population, 216. Gothia Septimania, 46. Goths, the, 43, 250; in South Russia, 44. "Great American Desert," 155. Great Britain, emigration from New England to, 86; "White Man's Burden" in, 352, 354. Great Lakes, the, 163. Great Salt Lake, 204. Great Wall of China, 34. Greece, 22; invasions of Achæans into, 26; Nordic conquest of, 39. Green Mountain Boys, 90. Greenwich (Conn.), 104, 105. Guadalquivir, the, 46. Guarani Indians, 341. Guatemala, population of, 330, 332. Guiana (British), 334; (Dutch), 334; (French), 334, 335. Guilford (N.J.), 113. Gulf of California, 210, 211. Gulf of Mexico, 12, 287. Gulf of Saint Lawrence, 296. Gulf States, extermination of Indians in, 291. Habitants, the, origin of, 298; physical type of, 299; effect of decline in birthrate on, 302. Haiti, 287; loss of white control in, 11, 12; barbarism in, 12; Negro Republic, 345. Hamitic language, 24. Hamburg, 116. Hampshire, 84, 159. Hamptons, the, 105. Hansen, Professor, 152. Hartford (Conn.), 87. Hawaii, 349; Japanese element in, 295; possible source of undesirable immigration, 295. Hawaiians, 294. Henry, Patrick, 136. Henry VII, 307. Highlands, the, mixture of races in, 61. Hindus, the, 27, 353; Aryan speech among, 27. Hittites, 32, 39. Holland, 103, 116; Palatines in, 107. Holland (Mich.), 178. Holstein, 59. Holston settlement, the, 148. _Homo sapiens_, 20. Honduras, population of, 331. Hottentots, the, 20. Hudson, Henry, 102. Hudson (N.Y.), 109. Hudson River, New Englanders and Germans along, 73; Dutch settlements along, 102. Hudson River valley, 110; Dutch in, 102, 103, 105; growth of towns in, 109. Hudson's Bay Colony, 314. Huger, 141. Huguenot French, during the Revolution, 7. Huguenots, migration to America, 96, 97. Humboldt, 322. Hungary, 50; Ural-Altaic language in, 24. Huns, 31, 44. Hunter, Governor (N.Y.), 106. Hussites, 79. Iberian Peninsula, 333. Iberians, 40, 61. Iberville (French explorer), 291. Idaho, first settlement in, 205; part of Washington territory, 205; growth during Civil War, 260; Nordic strength in, 260. Illinois, 149, 164, 175; settlement of, 170-176; boom in, 171; Erie Canal access to, 172; lead mines in, 172; dominated by Ulster Scots, 173; population at beginning of Civil War, 173; represented in Westward migration, 173; Germans in, 175; Irish in, 175, 176; English in, 176; Mormons in, 176; Scandinavians in, 176; Mexican population in, 293; native population in, 249; Negroes in, 249. Illinois Central Railway, 174, 176. Immigration Commission (1907), 269. Incas, 341. India, rise of nationalism in, 14; Sanscrit in, 25; Aryans in, 25; passing of Nordics in, 26; Pre-Dravidians of, 27; English rule in, 355. Indian War of 1855-1856, 207. Indiana, 164; Southerners in, 167; Ulster Scots and Quakers in, 167; "Underground Railroad" in, 167; settlement of, 167-170; Nordic influence in, 169, 170; population in, 169, 170; influence of Germans in, 181; native population in, 248, 249. Indianapolis (Ind.), 169, 170. Indians, American, 22, 66; origin of, 19; culture of, 19; cruelty of, 156; effect on the frontier, 157; 1930 population in United States, 289; distribution in United States, 289; on Pacific Coast, 290; on Atlantic Coast, 291; lived as hunters, 291, 292; intermarriage with Whites, 292. Indus, Valley of the, 25. Inquisition, the, 227. Inverness, 108, 312. Inverness-shire, 159. Invincible Armada, 208. Iowa, 175, 195, 197; delay in settlement, 198; Southerners in, 198; foreign immigrants in, 198; entered Union as a State, 200; Nordic and Anglo-Saxon, 200; native population in, 252; agricultural, 252. Iranian, division of Aryan languages, 25; distribution in Asia, 26. Ireland, quota of immigrants from, 2; Erse in, 5, 6, 57, 58; potato famine in, 7; rise of nationalism in, 14; attacked by Norse and Danes, 55; Norsemen in, 59; Neolithic Mediterraneans in, 62; the Goidelics in, 62; Norse and Danes in, 62; English language in, 63; religion in, 63; the Reformation in, 63; Protestants in, 92, 93; emigration to North America from, 159, 160. Irish Free State, 273. Irish Rebellion in 1652, 133. Iroquois Five Nations, 300, 301. Iroquois Indians, 73, 291. Isle of Man, 58. Italians, immigration in United States, 231; high birthrate of, 276. Italy, races in, 4; invasions of Osco-Umbrians in, 26, 39; Ostrogoths in, 44; northern, 116; emigration from, 231. Jackson, Andrew, 70, 256. Jamaica, 345; results of abolition of slavery in, 11. James I, 63, 92, 93. James II, 127. James River, 130. Jamestown (Va.), settlement of, 130, 297; Negroes in, 131. Japan, Christianity in, 14; "gentlemen's agreement" with United States, 266. Japanese, in California, 266. Jefferson, Thomas, 70, 208, 237, 245. Jews, 46. Johnson, Honorable Albert, 1 n.; 270. Johnson, Sir John, 108, 312. Johnson, Sir William, 108. Johnston, Gabriel, 140. Johnston, Sir Harry H., 6. Jordanes, 43. Judaism, 225. Jutes, the, 59. Jutland, 59. Kansas, 173; slavery in, 12; Daniel Boone's son in, 123; Kansas-Nebraska settlement, 200; battleground for slavery and free-soil elements, 201; few New England settlers in, 202; increase in emigration from Free States, 202; of British complexion, 202, 203; native population in, 255; settlement of, 256; Mexican population in, 292. Kassites, 39. Kearney, Dennis, 265. Kent, 84, 159. Kentaro, Baron Keneko, 9. Kentucky, 72, 157; Boone in, 123; settlement of, 145, 146; growth of, 146; English atmosphere in, 147; admitted as a State, 147; Alpines in, 153; 1930 census native population, 242. Kenya Colony, 353. Khozars (Alpine), 225. King Philip's War, 88. Kingston (Ontario), 110. Kintail, 312. Kirkhill, 312. Klondike gold rush, 130, 305. "Know Nothings," 218; principle of, 219. Knoydart, 312. Korea, 31. Krim, Götisch, 44. Kurds, the, 50. Labadists, the, 116. Labrador, 308. Lafayette, 12, 71. Lake Champlain, 90, 109, 300. Lake Erie, 110; first steamboat on, 177. Lake George, 108. Lake Ontario, 110. Lancaster (Pa.), 79, 121, 124. Land Act (1818), 189. Languages, in West Indies, 23, 24; Hamitic, 24; spoken by Alpines, 24; Aryan, 24 ff.; Erse, 57. _See also under_ various languages. Lanier, 141. La Plata, 337. Latin America, 320, 321, 333, 334, 342, 346; Amerinds in, 26; Indians in, 321, 322; Whites in, 322, 323. Laud, Archbishop, 85. Laurens, 141. Law, John, 187. League of Nations, 294. Lebanon (Pa.), 121. Lebanon, the, 339. Lee, Richard, 135. Lehigh Valley, Germans in, 120-121. Leicester, 84. Leinster, 7, 63. Leinster Protestants, 93. LeSerrurier, 141. Liberty Loans, 3. Libyans, in Egypt, 39. Liegnitz, Battle of, 53. Lincolnshire, 83. Literacy test, for aliens, vetoed by President Wilson, 269; passed over veto, 270. Lithuania, 236. Lithuanian language, 25. Liverpool, 204. Lochiel, 312. Lombards, 46, 50, 250; in Italy, 51; overthrown by Franks, 51. London, Puritan emigration from, 84; Imperial government in, 353. Londonderry, 94. Lone Star Republic, 211. Long Island, 103, 105, 110. Lord Baltimore, 80. Los Angeles (Calif.), Mexicans in, 328. Los Angeles County, Mexicans in, 328. Louis XIV, 79, 106. Louisiana, 152; French language in, 6; settlement in, 186-189; French in, 186; Acadian refugees in, 186; Nova Scotians in, 186, 187; cosmopolitan population in, 243, 244; religious groups in, 244; illiteracy test, 244, 245. Louisiana Purchase of 1803, 149, 152, 185, 187, 188, 189, 191, 195, 208. Lower California, 210. Loyalists, 65, 68, 108, 146, 158; Episcopalians as, 69; expulsion in the North, 69; in Boston, 71; leave colonies for Canada, England, and English West Indies, 71; flee from colonies, 100; migration from New York State after the Revolution, 110; in New York State during the Revolution, 110; Scotch Highlanders as, 139; United Empire, 311. Lynn (Mass.), 82. Magna Græcia, 232. Maine, 101; scattered settlements on coast of, 87; 1930 census native population, 235. Malay Peninsula, Negroids in, 28. Malays, the, 30, 294; in the Philippines, 31; in Japan, 31. Man, ancestry of, 17. Manhattan, Negroes in, 237. Manhattan Island, 102, 111. Manitoba, 195; Riel Rebellion in, 306; settlement of, 313, 314; Russians in, 318. Mann, Elizabeth, 137. Manx, 58. Marcellus (N.Y.), 110. Marietta (Ohio), established by New England Company, 164. Maritime Provinces, 309, 315; Nordic element in, 296; population in, 300. Maryland, 73, 127, 146; settlement of, 80; religious groups in, 127, 128; Negroes in, 128; Acadians in, 128; population at time of Revolution, 129; thoroughly Anglo-Saxon at time of first census, 129; Alpines in, 153; 1930 census native population, 239; attitude toward aliens, 268. Mason and Dixon line, 172. Massachusetts, first inhabitants of, 81; expansion in, 84; naming of cities in, 84, 85; population pushed westward, 88; as parent of all New England, 89; settlement west of Connecticut River in, 89, 90; influence during Revolution, 99; loss of population in, 100; growth in interior of, 101; Revolutionary troops from, 111; cosmopolitan population in 1930, 236; attitude toward aliens, 268. Massachusetts Bay, early permanent settlements around, 72; Governor Winthrop's fleet in, 82. Massachusetts Bay Colony, antecedents of, 82; social status of English founders of, 83, 84. Mather, Cotton, 94. Maverick, Rev. John, 85. Mayas, 341. Maynard, Lord, 85. Medford (Mass.), 82. Mediterraneans, the, 24, 57, 59; characteristics of, 29; range of, 29; in southern Italy, 39; Celtic-speaking, 40; on British Isles, 57. Melanesia, Negroids in, 28; racial tangle in, 28. Mendoza, 322. Mennonites, 79; in Germantown, 115. Mesopotamia, 22, 25, 39. Mexican Indians, 327, 349. Mexican revolution, in 1810, 326; in 1910, 326, 327. Mexican War, 165, 208, 213; California annexed to United States as result of, 215. Mexicans, in California, 216; in Southwestern States, 292; lack of intelligence, 327, 328; in United States, 327-330. Mexico, 323, 348; Nordics in, 209; Spaniards in, 324, 325; Indian blood in, 326. Mexico City, 325, 328; Humboldt in, 322. Michaelangelo, 48. Michigan, 164; French atmosphere in, 177; State Constitution, 177; population in 1836, 177; Dutchmen in, 178; native population in, 250; Canadians in, 250; Indians in, 289; Mexican population in, 293. Micmacs, the, 307. Middle Atlantic States, powerful section of America, 237. Middlefield (Mass.), varied population in, 109. Milan, 51. Milford (N.J.), 113. Milledgeville (Ala.), 183. Milwaukee (Wis.), 161, 250, 251; Germans in, 251. Minnesota, 313; settlement in, 195; treaties with Indians, 195; first official census in, 195; Scandinavians in, 196, 251; Germans in, 196; Anglo-Saxon in character, 197; Indians in, 289; native population in, 238. Miocene, 17. Mississippi, heart of Cotton Kingdom, 184; settlement in, 184-189; Negroes in, 185; 1930 census native population, 243. Mississippi Bubble, 187. Mississippi River, 73; territories west of, 195-207. Mississippi Valley, 149; Norway and Sweden immigration to, 229; settlement of, 256. Missouri, 87, 172, 175; Boone in, 123; settlement in, 190-192, 201; Kentuckians in, 191; Nordic American stock in, 201; native population in, 252; Negroes in, 252. Mitanni, 39. Mobile (Ala.), 183. Mohammedan Arabs, 45. Mohammedanism, and the Negro, 49. Mohawk River, 107, 108; Loyalists and Scotch along the, 76. Mohawk Valley, 109, 110. Mohawks, the, 299. Mohenjo-Daro, 25. Mongolia, 23. Mongoloid race, physical characteristics of, 37; as distinguished from Alpine race, 37. Mongoloid tribes, 19. Mongoloids, the, 28, 64, 294. Mongols, the, 21, 53; similarity to Alpines, 29; traits in, 30; ancestors of American Indians, 30; Asiatic, 31; confront the Nordics, 356. Monongahela country, 165. Monroe, James, 136. Montana, 254; few settlers in, 205; mining industry and growth of, 260; admitted to statehood, 261; foreign stock in, 261; Indians in, 289. Montcalm, overthrown at Quebec, 99. Montgomery (Ala.), 183. Moors, 49. Moravia, 79; Mongolian characters in, 37. Moravian Brothers, in North Carolina, 80. Moravians, in Georgia, 117, 144. Mormon Church, 204. Mormon Utah settlement, converts from England, 204. Mormonism, 67. Mormons, 176; in Nebraska, 203; in Utah, 203. Morocco, 231. Moscovia, 54. Mulattoes, 131, 283; in Virgin Islands, 11; migration northward, 237; intelligence of, 284. Myjerka, 103. "Myth of the Melting Pot," 1. Naples (N.Y.), 110, 231. Napoleonic Wars, 302, 312. Nashville (Tenn.), 147. Natchez (Ala.), 183. Natchez (La.), 188. National Origins Act, 272, 274, 278. National Origins provision, 2. National Origins Quota, 323. Navajo Indians, 291. Naval war in 1798, 71. Neapolitan, the, 264. Nebraska, 173; settlement in, 203; Mormons in, 203; transients in, 203; permanent settlers in, 203, 204; attracted pioneers after Civil War, 254; Bohemians in, 254; Nordic influence in, 255. Negrillos (or Pigmies), 20. Negritos, 31; in Eurasia, 28. Negro slavery, 134, 144. Negroes, the, 21; in Virgin Islands, 11; and Mohammedanism, 49; among Roman Catholics in the colonies, 70; increase in New York State, 237; manual labor in South by, 281; in United States according to census, 282; in the North, 282; treatment by Southerners, 282, 283; in the North, 283; tendency toward Communism, 283; advantages of "white blood," 284; in Central American countries, 330 ff. Negroids, in Eurasia, 27; in Melanesia, 28; in Tasmania, 28. Neolithic Mediterraneans, in Ireland, 62; conquered by the Goidelic, 62. Nevada, 254; discovery of silver in, 205, 261; growth of, 261; admitted as a State, 262; decrease in population, 262. Nevis, 85. New Amsterdam (Manhattan Island), 102. New Bern, 139. New Brunswick, Scottish population in, 309; French-Canadians in, 310. New Brunswick (N.J.), 113. New Castle County (Del.), 116; Scotch settlements in, 122. New England, Pilgrim and Puritan migration to, 65; early religions in, 67; Episcopalians as Loyalists in, 69; at war with France and Canadian Indians, 71; early settlements in, 72; natural increase in population of Whites in, 86; emigration to Great Britain and West Indies from, 86; Nordic character in, 90, 91; Indian population of, 97, 98; smallpox in, 98; golden age of, 99; vigor of Nordics in, 155; French-Canadians in, 218; increase of Anglo-Saxon stock in, 219, 220; decline in white stock birth rate in, 220. New England Company, 164. New England Emigrant Aid Company, 201. New Hampshire, 72, 94; settlements in, 88, 89; growth of, 101; 1930 census native population, 235. New Iberia, 188. New Jersey, 72; settlement of, 77; small Dutch element in, 77; English in, 77, 111-114; East Jersey, 112; West Jersey, 112; population at time of Revolution, 114; Alpines in, 153; foreign-born in, 218; 1930 census native population, 238. New London (Conn.), 87. New Mexico, 152; Spanish language in, 6; native and Mexican Indians in, 213; population in, 213, 214; Mexicans in, 263; Indians in, 289. New Netherland, Dutch settlement of, 102. New Orleans (La.), 168, 171, 186. New Providence, 345. New Rochelle (N.Y.), 76, 106. New York City, 112; inferiority of, at time of Revolution, 105; beginning of commercial greatness of, 105, 106; arrival of French Huguenots in, 106; Puerto Ricans in, 344. New York State, 72, 229; small Dutch population in, 73; French Huguenots in, 73, 76; foreigners in, 75; Flemings in, 76; as unimportant colony, 105, 108; New England colonization of, 105; Palatines in, 107; invasion of New Englanders after the Revolution, 108; Ulster Scots in, 108; Loyalist migration from New York State after the Revolution, 110; large quantity of Revolutionary troops from, 111; Alpines in, 153; foreign-born in, 218; increase in Negroes in, 237; race mixture in, 237; Indians in, 289. _New York Tribune_ (quoted), 216. New Zealand, 303, 353, 354. Newark (N.J.), 72, 113. Newark Bay, 113. Newfoundland, 296, 307, 308. Newport (R.I.), 88. Newton, 87. Nicaragua, population of, 331, 332. Niebelungenlied, the, 51. Nile, valley of the, 22. Nordic Frisians, 76. Nordic race, peculiar characteristics of, 34, 35; red-haired branch of, 35, 36; importance in United States, 153; necessity of close co-operation by, 357. Nordics, 21; jealousy of, 15; originators of Aryan group of languages, 24, 26; in India, 25; and the caste system, 26; passing of, in India and Persia, 26; expansion of Alpines at expense of, 31; development of, 33; mixture with Mediterraneans in British Islands, 33; question as to homeland of, 33, 34; as aggressors, 34; in Scandinavia, 35; around Baltic and North Seas, 35; Celtic, 36; Teutonic, 36, 42, 46, 50; in West as Achæans, 39; in Mesopotamia, 39; in Italy, 51; in France, 52; and the Crusades, 53; Goidels, 57, 62; in American colonies, 77; weakened as a race, 150; in Mexican territory, 209; favored in Quota Act of 1921, 271; confronted by the Mongols, 356, 357. Norfolk, 56; the Angles in, 61. Norman conquest in 1066, 60. Normandy, religion in, 60. Normans, the, 52. Norse, 59; in Scotland, 55. Norsemen, 59, 60. North, the Revolution in the, 69. North Africa, the Berbers of, 24. North Carolina, 134, 146; extended to Mississippi River, 74; Scots in, 74; Moravian Brothers in, 80; English and Ulster Scots in, 80; Boone in, 123; settlement of, 138; varied races in, 138-140; 1930 census native population, 240; Indians in, 289. North Dakota, native population, 238; admitted as a State, 253; Nordic element in, 253; Indians in, 289. North German Nordics, in America, 143. North Sea, 35. Northampton (England), 84. Northamptonshire, 83. Northern Abolitionists, 12. Northern Pacific Railway, 253. Northmen, the, in Scotland, 55; as Danes, 55; conquer Normandy, 55. Northwest Territory (old), 163-182; French in, 162; Mexicans in, 162; Ohio, 164-167; Indiana, 167-170; Illinois, 170-176; Michigan, 176-178; Wisconsin, 178-182. Norwalk (Conn.), 87. Nova Scotia, the French in, 308; Loyalists in, 308; Gaelic spoken in, 309. Offnet race, 32. Oglethorpe, Governor, 116, 143, 145. Ohio, 150; migration to, 109; settled by New England Company, 164; Pennsylvania emigration to, 165; Nordics and Pennsylvania Dutch in, 166; German and Irish immigrants in, 166; settlers of northern Indiana in, 168; native population in, 248; Canadians in, 248. Ohio Legislature, 165. Ohio River, 145, 146, 164, 167, 168. Oklahoma, pride of Indian blood in, 98; cosmopolitan population in, 245, 246; Indians in, 246, 289-292; Canadians in, 246. Old Charles Town, 141. Old Pretender, the, 139. Oneida Community, 67. Ontario, 303; Roman Catholic Scotch Highlanders in, 108; "United Empire Loyalists" in, 111; French-Canadians in, 310; Loyalist refugees in, 311; increase in population, 312; Nordic element in, 313; Poles and Italians in, 318; Russians in, 318. Orange County, Ulster Scots in, 107. Oregon, settlement in, 206, 207, 256; native population in, 267. Oregon Trail, 259. Orient, revolt against European control in the, 15; missionaries in, 15. Osco-Umbrians, 39; invasions into Italy, 26. Ostrogoths, 44, 51. Ottawa, French language in, 5. Ottawa River, 297. Pacific Coast, 155; migration westward to, 158, 217, 218; restless population on, 257; Indian population on, 290; immigration of Filipinos on, 293, 294. Pacific States, America's future in, 354; Philippines in, 354. Palatinate, the, 116, 228. Palatine Germans, along the Hudson River and Mohawk valleys, 76. Palatines, the, 8, 106; in Holland and England, 107; in New York State, 107, 117; in Pennsylvania, 107; in Georgia, 116, 117. Paleolithic Period, 32. Palmer, 94. Palmyra (N.Y.), 110. Panama, population of, 333; North American influence in, 333. Panama Canal, 354. Papua, racial tangle in, 28. Paraguay, 321; population of, 341, 342; war with Brazil and Argentina, 341. Paris, 186. Peace of Paris, the, 99. Pelham, 94. Penn, William, 114, 115, 121, 123, 125. Pennsylvania, 146; French Huguenots in, 73; settlement of, 77; Germans in, 79; Palatines in, 107; religious denominations in, 115; invasion of Palatinates in, 117, 122, 124; English alarmed over Palatine invasion, 120; Ulster Scots in, 121-122; increase in population, 123; races in, at end of Colonial period, 124; Delaware part of, 125; foreign-born in, 218; 1930 census native population in, 238; attitude toward aliens, 268. Pennsylvania Dutch, 123, 124, 137. _Pennsylvanische Deutsche_, 115. Perpetual Emigrating Fund, 204. Persia, passing of Nordics in, 26; Negro admixture in, 27. Persians, Islamized, 49. Perth Amboy (N.J.), 77, 113. Perthshire, 159. Peru, Indian race in, 342. Peruvian Indians, 342. Philadelphia, 105, 112, 114, 155, 309; English Quakers and Welsh around, 77; Ulster Scots enter colonies through, 77; strength of Church of England in, 121; as metropolis of United States, 123. Philippines, the, 294; rise of nationalism in, 14; American problem in, 353; in Pacific States, 354; United States should govern, 355, 356. Phrygia, Nordic conquest of, 39. Picts, 58, 61. Piedmont, 173. Piedmont (Italy), 143. Pigmies (or Negrillos), 20. Pike's Peak, 258, 259. Pilgrim Fathers, 82. Piscataqua (New Brunswick, N.J.), 113. Pittsburgh, Ulster Scots in, 123. Pleistocene glaciation, 34. Plymouth, 98. Plymouth colony, settlers of, 81; antecedents in, 82. Plymouth Rock, 82. Po valley, as Cisalpine Gaul, 41. Polaks, 355. Poland, rise of nationalism in, 14; migration of German Jews into, 225. Polish Jews, 224-226. Polk, James K., 210. Polygamy, as racial curse, 49, 50. Polynesia, Malay blood in, 30. Polynesian Islands, 353. Pomerania, 181. Port of New York, Dutch population outside, 77. Portland (Maine), 101. Portsmouth (R.I.), 88. Portugal, 47, 48, 335, 336. Portuguese, in Brazil, 335. Prairie Provinces, 314. Prince Edward Island, native population of, 309; French-Canadians in, 310. Princeton University, 113. Protectorate, the, 133. Protestant Episcopal Church, the, 69. Protestant House of Orange, 127. Providence (R.I.), 88; Huguenots in, 97. Prussia, 116, 170. Pueblo Indians, revolt against Spanish, 291. Puerto Ricans, 294. Puerto Rico, 343, 349; results of abolition of slavery in, 11; population of, 343, 344. Puget Sound, 267. Puritan emigration, from England, 82. Puritans, New England, 66; as refugees in Virginia, 135. Putnam, General Rufus, 164. "Q" Celts, 62. Quakers, 93, 125; along Delaware River, 112; become Anglicans, 121; in Albemarle, 138. Quebec, 229, 304; French language in, 5; "Habitat" French of, 8; intermarriage of French and Indians, 9; overthrow of Montcalm at, 99; stronghold of French Canadians, 310; Russians in, 318. Quebec Province (Lower Canada), 301; French settlement of, 297; physical characteristics of settlers, 297, 298; language in, 298; domination of Jesuits in, 299; centre of French population, 301. Quota Act of 1921, 270, 271; favored the European Nordic, 271. Race, in United States during Colonial times, 2 ff.; at present time, 6; definition of, 21 ff., 36; distinction between language and, 24; Mediterranean, 28, 29; Alpine, 28, 29; Nordic, 29; Alpine Slavs, 31; Mongols, 36; in Ireland, 62, 63. _See also under_ various races. Railroads, 175. Ravenal, 141. Reading (Pa.), 121, 123. Red River, steam navigation on, 313. Red River Colony, 195, 313. Red River country, 253. Reformation, the, 42; lack of hold on Ireland, 63. "Refuge for the Oppressed," 227. "Regulators," rebellion in North Carolina, 70. Reuter, E.B., 284. Revolution, the American, hatred in New England of mother country during, 68; political and social, 70; loss of Nordic blood in America during, 71; and expulsion of Iroquois Indians, 76; Germans unloyal during, 79; Protestants in United States after, 152; Nordic invasion of Florida during, 193; migration following, 256. Revolution (French), 179. Revolution of 1689, 128. Rhode Island, settlements in, 88; source of colonization, 89; 1930 census native population, 236. Richelieu River, 301. Richmond (N.Y.), 110. Richmond (Va.), 136. Riel Rebellion, 306. Rio Grande, the, 154, 320. Robinson (clergyman), 83. Rochester, increase in Negroes in, 237. Rock Island and Pacific Railway, 196. Rocky Mountain States, 257; varying population in, 258. Roderick, 46. Roman Catholic church, growth in America, 162; hostility of Know Nothing Party to, 219; strength in Canada, 318. Roman Catholics, population in the colonies, 69, 70; Negroes and Germans among, 70; many colonies legislated against, 70. Rome, 22; sacked by Gauls, 41. Roosevelt, Theodore, 4, 269. Roxbury (Mass.), 82. Royalists, in Virginia, 135. Russia, Varangians in, 56. Sahara Desert, 26. Saint Croix, 85. Saint Kitts, 85, 86. Saint Lawrence River, 300, 301. Saint Louis (Mo.), 161, 171, 196; as French outpost, 190; marked German tinge in, 191, 192. Saint Mary's (Md.), 126, 128. Saladin, 50. Salem, 112. Salvador, population of, 331. Salzburg, 144. San Antonio (Texas), 212. San Francisco (Calif.), 216; Oriental laborers in, 265. Sanscrit, in Burma, 25; in India, 25. Santo Domingo, 287, 345; loss of white control in, 11, 12; barbarism in, 12. Saracens, at Tours, 53. Saskatchewan, 314; Russians in, 318. Savannah (Ga.), 144. Saxons, 41, 51; invaded Britain, 59. Scandinavia, 42; first Nordics in, 35; Nordic immigration from, 227, 229. Schenectady, 103. Schuylkill valley, Germans in, 121. Schwankenfelders, 79. Scituate, 82. Scotch Highlanders, importation of Roman Catholics, 108. "Scotch Irish," 63. Scotch Rebellion of 1670, 133. Scotland, 58; Nordic population in, 59; invaded by Danes, 59. Scrooby, 82. Sedgmoor, Battle of, 134. Sedition Act of 1798, 268. Selkirk, Lord, 313. Seneca Falls (N.Y.), 110. Seneca Lake, 110. Sephardim, 227. Seven Seas, the, 352. Seven Years' War, 193. Sevier, 141. Shakers, 67. Shawneetown, 172. Shays's Rebellion, 70, 90. Sheffield, 90. Shenandoah Valley, 74, 137, 146; Scotch Germans in, 122. Sicily, 231, 232. Sidonius, Appollonius, 51. Sierra range, the, 155. Silesia, 53. Singapore, 354. Sioux Indians, 291. Skrellings, 98. Slavery, 12; results of abolition on British Empire, 11; in South Africa, 11; in Jamaica, 11; in Puerto Rico, 11; and the Civil War, 12, 13; in South Carolina, 142. Slavs, Alpine, 31. Smith, Captain John, 90. Société des Amis des Noirs, 12. Sogdians, 23. "Solid South," 282. Somaliland, 29. Somerset, 159. South, the, religion in, 69; decline of leadership in, 175. South Africa, 353; results of abolition of slavery in, 11. South Carolina, 168; racial complexion in, 80; settlement of, 141; large-scale agriculture in, 141; Ulster Scots in, 142; slavery question in, 142; Nordics and loyalists in, 142; Dorchester Society in, 144; Negroes outnumbered whites, 185; 1930 census native population, 240, 241. South Dakota, rush in 1876 in, 254; Indians in, 289. South Irish Catholics, 7. South Italy, Negroid element in, 9. South of Portugal, Negro slave element in, 9. South Russia, Aryan language in, 24; the Goths in, 44. "South Sea," the, 162 Southern frontiersman, religion of, 67. Southwest, 183-194; Alabama, 183, 184; Mississippi, 184-189; Louisiana, 185-189; Arkansas, 189-190; Missouri, 190-192; Florida, 192-194. Soviet Russia, Alpines in, 15. Spain, conquered by Celtic Nordics, 40; Visigoths in, 45; ceded Florida to England, 193. Spaniards, in Mexico, 324, 325. Spanish Conquest, 324. Spanish Main, the, 98. Spencer, Herbert (quoted), 9, 10. Stamford (Conn.), 87. Statehood, 258, 261, 262. Steamboat, first on Lake Erie, 177. "Stony Mountains," 155. Stormont (Ontario), 312. Straits of Gibraltar, 45. Stratford (Conn.), 87. Suevi, the, 42, 45, 51. Suffolk, the Angles in, 61. Sumner, Senator, 288. Surrey, 159. Susquehanna River, 110. Swabia, 228. Sweden, 44, 45. Swedes, 111. Switzerland, 50; national unity in, 5; various languages in, 5. Symmes, Judge T.C., 164. Syracuse, increase in Negroes in, 237. Syria, 231. Tasmania, 20; Negroids in, 28. Taunton (Mass.), 82. Tennessee, 72, 146, 157; Scotch and Germans in, 122; settlement of, 147-149; Alpines in, 153; racial make-up of, 242. Teutonic, branch of the Nordic race, 42; as a term, 43. Teutonic Nordics, 36, 42, 43. Teutons, 42; collapse of Roman Empire under, 43; physical characteristics of, 43. Texas, 152, 174; Mexicans in, 162, 208; American settlement in, 209; importance as slave-holding territory, 209; growth of population at time of Mexican War, 212; Negroes in, 212; German emigration (Alpines) in, 212; foreign elements in, 246; Nordic absorption of, 256. _The Chronicle_, 260. "The Land of Little Sticks," 316. "The Provisional State of Deseret," 204. "The Refuge of the Oppressed," 1. Theodoric, 44. Thirteen Colonies, the, 163. Thirty Years War, 127. Thomson, David, 88. "Three Notch Road," 184. Tioga River, 110. Tokarian language, 25. Toulouse, 48. Tours, the Saracens at, 53. Transcontinental Railway, 203. Treaty of Paris, 163. Trenton (N.J.), 115. Troubadours, 48. Tucson (Ariz.), 214. Turanians, 31. "Turco," 339. Turkestan, Ural-Altaic language in, 24. Turks, race mixture among, 50; in Asia Minor, 50. Ukraine, the, 54. Ulster, 95; Presbyterians in, 63. Ulster Presbyterians, 93. Ulster Scots, 7, 92, 93, 96; in America, 60; hatred of England, 67; forced to the West, 73; in North Carolina, Kentucky and Tennessee, 74; in California, 78; in Ireland, 78; in Orange County, 107; established church in Albany, 108; west of Alleghanies, 123; in Pittsburgh, 123; in Maryland, 129; in South Carolina, 142; in Georgia, 144; animosity during Revolution, 150. Union, the, requirement for admission to, in 1818, 173. Union Pacific Railway, 259. Unitarian form of Christianity, 46. "United Empire Loyalists," 111, 311, 313. United Irishmen, 159. United States, mixture of racial groups in, 2; effect of sentimentalism on Nordic survival in, 12; slavery in, 12; first census, 49; distribution of free land in, 65; little Dutch blood in present population of, 104; population at time of first census, 149, 152, 153; Protestant majority in, 151, 154; Catholic hierarchy in, 151, 152; Nordic race in, 153; Alpine race in, 153; census of 1860, 158, 162; German settlement in, 180, 181; Nordics in, 220, 226, 234; national unity in, 222; Nordic immigration from Scandinavia, 227-230; Alpines in, 227, 228; European immigration to, 228; early Germans in, 228; Norwegians in farming land of, 230; immigration of English and Irish in, 230; immigration of Italians, 231; percentage of alien emigration and immigration in, 233; "gentlemen's agreement" with Japan, 266; white population in 1920, 278; percentage of Protestants in, 279; percentage of Nordics in, 279, 280; loss of unity in, 281; Negroes in, 282; increase of electoral vote in the South, 282; 1930 Indian population, 289; distribution of Indians in, 289; Mexicans in, according to 1930 census, 293; Hindu immigration prevented in, 295; Irish Catholic migration from Canada to, 304; Mexicans in, 324; disadvantages of Mexican immigration to, 327, 329; percentage of Nordics and Protestants in, 347; immigration during last century, 347, 348; restriction of immigration, 348 ff.; aliens in, 350; international affair, 352; "White Man's Burden" in, 352, 357; trouble with Philippines, 354; should govern Philippines, 355. Upland (Chester), 114. Upper Canada, 297; immigration from British Isles to, 302, 303; increase in population, 312. Ur, 25. Ural mountains, 54. Uruguay, white races in, 337; cosmopolitan population in, 338. Utah, Mormons in, 176, 204, 205, 256; Nordic population in, 204, 205; native population in, 261; foreign stock in, 261. Utica, increase in Negroes in, 237. Vaal River, 11. Valens, 44. Valley of the Syr-Daria, 22. Van Buren, Martin, 256. Vandals, 45, 46. Varangians, 56, 59. Varini, the, 52. Venezuela, population of, 334. Vermont, dispute over ownership of, 72; settlement of, 89; as a frontier, 90; migration from Massachusetts to, 90; as an independent state, 90; growth of, 101; 1930 census native population, 235. Victorian Era, 281. Vigot (or Bigot), 46. Vincennes (Ind.), 149, 168. Virgin Islands, 192; Negroes and Mulattoes in, 11, 345. Virginia, 116, 117, 146, 220; early settlements, 72; Mother of States in Colonial times, 73; tidewater population, 73, 74; extended to Mississippi River, 73; English settlement, 80; natural increase in population of whites, 86; Pocahontas tradition in, 99; as exploitation of adventurers, 130; mixed classes of immigrants in, 132 ff.; Cavaliers in, 133; refuge of Puritans during Stuart period, 135; Royalists in, 135; Kentucky veterans in, 164; 1930 census native population, 240; surplus population, 242. Virginia City (Nevada), 261. Visigoths, 46, 52; in Gaul, 44; in Spain, 45, 49. Vistula, the, 44, 54. Von Bismarck, chancellor, 282. Waldenses, 143. Wales, 58, 59; Norsemen in, 59; Iberians in, 61. Walker's Law, 276. Walla Walla Valley, 207. Walloons, 102. War of 1812, 166, 171, 177, 208, 312, 313; causes of, 163. Warwick (R.I.), 88. Washington, 289; an independent territory, 207; native population, 267; population increased by railways, 267; Nordic element in, 267. Washington (D.C.), 239. Washington Bicentennial in 1932, 6. Washington, George, 125, 148. Watauga settlement, the, 148. Watertown (Mass.), 81, 82, 87. Welsh, in England, 41. Wends, 31, 54. Wessex, Puritan emigration from, 84. West Central Asia, 64; origin of civilization in, 22, 23. West India Company, 103. West Indies, 208, 294, 325, 343; languages in, 23, 24; Nordic settlement, 85, 86; Negroes in, 86; Loyalists flee to, 100; South Carolinians in, 142; fate of colonists in, 154, 155. West Jersey, 112, 113. West Scotland, high stature in, 62. West Virginia, 138; 1930 census native population, 241, 242. Wethersfield (Conn.), 87. Whiskey Rebellion, 70, 125. "White Man's Burden," 352, 354, 357. Whites, the, 12, 20; slaves injurious to, 13. Whitesborough, 109. Whitman, Marcus, 206. Wilderness Road, 145. William III, 63. Williams, Roger, 88. Wilmington (Del.), 115, 139. Wilson, Woodrow, 14, 269, 270. Wiltshire, 84. Windsor (Conn.), 87. Winnipeg, 313. Winthrop, Governor, arrival of fleet in Massachusetts Bay, 82. Wisconsin, 164, 175, 195; lead mines in, 172, 178; settlement of, 178-182; growth, 178, 179; foreign element in, 179; climate, soil, and forest lands, 179, 180; Germans in, 179-181; non-Nordic population, 182; native population, 238; foreign element in, 250, 251; waning of wheat industry, 254; Indians in, 289. Woodbridge (N.J.), 113. Worcester, 94. World, the, racially, 26 ff. World War, 15, 116, 185, 212, 231, 246, 247, 252, 269, 283, 315, 336, 338, 340, 356; immigration law as result of, 1, 2; foreigners in draft list, 3; immigration from Scandinavia since, 229. Wright, J.K., (quoted), 40 n. Wurtemberg, 268. Wusuns, 34. Wyoming, admitted to Union, 259; native population, 259; foreign stock in, 259. Wyoming Valley of Pennsylvania, 101. Yadkin valley, 123. Yarmouth, 82. Yiddish (language), 225. York (Pa.), 79, 122. Yorkshire, 82. Young, Brigham, 204, 205. Young Pretender, the, 139. Zuyder Zee, 103. 
7793	----	PELLE THE CONQUEROR PART III.--THE GREAT STRUGGLE. BY MARTIN ANDERSON NEXO TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH By Bernard Miall. III. THE GREAT STRUGGLE I A swarm of children was playing on the damp floor of the shaft. They hung from the lower portions of the timber-work, or ran in and out between the upright supports, humming tunes, with bread-and-dripping in their hands; or they sat on the ground and pushed themselves forward across the sticky flagstones. The air hung clammy and raw, as it does in an old well, and already it had made the little voices husky, and had marked their faces with the scars of scrofula. Yet out of the tunnel- like passage which led to the street there blew now and again a warm breath of air and the fragrance of budding trees--from the world that lay behind those surrounding walls. They had finished playing "Bro-bro-brille," for the last rider had entered the black cauldron; and Hansel and Gretel had crept safely out of the dwarf Vinslev's den, across the sewer-grating, and had reached the pancake-house, which, marvelously enough, had also a grating in front of the door, through which one could thrust a stick or a cabbage- stalk, in order to stab the witch. Sticks of wood and cabbage-stalks were to be found in plenty in the dustbins near the pancake-house, and they knew very well who the witch was! Now and again she would pop up out of the cellar and scatter the whole crowd with her kitchen tongs! It was almost a little too lifelike; even the smell of pancakes came drifting down from where the well-to-do Olsens lived, so that one could hardly call it a real fairy tale. But then perhaps the dwarf Vinslev would come out of his den, and would once again tell them the story of how he had sailed off with the King's gold and sunk it out yonder, in the King's Deep, when the Germans were in the land. A whole ship's crew took out the King's treasure, but not one save Vinslev knew where it was sunk, and even he did not know now. A terrible secret that, such as well might make a man a bit queer in the head. He would explain the whole chart on his double-breasted waistcoat; he had only to steer from this button to that, and then down yonder, and he was close above the treasure. But now some of the buttons had fallen off, and he could no longer make out the chart. Day by day the children helped him to trace it; this was an exciting bit of work, for the King was getting impatient! There were other wonderful things to do; for instance, one could lie flat down on the slippery flagstones and play Hanne's game--the "Glory" game. You turned your eyes from the darkness down below, looking up through the gloomy shaft at the sky overhead, which floated there blazing with light, and then you suddenly looked down again, so that everything was quite dark. And in the darkness floated blue and yellow rings of color, where formerly there had been nothing but dustbins and privies. This dizzy flux of colors before the eyes was the journey far out to the land of happiness, in search of all the things that cannot be told. "I can see something myself, and I know quite well what it is, but I'm just not going to tell," they murmured, blinking mysteriously up into the blue. However, one could have too much of a good thing.... But the round grating under the timbers yonder, where Hanne's father drowned himself, was a thing one never grew weary of. The depths were forever bubbling upward, filling the little children with a secret horror; and the half- grown girls would stand a-straddle over the grating, shuddering at the cold breath that came murmuring up from below. The grating was sure enough the way down to hell, and if you gazed long enough you could see the faintest glimmer of the inky stream that was flowing down below. Every moment it sent its putrid breath up into your face; that was the Devil, who sat panting down there in a corner. If you turned your eyes away from the depths the twilight of the well had turned to brightest day, so you could make the world light or dark just as you wished. A few children always lay there, on all fours, gazing down with anxious faces; and all summer through, directly over the grating, hung a cloud of midges, swaying in the breath of the depths. They would rise to a certain height, then suddenly fall, and rise again, just like a juggler's balls. Sometimes the breathing from below sucked the whole swarm right down, but it rose up again, veering hither and thither like a dancing wraith in the draught from the tunnel-like entry. The little girls would gaze at it, lift their petticoats, and take a few graceful steps. Olsen's Elvira had learned her first dance-steps here, and now she was dancing respectable citizens into the poor-house. And the furniture broker's daughter was in Petersburg, and was _almost_ a Grand Duchess! On the walls of the narrow shaft projecting porches hung crazily, so that they left only a small free space, and here the clothes-lines ran to and fro, loaded with dishclouts and children's clothing. The decaying wooden staircases ran zig-zag up the walls, disappearing into the projecting porches and coming out again, until they reached the very garrets. From the projecting porches and the galleries, doors led into the various tenements, or to long corridors that connected the inner portions of the house. Only in Pipman's side there were neither porches nor galleries, from the second story upward; time had devoured them, so that the stairs alone remained in place. The ends of the joists stuck out of the wall like decaying tooth stumps, and a rope hung from above, on which one could obtain a hold. It was black and smooth from the grip of many hands. On one of those hot June days when the heavens shone like a blazing fire above the rift overhead, the heavy, mouldering timbers came to life again, as if their forest days had returned. People swarmed in and out on the stairs, shadows came and went, and an incessant chattering filled the twilight. From porch to porch dropped the sour-smelling suds from the children's washing, until at last it reached the ground, where the children were playing by the sluggish rivulets which ran from the gutters. The timbers groaned continually, like ancient boughs that rub together, and a clammy smell as of earth and moist vegetation saturated the air, while all that one touched wore a coating of slime, as in token of its exuberant fertility. One's gaze could not travel a couple of steps before it was checked by wooden walls, but one felt conscious of the world that lay behind them. When the doors of the long passages opened and shut, one heard the rumor of the innumerable creatures that lived in the depths of the "Ark"; the crying of little children, the peculiar fidgeting sound of marred, eccentric individuals, for many a whole life's history unfolded itself within there, undisturbed, never daring the light of day. On Pipman's side the waste-pipes stuck straight out of the wall, like wood-goblins grinning from the thicket with wide-open mouths, and long gray beards, which bred rose-pink earthworms, and from time to time fell with a heavy smack into the yard. Green hanging bushes grew out of holes in the wall. The waste water trickled through them and dripped continually as though from the wet locks of the forest. Inside, in the greenish, dripping darkness, sat curiously marked toads, like little water-nymphs, each in her grotto, shining with unwholesome humidity. And up among the timbers of the third story hung Hanne's canary, singing quite preposterously, its beak pointing up toward the spot of fiery light overhead. Across the floor of the courtyard went an endless procession of people, light-shy creatures who emerged from the womb of the "Ark" or disappeared into it. Most of them were women, weirdly clad, unwholesomely pale, but with a layer of grime as though the darkness had worked into their skins, with drowsy steps and fanatical, glittering eyes. Little old men, who commonly lay in their dark corners waiting for death, came hobbling out on the galleries, lifted their noses toward the blazing speck of sky overhead, and sneezed three times. "That's the sun!" they told one another, delighted. "Artishu! One don't catch cold so easy in winter!" II High up, out of Pipman's garret, a young man stepped out onto the platform. He stood there a moment turning his smiling face toward the bright heavens overhead. Then he lowered his head and ran down the break-neck stairs, without holding on by the rope. Under his arm he carried something wrapped in a blue cloth. "Just look at the clown! Laughing right into the face of the sun as though there was no such thing as blindness!" said the women, thrusting their heads out of window. "But then, of course, he's from the country. And now he's going to deliver his work. Lord, how long is he going to squat up there and earn bread for that sweater? The red'll soon go from his cheeks if he stops there much longer!" And they looked after him anxiously. The children down in the courtyard raised their heads when they heard his steps above them. "Have you got some nice leather for us to-day, Pelle?" they cried, clutching at his legs. He brought out of his pockets some little bits of patent-leather and red imitation morocco. "That's from the Emperor's new slippers," he said, as he shared the pieces among the children. Then the youngsters laughed until their throats began to wheeze. Pelle was just the same as of old, except that he was more upright and elastic in his walk, and had grown a little fair moustache. His protruding ears had withdrawn themselves a little, as though they were no longer worked so hard. His blue eyes still accepted everything as good coin, though they now had a faint expression that seemed to say that all that happened was no longer to their liking. His "lucky curls" still shone with a golden light. The narrow streets lay always brooding in a dense, unbearable atmosphere that never seemed to renew itself. The houses were grimy and crazy; where a patch of sunlight touched a window there were stained bed- clothes hung out to dry. Up one of the side streets was an ambulance wagon, surrounded by women and children who were waiting excitedly for the bearers to appear with their uneasy burden, and Pelle joined them; he always had to take part in everything. It was not quite the shortest way which he took. The capital was quite a new world to him; nothing was the same as at home; here a hundred different things would happen in the course of the day, and Pelle was willing enough to begin all over again; and he still felt his old longing to take part in it all and to assimilate it all. In the narrow street leading down to the canal a thirteen-year-old girl placed herself provocatively in his way. "Mother's ill," she said, pointing up a dark flight of steps. "If you've got any money, come along!" He was actually on the point of following her, when he discovered that the old women who lived in the street were flattening their noses against their windowpanes. "One has to be on one's guard here!" he told himself, at least for the hundredth time. The worst of it was that it was so easy to forget the necessity. He strolled along the canal-side. The old quay-wall, the apple-barges, and the granaries with the high row of hatchways overhead and the creaking pulleys right up in the gables awakened memories of home. Sometimes, too, there were vessels from home lying here, with cargoes of fish or pottery, and then he was able to get news. He wrote but seldom. There was little success to be reported; just now he had to make his way, and he still owed Sort for his passage-money. But it would soon come.... Pelle hadn't the least doubt as to the future. The city was so monstrously large and incalculable; it seemed to have undertaken the impossible; but there could be no doubt of such an obvious matter of course as that he should make his way. Here wealth was simply lying in great heaps, and the poor man too could win it if only he grasped at it boldly enough. Fortune here was a golden bird, which could be captured by a little adroitness; the endless chances were like a fairy tale. And one day Pelle would catch the bird; when and how he left confidingly to chance. In one of the side streets which ran out of the Market Street there was a crowd; a swarm of people filled the whole street in front of the iron- foundry, shouting eagerly to the blackened iron-workers, who stood grouped together by the gateway, looking at one another irresolutely. "What's up here?" asked Pelle. "This is up--that they can't earn enough to live on," said an old man. "And the manufacturers won't increase their pay. So they've taken to some new-fangled fool's trick which they say has been brought here from abroad, where they seem to have done well with it. That's to say, they all suddenly chuck up their work and rush bareheaded into the street and make a noise, and then back to work again, just like school children in play-time. They've already been in and out two or three times, and now half of them's outside and the others are at work, and the gate is locked. Nonsense! A lot that's going to help their wages! No; in my time we used to ask for them prettily, and we always got something, too. But, anyhow, we're only working-folks, and where's it going to come from? And now, what's more, they've lost their whole week's wages!" The workmen were at a loss as to what they should do; they stood there gazing mechanically up at the windows of the counting-house, from which all decisions were commonly issued. Now and again an impatient shudder ran through the crowd, as it made threats toward the windows and demanded what was owing it. "He won't give us the wages that we've honestly earned, the tyrant!" they cried. "A nice thing, truly, when one's got a wife and kids at home, and on a Saturday afternoon, too! What a shark, to take the bread out of their mouths! Won't the gracious gentleman give us an answer--just his greeting, so that we can take it home with us?--just his kind regards, or else they'll have to go hungry to bed!" And they laughed, a low, snarling laugh, spat on the pavement, and once more turned their masterless faces up to the counting-house windows. Proposals were showered upon them, proposals of every kind; and they were as wise as they were before. "What the devil are we to do if there's no one who can lead us?" they said dejectedly, and they stood staring again. That was the only thing they knew how to do. "Choose a few of your comrades and send them in to negotiate with the manufacturer," said a gentleman standing by. "Hear, hear! Forward with Eriksen! He understands the deaf-and-dumb alphabet!" they shouted. The stranger shrugged his shoulders and departed. A tall, powerful workman approached the group. "Have you got your killer with you, Eriksen?" cried one, and Eriksen turned on the staircase and exhibited his clenched fist. "Look out!" they shouted at the windows. "Look out we don't set fire to the place!" Then all was suddenly silent, and the heavy house-door was barred. Pelle listened with open mouth. He did not know what they wanted, and they hardly knew, themselves; none the less, there was a new note in all this! These people didn't beg for what they wanted; they preferred to use their fists in order to get it, and they didn't get drunk first, like the strong man Eriksen and the rest at home. "This is the capital!" he thought, and again he congratulated himself for having come thither. A squad of policemen came marching up. "Room there!" they cried, and began to hustle the crowd in order to disperse it. The workmen would not be driven away. "Not before we've got our wages!" they said, and they pressed back to the gates again. "This is where we work, and we're going to have our rights, that we are!" Then the police began to drive the onlookers away; at each onset they fell back a few steps, hesitating, and then stood still, laughing. Pelle received a blow in the back; he turned quickly round, stared for a moment into the red face of a policeman, and went his way, muttering and feeling his back. "Did he hit you?" asked an old woman. "Devil take him, the filthy lout! He's the son of the mangling-woman what lives in the house here, and now he takes up the cudgels against his own people! Devil take him!" "Move on!" ordered the policeman, winking, as he pushed her aside with his body. She retired to her cellar, and stood there using her tongue to such purpose that the saliva flew from her toothless mouth. "Yes, you go about bullying old people who used to carry you in their arms and put dry clouts on you when you didn't know enough to ask.... Are you going to use your truncheon on me, too? Wouldn't you like to, Fredrik? Take your orders from the great folks, and then come yelping at us, because we aren't fine enough for you!" She was shaking with rage; her yellowish gray hair had become loosened and was tumbling about her face; she was a perfect volcano. The police marched across the Knippel Bridge, escorted by a swarm of street urchins, who yelled and whistled between their fingers. From time to time a policeman would turn round; then the whole swarm took to its heels, but next moment it was there again. The police were nervous: their fingers were opening and closing in their longing to strike out. They looked like a party of criminals being escorted to the court-house by the extreme youth of the town, and the people were laughing. Pelle kept step on the pavement. He was in a wayward mood. Somewhere within him he felt a violent impulse to give way to that absurd longing to leap into the air and beat his head upon the pavement which was the lingering result of his illness. But now it assumed the guise of insolent strength. He saw quite plainly how big Eriksen ran roaring at the bailiff, and how he was struck to the ground, and thereafter wandered about an idiot. Then the "Great Power" rose up before him, mighty in his strength, and was hurled to his death; they had all been like dogs, ready to fall on him, and to fawn upon everything that smelt of their superiors and the authorities. And he himself, Pelle, had had a whipping at the court-house, and people had pointed the finger at him, just as they pointed at the "Great Power." "See, there he goes loafing, the scum of humanity!" Yes, he had learned what righteousness was, and what mischief it did. But now he had escaped from the old excommunication, and had entered a new world, where respectable men never turned to look after the police, but left such things to the street urchins and old women. There was a great satisfaction in this; and Pelle wanted to take part in this world; he longed to understand it. It was Saturday, and there was a crowd of journeymen and seamstresses in the warehouse, who had come to deliver their work. The foreman went round as usual, grumbling over the work, and before he paid for it he would pull at it and crumple it so that it lost its shape, and then he made the most infernal to-do because it was not good enough. Now and again he would make a deduction from the week's wages, averring that the material was ruined; and he was especially hard on the women, who stood there not daring to contradict him. People said he cheated all the seamstresses who would not let him have his way with them. Pelle stood there boiling with rage. "If he says one word to me, we shall come to blows!" he thought. But the foreman took the work without glancing at it--ah, yes, that was from Pipman! But while he was paying for it a thick-set man came forward out of a back room; this was the court shoemaker, Meyer himself. He had been a poor young man with barely a seat to his breeches when he came to Copenhagen from Germany as a wandering journeyman. He did not know much about his craft, but he knew how to make others work for him! He did not answer the respectful greetings of the workers, but stationed himself before Pelle, his belly bumping against the counter, wheezing loudly through his nose, and gazing at the young man. "New man?" he asked, at length. "That's Pipman's assistant," replied the foreman, smiling. "Ah! Pipman--he knows the trick, eh? You do the work and he takes the money and drinks it, eh?" The master shoemaker laughed as at an excellent joke. Pelle turned red. "I should like to be independent as soon as possible," he said. "Yes, yes, you can talk it over with the foreman; but no unionists here, mind that! We've no use for those folks." Pelle pressed his lips together and pushed the cloth wrapper into the breast of his coat in silence. It was all he could do not to make some retort; he couldn't approve of that prohibition. He went out quickly into Kobmager Street and turned out of the Coal Market into Hauser Street, where, as he knew, the president of the struggling Shoemakers' Union was living. He found a little cobbler occupying a dark cellar. This must be the man he sought; so he ran down the steps. He had not understood that the president of the Union would be found in such a miserable dwelling-place. Under the window sat a hollow-cheeked man bowed over his bench, in the act of sewing a new sole on to a worn-out shoe. The legs of the passers- by were just above his head. At the back of the room a woman stood cooking something on the stove; she had a little child on her arm, while two older children lay on the ground playing with some lasts. It was frightfully hot and oppressive. "Good day, comrade!" said Pelle. "Can I become a member of the Union?" The man looked up, astonished. Something like a smile passed over his mournful face. "Can you indulge yourself so far?" he asked slowly. "It may prove a costly pleasure. Who d'you work for, if I may ask?" "For Meyer, in Kobmager Street." "Then you'll be fired as soon as he gets to know of it!" "I know that sure enough; all the same, I want to join the Union. He's not going to tell me what I can and what I can't do. Besides, we'll soon settle with him." "That's what I thought, too. But there's too few of us. You'll be starved out of the Union as soon as you've joined." "We must see about getting a bit more numerous," said Pelle cheerfully, "and then one fine day we'll shut up shop for him!" A spark of life gleamed in the tired eyes of the president. "Yes, devil take him, if we could only make him shut up shop!" he cried, shaking his clenched fist in the air. "He tramples on all those hereabouts that make money for him; it's a shame that I should sit here now and have come down to cobbling; and he keeps the whole miserable trade in poverty! Ah, what a revenge, comrade!" The blood rushed into his hollow cheeks until they burned, and then he began to cough. "Petersen!" said the woman anxiously, supporting his back. "Petersen!" She sighed and shook her head, while she helped him to struggle through his fit of coughing. "When the talk's about the Court shoemaker Petersen always gets like one possessed," she said, when he had overcome it. "He really don't know what he's doing. No--if everybody would only be as clever as Meyer and just look after his own business, then certain people would be sitting there in good health and earning good money!" "Hold your tongue!" said Petersen angrily. "You're a woman--you know nothing about the matter." At which the woman went back to her cooking. Petersen filled out a paper, and Pelle signed his name to it and paid his subscription for a week. "And now you must try to break away from that bloodsucker as soon as possible!" said Petersen earnestly. "A respectable workman can't put up with such things!" "I was forced into it," said Pelle. "And I learned nothing of this at home. But now that's over and done with." "Good, comrade! There's my hand on it--and good luck to you! We must work the cause up, and perhaps we shall succeed yet; I tell you, you've given me back my courage! Now you persuade as many as you can, and don't miss the meetings; they'll be announced in _The Working Man_." He shook Pelle's hand eagerly. Pelle took a brisk walk out to the northward. He felt pleased and in the best of spirits. It was about the time when the workers are returning home; they drifted along singly and in crowds, stooping and loitering, shuffling a little after the fatigue of the day. There was a whole new world out here, quite different from that of the "Ark." The houses were new and orderly, built with level and plumb-line; the men went their appointed ways, and one could see at a glance what each one was. This quarter was the home of socialism and the new ideas. Pelle often strolled out thither on holidays in order to get a glimpse of these things; what they were he didn't know, and he hadn't dared to thrust himself forward, a stranger, as he still felt himself to be there; but it all attracted him powerfully. However, to-day he forgot that he was a stranger, and he went onward with a long, steady stride that took him over the bridge and into North Bridge Street. Now he himself was a trades unionist; he was like all these others, he could go straight up to any one if he wished and shake him by the hand. There was a strong and peculiar appeal about the bearing of these people, as though they had been soldiers. Involuntarily he fell into step with them, and felt himself stronger on that account, supported by a feeling of community. He felt solemnly happy, as on his birthday; and he had a feeling as though he must do something. The public houses were open, and the workmen were entering them in little groups. But he had no desire to sit there and pour spirits down his throat. One could do that sort of thing when everything had gone to the dogs. He stationed himself in front of a pastry cook's window, eagerly occupied in comparing the different kinds of cakes. He wanted to go inside and expend five and twenty öre in celebration of the day. But first of all the whole affair must be properly and methodically planned out, so that he should not be disappointed afterward. He must, of course, have something that he had never eaten before, and that was just the difficult part. Many of the cakes were hollow inside too, and the feast would have to serve as his evening meal. It was by no means easy, and just as Pelle was on the point of solving the difficulty he was startled out of the whole affair by a slap on the shoulder. Behind him was Morten, smiling at him with that kindly smile of his, as though nothing had gone wrong between them. Pelle was ashamed of himself and could not find a word to say. He had been unfaithful to his only friend; and it was not easy for him to account for his behavior. But Morten didn't want any explanations; he simply shook Pelle by the hand. His pale face was shining with joy. It still betrayed that trace of suffering which was so touching, and Pelle had to surrender at discretion. "Well, to think we should meet here!" he cried, and laughed good-naturedly. Morten was working at the pastry cook's, and had been out; now he was going in to get some sleep before the night's work. "But come in with me; we can at least sit and talk for half an hour; and you shall have a cake too." He was just the same as in the old days. They went in through the gate and up the back stairs; Morten went into the shop and returned with five "Napoleons." "You see I know your taste," he said laughing. Morten's room was right up under the roof; it was a kind of turret-room with windows on both sides. One could look out over the endless mass of roofs, which lay in rows, one behind the other, like the hotbeds in a monstrous nursery garden. From the numberless flues and chimneys rose a thin bluish smoke, which lay oppressively over all. Due south lay the Kalvebod Strand, and further to the west the hill of Frederiksberg with its castle rose above the mist. On the opposite side lay the Common, and out beyond the chimneys of the limekilns glittered the Sound with its many sails. "That's something like a view, eh?" said Morten proudly. Pelle remained staring; he went from one window to another and said nothing. This was the city, the capital, for which he and all other poor men from the farthest corners of the land, had longed so boundlessly; the Fortunate Land, where they were to win free of poverty! He had wandered through it in all directions, had marvelled at its palaces and its treasures, and had found it to be great beyond all expectation. Everything here was on the grand scale; what men built one day they tore down again on the morrow, in order to build something more sumptuous. So much was going on here, surely the poor man might somehow make his fortune out of it all! And yet he had had no true conception of the whole. Now for the first time he saw the City! It lay there, a mighty whole, outspread at his feet, with palaces, churches, and factory chimneys rising above the mass of houses. Down in the street flowed a black, unending stream, a stream of people continually renewed, as though from a mighty ocean that could never be exhausted. They all had some object; one could not see it, but really they were running along like ants, each bearing his little burden to the mighty heap of precious things, which was gathered together from all the ends of the earth. "There are millions in all this!" said Pelle at last, drawing a deep breath. "Yes," said Morten standing beside him. "And it's all put together by human hands--by the hands of working people!" Pelle started. That was a wonderful idea. But it was true enough, if one thought about it. "But now it has fallen into very different hands!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Yes, they've got it away from us by trickery, just as one wheedles a child out of a thing," cried Morten morosely. "But there's no real efficiency in anything that children do--and the poor have never been anything more than children! Only now they are beginning to grow up, look you, and one fine day they'll ask for their own back." "It would go ill with us if we went and tried to take it for ourselves," said Pelle. "Not if we were united about it--but we are only the many." Pelle listened; it had never occurred to him that the question of organization was so stupendous. Men combined, sure enough, but it was to secure better conditions in their trade. "You are like your father!" he said. "He always had big ideas, and wanted to get his rights. I was thinking about him a little while ago, how he never let himself be trampled on. Then you used to be ashamed of him; but...." Morten hung his head. "I couldn't bear the contempt of respectable folks," he said half under his breath. "I understood nothing beyond the fact that he was destroying our home and bringing disgrace on us. And I was horribly afraid, too, when he began to lay about him; I wake up sometimes now quite wet and cold with sweat, when I've been dreaming of my childhood. But now I'm proud that I'm the son of the 'Great Power.' I haven't much strength myself; yet perhaps I'll do something to surprise the city folks after all.'" "And I too!" Power! It was really extraordinary that Morten should be the son of the giant stone-cutter, so quiet and delicate was he. He had not yet quite recovered the strength of which Bodil had robbed him in his early boyhood; it was as though that early abuse was still wasting him. He had retained his girlish love of comfort. The room was nicely kept; and there were actually flowers in a vase beneath the looking-glass. Flowers, good Lord! "How did you get those?" asked Pelle. "Bought them, of course!" Pelle had to laugh. Was there another man in the world who would pay money for flowers? But he did not laugh at the books. There seemed to be a sort of mysterious connection between them and Morten's peculiar, still energy. He had now a whole shelf full. Pelle took a few down and looked into them. "What sort of stuff is this, now?" he asked doubtfully. "It looks like learning!" "Those are books about us, and how the new conditions are coming, and how we must make ready for them." "Ah, you've got the laugh of me," said Pelle. "In a moment of depression you've got your book-learning to help you along. But we other chaps can just sit where we are and kick our heels." Morten turned to him hastily. "That's the usual complaint!" he cried irritably. "A man spits on his own class and wants to get into another one. But that's not the point at stake, damn it all! We want to stay precisely where we are, shoemakers and bakers, all together! But we must demand proper conditions! Scarcely one out of thousands can come out on top; and then the rest can sit where they are and gape after him! But do you believe he'd get a chance of rising if it wasn't that society needs him--wants to use him to strike at his own people and keep them down? 'Now you can see for yourself what a poor man can do if he likes!' That's what they tell you. There's no need to blame society. "No, the masses themselves are to blame if they aren't all rich men! Good God! They just don't want to be! So they treat you like a fool, and you put up with it and baa after them! No, let them all together demand that they shall receive enough for their work to live on decently. I say a working man ought to get as much for his work as a doctor or a barrister, and to be educated as well. That's my Lord's Prayer!" "Now I've set you off finely!" said Pelle good-naturedly. "And it's just the same as what your father was raving about when he lay dying in the shed. He lay there delirious, and he believed the ordinary workman had got pictures on the wall and a piano, just like the fine folks." "Did he say that?" cried Morten, and he raised his head. Then he fell into thought. For he understood that longing. But Pelle sat there brooding. Was this the "new time" all over again? Then there was really some sense in banding people together--yes, and as many as possible. "I don't rightly understand it," he said at last. "But to-day I joined the trade union. I shan't stand still and look on when there's anything big to be done." Morten nodded, faintly smiling. He was tired now, and hardly heard what Pelle was saying. "I must go to bed now so that I can get up at one. But where do you live? I'll come and see you some time. How queer it is that we should have run across one another here!" "I live out in Kristianshavn--in the 'Ark,' if you know where that is!" "That's a queer sort of house to have tumbled into! I know the 'Ark' very well, it's been so often described in the papers. There's all sorts of people live there!" "I don't know anything about that," said Pelle, half offended. "I like the people well enough.... But it's capital that we should have run into one another's arms like this! What bit of luck, eh? And I behaved like a clown and kept out of your way? But that was when I was going to the dogs, and hated everybody! But now nothing's going to come between us again, you may lay to that!" "That's good, but now be off with you," replied Morten, smiling; he was already half-undressed. "I'm going, I'm going!" said Pelle, and he picked up his hat, and stood for a moment gazing out over the city. "But it's magnificent, what you were saying about things just now!" he cried suddenly. "If I had the strength of all us poor folks in me, I'd break out right away and conquer the whole of it! If such a mass of wealth were shared out there'd never be any poverty any more!" He stood there with his arms uplifted, as though he held it all in his hands. Then he laughed uproariously. He looked full of energy. Morten lay half asleep, staring at him and saying nothing. And then he went. Pipman scolded Pelle outrageously when at last he returned. "Curse it all, what are you thinking of? To go strolling about and playing the duke while such as we can sit here working our eyes out of our heads! And we have to go thirsty too! Now don't you dream of being insolent to me, or there'll be an end of the matter. I am excessively annoyed!" He held out his hand in pathetic expostulation, although Pelle had no intention of answering him. He no longer took Pipman seriously. "Devil fry me, but a man must sit here and drink the clothes off his body while a lout like you goes for a stroll!" Pelle was standing there counting the week's earnings when he suddenly burst into a loud laugh as his glance fell upon Pipman. His blue naked shanks, miserably shivering under his leather apron, looked so enormously ridiculous when contrasted with the fully-dressed body and the venerable beard. "Yes, you grin!" said Pipman, laughing too. "But suppose it was you had to take off your trousers in front of the old clothes' man, and wanted to get upstairs respectably! Those damned brats! 'Pipman's got D. T.,' they yell. 'Pipman's got D. T. And God knows I haven't got D. T., but I haven't got any trousers, and that's just the trouble! And these accursed open staircases! Olsen's hired girl took the opportunity, and you may be sure she saw all there was to see! You might lend me your old bags!" Pelle opened his green chest and took out his work-day trousers. "You'd better put a few more locks on that spinach-green lumber-chest of yours," said Pipman surlily. "After all, there might be a thief here, near heaven as we are!" Pelle apparently did not hear the allusion, and locked the chest up again. Then, his short pipe in his hand, he strolled out on to the platform. Above the roofs the twilight was rising from the Sound. A few doves were flying there, catching the last red rays of the sun on their white pinions, while down in the shaft the darkness lay like a hot lilac mist. The hurdy-gurdy man had come home and was playing his evening tune down there to the dancing children, while the inhabitants of the "Ark" were gossiping and squabbling from gallery to gallery. Now and again a faint vibrating note rose upward, and all fell silent. This was the dwarf Vinslev, who sat playing his flute somewhere in his den deep within the "Ark." He always hid himself right away when he played, for at such times he was like a sick animal, and sat quaking in his lair. The notes of his flute were so sweet, as they came trickling out of his hiding place, that they seemed like a song or a lament from another world. And the restless creatures in the "Ark" must perforce be silent and listen. Now Vinslev was in one of his gentle moods, and one somehow felt better for hearing him. But at times, in his dark moods, the devil seemed to enter into him, and breathed such music into his crazy mind that all his hearers felt a panic terror. Then the decaying timbers of the "Ark" seemed to expand and form a vast monstrous, pitch-black forest, in which all terror lay lurking, and one must strike out blindly in order to avoid being trampled on. The hearse-driver in the fourth story, who at other times was so gentle in his cups, would beat his wife shamefully, and the two lay about in their den drinking and fighting in self-defence. And Vinslev's devilish flute was to blame when Johnsen vainly bewailed his miserable life and ended it under the sewer-grating. But there was nothing to be said about the matter; Vinslev played the flute, and Johnsen's suicide was a death like any other. Now the devil was going about with a ring in his nose; Vinslev's playing was like a gentle breeze that played on people's hearts, so that they opened like flowers. This was his good time. Pelle knew all this, although he had not long been here; but it was nothing to him. For he wore the conqueror's shirt of mail, such as Father Lasse had dreamed of for him. Down in the third story, on the built-out gallery, another sort of magic was at work. A climbing pelargonium and some ivy had wound themselves round the broken beams and met overhead, and there hung a little red paper lantern, which cast a cheerful glow over it all. It was as though the summer night had found a sanctuary in the heart of this wilderness of stone. Under the lantern sat Madam Johnsen and her daughter sewing; and Hanne's face glowed like a rose in the night, and every now and then she turned it up toward Pelle and smiled, and made an impatient movement of her head. Then Pelle turned away a little, re- crossed his leg, and leant over on the other side, restless as a horse in blinkers. Close behind him his neighbor, Madam Frandsen, was bustling about her little kitchen. The door stood open on to the platform, and she chattered incessantly, half to herself and half to Pelle, about her gout, her dead husband, and her lout of a son. She needed to rest her body, did this old woman. "My God, yes; and here I have to keep slaving and getting his food ready for Ferdinand from morning to night and from night to morning again. And he doesn't even trouble himself to come home to it. I can't go looking into his wild ways; all I can do is to sit here and worry and keep his meals warm. Now that's a tasty little bit; and he'll soon come when he's hungry, I tell myself. Ah, yes, our young days, they're soon gone. And you stand there and stare like a baa-lamb and the girl down there is nodding at you fit to crick her neck! Yes, the men are a queer race; they pretend they wouldn't dare--and yet who is it causes all the misfortunes?" "She doesn't want anything to do with me!" said Pelle grumpily; "she's just playing with me." "Yes, a girl goes on playing with a white mouse until she gets it! You ought to be ashamed to stand there hanging your head! So young and well- grown as you are too! You cut her tail-feathers off, and you'll get a good wife!" She nudged him in the side with her elbow. Then at last Pelle made up his mind to go clattering down the stairs to the third story, and along the gallery. "Why have you been so stand-offish to-day?" said Madam Johnsen, making room for him. "You know you are always very welcome. What are all these preliminaries for?" "Pelle is short-sighted; he can't see as far as this," said Hanne, tossing her head. She sat there turning her head about; she gazed at him smiling, her head thrown back and her mouth open. The light fell on her white teeth. "Shall we get fine weather to-morrow?" asked the mother. Pelle thought they would; he gazed up at the little speck of sky in a weather-wise manner. Hanne laughed. "Are you a weather-prophet, Pelle? But you haven't any corns!" "Now stop your teasing, child!" said the mother, pretending to slap her. "If it's fine to-morrow we want to go into the woods. Will you come with us?" Pelle would be glad to go; but he hesitated slightly before answering. "Come with us, Pelle," said Hanne, and she laid her hand invitingly on his shoulder. "And then you shall be my young man. It's so tedious going to the woods with the old lady; and then I want to be able to do as I like." She made a challenging movement with her head. "Then we'll go from the North Gate by omnibus; I don't care a bit about going by train." "From the North Gate? But it doesn't exist any longer, mummy! But there are still omnibuses running from the Triangle." "Well then, from the Triangle, you clever one! Can I help it if they go pulling everything down? When I was a girl that North Gate was a splendid place. From there you could get a view over the country where my home was, and the summer nights were never so fine as on the wall. One didn't know what it was to feel the cold then. If one's clothes were thin one's heart was young." Hanne went into the kitchen to make coffee. The door stood open. She hummed at her task and now and again joined in the conversation. Then she came out, serving Pelle with a cracked tea-tray. "But you look very peculiar tonight!" She touched Pelle's face and gazed at him searchingly. "I joined the trade union to-day," answered Pelle; he still had the feeling that of something unusual, and felt as though everybody must notice something about him. Hanne burst out laughing. "Is that where you got that black sign on your forehead? Just look, mother, just look at him! The trade mark!" She turned her head toward the old woman. "Ah, the rogue!" said the old woman, laughing. "Now she's smeared soot over your face!" She wetted her apron with her tongue and began to rub the soot away, Hanne standing behind him and holding his head in both hands so that he should not move. "Thank your stars that Pelle's a good- natured fellow," said the old woman, as she rubbed. "Or else he'd take it in bad part!" Pelle himself laughed shamefacedly. The hearse-driver came up through the trap in the gallery and turned round to mount to the fourth story. "Good evening!" he said, in his deep bass voice, as he approached them; "and good digestion, too, I ought to say!" He carried a great ham under his arm. "Lord o' my body!" whispered Madam Johnsen. "There he is again with his ham; that means he's wasted the whole week's wages again. They've always got more than enough ham and bacon up there, poor things, but they've seldom got bread as well." Now one sound was heard in the "Ark," now another. The crying of children which drifted so mournfully out of the long corridors whenever a door was opened turned to a feeble clucking every time some belated mother came rushing home from work to clasp the little one to her breast. And there was one that went on crying whether the mother was at home or at work. Her milk had failed her. From somewhere down in the cellars the sleepy tones of a cradle-song rose up through the shaft; it was only "Grete with the child," who was singing her rag-doll asleep. The real mothers did not sing. "She's always bawling away," said Hanne; "those who've got real children haven't got strength left to sing. But her brat doesn't need any food; and that makes a lot of difference when one is poor." "To-day she was washing and ironing the child's things to make her fine for to-morrow, when her father comes. He is a lieutenant," said Hanne. "Is he coming to-morrow, then?" asked Pelle naively. Hanne laughed loudly. "She expects him every Sunday, but she has never seen him yet!" "Well, well, that's hardly a thing to laugh about," said the old woman. "She's happy in her delusions, and her pension keeps her from need." III Pelle awoke to find Hanne standing by his bed and pulling his nose, and imitating his comical grimaces. She had come in over the roof. "Why are you stopping here, you?" she said eagerly. "We are waiting for you!" "I can't get up!" replied Pelle piteously. "Pipman went out overnight with my trousers on and hasn't come back, so I lay down to sleep again!" Hanne broke into a ringing laugh. "What if he never comes back at all? You'll have to lie in bed always, like Mother Jahn!" At this Pelle laughed too. "I really don't know what I shall do! You must just go without me." "No, that we shan't!" said Hanne very decidedly. "No, we'll fetch the picnic-basket and spread the things on your counterpane! After all, it's green! But wait now, I know what!" And she slipped through the back door and out on to the roof. Half an hour later she came again and threw a pair of striped trousers on the bed. "He's obliging, is Herr Klodsmajor! Now just hurry yourself a bit. I ran round to see the hearse-driver's Marie, where she works, and she gave me a pair of her master's week-day breeches. But she must have them again early to-morrow morning, so that his lordship doesn't notice it." Directly she had gone Pelle jumped into the trousers. Just as he was ready he heard a terrific creaking of timbers. The Pipman was coming up the stairs. He held the rope in one hand, and at every turn of the staircase he bowed a few times outward over the rope. The women were shrieking in the surrounding galleries and landings. That amused him. His big, venerable head beamed with an expression of sublime joy. "Ah, hold your tongue!" he said good-naturedly, as soon as he set eyes on Pelle. "You hold your tongue!" He propped himself up in the doorway and stood there staring. Pelle seized him by the collar. "Where are my Sunday trousers?" he asked angrily. The Pipman had the old ones on, but where were the new? The Pipman stared at him uncomprehending, his drowsy features working in the effort to disinter some memory or other. Suddenly he whistled. "Trousers, did you say, young man? What, what? Did you really say trousers? And you ask me where your trousers have got to? Then you might have said so at once! Because, d'you see, your bags ... I've ... yes ... why, I've pawned them!" "You've pawned my best trousers?" cried Pelle, so startled that he loosed his hold. "Yes, by God, that's what I did! You can look for yourself--there's no need to get so hot about it! You can't eat me, you know. That goes without saying. Yes, that's about it. One just mustn't get excited!" "You're a scoundrelly thief!" cried Pelle. "That's what you are!" "Now, now, comrade, always keep cool! Don't shout yourself hoarse. Nothing's been taken by me. Pipman's a respectable man, I tell you. Here, you can see for yourself! What'll you give me for that, eh?" He had taken the pawnticket from his pocket and held it out to Pelle, deeply offended. Pelle fingered his collar nervously; he was quite beside himself with rage. But what was the use? And now Hanne and her mother had come out over yonder. Hanne was wearing a yellow straw hat with broad ribbons. She looked bewitching; the old lady had the lunch-basket on her arm. She locked the door carefully and put the key under the doorstep. Then they set out. There was no reasoning with this sot of a Pipman! He edged round Pelle with an uncertain smile, gazed inquisitively into his face, and kept carefully just out of his reach. "You're angry, aren't you?" he said confidingly, as though he had been speaking to a little child. "Dreadfully angry? But what the devil do you want with two pairs of trousers, comrade? Yes, what do you want with two pairs of trousers?" His voice sounded quite bewildered and reproachful. Pelle pulled out a pair of easy-looking women's shoes from under his bed, and slipped out through the inner door. He squeezed his way between the steep roof and the back wall of the room, ducked under a beam or two, and tumbled into the long gangway which ran between the roof- buildings and had rooms on either side of it. A loud buzzing sound struck suddenly on his ears. The doors of all the little rooms stood open on to the long gangway, which served as a common livingroom. Wrangling and chattering and the crying of children surged together in a deafening uproar; here was the life of a bee-hive. Here it's really lively, thought Pelle. To-morrow I shall move over here! He had thought over this for a long time, and now there should be an end of his lodging with Pipman. In front of one of the doors stood a little eleven-years-old maiden, who was polishing a pair of plump-looking boy's boots; she wore an apron of sacking which fell down below her ankles, so that she kept treading on it. Within the room two children of nine and twelve were moving backward and forward with mighty strides, their hands in their pockets. Then enjoyed Sundays. In their clean shirt-sleeves, they looked like a couple of little grown-up men. This was the "Family"; they were Pelle's rescuers. "Here are your shoes, Marie," said Pelle. "I couldn't do them any better." She took them eagerly and examined the soles. Pelle had repaired them with old leather, and had therefore polished the insteps with cobbler's wax. "They're splendid now!" she whispered, and she looked at him gratefully. The boys came and shook hands with Pelle. "What will the shoes cost?" asked the elder, feeling for his purse with a solemn countenance. "We'd better let that stand over, Peter; I'm in a hurry to-day," said Pelle, laughing. "We'll put it on the account until the New Year." "I'm going out, too, to-day with the boys," said Marie, beaming with delight. "And you are going to the woods with Hanne and her mother, we know all about it!" Hopping and skipping, she accompanied him to the steps, and stood laughing down at him. To-day she was really like a child; the shrewd, old, careful woman was as though cast to the winds. "You can go down the main staircase," she cried. A narrow garret-stairs led down to the main staircase, which lay inside the building and was supposed to be used only by those who lived on the side facing the street. This was the fashionable portion of the "Ark"; here lived old sea-dogs, shipbuilders, and other folks with regular incomes. The tradesmen who rented the cellars--the coal merchant, the old iron merchant, and the old clothes dealer, also had their dwellings here. These dwellings were composed of two splendid rooms; they had no kitchen or entry, but in a corner of the landing on the main staircase, by the door, each family had a sink with a little board cover. When the cover was on one could use the sink as a seat; this was very convenient. The others had almost reached the Knippels Bridge when he overtook them. "What a long time you've been!" said Hanne, as she took his arm. "And how's the 'Family?' Was Marie pleased with the shoes? Poor little thing, she hasn't been out for two Sundays because she had no soles to her shoes." "She had only to come to me; I'm ever so much in her debt!" "No, don't you believe she'd do that. The 'Family' is proud. I had to go over and steal the shoes somehow!" "Poor little things!" said Madam Johnsen, "it's really touching to see how they hold together! And they know how to get along. But why are you taking Pelle's arm, Hanne? You don't mean anything by it." "Must one always mean something by it, little mother? Pelle is my young man to-day, and has to protect me." "Good Lord, what is he to protect you from? From yourself, mostly, and that's not easy!" "Against a horde of robbers, who will fall upon me in the forest and carry me away. And you'll have to pay a tremendous ransom!" "Good Lord, I'd much rather pay money to get rid of you! If I had any money at all! But have you noticed how blue the sky is? It's splendid with all this sun on your back--it warms you right through the cockles of your heart." At the Triangle they took an omnibus and bowled along the sea-front. The vehicle was full of cheerful folk; they sat there laughing at a couple of good-natured citizens who were perspiring and hurling silly witticisms at one another. Behind them the dust rolled threateningly, and hung in a lazy cloud round the great black waterbutts which stood on their high trestles along the edge of the road. Out in the Sound the boats lay with sails outspread, but did not move; everything was keeping the Sabbath. In the Zoological Gardens it was fresh and cool. The beech-leaves still retained their youthful brightness, and looked wonderfully light and festive against the century-old trunks. "Heigh, how beautiful the forest is!" cried Pelle. "It is like an old giant who has taken a young bride!" He had never been in a real beech-wood before. One could wander about here as in a church. There were lots of other people here as well; all Copenhagen was on its legs in this fine weather. The people were as though intoxicated by the sunshine; they were quite boisterous, and the sound of their voices lingered about the tree-tops and only challenged them to give vent to their feelings. People went strolling between the tree-trunks and amusing themselves in their own way, laying about them with great boughs and shouting with no other object than to hear their own voices. On the borders of the wood, a few men were standing and singing in chorus; they wore white caps, and over the grassy meadows merry groups were strolling or playing touch or rolling in the grass like young kittens. Madam Johnsen walked confidently a few steps in advance; she was the most at home out here and led the way. Pelle and Hanne walked close together, in order to converse. Hanne was silent and absent; Pelle took her hand in order to make her run up a hillock, but she did not at first notice that he was touching her, and the hand was limp and clammy. She walked on as in a sleep, her whole bearing lifeless and taciturn. "She's dreaming!" said Pelle, and released her hand, offended. It fell lifelessly to her side. The old woman turned round and looked about her with beaming eyes. "The forest hasn't been so splendid for many years," she said. "Not since I was a young girl." They climbed up past the Hermitage and thence out over the grass and into the forest again, until they came to the little ranger's house where they drank coffee and ate some of the bread-and-butter they had brought with them. Then they trudged on again. Madam Johnsen was paying a rare visit to the forest and wanted to see everything. The young people raised objections, but she was not to be dissuaded. She had girlhood memories of the forest, and she wanted to renew them; let them say what they would. If they were tired of running after her they could go their own way. But they followed her faithfully, looking about them wearily and moving along dully onward, moving along rather more stupidly than was justifiable. On the path leading to Raavad there were not so many people. "It's just as forest-like here as in my young days!" said the old woman. "And beautiful it is here. The leaves are so close, it's just the place for a loving couple of lovers. Now I'm going to sit down and take my boots off for a bit, my feet are beginning to hurt me. You look about you for a bit." But the young people looked at one another strangely and threw themselves down at her feet. She had taken off her boots, and was cooling her feet in the fresh grass as she sat there chatting. "It's so warm to-day the stones feel quite burning--but you two certainly won't catch fire. Why do you stare in that funny way? Give each other a kiss in the grass, now! There's no harm in it, and it's so pretty to see!" Pelle did not move. But Hanne moved over to him on her knees, put her hands gently round his head, and kissed him. When she had done so she looked into his eyes, lovingly, as a child might look at her doll. Her hat had slipped on to her shoulders. On her white forehead and her upper lip were little clear drops of sweat. Then, with a merry laugh, she suddenly released him. Pelle and the old woman had gathered flowers and boughs of foliage; these they now began to arrange. Hanne lay on her back and gazed up at the sky. "You leave that old staring of yours alone," said the mother. "It does you no good." "I'm only playing at 'Glory'; it's such a height here," said Hanne. "But at home in the 'Ark' you see more. Here it's too light." "Yes, God knows, one does see more--a sewer and two privies. A good thing it's so dark there. No, one ought to have enough money to be able to go into the forests every Sunday all the summer. When one has grown up in the open air it's hard to be penned in between dirty walls all one's life. But now I think we ought to be going on. We waste so much time." "Oh Lord, and I'm so comfortable lying here!" said Hanne lazily. "Pelle, just push my shawl under my head!" Out of the boughs high above them broke a great bird. "There, there, what a chap!" cried Pelle, pointing at it. It sailed slowly downward, on its mighty outspread wings, now and again compressing the air beneath it with a few powerful strokes, and then flew onward, close above the tree- tops, with a scrutinizing glance. "Jiminy, I believe that was a stork!" said Madam Johnsen. She reached for her boots, alarmed. "I won't stay here any longer now. One never knows what may happen." She hastily laced up her boots, with a prudish expression on her face. Pelle laughed until the tears stood in his eyes. Hanne raised her head. "That was surely a crane, don't you think so? Stupid bird, always to fly along like that, staring down at everything as though he were short-sighted. If I were he I should fly straight up in the air and then shut my eyes and come swooping down. Then, wherever one got to, something or other would happen." "Sure enough, this would happen, that you'd fall into the sea and be drowned. Hanne has always had the feeling that something has got to happen; and for that reason she can never hold on to what she's got in her hands." "No, for I haven't anything in them!" cried Hanne, showing her hands and laughing. "Can you hold what you haven't got, Pelle?" About four o'clock they came to the Schleswig Stone, where the Social- Democrats were holding a meeting. Pelle had never yet attended any big meeting at which he could hear agitators speaking, but had obtained his ideas of the new movements at second hand. They were in tune with the blind instinct within him. But he had never experienced anything really electrifying--only that confused, monotonous surging such as he had heard in his childhood when he listened with his ear to the hollow of the wooden shoe. "Well, it looks as if the whole society was here!" said Madam Johnsen half contemptuously. "Now you can see all the Social-Democrats of Copenhagen. They never have been more numerous, although they pretend the whole of society belongs to them. But things don't always go so smoothly as they do on paper." Pelle frowned, but was silent. He himself knew too little of the matter to be able to convert another. The crowd affected him powerfully; here were several thousands of people gathered together for a common object, and it became exceedingly clear to him that he himself belonged to this crowd. "I belong to them too!" Over and over again the words repeated themselves rejoicingly in his mind. He felt the need to verify it all himself, and to prove himself grateful for the quickly-passing day. If the Court shoemaker hadn't spoken the words that drove him to join the Union he would still have been standing apart from it all, like a heathen. The act of subscribing the day before was like a baptism. He felt quite different in the society of these men--he felt as he did not feel with others. And as the thousands of voices broke into song, a song of jubilation of the new times that were to come, a cold shudder went through him. He had a feeling as though a door within him had opened, and as though something that had lain closely penned within him had found its way to the light. Up on the platform stood a darkish man talking earnestly in a mighty voice. Shoulder to shoulder the crowd stood breathless, listening open- mouthed, with every face turned fixedly upon the speaker. A few were so completely under his spell that they reproduced the play of his features. When he made some particular sally from his citadel a murmur of admiration ran through the crowd. There was no shouting. He spoke of want and poverty, of the wearisome, endless wandering that won no further forward. As the Israelites in their faith bore the Ark of the Covenant through the wilderness, so the poor bore their hope through the unfruitful years. If one division was overthrown another was ready with the carrying-staves, and at last the day was breaking. Now they stood at the entrance to the Promised Land, with the proof in their hands that they were the rightful dwellers therein. All that was quite a matter of course; if there was anything that Pelle had experienced it was that wearisome wandering of God's people through the wilderness. That was the great symbol of poverty. The words came to him like something long familiar. But the greatness of the man's voice affected Pelle; there was something in the speech of this man which did not reach him through the understanding, but seemed somehow to burn its way in through the skin, there to meet something that lay expanding within him. The mere ring of anger in his voice affected Pelle; his words beat upon one's old wounds, so that they broke open like poisonous ulcers, and one heaved a deep breath of relief. Pelle had heard such a voice, ringing over all, when he lived in the fields and tended cows. He felt as though he too must let himself go in a great shout and subdue the whole crowd by his voice --he too! To be able to speak like that, now thundering and now mild, like the ancient prophets! A peculiar sense of energy was exhaled by this dense crowd of men, this thinking and feeling crowd. It produced a singular feeling of strength. Pelle was no longer the poor journeyman shoemaker, who found it difficult enough to make his way. He became one, as he stood there, with that vast being; he felt its strength swelling within him; the little finger shares in the strength of the whole body. A blind certainty of irresistibility went out from this mighty gathering, a spur to ride the storm with. His limbs swelled; he became a vast, monstrous being that only needed to go trampling onward in order to conquer everything. His brain was whirling with energy, with illimitable, unconquerable strength! Pelle had before this gone soaring on high and had come safely to earth again. And this time also he came to ground, with a long sigh of relief, as though he had cast off a heavy burden. Hanne's arm lay in his; he pressed it slightly. But she did notice him; she too now was far away. He looked at her pretty neck, and bent forward to see her face. The great yellow hat threw a golden glimmer over it. Her active intelligence played restlessly behind her strained, frozen features; her eyes looked fixedly before her. It has taken hold of her too, he thought, full of happiness; she is far away from here. It was something wonderful to know that they were coupled together in the same interests--were like man and wife! At that very moment he accidentally noticed the direction of her fixed gaze, and a sharp pain ran through his heart. Standing on the level ground, quite apart from the crowd, stood a tall, handsome man, astonishingly like the owner of Stone Farm in his best days; the sunlight was coming and going over his brown skin and his soft beard. Now that he turned his face toward Pelle his big, open features reminded him of the sea. Hanne started, as though awakening from a deep sleep, and noticed Pelle. "He is a sailor!" she said, in a curious, remote voice, although Pelle had not questioned her. God knows, thought Pelle, vexedly, how is it she knows him; and he drew his arm from hers. But she took it again at once and pressed it against her soft bosom. It was as though she suddenly wanted to give him a feeling of security. She hung heavily on his arm and stood with her eyes fixed unwaveringly on the speakers' platform. Her hands busied themselves nervously about her hair. "You are so restless, child," said the mother, who had seated herself at their feet. "You might let me lean back against your knee; I was sitting so comfortably before." "Yes," said Hanne, and she put herself in the desired position. Her voice sounded quite excited. "Pelle," she whispered suddenly, "if he comes over to us I shan't answer him. I shan't." "Do you know him, then?" "No, but it does happen sometimes that men come and speak to one. But then you'll say I belong to you, won't you?" Pelle was going to refuse, but a shudder ran through her. She's feverish, he thought compassionately; one gets fever so easily in the "Ark." It comes up with the smell out of the sewer. She must have lied to me nicely, he thought after a while. Women are cunning, but he was too proud to question her. And then the crowd shouted "Hurrah!" so that the air rang. Pelle shouted with them; and when they had finished the man had disappeared. They went over to the Hill, the old woman keeping her few steps in advance. Hanne hummed as she went; now and then she looked questioningly at Pelle--and then went on humming. "It's nothing to do with me," said Pelle morosely. "But it's not right of you to have lied to me." "I lie to you? But Pelle!" She gazed wonderingly into his eyes. "Yes, that you do! There's something between you and him." Hanne laughed, a clear, innocent laugh, but suddenly broken off. "No, Pelle, no, what should I have to do with him? I have never even seen him before. I have never even once kissed a man--yes, you, but you are my brother." "I don't particularly care about being your brother--not a straw, and you know that!" "Have I done anything to offend you? I'm sorry if I have." She seized his hand. "I want you for my wife!" cried Pelle passionately. Hanne laughed. "Did you hear, mother? Pelle wants me for his wife!" she cried, beaming. "Yes, I see and hear more than you think," said Madam Johnsen shortly. Hanne looked from one to the other and became serious. "You are so good, Pelle," she said softly, "but you can't come to me bringing me something from foreign parts--I know everything about you, but I've never dreamed of you at night. Are you a fortunate person?" "I'll soon show you if I am," said Pelle, raising his head. "Only give me a little time." "Lord, now she's blethering about fortune again," cried the mother, turning round. "You really needn't have spoiled this lovely day for us with your nonsense. I was enjoying it all so." Hanne laughed helplessly. "Mother will have it that I'm not quite right in my mind, because father hit me on the head once when I was a little girl," she told Pelle. "Yes, it's since then she's had these ideas. She'll do nothing but go rambling on at random with her ideas and her wishes. She'll sit whole days at the window and stare, and she used to make the children down in the yard even crazier than herself with her nonsense. And she was always bothering me to leave everything standing--poor as we were after my man died--just to go round and round the room with her and the dolls and sing those songs all about earls. Yes, Pelle, you may believe I've wept tears of blood over her." Hanne wandered on, laughing at her mother's rebuke, and humming--it was the tune of the "Earl's Song." "There, you hear her yourself," said the old woman, nudging Pelle. "She's got no shame in her--there's nothing to be done with her!" Up on the hill there was a deafening confusion of people in playful mood; wandering to and fro in groups, blowing into children's trumpets and "dying pigs," and behaving like frolicsome wild beasts. At every moment some one tooted in your ear, to make you jump, or you suddenly discovered that some rogue was fixing something on the back of your coat. Hanne was nervous; she kept between Pelle and her mother, and could not stand still. "No, let's go away somewhere--anywhere!" she said, laughing in bewilderment. Pelle wanted to treat them to coffee, so they went on till they found a tent where there was room for them. Hallo! There was the hurdy-gurdy man from home, on a roundabout, nodding to him as he went whirling round. He held his hand in front of his mouth like a speaking-trumpet in order to shout above the noise. "Mother's coming up behind you with the Olsens," he roared. "I can't hear what he says at all," said Madam Johnsen. She didn't care about meeting people out of the "Ark" to-day. When the coffee was finished they wandered up and down between the booths and amused themselves by watching the crowd. Hanne consented to have her fortune told; it cost five and twenty öre, but she was rewarded by an unexpected suitor who was coming across the sea with lots of money. Her eyes shone. "I could have done it much better than that!" said Madam Johnsen. "No, mother, for you never foretell me anything but misfortune," replied Hanne, laughing. Madam Johnsen met an acquaintance who was selling "dying pigs." She sat down beside her. "You go over there now and have a bit of a dance while I rest my tired legs," she said. The young people went across to the dancing marquee and stood among the onlookers. From time to time they had five öre worth of dancing. When other men came up and asked Hanne to dance, she shook her head; she did not care to dance with any one but Pelle. The rejected applicants stood a little way off, their hats on the backs of their heads, and reviled her. Pelle had to reprove her. "You have offended them," he said, "and perhaps they're screwed and will begin to quarrel." "Why should I be forced to dance with anybody, with somebody I don't know at all?" replied Hanne. "I'm only going to dance with you!" She made angry eyes, and looked bewitching in her unapproachableness. Pelle had nothing against being her only partner. He would gladly have fought for her, had it been needful. When they were about to go he discovered the foreigner right at the back of the dancing-tent. He urged Hanne to make haste, but she stood there, staring absent-mindedly in the midst of the dancers as though she did not know what was happening around her. The stranger came over to them. Pelle was certain that Hanne had not seen him. Suddenly she came to herself and gripped Pelle's arm. "Shan't we go, then?" she said impatiently, and she quickly dragged him away. At the doorway the stranger came to meet them and bowed before Hanne. She did not look at him, but her left arm twitched as though she wanted to lay it across his shoulders. "My sweetheart isn't dancing any more; she is tired," said Pelle shortly, and he led her away. "A good thing we've come out from there," she cried, with a feeling of deliverance, as they went back to her mother. "There were no amusing dancers." Pelle was taken aback; then she had not seen the stranger, but merely believed that it had been one of the others who had asked her to dance! It was inconceivable that she should have seen him; and yet a peculiar knowledge had enveloped her, as though she had seen obliquely through her down-dropped eyelids; and then it was well known women could see round corners! And that twitch of the arm! He did not know what to think. "Well, it's all one to me," he thought, "for I'm not going to be led by the nose!" He had them both on his arm as they returned under the trees to the station. The old woman was lively; Hanne walked on in silence and let them both talk. But suddenly she begged Pelle to be quiet a moment; he looked at her in surprise. "It's singing so beautifully in my ears; but when you talk then it stops!" "Nonsense! Your blood is too unruly," said the mother, "and mouths were meant to be used." During the journey Pelle was reserved. Now and again he pressed Hanne's hand, which lay, warm and slightly perspiring, in his upon the seat. But the old woman's delight was by no means exhausted, the light shining from the city and the dark peaceful Sound had their message for her secluded life, and she began to sing, in a thin, quavering falsetto: "Gently the Night upon her silent wings Comes, and the stars are bright in east and west; And lo, the bell of evening rings; And men draw homewards, and the birds all rest." But from the Triangle onward it was difficult for her to keep step; she had run herself off her legs. "Many thanks for to-day," she said to Pelle, down in the courtyard. "To- morrow one must start work again and clean old uniform trousers. But it's been a beautiful outing." She waddled forward and up the steps, groaning a little at the numbers of them, talking to herself. Hanne stood hesitating. "Why did you say 'my sweetheart'?" she asked suddenly. "I'm not." "You told me to," answered Pelle, who would willingly have said more. "Oh, well!" said Hanne, and she ran up the stairs. "Goodnight, Pelle!" she called down to him. IV Pelle was bound to the "Family" by peculiar ties. The three orphans were the first to reach him a friendly helping hand when he stood in the open street three days after his landing, robbed of his last penny. He had come over feeling important enough. He had not slept all night on his bench between decks among the cattle. Excitement had kept him awake; and he lay there making far-reaching plans concerning himself and his twenty-five kroner. He was up on deck by the first light of morning, gazing at the shore, where the great capital with its towers and factory-chimneys showed out of the mist. Above the city floated its misty light, which reddened in the morning sun, and gave a splendor to the prospect. And the passage between the forts and the naval harbor was sufficiently magnificent to impress him. The crowd on the landing-stage before the steamer laid alongside and the cabmen and porters began shouting and calling, was enough to stupefy him, but he had made up his mind beforehand that nothing should disconcert him. It would have been difficult enough in any case to disentangle himself from all this confusion. And then Fortune herself was on his side. Down on the quay stood a thick-set, jovial man, who looked familiarly at Pelle; he did not shout and bawl, but merely said quietly, "Good-day, countryman," and offered Pelle board and lodging for two kroner a day. It was good to find a countryman in all this bustle, and Pelle confidingly put himself in his hands. He was remarkably helpful; Pelle was by no means allowed to carry the green chest. "I'll soon have that brought along!" said the man, and he answered everything with a jolly "I'll soon arrange that; you just leave that to me!" When three days had gone by, he presented Pelle with a circumstantial account, which amounted exactly to five and twenty kroner. It was a curious chance that Pelle had just that amount of money. He was not willing to be done out of it, but the boarding-house keeper, Elleby, called in a policeman from the street, and Pelle had to pay. He was standing in the street with his green box, helpless and bewildered, not knowing what to be about. Then a little boy came whistling up to him and asked if he could not help him. "I can easily carry the box alone, to wherever you want it, but it will cost twenty- five öre and ten öre for the barrow. But if I just take one handle it will be only ten ore," he said, and he looked Pelle over in a business- like manner. He did not seem to be more than nine or ten years old. "But I don't know where I shall go," said Pelle, almost crying. "I've been turned out on the street and have nowhere where I can turn. I am quite a stranger here in the city and all my money has been taken from me." The youngster made a gesture in the air as though butting something with his head. "Yes, that's a cursed business. You've fallen into the hands of the farmer-catchers, my lad. So you must come home with us--you can very well stay with us, if you don't mind lying on the floor." "But what will your parents say if you go dragging me home?" "I haven't any parents, and Marie and Peter, they'll say nothing. Just come with me, and, after all, you can get work with old Pipman. Where do you come from?" "From Bornholm." "So did we! That's to say, a long time ago, when we were quite children. Come along with me, countryman!" The boy laughed delightedly and seized one handle of the chest. It was also, to be sure, a fellow-countryman who had robbed him; but none the less he went with the boy; it was not in Pelle's nature to be distrustful. So he had entered the "Ark," under the protection of a child. The sister, a little older than the other two, found little Karl's action entirely reasonable, and the three waifs, who had formerly been shy and retiring, quickly attached themselves to Pelle. They found him in the street and treated him like an elder comrade, who was a stranger, and needed protection. They afforded him his first glimpse of the great city, and they helped him to get work from Pipman. On the day after the outing in the forest, Pelle moved over to the row of attics, into a room near the "Family," which was standing empty just then. Marie helped him to get tidy and to bring his things along, and with an easier mind he shook himself free of his burdensome relations with Pipman. There was an end of his profit-sharing, and all the recriminations which were involved in it. Now he could enter into direct relations with the employers and look his comrades straight in the eyes. For various reasons it had been a humiliating time; but he had no feeling of resentment toward Pipman; he had learned more with him in a few months than during his whole apprenticeship at home. He obtained a few necessary tools from an ironmonger, and bought a bench and a bed for ready money. From the master-shoemaker he obtained as a beginning some material for children's shoes, which he made at odd times. His principal living he got from Master Beck in Market Street. Beck was a man of the old school; his clientele consisted principally of night watchmen, pilots, and old seamen, who lived out in Kristianshavn. Although he was born and had grown up in Copenhagen, he was like a country shoemaker to look at, going about in canvas slippers which his daughter made for him, and in the mornings he smoked his long pipe at the house-door. He had old-fashioned views concerning handwork, and was delighted with Pelle, who could strain any piece of greased leather and was not afraid to strap a pair of old dubbin'd boots with it. Beck's work could not well be given out to do at home, and Pelle willingly established himself in the workshop and was afraid of no work that came his way. But he would not accept bed and board from his master in the old-fashioned way. From the very first day this change was an improvement. He worked heart and soul and began to put by something with which to pay off his debt to Sort. Now he saw the day in the distance when he should be able to send for Father Lasse. In the morning, when the dwellers on the roof, drunken with sleep, tumbled out into the long gangway, in order to go to their work, before the quarter-to-six whistle sounded, Pelle already sat in his room hammering on his cobbler's last. About seven o'clock he went to Beck's workshop, if there was anything for him to do there. And he received orders too from the dwellers in the "Ark." In connection with this work he acquired an item of practical experience, an idea which was like a fruitful seed which lay germinating where it fell and continually produced fresh fruit. It was equivalent to an improvement in his circumstances to discover that he had shaken off one parasite; if only he could send the other after him and keep all his profits for himself! That sounded quite fantastic, but Pelle had no desire to climb up to the heights only to fall flat on the earth again. He had obtained certain tangible experience, and he wanted to know how far it would take him. While he sat there working he pursued the question in and out among his thoughts, so that he could properly consider it. Pipman was superfluous as a middleman; one could get a little work without the necessity of going to him and pouring a flask of brandy down his thirsty gullet. But was it any more reasonable that the shoes Pelle made should go to the customer by way of the Court shoemaker and yield him carriages and high living? Could not Pelle himself establish relations with his customers? And shake off Meyer as he had shaken off Pipman? Why, of course! It was said that the Court shoemaker paid taxes on a yearly income of thirty thousand kroner. "That ought to be evenly divided among all those who work for him!" thought Pelle, as he hammered away at his pegs. "Then Father Lasse wouldn't need to stay at home a day longer, or drag himself through life so miserably." Here was something which he could take in hand with the feeling that he was setting himself a practical problem in economics--and one that apparently had nothing to do with his easy belief in luck. This idea was always lurking somewhere in secrecy, and held him upright through everything--although it did not afford him any definite assistance. A hardly earned instinct told him that it was only among poor people that this idea could be developed. This belief was his family inheritance, and he would retain it faithfully through all vicissitudes; as millions had done before him, always ready to cope with the unknown, until they reached the grave and resigned the inherited dream. There lay hope for himself in this, but if he miscarried, the hope itself would remain in spite of him. With Fortune there was no definite promise of tangible success for the individual, but only a general promise, which was maintained through hundreds of years of servitude with something of the long patience of eternity. Pelle bore the whole endless wandering within himself: it lay deep in his heart, like a great and incomprehensible patience. In his world, capacity was often great enough, but resignation was always greater. It was thoroughly accustomed to see everything go to ruin and yet to go on hoping. Often enough during the long march, hope had assumed tones like those of "David's City with streets of gold," or "Paradise," or "The splendor of the Lord returns." He himself had questioningly given ear; but never until now had the voice of hope sounded in a song that had to do with food and clothing, house and farm; so how was he to find his way? He could only sit and meditate the problem as to how he should obtain, quickly and easily, a share in the good things of this world; presumptuously, and with an impatience for which he himself could not have accounted. And round about him things were happening in the same way. An awakening shudder was passing through the masses. They no longer wandered on and on with blind and patient surrender, but turned this way and that in bewildered consultation. The miracle was no longer to be accomplished of itself when the time was fulfilled. For an evil power had seized upon their great hope, and pressed her knees together so that she could not bring forth; they themselves must help to bring happiness into the world! The unshakable fatalism which hitherto had kept them on their difficult path was shattered; the masses would no longer allow themselves to be held down in stupid resignation. Men who all their lives had plodded their accustomed way to and from their work now stood still and asked unreasonable questions as to the aim of it all. Even the simple ventured to cast doubts upon the established order of things. Things were no longer thus because they must be; there was a painful cause of poverty. That was the beginning of the matter; and now they conceived a desire to master life; their fingers itched to be tearing down something that obstructed them--but what it was they did not know. All this was rather like a whirlpool; all boundaries disappeared. Unfamiliar powers arose, and the most good-natured became suspicious or were frankly bewildered. People who had hitherto crawled like dogs in order to win their food were now filled with self-will, and preferred to be struck down rather than bow down of their own accord. Prudent folks who had worked all their lives in one place could no longer put up with the conditions, and went at a word. Their hard-won endurance was banished from their minds, and those who had quietly borne the whole burden on their shoulders were now becoming restive; they were as unwilling and unruly as a pregnant woman. It was as though they were acting under the inward compulsion of an invisible power, and were striving to break open the hard shell which lay over something new within them. One could perceive that painful striving in their bewildered gaze and in their sudden crazy grasp at the empty air. There was something menacing in the very uncertainty which possessed the masses. It was as though they were listening for a word to sound out of the darkness. Swiftly they resolved to banish old custom and convention from their minds, in order to make room there. On every side men continually spoke of new things, and sought blindly to find their way to them; it was a matter of course that the time had come and the promised land was about to be opened to them. They went about in readiness to accomplish something--what, they did not know; they formed themselves into little groups; they conducted unfortunate strikes, quite at random. Others organized debating societies, and began in weighty speech to squabble about the new ideas--which none of them knew anything about. These were more particularly the young men. Many of them had come to the city in search of fortune, as had Pelle himself, and these were full of burning restlessness. There was something violent and feverish about them. Such was the situation when Pelle entered the capital. It was chaotic; there was no definite plan by which they could reach their goal. The masses no longer supported one another, but were in a state of solution, bewildered and drifting about in the search for something that would weld them together. In the upper ranks of society people noted nothing but the insecurity of the position of the workers; people complained of their restlessness, a senseless restlessness which jeopardized revenue and aggravated foreign competition. A few thoughtful individuals saw the people as one great listening ear; new preachers were arising who wanted to lead the crowd by new ways to God. Pelle now and again allowed the stream to carry him into such quarters, but he did allow himself to be caught; it was only the old story over again; there was nothing in it. Nobody now was satisfied with directions how to reach heaven--the new prophets disappeared as quickly as they had arisen. But in the midst of all this confusion there was one permanent center, one community, which had steadily increased during the years, and had fanatically endured the scorn and the persecution of those above and below, until it at last possessed several thousand of members. It stood fast in the maelstrom and obstinately affirmed that its doctrines were those of the future. And now the wind seemed to be filling its sails; it replied after its own fashion to the impatient demands for a heaven to be enjoyed here on earth and an attainable happiness. Pelle had been captured by the new doctrines out by the Schleswig Stone, and had thrown himself, glowing and energetic, into the heart of the movement. He attended meetings and discussions, his ears on the alert to absorb anything really essential; for his practical nature called for something palpable whereupon his mind could get to work. Deep within his being was a mighty flux, like that of a river beneath its ice; and at times traces of it rose to the surface, and alarmed him. Yet he had no power to sound the retreat; and when he heard the complaint, in respect of the prevailing unrest, that it endangered the welfare of the nation, he was not able to grasp the connection. "It's preposterous that they should knock off work without any reason," he once told Morten, when the baker's driver had thrown up his place. "Like your driver, for example--he had no ground for complaint." "Perhaps he suddenly got a pain between the legs because his ancestor great-grandfather was once made to ride on a wooden horse--he came from the country," said Morten solemnly. Pelle looked at him quickly. He did not like Morten's ambiguous manner of expressing himself. It made him feel insecure. "Can't you talk reasonably?" he said. "I can't understand you." "No? And yet that's quite reason enough--there have been lots of reasons since his great-grandfather's days. What the devil--why should they want a reason referring to yesterday precisely? Don't you realize that the worker, who has so long been working the treadmill in the belief that the movement was caused by somebody else, has suddenly discovered that it's he that keeps the whole thing in motion? For that's what is going on. The poor man is not merely a slave who treads the wheel, and had a handful of meal shoved down his gullet now and again to keep him from starving to death. He is on the point of discovering that he performs a higher service, look you! And now the movement is altering--it is continuing of itself! But that you probably can't see," he added, as he noted Pelle's incredulous expression. "No, for I'm not one of the big-bellies," said Pelle, laughing, "and you're no prophet, to prophesy such great things. And I have enough understanding to realize that if you want to make a row you must absolutely have something definite to make a fuss about, otherwise it won't work. But that about the wooden horse isn't good enough!" "That's just the point about lots of fusses," Morten replied. "There's no need to give a pretext for anything that everybody's interested in." Pelle pondered further over all this while at work. But these deliberations did not proceed as in general; as a rule, such matters as were considered in his world of thought were fixed by the generations and referred principally to life and death. He had to set to work in a practical manner, and to return to his own significant experience. Old Pipman was superfluous; that Pelle himself had proved. And there was really no reason why he should not shake off the Court shoemaker as well; the journeymen saw to the measuring and the cutting-out; indeed, they did the whole work. He was also really a parasite, who had placed himself at the head of them all, and was sucking up their profits. But then Morten was right with his unabashed assertion that the working-man carried on the whole business! Pelle hesitated a little over this conclusion; he cautiously verified the fact that it was in any case valid in his craft. There was some sense in winning back his own--but how? His sound common-sense demanded something that would take the place of Meyer and the other big parasites. It wouldn't do for every journeyman to sit down and botch away on his own account, like a little employer; he had seen that plainly enough in the little town at home; it was mere bungling. So he set himself to work out a plan for a cooperative business. A number of craftsmen should band together, each should contribute his little capital, and a place of business would be selected. The work would be distributed according to the various capacities of the men, and they would choose one from their midst who would superintend the whole. In this way the problem could be solved--every man would receive the full profit of his work. When he had thoroughly thought out his plan, he went to Morten. "They've already put that into practice!" cried Morten, and he pulled out a book. "But it didn't work particularly well. Where did you get the idea from?" "I thought it out myself," answered Pelle self-consciously. Morten looked a trifle incredulous; then he consulted the book, and showed Pelle that his idea was described there--almost word for word--as a phase of the progressive movement. The book was a work on Socialism. But Pelle did not lose heart on that account! He was proud to have hit on something that others had worked out before him--and learned people, too! He began to have confidence in his own ideas, and eagerly attended lectures and meetings. He had energy and courage, that he knew. He would try to make himself efficient, and then he would seek out those at the head of things, who were preparing the way, and would offer them his services. Hitherto Fortune had always hovered before his eyes, obscurely, like a fairy-tale, as something that suddenly swooped down upon a man and lifted him to higher regions, while all those who were left behind gazed longingly after him--that was the worst of it! But now he perceived new paths, which for all those that were in need led on to fortune, just as the "Great Power" had fancied in the hour of his death. He did not quite understand where everything was to come from, but that was just the thing he must discover. All this kept his mind in a state of new and unaccustomed activity. He was not used to thinking things out for himself, but had until now always adhered to the ideas which had been handed down from generation to generation as established--and he often found it difficult and wearisome. Then he would try to shelve the whole subject, in order to escape from it; but it always returned to him. When he was tired, Hanne regained her influence over him, and then he went over to see her in the evenings. He knew very well that this would lead to nothing good. To picture for himself a future beside Hanne seemed impossible; for her only the moment existed. Her peculiar nature had a certain power over him--that was all. He often vowed to himself that he would not allow her to make a fool of him--but he always went over to see her again. He must try to conquer her--and then take the consequences. One day, when work was over, he strolled across to see her. There was no one on the gallery, so he went into the little kitchen. "Is that you, Pelle?" Hanne's voice sounded from the living-room. "Come in, then!" She had apparently been washing her body, and was now sitting in a white petticoat and chemise, and combing her beautiful hair. There was something of the princess about her; she took such care of her body, and knew how it should be done. The mirror stood before her, on the window- sill; from the little back room one could see, between the roofs and the mottled party-wall, the prison and the bridge and the canal that ran beneath it. Out beyond the Exchange the air was gray and streaked with the tackle of ships. Pelle sat down heavily by the stove, his elbows on his knees, and gazed on the floor. He was greatly moved. If only the old woman would come! "I believe I'll go out," he thought, "and behave as though I were looking out for her." But he remained sitting there. Against the wall was the double bed with its red-flowered counterpane, while the table stood by the opposite wall, with the chairs pushed under it. "She shouldn't drive me too far," he thought, "or perhaps it'll end in my seizing her, and then she'll have her fingers burnt!" "Why don't you talk to me, Pelle?" said Hanne. He raised his head and looked at her in the mirror. She was holding the end of her plait in her mouth, and looked like a kitten biting its tail. "Oh, what should I talk about?" he replied morosely. "You are angry with me, but it isn't fair of you--really, it isn't fair! Is it my fault that I'm so terrified of poverty? Oh, how it does frighten me! It has always been like that ever since I was born, and you are poor too, Pelle, as poor as I am! What would become of us both? We know the whole story!" "What will become of us?" said Pelle. "That I don't know, and it's all the same to me--only it must be something I don't know all about. Everything is so familiar if one is poor--one knows every stitch of one's clothes by heart; one can watch them wearing out. If you'd only been a sailor, Pelle!" "Have you seen _him_ again?" asked Pelle. Hanne laughingly shook her head. "No; but I believe something will happen--something splendid. Out there lies a great ship--I can see it from the window. It's full of wonderful things, Pelle." "You are crazy!" said Pelle scornfully. "That's a bark--bound for the coal quay. She comes from England with coals." "That may well be," replied Hanne indifferently. "I don't mind that. There's something in me singing, 'There lies the ship, and it has brought something for me from foreign parts.' And you needn't grudge me my happiness." But now her mother came in, and began to mimic her. "Yes, out there lies the ship that has brought me something--out there lies the ship that has brought me something! Good God! Haven't you had enough of listening to your own crazy nonsense? All through your childhood you've sat there and made up stories and looked out for the ship! We shall soon have had enough of it! And you let Pelle sit there and watch you uncovering your youth--aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "Pelle's so good, mother--and he's my brother, too. He thinks nothing of it." "Thinks nothing of it? Yes, he does; he thinks how soft and white your bosom is! And he's fit to cry inside of him because he mustn't lay his head there. I, too, have known what it is to give joy, in my young days." Hanne blushed from her bosom upward. She threw a kerchief over her bosom and ran into the kitchen. The mother looked after her. "She's got a skin as tender as that of a king's daughter. Wouldn't one think she was a cuckoo's child? Her father couldn't stand her. 'You've betrayed me with some fine gentleman'--he used so often to say that. 'We poor folks couldn't bring a piece like that into the world!' 'As God lives, Johnsen,' I used to say, 'you and no other are the girl's father.' But he used to beat us--he wouldn't believe me. He used to fly into a rage when he looked at the child, and he hated us both because she was so fine. So its no wonder that she had gone a bit queer in the head. You can believe she's cost me tears of blood, Pelle. But you let her be, Pelle. I could wish you could get her, but it wouldn't be best for you, and it isn't good for you to have her playing with you. And if you got her after all, it would be even worse. A woman's whims are poor capital for setting up house with." Pelle agreed with her in cold blood; he had allowed himself to he fooled, and was wasting his youth upon a path that led nowhere. But now there should be an end of it. Hanne came back and looked at him, radiant, full of visions. "Will you take me for a walk, Pelle?" she asked him. "Yes!" answered Pelle joyfully, and he threw all his good resolutions overboard. V Pelle and his little neighbor used to compete as to which of them should be up first in the morning. When she was lucky and had to wake him her face was radiant with pride. It sometimes happened that he would lie in bed a little longer, so that he should not deprive her of a pleasure, and when she knocked on the wall he would answer in a voice quite stupid with drowsiness. But sometimes her childish years demanded the sleep that was their right, when Pelle would move about as quietly as possible, and then, at half-past six, it would be his turn to knock on the wall. On these occasions she would feel ashamed of herself all the morning. Her brothers were supposed to get their early coffee and go to work by six o'clock. Peter, who was the elder, worked in a tin-plate works, while Earl sold the morning papers, and undertook every possible kind of occasional work as well; this he had to hunt for, and you could read as much in his whole little person. There was something restless and nomadic about him, as though his thoughts were always seeking some outlet. It was quite a lively neighborhood at this time of day; across the floor of the well, and out through the tunnel-like entry there was an endless clattering of footsteps, as the hundreds of the "Ark" tumbled out into the daylight, half tipsy with sleep, dishevelled, with evidence of hasty rising in their eyes and their garments, smacking their lips as though they relished the contrast between the night and day, audibly yawning as they scuttled away. Up in Pelle's long gangway factory girls, artisans, and newspaper women came tumbling out, half naked; they were always late, and stood there scolding until their turn came to wash themselves. There was only one lavatory at either end of the gangway, and there was only just time to sluice their eyes and wake themselves up. The doors of all the rooms stood open; the odors of night were heavy on the air. On the days when Pelle worked at home little Marie was in high spirits. She sang and hummed continually, with her curiously small voice, and every few minutes she would run in and offer Pelle her services. At such times she would station herself behind him and stand there in silence, watching the progress of his work, while her breathing was audibly perceptible, as a faint, whistling sound. There was a curious, still, brooding look about her little under-grown figure that reminded Pelle of Morten's unhappy sister; something hard and undeveloped, as in the fruit of a too-young tree. But the same shadow did not lie upon her; childish toil had not steeped her as with a bitter sap; only her outer shell was branded by it. There was about her, on the contrary, a gleam of careful happiness, as though things had turned out much better than she had expected. Perhaps this was because she could see the result of her hard childish labors; no one could scatter that to the winds. She was a capable little housewife, and her brothers respected her, and faithfully brought home what they earned. Then she took what she needed, laid something by toward the rent, in a box which was put away in the chest of drawers, and gave them something wherewith to amuse themselves. "They must have something!" she told people; "besides, men always need money in their pockets. But they deserve it, for they have never yet spent a farthing in drink. On Saturday nights they always come straight home with their earnings. But now I must get on with my work; it's dreadful how the time runs through one's hands." She talked just like a young married woman, and Pelle inwardly chuckled over her. After a while she would peep in again; it was time for Pelle to have a bite of something; or else she would bring her mending with her and sit down on the edge of a chair. She was always in a fidget lest a saucepan should boil over, or something else go amiss. At such times they had long, sensible talks. Little Marie did not care about gossip; but there were plenty of serious things which had to be talked over; the difficult times, Marie's parents, and then the wonderful fact that they had met one another once before, a long time ago; that was an event which provided her with an inexhaustible mine of discussion, although she herself could not remember the occasion. But Pelle remembered it all quite well, and over and over again he had to tell her how one day at home he had gone down to the harbor, in order to show old Thatcher Holm the steamers; and she always laughed when she heard how Holm had run away in his alarm every time the steam-crane blew off steam. And then? Yes, the steamer was just on the point of taking on board a heap of furniture, old beds, tables, and the like. "That was all ours!" cried Marie, clapping her hands. "We still had a few things then. We took them to the pawn-shop when father lay ill after his fall." And then she would meet his gaze, asking for more. And in the midst of all the furniture stood a man with a fine old mirror in his arms. Thatcher Holm knew him, and had a talk with him. "He was crying, wasn't he?" asked Marie compassionately. "Father was so unhappy, because things were going so badly with us." And then she herself would talk about the hotel, down among the cliffs of the east coast, and of the fine guests who came there in summer. Three years they had kept the hotel, and Pelle had to name the sum out of which her father had been cheated. She was proud that they had once possessed so much. Ten thousand kroner! Over here her father had found work as a stonemason's laborer, but one day he trod on a loose beam and fell. For a few months he lay sick, and all their household goods found their way to the pawn-shop; then he died, and then they came to the "Ark." Their mother did washing out of doors, but at last she became queer in the head. She could not bear unhappiness, and neglected her housework, to run about seeking consolation from all sorts of religious sects. At last she was quite demented, and one day she disappeared. It was believed that she had drowned herself in the canal. "But things are going well with us now," Marie always concluded; "now there's nothing to worry about." "But don't you get tired of having all this to look after?" Pelle would ask, wondering. She would look at him in astonishment. "Why should I be tired? There's not more than one can manage--if one only knows how to manage. And the children never make things difficult for me; they are pleased with everything I do." The three orphans struggled on as well as they could, and were quite proud of their little household. When things went badly with them, they went hungry, and took serious counsel together; but they accepted help from no one. They lived in the continual fear that the police would get to know of their position, and haul them off to school. Then they would be forcibly separated and brought up at the expense of the poorrates. They were shy, and "kept themselves to themselves." In the "Ark" everybody liked them, and helped them to keep their secret. The other inmates managed their family affairs as best they could; there was always a scandal somewhere. It was a sort of satisfaction to have these three children living so decently in the midst of all this hotch-potch. People thought a great deal of their little model household, and protected it as though it had been a sanctuary. To Pelle they attached themselves blindly. They had picked him up out of the streets, and they certainly regarded him to some extent as a foundling who was still under their protection. When Marie had given the boys their morning coffee, she carried some in to Pelle--it was no use protesting. And in the mornings, when she was busy indoors by herself, she would go round to him with broom and bucket. Her precocious, intelligent face was beaming with circumspection and the desire to help. She did not ask permission, but set to work where need was. If Pelle was away at Beck's workshop, he always found his room clean and tidy in the evening. If he had work at home, she would bring coffee for the two of them during the morning. He did not dare to drive her away, for she would take that to heart, and would go about offended all the rest of the day; so he would run below to fetch a roll of white bread. Marie always found some pretext for putting aside her share for the boys; it gave her no real pleasure to enjoy anything by herself. Pelle felt that he was making headway; and he was conscious of his own youth. He was continually in the rosiest of humors, and even Hanne could not throw any real shadow over his existence. In his relations with her there was something of a beautiful unreality; they left no permanent scar upon his heart. He felt quite simply ashamed in the presence of this much tried child, whenever something cropped up to put him out of temper. He felt it was his duty to brighten her poverty-stricken life with his high spirits. He chatted merrily to her, chaffed her, teased her, to charm her from her unnatural solemnity. And she would smile, in her quiet, motherly fashion, as one smiles at a much-loved child who seeks to drive away our cares--and would then offer to do something for him. "Shall I wash out your blouse or do up your shirt?" she would ask. Her gratitude always found its expression in some kind of work. "No, thanks, Marie; Hanne and her mother look after that." "But that's not work for the Princess--I can do it much better." "The Princess?" said Pelle, raising his head. "Is that what they call her?" "Only us children--we don't mean it unkindly. But we always played at there being a princess when she was with us--and she was always the princess. But do you know what? Some one will come and take her away-- some one very distinguished. She has been promised from the cradle to a fine gentleman." "What nonsense!" said Pelle crossly. "But that's really true! When it rained we used to sit under the gallery--in the corner by the dustbin--and she used to tell us--and it's really true! And, besides, don't you think she's fascinating? She's really just like a princess--like that!" Marie made a gesture in the air with her fingers outspread. "And she knows everything that is going to happen. She used to run down to us, in the courtyard, in her long dress, and her mother used to stand up above and call her; then she'd sit on the grating as if it was a throne and she was the queen and we were her ladies. She used to braid our hair, and then dress it beautifully with colored ribbons, and when I came up here again mother used to tear it all down and make my hair rough again. It was a sin against God to deck one's self out like that, she said. And when mother disappeared I hadn't time to play down there any more." "Poor little girl!" said Pelle, stroking her hair. "Why do you say that?" she asked him, looking at him in astonishment. He enjoyed her absolute confidence, and was told things that the boys were not allowed to know. She began to dress more carefully, and her fine fair hair was always brushed smoothly back from her forehead. She was delighted when they both had some errand in the city. Then she put on her best and went through the streets at his side, her whole face smiling. "Now perhaps people will think we are a couple of lovers--but what does it matter? Let them think it!" Pelle laughed; with her thirteen years she was no bigger than a child of nine, so backward in growth was she. She often found it difficult to make both ends meet; she would say little or nothing about it, but a kind of fear would betray itself in her expression. Then Pelle would speak cheerfully of the good times that would soon be coming for all poor people. It cost him a great deal of exertion to put this in words so as to make it sound as it ought to sound. His thoughts were still so new--even to himself. But the children thought nothing of his unwieldy speech; to them it was easier to believe in the new age than it was to him. VI Pelle was going through a peculiar change at this time. He had seen enough need and poverty in his life; and the capital was simply a battlefield on which army upon army had rushed forward and had miserably been defeated. Round about him lay the fallen. The town was built over them as over a cemetery; one had to tread upon them in order to win forward and harden one's heart. Such was life in these days; one shut one's eyes--like the sheep when they see their comrades about to be slaughtered--and waited until one's own turn came. There was nothing else to do. But now he was awake and suffering; it hurt him with a stabbing pain whenever he saw others suffer; and he railed against misfortune, unreasonable though it might be. There came a day when he sat working at home. At the other end of the gangway a factory girl with her child had moved in a short while before. Every morning she locked the door and went to work--and she did not return until the evening. When Pelle came home he could hear the sound of crying within the room. He sat at his work, wrestling with his confused ideas. And all the time a curious stifled sound was in his ears--a grievous sound, as though something were incessantly complaining. Perhaps it was only the dirge of poverty itself, some strophe of which was always vibrating upon the air. Little Marie came hurrying in. "Oh, Pelle, it's crying again!" she said, and she wrung her hands anxiously upon her hollow chest. "It has cried all day, ever since she came here--it is horrible!" "We'll go and see what's wrong," said Pelle, and he threw down his hammer. The door was locked; they tried to look through the keyhole, but could see nothing. The child within stopped its crying for a moment, as though it heard them, but it began again at once; the sound was low and monotonous, as though the child was prepared to hold out indefinitely. They looked at one another; it was unendurable. "The keys on this gangway do for all the doors," said Marie, under her breath. With one leap Pelle had rushed indoors, obtained his key, and opened the door. Close by the door sat a little four-year-old boy; he stared up at them, holding a rusty tin vessel in his hand. He was tied fast to the stove; near him, on an old wooden stool, was a tin plate containing a few half- nibbled crusts of bread. The child was dressed in filthy rags and presented a shocking appearance. He sat in his own filth; his little hands were covered with it. His tearful, swollen face was smeared all over with it. He held up his hands to them beseechingly. Pelle burst into tears at the horrible sight and wanted to pick the child up. "Let me do that!" cried Marie, horrified. "You'll make yourself filthy!" "What then?" said Pelle stupidly. He helped to untie the child; his hands were trembling. To some extent they got the child to rights and gave him food. Then they let him loose in the long gangway. For a time he stood stupidly gaping by the doorpost; then he discovered that he was not tied up, and began to rush up and down. He still held in his hand the old tea-strainer which he had been grasping when they rescued him; he had held on to it convulsively all the time. Marie had to dip his hand in the water in order to clean the strainer. From time to time he stood in front of Pelle's open door, and peeped inside. Pelle nodded to him, when he went storming up and down again--he was like a wild thing. But suddenly he came right in, laid the tea- strainer in Pelle's lap and looked at him. "Am I to have that?" asked Pelle. "Look, Marie, he is giving me the only thing he's got!" "Oh, poor little thing!" cried Marie pityingly. "He wants to thank you!" In the evening the factory girl came rushing in; she was in a rage, and began to abuse them for breaking into her room. Pelle wondered at himself, that he was able to answer her so quietly instead of railing back at her. But he understood very well that she was ashamed of her poverty and did not want any one else to see it. "It is unkind to the child," was all he said. "And yet you are fond of it!" Then she began to cry. "I have to tie him up, or he climbs out over the window-sill and runs into the street--he got to the corner once before. And I've no clothes, to take him to the crêche!" "Then leave the door open on the gangway! We will look after him, Marie and I." After this the child tumbled about the gangway and ran to and fro. Marie looked after him, and was like a mother to him. Pelle bought some old clothes, and they altered them to fit him. The child looked very droll in them; he was a little goblin who took everything in good part. In his loneliness he had not learned to speak, but now speech came quickly to him. In Pelle this incident awakened something quite novel. Poverty he had known before, but now he saw the injustice that lay beneath it, and cried to heaven. His hands would suddenly clench with anger as he sat so quietly in his room. Here was something one must hasten forward, without intermission, day and night, as long as one drew breath--Morten was right about that! This child's father was a factory hand, and the girl dared not summon him before the magistrates in order to make him pay for its support for fear of being dismissed from her place. The whole business seemed so hopeless--society seemed so unassailable--yet he felt that he must strike a blow. His own hands alone signified so little; but if they could only strike the blow all together--then perhaps it would have some effect. In the evenings he and Morten went to meetings where the situation was passionately discussed. Those who attended these meetings were mostly young people like himself. They met in some inn by the North Bridge. But Pelle longed to see some result, and applied himself eagerly to the organization of his own craft. He inspired the weary president with his own zeal, and they prepared together a list of all the members of their trade--as the basis of a more vigorous agitation. When the "comrades" were invited to a meeting through the press, they turned lazy and failed to appear. More effectual means were needed; and Pelle started a house-to-house agitation. This helped immediately; they were in a dilemma when one got them face to face, and the Union was considerably increased, in spite of the persecution of the big masters. Morten began to treat him with respect; and wanted him to read about the movement. But Pelle had no time for that. Together with Peter and Karl, who were extremely zealous, he took in _The Working Man_, and that was enough for him. "I know more about poverty than they write there," he said. There was no lack of fuel to keep this fire burning. He had participated in the march of poverty, from the country to the town and thence to the capital, and there they stood and could go no farther for all their longing, but perished on a desert shore. The many lives of the "Ark" lay always before his eyes as a great common possession, where no one need conceal himself, and where the need of the one was another's grief. His nature was at this time undergoing a great change. There was an end of his old careless acceptance of things. He laughed less and performed apparently trivial actions with an earnestness which had its comical side. And he began to display an appearance of self-respect which seemed ill-justified by his position and his poverty. One evening, when work was over, as he came homeward from Beck's workshop, he heard the children singing Hanne's song down in the courtyard. He stood still in the tunnel-like entry; Hanne herself stood in the midst of a circle, and the children were dancing round her and singing: "I looked from the lofty mountain Down over vale and lea, And I saw a ship come sailing, Sailing, sailing, I saw a ship come sailing, And on it were lordlings three." On Hanne's countenance lay a blind, fixed smile; her eyes were tightly closed. She turned slowly about as the children sang, and she sang softly with them: "The youngest of all the lordlings Who on the ship did stand..." But suddenly she saw Pelle and broke out of the circle. She went up the stairs with him. The children, disappointed, stood calling after her. "Aren't you coming to us this evening?" she asked. "It is so long since we have seen you." "I've no time. I've got an appointment," replied Pelle briefly. "But you must come! I beg you to, Pelle." She looked at him pleadingly, her eyes burning. Pelle's heart began to thump as he met her gaze. "What do you want with me?" he asked sharply. Hanne stood still, gazing irresolutely into the distance. "You must help me, Pelle," she said, in a toneless voice, without meeting his eye. "Yesterday I met.... Yesterday evening, as I was coming out of the factory ... he stood down below here ... he knows where I live. I went across to the other side and behaved as though I did not see him; but he came up to me and said I was to go to the New Market this evening!" "And what did you say to that?" answered Pelle sulkily. "I didn't say anything--I ran as hard as I could!" "Is that all you want me for?" cried Pelle harshly. "You can keep away from him, if you don't want him!" A cold shudder ran through her. "But if he comes here to look for me?... And you are so.... I don't care for anybody in the world but you and mother!" She spoke passionately. "Well, well, I'll come over to you," answered Pelle cheerfully. He dressed himself quickly and went across. The old woman was delighted to see him. Hanne was quite frolicsome; she rallied him continually, and it was not long before he had abandoned his firm attitude and allowed himself to be drawn into the most delightful romancing. They sat out on the gallery under the green foliage, Hanne's face glowing to rival the climbing pelargonium; she kept on swinging her foot, and continually touched Pelle's leg with the tip of her shoe. She was nervously full of life, and kept on asking the time. When her mother went into the kitchen to make coffee, she took Pelle's hand and smilingly stroked it. "Come with me," she said. "I should so like to see if he is really so silly as to think I'd come. We can stand in a corner somewhere and look out." Pelle did not answer. "Mother," said Hanne, when Madam Johnsen returned with the coffee, "I'm going out to buy some stuff for my bodice. Pelle's coming with me." The excuse was easy to see through. But the old woman betrayed no emotion. She had already seen that Hanne was well disposed toward Pelle to-day; something was going on in the girl's mind, and if Pelle only wanted to, he could now bridle her properly. She had no objection to make if both the young people kicked over the traces a little. Perhaps then they would find peace together. "You ought to take your shawl with you," she told Hanne. "The evening air may turn cold." Hanne walked so quickly that Pelle could hardly follow her. "It'll be a lark to see his disappointment when we don't turn up," she said, laughing. Pelle laughed also. She stationed herself behind one of the pillars of the Town Hall, where she could peep out across the market. She was quite out of breath, she had hurried so. Gradually, as the time went by and the stranger did not appear, her animation vanished; she was silent, and her expression was one of disappointment. "No one's going to come!" she said suddenly, and she laughed shortly. "I only made up the whole thing to tell you, to see what you'd say." "Then let's go!" said Pelle quietly, and he took her hand. As they went down the steps, Hanne started; and her hand fell limply from his. The stranger came quickly up to her. He held out his hand to Hanne, quietly and as a matter of course, as though he had known her for years. Pelle, apparently, he did not see. "Will you come somewhere with me--where we can hear music, for example?" he asked, and he continued to hold her hand. She looked irresolutely at Pelle. For a moment Pelle felt an inordinate longing to throw himself upon this man and strike him to the ground, but then he met Hanne's eyes, which wore an expression as though she was longing for some means of shaking him off. "Well, it looks as if one was in the way here!" he thought. "And what does it all matter to me?" He turned away from her and sauntered off down a side street. Pelle strolled along to the quays by the gasworks, and he stood there, sunk in thought, gazing at the ships and the oily water. He did not suffer; it was only so terribly stupid that a strange hand should appear out of the unknown, and that the bird which he with all his striving could not entice, should have hopped right away on to that hand. Below the quay-wall the water plashed with a drowsy sound; fragments of wood and other rubbish floated on it; it was all so home-like! Out by the coal-quay lay a three-master. It was after working hours; the crew were making an uproar below decks, or standing about on deck and washing themselves in a bucket. One well-grown young seaman in blue clothes and a white neckerchief came out of the cabin and stared up at the rigging as though out of habit, and yawned. Then he strolled ashore. His cap was on the back of his head, and between his teeth was a new pipe. His face was full of freakish merriment, and he walked with a swing of the hips. As he came up to Pelle he swayed to and fro a few times and then bumped into him. "Oh, excuse me!" he said, touching his cap. "I thought it was a scratching-post, the gentleman stood so stiff. Well, you mustn't take it amiss!" And he began to go round and round Pelle, bending far forward as though he were looking for something on him, and finally he pawed his own ears, like a friendly bear, and shook with laughter. He was overflowing with high spirits and good humor. Pelle had not shaken off his feeling of resentment; he did not know whether to be angry or to laugh at the whole thing. He turned about cautiously, so as to keep his eye on the sailor, lest the latter should pull his feet from under him. He knew the grip, and also how it should be parried; and he held his hands in readiness. Suddenly something in the stooping position struck him as familiar. This was Per Kofod--Howling Peter, from the village school at home, in his own person! He who used to roar and blubber at the slightest word! Yes, this was he! "Good evening, Per!" he cried, delighted, and he gave him a thump in the back. The seaman stood up, astonished. "What the devil! Good evening! Well, that I should meet you here, Pelle; that's the most comical thing I've ever known! You must excuse my puppy-tricks! Really!" He shook Pelle heartily by the hand. They loafed about the harbor, chatting of old times. There was so much to recall from their schooldays. Old Fris with his cane, and the games on the beach! Per Kofod spoke as though he had taken part in all of them; he had quite forgotten that he used always to stand still gripping on to something and bellowing, if the others came bawling round him. "And Nilen, too, I met him lately in New Orleans. He is second mate on a big American full-rigged ship, and is earning big money. A smart fellow he is. But hang it all, he's a tough case! Always with his revolver in his hand. But that's how it has to be over there--among the niggers. Still, one fine day they'll slit his belly up, by God they will! Now then, what's the matter there?" From some stacks of timber near by came a bellowing as of some one in torment, and the sound of blows. Pelle wanted, to turn aside, but Per Kofod seized his arm and dragged him forward. In among the timber-stacks three "coalies" were engaged in beating a fourth. He did not cry out, but gave vent to a muffled roar every time he received a blow. The blood was flowing down his face. "Come on!" shouted Per Kofod, hitching up his trousers. And then, with a roar, he hurled himself into their midst, and began to lay about him in all directions. It was like an explosion with its following hail of rocks. Howling Peter had learned to use his strength; only a sailor could lay about him in that fashion. It was impossible to say where his blows were going to fall; but they all went home. Pelle stood by for a moment, mouth and eyes open in the fury of the fray; then he, too, tumbled into the midst of it, and the three dock-laborers were soon biting the dust. "Damn it all, why did you interfere!" said Pelle crossly, when it was over, as he stood pulling his collar straight. "I don't know," said Howling Peter. "But it does one no harm to bestir one's self a bit for once!" After the heat of the battle they had all but forgotten the man originally attacked; he lay huddled up at the foot of a timber-stack and made no sound. They got him on his legs again, but had to hold him upright; he stood as limp as though asleep, and his eyes were staring stupidly. He was making a heavy snoring sound, and at every breath the blood made two red bubbles at his nostrils. From time to time he ground his teeth, and then his eyes turned upward and the whites gleamed strangely in his coal-blackened face. The sailor scolded him, and that helped him so far that he was able to stand on his feet. They drew a red rag from his bulging jacket-pocket, and wiped the worst of the blood away. "What sort of a fellow are you, damn it all, that you can't stand a drubbing?" said Per Kofod. "I didn't call for help," said the man thickly. His lips were swollen to a snout. "But you didn't hit back again! Yet you look as if you'd strength enough. Either a fellow manages to look after himself or he sings out so that others can come to help him. D'ye see, mate?" "I didn't want to bring the police into it; and I'd earned a thrashing. Only they hit so damned hard, and when I fell they used their clogs." He lived in the Saksogade, and they took each an arm. "If only I don't get ill now!" he groaned from time to time. "I'm all a jelly inside." And they had to stop while he vomited. There was a certain firm for which he and his mates had decided no longer to unload, as they had cut down the wages offered. There were only four of them who stuck to their refusal; and what use was it when others immediately took their place? The four of them could only hang about and play the gentleman at large; nothing more came of it. But of course he had given his word--that was why he had not hit back. The other three had found work elsewhere, so he went back to the firm and ate humble pie. Why should he hang about idle and killing time when there was nothing to eat at home? He was damned if he understood these new ways; all the same, he had betrayed the others, for he had given his word. But they had struck him so cursedly hard, and had kicked him in the belly with their clogs. He continued rambling thus, like a man in delirium, as they led him along. In the Saksogade they were stopped by a policeman, but Per Kofod quickly told him a story to the effect that the man had been struck on the head by a falling crane. He lived right up in the attics. When they opened the door a woman who lay there in child-bed raised herself up on the iron bedstead and gazed at them in alarm. She was thin and anemic. When she perceived the condition of her husband she burst into a heartrending fit of crying. "He's sober," said Pelle, in order to console her; "he has only got a bit damaged." They took him into the kitchen and bathed his head over the sink with cold water. But Per Kofod's assistance was not of much use; every time the woman's crying reached his ears he stopped helplessly and turned his head toward the door; and suddenly he gave up and tumbled head-foremost down the back stairs. "What was really the matter with you?" asked Pelle crossly, when he, too, could get away. Per was waiting at the door for him. "Perhaps you didn't hear her hymn-singing, you blockhead! But, anyhow, you saw her sitting up in bed and looking like wax? It's beastly, I tell you; it's infamous! He'd no need to go making her cry like that! I had the greatest longing to thrash him again, weak as a baby though he was. The devil--what did he want to break his word for?" "Because they were starving, Per!" said Pelle earnestly. "That does happen at times in this accursed city." Kofod stared at him and whistled. "Oh, Satan! Wife and child, and the whole lot without food--what? And she in childbed. They were married, right enough, you can see that. Oh, the devil! What a honeymoon! What misery!" He stood there plunging deep into his trouser pockets; he fetched out a handful of things: chewing-tobacco, bits of flock, broken matches, and in the midst of all a crumpled ten-kroner note. "So I thought!" he said, fishing out the note. "I was afraid the girls had quite cleaned me out last night! Now Pelle, you go up and spin them some sort of a yarn; I can't do it properly myself; for, look you, if I know that woman she won't stop crying day and night for another twenty-four hours! That's the last of my pay. But--oh, well, blast it ... we go to sea to-morrow!" "She stopped crying when I took her the money," said Pelle, when he came down again. "That's good. We sailors are dirty beasts; you know; we do our business into china and eat our butter out of the tarbucket; all the same, we--I tell you, I should have left the thing alone and used the money to have made a jolly night of it to-night...." He was suddenly silent; he chewed at his quid as though inwardly considering his difficult philosophy. "Damn it all, to-morrow we put to sea!" he cried suddenly. They went out to Alleenberg and sat in the gardens. Pelle ordered beer. "I can very well stand a few pints when I meet a good pal," he said, "but at other times I save like the devil. I've got to see about getting my old father over here; he's living on charity at home." "So your father's still living? I can see him still so plainly--he had a love-affair with Madam Olsen for some time, but then bo'sun Olsen came home unexpectedly; they thought he'd remain abroad." Pelle laughed. Much water had run into the sea since those days. Now he was no longer ashamed of Father Lasse's foolish prank. Light was gleaming from the booths in the garden. Young couples wandered about and had their fortunes told; they ventured themselves on the Wheel of Happiness, or had their portraits cut out by the silhouette artist. By the roundabout was a mingled whirl of cries and music and brightly colored petticoats. Now and again a tremendous outcry arose, curiously dreadful, over all other sounds, and from the concert-pavilion one heard the cracked, straining voices of one-time "stars." Wretched little worldlings came breathlessly hurrying thither, pushing through the crowd, and disappeared into the pavilion, nodding familiarly to the man in the ticket-office window. "It's really quite jolly here," said Per Kofod. "You have a damn good time of it on land!" On the wide pathway under the trees apprentices, workmen, soldiers, and now and again a student, loitered up and down, to and fro, looking sideways at the servant-girls, who had stationed themselves on either side of the walk, standing there arm-in-arm, or forming little groups. Their eyes sent many a message before ever one of them stopped and ventured to speak. Perhaps the maiden turned away; if so, that was an end of the matter, and the youngster began the business all over again. Or perhaps she ran off with him to one of the closed arbors, where they drank coffee, or else to the roundabouts. Several of the young people were from Pelle's home; and every time he heard the confident voices of the Bornholm girls Pelle's heart stirred like a bird about to fly away. Suddenly his troubles returned to his mind. "I really felt inclined, this evening, to have done with the whole thing.... Just look at those two, Per!" Two girls were standing arm-in-arm under a tree, quite close to their table. They were rocking to and fro together, and now and again they glanced at the two young men. "Nothing there for me--that's only for you land-lubbers," said Per Kofod. "For look you now, they're like so many little lambs whose ears you've got to tickle. And then it all comes back to you in the nights when you take the dog-watch alone; you've told her lies, or you promised to come back again when she undid her bodice.... And in the end there she is, planted, and goin' to have a kid! It don't do. A sailor ought to keep to the naughty girls." "But married women can be frisky sometimes," said Pelle. "That so, really? Once I wouldn't have believed that any one could have kicked a good woman; but after all they strangle little children.... And they come and eat out of your hand if you give 'em a kind word--that's the mischief of it.... D'you remember Howling Peter?" "Yes, as you ask me, I remember him very well." "Well, his father was a sailor, too, and that's just what he did.... And she was just such a girl, one who couldn't say no, and believed everything a man told her. He was going to come back again--of course. 'When you hear the trap-door of the loft rattle, that'll be me,' he told her. But the trap-door rattled several times, and he didn't come. Then she hanged herself from the trap-door with a rope. Howling Peter came on to the parish. And you know how they all scorned him. Even the wenches thought they had the right to spit at him. He could do nothing but bellow. His mother had cried such a lot before he was born, d'ye see? Yes, and then he hanged himself too--twice he tried to do it. He'd inherited that! After that he had a worse time than ever; everybody thought it honorable to ill-use him and ask after the marks on his throat. No, not you; you were the only one who didn't raise a hand to him. That's why I've so often thought about you. 'What has become of him?' I used to ask myself. 'God only knows where he's got to!'" And he gazed at Pelle with a pair of eyes full of trust. "No, that was due to Father Lasse," said Pelle, and his tone was quite childlike. "He always said I must be good to you because you were in God's keeping." "In God's keeping, did he say?" repeated Per Kofod thoughtfully. "That was a curious thing to say. That's a feeling I've never had. There was nothing in the whole world at that time that could have helped me to stand up for myself. I can scarcely understand how it is that I'm sitting here talking to you--I mean, that they didn't torment the life out of my body." "Yes, you've altered very much. How does it really come about that you're such a smart fellow now?" "Why, such as I am now, that's really my real nature. It has just waked up, that's what I think. But I don't understand really what was the matter with me then. I knew well enough I could knock you down if I had only wanted to. But I didn't dare strike out, just out of sheer wretchedness. I saw so much that you others couldn't see. Damn it all, I can't make head nor tail of it! It must have been my mother's dreadful misery that was still in my bones. A horror used to come over me--quite causeless--so that I had to bellow aloud; and then the farmers used to beat me. And every time I tried to get out of it all by hanging myself, they beat me worse than ever. The parish council decided I was to be beaten. Well, that's why I don't do it, Pelle--a sailor ought to keep to women that get paid for it, if they have anything to do with him--that is, if he can't get married. There, you have my opinion." "You've had a very bad time," said Pelle, and he took his hand. "But it's a tremendous change that's come over you!" "Change! You may well say so! One moment Howling Peter--and the next, the strongest man on board! There you have the whole story! For look here now, at sea, of course, it was just the same; even the ship's boy felt obliged to give me a kick on the shins in passing. Everybody who got a blow on a rowing passed it on to me. And when I went to sea in an American bark, there was a nigger on board, and all of them used to hound him down; he crawled before them, but you may take your oath he hated them out of the whites of his devil's eyes. But me, who treated him with humanity, he played all manner of tricks on--it was nothing to him that I was white. Yet even with him I didn't dare to fetch him one-- there was always like a flabby lump in my midriff. But once the thing went too far--or else the still-born something inside me was exhausted. I just aimed at him a bit with one arm, so that he fell down. That really was a rummy business. It was, let's say, like a fairy tale where the toad suddenly turns into a man. I set to then and there and thrashed him till he was half dead. And while I was about it, and in the vein, it seemed best to get the whole thing over, so I went right ahead and thrashed the whole crew from beginning to end. It was a tremendous moment, there was such a heap of rage inside me that had got to come out!" Pelle laughed. "A lucky thing that I knew you a little while ago, or you would have made mincemeat of me, after all!" "Not me, mate, that was only a little joke. A fellow is in such high spirits when he comes ashore again. But out at sea it's--thrash the others, or they'll thrash you! Well, that's all right, but one ought to be good to the women. That's what I've told the old man on board; he's a fellow-countryman, but a swine in his dealings with women. There isn't a single port where he hasn't a love-affair. In the South, and on the American coast. It's madman's work often, and I have to go along with him and look out that he doesn't get a knife between his ribs. 'Per,' he says, 'this evening we'll go on the bust together.' 'All right, cap'n,' I say. 'But it's a pity about all the women.' 'Shut your mouth, Per,' he says; 'they're most of them married safe enough.' He's one of us from home, too--from a little cottage up on the heath." "What's his name, then?" said Pelle, interested. "Albert Karlsen." "Why, then he's Uncle Kalle's eldest, and in a way my cousin--Kalle, that is to say, isn't really his father. His wife had him before she was married--he's the son of the owner of Stone Farm." "So he's a Kongstrup, then!" cried Per Kofod, and he laughed loudly. "Well, that's as it should be!" Pelle paid, and they got up to go. The two girls were still standing by the tree. Per Kofod went up to one of them as though she had been a bird that might escape him. Suddenly he seized her round the waist; she withdrew herself slowly from his grip and laughed in his big fair face. He embraced her once again, and now she stood still; it was still in her mind to escape, for she laughingly half-turned away. He looked deep into her eyes, then released her and followed Pelle. "What's the use, Pelle--why, I can hear her complaining already! A fellow ought to be well warned," he said, with a despairing accent. "But, damn it all, why should a man have so much compassion when he himself has been so cruelly treated? And the others; they've no compassion. Did you see how gentle her eyes were? If I'd money I'd marry her right away." "Perhaps she wouldn't have you," replied Pelle. "It doesn't do to take the girls for granted." In the avenue a few men were going to and fro and calling; they were looking for their young women, who had given them the slip. One of them came up to Per and Pelle--he was wearing a student's cap. "Have the gentlemen seen anything of our ladies?" he asked. "We've been sitting with them and treating them all the evening, and then they said they'd just got to go to a certain place, and they've gone off." They went down to the harbor. "Can't you come on board with me and say how d'ye-do to the old man?" said Per. "But of course, he's ashore to- night. I saw him go over the side about the time we knocked off--rigged out for chasing the girls." "I don't know him at all," said Pelle; "he was at sea already when I was still a youngster. Anyhow, I've got to go home to bed now--I get to work early in the mornings." They stood on the quay, taking leave of one another. Per Kofod promised to look Pelle up next time he was in port. While they were talking the door of the after-cabin rattled. Howling Peter drew Pelle behind a stack of coal. A powerful, bearded man came out, leading a young girl by the hand. She went slowly, and appeared to resist. He set her ceremoniously ashore, turned back to the cabin, and locked the door behind him. The girl stood still for a moment. A low 'plaint escaped her lips. She stretched her arms pleadingly toward the cabin. Then she turned and went mournfully along the quay. "That was the old man," whispered Per Kofod. "That's how he treats them all--and yet they don't want to give him up." Pelle could not utter a word; he stood there cowering, oppressed as by some terrible burden. Suddenly he pulled himself together, pressed his comrade's hand, and set off quickly between the coal-stacks. After a time he turned aside and followed the young girl at a little distance. Like a sleep-walker, she staggered along the quay and went over the long bridge. He feared she would throw herself in the water, so strangely did she behave. On the bridge she stood gazing across at the ship, with a frozen look on her face. Pelle stood still; turned to ice by the thought that she might see him. He could not have borne to speak to her just then--much less look into her eyes. But then she moved on. Her bearing was broken; from behind she looked like one of those elderly, shipwrecked females from the "Ark," who shuffled along by the house-walls in trodden-down men's shoes, and always boasted a dubious past. "Good God!" thought Pelle, "is her dream over already? Good God!" He followed her at a short distance down the narrow street, and as soon as he knew that she must have reached her dwelling he entered the tunnel. VII In the depths of Pelle's soul lay a confident feeling that he was destined for something particular; it was his old dream of fortune, which would not be wholly satisfied by the good conditions for all men which he wanted to help to bring about. His fate was no longer in his eyes a grievous and crushing predestination to poverty, which could only be lifted from him by a miracle; he was lord of his own future, and already he was restlessly building it up! But in addition to this there was something else that belonged only to him and to life, something that no one else in the world could undertake. What it was he had not yet figured to himself; but it was something that raised him above all others, secretly, so that only he was conscious of it. It was the same obscure feeling of being a pioneer that had always urged him forward; and when it did take the form of a definite question he answered it with the confident nod of his childhood. Yes, he would see it through all right! As though that which was to befall him was so great and so wonderful that it could not be put into words, nor even thought of. He saw the straight path in front of him, and he sauntered on, strong and courageous. There were no other enemies than those a prudent man might perceive; those lurking forces of evil which in his childhood had hovered threateningly above his head were the shadows of the poor man's wretchedness. There was nothing else evil, and that was sinister enough. He knew now that the shadows were long. Morten was right. Although he himself when a child had sported in the light, yet his mind was saddened by the misery of all those who were dead or fighting in distant parts of the earth; and it was on this fact that the feeling of solidarity must be based. The miraculous simply had no existence, and that was a good thing for those who had to fight with the weapon of their own physical strength. No invisible deity sat overhead making his own plans for them or obstructing others. What one willed, that could one accomplish, if only he had strength enough to carry it through. Strength--it was on that and that alone that everything depended. And there was strength in plenty. But the strength of all must be united, must act as the strength of one. People always wondered why Pelle, who was so industrious and respectable, should live in the "Ark" instead of in the northern quarter, in the midst of the Movement. He wondered at himself when he ever thought about it at all; but he could not as yet tear himself away from the "Ark." Here, at the bottom of the ladder, he had found peace in his time of need. He was too loyal to turn his back on those among whom he had been happy. He knew they would feel it as a betrayal; the adoration with which the inmates of the "Ark" regarded the three orphan children was also bestowed upon him; he was the foundling, the fourth member of the "Family," and now they were proud of him too! It was not the way of the inmates of the "Ark" to make plans for the future. Sufficient to the day was the evil thereof; to-morrow's cares were left for the morrow. The future did not exist for them. They were like careless birds, who had once suffered shipwreck and had forgotten it. Many of them made their living where they could; but however down in the world they were, let the slightest ray of sunlight flicker down to them, and all was forgotten. Of the labor movement and other new things they gossiped as frivolously as so many chattering starlings, who had snapped up the news on the wind. But Pelle went so confidently out into the world, and set his shoulders against it, and then came back home to them. He had no fear; he could look Life straight in the face, he grappled boldly with the future, before which they shudderingly closed their eyes. And thereby his name came to be spoken with a particular accent; Pelle was a prince; what a pity it was that he wouldn't, it seemed, have the princess! He was tall and well-grown, and to them he seemed even taller. They went to him in their misery, and loaded it all on his strong young shoulders, so that he could bear it for them. And Pelle accepted it all with an increasing sense that perhaps it was not quite aimlessly that he lingered here--so near the foundations of society! At this time Widow Frandsen and her son Ferdinand came upon the scene. Misfortune must house itself somewhere! Ferdinand was a sturdy young fellow of eighteen years, with a powerfully modelled head, which looked as though it had originally been intended to absorb all the knowledge there is in all the world. But he used it only for dispensing blows; he had no other use for it whatever. Yet he was by no means stupid; one might even call him a gifted young man. But his gifts were of a peculiar quality, and had gradually become even more peculiar. As a little child he had been forced to fight a besotted father, in order to protect his mother, who had no other protector. This unequal battle _had_ to be fought; and it necessarily blunted his capacity for feeling pain, and particularly his sense of danger. He knew what was in store for him, but he rushed blindly into the fray the moment his mother was attacked; just as a dog will attack a great beast of prey, so he hung upon the big man's fists, and would not be shaken off. He hated his father, and he longed in his heart to be a policeman when he was grown up. With his blind and obtuse courage he was particularly adapted to such a calling; but he actually became a homeless vagabond. Gradually as he grew in height and strength and the battle was no longer so unequal, his father began to fear him and to think of revenge; and once, when Ferdinand had thoroughly thrashed him, he reported him, and the boy was flogged. The boy felt this to be a damnable piece of injustice; the flogging left scars behind it, and another of its results was that his mother was no longer left in peace. From that time onward he hated the police, and indulged his hatred at every opportunity. His mother was the only being for whom he still cared. It was like a flash of sunshine when his father died. But it came too late to effect any transformation; Ferdinand had long ago begun to look after his mother in his own peculiar way--which was partly due to the conditions of his life. He had grown up in the streets, and even when quite a child was one of those who are secretly branded. The police knew him well, and were only awaiting their opportunity to ask him inside. Ferdinand could see it in their eyes--they reckoned quite confidently on that visit, and had got a bed already for him in their hotel on the New Market. But Ferdinand would not allow himself to be caught. When he had anything doubtful in hand, he always managed to clear himself. He was an unusually strong and supple young fellow, and was by no means afraid to work; he obtained all kinds of occasional work, and he always did it well. But whenever he got into anything that offered him a future, any sort of regular work which must be learned and attacked with patience, he could never go on with it. "You speak to him, Pelle!" said his mother. "You are so sensible, and he does respect you!" Pelle did speak to him, and helped him to find some calling for which he was suited; and Ferdinand set to work with a will, but when he got to a certain point he always threw it up. His mother never lacked actual necessaries; although sometimes he only procured them at the last moment. When not otherwise engaged, he would stand in some doorway on the market-place, loafing about, his hands in his pockets, his supple shoulders leaning against the wall. He was always in clogs and mittens; at stated intervals he spat upon the pavement, his sea-blue eyes following the passers-by with an unfathomable expression. The policeman, who was aggressively pacing up and down his beat, glanced at him in secret every time he passed him, as much as to say, "Shan't we ever manage to catch the rogue? Why doesn't he make a slip?" And one day the thing happened--quite of itself, and not on account of any clumsiness on his part--in the "Ark" they laid particular stress upon that. It was simply his goodness of heart that was responsible. Had Ferdinand not been the lad he was, matters had not gone awry, for he was a gifted young man. He was in the grocer's shop on the corner of the Market buying a few coppers' worth of chewing-tobacco. An eight-year-old boy from the "Ark" was standing by the counter, asking for a little flour on credit for his mother. The grocer was making a tremendous fuss about the affair. "Put it down--I dare say! One keeps shop on the corner here just to feed all the poor folks in the neighborhood! I shall have the money to-morrow? Peculiar it is, that in this miserable, poverty-stricken quarter folks are always going to have money the very next day! Only the next day never comes!" "Herre Petersen can depend on it," said the child, in a low voice. The grocer continued to scoff, but began to weigh the meal. Before the scales there was a pile of yard brooms and other articles, but Ferdinand could see that the grocer was pressing the scale with his fingers. He's giving false weight because it's for a poor person, thought Ferdinand, and he felt an angry pricking in his head, just where his thoughts were. The boy stood by, fingering something concealed in his hand. Suddenly a coin fell on the floor and went rolling round their feet. Quick as lightning the grocer cast a glance at the till, as he sprang over the counter and seized the boy by the scruff of the neck. "Ay, ay," he said sharply, "a clever little rogue!" "I haven't stolen anything!" cried the boy, trying to wrench himself loose and to pick up his krone-piece. "That's mother's money!" "You leave the kid alone!" said Ferdinand threateningly. "He hasn't done anything!" The grocer struggled with the boy, who was twisting and turning in order to recover his money. "Hasn't done anything!" he growled, panting, "then why did he cry out about stealing before ever I had mentioned the word? And where does the money come from? He wanted credit, because they hadn't got any! No, thanks--I'm not to be caught like that." "The money belongs to mother!" shrieked the youngster, twisting desperately in the grocer's grip. "Mother is ill--I'm to get medicine with it!" And he began to blubber. "It's quite right--his mother is ill!" said Ferdinand, with a growl. "And the chemist certainly won't give credit. You'd best let him go, Petersen." He took a step forward. "You've thought it out nicely!" laughed the grocer scornfully, and he wrenched the shop-door open. "Here, policeman, here!" The policeman, who was keeping watch at the street corner, came quickly over to the shop. "Here's a lad who plays tricks with other folks' money," said the grocer excitedly. "Take care of him for a bit, Iversen!" The boy was still hitting out in all directions; the policeman had to hold him off at arm's length. He was a ragged, hungry little fellow. The policeman saw at a glance what he had in his fingers, and proceeded to drag him away; and there was no need to have made any more ado about the matter. Ferdinand went after him and laid his hand on the policeman's arm. "Mister Policeman, the boy hasn't done anything," he said. "I was standing there myself, and I saw that he did nothing, and I know his mother!" The policeman stood still for a moment, measuring Ferdinand with a threatening eye; then he dragged the boy forward again, the latter still struggling to get free, and bellowing: "My mother is ill; she's waiting for me and the medicine!" Ferdinand kept step with them, in his thin canvas shoes. "If you drag him off to the town hall, I shall come with you, at all events, and give evidence for him," he continued; "the boy hasn't done anything, and his mother is lying sick and waiting for the medicine at home." The policeman turned about, exasperated. "Yes, you're a nice witness. One crow don't pick another's eyes out. You mind your own business--and just you be off!" Ferdinand stood his ground. "Who are you talking to, you Laban?" he muttered, angrily looking the other up and down. Suddenly he took a run and caught the policeman a blow in the neck so that he fell with his face upon the pavement while his helmet rolled far along the street. Ferdinand and the boy dashed off, each in a different direction, and disappeared. And now they had been hunting him for three weeks already. He did not dare go home. The "Ark" was watched night and day, in the hope of catching him--he was so fond of his mother. God only knew where he might be in that rainy, cold autumn. Madam Frandsen moved about her attic, lonely and forsaken. It was a miserable life. Every morning she came over to beg Pelle to look in _The Working Man_, to see whether her son had been caught. He was in the city--Pelle and Madam Frandsen knew that. The police knew it also; and they believed him responsible for a series of nocturnal burglaries. He might well be sleeping in the outhouses and the kennels of the suburban villas. The inmates of the "Ark" followed his fate with painful interest. He had grown up beneath their eyes. He had never done anything wrong there; he had always respected the "Ark" and its inhabitants; that at least could be said of him, and he loved his mother dearly. And he had been entirely in the right when he took the part of the boy; a brave little fellow he was! His mother was very ill; she lived at the end of one of the long gangways, and the boy was her only support. But it was a mad undertaking to lay hands on the police; that was the greatest crime on earth! A man had far better murder his own parents--as far as the punishment went. As soon as they got hold of him, he would go to jail, for the policeman had hit his handsome face against the flagstones; according to the newspaper, anybody but a policeman would have had concussion of the brain. * * * * * Old Madam Frandsen loved to cross the gangway to visit Pelle, in order to talk about her son. "We must be cautious," she said. At times she would purse up her mouth, tripping restlessly to and fro; then he knew there was something particular in the wind. "Shall I tell you something?" she would ask, looking at him importantly. "No; better keep it to yourself," Pelle would reply. "What one doesn't know one can't give evidence about." "You'd better let me chatter, Pelle--else I shall go running in and gossiping with strangers. Old chatterbox that I am, I go fidgeting round here, and I've no one I can trust; and I daren't even talk to myself! Then that Pipman hears it all through the wooden partition; it's almost more than I can bear, and I tremble lest my toothless old mouth should get him into trouble!" "Well, then, tell it me!" said Pelle, laughing. "But you mustn't speak loud." "He's been here again!" she whispered, beaming. "This morning, when I got up, there was money for me in the kitchen. Do you know where he had put it? In the sink! He's such a sensible lad! He must have come creeping over the roofs--otherwise I can't think how he does it, they are looking for him so. But you must admit that--he's a good lad!" "If only you can keep quiet about it!" said Pelle anxiously. She was so proud of her son! "M--m!" she said, tapping her shrunken lips. "No need to tell me that-- and do you know what I've hit on, so that the bloodhounds shan't wonder what I live on? I'm sewing canvas slippers." Then came little Marie with mop and bucket, and the old woman hobbled away. It was a slack time now in Master Beck's workshop, so Pelle was working mostly at home. He could order his hours himself now, and was able to use the day, when people were indoors, in looking up his fellow- craftsmen and winning them for the organization. This often cost him a lengthy argument, and he was proud of every man he was able to inscribe. He very quickly learned to classify all kinds of men, and he suited his procedure to the character of the man he was dealing with; one could threaten the waverers, while others had to be enticed or got into a good humor by chatting over the latest theories with them. This was good practice, and he accustomed himself to think rapidly, and to have his subject at his fingers' ends. The feeling of mastery over his means continually increased in strength, and lent assurance to his bearing. He had to make up for neglecting his work, and at such times he was doubly busy, rising early and sitting late at his bench. He kept away from his neighbors on the third story; but when he heard Hanne's light step on the planking over there, he used to peep furtively across the well. She went her way like a nun--straight to her work and straight home again, her eyes fixed on the ground. She never looked up at his window, or indeed anywhere. It was as though her nature had completed its airy flutterings, as though it now lay quietly growing. It surprised him that he should now regard her with such strange and indifferent eyes, as though she had never been anything to him. And he gazed curiously into his own heart--no, there was nothing wrong with him. His appetite was good, and there was nothing whatever the matter with his heart. It must all have been a pleasant illusion, a mirage such as the traveller sees upon his way. Certainly she was beautiful; but he could not possibly see anything fairy-like about her. God only knew how he had allowed himself to be so entangled! It was a piece of luck that he hadn't been caught--there was no future for Hanne. Madam Johnsen continued to lean on him affectionately, and she often came over for a little conversation; she could not forget the good times they had had together. She always wound up by lamenting the change in Hanne; the old woman felt that the girl had forsaken her. "Can you understand what's the matter with her, Pelle? She goes about as if she were asleep, and to everything I say she answers nothing but 'Yes, mother; yes, mother!' I could cry, it sounds so strange and empty, like a voice from the grave. And she never says anything about good fortune now--and she never decks herself out to be ready for it! If she'd only begin with her fool's tricks again--if she only cared to look out and watch for the stranger--then I should have my child again. But she just goes about all sunk into herself, and she stares about her as if she was half asleep, as though she were in the middle of empty space; and she's never in any spirits now. She goes about so unmeaning--like with her own dreary thoughts, it's like a wandering corpse. Can you understand what's wrong with her?" "No, I don't know," answered Pelle. "You say that so curiously, as if you did know something and wouldn't come out with it--and I, poor woman, I don't know where to turn." The good-natured woman began to cry. "And why don't you come over to see us any more?" "Oh, I don't know--I've so much on hand, Madam Johnsen," answered Pelle evasively. "If only she's not bewitched. She doesn't enter into anything I tell her; you might really come over just for once; perhaps that would cheer her up a little. You oughtn't to take your revenge on us. She was very fond of you in her way--and to me you've been like a son. Won't you come over this evening?" "I really haven't the time. But I'll see, some time," he said, in a low voice. And then she went, drooping and melancholy. She was showing her fifty years. Pelle was sorry for her, but he could not make up his mind to visit her. "You are quite detestable!" said Marie, stamping angrily on the floor. "It's wretched of you!" Pelle wrinkled his forehead. "You don't understand, Marie." "Oh, so you think I don't know all about it? But do you know what the women say about you? They say you're no man, or you would have managed to clip Hanne's feathers." Pelle gazed at her, wondering; he said nothing, but looked at her and shook his head. "What are you staring at me for?" she said, placing herself aggressively in front of him. "Perhaps you think I'm afraid to say what I like to you? Don't you stare at me with that face, or you'll get one in the mouth!" She was burning red with shame. "Shall I say something still worse? with you staring at me with that face? Eh? No one need think I'm ashamed to say what I like!" Her voice was hard and hoarse; she was quite beside herself with rage. Pelle was perfectly conscious that it was shame that was working in her. She must be allowed to run down. He was silent, but did not avert his reproachful gaze. Suddenly she spat in his face and ran into her own room with a malicious laugh. There she was very busy for a time. There for a time she worked with extreme vigor, but presently grew quieter. Through the stillness Pelle could hear her gently sobbing. He did not go in to her. Such scenes had occurred between them before, and he knew that for the rest of the day she would be ashamed of herself, and it would he misery for her to look him in the face. He did not wish to lessen that feeling. He dressed himself and went out. VIII The "Ark" now showed as a clumsy gray mass. It was always dark; the autumn daylight was unable to penetrate it. In the interior of the mass the pitch-black night brooded continually; those who lived there had to grope their way like moles. In the darkness sounds rose to the surface which failed to make themselves noticeable in the radiance of summer. Innumerable sounds of creatures that lived in the half-darkness were heard. When sleep had laid silence upon it all, the stillness of night unveiled yet another world: then the death-watches audibly bored their way beneath the old wall-papers, while rats and mice and the larvae of wood-beetles vied with one another in their efforts. The darkness was full of the aromatic fragrance of the falling worm-dust. All through this old box of a building dissolution was at work, with thousands of tiny creatures to aid it. At times the sound of it all rose to a tremendous crash which awoke Pelle from sleep, when some old worm-eaten timber was undermined and sagged in a fresh place. Then he would turn over on the other side. When he went out of an evening he liked to make his way through the cheerful, crowded streets, in order to share in the brightness of it all; the rich luxury of the shops awakened something within him which noted the startling contrast between this quarter of the town and his own. When he passed from the brightly lit city into his own quarter, the streets were like ugly gutters to drain the darkness, and the "Ark" rose mysteriously into the sky of night like a ponderous mountain. Dark cellar-openings led down into the roots of the mountain, and there, in its dark entrails, moved wan, grimy creatures with smoky lamps; there were all those who lived upon the poverty of the "Ark"--the old iron merchant, the old clothes merchant, and the money-lender who lent money upon tangible pledges. They moved fearfully, burrowing into strange- looking heaps. The darkness was ingrained in them; Pelle was always reminded of the "underground people" at home. So the base of the cliffs had opened before his eyes in childhood, and he had shudderingly watched the dwarfs pottering about their accursed treasure. Here they moved about like greedy goblins, tearing away the foundations from under the careless beings in the "Ark," so that one day these might well fall into the cellars--and in the meantime they devoured them hair and hide. At all events, the bad side of the fairy tale was no lie! One day Pelle threw down his work in the twilight and went off to carry out his mission. Pipman had some days earlier fallen drunk from the rickety steps, and down in the well the children of the quarter surrounded the place where he had dropped dead, and illuminated it with matches. They could quite plainly see the dark impress of a shape that looked like a man, and were all full of the spectacle. Outside the mouth of the tunnel-like entry he stopped by the window of the old clothes dealer's cellar. Old Pipman's tools lay spread out there in the window. So she had got her claws into them too! She was rummaging about down there, scurfy and repulsive to look at, chewing an unappetizing slice of bread-and-butter, and starting at every sound that came from above, so anxious was she about her filthy money! Pelle needed a new heel-iron, so he went in and purchased that of Pipman. He had to haggle with her over the price. "Well, have you thought over my proposal?" she asked, when the deal was concluded. "What proposal?" said Pelle, in all ignorance. "That you should leave your cobbling alone and be my assistant in the business." So that was what she meant? No, Pelle hadn't thought over it sufficiently. "I should think there isn't much to think over. I have offered you more than you could earn otherwise, and there's not much to do. And I keep a man who fetches and carries things. It's mostly that I have a fancy to have a male assistant. I am an old woman, going about alone here, and you are so reliable, I know that." She needed some one to protect all the thousands of kroner which she had concealed in these underground chambers. Pelle knew that well enough-- she had approached him before on the subject. "I should scarcely be the one for that--to make my living out of the poverty of others," said Pelle, smiling. "Perhaps I might knock you over the head and distribute all your pennies to the poor!" The old woman stared at him for a moment in alarm. "Ugh, what a horrible thing to say!" she cried, shuddering. "You libel your good heart, joking about such things. Now I shan't like to stay here in the cellar any longer when you've gone. How can you jest so brutally about life and death? Day and night I go about here trembling for my life, and yet I've nothing at all, the living God knows I've nothing. That is just gossip! Everybody looks at me as much as to say, 'I'd gladly strike you dead to get your money!' And that's why I'd like to have a trustworthy man in the business; for what good is it to me that I've got nothing when they all believe I have? And there are so many worthless fellows who might fall upon one at any moment." "If you have nothing, you can be easy," said Pelle teasingly. "No need for an empty stomach to have the nightmare!" "Have nothing! Of course one always has something! And Pelle"--she leaned confidentially over him with a smirk on her face--"now Mary will soon come home, perhaps no later than this summer. She has earned so much over there that she can live on it, and she'll still be in the prime of her youth. What do you think of that? In her last letter she asked me to look out for a husband for her. He need only be handsome, for she has money enough for two. Then she'd rent a big house in the fine part of the city, and keep her own carriage, and live only for her handsome husband. What do you say to that, Pelle?" "Well, that is certainly worth thinking over!" answered Pelle; he was in overflowing high spirits. "Thinking over? Is that a thing to think over? Many a poor lord would accept such an offer and kiss my hand for it, if only he were here." "But I'm not a lord, and now I must be going." "Won't you just see her pictures?" The old woman began to rummage in a drawer. "No." Pelle only wanted to be gone. He had seen these pictures often enough, grimed with the air of the cellar and the old woman's filthy hands; pictures which represented Mary now as a slim figure, striped like a tiger-cat, as she sang in the fashionable variety theaters of St. Petersburg, now naked, with a mantle of white furs, alone in the midst of a crowd of Russian officers--princes, the old woman said. There was also a picture from the aquarium, in which she was swimming about in a great glass tank amid some curious-looking plants, with nothing on her body but golden scales and diamond ornaments. She had a magnificent body--that he could plainly see; but that she could turn the heads of fabulously wealthy princes and get thousands out of their pockets merely by undressing herself--that he could not understand. And he was to take her to wife, was he?--and to get all that she had hoarded up! That was tremendously funny! That beat everything! He went along the High Street with a rapid step. It was raining a little; the light from the street lamps and shop-windows was reflected in the wet flagstones; the street wore a cheerful look. He went onward with a feeling that his mind was lifted above the things of everyday; the grimy old woman who lived as a parasite on the poverty of the "Ark" and who had a wonderful daughter who was absorbing riches like a leech. And on top of it all the little Pelle with the "lucky curl," like the curly-haired apprentice in the story! Here at last was the much-longed- for fairy tale! He threw back his head and laughed. Pelle, who formerly used to feel insults so bitterly, had achieved a sense of the divinity of life. That evening his round included the Rabarber ward. Pelle had made himself a list, according to which he went forth to search each ward of the city separately, in order to save himself unnecessary running about. First of all, he took a journeyman cobbler in Smith Street; he was one of Meyer's regular workers, and Pelle was prepared for a hard fight. The man was not at home. "But you can certainly put him down," said his wife. "We've been talking it over lately, and we've come to see it's really the best thing." That was a wife after Pelle's heart. Many would deny that their husbands were at home when they learned what Pelle wanted; or would slam the door in his face; they were tired of his running to and fro. He visited various houses in Gardener Street, Castle Street, Norway Street, making his way through backyards and up dark, narrow stairs, up to the garrets or down to the cellars. Over all was the same poverty; without exception the cobblers were lodged in the most miserable holes. He had not a single success to record. Some had gone away or were at fresh addresses; others wanted time to consider or gave him a direct refusal. He promised himself that he would presently give the wobblers another call; he would soon bring them round; the others he ticked off, keeping them for better times-- their day too would come before long! It did not discourage him to meet with refusals; he rejoiced over the single sheep. This was a work of patience, and patience was the one thing in which he had always been rich. He turned into Hunter Street and entered a barrack-like building, climbing until he was right under the roof, when he knocked on a door. It was opened by a tall thin man with a thin beard. This was Peter, his fellow-'prentice at home. They were speedily talking of the days of their apprenticeship, and the workshop at home with all the curious company there. There was not much that was good to be said of Master Jeppe. But the memory of the young master filled them with warmth. "I often think of him in the course of the year," said Peter. "He was no ordinary man. That was why he died." There was something abstracted about Peter; and his den gave one an impression of loneliness. Nothing was left to remind one of the mischievous fellow who must always be running; but something hostile and obstinate glowed within his close-set eyes. Pelle sat there wondering what could really be the matter with him. He had a curious bleached look as though he had shed his skin; but he wasn't one of the holy sort, to judge by his conversation. "Peter, what's the truth of it--are you one of us?" said Pelle suddenly. A disagreeable smile spread over Peter's features. "Am I one of you? That sounds just like when they ask you--have you found Jesus? Have you become a missionary?" "You are welcome to call it that," replied Pelle frankly, "if you'll only join our organization. We want you." "You won't miss me--nobody is missed, I believe, if he only does his work. I've tried the whole lot of them--churches and sects and all--and none of them has any use for a man. They want one more listener, one more to add to their list; it's the same everywhere." He sat lost in thought, looking into vacancy. Suddenly he made a gesture with his hands as though to wave something away. "I don't believe in anything any longer, Pelle--there's nothing worth believing in." "Don't you believe in improving the lot of the poor, then? You haven't tried joining the movement?" asked Pelle. "What should I do there? They only want to get more to eat--and the little food I need I can easily get. But if they could manage to make me feel that I'm a man, and not merely a machine that wants a bit more greasing, I'd as soon be a thin dog as a fat one." "They'd soon do that!" said Pelle convincingly. "If we only hold together, they'll have to respect the individual as well, and listen to his demands. The poor man must have his say with the rest." Peter made an impatient movement. "What good can it do me to club folks on the head till they look at me? It don't matter a damn to me! But perhaps they'd look at me of their own accord--and say, of their own accord--'Look, there goes a man made in God's image, who thinks and feels in his heart just as I do!' That's what I want!" "I honestly don't understand what you mean with your 'man,'" said Pelle irritably. "What's the good of running your head against a wall when there are reasonable things in store for us? We want to organize ourselves and see if we can't escape from slavery. Afterward every man can amuse himself as he likes." "Well, well, if it's so easy to escape from slavery! Why not? Put down my name for one!" said Peter, with a slightly ironical expression. "Thanks, comrade!" cried Pelle, joyfully shaking his hand. "But you'll do something for the cause?" Peter looked about him forlornly. "Horrible weather for you to be out in," he said, and he lighted Pelle down the stairs. Pelle went northward along Chapel Street. He wanted to look up Morten. The wind was chasing the leaves along by the cemetery, driving the rain in his face. He kept close against the cemetery wall in order to get shelter, and charged against the wind, head down. He was in the best of humors. That was two new members he had won over; he was getting on by degrees! What an odd fish Peter had become; the word, "man, man," sounded meaningless to Pelle's ears. Well, anyhow, he had got him on the list. Suddenly he heard light, running steps behind him. The figure of a man reached his side, and pushed a little packet under Pelle's arm without stopping for a moment. At a short distance he disappeared. It seemed to Pelle as though he disappeared over the cemetery wall. Under one of the street lamps he stopped and wonderingly examined the parcel; it was bound tightly with tape. "For mother" was written upon it in an awkward hand. Pelle was not long in doubt--in that word "mother" he seemed plainly to hear Ferdinand's hoarse voice. "Now Madam Frandsen will be delighted," he thought, and he put it in his pocket. During the past week she had had no news of Ferdinand. He dared no longer venture through Kristianshavn. Pelle could not understand how Ferdinand had lit upon him. Was he living out here in the Rabarber ward? Morten was sitting down, writing in a thick copybook. He closed it hastily as Pelle entered. "What is that?" asked Pelle, who wanted to open the book; "are you still writing in your copybook?" Morten, confused, laid his hand on the book. "No. Besides--oh, as far as that goes," he said, "you may as well know. I have written a poem. But you mustn't speak of it." "Oh, do read it out to me!" Pelle begged. "Yes; but you must promise me to be silent about it, or the others will just think I've gone crazy." He was quite embarrassed, and he stammered as he read. It was a poem about poor people, who bore the whole world on their upraised hands, and with resignation watched the enjoyment of those above them. It was called, "Let them die!" and the words were repeated as the refrain of every verse. And now that Morten was in the vein, he read also an unpretentious story of the struggle of the poor to win their bread. "That's damned fine!" cried Pelle enthusiastically. "Monstrously good, Morten! I don't understand how you put it together, especially the verse. But you're a real poet. But I've always thought that--that you had something particular in you. You've got your own way of looking at things, and they won't clip your wings in a hurry. But why don't you write about something big and thrilling that would repay reading-- there's nothing interesting about us!" "But I find there is!" "No, I don't understand that. What can happen to poor fellows like us?" "Then don't you believe in greatness?" To be sure Pelle did. "But why shouldn't we have splendid things right away?" "You want to read about counts and barons!" said Morten. "You are all like that. You regard yourself as one of the rabble, if it comes to that! Yes, you do! Only you don't know it! That's the slave-nature in you; the higher classes of society regard you as such and you involuntarily do the same. Yes, you may pull faces, but it's true, all the same! You don't like to hear about your own kind, for you don't believe they can amount to anything! No, you must have fine folks-- always rich folks! One would like to spit on one's past and one's parents and climb up among the fine folks, and because one can't manage it one asks for it in books." Morten was irritated. "No, no," said Pelle soothingly, "it isn't as bad as all that!" "Yes, it is as bad as all that!" cried Morten passionately. "And do you know why? Because you don't yet understand that humanity is holy, and that it's all one where a man is found!" "Humanity is holy?" said Pelle, laughing. "But I'm not holy, and I didn't really think you were!" "For your sake, I hope you are," said Morten earnestly, "for otherwise you are no more than a horse or a machine that can do so much work." And then he was silent, with a look that seemed to say that the matter had been sufficiently discussed. Morten's reserved expression made Pelle serious. He might jestingly pretend that this was nonsense, but Morten was one of those who looked into things--perhaps there was something here that he didn't understand. "I know well enough that I'm a clown compared with you," he said good- naturedly, "but you needn't be so angry on that account. By the way, do you still remember Peter, who was at Jeppe's with your brother Jens and me? He's here, too--I--I came across him a little while ago. He's always looking into things too, but he can't find any foundation to anything, as you can. He believes in nothing in the whole world. Things are in a bad way with him. It would do him good if he could talk with you." "But I'm no prophet--you are that rather than I," said Morten ironically. "But you might perhaps say something of use to him. No, I'm only a trades unionist, and that's no good." On his way home Pelle pondered honestly over Morten's words, but he had to admit that he couldn't take them in. No, he had no occasion to surround his person with any sort of holiness or halo; he was only a healthy body, and he just wanted to do things. IX Pelle came rushing home from Master Beck's workshop, threw off his coat and waistcoat, and thrust his head into a bucket of water. While he was scrubbing himself dry, he ran over to the "Family." "Would you care to come out with me? I have some tickets for an evening entertainment--only you must hurry up." The three children were sitting round the table, doing tricks with cards. The fire was crackling in the stove, and there was a delicious smell of coffee. They were tired after the day's work and they didn't feel inclined to dress themselves to go out. One could see how they enjoyed feeling that they were at home. "You should give Hanne and her mother the tickets," said Marie, "they never go out." Pelle thought the matter over while he was dressing. Well, why not? After all, it was stupid to rake up an old story. Hanne did not want to go with him. She sat with downcast eyes, like a lady in her boudoir, and did not look at him. But Madam Johnsen was quite ready to go--the poor old woman quickly got into her best clothes. "It's a long time since we two have been out together, Pelle," she said gaily, as they walked through the city. "You've been so frightfully busy lately. They say you go about to meetings. That is all right for a young man. Do you gain anything by it?" "Yes, one could certainly gain something by it--if only one used one's strength!" "What can you gain by it, then? Are you going to eat up the Germans again, as in my young days, or what is it you are after?" "We want to make life just a little happier," said Pelle quietly. "Oh, you don't want to gain anything more than happiness? That's easy enough, of course!" said Madam Johnsen, laughing loudly. "Why, to be sure, in my pretty young days too the men wanted to go to the capital to make their fortunes. I was just sixteen when I came here for purposes of my own--where was a pretty girl to find everything splendid, if not here? One easily made friends--there were plenty to go walking with a nice girl in thin shoes, and they wanted to give her all sorts of fine things, and every day brought its happiness with it. But then I met a man who wanted to do the best thing by me, and who believed in himself, too. He got me to believe that the two of us together might manage something lasting. And he was just such a poor bird as I was, with empty hands--but he set to valiantly. Clever in his work he was, too, and he thought we could make ourselves a quiet, happy life, cozy between our four walls, if only we'd work. Happiness--pooh! He wanted to be a master, at all costs--for what can a journeyman earn! And more than once we had scraped a little together, and thought things would be easier now; but misfortune always fell on us and took it all away. It's always hovering like a great bird over the poor man's home; and you must have a long stick if you want to drive it away! It was always the same story whenever we managed to get on a little. A whole winter he was ill. We only kept alive by pawning all we'd got, stick by stick. And when the last thing had gone to the devil we borrowed a bit on the pawn-ticket." The old woman had to pause to recover her breath. "Why are we hurrying like this?" she said, panting. "Any one would think the world was trying to run away from us!" "Well, there was nothing left!" she continued, shuffling on again. "And he was too tired to begin all over again, so we moved into the 'Ark.' And when he'd got a few shillings he sought consolation--but it was a poor consolation for me, who was carrying Hanne, that you may believe! She was like a gift after all that misfortune; but he couldn't bear her, because our fancy for a little magnificence was born again in her. She had inherited that from us--poor little thing!--with rags and dirt to set it off. You should just have seen her, as quite a little child, making up the fine folks' world out of the rags she got together out of the dustbins. 'What's that?' Johnsen he said once--he was a little less full than usual. 'Oh, that's the best room with the carpet on the floor, and there by the stove is your room, father. But you mustn't spit on the floor, because we are rich people.'" Madam Johnsen began to cry. "And then he struck her on the head. 'Hold your tongue!' he cried, and he cursed and swore at the child something frightful. 'I don't want to hear your infernal chatter!' That's the sort he was. Life began to be a bit easier when he had drowned himself in the sewer. The times when I might have amused myself he'd stolen from me with his talk of the future, and now I sit there turning old soldiers' trousers that fill the room with filth, and when I do two a day I can earn a mark. And Hanne goes about like a sleep-walker. Happiness! Is there a soul in the 'Ark' that didn't begin with a firm belief in something better? One doesn't move from one's own choice into such a mixed louse's nest, but one ends up there all the same. And is there anybody here who is really sure of his daily bread? Yes, Olsens with the warm wall, but they've got their daughter's shame to thank for that." "All the more reason to set to work," said Pelle. "Yes, you may well say that! But any one who fights against the unconquerable will soon be tired out. No, let things be and amuse yourself while you are still young. But don't you take any notice of my complaining--me--an old whimperer, I am--walking with you and being in the dumps like this--now we'll go and amuse ourselves!" And now she looked quite contented again. "Then take my arm--it's only proper with a pair of sweethearts," said Pelle, joking. The old woman took his arm and went tripping youthfully along. "Yes, if it had been in my young days, I would soon have known how to dissuade you from your silly tricks," she said gaily. "I should have been taking you to the dance." "But you didn't manage to get Johnsen to give them up," said Pelle in reply. "No, because then I was too credulous. But no one would succeed in robbing me of my youth now!" The meeting was held in a big hall in one of the side streets by the North Bridge. The entertainment, which was got up by some of the agitators, was designed principally for young people; but many women and young girls were present. Among other things a poem was read which dealt with an old respectable blacksmith who was ruined by a strike. "That may be very fine and touching," whispered Madam Johnsen, polishing her nose in her emotion, "but they really ought to have something one can laugh over. We see misfortune every day." Then a small choir of artisans sang some songs, and one of the older leaders mounted the platform and told them about the early years of the movement. When he had finished, he asked if there was no one else who had something to tell them. It was evidently not easy to fill out the evening. There was no spirit in the gathering. The women were not finding it amusing, and the men sat watching for anything they could carp at. Pelle knew most of those present; even the young men had hard faces, on which could be read an obstinate questioning. This homely, innocent entertainment did not appease the burning impatience which filled their hearts, listening for a promise of better things. Pelle sat there pained by the proceedings; the passion for progress and agitation was in his very blood. Here was such an opportunity to strike a blow for unification, and it was passing unused. The women only needed a little rousing, the factory-girls and the married women too, who held back their husbands. And they stood up there, frittering away the time with their singing and their poetry-twaddle! With one leap he stood on the platform. "All these fine words may be very nice," he cried passionately, "but they are very little use to all those who can't live on them! The clergyman and the dog earn their living with their mouths, but the rest of us are thrown on our own resources when we want to get anything. Why do we slink round the point like cats on hot bricks, why all this palaver and preaching? Perhaps we don't yet know what we want? They say we've been slaves for a thousand years! Then we ought to have had time enough to think it out! Why does so little happen, although we are all waiting for something, and are ready? Is there no one anywhere who has the courage to lead us?" Loud applause followed, especially from the young men; they stamped and shouted. Pelle staggered down from the platform; he was covered with sweat. The old leader ascended the platform again and thanked his colleagues for their acceptable entertainment. He turned also with smiling thanks to Pelle. It was gratifying that there was still fire glowing in the young men; although the occasion was unsuitable. The old folks had led the movement through evil times; but they by no means wished to prevent youth from testing itself. Pelle wanted to stand up and make some answer, but Madam Johnsen held him fast by his coat. "Be quiet, Pelle," she whispered anxiously; "you'll venture too far." She would not let go of him, so he had to sit down again to avoid attracting attention. His cheeks were burning, and he was as breathless as though he had been running up a hill. It was the first time he had ventured on a public platform; excitement had sent him thither. The people began to get up and to mix together. "Is it over already?" asked Madam Johnsen. Pelle could see that she was disappointed. "No, no; now we'll treat ourselves to something," he said, leading the old woman to a table at the back of the hall. "What can I offer you?" "Coffee, please, for me! But you ought to have a glass of beer, you are so warm!" Pelle wanted coffee too. "You're a funny one for a man!" she said, laughing. "First you go pitching into a whole crowd of men, and then you sit down here with an old wife like me and drink coffee! What a crowd of people there are here; it's almost like a holiday!" She sat looking about her with shining eyes and rosy cheeks, like a young girl at a dance. "Take some more of the skin of the milk, Pelle; you haven't got any. This really is cream!" The leader came up to ask if he might make Pelle's acquaintance. "I've heard of you from the president of your Union," he said, giving Pelle his hand. "I am glad to make your acquaintance; you have done a pretty piece of work." "Oh, it wasn't so bad," said Pelle, blushing. "But it really would be fine if we could really get to work!" "I know your impatience only too well," retorted the old campaigner, laughing. "It's always so with the young men. But those who really want to do something must be able to see to the end of the road." He patted Pelle on the shoulders and went. Pelle felt that the people were standing about him and speaking of him. God knows whether you haven't made yourself ridiculous, he thought. Close by him two young men were standing, who kept on looking at him sideways. Suddenly they came up to him. "We should much like to shake hands with you," said one of them. "My name is Otto Stolpe, and this is my brother Frederik. That was good, what you said up there, we want to thank you for it!" They stood by for some little while, chatting to Pelle. "It would please my father and mother too, if they could make your acquaintance," said Otto Stolpe. "Would you care to come home with us?" "I can't very well this evening; I have some one with me," replied Pelle. "You go with them," said Madam Johnsen. "I see some folks from Kristianshavn back there, I can go home with them." "But we were meaning to go on the spree a bit now that we've at last come out!" said Pelle, smiling. "God forbid! No, we've been on the spree enough for one evening, my old head is quite turned already. You just be off; that's a thing I haven't said for thirty years! And many thanks for bringing me with you." She laughed boisterously. The Stolpe family lived in Elm Street, on the second floor of one of the new workmen's tenement houses. The stairs were roomy, and on the door there was a porcelain plate with their name on it. In the entry an elderly, well-dressed woman up to them. "Here is a comrade, mother," said Otto. "Welcome," she said, as she took Pelle's hand. She held it a moment in her own as she looked at him. In the living room sat Stolpe, a mason, reading _The Working Man_. He was in shirt sleeves, and was resting his heavy arms on the table. He read whispering to himself, he had not noticed that a guest was in the room. "Here's some one who would like to say how-d'ye-do to father," said Otto, laying his hand on his father's arm. Stolpe raised his head and looked at Pelle. "Perhaps you would like to join the Union?" he asked, rising with difficulty, with one hand pressed on the table. He was tall, his hair was sprinkled with gray; his eyes were mottled from the impact of splinters of limestone. "You and your Union!" said Madam Stolpe. "Perhaps you think there's no one in it but you!" "No, mother; little by little a whole crowd of people have entered it, but all the same I was the first." "I'm already in the Union," said Pelle. "But not in yours. I'm a shoemaker, you know." "Shoemaker, ah, that's a poor trade for a journeyman; but all the same a man can get to be a master; but to-day a mason can't do that--there's a great difference there. And if one remains a journeyman all his life long, he has more interest in modifying his position. Do you understand? That's why the organization of the shoemakers has never been of more than middling dimensions. Another reason is that they work in their own rooms, and one can't get them together. But now there's a new man come, who seems to be making things move." "Yes, and this is he, father," said Otto, laughing. "The deuce, and here I stand making a fool of myself! Then I'll say how- d'ye-do over again! And here's good luck to your plans, young comrade." He shook Pelle by the hand. "I think we might have a drop of beer, mother?" Pelle and Stolpe were soon engaged in a lively conversation; Pelle was in his element. Until now he had never found his way to the heart of the movement. There was so much he wanted to ask about, and the old man incontinently told him of the growth of the organization from year to year, of their first beginning, when there was only one trades unionist in Denmark, namely, himself, down to the present time. He knew all the numbers of the various trades, and was precisely informed as to the development of each individual union. The sons sat silent, thoughtfully listening. When they had something to say, they always waited until the old man nodded his head to show that he had finished. The younger, Frederik, who was a mason's apprentice, never said "thou" to his father; he addressed him in the third person, and his continual "father says, father thinks," sounded curious to Pelle's ears. While they were still talking Madam Stolpe opened the door leading into an even prettier room, and invited them to go in and to drink their coffee. The living-room had already produced an extremely pleasant impression on Pelle, with its oak-grained dining-room suite and its horse-hair sofa. But here was a red plush suite, an octagonal table of walnut wood, with a black inlaid border and twisted wooden feet, and an etagere full of knick-knacks and pieces of china; mostly droll, impudent little things. On the walls hung pictures of trades unions and assemblies and large photographs of workshops; one of a building during construction, with the scaffolding full of the bricklayers and their mortar-buckets beside them, each with a trowel or a beer-bottle can in his hand. On the wall over the sofa hung a large half-length portrait of a dark, handsome man in a riding-cloak. He looked half a dreamy adventurer, half a soldier. "That's the grand master," said Stolpe proudly, standing at Pelle's side. "There was always a crowd of women at his heels. But they kept themselves politely in the background, for a fire went out of him at such times--do you understand? Then it was--Men to the front! And even the laziest fellow pricked up his ears." "Then he's dead now, is he?" asked Pelle, with interest. Stolpe did not answer. "Well," he said briefly, "shall we have our coffee now?" Otto winked at Pelle; here evidently was a matter that must not be touched upon. Stolpe sat staring into his cup, but suddenly he raised his head. "There are things one doesn't understand," he cried earnestly. "But this is certain, that but for the grand master here I and a whole host of other men wouldn't perhaps be respectable fathers of families to-day. There were many smart fellows among us young comrades, as is always the case; but as a rule the gifted ones always went to the dogs. For when a man has no opportunity to alter things, he naturally grows impatient, and then one fine day he begins to pour spirit on the flames in order to stop his mouth. I myself had that accursed feeling that I must do something, and little by little I began to drink. But then I discovered the movement, before it existed, I might venture to say; it was in the air like, d'you see. It was as though something was coming, and one sniffed about like a dog in order to catch a glimpse of it. Presently it was, Here it is! There it is! But when one looked into it, there was just a few hungry men bawling at one another about something or other, but the devil himself didn't know what it was. But then the grand master came forward, and that was like a flash of light for all of us. For he could say to a nicety just where the shoe pinched, although he didn't belong to our class at all. Since that time there's been no need to go searching for the best people--they were always to be found in the movement! Although there weren't very many of them, the best people were always on the side of the movement." "But now there's wind in the sails," said Pelle. "Yes, now there's talk of it everywhere. But to whom is that due? God knows, to us old veterans--and to him there!" Stolpe began to talk of indifferent matters, but quite involuntarily the conversation returned to the movement; man and wife lived and breathed for nothing else. They were brave, honest people, who quite simply divided mankind into two parts: those who were for and those who were against the movement. Pelle seemed to breathe more freely and deeply in this home, where the air was as though steeped in Socialism. He noticed a heavy chest which stood against the wall on four twisted legs. It was thickly ornamented with nail-heads and looked like an old muniment chest. "Yes--that's the standard!" said Madam Stolpe, but she checked herself in alarm. Mason Stolpe knitted his brows. "Ah, well, you're a decent fellow, after all," he said. "One needn't slink on tiptoe in front of you!" He took a key out of a secret compartment in his writing-table. "Now the danger's a thing of the past, but one still has to be careful. That's a vestige of the times when things used to go hardly with us. The police used to be down on all our badges of common unity. The grand master himself came to me one evening with the flag under his cloak, and said to me, 'You must look out for it, Stolpe, you are the most reliable of us all.'" He and his wife unfolded the great piece of bunting. "See, that's the banner of the International. It looks a little the worse for wear, for it has undergone all sorts of treatment. At the communist meetings out in the fields, when the troops were sent against us with ball cartridge, it waved over the speaker's platform, and held us together. When it flapped over our heads it was as though we were swearing an oath to it. The police understood that, and they were mad to get it. They went for the flag during a meeting, but nothing came of it, and since then they've hunted for it so, it's had to be passed from man to man. In that way it has more than once come to me." "Yes, and once the police broke in here and took father away as we were sitting at supper. They turned the whole place upside down, and dragged him off to the cells without a word of explanation. The children were little then, and you can imagine how miserable it seemed to me. I didn't know when they would let him out again." "Yes, but they didn't get the colors," said Stolpe, and he laughed heartily. "I had already passed them on, they were never very long in one place in those days. Now they lead a comparatively quiet life, and mother and the rest of us too!" The young men stood in silence, gazing at the standard that had seen so many vicissitudes, and that was like the hot red blood of the movement. Before Pelle a whole new world was unfolding itself; the hope that had burned in the depths of his soul was after all not so extravagant. When he was still running, wild at home, playing the games of childhood or herding the cows, strong men had already been at work and had laid the foundations of the cause.... A peculiar warmth spread through him and rose to his head. If only it had been he who had waved the glowing standard in the face of the oppressor--he, Pelle! "And now it lies here in the chest and is forgotten!" he said dejectedly. "It is only resting," said Stolpe. "Forgotten, yes; the police have no idea that it still exists. But fix it on a staff, and you will see how the comrades flock about it! Old and young alike. There's fire in that bit of cloth! True fire, that never goes out!" Carefully they folded the colors and laid them back in the chest. "It won't do even now to speak aloud of the colors! You understand?" said Stolpe. There was a knock, and Stolpe made haste to lock the chest and hide the key, while Frederik went to the door. They looked at one another uneasily and stood listening. "It is only Ellen," said Frederik, and he returned, followed by a tall dark girl with an earnest bearing. She had a veil over her face, and before her mouth her breath showed like a pearly tissue. "Ah, that's the lass!" cried Stolpe, laughing. "What folly--we were quite nervous, just as nervous as in the old days. And you're abroad in the streets at this hour of night! And in this weather?" He looked at her affectionately; one could see that she was his darling. Outwardly they were very unlike. She greeted Pelle with the tiniest nod, but looked at him earnestly. There was something still and gracious about her that fascinated him. She wore dark clothes, without the slightest adornment, but they were of good sound stuff. "Won't you change?" asked the mother, unbuttoning her cloak. "You are quite wet, child." "No, I must go out again at once," Ellen replied. "I only wanted to peep in." "But it's really very late," grumbled Stolpe. "Are you only off duty now?" "Yes, it's not my going-out day." "Not to-day again? Yes, it's sheer slavery, till eleven at night!" "That's the way things are, and it doesn't make it any better for you to scold me," said Ellen courageously. "No, but you needn't go out to service. There's no sense in our children going out to service in the houses of the employers. Don't you agree with me?" He turned to Pelle. Ellen laughed brightly. "It's all the same--father works for the employers as well." "Yes, but that's a different thing. It's from one fixed hour to another, and then it's over. But this other work is a home; she goes from one home to another and undertakes all the dirty work." "Father's not in a position to keep me at home." "I know that very well, but all the same I can't bear it. Besides, you could surely get some other kind of work." "Yes, but I don't want to! I claim the right to dispose of myself!" she replied heatedly. The others sat silent, looking nervously at one another. The veins swelled on Stolpe's forehead; he was purple, and terribly angry. But Ellen looked at him with a little laugh. He got up and went grumbling into the other room. Her mother shook her head at Ellen. She was quite pale. "Oh, child, child!" she whispered. After a while Stolpe returned with some old newspapers, which he wanted to show Pelle. Ellen stood behind his chair, looking down at them; she rested her arm on his shoulders and idly ruffled his hair. The mother pulled at her skirt. The papers were illustrated, and went back to the stirring times. The clock struck the half-hour; it was half-past eleven. Pelle rose in consternation; he had quite forgotten the time. "Take the lass with you," said Stolpe. "You go the same way, don't you, Ellen? Then you'll have company. There's no danger going with her, for she's a saint." It sounded as though he wanted to make up for his scolding. "Come again soon; you will always be welcome here." They did not speak much on the way home. Pelle was embarrassed, and he had a feeling that she was considering him and thinking him over as they walked, wondering what sort of a fellow he might be. When he ventured to say something, she answered briefly and looked at him searchingly. And yet he found it was an interesting walk. He would gladly have prolonged it. "Many thanks for your company," he said, when they stood at her house- door. "I should be very glad to see you again." "You will if we meet," she said taciturnly; but she gave him her hand for a moment. "We are sure to meet again! Be sure of that!" cried Pelle jovially. "But you are forgetting to reward me for my escort?" He bent over her. She gazed at him in astonishment--with eyes that were turning him to stone, he thought. Then she slowly turned and went indoors. X One day, after his working hours, Pelle was taking some freshly completed work to the Court shoemaker's. The foreman took it and paid for it, and proceeded to give out work to the others, leaving Pelle standing. Pelle waited impatiently, but did no more than clear his throat now and again. This was the way of these people; one had to put up with it if one wanted work. "Have you forgotten me?" he said at last, a little impatiently. "You can go," said the foreman. "You've finished here." "What does that mean?" asked Pelle, startled. "It means what you hear. You've got the sack--if you understand that better." Pelle understood that very well, but he wanted to establish the fact of his persecution in the presence of his comrades. "Have you any fault to find with my work?" he asked. "You mix yourself up too much with things that don't concern you, my good fellow, and then you can't do the work you ought to do." "I should like very much to know what fault you have to find with my work," said Pelle obstinately. "Go to the devil! I've told you already!" roared the foreman. The Court shoemaker came down through the door of the back room and looked about him. When he saw Pelle, he went up to him. "You get out of here, and that at once!" he cried, in a rage. "Do you think we give bread to people that undermine us? Out, out of my place of business, Mossoo Trades-Unionist!" Pelle stood his ground, and looked his employer in the eyes; he would have struck the man a blow in the face rather than allow himself to be sent away. "Be cool, now; be cool!" he said to himself. He laughed, but his features were quivering. The Court shoemaker kept a certain distance, and continued to shout, "Out with him! Here, foreman, call the police at once!" "Now you can see, comrades, how they value one here," said Pelle, turning his broad back on Meyer. "We are dogs; nothing more!" They stood there, staring at the counter, deaf and dumb in their dread of taking sides. Then Pelle went. He made his way northward. His heart was full of violent emotion. Indignation raged within him like a tempest, and by fits and starts found utterance on his lips. Meyer's work was quite immaterial to him; it was badly paid, and he only did it as a stop-gap. But it was disgusting to think they could buy his convictions with badly-paid work! And there they stood not daring to show their colors, as if it wasn't enough to support such a fellow with their skill and energy! Meyer stood there like a wall, in the way of any real progress, but he needn't think he could strike at Pelle, for he'd get a blow in return if he did! He went straight to Mason Stolpe, in order to talk the matter over with him; the old trades unionist was a man of great experience. "So he's one of those who go in for the open slave-trade!" said Stolpe. "We've had a go at them before now. 'We've done with you, my good man; we can make no use of agitators!' And if one steals a little march on them 'Off you go; you're done with here!' I myself have been like a hunted cur, and at home mother used to go about crying. I could see what she was feeling, but when I put the matter before her she said, 'Hold out, Stolpe, you shan't give in!' 'You're forgetting our daily bread, mother,' I say. 'Oh, our daily bread. I can just go out washing!' That was in those days--they sing another tune to us now! Now the master politely raises his hat to old Stolpe! If he thinks he can allow himself to hound a man down, an embargo must be put on him!" Pelle had nothing to say against that. "If only it works," he said. "But our organization looks weak enough as yet." "Only try it; in any case, you can always damage him. He attacks your livelihood in order to strike at your conscience, so you hit back at his purse-that's where his conscience is! Even if it does no good, at least it makes him realize that you're not a slave." Pelle sat a while longer chatting. He had secretly hoped to meet Ellen again, but he dared not ask whether that was her day for coming home. Madam Stolpe invited him to stay and to have supper with them she was only waiting for her sons. But Pelle had no time; he must be off to think out instructions for the embargo. "Then come on Sunday," said the mother; "Sunday is Ellen's birthday." With rapid strides he went off to the president of the Union; the invitation for the following Sunday had dissipated the remains of his anger. The prospect of a tussle with Meyer had put him in the best of tempers. He was certain of winning the president, Petersen, for his purpose, if only he could find him out of bed; he himself had in his time worked for wholesale shoemakers, and hated them like the plague. It was said that Petersen had worked out a clever little invention--a patent button for ladies' boots--which he had taken to Meyer, as he himself did not know how to exploit it. But Meyer had, without more ado, treated the invention as his own, inasmuch as it was produced by one of his workmen. He took out a patent and made a lot of money by it, trifling as the thing was. When Petersen demanded a share of the profits, he was dismissed. He himself never spoke of the matter; he just sat in his cellar brooding over the injustice, so that he never managed to recover his position. Almost his whole time had been devoted to the Union, so that he might revenge himself through it; but it never really made much progress. He fired up passionately enough, but he was lacking in persistence. And his lungs were weak. He trembled with excitement when Pelle explained his plan. "Great God in heaven, if only we could get at him!" he whispered hoarsely, clenching his skinny fists which Death had already marked with its dusky shadows. "I would willingly give my miserable life to see the scoundrel ruined! Look at that!" He bent down, whispering, and showed Pelle a file ground to a point, which was fastened into a heavy handle. "If I hadn't the children, he would have got that between his ribs long before this!" His gray, restless eyes, which reminded Pelle of Anker, the crazy clockmaker, had a cold, piercing expression. "Yes, yes," said Pelle, laying his hand soothingly on the other's; "but it's no use to do anything stupid. We shall only do what we want to do if we all stand together." The day was well spent; on the very next evening the members of the Union were summoned to a meeting. Petersen spoke first, and beginning with a fiery speech. It was like the final efforts of a dying man. "You organize the struggle," said Petersen. "I'm no good nowadays for that-- and I've no strength. But I'll sound the assault--ay, and so that they wake up. Then you yourself must see to keeping the fire alight in them." His eyes burned in their shadowy sockets; he stood there like a martyr upholding the necessity of the conflict. The embargo was agreed upon unanimously! Then Pelle came forward and organized the necessary plan of campaign. It was his turn now. There was no money in the chest, but every man had to promise a certain contribution to be divided among those who were refusing to work. Every man must do his share to deprive Meyer of all access to the labor market. And there was to be no delirious enthusiasm --which they would regret when they woke up next morning. It was essential that every man should form beforehand a clear conception of the difficulties, and must realize what he was pledging himself to. And then--three cheers for a successful issue! This business meant a lot of running about. But what of that! Pelle, who had to sit such a lot, wouldn't suffer from getting out into the fresh air! He employed the evenings in making up for lost time. He got work from the small employers in Kristianshavn, who were very busy in view of Christmas, which made up for that which he had lost through the Court shoemaker. On the second day after his dismissal, the declaration of the embargo appeared under the "Labor Items" in _The Working Man_. "Assistance strictly prohibited!" It was like the day's orders, given by Pelle's own word of mouth. He cut the notice out, and now and again, as he sat at his work, he took it out and considered it. This was Pelle--although it didn't say so-- Pelle and the big employer were having a bit of a tussle! Now they should see which was the stronger! Pelle went often to see Stolpe. Strangely enough, his visits always coincided with Ellen's days off. Then he accompanied her homeward, and they walked side by side talking of serious things. There was nothing impetuous about them--they behaved as though a long life lay before them. His vehemence cooled in the conflict with Meyer. He was sure of Ellen's character, unapproachable though she was. Something in him told him that she ought to be and would remain so. She was one of those natures to whom it is difficult to come out of their shell, so as to reveal the kernel within; but he felt that there was something that was growing for him within that reserved nature, and he was not impatient. One evening he had as usual accompanied her to the door, and they stood there bidding one another good night. She gave him her hand in her shy, awkward manner, which might even mean reluctance, and was then about to go indoors. "But are we going on like this all our lives?" said Pelle, holding her fingers tightly. "I love you so!" She stood there a while, with an impenetrable expression, then advanced her face and kissed him mechanically, as a child kisses, with tightly closed lips. She was already on her way to the house when she suddenly started back, drew him to herself, and kissed him passionately and unrestrainedly. There was something so violent, so wild and fanatical in her demeanor, that he was quite bewildered. He scarcely recognized her, and when he had come to himself she was already on her way up the kitchen steps. He stood still, as though blinded by a rain of fire, and heard her running as though pursued. Since that day she had been another creature. Her love was like the spring that comes in a single night. She could not be without him for a day; when she went out to make purchases, she came running over to the "Ark." Her nature had thrown off its restraint; there was tension in her manner and her movements; and this tension now and again escaped from within in little explosions. She did not say very much; when they were together, she clung to him passionately as though to deaden some pain, and hid her face; if he lifted it, she kept her eyes persistently closed. Then she breathed deeply, and sat down smiling and humming to herself when he spoke to her. It was as though she was delving deep into his inmost being, and Pelle, who felt the need to reach and to know that inner nature, drew confidence from her society. No matter what confronted him, he had always sought in his inner self for his natural support, anxiously listening for that which came to the surface, and unconsciously doubting and inquiring. And now, so surely as she leaned silently on his arm, she confirmed something deep within him, and her steadfast gaze vibrated within him like a proud vocation, and he felt himself infinitely rich. She spoke to something deep within him when she gazed at him so thoughtfully. But what she said he did not know--nor what answer she received. When he recalled her from that gaze of hers, as of one bewitched, she only sighed like one awaking, and kissed him. Ellen was loyal and unselfish and greatly valued by her employers. There was no real development to be perceived in her--she longed to become his--and that was all. But the future was born on Pelle's own lips under her dreamy gaze, as though it was she who inspired him with the illuminating words. And then she listened with an absent smile--as to something delightful; but she herself seemed to give no thought to the future. She seemed full of a hidden devotion, that filled Pelle with an inward warmth, so that he held up his head very high toward the light. This constant devotion of Ellen's made the children "Family" teasingly call her "the Saint." It gave him much secret pleasure to be admitted to her home, where the robust Copenhagen humor concealed conditions quite patriarchal in their nature. Everything was founded on order and respect for the parents, especially the father, who spoke the decisive word in every matter, and had his own place, in which no one else ever sat. When he came home from his work, the grown-up sons would always race to take him his slippers, and the wife always had some extra snack for him. The younger son, Frederik, who was just out of his apprenticeship, was as delighted as a child to think of the day when he should become a journeyman and be able to drink brotherhood with the old man. They lived in a new, spacious, three-roomed tenement with a servant's room thrown in; to Pelle, who was accustomed to find his comrades over here living in one room with a kitchen, this was a new experience. The sons boarded and lodged at home; they slept in the servant's room. The household was founded on and supported by their common energies; although the family submitted unconditionally to the master of the house, they did not do so out of servility; they only did as all others did. For Stolpe was the foremost man in his calling, an esteemed worker and the veteran of the labor movement. His word was unchallenged. Ellen was the only one who did not respect his supremacy, but courageously opposed him, often without any further motive than that of contradiction. She was the only girl of the family, and the favorite; and she took advantage of her position. Sometimes it looked as though Stolpe would be driven to extremities; as though he longed to pulverize her in his wrath; but he always gave in to her. He was greatly pleased with Pelle. And he secretly admired his daughter more than ever. "You see, mother, there's something in that lass! She understands how to pick a man for himself!" he would cry enthusiastically. "Yes; I've nothing against him, either," Madam Stolpe would reply. "A bit countrified still, but of course he's growing out of it." "Countrified? He? No, you take my word, he knows what he wants. She's really found her master there!" said Stolpe triumphantly. In the two brothers Pelle found a pair of loyal comrades, who could not but look up to him. XI With the embargo matters were going so-so. Meyer replied to it by convoking the employers to a meeting with a view to establishing an employers' union, which would refuse employment to the members of the trade union. Then the matter would have been settled at one blow. However, things did not go so far as that. The small employers were afraid the journeymen would set up for themselves and compete against them. And instinctively they feared the big employers more than the journeymen, and were shy of entering the Union with them. The inner tendency of the industrial movement was to concentrate everything in a few hands, and to ruin the small business. The small employers had yet another crow to pluck with Meyer, who had extended his business at the expense of their own. Through Master Beck, Pelle learned what was taking place among the employers. Meyer had demanded that Beck should discharge Pelle, but Beck would not submit to him. "I can't really complain of you," he said. "Your trades-unionism I don't like--you would do better to leave it alone. But with your work I am very well satisfied. I have always endeavored to render justice to all parties. But if you can knock Meyer's feet from under him, we small employers will be very grateful to your Union, for he's freezing us out." To knock his feet from under him-that wasn't an easy thing to do. On the contrary, he was driving the weaker brethren out of the Union, and had always enough workers--partly Swedes, with whom he had a written contract, and whom he had to pay high wages. The system of home employment made it impossible to get to grips with him. Pelle and the president of the Union carefully picketed the warehouse about the time when the work was delivered, in order to discover who was working for him. And they succeeded in snatching a few workers away from him and in bringing them to reason, or else their names were published in The Working Man. But then the journeymen sent their wives or children with the work--and there was really nothing that could be done. It cost Meyer large sums of money to keep his business going, but the Union suffered more. It had not as yet sufficient authority, and the large employers stood by Meyer and would not employ members of the Union as long as the embargo lasted. So it was finally raised. That was a defeat; but Pelle had learned something, none the less! The victory was to the strong, and their organization was not as yet sufficient. They must talk and agitate, and hold meetings! The tendency to embrace the new ideas certainly inclined the men to organize themselves, but their sense of honor was as yet undeveloped. The slightest mishap dispersed them. Pelle did not lose heart; he must begin all over again, that was all. On the morning after the defeat was an accomplished fact he was up early. His resolution to go ahead with redoubled energies, he had, so to speak, slept into him, so that it pervaded his body and put energy and decision into his hammer-strokes. He whistled as the work progressed rapidly under his hands. The window stood open so that the night air might escape; hoar frost lay on the roofs, and the stars twinkled overhead in the cold heavens. But Pelle was not cold! He had just awakened the "Family" and could hear them moving about in their room. People were beginning to tumble out into the gangway, still drunken with sleep. Pelle was whistling a march. On the previous evening he had sent off the last instalment of his debt to Sort, and at the same time had written definitely to Father Lasse that he was to come. And now the day was dawning! Marie came and reached him his coffee through the door. "Good morning!" she cried merrily, through the crack of the door. "We're going to have fine weather to-day, Pelle!" She was not quite dressed yet and would not let herself be seen. The boys nodded good morning as they ran out. Karl had his coat and waistcoat under his arm. These articles of clothing he always used to put on as he ran down the stairs. When it was daylight Marie came in to set the room in order. She conversed with him as she scrubbed. "Look here, Marie!" cried Pelle suddenly. "Ellen came here yesterday and asked you to bring me a message when I came home. You didn't do it." Marie's face became set, but she did not reply. "It was only by pure chance that I met her yesterday, otherwise we should have missed one another." "Then I must have forgotten it," said Marie morosely. "Why, of course you forgot it. But that's the second time this week. You must be in love!" he added, smiling. Marie turned her back on him. "I've got nothing to do with her--I don't owe her anything!" suddenly she cried defiantly. "And I'm not going to clean your room any longer, either--let her do it--so there!" She seized her pail and scrubbing-brush and ran into her own room. After a time he heard her voice from within the room; at first he thought she was singing a tune to herself, but then he heard sobs. He hurried into the room; she was lying on the bed, weeping, biting the pillow and striking at it angrily with her roughened hands. Her thin body burned as if with fever. "You are ill, Marie dear," said Pelle anxiously, laying his hand on her forehead. "You ought to go to bed and take something to make you sweat. I'll warm it up for you." She was really ill; her eyes were dry and burning, and her hands were cold and clammy. But she would agree to nothing. "Go away!" she said angrily, "and attend to your own work! Leave me alone!" She had turned her back on him and nudged him away defiantly with her shoulder. "You'd best go in and cuddle Ellen!" she cried suddenly, with a malicious laugh. "Why are you like this, Marie?" said Pelle, distressed. "You are quite naughty!" She buried her face in the bed and would neither look at him nor answer him. So he went back to his work. After a time she came into his room again and resumed her work of cleaning. She banged the things about; pulling down some work of his that he had set to dry by the stove, and giving him a malicious sidelong look. Then a cup containing paste fell to the ground and was broken. "She did that on purpose," he thought unhappily, and he put the paste into an empty box. She stood watching him with a piercing, malicious gaze. He turned to his work again, and made as though nothing had happened. Suddenly he felt her thin arms about his neck. "Forgive me!" she said, weeping, and she hid her face against his shoulder. "Come, come, nothing very dreadful has happened! The silly old cup!" he said consolingly, as he stroked her head. "You couldn't help it!" But at that she broke down altogether, and it seemed as though her crying would destroy her meager body. "Yes, I did it on purpose!" she bellowed. "And I threw down the boots on purpose, and yesterday I didn't give you the message on purpose. I would have liked to hurt you still more, I'm so bad, bad, bad! Why doesn't some one give me a good beating? If you'd only once be properly angry with me!" She was quite beside herself and did not know what she was saying. "Now listen to me at once--you've got to be sensible!" said Pelle decidedly, "for this sort of thing is not amusing. I was pleased to think I was going to be at home to-day, so as to work beside you, and then you go and have an attack just like a fine lady!" She overcame her weeping by a tremendous effort, and went back to her room, gently sobbing. She returned at once with a cracked cup for the paste and a small tin box with a slit in the lid. This was her money- box. "Take it," she said, pushing the box onto his lap. "Then you can buy yourself lasts and needn't go asking the small employers for work. There's work enough here in the 'Ark.'" "But, Marie--that's your rent!" said Pelle, aghast. "What does that matter? I can easily get the money together again by the first." Oh, she could easily do that! Pelle laughed, a bewildered laugh. How cheerfully she threw her money about, the money that cost her thirty days of painful thought and saving, in order to have it ready each month! "What do you think Peter and Karl would say to your chucking your money about like that? Put the box away again safely-and be quick about it!" "Oh, take it!" she cried persistently, thrusting the box upon him. again. "Yes--or I'll throw it out of the window!" She quickly opened one of the sashes. Pelle stood up. "It's true I still owe you for the last washing," he said, offering to put a krone in the box. "A good thing you reminded me." She stared at him with an impenetrable expression and ran back to her room. In there she moved about singing in her harsh voice. After a while she went out to make some purchases clad in a gray shawl, with her house- wife's basket on her arm. He could follow her individual step, which was light as a child's, and yet sounded so old--right to the end of the tunnel. Then he went into the children's room and pulled out the third drawer in the chest of drawers. There she always hid her money-box, wrapped up in her linen. He still possessed two kroner, which he inserted in the box. He used always to pay her in this way. When she counted out her money and found there was too much, she believed the good God had put the money in her box, and would come jubilantly into his room to tell him about it. The child believed blindly in Fortune, and accepted the money as a sign of election; and for her this money was something quite different to that which she herself had saved. About noon she came to invite him into her room. "There's fried herring, Pelle, so you can't possibly say no," she said persuasively, "for no Bornholmer could! Then you needn't go and buy that stuffy food from the hawker, and throw away five and twenty ore." She had bought half a score of the fish, and had kept back five for her brothers when they came home. "And there's coffee after," she said. She had set out everything delightfully, with a clean napkin at one end of the table. The factory girl's little Paul came in and was given a mouthful of food. Then he ran out into the gangway again and tumbled about there, for the little fellow was never a moment still from the moment his mother let him out in the morning; there was so much to make up for after his long imprisonment. From the little idiot whom his mother had to tie to the stove because he had water on the brain and wanted to throw himself out of the window, he had become a regular vagabond. Every moment he would thrust his head in at the door and look at Pelle; and he would often come right in, put his hand on Pelle's knee, and say, "You's my father!" Then he would rush off again. Marie helped him in all his infantile necessities--he always appealed to her! After she had washed up, she sat by Pelle with her mending, chattering away concerning her household cares. "I shall soon have to get jackets for the boys--it's awful what they need now they're grown up. I peep in at the second-hand clothes shop every day. And you must have a new blouse, too, Pelle; that one will soon be done for; and then you've none to go to the wash. If you'll buy the stuff, I'll soon make it up for you--I can sew! I made my best blouse myself--Hanne helped me with it! Why, really, don't you go to see Hanne any longer?" "Oh, I don't know." "Hanne has grown so peculiar. She never comes down into the courtyard now to dance with us. She used to. Then I used to watch out of the window, and run down. It was so jolly, playing with her. We used to go round and round her and sing! 'We all bow to Hanne, we curtsy all to Hanne, we all turn round before her!' And then we bowed and curtsied and suddenly we all turned round. I tell you, it was jolly! You ought to have taken Hanne." "But you didn't like it when I took Ellen. Why should I have taken Hanne?" "Oh, I don't know ... Hanne...." Marie stopped, listened, and suddenly wrenched the window open. Down in the "Ark" a door slammed, and a long hooting sound rose up from below, sounding just like a husky scream from the crazy Vinslev's flute or like the wind in the long corridors. Like a strange, disconnected snatch of melody, the sound floated about below, trickling up along the wooden walls, and breaking out into the daylight with a note of ecstasy: "Hanne's with child! The Fairy Princess is going to be confined!" Marie went down the stairs like a flash. The half-grown girls were shrieking and running together in the court below; the women on the galleries were murmuring to others above and below. Not that this was in itself anything novel; but in this case it was Hanne herself, the immaculate, whom as yet no tongue had dared to besmirch. And even now they dared hardly speak of it openly; it had come as such a shock. In a certain sense they had all entered into her exaltation, and with her had waited for the fairy-tale to come true; as quite a child she had been elected to represent the incomprehensible; and now she was merely going to have a child! It really was like a miracle just at first; it was such a surprise to them all! Marie came back with dragging steps and with an expression of horror and astonishment. Down in the court the grimy-nosed little brats were screeching, as they wheeled hand in hand round the sewer-grating--it was splendid for dancing round-- "Bro-bro-brille-brid Hanne's doin' to have a tid!" They couldn't speak plainly yet. And there was "Grete with the baby," the mad-woman, tearing her cellar- window open, leaning out of it backward, with her doll on her arm, and yelling up through the well, so that it echoed loud and shrill: "The Fairy Princess has got a child, and Pelle's its father!" Pelle bent over his work in silence. Fortunately he was not the king's son in disguise in this case! But he wasn't going to wrangle with women. Hanne's mother came storming out onto her gallery. "That's a shameless lie!" she cried. "Pelle's name ain't going to be dragged into this--the other may be who he likes!" Overhead the hearse-driver came staggering out onto his gallery. "The princess there has run a beam into her body," he rumbled, in his good- natured bass. "What a pity I'm not a midwife! They've got hold of the wrong end of it!" "Clear off into your hole and hold your tongue, you body-snatcher!" cried Madam Johnsen, spitting with rage. "You've got to stick your brandy-nose into everything!" He stood there, half drunk, leaning over the rail, babbling, teasing, without returning Madam Johnsen's vituperation. But then little Marie flung up a window and came to her assistance, and up from her platform Ferdinand's mother emerged. "How many hams did you buy last month? Fetch out your bear hams, then, and show us them! He kills a bear for every corpse, the drunkard!" From all sides they fell upon him. He could do nothing against them, and contented himself with opening his eyes and his mouth and giving vent to a "Ba-a-a!" Then his red-haired wife came out and hailed him in. XII From the moment when the gray morning broke there was audible a peculiar note in the buzzing of the "Ark," a hoarse excitement, which thrust all care aside. Down the long corridors there was a sound of weeping and scrubbing; while the galleries and the dark wooden stair-cases were sluiced with water. "Look out there!" called somebody every moment from somewhere, and then it was a question of escaping the downward-streaming flood. During the whole morning the water poured from one gallery to another, as over a mill-race. But now the "Ark" stood freezing in its own cleanliness, with an expression that seemed to say the old warren didn't know itself. Here and there a curtain or a bit of furniture had disappeared from a window --it had found its way to the pawn shop in honor of the day. What was lacking in that way was made up for by the expectation and festive delight on the faces of the inmates. Little fir-trees peeped out of the cellar entries in the City Ward, and in the market-place they stood like a whole forest along the wall of the prison. In the windows of the basement-shops hung hearts and colored candles, and the grocer at the corner had a great Christmas goblin in his window--it was made of red and gray wool-work and had a whole cat's skin for its beard. On the stairs of the "Ark" the children lay about cleaning knives and forks with sand sprinkled on the steps. Pelle sat over his work and listened in secret. His appearance usually had a quieting effect on these crazy outbursts of the "Ark," but he did not want to mix himself up with this affair. And he had never even dreamed that Hanne's mother could be like this! She was like a fury, turning her head, quick as lightning, now to one side, now to the other, and listening to every sound, ready to break out again! Ah, she was protecting her child now that it was too late! She was like a spitting cat. "The youngest of all the lordlin's," sang the children down in the court. That was Hanne's song. Madam Johnsen stood there as though she would like to swoop down on their heads. Suddenly she flung her apron over her face and ran indoors, sobbing. "Ah!" they said, and they slapped their bellies every time an odor of something cooking streamed out into the court. Every few minutes they had to run out and buy five or ten ore worth of something or other; there was no end to the things that were needed in preparation for Christmas Eve. "We're having lovely red beetroot!" said one little child, singing, making a song of it--"We're having lovely red beetroot, aha, aha, aha!" And they swayed their little bodies to and fro as they scoured. "Frederik!" a sharp voice cried from one of the corridors. "Run and get a score of firewood and a white roll--a ten-ore one. But look out the grocer counts the score properly and don't pick out the crumb!" Madam Olsen with the warm wall was frying pork. She couldn't pull her range out onto the gallery, but she did let the pork burn so that the whole courtyard was filled with bluish smoke. "Madam Olsen! Your pork is burning!" cried a dozen women at once. "That's because the frying-pan's too small!" replied Frau Olsen, thrusting her red head out through the balusters. "What's a poor devil to do when her frying-pan's too small?" And Madam Olsen's frying-pan was the biggest in the whole "Ark"! Shortly before the twilight fell Pelle came home from the workshop. He saw the streets and the people with strange eyes that diffused a radiance over all things; it was the Christmas spirit in his heart. But why? he asked himself involuntarily. Nothing in particular was in store for him. To-day he would have to work longer than usual, and he would not be able to spend the evening with Ellen, for she had to be busy in her kitchen, making things jolly for others. Why, then, did this feeling possess him? It was not a memory; so far as he could look back he had never taken part in a genuine cheerful Christmas Eve, but had been forced to content himself with the current reports of such festivities. And all the other poor folks whom he met were in the same mood as he himself. The hard questioning look had gone from their faces; they were smiling to themselves as they went. To-day there was nothing of that wan, heavy depression which commonly broods over the lower classes like the foreboding of disaster; they could not have looked more cheerful had all their hopes been fulfilled! A woman with a feather-bed in her arms passed him and disappeared into the pawn-shop; and she looked extremely well pleased. Were they really so cheerful just because they were going to have a bit of a feast, while to do so they were making a succession of lean days yet leaner? No, they were going to keep festival because the Christmas spirit prevailed in their hearts, because they must keep holiday, however dearly it might cost them! It was on this night to be sure that Christ was born. Were the people so kind and cheerful on that account? Pelle still knew by heart most of the Bible texts of his school-days. They had remained stowed away somewhere in his mind, without burdening him or taking up any room, and now and again they reappeared and helped to build up his knowledge of mankind. But of Christ Himself he had formed his own private picture, from the day when as a boy he first stumbled upon the command given to the rich: to sell all that they had and to give to the starving. But they took precious good care not to do so; they took the great friend of the poor man and hanged him on high! He achieved no more than this, that He became a promise to the poor; but perhaps it was this promise that, after two thousand years, they were now so solemnly celebrating! They had so long been silent, holding themselves in readiness, like the wise virgins in the Bible, and now at last it was coming! Now at last they were beginning to proclaim the great Gospel of the Poor--it was a goodly motive for all this Christmas joy! Why did they not assemble the multitudes on the night of Christ's birth and announce the Gospel to them? Then they would all understand the Cause and would join it then and there! There was a whirl of new living thoughts in Pelle's head. He had not hitherto known that that in which he was participating was so great a thing. He felt that he was serving the Highest. He stood a while in the market-place, silently considering the Christmas-trees--they led his thoughts back to the pasture on which he had herded the cows, and the little wood of firs. It pleased him to buy a tree, and to take the children by surprise; the previous evening they had sat together cutting out Christmas-tree decorations, and Karl had fastened four fir-tree boughs together to make a Christmas-tree. At the grocer's he bought some sweets and Christmas candles. The grocer was going about on tip-toe in honor of the day, and was serving the dirty little urchins with ceremonious bows. He was "throwing things in," and had quite forgotten his customary, "Here, you, don't forget that you still owe for two lots of tea and a quarter of coffee!" But he was cheating with the scales as usual. Marie was going about with rolled-up sleeves, and was very busy. But she dropped her work and came running when she saw the tree. "It won't stand here yet, Pelle," she cried, "it will have to be cut shorter. It will have to be cut still shorter even now! Oh, how pretty it is! No, at the end there--at the end! We had a Christmas-tree at home; father went out himself and cut it down on the cliffs; and we children went with him. But this one is much finer!" Then she ran out into the gangway, in order to tell the news, but it suddenly occurred to her that the boys had not come home yet, so she rushed in to Pelle once more. Pelle sat down to his work. From time to time he lifted his head and looked out. The seamstress, who had just moved into Pipman's old den, and who was working away at her snoring machine, looked longingly at him. Of course she must be lonely; perhaps there was nowhere where she could spend the evening. Old Madam Frandsen came out on her platform and shuffled down the steep stairs in her cloth slippers. The rope slipped through her trembling hands. She had a little basket on her arm and a purse in her hand--she too looked so lonely, the poor old worm! She had now heard nothing of her son for three months. Madam Olsen called out to her and invited her in, but the old woman shook her head. On the way back she looked in on Pelle. "He's coming this evening," she whispered delightedly. "I've been buying brandy and beefsteak for him, because he's coming this evening!" "Well, don't be disappointed, Madam Frandsen," said Pelle, "but he daren't venture here any more. Come over to us instead and keep Christmas with us." She nodded confidently. "He'll come tonight. On Christmas Eve he has always slept in mother's bed, ever since he could crawl, and he can't do without it, not if I know my Ferdinand!" She had already made up a bed for herself on the chairs, so certain was she. The police evidently thought as she did, for down in the court strange footsteps were heard. It was just about twilight, when so many were coming and going unremarked. But at these steps a female head popped back over the balustrade, a sharp cry was heard, and at the same moment every gallery was filled with women and children. They hung over the rails and made an ear-splitting din, so that the whole deep, narrow shaft was filled with an unendurable uproar. It sounded as though a hurricane came raging down through the shaft, sweeping with it a hailstorm of roofing-slates. The policeman leaped back into the tunnel- entry, stupefied. He stood there a moment recovering himself before he withdrew. Upstairs, in the galleries, they leaned on the rails and recovered their breath, exhausted by the terrific eruption; and then fell to chattering like a flock of small birds that have been chasing a flying hawk. "Merry Christmas!" was now shouted from gallery to gallery. "Thanks, the same to you!" And the children shouted to one another, "A jolly feast and all the best!" "A dainty feast for man and beast!" Christmas Eve was here! The men came shuffling home at a heavy trot, and the factory-girls came rushing in. Here and there a feeble wail filtered out of one of the long corridors, so that the milk-filled breast ached. Children incessantly ran in and out, fetching the last ingredients of the feast. Down by the exit into the street they had to push two tramps, who stood there shuddering in the cold. They were suspicious-looking people. "There are two men down there, but they aren't genuine," said Karl. "They look as if they came out of a music-hall." "Run over to old Madam Frandsen and tell her that," said Pelle. But her only answer was, "God be thanked, then they haven't caught him yet!" Over at Olsen's their daughter Elvira had come home. The blind was not drawn, and she was standing at the window with her huge hat with flowers in it, allowing herself to be admired. Marie came running in. "Have you seen how fine she is, Pelle?" she said, quite stupefied. "And she gets all that for nothing from the gentlemen, just because they think she's so pretty. But at night she paints her naked back!" The children were running about in the gangway, waiting until Pelle should have finished. They would not keep Christmas without him. But now he, too, had finished work; he pulled on a jacket, wrapped up his work, and ran off. Out on the platform he stood still for a moment. He could see the light of the city glimmering in the deep, star-filled sky. The night was so solemnly beautiful. Below him the galleries were forsaken; they were creaking in the frost. All the doors were closed to keep the cold out and the joy in. "Down, down from the green fir-trees!"--it sounded from every corner. The light shone through the window and in all directions through the woodwork. Suddenly there was a dull booming sound on the stairs--it was the hearse-driver staggering home with a ham under either arm. Then all grew quiet--quiet as it never was at other times in the "Ark," where night or day some one was always complaining. A child came out and lifted a pair of questioning eyes, in order to look at the Star of Bethlehem! There was a light at Madam Frandsen's. She had hung a white sheet over the window today, and had drawn it tight; the lamp stood close to the window, so that any one moving within would cast no shadow across it. The poor old worm! thought Pelle, as he ran past; she might have spared herself the trouble! When he had delivered his work he hurried over to Holberg Street, in order to wish Ellen a happy Christmas. The table was finely decked out in his room when he got home; there was pork chops, rice boiled in milk, and Christmas beer. Marie was glowing with pride over her performance; she sat helping the others, but she herself took nothing. "You ought to cook a dinner as good as this every day, lass!" said Karl, as he set to. "God knows, you might well get a situation in the King's kitchen." "Why don't you eat any of this nice food?" said Pelle. "Oh, no, I can't," she replied, touching her cheeks; her eyes beamed upon him. They laughed and chattered and clinked their glasses together. Karl came out with the latest puns and the newest street-songs; so he had gained something by his scouring of the city streets. Peter sat there looking impenetrably now at one, now at another; he never laughed, but from time to time he made a dry remark by which one knew that he was amusing himself. Now and again they looked over at old Madam Frandsen's window-- it was a pity that she wouldn't be with them. Five candles were now burning over there--they were apparently fixed on a little Christmas tree which stood in a flowerpot. They twinkled like distant stars through the white curtain, and Madam Frandsen's voice sounded cracked and thin: "O thou joyful, O thou holy, mercy-bringing Christmas-tide!" Pelle opened his window and listened; he wondered that the old woman should be so cheerful. Suddenly a warning voice sounded from below: "Madam Frandsen, there are visitors coming!" Doors and windows flew open on the galleries round about. People tumbled out of doorways, their food in their hands, and leaned over the railings. "Who dares to disturb our Christmas rejoicings?" cried a deep, threatening voice. "The officers of the law!" the reply came out of the darkness. "Keep quiet, all of you--in the name of the law!" Over on Madam Frandsen's side two figures became visible, noiselessly running up on all fours. Upstairs nothing was happening; apparently they had lost their heads. "Ferdinand, Ferdinand!" shrieked a girl's voice wildly; "they're coming now!" At the same moment the door flew open, and with a leap Ferdinand stood on the platform. He flung a chair down at his pursuers, and violently swayed the hand-rope, in order to sweep them off the steps. Then he seized the gutter and swung himself up onto the roof. "Good-bye, mother!" he cried from above, and his leap resounded in the darkness. "Good-bye, mother, and a merry Christmas!" A howl like that of a wounded beast flung the alarm far out into the night, and they heard the stumbling pursuit of the policemen over the roofs. And then all was still. They returned unsuccessful. "Well, then you haven't got him!" cried Olsen, leaning out of his window down below. "No; d'you think we are going to break our necks for the like of him?" retorted the policemen, as they scrambled down. "Any one going to stand a glass of Christmas beer?" As no response followed, they departed. Old Madam Frandsen went into her room and locked up; she was tired and worried and wanted to go to bed. But after a time she came shuffling down the long gangway. "Pelle," she whispered, "he's in bed in my room! While they were scrambling about on the roofs he slipped quietly back over the garrets and got into my bed! Good God, he hasn't slept in a bed for four months! He's snoring already!" And she slipped out again. Yes, that was an annoying interruption! No one felt inclined to begin all over again excepting Karl, and Marie did not count him, as he was always hungry. So she cleared away, gossiping as she went in and out; she did not like to see Pelle so serious. "But the secret!" she cried of a sudden, quite startled. The boys ran in to her; then they came back, close together, with Marie behind them, carrying something under her apron. The two boys flung themselves upon Pelle and closed his eyes, while Marie inserted something in his mouth. "Guess now!" she cried, "guess now!" It was a porcelain pipe with a green silken tassel. On the bowl of the pipe, which was Ellen's Christmas gift, was a representation of a ten-kroner note. The children had inserted a screw of tobacco. "Now you'll be able to smoke properly," said Marie, pursing her lips together round the mouthpiece; "you are so clever in everything else." The children had invited guests for the Christmas-tree; the seamstress, the old night-watchman from the courtyard, the factory-hand with her little boy; all those who were sitting at home and keeping Christmas all alone. They didn't know themselves, there were so many of them! Hanne and her mother were invited too, but they had gone to bed early--they were not inclined for sociability. One after another they were pulled into the room, and they came with cheerful faces. Marie turned the lamp out and went in to light up the Christmas tree. They sat in silence and expectation. The light from the stove flickered cheerfully to and fro in the room, lighting up a face with closed eyelids and eager features, and dying away with a little crash. The factory hand's little boy was the only one to chatter; he had sought a refuge on Pelle's knee and felt quite safe in the darkness; his childish voice sounded strangely bright in the firelight. "Paul must be quite good and quiet," repeated the mother admonishingly. "Mus'n't Paul 'peak?" asked the child, feeling for Pelle's face. "Yes, to-night Paul can do just as he likes," replied Pelle. Then the youngster chattered on and kicked out at the darkness with his little legs. "Now you can come!" cried Marie, and she opened the door leading to the gangway. In the children's room everything had been cleared away. The Christmas-tree stood in the middle, on the floor, and was blazing with light. And how splendid it was--and how tall! Now they could have a proper good look! The lights were reflected in their eyes, and in the window-panes, and in the old mahogany-framed mirror, and the glass of the cheap pictures, so that they seemed suddenly to be moving about in the midst of myriads of stars, and forgot all their miseries. It was as though they had escaped from all their griefs and cares, and had entered straightway into glory, and all of a sudden a pure, clear voice arose, tremulous with embarrassment, and the voice sang: "O little angel, make us glad! Down from high Heaven's halls Through sunshine flown, in splendor clad, Earth's shadow on thee falls!" It sounded like a greeting from the clouds. They closed their eyes and wandered, hand in hand, about the tree. Then the seamstress fell silent, blushing. "You aren't singing with me!" she cried. "We'll sing the Yule Song--we all know that," said Pelle. "Down, down from the high green tree!"--It was Karl who struck up. And they just did sing that! It fitted in so admirably--even the name of Peter fitted in! And it was great fun, too, when all the presents cropped up in the song; every single person was remembered! Only, the lines about the purse, at the end, were all too true! There wasn't much more to be said for that song! But suddenly the boys set the ring-dance going; they stamped like a couple of soldiers, and then they all went whirling round in frantic movement--a real witches' dance! "Hey dicker dick, My man fell smack; It was on Christmas Eve! I took a stick And broke it on his back, It was on Christmas Eve!" How hot all the candles made it, and how it all went to one's head! They had to open the door on to the gangway. And there outside stood the inmates of the garrets, listening and craning their necks. "Come inside," cried the boys. "There's room enough if we make two rings!" So once again they moved round the tree, singing Christmas carols. Every time there was a pause somebody struck up a new carol, that had to be sung through. The doors opposite were open too, the old rag-picker sat at the head of his table singing on his own account. He had a loaf of black bread and a plate of bacon in front of him, and after every carol he took a mouthful. In the other doorway sat three coal-porters playing "sixty-six" for beer and brandy. They sat facing toward the Christmas-tree, and they joined in the singing as they played; but from time to time they broke off in the middle of a verse in order to say something or to cry "Trumped!" Now they suddenly threw down their cards and came into the room. "We don't want to sit here idle and look on while others are working," they said, and they joined the circle. Finally they had all had enough of circling round the tree and singing. So chairs and stools were brought in from the other rooms; they had to squeeze close together, right under the sloping roof, and some sat up on the window-sill. There was a clear circle left round the Christmas-tree. And there they sat gossiping, crouching in all sorts of distorted postures, as though that was the only way in which their bodies could really find repose, their arms hanging loosely between their knees. But their faces were still eager and excited; and the smoke from the candles and the crackling fir-boughs of the tree veiled them in a bluish cloud, through which they loomed as round as so many moons. The burning turpentine gave the smoke a mysterious, alluring fragrance, and the devout and attentive faces were like so many murmuring spirits, hovering in the clouds, each above its outworn body. Pelle sat there considering them till his heart bled for them--that was his Christmas devotion. Poor storm-beaten birds, what was this splendid experience which outweighed all their privations? Only a little light! And they looked as though they could fall down before it and give up their lives! He knew the life's story of each one of them better than they knew. But their faces were still eager and excited; and they themselves; when they approached the light they always burned themselves in it, like the moths, they were so chilled! "All the same, that's a queer invention, when one thinks about it," said one of the dockers, nodding toward the Christmas-tree. "But it's fine. God knows what it really is supposed to mean!" "It means that now the year is returning toward the light again," said the old night-watchman. "No; it stands for the joy of the shepherds over the birth of Christ," said the rag-picker, stepping into the doorway. "The shepherds were poor folks, like ourselves, who lived in the darkness. That's why they rejoiced so over Him, because He came with the light." "Well, it don't seem to me we've been granted such a terrible deal of light! Oh, yes, the Christmas-tree here, that's splendid, Lord knows it is, and we should all of us like to thank the children for it--but one can't have trees like that to set light to every day; and as for the sun--well, you see, the rich folks have got a monopoly of that!" "Yes, you are right there, Jacob," said Pelle, who was moving about round the tree, taking down the hearts and packages for the children, who distributed the sweets. "You are all three of you right--curiously enough. The Christmas-tree is to remind us of Christ's birth, and also that the year is returning toward the sun--but that's all the same thing. And then it's to remind us, too, that we too ought to have a share in things; Christ was born especially to remind the poor of their rights! Yes, that is so! For the Lord God isn't one to give long-winded directions as to how one should go ahead; He sends the sun rolling round the earth every day, and each of us must look out for himself, and see how best he himself can get into the sunshine. It's just like the wife of a public-house keeper I remember at home, who used to tell travellers, 'What would you like to eat? You can have ducks or pork chops or sweets--anything you've brought with you!'" "That was a devilish funny statement!" said his hearers, laughing. "Yes, it's easy enough to invite one to all sorts of fine things when all the time one has to bring them along one's self! You ought to have been a preacher." "He'd far better be the Devil's advocate!" said the old rag-picker. "For there's not much Christianity in what he says!" "But you yourself said that Christ came bringing light for the poor," said Pelle; "and He Himself said as much, quite plainly; what He wanted was to make the blind to see and the dead to walk, and to restore consideration to the despised and rejected. Also, He wanted men to have faith!" "The blind shall see, the lame shall walk, the leper shall be clean, the deaf shall hear, and the dead shall arise, and the Word shall be preached to the poor," said the rag-picker, correcting Pelle. "You are distorting the Scriptures, Pelle." "But I don't believe He meant only individual cripples--no, He meant all of us in our misery, and all the temptations that lie in wait for us. That's how Preacher Sort conceived it, and he was a godly, upright man. He believed the millennium would come for the poor, and that Christ was already on the earth making ready for its coming." The women sat quite bemused, listening with open mouths; they dared scarcely breathe. Paul was asleep on his mother's lap. "Can He really have thought about us poor vermin, and so long beforehand?" cried the men, looking from one to another. "Then why haven't we long ago got a bit more forward than this?" "Yes, I too don't understand that," said Pelle, hesitating. "Perhaps we ourselves have got to work our way in the right direction--and that takes time." "Yes, but--if He would only give us proper conditions of life. But if we have to win them for ourselves we don't need any Christ for that!" This was something that Pelle could not explain even to himself, although he felt it within him as a living conviction, A man must win what was due to him himself--that was clear as the day, and he couldn't understand how they could be blind to the fact; but why he must do so he couldn't--however he racked his brains--explain to another person. "But I can tell you a story," he said. "But a proper exciting story!" cried Earl, who was feeling bored. "Oh, if only Vinslev were here--he has such droll ideas!" "Be quiet, boy!" said Marie crossly. "Pelle makes proper speeches-- before whole meetings," she said, nodding solemnly to the others. "What is the story called?" "Howling Peter." "Oh, it's a story with Peter in it--then it's a fairy-tale! What is it about?" "You'll know that when you hear it, my child," said the old night- watchman. "Yes, but then one can't enjoy it when it comes out right. Isn't it a story about a boy who goes out into the world?" "The story is about"--Pelle bethought himself a moment; "the story is about the birth of Christ," he said quickly, and then blushed a deep red at his own audacity. But the others looked disappointed, and settled themselves decently and stared at the floor, as though they had been in church. And then Pelle told them the story of Howling Peter; who was born and grew up in poverty and grief, until he was big and strong, and every man's cur to kick. For it was the greatest pity to see this finely-made fellow, who was so full of fear and misery that if even a girl so much as touched him he must flood himself with tears; and the only way out of his misery was the rope. What a disgrace it was, that he should have earned his daily bread and yet have been kept in the workhouse, as though they did him a kindness in allowing him a hole to creep into there, when with his capacity for work he could have got on anywhere! And it became quite unendurable as he grew up and was still misused by all the world, and treated like a dog. But then, all of a sudden, he broke the magic spell, struck down his tormentors, and leaped out into the daylight as the boldest of them all! They drew a deep breath when he had finished. Marie clapped her hands. "That was a real fairy-tale!" she cried. Karl threw himself upon Peter and pummeled away at him, although that serious-minded lad was anything but a tyrant! They cheerfully talked the matter over. Everybody had something to say about Howling Peter. "That was damned well done," said the men; "he thrashed the whole crew from beginning to end; a fine fellow that! And a strong one too! But why the devil did he take such a long time about it? And put up with all that?" "Yes, it isn't quite so easy for us to understand that--not for us, who boast such a lot about our rights!" said Pelle, smiling. "Well, you're a clever chap, and you've told it us properly!" cried the cheerful Jacob. "But if ever you need a fist, there's mine!" He seized and shook Pelle's hand. The candles had long burned out, but they did not notice it. Their eyes fastened on Pelle's as though seeking something, with a peculiar expression in which a question plainly came and went. And suddenly they overwhelmed him with questions. They wanted to know enough, anyhow! He maintained that a whole world of splendors belonged to them, and now they were in a hurry to get possession of them. Even the old rag-picker let himself be carried away with the rest; it was too alluring, the idea of giving way to a little intoxication, even if the everyday world was to come after it. Pelle stood among them all, strong and hearty, listening to all their questions with a confident smile. He knew all that was to be theirs-- even if it couldn't come just at once. It was a matter of patience and perseverance; but that they couldn't understand just now. When they had at last entered into their glory they would know well enough how to protect it. He had no doubts; he stood there among them like their embodied consciousness, happily growing from deeply-buried roots. XIII From the foundations of the "Ark" rose a peculiar sound, a stumbling, countrified footstep, dragging itself in heavy footgear over the flagstones. All Pelle's blood rushed to his heart; he threw down his work, and with a leap was on the gallery, quite convinced that this was only an empty dream.... But there below in the court stood Father Lasse in the flesh, staring up through the timbers, as though he couldn't believe his own eyes. He had a sack filled with rubbish on his back. "Hallo!" cried Pelle, taking the stairs in long leaps. "Hallo!" "Good-day, my lad!" said Lasse, in a voice trembling with emotion, considering his son with his lashless eyes. "Yes, here you have Father Lasse--if you will have him. But where, really, did you come from? Seems to me you fell down from heaven?" Pelle took his father's sack. "You just come up with me," he said. "You can trust the stairs all right; they are stronger than they look." "Then they are like Lasse," answered the old man, trudging up close behind him; the straps of his half-Wellingtons were peeping out at the side, and he was quite the old man. At every landing he stood still and uttered his comments on his surroundings. Pelle had to admonish him to be silent. "One doesn't discuss everything aloud here. It might so easily be regarded as criticism," he said. "No, really? Well, one must learn as long as one lives. But just look how they stand about chattering up here! There must be a whole courtyard-full! Well, well. I won't say any more. I knew they lived one on top of another, but I didn't think there'd be so little room here. To hang the backyard out in front of the kitchen door, one on top of another, that's just like the birds that build all on one bough. Lord God, suppose it was all to come tumbling down one fine day!" "And do you live here?" he cried, gazing in a disillusioned manner round the room with its sloping ceiling. "I've often wondered how you were fixed up over here. A few days ago I met a man at home who said they were talking about you already; but one wouldn't think so from your lodgings. However, it isn't far to heaven, anyhow!" Pelle was silent. He had come to love his den, and his whole life here; but Father Lasse continued to enlarge upon his hopes of his son's respectability and prosperity, and he felt ashamed. "Did you imagine I was living in one of the royal palaces?" he said, rather bitterly. Lasse looked at him kindly and laid both hands on his shoulders. "So big and strong as you've grown, lad," he said, wondering. "Well, and now you have me here too! But I won't be a burden to you. No, but at home it had grown so dismal after what happened at Due's, that I got ready without sending you word. And then I was able to come over with one of the skippers for nothing." "But what's this about Due?" asked Pelle. "I hope nothing bad?" "Good God, haven't you heard? He revenged himself on his wife because he discovered her with the Consul. He had been absolutely blind, and had only believed the best of her, until he surprised her in her sin. Then he killed her, her and the children they had together, and went to the authorities and gave himself up. But the youngest, whom any one could see was the Consul's, he didn't touch. Oh, it was a dreadful misfortune! Before he gave himself up to the police he came to me; he wanted just one last time to be with some one who would talk it over with him without hypocrisy. 'I've strangled Anna,' he said, as soon as he had sat down. 'It had to be, and I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry. The children that were mine, too. I've dealt honestly with them.' Yes, yes, he had dealt honestly with the poor things! 'I just wanted to say goodbye to you, Lasse, for my life's over now, happy as I might have been, with my contented nature. But Anna always wanted to be climbing, and if I got on it was her shame I had to thank for it. I never wanted anything further than the simple happiness of the poor man--a good wife and a few children--and now I must go to prison! God be thanked that Anna hasn't lived to see that! She was finer in her feelings than the rest, and she had to deceive in order to get on in the world.' So he sat there, talking of the dead, and one couldn't notice any feeling in him. I wouldn't let him see how sick at heart he made me feel. For him it was the best thing, so long as his conscience could sleep easy. 'Your eyes are watering, Lasse,' he said quietly; 'you should bathe them a bit; they say urine is good.' Yes, God knows, my eyes did water! God of my life, yes! Then he stood up. 'You, too, Lasse, you haven't much longer life granted you,' he said, and he gave me his hand. 'You are growing old now. But you must give Pelle my greetings--he's safe to get on!'" Pelle sat mournfully listening to the dismal story. But he shuddered at the last words. He had so often heard the expression of that anticipation of his good fortune, which they all seemed to feel, and had rejoiced to hear it; it was, after all, only an echo of his own self- confidence. But now it weighed upon him like a burden. It was always those who were sinking who believed in his luck; and as they sank they flung their hopes upward toward him. A grievous fashion was this in which his good fortune was prophesied! A terrible and grievous blessing it was that was spoken over him and his success in life by this man dedicated to death, even as he stepped upon the scaffold. Pelle sat staring at the floor without a sign of life, a brooding expression on his face; his very soul was shuddering at the foreboding of a superhuman burden; and suddenly a light was flashed before his eyes; there could never be happiness for him alone--the fairy-tale was dead! He was bound up with all the others--he must partake of happiness or misfortune with them; that was why the unfortunate Due gave him his blessing. In his soul he was conscious of Due's difficult journey, as though he himself had to endure the horror of it. And Fine Anna, who must clamber up over his own family and tread them in the dust! Never again could he wrench himself quite free as before! He had already encountered much unhappiness and had learned to hate its cause. But this was something more--this was very affliction itself! "Yes," sighed Lasse, "a lucky thing that Brother Kalle did not live to see all this. He worked himself to skin and bone for his children, and now, for all thanks, he lied buried in the poorhouse burying-ground. Albinus, who travels about the country as a conjurer, was the only one who had a thought for him; but the money came too late, although it was sent by telegraph. Have you ever heard of a conjuring-trick like that-- to send money from England to Bornholm over the telegraph cable? A devilish clever acrobat! Well, Brother Kalle, he knew all sorts of conjuring-tricks too, but he didn't learn them abroad. They had heard nothing at all of Alfred at the funeral. He belongs to the fine folks now and has cut off all connection with his poor relations. He has been appointed to various posts of honor, and they say he's a regular bloodhound toward the poor--a man's always worst toward his own kind. But the fine folks, they say, they think great things of him." Pelle heard the old man's speech only as a monotonous trickle of sound. Due, Due, the best, the most good-natured man he knew, who championed Anna's illegitimate child against her own mother, and loved her like his own, because she was defenceless and needed his love--Due was now to lay his head on the scaffold! So dearly bought was the fulfilment of his wish, to obtain a pair of horses and become a coachman! He had obtained the horses and a carriage on credit, and had himself made up for the instalments and the interest--the Consul had merely stood security for him. And for this humble success he was now treading the path of shame! His steps echoed in Pelle's soul; Pelle did not know how he was going to bear it. He longed for his former obtuseness. Lasse continued to chatter. For him it was fate--grievous and heavy, but it could not be otherwise. And the meeting with Pelle had stirred up so many memories; he was quite excited. Everything he saw amused him. However did anybody hit on the idea of packing folks away like this, one on top of another, like herrings in a barrel? And at home on Bornholm there were whole stretches of country where no one lived at all! He did not venture to approach the window, but prudently stood a little way back in the room, looking out over the roofs. There, too, was a crazy arrangement! One could count the ears in a cornfield as easily as the houses over here! Pelle called Marie, who had discreetly remained in her own room. "This is my foster-mother," he said, with his arm round her shoulders. "And that is Father Lasse, whom you are fond of already, so you always say. Now can you get us some breakfast?" He gave her money. "She's a good girl, that she is," said Lasse, feeling in his sack. "She shall have a present. There's a red apple," he said to Marie, when she returned; "you must eat it, and then you'll be my sweetheart." Marie smiled gravely and looked at Pelle. They borrowed the old clothes dealer's handcart and went across to the apple barges to fetch Lasse's belongings. He had sold most of them in order not to bring too great a load to the city. But he had retained a bedstead with bedding, and all sorts of other things. "And then I have still to give you greetings from Sort and Marie Nielsen," he said. Pelle blushed. "I owe her a few words, but over here I quite forgot it somehow! And I have half promised her my portrait. I must see now about sending it." "Yes, do," said Father Lasse. "I don't know how close you two stand to each other, but she was a good woman. And those who stay behind, they're sad when they're forgotten. Remember that." At midday Lasse had tidied himself a trifle and began to brush his hat. "What now?" inquired Pelle. "You don't want to go out all alone?" "I want to go out and look at the city a bit," replied Lasse, as though it were quite a matter of course. "I want to find some work, and perhaps I'll go and have a peep at the king for once. You need only explain in which direction I must go." "You had better wait until I can come with you--you'll only lose yourself." "Shall I do that?" replied Lasse, offended. "But I found my way here alone, I seem to remember!" "I can go with the old man!" said Marie. "Yes, you come with the old man, then no one can say he has lost his youth!" cried Lasse jestingly, as he took her hand. "I think we two shall be good friends." Toward evening they returned. "There are folks enough here," said Lasse, panting, "but there doesn't seem to be a superfluity of work. I've been asking first this one and then that, but no one will have me. Well, that's all right! If they won't, I can just put a spike on my stick and set to work collecting the bits of paper in the streets, like the other old men; I can at least do that still." "But I can't give my consent to that," replied Pelle forcibly. "My father shan't become a scavenger!" "Well--but I must get something to do, or I shall go back home again. I'm not going to go idling about here while you work." "But you can surely rest and enjoy a little comfort in your old days, father. However, we shall soon see." "I can rest, can I? I had better lie on my back and let myself be fed like a long-clothes child! Only I don't believe my back would stand it!" They had placed Lasse's bed with the footboard under the sloping ceiling; there was just room enough for it. Pelle felt like a little boy when he went to bed that night; it was so many years since he had slept in the same room as Father Lasse. But in the night he was oppressed by evil dreams; Due's dreadful fate pursued him in his sleep. His energetic, good-humored face went drifting through the endless grayness, the head bowed low, the hands chained behind him, a heavy iron chain was about his neck, and his eyes were fixed on the ground as though he were searching the very abyss. When Pelle awoke it was because Father Lasse stood bending over his bed, feeling his face, as in the days of his childhood. XIV Lasse would not sit idle, and was busily employed in running about the city in search of work. When he spoke to Pelle he put a cheerful face on a bad business; and looked hopeful; but the capital had already disillusioned him. He could not understand all this hubbub, and felt that he was too old to enter into it and fathom its meaning--besides, perhaps it had none! It really looked as though everybody was just running to and fro and following his own nose, without troubling in the least about all the rest. And there were no greetings when you passed folks in the street; the whole thing was more than Lasse could understand. "I ought to have stayed at home," he would often think. And as for Pelle--well, Pelle was taken up with his own affairs! That was only to be expected in a man. He ran about going to meetings and agitating, and had a great deal to do; his thoughts were continually occupied, so that there was no time for familiar gossip as in the old days. He was engaged, moreover, so that what time was not devoted to the Labor movement was given to his sweetheart. How the boy had grown, and how he had altered, bodily and in every way! Lasse had a feeling that he only reached up to Pelle's belt nowadays. He had grown terribly serious, and was quite the man; he looked as though he was ready to grasp the reins of something or other; you would never, to look at him, have thought that he was only a journeyman cobbler. There was an air of responsibility about him--just a little too much may be! Marie got into the way of accompanying the old man. They had become good friends, and there was plenty for them to gossip over. She would take him to the courtyard of the Berlingske Tidende, where the people in search of work eddied about the advertisement board, filling up the gateway and forming a crowd in the street outside. "We shall never get in there!" said Lasse dejectedly. But Marie worked herself forward; when people scolded her she scolded them back. Lasse was quite horrified by the language the child used; but it was a great help! Marie read out the different notices, and Lasse made his comments on every one, and when the bystanders laughed Lasse gazed at them uncomprehendingly, then laughed with them, and nodded his head merrily. He entered into everything. "What do you say? Gentleman's coachman? Yes, I can drive a pair of horses well enough, but perhaps I'm not fine enough for the gentry--I'm afraid my nose would drip!" He looked about him importantly, like a child that is under observation. "But errand boy--that isn't so bad. We'll make a note of that. There's no great skill needed to be everybody's dog! House porter! Deuce take it--there one need only sit downstairs and make angry faces out of a basement window! We'll look in there and try our luck." They impressed the addresses on their minds until they knew them by heart, and then squeezed their way out through the crowd. "Damn funny old codger!" said the people, looking after him with a smile--Lasse was quite high-spirited. They went from house to house, but no one had any use for him. The people only laughed at the broken old figure with the wide-toed boots. "They laugh at me," said Lasse, quite cast down; "perhaps because I still look a bit countrified. But that after all can soon be overcome. "I believe it's because you are so old and yet want to get work," said Marie. "Do you think it can be on that account? Yet I'm only just seventy, and on both my father's and mother's side we have almost all lived to ninety. Do you really think that's it? If they'd only let me set to work they'd soon see there's still strength in old Lasse! Many a younger fellow would sit on his backside for sheer astonishment. But what are those people there, who stand there and look so dismal and keep their hands in their pockets?" "Those are the unemployed; it's a slack time for work, and they say it will get still worse." "And all those who were crowding round the notice-board--were they idle hands too?" Marie nodded. "But then it's worse here than at home--there at least we always have the stone-cutting when there is nothing else. And I had really believed that the good time had already begun over here!" "Pelle says it will soon come,' said Marie consolingly. "Yes, Pelle--he can well talk. He is young and healthy and has the time before him." Lasse was in a bad temper; nothing seemed right to him. In order to give him pleasure, Marie took him to see the guard changed, which cheered him a little. "Those are smart fellows truly," he said. "Hey, hey, how they hold themselves! And fine clothes too. But that they know well enough themselves! Yes--I've never been a king's soldier. I went up for it when I was young and felt I'd like it; I was a smart fellow then, you can take my word for it! But they wouldn't have me; my figure wouldn't do, they said; I had worked too hard, from the time I was quite a child. They'd got it into their heads in those days that a man ought to be made just so and so. I think it's to please the fine ladies. Otherwise I, too, might have defended my country." Down by the Exchange the roadway was broken up; a crowd of navvies were at work digging out the foundation for a conduit. Lasse grew quite excited, and hurried up to them. "That would be the sort of thing for me," he said, and he stood there and fell into a dream at the sight of the work. Every time the workers swung their picks he followed the movement with his old head. He drew closer and closer. "Hi," he said to one of the workers, who was taking a breath, "can a man get taken on here?" The man took a long look at him. "Get taken on here?" he cried, turning more to his comrades than to Lasse. "Ah, you'd like to, would you? Here you foreigners come running, from Funen and Middlefart, and want to take the bread out of the mouths of us natives. Get away with you, you Jutland carrion!" Laughing, he swung his pick over his head. Lasse drew slowly hack. "But he was angry!" he said dejectedly to Marie. In the evening Pelle had to go to all his various meetings, whatever they might be. He had a great deal to do, and, hard as he worked, the situation still remained unfavorable. It was by no means so easy a thing, to break the back of poverty! "You just look after your own affairs," said Lasse. "I sit here and chat a little with the children--and then I go to bed. I don't know why, but my body gets fonder and fonder of bed, although I've never been considered lazy exactly. It must be the grave that's calling me. But I can't go about idle any longer--I'm quite stiff in my body from doing it." Formerly Lasse never used to speak of the grave; but now he had seemingly reconciled himself to the idea. "And the city is so big and so confusing," he told the children. "And the little one has put by soon runs through one's fingers." He found it much easier to confide his troubles to them. Pelle had grown so big and so serious that he absolutely inspired respect. One could take no real pleasure in worrying him with trivialities. But with the children he found himself in tune. They had to contend with little obstacles and difficulties, just as he did, and could grasp all his troubles. They gave him good, practical advice, and in return he gave them his senile words of wisdom. "I don't exactly know why it is so," he said, "but this great city makes me quite confused and queer in the head. To mention nothing else, no one here knows me and looks after me when I go by. That takes all the courage out of my knees. At home there was always one or another who would turn his head and say to himself, 'Look, there goes old Lasse, he'll be going down to the harbor to break stone; devil take me, but how he holds himself! Many a man would nod to me too, and I myself knew every second man. Here they all go running by as if they were crazy! I don't understand how you manage to find employment here, Karl?" "Oh, that's quite easy," replied the boy. "About six in the morning I get to the vegetable market; there is always something to be delivered for the small dealers who can't keep a man. When the vegetable market is over I deliver flowers for the gardeners. That's a very uncertain business, for I get nothing more than the tips. And besides that I run wherever I think there's anything going. To the East Bridge and out to Frederiksburg. And I have a few regular places too, where I go every afternoon for an hour and deliver goods. There's always something if one runs about properly." "And does that provide you with an average good employment every day?" said Lasse wonderingly. "The arrangement looks to me a little uncertain. In the morning you can't be sure you will have earned anything when the night comes." "Ah, Karl is so quick," said Marie knowingly. "When the times are ordinarily good he can earn a krone a day regularly." "And that could really be made a regular calling?" No, Lasse couldn't understand it. "Very often it's evening before I have earned anything at all, but one just has to stir one's stumps; there's always something or other if one knows where to look for it." "What do you think--suppose I were to go with you?" said Lasse thoughtfully. "You can't do that, because I run the whole time. Really you'd do much better to hide one of your arms." "Hide one of my arms?" said Lasse wonderingly. "Yes--stick one arm under your coat and then go up to people and ask them for something. That wouldn't be any trouble to you, you look like an invalid." "Do I, indeed?" asked Lasse, blinking his eyes. "I never knew that before. But even if that were so I shouldn't like to beg at people's doors. I don't think any one will get old Lasse to do that." "Then go along to the lime works--they are looking for stone-breakers these days," said the omniscient youngster. "Now you are talking!" said Lasse; "so they have stone here? Yes, I brought my stone-cutter's tools with me, and if there's one thing on earth I long to do it is to be able to bang away at a stone again!" XV Pelle was now a man; he was able to look after his own affairs and a little more besides; and he was capable of weighing one circumstance against another. He had thrust aside his horror concerning Due's fate, and once again saw light in the future. But this horror still lurked within his mind, corroding everything else, lending everything a gloomy, sinister hue. Over his brow brooded a dark cloud, as to which he himself was not quite clear. But Ellen saw it and stroked it away with her soft fingers, in order to make it disappear. It formed a curious contrast to his fresh, ruddy face, like a meaningless threat upon a fine spring day. He began to be conscious of confidence like a sustaining strength. It was not only in the "Ark" that he was idolized; his comrades looked up to him; if there was anything important in hand their eyes involuntarily turned to him. Although he had, thoughtlessly enough, well-nigh wrecked the organism in order to come to grips with Meyer, he had fully made up for his action, and the Union was now stronger than ever, and this was his doing. So he could stretch his limbs and give a little thought to his own affairs. He and Ellen felt a warm longing to come together and live in their own little home. There were many objections that might be opposed to such a course, and he was not blind to them. Pelle was a valiant worker, but his earnings were not so large that one could found a family on them; it was the naked truth that even a good worker could not properly support a wife and children. He counted on children as a matter of course, and the day would come also when Father Lasse would no longer be able to earn his daily bread. But that day lay still in the remote future, and, on the other hand, it was no more expensive to live with a companion than alone--if that companion was a good and saving wife. If a man meant to enjoy some little share of the joy of life, he must close his eyes and leap over all obstacles, and for once put his trust in the exceptional. "It'll soon be better, too," said Mason Stolpe. "Things look bad now in most trades, but you see yourself, how everything is drawing to a great crisis. Give progress a kick behind and ask her to hurry herself a little--there's something to be gained by that. A man ought to marry while he's still young; what's the good of going about and hankering after one another?" Madam Stolpe was, as always, of his opinion. "We married and enjoyed the sweetness of it while our blood was still young. That's why we have something now that we can depend on," she said simply, looking at Pelle. So it was determined that the wedding should be held that spring. In March the youngest son would complete his apprenticeship, so that the wedding feast and the journeyman's feast could be celebrated simultaneously. On the canal, just opposite the prison, a little two-roomed dwelling was standing vacant, and this they rented. Mason Stolpe wanted to have the young couple to live out by the North Bridge, "among respectable people," but Pelle had become attached to this quarter. Moreover, he had a host of customers there, which would give him a foothold, and there, too, were the canals. For Pelle, the canals were a window opening on the outer world; they gave his mind a sense of liberty; he always felt oppressed among the stone walls by the North Bridge. Ellen let him choose--it was indifferent to her where they lived. She would gladly have gone to the end of the world with him, in order to yield herself. She had saved a little money in her situation, and Pelle also had a little put by; he was wise in his generation, and cut down all their necessities. When Ellen was free they rummaged about buying things for their home. Many things they bought second-hand, for cheapness, but not for the bedroom; there everything was to be brand-new! It was a glorious time, in which every hour was full of its own rich significance; there was no room for brooding or for care. Ellen often came running in to drag him from his work; he must come with her and look at something or other--one could get it so cheap--but quickly, quickly, before it should be gone! On her "off" Sundays she would reduce the little home to order, and afterward they would walk arm in arm through the city, and visit the old people. Pelle had had so much to do with the affairs of others, and had given so little thought to his own, that it was delightful, for once in a way, to be able to rest and think of himself. The crowded outer world went drifting far away from him; he barely glanced at it as he built his nest; he thought no more about social problems than the birds that nest in spring. And one day Pelle carried his possessions to his new home, and for the last time lay down to sleep in the "Ark." There was no future for any one here; only the shipwrecked sought an abiding refuge within these walls. It was time for Pelle to move on. Yet from all this raggedness and overcrowding rose a voice which one did not hear elsewhere; a careless twittering, like that of unlucky birds that sit and plume their feathers when a little sunlight falls on them. He looked back on the time he had spent here with pensive melancholy. On the night before his wedding he lay restlessly tossing to and fro. Something seemed to follow him in his sleep. At last he woke, and was sensible of a stifled moaning, that came and went with long intervals in between, as though the "Ark" itself were moaning in an evil dream. Suddenly he stood up, lit the lamp, and began to polish his wedding- boots, which were still on the lasts, so that they might retain their handsome shape. Lasse was still asleep, and the long gangway outside lay still in slumber. The sound returned, louder and more long-drawn, and something about it reminded him of Stone Farm, and awaked the horror of his childish days. He sat and sweated at his work. Suddenly he heard some one outside--some one who groped along the gangway and fumbled at his door. He sprang forward and opened it. Suspense ran through his body like an icy shudder. Outside stood Hanne's mother, shivering in the morning cold. "Pelle," she whispered anxiously, "it's so near now--would you run and fetch Madam Blom from Market Street? I can't leave Hanne. And I ought to be wishing you happiness, too." The errand was not precisely convenient, nevertheless, he ran oft. And then he sat listening, working still, but as quietly as possible, in order not to wake Father Lasse. But then it was time for the children to get up; for the last time he knocked on the wall and heard Marie's sleepy "Ye--es!" At the same moment the silence of night was broken; the inmates tumbled out and ran barefooted to the lavatories, slamming their doors. "The Princess is lamenting," they told one another. "She's lamenting because she's lost what she'll never get again." Then the moaning rose to a loud shriek, and suddenly it was silent over there. Poor Hanne! Now she had another to care for--and who was its father? Hard times were in store for her. Lasse was not going to work to-day, although the wedding-feast was not to be held until the afternoon. He was in a solemn mood, from the earliest morning, and admonished Pelle not to lay things cross-wise, and the like. Pelle laughed every time. "Yes, you laugh," said Lasse, "but this is an important day--perhaps the most important in your life. You ought to take care lest the first trifling thing you do should ruin everything." He pottered about, treating everything as an omen. He was delighted with the sun--it rose out of a sack and grew brighter and brighter in the course of the day. It was never lucky for the sun to begin too blazing. Marie went to and fro, considering Pelle with an expression of suppressed anxiety, like a mother who is sending her child into the world, and strives hard to seem cheerful, thought Pelle. Yes, yes, she had been like a mother to him in many senses, although she was only a child; she had taken him into her nest as a little forsaken bird, and with amazement had seen him grow. He had secretly helped her when he could. But what was that in comparison with the singing that had made his work easy, when he saw how the three waifs accepted things as they were, building their whole existence on nothing? Who would help them now over the difficult places without letting them see the helping hand? He must keep watchful eye on them. Marie's cheeks were a hectic red, and her eyes were shining when he held her roughened hands in his and thanked her for being such a good neighbor. Her narrow chest was working, and a reflection of hidden beauty rested upon her. Pelle had taught her blood to find the way to her colorless face; whenever she was brought into intimate contact with him or his affairs, her cheeks glowed, and every time a little of the color was left behind. It was as though his vitality forced the sap to flow upward in her, in sympathy, and now she stood before him, trying to burst her stunted shell, and unfold her gracious capacities before him, and as yet was unable to do so. Suddenly she fell upon his breast. "Pelle, Pelle," she said, hiding her face against him. And then she ran into her own room. Lasse and Pelle carried the last things over to the new home, and put everything tidy; then they dressed themselves in their best and set out for the Stoples' home. Pelle was wearing a top-hat for the first time in his life, and looked quite magnificent in it. "You are like a big city chap," said Lasse, who could not look at him often enough. "But what do you think they'll say of old Lasse? They are half-way fine folks themselves, and I don't know how to conduct myself. Wouldn't it perhaps be better if I were to turn back?" "Don't talk like that, father!" said Pelle. Lasse was monstrously pleased at the idea of attending the wedding- feast, but he had all sorts of misgivings. These last years had made him shy of strangers, and he liked to creep into corners. His holiday clothes, moreover, were worn out, and his every-day things were patched and mended; his long coat he had hired expressly for the occasion, while the white collar and cuffs belonged to Peter. He did not feel at all at home in his clothes, and looked like an embarrassed schoolboy waiting for confirmation. At the Stolpes' the whole household was topsy-turvy. The guests who were to go to the church had already arrived; they were fidgeting about in the living-room and whistling to themselves, or looking out into the street, and feeling bored. Stople's writing-table had been turned into a side-board, and the brothers were opening bottles of beer and politely pressing everybody: "Do take a sandwich with it--you'll get a dry throat standing so long and saying nothing." In the best room Stolpe was pacing up and down and muttering. He was in his shirtsleeves, waiting until it was his turn to use the bedroom, where Ellen and her mother had locked themselves in. Prom time to time the door was opened a little, and Ellen's bare white arm appeared, as she threw her father some article of attire. Then Pelle's heart began to thump. On the window-sill stood Madam Stolpe's myrtle; it was stripped quite bare. Now Stolpe came back; he was ready! Pelle had only to button his collar for him. He took Lasse's hand and then went to fetch _The Working Man_. "Now you just ought to hear this, what they say of your son," he said, and began to read: "Our young party-member, Pelle, to-day celebrates his nuptials with the daughter of one of the oldest and most respected members of the party, Mason Stolpe. This young man, who has already done a great deal of work for the Cause, was last night unanimously proposed as President of his organization. We give the young couple our best wishes for the future." "That speaks for itself, eh?" Stolpe handed the paper to his guests. "Yes, that looks well indeed," they said, passing the paper from hand to hand. Lasse moved his lips as though he, too, were reading the notice through. "Yes, devilish good, and they know how to put these things," he said, delighted. "But what's wrong with Petersen--is he going to resign?" asked Stolpe. "He is ill," replied Pelle. "But I wasn't there last night, so I don't know anything about it." Stolpe gazed at him, astonished. Madam Stolpe came in and drew Pelle into the bedroom, where Ellen stood like a snow-white revelation, with a long veil and a myrtle-wreath in her hair. "Really you two are supposed not to see one another, but I think that's wrong," she said, and with a loving glance she pushed them into each other's arms. Frederik, who was leaning out of the window, in order to watch for the carriage, came and thundered on the door. "The carriage is there, children!" he roared, in quite a needlessly loud voice. "The carriage is there!" And they drove away in it, although the church was only a few steps distant. Pelle scarcely knew what happened to him after that, until he found himself back in the carriage; they had to nudge him every time he had to do anything. He saw no one but Ellen. She was his sun; the rest meant nothing to him. At the altar he had seized her hand and held it in his during the whole service. Frederik had remained at home, in order to admit, receive messages and people who came to offer their congratulations. As they returned he leaned out of the window and threw crackers and detonating pellets under the horses' feet, as a salute to the bridal pair. People drank wine, touched glasses with the young couple, and examined the wedding-presents. Stolpe looked to see the time; it was still quite early. "You must go for a bit of a stroll, father," said Madam Stolpe. "We can't eat anything for a couple of hours yet." So the men went across to Ventegodt's beer-garden, in order to play a game of skittles, while the women prepared the food. Pelle would rather have stopped in the house with Ellen, but he must not; he and Lasse went together. Lasse had not yet properly wished Pelle happiness; he had waited until they should be alone. "Well, happiness and all blessings, my boy," he said, much moved, as he pressed Pelle's hand. "Now you, too, are a man with a family and responsibilities. Now don't you forget that the women are like children. In serious matters you mustn't be too ceremonious with them, but tell them, short and plain. This is to be so! It goes down best with them. If once a man begins discussing too much with them, then they don't know which way they want to go. Otherwise they are quite all right, and it's easy to get on with them--if one only treats them well. I never found it any trouble, for they like a firm hand over them. You've reason to be proud of your parents-in-law; they are capital people, even if they are a bit proud of their calling. And Ellen will make you a good wife--if I know anything of women. She'll attend to her own affairs and she'll understand how to save what's left over. Long in the body she is, like a fruitful cow--she won't fail you in the matter of children." Outdoors in the beer-garden Swedish punch was served, and Lasse's spirits began to rise. He tried to play at skittles--he had never done so before; and he plucked up courage to utter witticisms. The others laughed, and Lasse drew himself up and came out of his shell. "Splendid people, the Copenhageners!" he whispered to Pelle. "A ready hand for spending, and they've got a witty word ready for everything." Before any one noticed it had grown dark, and now they must be home! At home the table was laid, and the rest of the guests had come. Madam Stolpe was already quite nervous, they had stopped away so long. "Now we'll all wobble a bit on our legs," whispered Stolpe, in the entry; "then my wife will go for us! Well, mother, have you got a warm welcome ready for us?" he asked, as he tumbled into the room. "Ah, you donkey, do you think I don't know you?" cried Madam Stolpe, laughing. "No, one needn't go searching in the taverns for my man!" Pelle went straight up to Ellen in the kitchen and led her away. Hand in hand they went round the rooms, looking at the last presents to arrive. There was a table-lamp, a dish-cover in German silver, and some enamelled cooking-utensils. Some one, too, had sent a little china figure of a child in swaddling-clothes, but had forgotten to attach his name. Ellen led Pelle out into the entry, in order to embrace him, but there stood Morten, taking off his things. Then they fled into the kitchen, but the hired cook was in possession; at length they found an undisturbed haven in the bedroom. Ellen wound her arms round Pelle's neck and gazed at him in silence, quite lost in happiness and longing. And Pelle pressed the beloved, slender, girlish body against his own, and looked deep in her eyes, which were dark and shadowy as velvet, as they drank in the light in his. His heart swelled within him, and he felt that he was unspeakably fortunate--richer than any one else in the whole world--because of the treasure that he held in his arms. Silently he vowed to himself that he would protect her and cherish her and have no other thought than to make her happy. An impatient trampling sounded from the other room. "The young couple-- the young couple!" they were calling. Pelle and Ellen hastened in, each by a different door. The others were standing in their places at the table, and were waiting for Pelle and Ellen to take their seats. "Well, it isn't difficult to see what she's been about!" said Stolpe teasingly. "One has only to look at the lass's peepers--such a pair of glowing coals!" Otto Stolpe, the slater, was spokesman, and opened the banquet by offering brandy. "A drop of spirits," he said to each: "we must make sure there's a vent to the gutter, or the whole thing will soon get stopped up." "Now, take something, people!" cried Stolpe, from the head of the table, where he was carving a loin of roast pork. "Up with the bricks there!" He had the young couple on his right and the newly-baked journeyman on his left. On the table before him stood a new bedroom chamber with a white wooden cover to it; the guests glanced at it and smiled at one another. "What are you staring at?" he asked solemnly. "If you need anything, let the cat out of the bag!" "Ah, it's the tureen there!" said his brother, the carpenter, without moving a muscle. "My wife would be glad to borrow it a moment, she says." His wife, taken aback, started up and gave him a thwack on the back. "Monster!" she said, half ashamed, and laughing. "The men must always make a fool of somebody!" Then they all set to, and for a while eating stopped their mouths. From time to time some droll remark was made. "Some sit and do themselves proud, while others do the drudging," said the Vanishing Man, Otto's comrade. Which was to say that he had finished his pork. "Give him one in the mouth, mother!" said Stolpe. When their hunger was satisfied the witticisms began to fly. Morten's present was a great wedding-cake. It was a real work of art; he had made it in the form of a pyramid. On the summit stood a youthful couple, made of sugar, who held one another embraced, while behind them was a highly glazed representation of the rising sun. Up the steps of the pyramid various other figures were scrambling to the top, holding their arms outstretched toward the summit. Wine was poured out when they came to the cake, and Morten made a little speech in Pelle's honor, in which he spoke of loyalty toward the new comrade whom he had chosen. Apparently the speech concerned Ellen only, but Pelle understood that his words were meant to be much more comprehensive; they had a double meaning all the time. "Thank you, Morten," he said, much moved, and he touched glasses with him. Then Stolpe delivered a speech admonishing the newly-married pair. This was full of precious conceits and was received with jubilation. "Now you see how father can speak," said Madam Stolpe. "When nothing depends on it then he can speak!" "What's that you say, mother?" cried Stolpe, astonished. He was not accustomed to criticism from that source. "Just listen to that now-- one's own wife is beginning to pull away the scaffolding-poles from under one!" "Well, that's what I say!" she rejoined, looking at him boldly. Her face was quite heated with wine. "Does any one stand in the front of things like father does? He was the first, and he has been always the most zealous; he has done a good stroke of work, more than most men. And to- day he might well have been one of the leaders and have called the tune, if it weren't for that damned hiccoughing. He's a clever man, and his comrades respect him too, but what does all that signify if a man hiccoughs? Every time he stands on the speaker's platform he has the hiccoughs." "And yet it isn't caused by brandy?" said the thick-set little Vanishing Man, Albert Olsen. "Oh, no, father has never gone in for bottle agitation," replied Madam Stolpe. "That was a fine speech that mother made about me," said Stolpe, laughing, "and she didn't hiccough. It is astonishing, though--there are some people who can't. But now it's your turn, Frederik. Now you have become a journeyman and must accept the responsibility yourself for doing things according to plumb-line and square. We have worked on the scaffold together and we know one another pretty well. Many a time you've been a clown and many a time a sheep, and a box on the ears from your old man has never been lacking. But that was in your fledgling years. When only you made up your mind there was no fault to be found with you. I will say this to your credit--that you know your trade--you needn't be shamed by anybody. Show what you can do, my lad! Do your day's work so that your comrades don't need to take you in tow, and never shirk when it comes to your turn!" "Don't cheat the drinker of his bottle, either," said Albert Olsen, interrupting. Otto nudged him in the ribs. "No, don't do that," said Stolpe, and he laughed. "There are still two things," he added seriously. "Take care the girls don't get running about under the scaffold in working hours, that doesn't look well; and always uphold the fellowship. There is nothing more despicable than the name of strikebreaker." "Hear, hear!" resounded about the table. "A true word!" Frederik sat listening with an embarrassed smile. He was dressed in a new suit of the white clothes of his calling, and on his round chin grew a few dark downy hairs, which he fingered every other moment. He was waiting excitedly until the old man had finished, so that he might drink brotherhood with him. "And now, my lad," said Stolpe, taking the cover from the "tureen," "now you are admitted to the corporation of masons, and you are welcome! Health, my lad." And with a sly little twinkle of his eye, he set the utensil to his mouth, and drank. "Health, father!" replied Frederik, with shining eyes, as his father passed him the drinking-bowl. Then it went round the table. The women shrieked before they drank; it was full of Bavarian beer, and in the amber fluid swam Bavarian sausages. And while the drinking-bowl made its cheerful round, Stolpe struck up with the Song of the Mason: "The man up there in snowy cap and blouse, He is a mason, any fool could swear. Just give him stone and lime, he'll build a house Fine as a palace, up in empty air! Down in the street below stands half the town: Ah, ah! Na, na! The scaffold sways, but it won't fall down! "Down in the street he's wobbly in his tread, He tumbles into every cellar door; That's 'cause his home is in the clouds o'erhead, Where all the little birds about him soar. Up there he works away with peaceful mind: Ah, ah. Na, na! The scaffold swings in the boisterous wind! "What it is to be giddy no mason knows: Left to himself he'd build for ever, Stone upon stone, till in Heaven, I s'pose! But up comes the Law, and says--Stop now, clever! There lives the Almighty, so just come off! Ah, ah! Na, na! Sheer slavery this, but he lets them scoff! "Before he knows it the work has passed: He measures all over and reckons it up. His wages are safe in his breeches at last, And he clatters off home to rest and to sup. And a goodly wage he's got in his pocket: Ah, ah! Na, na! The scaffold creaks to the winds that rock it!" The little thick-set slater sat with both arms on the table, staring right in front of him with veiled eyes. When the song was over he raised his head a little. "Yes, that may be all very fine--for those it concerns. But the slater, he climbs higher than the mason." His face was purple. "Now, comrade, let well alone," said Stolpe comfortably. "It isn't the question, to-night, who climbs highest, it's a question of amusing ourselves merely." "Yes, that may be," replied Olsen, letting his head sink again. "But the slater, he climbs the highest." After which he sat there murmuring to himself. "Just leave him alone," whispered Otto. "Otherwise he'll get in one of his Berserker rages. Don't be so grumpy, old fellow," he said, laying his arm on Olsen's shoulders. "No one can compete with you in the art of tumbling down, anyhow!" The Vanishing Man was so called because he was in the habit--while lying quite quietly on the roof at work--of suddenly sliding downward and disappearing into the street below. He had several times fallen from the roof of a house without coming to any harm; but on one occasion he had broken both legs, and had become visibly bow-legged in consequence. In order to appease him, Otto, who was his comrade, related how he had fallen down on the last occasion. "We were lying on the roof, working away, he and I, and damned cold it was. He, of course, had untied the safety-rope, and as we were lying there quite comfortably and chatting, all of a sudden he was off. 'The devil!' I shouted to the others, 'now the Vanishing Man has fallen down again!' And we ran down the stairs as quick as we could. We weren't in a humor for any fool's tricks, as you may suppose. But there was no Albert Olsen lying on the pavement. 'Damn and blast it all, where has the Vanisher got to?' we said, and we stared at one another, stupefied. And then I accidentally glanced across at a beer-cellar opposite, and there, by God, he was sitting at the basement window, winking at us so, with his forefinger to his nose, making signs to us to go down and have a glass of beer with him. 'I was so accursedly thirsty,' was all he said; 'I couldn't wait to run down the stairs!'" The general laughter appeased the Vanishing Man. "Who'll give me a glass of beer?" he said, rising with difficulty. He got his beer and sat down in a corner. Stolpe was sitting at the table playing with his canary, which had to partake of its share in the feast. The bird sat on his red ear and fixed its claws in his hair, then hopped onto his arm and along it onto the table. Stolpe kept on asking it, "What would you like to smoke, Hansie?" "Peep!" replied the canary, every time. Then they all laughed. "Hansie would like a pipe!" "How clever he is, to answer like that!" said the women. "Clever?--ay, and he's sly too! Once we bought a little wife for him; mother didn't think it fair that he shouldn't know what love is. Well, they married themselves very nicely, and the little wife lay two eggs. But when she wanted to begin to sit Hansie got sulky; he kept on calling to her to come out on the perch. Well, she wouldn't, and one fine day, when she wanted to get something to eat, he hopped in and threw the eggs out between the bars! He was jealous--the rascal! Yes, animals are wonderfully clever--stupendous it is, that such a little thing as that could think that out! Now, now, just look at him!" Hansie had hopped onto the table and had made his way to the remainder of the cake. He was sitting on the edge of the dish, cheerfully flirting his tail as he pecked away. Suddenly something fell upon the table- cloth. "Lord bless me," cried Stolpe, in consternation, "if that had been any one else! Wouldn't you have heard mother carry on!" Old Lasse was near exploding at this. He had never before been in such pleasant company. "It's just as if one had come upon a dozen of Brother Kalle's sort," he whispered to Pelle. Pelle smiled absently. Ellen was holding his hand in her lap and playing with his fingers. A telegram of congratulation came for Pelle from his Union, and this brought the conversation back to more serious matters. Morten and Stolpe became involved in a dispute concerning the labor movement; Morten considered that they did not sufficiently consider the individual, but attached too much importance to the voice of the masses. In his opinion the revolution must come from within. "No," said Stolpe, "that leads to nothing. But if we could get our comrades into Parliament and obtain a majority, then we should build up the State according to our own programme, and that is in every respect a legal one!" "Yes, but it's a question of daily bread," said Morten, with energy. "Hungry people can't sit down and try to become a majority; while the grass grows the cow starves! They ought to help themselves. If they do not, their self-consciousness is imperfect; they must wake up to the consciousness of their own human value. If there were a law forbidding the poor man to breathe the air, do you think he'd stop doing so? He simply could not. It's painful for him to look on at others eating when he gets nothing himself. He is wanting in physical courage. And so society profits by his disadvantage. What has the poor man to do with the law? He stands outside all that! A man mustn't starve his horse or his dog, but the State which forbids him to do so starves its own workers. I believe they'll have to pay for preaching obedience to the poor; we are getting bad material for the now order of society that we hope to found some day." "Yes, but we don't obey the laws out of respect for the commands of a capitalist society," said Stolpe, somewhat uncertainly, "but out of regard for ourselves. God pity the poor man if he takes the law into his own hands!" "Still, it keeps the wound fresh! As for all the others, who go hungry in silence, what do they do? There are too few of them, alas--there's room in the prisons for them! But if every one who was hungry would stick his arm through a shop window and help himself--then the question of maintenance would soon be solved. They couldn't put the whole nation in prison! Now, hunger is yet another human virtue, which is often practised until men die of it--for the profit of those who hoard wealth. They pat the poor, brave man on the back because he's so obedient to the law. What more can he want?" "Yes, devil take it, of course it's all topsy-turvy," replied Stolpe. "But that's precisely the reason why----No, no, you won't persuade me, my young friend! You seem to me a good deal too 'red.' It wouldn't do! Now I've been concerned in the movement from the very first day, and no one can say that Stolpe is afraid to risk his skin; but that way wouldn't suit me. We have always held to the same course, and everything that we have won we have taken on account." "Yes, that's true," interrupted Frau Stolpe. "When I look back to those early years and then consider these I can scarcely believe it's true. Then it was all we could do to find safe shelter, even among people of our own standing; they annoyed us in every possible way, and hated father because he wasn't such a sheep as they were, but used to concern himself about their affairs. Every time I went out of the kitchen door I'd find a filthy rag of dishcloth hung over the handle, and they smeared much worse things than that over the door--and whose doing was it? I never told father; he would have been so enraged he would have torn the whole house down to find the guilty person. No, father had enough to contend against already. But now: 'Ah, here comes Stolpe-- Hurrah! Long live Stolpe! One must show respect to Stolpe, the veteran!'" "That may be all very fine," muttered Albert Olsen, "but the slater, he climbs the highest." He was sitting with sunken head, staring angrily before him. "To be sure he climbs highest," said the women. "No one says he doesn't." "Leave him alone," said Otto; "he's had a drop too much!" "Then he should take a walk in the fresh air and not sit there and make himself disagreeable," said Madam Stolpe, with a good deal of temper. The Vanishing Man rose with an effort. "Do you say a walk in the fresh air, Madam Stolpe? Yes, if any one can stand the air, by God, it's Albert Olsen. Those big-nosed masons, what can they do?" He stood with bent head, muttering angrily to himself. "Yes, then we'll take a walk in the fresh air. I don't want to have anything to do with your fools' tricks." He staggered out through the kitchen door. "What's he going to do there?" cried Madam Stolpe, in alarm. "Oh, he'll just go down into the yard and turn himself inside out," said Otto. "He's a brilliant fellow, but he can't carry much." Pelle, still sitting at table, had been drawing with a pencil on a scrap of paper while the others were arguing. Ellen leaned over his shoulder watching him. He felt her warm breath upon his ear and smiled happily as he used his pencil. Ellen took the drawing when he had finished and pushed it across the table to the others. It showed a thick-set figure of a man, dripping with sweat, pushing a wheelbarrow which supported his belly. "Capitalism--when the rest of us refuse to serve him any longer!" was written below. This drawing made a great sensation. "You're a deuce of a chap!" cried Stolpe. "I'll send that to the editor of the humorous page--I know him." "Yes, Pelle," said Lasse proudly, "there's nothing he can't do; devil knows where he gets it from, for he doesn't get it from his father." And they all laughed. Carpenter Stolpe's good lady sat considering the drawing with amazement, quite bewildered, looking first at Pelle's fingers and then at the drawing again. "I can understand how people can say funny things with their mouths," she said, "but with their fingers--that I don't understand. Poor fellow, obliged to push his belly in front of him! It's almost worse than when I was going to have Victor." "Cousin Victor, her youngest, who is so deucedly clever," said Otto, in explanation, giving Pelle a meaning wink. "Yes, indeed he is clever, if he is only six months old. The other day I took him downstairs with me when I went to buy some milk. Since then he won't accept his mother's left breast any more. The rascal noticed that the milkman drew skim milk from the left side of the cart and full-cream milk from the tap on the right side. And another time----" "Now, mother, give over!" said Carpenter Stolpe; "don't you see they're sitting laughing at you? And we ought to see about getting home presently." He looked a trifle injured. "What, are you going already?" said Stolpe. "Why, bless my soul, it's quite late already. But we must have another song first." "It'll be daylight soon," said Madam Stolpe; she was so tired that she was nodding. When they had sung the Socialist marching song, the party broke up. Lasse had his pockets filled with sweets for the three orphans. "What's become of the Vanishing Man?" said Otto suddenly. "Perhaps he's been taken bad down in the yard," said Stolpe. "Run down and see, Frederick." They had quite forgotten him. Frederik returned and announced that Albert Olsen was not in the yard-- and the gate was locked. "Surely he can't have gone on the roof?" said one. They ran up the back stairs; the door of the loft was open, and the skylight also. Otto threw off his coat and swung himself up through the opening. On the extreme end of the ridge of the roof sat Albert Olsen, snoring. He was leaning against the edge of the party-wall, which projected upward about eighteen inches. Close behind him was empty space. "For God's sake don't call him," said Mother Stolpe, under her breath; "and catch hold of him before he wakes." But Otto went straight up to his comrade. "Hullo, mate! Time's up!" he cried. "Righto!" said the Vanisher, and he rose to his feet. He stood there a moment, swaying above the abyss, then, giving the preference to the way leading over the roof, he followed in Otto's track and crept through the window. "What the dickens were you really doing there?" asked Stolpe, laughing. "Have you been to work?" "I just went up there and enjoyed the fresh air a bit. Have you got a bottle of beer? But what's this? Everybody going home already?" "Yes, you've been two hours sitting up there and squinting at the stars," replied Otto. Now all the guests had gone. Lasse and the young couple stood waiting to say farewell. Madam Stolpe had tears in her eyes. She threw her arms round Ellen. "Take good care of yourself, the night is so cold," she said, in a choking voice, and she stood nodding after them with eyes that were blinded with tears. "Why, but there's nothing to cry about!" said Mason Stolpe, as he led her indoors. "Go to bed now--I'll soon sing the Vanishing Man to sleep! Thank God for to-day, mother!" XVI Pelle had placed his work-bench against the wall-space between the two windows of the living-room. There was just room to squeeze past between the edge of the bench and the round table which stood in the middle of the room. Against the wall by the door stood an oak-stained sideboard, which was Ellen's pride, and exactly opposite this, on the opposing wall, stood the chest of drawers of her girlhood, with a mirror above it and a white embroidered cover on the top. On this chest of drawers stood a polished wooden workbox, a few photographs, and various knick-knacks; with its white cover it was like a little altar. Pelle went to Master Beck's only every other day; the rest of the time he sat at home playing the little master. He had many acquaintances hereabouts, really poor folks, who wore their boots until their stockings appeared before they had them repaired; nevertheless, it was possible to earn a day's pay among them. He obtained work, too, from Ellen's family and their acquaintances. These were people of another sort; even when things went badly with them they always kept up appearances and even displayed a certain amount of luxury. They kept their troubles to themselves. He could have obtained plenty of journeyman work, but he preferred this arrangement, which laid the foundation of a certain independence; there was more chance of a future in it. And there was a peculiar feeling about work done with his home as the background. When he lifted his eyes from his work as he sat at home a fruitful warmth came into his heart; things looked so familiar; they radiated comfort, as though they had always belonged together. And when the morning sun shone into the room everything wore a smile, and in the midst of it all Ellen moved busily to and fro humming a tune. She felt a need always to be near him, and rejoiced over every day which he spent at home. On those days she hurried through her work in the kitchen as quickly as possible, and then sat down to keep him company. He had to teach her how to make a patch, and how to sew a sole on, and she helped him with his work. "Now you are the master and I'm the journeyman!" she would say delightedly. She brought him customers too; her ambition was to keep him always at home. "I'll help you all I can. And one fine day you'll have so much work you'll have to take an apprentice--and then a journeyman." Then he would take her in his arms, and they worked in emulation, and sang as they worked. Pelle was perfectly happy, and had cast off all his cares and burdens. This was his nest, where every stick and stone was worth more than all else in the world besides. They had their work cut out to keep it together and feed themselves a little daintily; and Pelle tackled his work as joyfully as though he had at last found his true vocation. Now and again a heavy wave came rolling up from the struggling masses, making his heart beat violently, and then he would break out into fiery speech; or his happiness would weave radiant pictures before his eyes, and he would describe these to Ellen. She listened to him proudly, and with her beloved eyes upon him he would venture upon stronger expression and more vivid pictures, as was really natural to him. When at last he was silent she would remain quietly gazing at him with those dark eyes of hers that always seemed to be looking at something in him of which he himself was unaware. "What are you thinking of now?" Pelle would ask, for he would have enjoyed an exposition of the ideas that filled his mind. There was no one for him but Ellen, and he wanted to discuss the new ideas with her, and to feel the wonderful happiness of sharing these too with her. "I was thinking how red your lips are when you speak! They certainly want to be kissed!" she replied, throwing her arms round his neck. What happened round about her did not interest her; she could only speak of their love and of what concerned herself. But the passionate gaze of her eyes was like a deep background to their life. It had quite a mysterious effect upon his mind; it was like a lure that called to the unknown depths of his being. "The Pelle she sees must be different to the one I know," he thought happily. There must be something fine and strong in him for her to cling to him so closely and suffer so when parted from him only for a moment. When she had gazed at him long enough she would press herself against him, confused, and hide her face. Without his remarking it, she directed his energies back to his own calling. He could work for two when she sat at the bench facing him and talked to him as she helped him. Pelle really found their little nest quite comfortable, but Ellen's mind was full of plans for improvement and progress. His business was to support a respectable home with dainty furniture and all sorts of other things; she was counting on these already. This home, which to him was like a beloved face that one cannot imagine other than it is, was to her only a temporary affair, which would by degrees be replaced by something finer and better. Behind her intimate gossip of every-day trivialities she concealed a far-reaching ambition. He must do his utmost if he was to accomplish all she expected of him! Ellen by no means neglected her housekeeping, and nothing ever slipped through her fingers. When Pelle was away at the workshop she turned the whole place upside down, sweeping and scrubbing, and had always something good on the table for him. In the evening she was waiting for him at the door of the workshop. Then they would take a stroll along the canal, and across the green rampart where the children played. "Oh, Pelle, how I've longed for you to-day!" she would say haltingly. "Now, I've got you, and yet I've still got quite a pain in my breasts; they don't know yet that you're with me!" "Shan't we work a little this evening--just a quarter of an hour?" she would say, when they had eaten, "so that you can become a master all the sooner and make things more comfortable for yourself." Pelle perhaps would rather have taken a walk through the city with her, or have gone somewhere where they could enjoy the sunset, but her dark eyes fixed themselves upon him. She was full of energy from top to toe, and it was all centered on him. There was something in her nature that excluded the possibility of selfishness. In relation to herself, everything was indifferent; she only wanted to be with him--and to live for him. She was beneficent and intact as virgin soil; Pelle had awakened love in her--and it took the shape of a perpetual need of giving. He felt, humbly, that she brought all she had and was to him as a gift, and all he did was done to repay her generosity. He had refused to undertake the direction of the labor organization. His life together with Ellen and the maintenance of the newly established household left him no time for any effectual efforts outside his home. Ellen did not interfere in the matter; but when he came home after spending the evening at a meeting he could see she had been crying. So he stopped at home with her; it was weak of him, out he did not see what else he could do. And he missed nothing; Ellen more than made amends. She knew how to make their little home close itself about him, how to turn it into a world of exuberant inner life. There was no greater pleasure than to set themselves to achieve some magnificent object--as, for instance, to buy a china flower-pot, which could stand on the window-sill and contain an aspidistra. That meant a week of saving, and when they had got it they would cross over to the other side of the canal, arm in arm, and look up at the window in order to see the effect. And then something else would be needed; a perforating machine, an engraved nameplate for the door; every Saturday meant some fresh acquisition. _The Working Man_ lay unread. If Pelle laid down his work a moment in order to glance at it, there was Ellen nipping his ear with her lips; his free time belonged to her, and it was a glorious distraction in work-time, to frolic as carelessly as a couple of puppies, far more delightful than shouldering the burden of the servitude of the masses! So the paper was given up; Ellen received the money every week for her savings-bank. She had discovered a corner in Market Street where she wanted to set up a shop and work-room with three or four assistants-- that was what she was saving for. Pelle wondered at her sagacity, for that was a good neighborhood. After their marriage they did not visit Ellen's parents so often. Stolpe found Pelle was cooling down, and used to tease him a little, in order to make him answer the helm; but that angered Ellen, and resulted in explosions--she would tolerate no criticism of Pelle. She went to see them only when Pelle proposed it; she herself seemed to feel no desire to see her family, but preferred staying at home. Often they pretended they were not at home when "the family" knocked, in order to go out alone, to the Zoological Gardens or to Lyngby. They did not see much of Lasse. Ellen had invited him once for all to eat his supper with them. But when he came home from work he was too tired to change his clothes, and wash himself, and make himself tidy, and Ellen was particular about her little home. He had a great respect for her, but did not feel properly at home in her living-room. He had taken Pelle's old room, and was boarding with the three orphans. They thought great things of him, and all their queer care for the big foundling Pelle was now transferred to old Lasse. And here they fell on better soil. Lasse was becoming a child again, and had felt the need of a little pampering. With devout attention he would listen to Marie's little troubles, and the boy's narrations of everything that they did and saw. In return he told them the adventures of his boyhood, or related his experiences in the stone-breaking yard, swaggering suitably, in order not to be outdone. When Pelle came to fetch his father the four of them would be sitting down to some childish game. They would wrangle as to how the game should be played, for Lasse was the most skilful. The old man would excuse himself. "You mustn't be angry, lad, because I neglect you--but I'm tired of an evening and I go to bed early." "Then come on Sunday--and breakfast with us; afterward we go out." "No, I've something on for Sunday--an assignation," said Lasse roguishly, in order to obviate further questions. "Enjoy your youthful happiness; it won't last forever." He would never accept help. "I earn what I need for my food and a few clothes; I don't need much of either, and I am quite contented. And you've enough to see to yourself," was his constant answer. Lasse was always gentle and amiable, and appeared contented, but there was a curious veil over his eyes, as though some disappointment were gnawing at his heart. And Pelle knew well what it was--it had always been an understood thing that Lasse should spend his old age at Pelle's fireside. In his childish dreams of the future, however various they might be, Father Lasse was always at hand, enjoying a restful old age, in return for all he had done for Pelle. That was how it should be; at home in the country in every poor home a gray-headed old man sat in the chimney-corner--for children among the poor are the only comfort of age. For the time being this could not be arranged; there was no room in their two little rooms. Ellen was by no means lacking in heart; she often thought of this or that for the old man's comfort, but her passionate love would permit of no third person to approach them too closely. Such a thing had never entered her mind; and Pelle felt that if he were to persuade her to take Father Lasse into their home, the wonder of their life together would be killed. They lived so fully from hour to hour; theirs was a sacred happiness, that must not be sacrificed, but which itself demanded the sacrifice of all else. Their relation was not the usual practical self-love, but love itself, which seldom touches the every-day life of the poor, save that they hear it in tragic and beautiful songs of unhappy lovers. But here, to them, had come its very self--a shining wonder! And now Ellen was going to bear a child. Her figure grew fuller and softer. Toward all others she was cold and remote in her behavior; only to Pelle she disclosed herself utterly. The slight reserve which had always lurked somewhere within her, as though there was something that he could not yet conquer, had disappeared. Her gaze was no longer fixed and searching; but sought his own with quiet self-surrender. A tender and wonderful harmony was visible in her, as though she had now come into her own, and from day to day she grew more beautiful. Pelle was filled with pride to see how luxuriantly she unfolded beneath his caresses. He was conscious of a sense of inexhaustible liberality, such as the earth had suddenly inspired in him at times in his childhood; and an infinite tenderness filled his heart. There was an alluring power in Ellen's helplessness, so rich in promise as it was. He would joyfully have sacrificed the whole world in order to serve her and that which she so wonderfully bore within her. He got up first in the morning, tidied the rooms, and made coffee before he went to work. He was vexed if when he came home Ellen had been sweeping or scrubbing. He made two of himself in order to spare her, stinted himself of sleep, and was restlessly busy; his face had assumed a fixed expression of happiness, which gave him almost a look of stupidity. His thoughts never went beyond the four walls of his home; Ellen's blessed form entirely engrossed him. The buying of new furniture was discontinued; in its place Ellen made curious purchases of linen and flannel and material for swaddling-bands, and mysterious conversations were continually taking place between her and her mother, from which Pelle was excluded; and when they went to see Ellen's parents Madam Stolpe was always burrowing in her chests of drawers, and giving Ellen little packages to be taken home. The time passed only too quickly. Exclusively as they had lived for their own affairs, it seemed as if they could never get everything finished. And one day it was as though the world was shattered about their heads. Ellen lay in bed, turning from side to side and shrieking as though an evil spirit had taken possession of her body. Pelle bent over her with a helpless expression, while at the foot of the bed sat Madam Blom; she sat there knitting and reading the papers as though nothing whatever was amiss. "Shriek away, little woman," she said from time to time, when Ellen became silent; "that's part of the business!" Ellen looked at her spitefully and defiantly pressed her lips together, but next moment she opened her mouth wide and roared wildly. A rope was fastened to the foot of the bed, and she pulled on this while she shrieked. Then she collapsed, exhausted. "You wicked, wicked boy," she whispered, with a faint smile. Pelle bent over her happily; but she pushed him suddenly away; her beautiful body contorted itself, and the dreadful struggle was raging again. But at last a feeble voice relieved hers and filled the home with a new note. "Another mouth to fill," said Madam Blom, holding the new-born child in the air by one leg. It was a boy. Pelle went about blushing and quite bewildered, as though something had happened to him that no one else had ever experienced. At first he took Master Beck's work home with him and looked after the child himself at night. Every other moment he had to put down his work and run in to the mother and child. "You are a wonderful woman, to give me such a child for a kiss," he said, beaming, "and a boy into the bargain! What a man he'll be!" "So it's a boy!" said the "family." "Don't quite lose your head!" "That would be the last straw!" said Pelle gravely. The feminine members of the family teased him because he looked after the child. "What a man--perhaps he'd like to lie in child-bed, too!" they jeered. "I don't doubt it," growled Stolpe. "But he's near becoming an idiot, and that's much more serious. And it pains me to say it, but that's the girl's fault. And yet all her life she has only heard what is good and proper. But women are like cats--there's no depending on them." Pelle only laughed at their gibes. He was immeasurably happy. And now Lasse managed to find his way to see them! He had scarcely received the news of the event, when he made his appearance just as he was. He was full of audaciously high spirits; he threw his cap on the ground outside the door, and rushed into the bedroom as though some one were trying to hold him back. "Ach, the little creature! Did any one ever see such an angel!" he cried, and he began to babble over the child until Ellen was quite rosy with maternal pride. His joy at becoming a grandfather knew no limits. "So it's come at last, it's come at last!" he repeated, over and over again. "And I was always afraid I should have to go to my grave without leaving a representative behind me! Ach, what a plump little devil! He's got something to begin life on, he has! He'll surely be an important citizen, Pelle! Just look how plump and round he is! Perhaps a merchant or a manufacturer or something of that sort! To see him in his power and greatness--but that won't be granted to Father Lasse." He sighed. "Yes, yes, here he is, and how he notices one already! Perhaps the rascal's wondering, who is this wrinkled old man standing there and coming to see me in his old clothes? Yes, it's Father Lasse, so look at him well, he's won his magnificence by fair means!" Then he went up to Pelle and fumbled for his hand. "Well, I've hardly dared to hope for this--and how fine he is, my boy! What are you going to call him?" Lasse always ended with that question, looking anxiously at his son as he asked it. His old head trembled a little now when anything moved him. "He's to be called Lasse Frederik," said Pelle one day, "after his two grandfathers." This delighted the old man. He went off on a little carouse in honor of the day. And now he came almost every day. On Sunday mornings he made himself scrupulously tidy, polishing his boots and brushing his clothes, so as to make himself thoroughly presentable. As he went home from work he would look in to ask whether little Lasse had slept well. He eulogized Ellen for bringing such a bright, beautiful youngster into the world, and she quite fell in love with the old man, on account of his delight in the child. She even trusted him to sit with the little one, and he was never so pleased as when she wished to go out and sent for him accordingly. So little Lasse succeeded, merely by his advent, in abolishing all misunderstandings, and Pelle blessed him for it. He was the deuce of a fellow already--one day he threw Lasse and Ellen right into one another's arms! Pelle followed step by step the little creature's entrance into the world; he noticed when first his glance showed a watchful attention, and appeared to follow an object, and when first his hand made a grab at something. "Hey, hey, just look! He wants his share of things already!" he cried delightedly. It was Pelle's fair moustache the child was after--and didn't he give it a tug! The little hand gripped valiantly and was scarcely to be removed; there were little dimples on the fingers and deep creases at the wrist. There was any amount of strength in Ellen's milk! They saw nothing more of Morton. He had visited them at first, but after a time ceased coming. They were so taken up with one another at the time, and Ellen's cool behavior had perhaps frightened him away. He couldn't know that that was her manner to everybody. Pelle could never find an idle hour to look him up, but often regretted him. "Can you understand what's amiss with him?" he would ask Ellen wonderingly. "We have so much in common, he and I. Shall I make short work of it and go and look him up?" Ellen made no answer to this; she only kissed him. She wanted to have him quite to herself, and encompassed him with her love; her warm breath made him feel faint with happiness. Her will pursued him and surrounded him like a wall; he had a faint consciousness of the fact, but made no attempt to bestir himself. He felt quite comfortable as he was. The child occasioned fresh expenses, and Ellen had all she could do; there was little time left for her to help him. He had to obtain suitable work, so that they might not suffer by the slack winter season, but could sit cozily between their four walls. There was no time for loafing about and thinking. It was an obvious truth, which their daily life confirmed, that poor people have all they can do to mind their own affairs. This was a fact which they had not at once realized. He no longer gave any thought to outside matters. It was really only from old habit that, as he sat eating his breakfast in the workshop, he would sometimes glance at the paper his sandwiches were wrapped in--part of some back number of _The Working Man._ Or perhaps it would happen that he felt something in the air, that passed him by, something in which he had no part; and then he would raise his head with a listening expression. But Ellen was familiar with the remoteness that came into his eyes at such times, and she knew how to dispel it with a kiss. One day he met Morten in the street. Pelle was delighted, but there was a sceptical expression in Morten's eyes. "Why don't you ever come to see me now?" asked Pelle. "I often long to see you, but I can't well get away from home." "I've found a sweetheart--which is quite an occupation." "Are you engaged?" said Pelle vivaciously. "Tell me something about her!" "Oh, there's not much to tell," said Morten, with a melancholy smile. "She is so ragged and decayed that no one else would have her--that's why I took her." "That is truly just like you!" Pelle laughed. "But seriously, who is the girl and where does she live?" "Where does she live?" Morten stared at him for a moment uncomprehendingly. "Yes, after all you're right. If you know where people live you know all about them. The police always ask that question." Pelle did not know whether Morten was fooling him or whether he was speaking in good faith; he could not understand him in the least to-day. His pale face bore signs of suffering. There was a curious glitter in his eyes. "One has to live somewhere in this winter cold." "Yes, you are right! And she lives on the Common, when the policeman doesn't drive her away. He's the landlord of the unfortunate, you know! There has been a census lately--well, did you observe what happened? It was given out that everybody was to declare where he lodged on a particular night. But were the census-papers distributed among the homeless? No--all those who live in sheds and outhouses, or on the Common, or in newly erected buildings, or in the disused manure-pits of the livery stables--they have no home, and consequently were not counted in the census. That was cleverly managed, you know; they simply don't exist! Otherwise there would be a very unpleasant item on the list--the number of the homeless. Only one man in the city here knows what it is; he's a street missionary, and I've sometimes been out with him at night; it's horrifying, what we've seen! Everywhere, wherever there's a chink, they crowd into it in order to find shelter; they lie under the iron staircases even, and freeze to death. We found one like that--an old man--and called up a policeman; he stuck his red nose right in the corpse's mouth and said, 'Dead of drink.' And now that's put down, where really it ought to say, 'Starved to death!' It mustn't be said that any one really suffers need in this country, you understand. No one freezes to death here who will only keep moving; no one starves unless it's his own fault. It must necessarily be so in one of the most enlightened countries in the world; people have become too cultivated to allow Want to stalk free about the streets; it would spoil their enjoyment and disturb their night's rest. And they must be kept at a distance too; to do away with them would be too troublesome; but the police are drilled to chase them back into their holes and corners. Go down to the whaling quay and see what they bring ashore in a single day at this time of the year--it isn't far from your place. Accidents, of course! The ground is so slippery, and people go too near the edge of the quay. The other night a woman brought a child into the world in an open doorway in North Bridge Street--in ten degrees of frost. People who collected were indignant; it was unpardonable of her to go about in such a condition-- she ought to have stopped at home. It didn't occur to them that she had no home. Well then, she could have gone to the police; they are obliged to take people in. On the other hand, as we were putting her in the cab, she began to cry, in terror, 'Not the maternity hospital--not the maternity hospital!' She had already been there some time or other. She must have had some reason for preferring the doorstep--just as the others preferred the canal to the workhouse." Morten continued, regardless of Pelle, as though he had to ease some inward torment. Pelle listened astounded to this outburst of lacerating anguish with a shamed feeling that he himself had a layer of fat round his heart. As Morten spoke poverty once more assumed a peculiar, horrible, living glimmer. "Why do you tell me all this as if I belonged to the upper classes?" he said. "I know all this as well as you do." "And we haven't even a bad year," Morten continued, "the circumstances are as they always are at this time of year. Yesterday a poor man stole a loaf from the counter and ran off with it; now he'll be branded all his life. 'My God, that he should want to make himself a thief for so little!' said the master's wife--it was a twopenny-ha'penny roll. It's not easy to grasp--branded for his whole life for a roll of bread!" "He was starving," said Pelle stupidly. "Starving? Yes, of course he was starving! But to me it's insanity, I tell you--I can't take it in; and every one else thinks it's so easy to understand. Why do I tell you this, you ask? You know it as well as I do. No, but you don't know it properly, or you'd have to rack your brains till you were crazy over the frightful insanity of the fact that these two words--bread and crime--can belong together! Isn't it insane, that the two ends should bend together and close in a ring about a human life? That a man should steal bread of all things--bread, do you understand? Bread ought not to be stolen. What does any man want with thieving who eats enough? In the mornings, long before six o'clock, the poor people gather outside our shop, and stand there in rows, in order to be the first to get the stale bread that is sold at half-price. The police make them stand in a row, just as they do outside the box-office at the theater, and some come as early as four, and stand two hours in the cold, in order to be sure of their place. But besides those who buy there is always a crowd of people still poorer; they have no money to buy with, but they stand there and stare as though it interested them greatly to see the others getting their bread cheap. They stand there waiting for a miracle in the shape of a slice of bread. One can see that in the way their eyes follow every movement, with the same desperate hope that you see in the eyes of the dogs when they stand round the butcher's cart and implore Heaven that the butcher may drop a bit of meat. They don't understand that no one will pity them. Not we human beings--you should see their surprise when we give them anything!--but chance, some accident. Good God, bread is so cheap, the cheapest of all the important things in this world--and yet they can't for once have enough of it! This morning I slipped a loaf into an old woman's hand-- she kissed it and wept for joy! Do you feel that that's endurable?" He stared at Pelle with madness lurking in his gaze. "You do me an injustice if you think I don't feel it too," said Pelle quietly. "But where is there a quick way out of this evil? We must be patient and organize ourselves and trust to time. To seize on our rights as they've done elsewhere won't do for us." "No, that's just it! They know it won't do for us--that's why justice never goes forward. The people get only what's due to them if the leaders know that if the worst comes to the worst they can provide for themselves." "I don't believe that any good would come of a revolution," said Pelle emphatically. He felt the old longing to fight within him. "You can't understand about that unless you've felt it in yourself," replied Morten passionately. "Revolution is the voice of God, which administers right and justice, and it cannot be disputed. If the poor were to rise to see that justice was done it would be God's judgment, and it would not be overthrown. The age has surely the right to redeem itself when it has fallen into arrears in respect of matters so important; but it could do so only by a leap forward. But the people don't rise, they are like a damp powder! You must surely some time have been in the cellar of the old iron merchant under the 'Ark,' and have seen his store of rags and bones and old iron rubbish? They are mere rakings of the refuse-heap, things that human society once needed and then rejected. He collects them again, and now the poor can buy them. And he buys the soldiers' bread too, when they want to go on the spree, and throws it on his muck-heap; he calls it fodder for horses, but the poor buy it of him and eat it. The refuse-heap is the poor man's larder --that is, when the pigs have taken what they want. The Amager farmers fatten their swine there, and the sanitary commission talks about forbidding it; but no one has compassion on the Copenhagen poor." Pelle shuddered. There was something demoniacal in Morten's hideous knowledge--he knew more of the "Ark" than Pelle himself. "Have you, too, been down in that loathsome rubbish-store?" he asked, "or how do you know all this?" "No, I've not been there--but I can't help knowing it--that's my curse! Ask me even whether they make soup out of the rotten bones they get there. And not even the poison of the refuse-heap will inflame them; they lap it up and long for more! I can't bear it if nothing is going to happen! Now you've pulled yourself out of the mire--and it's the same with everybody who has accomplished anything--one after another--either because they are contented or because they are absorbed in their own pitiful affairs. Those who are of any use slink away, and only the needy are left." "I have never left you in the lurch," said Pelle warmly. "You must realize that I haven't." "It isn't to be wondered at that they get weary," Morten continued. "Even God loses patience with those who always let themselves be trampled upon. Last night I dreamed I was one of the starving. I was going up the street, grieving at my condition, and I ran up against God. He was dressed like an old Cossack officer, and had a knout hanging round his neck. "'Help me, dear God!' I cried, and fell on my knees before him. 'My brothers won't help me.' "'What ails you?' he asked, 'and who are you?' "'I am one of Thy chosen folk, one of the poor,' I answered. 'I am starving!' "'You are starving and complain of your brothers, who have set forth food for you in abundance?' he said angrily, pointing to all the fine shops. 'You do not belong to my chosen people--away with you!' And then he lashed me over the back with his knout." Morten checked himself and spoke no more; it was as though he neither saw nor heard; he had quite collapsed. Suddenly he turned away, without saying good-bye. Pelle went home; he was vexed by Morten's violence, which was, he felt, an attack upon himself. He knew this of himself--that he was not faithless; and no one had any right to grudge him the happiness of founding a family. He was quite indignant--for the first time for a long time. That they should taunt him, who had done more for the cause than most!--just because he looked after his own affairs for a time! Something unruly was rising within him; he felt a sudden need to lay about him; to fight a good stiff battle and shake the warm domesticity out of his bones. Down by the canal they were engaged cutting the ice in order to clear the water. It was already spring tide, and the ice-cakes were drifting toward the sea, but with unbelievable slowness. After all, that's the work for you, he told himself as he turned away. He was conscious of that which lay beneath the surface, but he would not let it rise. As soon as he was between four walls again he grew calmer. Ellen sat by the stove busied with little Lasse, who lay sprawling on his belly in her lap. "Only look what a sweet little roly-poly he is! There isn't a trace of chafing anywhere!" XVII From his place at the window Pelle could look out over the canal and the bridge by the prison, where the prisoners lay on the rafts, washing wool. He recognized Ferdinand's tall, powerful figure; shortly after Christmas they had captured him in an underground vault in the cemetery, where he had established himself; the snow had betrayed his hiding- place. And now he lay yonder, so near the "Ark" and his mother! From time to time he raised his closely-shorn head and looked thither. Beyond the bridge toward the market, was the potter with his barge; he had piled up his Jutland wares on the quay, and the women from Kristianshavn came to deal with him. And behind at the back of all rose the mass of the "Ark." It was so huge that it did not give the impression of a barracks, but had rather the character of a fantastic village--as though a hundred hamlets had been swept together in one inextricable heap. Originally it had been a little frame building of one story with a gabled roof. Then it had gradually become an embryo town; it budded in all directions, upward as well, kaleidoscopically increasing to a vast mass of little bits of facade, high-pitched roofs, deep bays, and overhanging gables, all mingled together in an endless confusion, till in the middle it was five stories high. And there a bluish ring of vapor always hovered, revealing the presence of the well, that hidden ventilating shaft for the thronging inmates of the "Ark." One could recognize Madam Frandsen's garret with its chimney-cowl, and farther back, in a deep recess, which ran far into the mass of the building, Pelle could distinguish Hanne's window. Otherwise he could not place many of the little windows. They stared like failing eyes. Even the coal-dealer, who was the deputy landlord of the "Ark," was imperfectly acquainted with all its holes and corners. He could see the inmates of the "Ark" running to and fro across the bridge, careless and myopic; they always rushed along, having started at the last moment.. There was something tranquilizing about their negligence, which was evoked by privation; in the "Ark" a man began to worry about his food only, when he sat down to table and discovered there wasn't any! And among them little groups of workmen wandered in and out across the bridge; that steady march from the North Bridge had travelled hither, as though seeking him out. The masses were now no longer vaguely fermenting; a mighty will was in process of formation. Amid the confusion, the chaotic hubbub, definite lines became visible; a common consciousness came into being and assumed a direction; the thousands of workers controlled themselves in a remarkable way, and were now progressing, slowly and prudently, with the ideal of closing up the ranks. One whose hearing was a little dull might have received the impression that nothing was happening--that they were reconciled with their lot; but Pelle knew what was going on. He himself had put his shoulder to the wheel, and was secretly one of their number. He was happy in Ellen's divided love, and all he undertook had reference to her and the child. But now again the sound of footsteps echoed through his brain; and it would not be silenced. They had penetrated further than he himself could go. It was as though a deadening screen had suddenly been removed and whether he wished it or not, he heard every step of the wanderers outside. The hard times forced them to proceed quietly, but work was being done in secret. The new ideas were in process of becoming current, the newspapers introduced them into the bosom of the family, and they were uttered from the speaker's platform, or discussed at meal-times in workshop and factory. The contagion ran up staircases and went from door to door. Organizations which more than once had been created and broken up were created afresh--and this time to endure. The employers fought them, but could not defeat them; there was an inward law working upon the masses, making a structure behind which they must defend themselves. They taxed themselves and stole the bread out of their own mouths in order to increase the funds of their organization, in the blind conviction that eventually something miraculous would come of it all. The poor achieved power by means of privation, tears, and self-denial, and had the satisfaction of feeling that they were rich through their organization. When many united together they tasted of the sweets of wealth; and, grateful as they were, they regarded that already as a result. A sense of well-being lifted them above the unorganized, and they felt themselves socially superior to the latter. To join the trades unions now signified a rise in the social scale. This affected many, and others were driven into the movement by the strong representations of their house-mates. The big tenement buildings were gradually leavened by the new ideas; those who would not join the Union must clear out. They were treated as the scum of society, and could only settle down in certain quarters of the city. It no longer seemed impossible to establish the organization of labor in a stable fashion, and to accomplish something for the workers--if only some courageous worker would place himself at the head of affairs. The fact that most of them worked at home in their lodgings could no longer make them invisible-- the movement had eyes everywhere. Pelle, with surprise, caught himself sitting at his bench and making plans for the development of the movement. He put the matter from him, and devoted his whole mind to Ellen and the child. What had he to do with the need of strangers, when these two called for all his ability and all his strength, if he was to provide them merely with necessities? He had tortured himself enough with the burden of poverty--and to no end. And now he had found his release in a blessed activity, which, if he was to neglect nothing, would entirely absorb him. What then was the meaning of this inward admonition, that seemed to tell him that he was sinning against his duty? He silenced the inward voice by dwelling on his joy in his wife and child. But it returned insidiously and haunted his mind like a shadow. At times, as he sat quietly working, something called him: "Pelle, Pelle!"--or the words throbbed in his ears in the depth of the night. At such times he sat upright in bed, listening. Ellen and the child were fast asleep; he could hear a faint whistling as little Lasse drew his breath. He would go to the door and open it, although he shook his head at his own folly. It was surely a warning that some one near to him was in trouble! At this time Pelle threw himself passionately into his life with Ellen and the child; he lived for them as wholly as though he had anticipated an immediate parting. They had purchased a perambulator on the instalment system, and every Sunday they packed sandwiches under the apron and pushed it before them to the Common, or they turned into some beer-garden in the neighborhood of the city, where they ate their provisions and drank coffee. Often too they made their way along the coast road, and went right out into the forest. Lasse-Frederik, as Ellen called him, sat throned in all his splendor in the perambulator, like a little idol, Pelle and Ellen pushing him alternately. Ellen did not want to permit this. "It's no work for a man, pushing a perambulator," she would say. "You won't see any other man doing it! They let their wives push the family coach." "What are other people to me?" replied Pelle. "I don't keep a horse yet." She gave him a grateful look; nevertheless, she did not like it. They spent glorious hours out there. Little Lasse was allowed to scramble about to his heart's content, and it was wonderful how he tumbled about; he was like a frolicsome little bear. "I believe he can smell the earth under him," said Pelle, recalling his own childish transports. "It's a pity he has to live in that barrack there!" Ellen gazed at him uncomprehendingly. They did not move about much; it contented them to lie there and to delight in the child, when he suddenly sat up and gazed at them in astonishment, as though he had just discovered them. "Now he's beginning to think!" said Pelle, laughing. "You take my word for it, he's hungry." And little Lasse scrambled straight up to his mother, striking at her breast with his clenched hands, and saying, "Mam, mam!" Pelle and the perambulator had to station themselves in front of her while he was fed. When they reached home it was evening. If the doormat was displaced it meant that some one had been to call on them; and Ellen was able to tell, from its position, who the visitor had been. Once it stood upright against the wall. "That's Uncle Carpenter," said Pelle quietly. Little Lasse was sleeping on his arm, his head resting on Pelle's shoulder. "No, it will have been Cousin Anna," said Ellen, opening the door. "Thank the Lord we weren't at home, or we should have had such a business till late in the evening! They never eat anything at home on Sundays, they simply drink a mouthful of coffee and then go round eating their relations out of house and home." XVIII Pelle often thought with concern of the three orphans in the "Ark." They were learning nothing that would be of use to them in the future, but had all they could do to make a living. The bad times had hit them too, and little Karl in particular; people were stingy with their tips. In these days they were never more than a day ahead of destitution, and the slightest misfortune would have brought them face to face with it. But they let nothing of this be seen--they were only a little quieter and more solemn than usual. He had on several occasions made inquiries as to obtaining help for them, but nothing could be done without immediately tearing them asunder; all those who were in a position to help them cried out against their little household, and separation was the worst that could befall them. When he went to see them Marie always had plenty to tell and to ask him; he was still her particular confidant, and had to listen to all her household cares and give her his advice. She was growing tall now, and had a fresher look than of old; and Pelle's presence always filled her eyes with joy and brought the color to her cheeks. Father Lasse she eulogized, in a voice full of emotion, as though he were a little helpless child; but when she asked after Ellen a little malice glittered in her eyes. One morning, as he sat working at home, while Ellen was out with the child, there was a knock at the door. He went out and opened it. In the little letter-box some one had thrust a number of _The Working Man_, with an invitation to take the paper regularly. He opened the paper eagerly, as he sat down to his bench again; an extraordinary feeling of distress caused him first of all to run through the "Accidents." He started up in his chair; there was a heading concerning a fourteen- year-old boy who worked in a tinplate works and had had the fingers of the right hand cut off. A premonition told him that this misfortune had befallen the little "Family"; he quickly drew on a coat and ran over to the "Ark." Marie met him anxiously. "Can you understand what has happened to Peter? He never came home last night!" she said, in distress. "Lots of boys roam about the streets all night, but Peter has never been like that, and I kept his supper warm till midnight. I thought perhaps he'd got into bad company." Pelle showed her _The Working Man_. In a little while the inmates of the "Ark" would see the report and come rushing up with it. It was better that he should prepare her beforehand. "But it's by no means certain," he said, to cheer her. "Perhaps it isn't he at all." Marie burst into tears. "Yes, of course it is! I've so often gone about worrying when he's been telling me about those sharp knives always sliding between their fingers. And they can't take proper care of themselves; they must work quickly or they get the sack. Oh, poor dear Peter!" She had sunk into her chair and now sat rocking to and fro with her apron to her eyes, like an unhappy mother. "Now be grown-up and sensible," said Pelle, laying his hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps it's not so bad after all; the papers always exaggerate. Now I'll run out and see if I can trace him." "Go to the factory first, then," said Marie, jumping to her feet, "for, of course, they'll know best. But you mustn't in any case say where we live--do you hear? Remember, we've not been to school, and he hasn't been notified to the pastor for confirmation. We could be punished if they found that out." "I'll take good care," said Pelle, and he hurried away. At the factory he received the information that Peter was lying in hospital. He ran thither, and arrived just at the time for visitors. Peter was sitting upright in bed, his hand in a sling; this gave him a curiously crippled appearance. And on the boy's face affliction had already left those deep, ineradicable traces which so dismally distinguish the invalided worker. The terrible burden of the consequences of mutilation could already be read in his pondering, childish gaze. He cheered up when he saw Pelle, made an involuntary movement with his right hand, and then, remembering, held out his left. "There--I must give you my left fist now," he said, with a dismal smile. "That'll seem queer to me for a bit. If I can do anything at all. Otherwise"--he made a threatening movement of the head--"I tell you this--I'll never be a burden to Marie and Karl all my life. Take my word for it, I shall be able to work again." "We shall soon find something for you," said Pelle, "and there are kind people, too. Perhaps some one will help you so that you can study." He himself did not know just where that idea came from; he certainly had never seen such a case. The magical dreams of his childhood had been responsible for a whole class of ideas, which were nourished by the anecdotes of poor boys in the reading-books. He was confronted by the impossible, and quite simply he reached out after the impossible. Peter had no reading-books at his back. "Kind people!" he cried scornfully--"they never have anything themselves, and I can't even read --how should I learn how to study? Karl can read; he taught himself from the signs in the streets while he was running his errands; and he can write as well. And Hanne has taught Marie a little. But all my life I've only been in the factory." He stared bitterly into space; it was melancholy to see how changed his face was--it had quite fallen in. "Don't worry now," said Pelle confidently: "we shall soon find something." "Only spare me the poor-relief! Don't you go begging for me--that's all!" said Peter angrily. "And, Pelle," he whispered, so that no one in the room should hear, "it really isn't nice here. Last night an old man lay there and died--close to me. He died of cancer, and they didn't even put a screen round him. All the time he lay there and stared at me! But in a few days I shall be able to go out. Then there'll be something to be paid--otherwise the business will come before the Poor Law guardians, and then they'll begin to snuff around--and I've told them fibs, Pelle! Can't you come and get me out? Marie has money for the house-rent by her--you can take that." Pelle promised, and hurried back to his work. Ellen was at home; she was moving about and seemed astonished. Pelle confided the whole affair to her. "Such a splendid fellow he is," he said, almost crying. "A little too solemn with all his work--and now he's a cripple! Only a child, and an invalided worker already--it's horrible to think of!" Ellen went up to him and pulled his head against her shoulder; soothingly she stroked his hair. "We must do something for him, Ellen," he said dully. "You are so good, Pelle. You'd like to help everybody; but what can we do? We've paid away all our savings over my lying-in." "We must sell or pawn some of our things." She looked at him horrified. "Pelle, our dear home! And there's nothing here but just what is absolutely necessary. And you who love our poor little belongings so! But if you mean that, why, of course! Only you are doing something for him already in sacrificing your time." After that he was silent. She several times referred to the matter again, as something that must be well deliberated, but he did not reply. Her conversation hurt him--whether he replied to it or was silent. In the afternoon he invented an errand in the city, and made his way to the factory. He made for the counting-house, and succeeded in seeing the manufacturer himself. The latter was quite upset by the occurrence, but pleaded in vindication that the accident was entirely the result of negligence. He advised Pelle to make a collection among the workers in the factory, and he opened it himself with a contribution of twenty kroner. He also held out the prospect that Peter, who was a reliable lad, might take a place as messenger and collector when he was well again. Peter was much liked by his comrades; a nice little sum was collected. Pelle paid his hospital dues, and there was so much left that he would be able to stay at home and rest with an easy mind until his hand was healed and he could take the place of messenger at the factory. The young invalid was in high spirits, knowing that his living was assured; he passed the time in lounging about the town, wherever there was music to be heard, in order to learn fresh tunes. "This is the first holiday I've had since I went to the factory," he told Pelle. He did not get the place as messenger--some one stole a march on him; but he received permission to go back to his old work! With the remains of his right hand he could hold the sheet of tin-plate on the table, while the left hand had to accustom itself to moving among the threatening knives. This only demanded time and a little extra watchfulness. This accident was branded on Pelle's soul, and it aroused his slumbering resentment. Chance had given him the three orphans in the place of brothers and sisters, and he felt Peter's fate as keenly as if it had been his own. It was a scandal that young children should be forced to earn their living by work that endangered their lives, in order to keep the detested Poor Law guardians at bay. What sort of a social order was this? He felt a suffocating desire to strike out, to attack it. The burden of Due's fate, aggravated by this fresh misfortune, was once more visible in his face; Ellen's gentle hand, could not smooth it away. "Don't look so angry, now--you frighten the child so!" she would say, reaching him the boy. And Pelle would try to smile; but it was only a grim sort of smile. He did not feel that it was necessary to allow Ellen to look into his bleeding soul; he conversed with her about indifferent things. At other times he sat gazing into the distance, peering watchfully at every sign; he was once more full of the feeling that he was appointed to some particular purpose. He was certain that tidings of some kind were on the way to him. And then Shoemaker Petersen died, and he was again asked to take over the management of the Union. "What do you say to that?" he asked Ellen, although his mind was irrevocably made up. "You must know that yourself," she replied reservedly. "But if it gives you pleasure, why, of course!" "I am not doing it to please myself," said Pelle gloomily. "I am not a woman!" He regretted his words, and went over to Ellen and kissed her. She had tears in her eyes, and looked at him in astonishment. XIX There was plenty to be done. The renegades must be shepherded back to the organization--shepherded or driven; Pelle took the most willing first, allowing numbers to impress the rest. Those who were quite stubborn he left to their own devices for the time being; when they were isolated and marked men into the bargain, they could do no further mischief. He felt well rested, and went very methodically to work. The feeling that his strength would hold out to the very end lent him a quiet courage that inspired confidence. He was not over-hasty, but saw to everything from the foundations upward; individual questions he postponed until the conditions for solving them should be at hand. He knew from previous experience that nothing could be accomplished unless the ranks were tightly knit together. So passed the remainder of the summer. And then the organization was complete; it looked as though it could stand a tussle. And the first question was the tariff. This was bad and antiquated; thoroughly behind the times in all respects; the trade was groaning under a low rate of wages, which had not kept step with the general development and the augmentation of prices. But Pelle allowed his practical common sense to prevail. The moment was not favorable for a demand for higher wages. The organization could not lend the demand sufficient support; they must for the time being content themselves with causing the current tariff to be respected. Many of the large employers did not observe it, although they themselves had introduced it. Meyer was a particularly hard case; he made use of every possible shift and evasion to beat down the clearest wages bill. Complaints were continually coming in, and one day Pelle went to him in order to discuss the situation and come to some agreement. He was prepared to fight for the inviolability of the tariff, otherwise Meyer would make big promises and afterward break them. He had really expected Meyer to show him the door; however, he did not do so, but treated him with a sort of polite effrontery. Hatred of his old enemy awaked in Pelle anew, and it was all he could do to control himself. "The embargo will be declared against you if you don't come to an arrangement with your workers within a week," he said threateningly. Meyer laughed contemptuously. "What's that you say? Oh, yes, your embargo, we know something about that! But then the employers will declare a lock-out for the whole trade--what do you think of that? Old hats will be selling cheap!" Pelle was silent, and withdrew; it was the only way in which he could succeed in keeping cool. He had said what had to be said, and he was no diplomat, to smile quietly with a devil lurking in the corners of his eyes. Meyer obligingly accompanied him to the door. "Can I oblige you in any other way--with work, for example? I could very well find room for a worker who will make children's boots and shoes." When Pelle reached the street he drew a long breath. Poof! That was tough work; a little more insolence and he'd have given him one on the jaw! That would have been the natural answer to the fellow's effrontery! Well, it was a fine test for his hot temper, and he had stood it all right! He could always be master of the situation if he held his tongue. "Now suppose we do put an embargo on Meyer," he thought, as he went down the street. "What then? Why, then he'll hit back and declare a lock-out. Could we hold out? Not very long, but the employers don't know that--and then their businesses would be ruined. But then they would introduce workers from abroad--or, if that didn't answer, they would get the work done elsewhere; or they would import whole cargoes of machinery, as they have already begun to do on a small scale." Pelle stood still in the middle of the street. Damn it all, this wouldn't do! He must take care that he didn't make a hash of the whole affair. If these foreign workers and machines were introduced, a whole host of men would in a moment be deprived of their living. But he wanted to have a go at Meyer; there must be some means of giving the bloodsucker a blow that he would feel in his purse! Next morning he went as usual to Beck's. Beck looked at him from over his spectacles. "I've nothing more to do with you, Pelle," he said, in a low voice. "What!" cried Pelle, startled. "But we've such a lot of work on hand, master!" "Yes, but I can't employ you any longer. I'm not doing this of my own free will; I have always been very well pleased with you; but that's how it stands. There are so many things one has to take into consideration; a shoemaker can do nothing without leather, and one can't very well do without credit with the leather merchants." He would not say anything further. But Pelle had sufficiently grasped the situation. He was the president of the Shoemakers' Union; Master Beck had been compelled to dismiss him, by the threat of stopping his source of supplies. Pelle was a marked man because he was at the head of the organization--although the latter was now recognized. This was an offence against the right of combination. Still there was nothing to be done about the matter; one had the right to dismiss a man if one had no further need of him. Meyer was a cunning fellow! For a time Pelle drifted about dejectedly. He was by no means inclined to go home to Ellen with this melancholy news; so he went to see various employers in order to ask them for work. But as soon as they heard who he was they found they had nothing for him to do. He saw that a black mark had been set against his name. So he must confine himself to home work, and must try to hunt up more acquaintances of his acquaintances. And he must be ready day and night lest some small shoemaker who muddled along without assistance should suddenly have more to do than he could manage. Ellen took things as they came, and did not complain. But she was mutely hostile to the cause of their troubles. Pelle received no help from her in his campaign; whatever he engaged in, he had to fight it out alone. This did not alter his plans, but it engendered a greater obstinacy in him. There was one side of his nature that Ellen's character was unable to reach; well, she was only a woman, after all. One must be indulgent with her! He was kind to her, and in his thoughts he more and more set her on a level with little Lasse. In that way he avoided considering her opinion concerning serious matters--and thereby felt more of a man. Thanks to his small salary as president of his Union, they suffered no actual privation. Pelle did not like the idea of accepting this salary; he felt greatly inclined to refuse the few hundred kroner. There was not a drop of bureaucratic blood in his veins, and he did not feel that a man should receive payment for that which he accomplished for the general good. But now this money came in very conveniently; and he had other things to do than to make mountains out of molehills. He had given up the embargo; but he was always racking his brains for some way of getting at Meyer; it occupied him day and night. One day his thoughts blundered upon Meyer's own tactics. Although he was quite innocent, they had driven him away from his work. How would it be if he were to employ the same method and, quite secretly, take Meyer's workmen away from him? Meyer was the evil spirit of the shoemaker's craft. He sat there like a tyrant, thanks to his omnipotence, and oppressed the whole body of workers. It would not be so impossible to set a black mark against his name! And Pelle did not mean to be too particular as to the means. He talked the matter over with his father-in-law, whose confidence in him was now restored. Stolpe, who was an old experienced tactician, advised him not to convoke any meeting on this occasion, but to settle the matter with each man face to face, so that the Union could not be attacked. "You've got plenty of time," he said. "Go first of all to the trustworthy fellows, and make them understand what sort of a man Karl Meyer is; take his best people away first of all; it won't do him much good to keep the bad ones. You can put the fear of God into your mates when you want to! Do your business so well that no one will have the courage any longer to take the place of those that leave him. He must be branded as what he is--but between man and man." Pelle did not spare himself; he went from one comrade to another, fiery and energetic. And what had proved impossible three years before he was now able to accomplish; the resentment of Meyer's injustice had sunk into the minds of all. Meyer had been in the habit of letting his workers run about to no purpose; if the work was not quite ready for them they could call again. And when the work was given out to them they had, as a rule, to finish it with a rush; there was intention in this; it made the people humble and submissive. But now the boot was on the other leg. The workers did not call; they did not deliver urgent commissions at the appointed time; Meyer had to send to them, and got his own words as answer; they were not quite ready yet, but they would see what they could do for him! He had to run after his own workers in order not to offend his rich customers. In the first instances he settled the matter, as a rule, by dismissal. But that did not help him at all; the devil of arrogance had entered into the simple journeymen! It looked as though they had got their ideas of master and subordinate reversed! He had to give up trusting to the hard hand on the rein; he must seek them out with fair words! His business had the whole fashionable world as customer, and always required a staff of the very best workers. But not even friendly approaches availed. Scarcely did he find a good journeyman-worker but he was off again, and if he asked the reason he always received the same jeering answer: they didn't feel inclined to work. He offered high wages, and at great expense engaged qualified men from outside; but Pelle was at once informed and immediately sought them out. When they had been subjected to his influence only for a few days they went back to the place they came from, or found other masters, who, now that Meyer's business was failing, were getting more orders. People who went to the warehouse said that Meyer was raging about upstairs, abusing innocent people and driving them away from him. Meyer was conscious of a hand behind all this, and he demanded that the Employers' Union should declare a lock-out. But the other masters scented a move for his benefit in this. His own business was moribund, so he wanted to bring theirs to a standstill also. They had no fundamental objection to the new state of affairs; in any case they could see no real occasion for a lock-out. So he was forced to give in, and wrote to Pelle requesting him to enter into negotiations--in order to put an end to the unrest affecting the craft. Pelle, who as yet possessed no skill in negotiations, answered Meyer in a very casual manner, practically sending him about his business. He showed his reply to his father-in-law before dispatching it. "No, deuce take it, that won't do!" said Stolpe. "Look you, my lad, everything depends on the tone you take, if you are dealing with labor politics! These big folks think such a damn lot about the way a thing is wrapped up! If I were setting about this business I'd come out with the truth and chuck it in their faces--but that won't answer; they'd be so wild there'd be no dealing with them. Just a nice little lie--that answers much better! Yes, yes, one has to be a diplomatist and set a fox to catch a fox. Now you write what I tell you! I'll give you an example. Now--" Stolpe paced up and down the room a while, with a thoughtful expression; he was in shirt-sleeves and slippers and had thrust both his forefingers in his waistcoat pockets. "Are you ready, son-in-law? Then we'll begin!" "To the President of the Employers' Union, Herre H. Meyer, Shoemaker to the Court. "Being in receipt of your honored favor of yesterday's date hereby acknowledged, I take the liberty of remarking that so far as is known to me complete quiet and the most orderly conditions prevail throughout the trade. There appears therefore to be no motive for negotiation. "For the Shoemakers' Union, "Your obedient servant, "PELLE." "There, that's to the point, eh? Napoleon himself might have put his name to that! And there's enough sting to it, too!" said Stolpe, much gratified. "Now write that out nicely, and then get a big envelope." Pelle felt quite important when he had written this out on a big sheet of paper; it was like an order of the day issued by a sheriff or burgomaster at home. Only in respect of its maliciousness he entertained a certain doubt. One morning, a few days later, he was sitting at home working. In the meantime he had been obliged to undertake casual jobs for sailors in the harbor, and now he was soling a pair of sea-boots for a seaman on board a collier. On the other side of the bench sat little Lasse, chattering and aping his movements, and every time Pelle drove a peg home the youngster knocked his rattle against the edge of the table, and Pelle smiled at him. Ellen was running in and out between the living-room and the kitchen. She was serious and silent. There was a knock at the door. She ran to the stove, snatching away some of the child's linen which was drying there, ran out, and opened the door. A dark, corpulent gentleman in a fur overcoat entered, bowing, holding his tall hat before him, together with his gloves and stick. Pelle could not believe his eyes--it was the Court shoemaker! "He's come to have it out!" thought Pelle, and prepared himself for a tussle. His heart began to thump, there was a sudden sinking inside him; his old submissiveness was on the point of coming to the surface and mastering him. But that was only for a moment; then he was himself again. Quietly he offered his guest a chair. Meyer sat down, looking about the neat, simple room as though he wanted to compare his enemy's means with his own before he made a move. Pelle gathered something from his wandering glance, and suddenly found himself considerably richer in his knowledge of human nature. "He's sitting there staring about him to see if something has gone to the pawnshop," he thought indignantly. "H'm! I have received your favor of the other day," began Meyer. "You are of opinion that there is no occasion for a discussion of the situation; but--however--ah--I think--" "That is certainly my opinion," answered Pelle, who had resolved to adhere to the tone of the letter. "The most perfect order prevails everywhere. But generally speaking it would seem that matters ought to go smoothly now, when we each have our Union and can discuss affairs impartially." He gazed innocently at Meyer. "Ah, you think so too! It cannot be unknown to you that my workers have left me one after another--not to say that they were taken away from me. Even to please you I can't call those orderly conditions." Pelle sat there getting angrier and angrier at his finicking tone. Why the devil couldn't he bluster like a proper man instead of sitting there and making his damned allusions? But if he wanted that sort of foolery he should have it! "Ah! your people are leaving you?" he said, in an interested manner. "They are," said Meyer, and he looked surprised. Pelle's tone made him feel uncertain. "And they are playing tricks on me; they don't keep to their engagements, and they keep my messengers running about to no purpose. Formerly every man came to get his work and to deliver it, but now I have to keep messengers for that; the business can't stand it." "The journeymen have had to run about to no purpose--I myself have worked for you," replied Pelle. "But you are perhaps of opinion that we can better bear the loss of time?" Meyer shrugged his shoulders. "That's a condition of your livelihood-- its conditions are naturally based on order. But if only I could at least depend on getting hands! Man, this can't go on!" he cried suddenly, "damn and blast it all, it can't go on, it's not honorable!" Little Lasse gave a jump and began to bellow. Ellen came hurrying in and took him into the bedroom. Pelle's mouth was hard. "If your people are leaving you, they must surely have some reason for it," he replied; he would far rather have told Meyer to his face that he was a sweater! "The Union can't compel its members to work for an employer with whom perhaps they can't agree. I myself even have been dismissed from a workshop--but we can't bother two Unions on those grounds!" He looked steadily at his opponent as he made this thrust; his features were quivering slightly. "Aha!" Meyer responded, and he rubbed his hands with an expression that seemed to say that--now at last he felt firm ground under his feet. "Aha--so it's out at last! So you're a diplomatist into the bargain--a great diplomatist! You have a clever husband, little lady!" He turned to Ellen, who was busying herself at the sideboard. "Now just listen, Herre Pelle! You are just the man for me, and we must come to an arrangement. When two capable men get talking together something always comes of it-- it couldn't be otherwise! I have room for a capable and intelligent expert who understands fitting and cutting. The place is well paid, and you can have a written contract for a term of years. What do you say to that?" Pelle raised his head with a start. Ellen's eyes began to sparkle, and then became mysteriously dark; they rested on him compellingly, as though they would burn their purpose into him. For a moment he gazed before him, bewildered. The offer was so overpowering, so surprising; and then he laughed. What, what, was he to sell himself to be the understrapper of a sweater! "That won't do for me," he replied. "You must naturally consider my offer," said Meyer, rising. "Shall we say three days?" When the Court shoemaker had gone, Ellen came slowly back and laid her arm round Pelle's shoulders. "What a clever, capable man you are, then!" she said, in a low voice, playing with his hair; there was something apologetic in her manner. She said nothing to call attention to the offer, but she began to sing at her work. It was a long time since Pelle had heard her sing; and the song was to him like a radiant assurance that this time he would be the victor. XX Pelle continued the struggle indefatigably, contending with opposing circumstances and with disloyalty, but always returning more boldly to the charge. Many times in the course of the conflict he found himself back at the same place; Meyer obtained a new lot of workers from abroad, and he had to begin all over again; he had to work on them until they went away again, or to make their position among their housemates so impossible that they resigned. The later winter was hard and came to Meyer's assistance. He paid his workers well now, and had brought together a crowd of non-union hands; for a time it looked as though he would get his business going again. But Pelle had left the non-unionists alone only through lack of time; now he began to seek them out, and he spoke with more authority than before. Already people were remarking on his strength of will; and most of them surrendered beforehand. "The devil couldn't stand up against him!" they said. He never wavered in his faith in an ultimate victory, but went straight ahead; he did not philosophize about the other aspect of the result, but devoted all his energies to achieving it. He was actuated by sheer robust energy, and it led him the shortest way. The members of the Union followed him willingly, and willingly accepted the privations involved in the emptying of the workshops. He possessed their confidence, and they found that it was, after all, glorious sport to turn the tables, when for once in a way they could bring the grievance home to its point of departure! They knew by bitter experience what it was to run about to no purpose, to beg for work, and to beg for their wages, and to haggle over them--in short, to be the underdog. It was amusing to reverse the roles. Now the mouse was playing with the cat and having a rattling good time of it-- although the claws did get home now and again! Pelle felt their confidence, the trust of one and all, in the readiness with which they followed him, as though he were only the expression of their own convictions. And when he stood up at the general meetings or conferences, in order to make a report or to conduct an agitation, and the applause of his comrades fell upon his ears, he felt an influx of sheer power. He was like the ram of a ship; the weight of the whole was behind him. He began to feel that he was the expression of something great; that there was a purpose within him. The Pelle who dealt so quietly and cleverly with Meyer and achieved precisely what he willed was not the usual Pelle. A greater nature was working within him, with more responsibility, according to his old presentiment. He tested himself, in order to assimilate this as a conviction, and he felt that there was virtue in the idea. This higher nature stood in mystical connection with so much in his life; far back into his childhood he could trace it, as an abundant promise. So many had involuntarily expected something from him; he had listened to them with wonder, but now their expectation was proving prophetic. He paid strict attention to his words in his personal relations, now that their illimitable importance had been revealed to him. But in his agitator's work the strongest words came to him most naturally; came like an echo out of the illimitable void that lay behind him. He busied himself with his personality. All that had hitherto had free and careless play must now be circumscribed and made to serve an end. He examined his relations with Ellen, was indulgent to her, and took pains to understand her demand for happiness. He was kind and gentle to her, but inflexible in his resolve. He had no conscientious scruples in respect of the Court shoemaker. Meyer had in all respects misused his omnipotence long enough; owing to his huge business he had made conditions and ruled them; and the evil of those conditions must be brought home to him. It was now summer and a good time for the workers, and his business was rapidly failing. Pelle foresaw his fall, and felt himself to be a righteous avenger. The year-long conflict absorbed his whole mind. He was always on his feet; came rushing home to the work that lay there waiting for him, threw it aside like a maniac, and hurried off again. He did not see much of Ellen and little Lasse these days; they lived their own life without him. He dared not rest on what he had accomplished, now that the cohesion of the Union was so powerful. He was always seeking means to strengthen and to undermine; he did not wish to fall a sacrifice to the unforeseen. His indefatigability infected his comrades, they became more eager the longer the struggle lasted. The conflict was magnified by the sacrifice it demanded, and by the strength of the opposition; Meyer gradually became a colossus whom all must stake their welfare to hew down. Families were ruined thereby, but the more sacrifice the struggle demanded the more recklessly they struggled on. And they were full of jubilation on the day when the colossus fell, and buried some of them in his fall! Pelle was the undisputed victor. The journeyman-cobbler had laid low the biggest employer in the trade. They did not ask what the victory had cost, but carried his name in triumph. They cheered when they caught sight of him or when his name was mentioned. Formerly this would have turned his head, but now he regarded his success as entirely natural--as the expression of a higher power! A few days later he summoned a general meeting of the Union, laid before them the draft of a new tariff which was adapted to the times, and proposed that they should at once begin the fight for its adoption. "We could never have a better opportunity," he said. "Now they have seen what we can do! With the tariff question we struck down Meyer! We must strike the iron while it is hot!" He reckoned that his comrades were just in the mood for battle, despite all the privations that the struggle had entailed, and he was not mistaken. His proposal was unanimously accepted. But there was no fight for better wages. Meyer was now making the rounds of the employers' establishments with the sample-box of one of the leather firms. The sight of this once so mighty man had a stimulating effect. The masters' Union appointed a few employers with whom the workers' Union could discuss the question of the tariff. XXI It often happened that Pelle would look back with longing on his quiet home-life with Ellen and the child, and he felt dejectedly that they lived in a happier world, and were on the point of accustoming themselves to live without him. "When once you have got this out of hand you can live really comfortably with them again," he thought. But one thing inevitably followed on another, and one question arose from the solution of another, and the poor man's world unfolded itself like the development of a story. The fame of his skill as organizer spread itself abroad; everywhere men were at work with the idea of closing up the ranks, and many began to look toward him with expectant eyes. Frequently workers came to him begging him to help them to form an organization--no one had such a turn for the work as he. Then they called a meeting together, and Pelle explained the process to them. There was a certain amount of fancifulness and emphasis in his speech, but they understood him very well. "He talks so as to make your ears itch," they told one another. He was the man they trusted, and he initiated them into the practical side of the matter. "But you must sacrifice your wages--so that you can start a fund," he told them continually; "without money nothing can be done. Remember, it's capital itself we are fighting against!" "Will it be any use to understand boxing when the fight comes on?" asked a simple-minded workman one day. "Yes--cash-boxing!" retorted Pelle swiftly. They laughed, and turned their pitiful pockets inside out. They gazed a moment at the money before they gave it away. "Oh, well, it's of no consequence," they said. "The day will soon come when it will be of consequence--if we only hang together," said Pelle confidently. It was the dripping they had scraped off their bread--he knew that well, but there was no help for it! In these days he was no better situated than they were. His activities were leading him abroad, in wider and wider circles, until he found himself at length in the very midst of the masses. Their number did not astonish him; he had always really been conscious of that. And he grew by this contact, and measured himself and the movement by an ever-increasing standard. At this time he underwent a noticeable change in his outer man. In his forehead were always those deep creases which in young men speak of a gloomy childhood; they were the only bitter token of that which he had taken upon himself, and reminded one of a clouded sky. Otherwise he looked fresh and healthy enough; his hard life was not undermining his strength; he thrived on the sense of community, and was almost always cheerful. His cheeks grew round as those of a cornet-player, and his distended nostrils spoke of his fiery zeal; he needed much air, and always wore his clothes open upon his chest. His carriage was upright and elastic; his whole appearance was arresting, challenging. When he spoke at meetings there was energy in his words; he grew deeply flushed, and wet with perspiration. Something of this flush remained in his face and neck, and there was always a feeling of heat in his body. When he strode forward he looked like a trumpeter at the head of a column. The many--that was his element. There were many who were to be brought under one hat. Yet most of them lacked a clear understanding; old suspicions suddenly came to light; and many doubts were abroad among the masses. Some believed blindly; others said, "It's all one whether this party or that does the plucking of us!" Nothing of palpable importance occurred, such as to catch the eye; but they came to trust in his personality as the blind man trusts his leader, and they were forever demanding to hear his voice. Pelle became their darling speaker. He felt that their blind confidence bore him up, and for them he gazed far over the hubbub and confusion. He had always been a familiar of Fortune; now he saw it plainly, far out along the route of march, and inflamed them all with his enthusiasm. One evening he was summoned to rouse a calling that was in low water. It was the dustmen who applied to him. In order to stimulate their self- consciousness he showed them what a vast power they possessed in their despised activity. He imagined, as an example, that they refused to work, and painted, with much humor, the results which their action would have for the world of rich people. This had a tremendous effect on the meeting. The men stared at one another as if they had just discovered themselves, and then sat laughing like one man. To follow up his effect, he showed how one kind of work depends on another, and imagined one calling to support another, until a general strike had laid its paralyzing hand on the city. What a fantastic picture it was! Pelle knew nothing of the theory of the labor movement, but his energy and enthusiasm lifted the veil from the remotest consequences. Stimulated and startled by the terrible power which lay in their hands, the dustmen went home. There was something in all this that did not satisfy him; it was in his nature to create, not to destroy. But if only the poor would, they could make society all over again--so Morten had one day said, and the words had never ceased to haunt Pelle's mind. But he could not endure the idea of violent revolution; and now he had found a good way out of his difficulty. He felt convinced that cohesion was irresistible, and that life would undergo a peaceful change. He had welded his own Union together so that the members hung together through thick and thin. He had accomplished something there, but if a real result were to be achieved the Unions here must work in conjunction with those of all the cities in the country, and that was being done to a certain small extent, in his own trade as well as in others. But all these federations of local Unions must be combined in a mighty whole, so that the whole country would be of one single mind. In other countries matters were progressing as here, so why not summon all countries to one vast work of cooperation? Before Pelle was aware, he had included the whole world in his solidarity. He knew now that poverty is international. And he was convinced that the poor man felt alike all the world over. The greatness of this idea did not go to his head. It had evolved naturally on the lines of his own organization--it was just like the idea at the base of the latter. But he continued to play with it until it assumed a definite form. Then he went with his plan to his father-in- law, who was a member of the party executive, and through him was invited to lay the matter before the Central Committee. Pelle was a practised speaker by now, but he was feverishly excited when he stood in the presence of the actual heart of the labor movement. His words delighted the many, but would he succeed in winning over these tried and experienced men, the leaders who stood behind the whole movement, while quietly going about their own business? He felt that this was the most significant day in his life. These were men with quieter temperaments than his own. They sat there immovable, listening with half-closed eyes; his big words brought the faintest smile to their lips--they had long got over that sort of thing! They were artisans and craftsmen who worked hard all day for a living, as did he himself, but several of them had given themselves a considerable education; they must be regarded as scholarly persons. In the evening and on Sundays they worked for the Cause, devising political schemes and devoting themselves to keeping accounts and the ever- increasing work of administration. They were awkward at these unaccustomed tasks, which had hitherto been reserved by quite a different class of society, and had had to grow accustomed thereto; their heads were gray and wrinkled. Pelle felt that he was still only at the beginning. These men gave him the impression of a great secret council; outside they looked like any one else, but here at the green table they sat creating the vast organization into which he merely drove the masses. Here high politics came into play. There was something impious in this--as though one saw ants making plans to overturn a mountain; and he must do the same if he wanted to accomplish anything! But here something more than big words was needed! He involuntarily moderated his tone and did his best to speak in a dry, professional manner. He received no applause when he had finished; the men sat there gazing in front of them with a slightly pondering expression. The silence and the great empty room had the effect of making him feel dizzy. All his faculties were directed outward, drawing strength from the echo from without of the many who had shaped him. But at this decisive moment they were silent, leaving him in suspense, without any kind of support. Was the whole stupendous plan of federation a piece of madness, and was he a fool to propound it? No one replied. The leaders quietly asked him the details of his plan, and undertook to consider it. Pelle left in a state of dreadful suspense. He felt that he had touched upon something on which a great decision depended, and he wanted corroboration of the fact that he had set about the matter rightly. In this moment of need he turned to himself. It was not his way to ask questions of his inner self, but now no other could answer him. He must look to himself for recognition. This was the first time that Pelle had sought refuge in his own ego, or learned to fall back upon it in critical moments. But solitude did not suit him and he sought it only under the compulsion of necessity. His heart beat uncontrollably within him when he learned that his plan was approved. A committee was appointed to put it into execution, and Pelle was on the committee. At one stroke the National Federation made a single army of the many divisions, and was effective merely by the attractive virtue of its mass. It became a heavy and fatiguing task to organize the swarms that came streaming in, as water rushes to the sea, by virtue of a natural law. It needed the talent of a great general to marshal them for a conclusive battle and to lead them into the line of fire. Pelle was naturally placed in the front ranks of the organization; his work was properly that of the pioneer and agitator; no one possessed the ear of the crowd as he did. He had received regular employment from one of the larger employers, which amounted to a recognition of the organization, and the increased rate of wages meant that he earned a moderate income. He did not object to the fact that the work had to be done away from home. Life at home had lost its radiance. Ellen was loving enough, but she had always some purpose in view--and he would not allow himself to be tied! When he went home--and as a rule he managed to include a meal--it was only to make himself ready and to rush out again--to general or committee meetings. Father Lasse was there as a rule in the evenings, and he gazed longingly after Pelle when the latter left his wife and child; he did not understand it, but he did not venture to say anything --he felt a great respect for the lad's undertakings. Ellen and the old man had discovered one another; they were like a pair of horses in harness; there was a great consolation in that. Pelle went forward in a sort of intoxication of power, produced by the sense of the multiplying hosts. He was like an embodiment of those hosts, and he heard their step echoing in his own; it was natural that the situation should assume large dimensions. He was a product of an ancient culture, but a culture that had always dwelt in the shadow, and was based on stern and narrow tenets, each of which summed up a lifetime of bitter experience. The need of light and sunshine, continually suppressed, had been accumulating, through illimitable years, until it had resulted in a monstrous tension. Now it had exploded, and was mounting dizzily upward. His mind was reeling in the heights, in a blinding cloud of light! But fundamentally he was still the sturdy realist and stood with his feet on the earth! The generations beneath him had been disciplined by the cold, and had learned to content themselves with bare necessities; a lesson which they handed down to him, simply and directly, with no inheritance of frivolity. In his world, cause and effect were in a direct line; an obtrusive odor did not translate itself into a spectral chattering of the teeth. The result was in a direct line with the cause --but their relation was often that of the match and the bonfire. Herein lay the strength of his imagination; this was why he could encompass all things with so simple a preparation. He was not afraid to consider the fate of the masses; when he could not see ahead, his old fatalism came to his help. His words flamed high despite himself and kept the hope alive in many who did not themselves understand the meaning of the whole movement, but saw that its adherents grew ever more numerous, and that in other respects they were just as well off. Where he himself could not see he was like a lens that collects the half-darkness and gives it out again as a beam of light. Morten he preferred to avoid. Pelle had gradually absorbed all the theories of the labor movement, and they comfortably filled his mind. And how could one accomplish more than by remaining in harmony with the whole? Morten had an unfruitful tendency to undermine the certainty of one's mind; he always brought forth his words from his inner consciousness, from places where no one else had ever been, and he delivered them as though they had been God's voice in the Bible, which always made people pause in their designs. Pelle respected his peculiar nature, which never marched with the crowd, and avoided him. But his thoughts often returned to him. Morten had first thrown a light upon chaos--upon the knowledge of Pelle's world, the poor man's world; and when he was confronted by any decisive question he involuntarily asked himself how Morten would have dealt with it. At times they met at meetings called together by the workers themselves, and at which they both collaborated. Morten had no respect for the existing laws and little for the new. He did not play a very zealous part in the work of party organization, and was rather held at arm's length by the leaders. But his relations with the man in the street were of the closest. He worked independently; there was scarcely his match in individual cases of need or injustice; and he was always laboring to make people think for themselves. And they loved him. They looked up to Pelle and the rest, and made way for them with shining eyes; but they smilingly put themselves in Morten's way. They wanted to press his hand--he could scarcely make his way to the speaker's platform. His pale face filled them with joy--women and children hung on to him. When he passed through the streets of the poor quarters in his simple clothes, the women smiled at him. "That's him, the master-journeyman, who is so good and so book-learned," they would say. "And now he has sold all his books in order to help a poor child!" And they gave their own children a little push, and the children went up to him and held out their hands and followed him right to the end of the street. XXII When Pelle went now and again to the "Ark," to see his brothers and sister, the news of his visit spread quickly through the building. "Pelle is here!" sounded from gallery to gallery, and they hurried up the stairs in order to nod to him and to seek to entice him to swallow a cup of coffee. Old Madam Frandsen had moved; she disappeared when Ferdinand came out of prison--no one knew whither. Otherwise there were no changes. A few factory women left by night on account of their rent, and others had taken their places. And from time to time some one completed his term, and was carried out of the dark corridors and borne away on the dead-cart--as always. But in the "Ark" there was no change to be observed. It happened one day that he went over to call on Widow Johnsen. She looked very melancholy sitting there as she turned her old soldiers' trousers and attended to Hanne's child, which promised to be a fine girl. She had aged; she was always sitting at home and scolding the child; when Pelle visited her he brought a breath of fresh air into her joyless existence. Then she recalled the excursion to the forest, and the cozy evenings under the hanging lantern, and sighed. Hanne never looked at Pelle. When she came running home from the factory, she had no eyes for anything but her little girl, who threw herself upon her mother and immediately wanted to play. For the remainder of the day the child was close under her eyes, and Hanne had to hold her hand as she moved about, and play with her and the doll. "Far up the mountain did I climb," sang Hanne, and the child sang with her--she could sing already! Hanne's clear, quiet eyes rested on the child, and her expression was as joyful as though fortune had really come to her. She was like a young widow who has lived her share of life, and in the "Ark" every one addressed her as Widow Hanne. This was a mark of respect paid to her character; they threw a widow's veil over her fate because she bore it so finely. She had expected so much, and now she centered everything in her child, as though the Stranger could have brought her no more valuable present. Peter's misfortune had struck the little home a serious blow. They had always only just kept their heads above water; and now he earned less than ever with his crippled hand. Karl wanted to get on in the world, and was attending confirmation classes, which cost money and clothes. They had made up for Peter's loss of earning power by giving up Father Lasse's room and moving his bed into their own room. But all three were growing, and needed food and clothing. Peter's character had taken on a little kink; he was no longer so cheerful over his work, and he often played the truant, loafing about the streets instead of going to the factory. Sometimes he could not be got out of bed in the morning; he crept under the bedclothes and hid himself. "I can't work with my bad hand," he would say, crying, when Marie wanted to drag him out; "every moment the knives are quite close to it and nearly chop it off." "Then stay at home!" said Marie at last. "Look after the house and I will go out and see if I can earn something. I can get work as a charwoman in the new buildings in Market Street." But at that he got up and slunk away; he would not allow a woman to earn his food for him. Karl was a brisk, merry young vagabond; nothing made any impression on him. The streets had brought him up, had covered his outer man with a coating of grime, and had lit the inextinguishable sparks in his eyes. He was like the sparrows of the capital; black with soot, but full of an urban sharpness, they slip in and out among the heavy wagon-wheels, and know everything. He was always getting into difficulties, but always came home with a whole skin. His continual running about seemed to have got into his blood like a never-resting impulse. He was full of shifts for lessening the uncertainty of his earnings, and the little household depended principally on him. But now he had had enough of seeking his living in the streets; he wanted to get on; he wanted most of all to be a shopkeeper. The only thing that held him back was his regard for his home. Pelle saw that the little home would have to be broken up. Marie was developing rapidly; she must leave the "Ark," and if Karl could not live his own life, but was forced to sacrifice himself to his brother and sister, he would end as a street-loafer. Pelle resolved suddenly to deal with the matter himself, as his habit was. He obtained an outfit for Karl from a charitable society, and placed him as apprentice with a shopkeeper for whom the boy had run errands. One Sunday afternoon he went over to the "Ark" with a big parcel under his arm. He was holding Young Lasse by the hand; every moment the child stooped down, picked up a little stone, dragged his father to the quay- wall, and threw the stone into the water. He chattered incessantly. Pelle mechanically allowed himself to be pulled aside, and answered the child at random. He was thinking of the children's little home, which had once been so hospitably opened to him, and must now be broken up. Perhaps it would be the salvation of Karl and Marie; there was a future for them outside; they were both young and courageous. And Father Lasse could come to him; it would be quite possible to make up his bed in the living-room at night and put it out of the way in the daytime. Ellen was no longer so particular. But Peter--what was to become of him? The home was the only thing that still held him. When Young Lasse looked through the tunnel-entry into the darkness of the "Ark" he did not want to go in. "Ugly, ugly!" he said, in energetic refusal. Pelle had to take him in his arms. "Lasse not like that!" he said, pushing with his hands against his father's shoulders. "Lasse wants to go back! get down!" "What!" said Pelle, laughing, "doesn't Young Lasse like the 'Ark'? Father thinks it's jolly here!" "Why?" asked the boy, pouting. "Why?" Well, Pelle could not at once explain. "Because I lived here once on a time!" he replied. "And where was Young Lasse then?" "Then you used to sit in mother's eyes and laugh at father." At this the child forgot his fear of the darkness and the heavy timbers. He pressed his round little nose against his father's, and gazed into his eyes, in order to see whether a little boy was sitting in them too. He laughed when he glimpsed himself in them. "Who sits in mother's eyes now?" he asked. "Now a little sister sits there, who likes to play with Young Lasse," said Pelle. "But now you must walk again--it doesn't do for a man to sit on anybody's arm!" The three orphans were waiting for him eagerly; Karl hopped and leaped into the air when he saw Pelle. "Where is Father Lasse?" asked Pelle. "He has gone out with the hand-cart for the second-hand dealer," said Marie; "he had to fetch a sofa." She had taken Young Lasse on her lap and was almost eating him. Karl put on his fine new clothes, his fresh face beaming with delight. The trousers were fully long enough, but it was quite fashionable to go about with turned-up trousers. That was easily got over. "Now you look like a real grocer!" said Pelle, laughing. Karl ran out into the gangway and came back immediately with his head wetted and his hair parted down the middle. "Ach, you fool, why don't you leave well alone!" cried Marie, ruffling his head. A fight ensued. Peter sat in a corner, self-absorbed, staring gloomily out of the window. "Now, Peter, hold your head up!" cried Pelle, clapping him on the shoulder. "When we've got the great Federation together and things are working properly, I'll manage something for you too. Perhaps you can act as messenger for us." Peter did not reply, but turned his head away. "He's always like that--he's so grumpy! Do at least be a little polite, Peter!" said Marie irritably. The boy took his cap and went out. "Now he's going out by the North Bridge, to his sweetheart--and we shan't see anything of him for the next few days," said Marie, looking after him. "She's a factory girl--she's had a child by one man--he deserted her," said Marie. "He has a sweetheart already?" said Pelle. "What of that? He's seventeen. But there's nothing in her." "She has red hair! And she drags one leg behind her as though she wanted to take the pavement with her," said Karl. "She might well be his mother." "I don't think you ought to tease him," said Pelle seriously. "We don't," said Marie. "But he won't have it when we try to be nice to him. And he can't bear to see us contented. Lasse says it is as though he were bewitched." "I have a situation for you too, Marie," said Pelle. "With Ellen's old employers in Holberg Street--you'll be well treated there. But you must be ready by October." "That will be fine! Then Karl and I can go into situations on the same day!" She clapped her hands. "But Peter!" she cried suddenly. "Who will look after him? No, I can't do it, Pelle!" "We must see if we can't find nice lodgings for him. You must take the situation--you can't go on living here." Prom the end of the long gangway came a curious noise, which sounded like a mixture of singing and crying. Young Lasse got down onto his feet near the open door, and said, "Sh! Singing! Sh!" "Yes! That's the pasteboard-worker and her great Jutlander," said Marie. "They've got a funeral to-day. The poor little worm has ceased to suffer, thank God!" "Is that any one new?" said Pelle. "No, they are people who moved here in the spring. He hasn't been living here, but every Saturday he used to come here and take her wages. 'You are crazy to give him your wages when he doesn't even live with you!' we told her. 'He ought to get a thrashing instead of money!' 'But he's the child's father!' she said, and she went on giving him her money. And on Sunday, when he had drunk it, he regretted it, and then he used to come and beat her, because she needn't have given it to him. She was an awful fool, for she could just have been out when he came. But she was fond of him and thought nothing of a few blows--only it didn't do for the child. She never had food for it, and now it's dead." The door at the end of the gangway opened, and the big Jutlander came out with a tiny coffin under his arm. He was singing a hymn in an indistinct voice, as he stood there waiting. In the side passage, behind the partition-wall, a boy's voice was mocking him. The Jutlander's face was red and swollen with crying, and the debauch of the night before was still heavy in his legs. Behind him came the mother, and now they went down the gangway with funeral steps; the woman's thin black shawl hung mournfully about her, and she held her handkerchief to her mouth; she was crying still. Her livid face had a mildewed appearance. Pelle and Young Lasse had to be off. "You are always in such a hurry!" said Marie dolefully. "I wanted to make coffee." "Yes, I've got a lot to do to-day still. Otherwise I'd gladly stay with you a bit." "Do you know you are gradually getting quite famous?" said Marie, looking at him in admiration. "The people talk almost as much about you as they do about the big tinplate manufacturer. They say you ruined the biggest employer in the city." "Yes. I ruined his business," said Pelle, laughing. "But where has the shopwalker got to?" "He's gone down into the streets to show himself!" Karl, sure enough, was strolling about below and allowing the boys and girls to admire him. "Look, when we come into the shop and the grocer isn't there you'll stand us treat!" Pelle heard one of them say. "You don't catch me! And if you dare you'll get one in the jaw!" replied Karl. "Think I'm going to have you loafing about?" At the end of the street the great Jutlander was rolling along, the coffin under his arm; the girl followed at a distance, and they kept to the middle of the road as though they formed part of a funeral procession. It was a dismal sight. The gray, dismal street was like a dungeon. The shutters were up in all the basement windows, excepting that of the bread-woman. Before the door of her shop stood a crowd of grimy little children, smearing themselves with dainties; every moment one of them slipped down into the cellar to spend an ore. One little girl, dressed in her Sunday best, with a tightly braided head, was balancing herself on the edge of the curbstone with a big jug of cream in her hand; and in a doorway opposite stood a few young fellows meditating some mischief or other. "Shall we go anywhere to-day?" asked Ellen, when Pelle and young Lasse got home. "The fine season is soon over." "I must go to the committee-meeting," Pelle replied hesitatingly. He was sorry for her; she was going to have another child, and she looked so forsaken as she moved about the home. But it was impossible for him to stay at home. "When do you think you'll be back?" "That I don't know, Ellen. It is very possible it will take the whole day." Then she was silent and set out his food. XXIII That year was, if possible, worse than the preceding. As early as September the unemployed stood in long ranks beside the canals or in the market-place, their feet in the wet. The bones of their wrists were blue and prominent and foretold a hard winter, of which the corns of the old people had long ago given warning; and sparks of fire were flying up from under poor folks' kettles. "Now the hard winter is coming and bringing poverty with it," said the people. "And then we shall have a pretty time!" In October the frost appeared and began to put an end to all work that had not already been stopped by the hard times. In the city the poor were living from hand to mouth; if a man had a bad day it was visible on his plate the next morning. Famine lay curled up beneath the table in ten thousand households; like a bear in its winter sleep it had lain there all summer, shockingly wasted and groaning in its evil dreams; but they were used to its society and took no notice of it so long as it did not lay its heavy paw upon the table. One day's sickness, one day's loss of work--and there it was! "Ach, how good it would be if we only had a brine-tub that we could go to!" said those who could still remember their life in the country. "But the good God has taken the brine-tub and given us the pawnbroker instead!" and then they began to pledge their possessions. It was sad to see how the people kept together; the city was scattered to the winds in summer, but now it grew compacter; the homeless came in from the Common, and the great landowners returned to inhabit their winter palaces. Madam Rasmussen, in her attic, suddenly appeared with a husband; drunken Valde had returned--the cold, so to speak, had driven him into her arms! At the first signs of spring he would be off again, into the arms of his summer mistress, Madam Grassmower. But as long as he was here, here he was! He stood lounging in the doorway downstairs, with feathers sticking in the shaggy hair of his neck and bits of bed- straw adhering to his flat back. His big boots were always beautifully polished; Madam Rasmussen did that for him before she went to work in the morning; after which she made two of herself, so that her big strong handsome protector should have plenty of time to stand and scratch himself. Week by week the cold locked up all things more closely; it locked up the earth, so that the husbandmen could not get at it; and it closed the modest credit account of the poor. Already it had closed all the harbors round about. Foreign trade shrunk away to nothing; the stevedores and waterside workers might as well stop at home. It tightened the heart- strings--and the strings of the big purse that kept everything going. The established trades began to work shorter hours, and the less stable trades entirely ceased. Initiative drew in its horns; people began nothing new, and did no work for the warehouses; fear had entered into them. All who had put out their feelers drew them back; they were frostbitten, so to speak. The earth had withdrawn its sap into itself and had laid a crust of ice over all; humanity did the same. The poor withdrew their scanty blood into their hearts, in order to preserve the germ of life. Their limbs were cold and bloodless, their skin gray. They withdrew into themselves, and into the darkest corners, packed closely together. They spent nothing. And many of those who had enough grudged themselves even food; the cold ate their needs away, and set anxiety in their place. Consumption was at a standstill. One could not go by the thermometer, for according to that the frost had been much harder earlier in the year. "What, is it no worse!" said the people, taken aback. But they felt just as cold and wretched as ever. What did the thermometer know of a hard winter? Winter is the companion of hard times, and takes the same way whether it freezes or thaws--and on this occasion it froze! In the poor quarters of the city the streets were as though depopulated. A fall of snow would entice the dwellers therein out of their hiding- places; it made the air milder, and made it possible, too, to earn a few kroner for sweeping away the snow. Then they disappeared again, falling into a kind of numb trance and supporting their life on incredibly little--on nothing at all. Only in the mornings were the streets peopled--when the men went out to seek work. But everywhere where there was work for one man hundreds applied and begged for it. The dawn saw the defeated ones slinking home; they slept the time away, or sat all day with their elbows on the table, never uttering a word. The cold, that locked up all else, had an opposite effect upon the heart; there was much compassion abroad. Many whose wits had been benumbed by the cold, so that they did not attempt to carry on their avocations, had suffered no damage at heart, but expended their means in beneficence. Kindly people called the poor together, and took pains to find them out, for they were not easy to find. But the Almighty has created beings that live upon the earth and creatures that live under the earth; creatures of the air and creatures of the water; even in the fire live creatures that increase and multiply. And the cold, too, saw the growth of a whole swarm of creatures that live not by labor, but on it, as parasites. The good times are their bad times; then they grow thin, and there are not many of them about. But as soon as cold and destitution appear they come forth in their swarms; it is they who arouse beneficence--and get the best part of what is going. They scent the coming of a bad year and inundate the rich quarters of the city. "How many poor people come to the door this year!" people say, as they open their purses. "These are hard times for the poor!" In the autumn Pelle had removed; he was now dwelling in a little two- roomed apartment on the Kapelvej. He had many points of contact with this part of the city now; besides, he wanted Ellen to be near her parents when she should be brought to bed. Lasse would not accompany him; he preferred to be faithful to the "Ark"; he had got to know the inmates now, and he could keep himself quite decently by occasional work in the neighboring parts of the city. Pelle fought valiantly to keep the winter at bay. There was nothing to do at the workshop; and he had to be on the go from morning to night. Wherever work was to be had, there he applied, squeezing his way through hundreds of others. His customers needed footwear now more than ever; but they had no money to pay for it. Ellen and he drew nearer at this season and learned to know one another on a new side. The hard times drew them together; and he had cause to marvel at the stoutness of her heart. She accepted conditions as they were with extraordinary willingness, and made a little go a very long way. Only with the stove she could do nothing. "It eats up everything we scrape together," she said dejectedly; "it sends everything up the chimney and doesn't give out any warmth. I've put a bushel of coal on it to-day, and it's as cold as ever! Where I was in service we were able to warm two big rooms with one scuttle! I must be a fool, but won't you look into it?" She was almost crying. "You mustn't take that to heart so!" said Pelle gloomily. "That's the way with poor folks' stoves. They are old articles that are past use, and the landlords buy them up as old iron and then fit them in their workmen's dwellings! And it's like that with everything! We poor people get the worst and pay the dearest--although we make the things! Poverty is a sieve." "Yes, it's dreadful," said Ellen, looking at him with mournful eyes. "And I can understand you so well now!" Threatening Need had spread its pinions above them. They hardly dared to think now; they accepted all things at its hands. One day, soon after Ellen had been brought to bed, she asked Pelle to go at once to see Father Lasse. "And mind you bring him with you!" she said. "We can very well have him here, if we squeeze together a little. I'm afraid he may be in want." Pelle was pleased by the offer, and immediately set out. It was good of Ellen to open her heart to the old man when they were by no means certain of being able to feed themselves. The "Ark" had a devastated appearance. All the curtains had disappeared --except at Olsen's; with the gilt mouldings they always fetched fifty ore. The flowers in the windows were frostbitten. One could see right into the rooms, and inside also all was empty. There was something shameless about the winter here; instead of clothing the "Ark" more warmly it stripped it bare--and first of all of its protecting veils. The privies in the court had lost their doors and covers, and it was all Pelle could do to climb up to the attics! Most of the balustrades had vanished, and every second step was lacking; the "Ark" was helping itself as well as it could! Over at Madam Johnsen's the bucket of oak was gone that had always stood in the corner of the gallery when it was not lent to some one--the "Ark" possessed only the one. And now it was burned or sold. Pelle looked across, but had not the courage to call. Hanne, he knew, was out of work. A woman came slinking out of the third story, and proceeded to break away a fragment of woodwork; she nodded to Pelle. "For a drop of coffee!" she said, "and God bless coffee! You can make it as weak as you like as long as it's still nice and hot." The room was empty; Lasse was not there. Pelle asked news of him along the gangway. He learned that he was living in the cellar with the old clothes woman. Thin gray faces appeared for a moment in the doorways, gazed at him, and silently disappeared. The cellar of the old clothes woman was overcrowded with all sorts of objects; hither, that winter, the possessions of the poor had drifted. Lasse was sitting in a corner, patching a mattress; he was alone down there. "She has gone out to see about something," he said; "in these times her money finds plenty of use! No, I'm not going to come with you and eat your bread. I get food and drink here--I earn it by helping her --and how many others can say this winter that they've their living assured? And I've got a corner where I can lie. But can't you tell me what's become of Peter? He left the room before me one day, and since then I've never seen him again." "Perhaps he's living with his sweetheart," said Pelle. "I'll see if I can't find out." "Yes, if you will. They were good children, those three, it would be a pity if one of them were to come to any harm." Pelle would not take his father away from a regular situation where he was earning a steady living. "We don't very well see what we could offer you in its place. But don't forget that you will always be welcome-- Ellen herself sent me here." "Yes, yes! Give her many thanks for that! And now you be off, before the old woman comes back," said Lasse anxiously. "She doesn't like any one to be here--she's afraid for her money." The first thing that had to go was Pelle's winter overcoat. He pawned it one day, without letting Ellen know, and on coming home surprised her with the money, which he delightedly threw on the table, krone by krone. "How it rings!" he said to Young Lasse. The child gave a jump, and wanted the money to play with. "What do I want with a winter coat?" he retorted, to Ellen's kindly reproaches. "I'm not cold, and it only hangs up indoors here. I've borne with it all the summer. Ah, that's warm!" he cried, to the child, when Ellen had brought some fuel. "That was really a good winter coat, that of father's! Mother and sister and Young Lasse can all warm themselves at it!" The child put his hands on his knees and peeped into the fire after his father's winter coat. The fire kindled flames in his big child's eyes, and played on his red cheeks. "Pretty overcoat!" he said, laughing all over his face. They did not see much of the tenants of the house; nor of the family. People were living quietly, each one fighting his own privations within his four walls. On Sundays they gave the children to one of the neighbors, went into the city, and stood for an hour outside some concert-hall, freezing and listening to the music. Then they went home again and sat vegetating in the firelight, without lighting the lamp. One Sunday things looked bad. "The coals will hold out only till midday," said Ellen; "we shall have to go out. And there's no more food either. But perhaps we can go to the old folks; they'll put up with us till evening." As they were about to start, Ellen's brother Otto arrived, with his wife and two children, to call on them. Ellen exchanged a despairing glance with Pelle. Winter had left its stamp on them too; their faces were thin and serious. But they still had warm clothes. "You must keep your cloaks on," said Ellen, "for I have no more coal. I forgot it yesterday, I had so much to do; I had to put off ordering it until to-day, and to-day, unfortunately, the coal dealer isn't at home." "If only the children aren't cold," said Pelle, "we grown-ups can easily keep ourselves warm." "Well, as long as they haven't icicles hanging from their noses they won't come to any harm!" said Otto with a return of his old humor. They moved restlessly about the room and spoke of the bad times and the increasing need. "Yes, it's terrible that there isn't enough for everybody," said Otto's wife. "But the hard winter and the misery will come to an end and then things will be better again." "You mean we shall come to an end first?" said Otto, laughing despairingly. "No, not we--this poverty, of course. Ach, you know well enough what I mean. But he's always like that," she said, turning to Pelle. "Curious, how you women still go about in the pious belief that there's not enough for all!" said Pelle. "Yet the harbor is full of stacks of coal, and there's no lack of eatables in the shops. On the contrary-- there is more than usual, because so many are having to do without--and you can see, too, that everything in the city is cheaper. But what good is that when there's no money? It's the distribution that's all wrong." "Yes, you are quite right!" said Otto Stolpe. "It's really damnable that no one has the courage to help himself!" Pelle heard Ellen go out through the kitchen door, and presently she came back with firing in her apron. She had borrowed it. "I've scraped together just a last little bit of coal," she said, going down on her knees before the stove. "In any case it's enough to heat the water for a cup of coffee." Otto and his wife begged her urgently not to give herself any trouble; they had had some coffee before they left home--after a good solid breakfast. "On Sundays we always have a solid breakfast," said young Madam Stolpe; "it does one such a lot of good!" While she was speaking her eyes involuntarily followed Ellen's every moment, as though she could tell thereby how soon the coffee would be ready. Ellen chatted as she lit the fire. But of course they must have a cup of coffee; they weren't to go away with dry throats! Pelle sat by listening in melancholy surprise; her innocent boasting only made their poverty more glaring. He could see that Ellen was desperately perplexed, and he followed her into the kitchen. "Pelle, Pelle!" she said, in desperation. "They've counted on stopping here and eating until the evening. And I haven't a scrap in the house. What's to be done?" "Tell them how it is, of course!" "I can't! And they've had nothing to eat to-day--can't you see by looking at them?" She burst into tears. "Now, now, let me see to the whole thing!" he said consolingly. "But what are you going to give us with our coffee?" "I don't know! I have nothing but black bread and a little butter." "Lord, what a little donkey!" he said, smiling, and he took her face between his hands. "And you stand there lamenting! Just you be cutting the bread-and-butter!" Ellen set to work hesitatingly. But before she appeared with the refreshments they heard her bang the front door and go running down the steps. After a time she returned. "Oh, Lord! Now the baker has sold out of white bread," she said, "so you must just have black bread-and-butter with your coffee." "But that's capital," they cried. "Black bread always goes best with coffee. Only it's a shame we are giving you so much trouble!" "Look here," said Pelle, at last. "It may please you to play hide-and- seek with one another, but it doesn't me--I am going to speak my mind. With us things are bad, and it can't be any better with you. Now how is it, really, with the old folks?" "They are struggling along," said Otto. "They always have credit, and I think they have a little put by as well." "Then shan't we go there to-night and have supper? Otherwise I'm afraid we shan't get anything." "Yes, we will! It's true we were there the day before yesterday--but what does that matter? We must go somewhere, and at least it's sticking to the family!" * * * * * The cold had no effect on Pelle; the blood ran swiftly through his veins. He was always warm. Privation he accepted as an admonition, and merely felt the stronger for it; and he made use of his involuntary holiday to work for the Cause. It was no time for public meetings and sounding words--many had not even clothes with which to go to meetings. The movement had lost its impetus through the cold; people had their work cut out to keep the little they already had. Pelle made it his business to encourage the hopes of the rejected, and was always on the run; he came into contact with many people. Misery stripped them bare and developed his knowledge of humanity. Wherever a trade was at a standstill, and want had made its appearance, he and others were at hand to prevent demoralization and to make the prevailing conditions the subject of agitation. He saw how want propagates itself like the plague, and gradually conquers all--a callous accomplice in the fate of the poor man. In a week to a fortnight unemployment would take all comfort from a home that represented the scraping and saving of many years--so crying was the disproportion. Here was enough to stamp a lasting comprehension upon the minds of all, and enough to challenge agitation. All but persons of feeble mind could see now what they were aiming at. And there were people here like those at home. Want made them even more submissive. They could hardly believe that they were so favored as to be permitted to walk the earth and go hungry. With them there was nothing to be done. They were born slaves, born with slavery deep in their hearts, pitiful and cur-like. They were people of a certain age--of an older generation than his. The younger folk were of another and a harder stuff; and he often was amazed to find how vigorously their minds echoed his ideas. They were ready to dare, ready to meet force with force. These must be held back lest they should prejudice the movement--for them its progress was never sufficiently rapid. His mind was young and intact and worked well in the cold weather; he restlessly drew comparisons and formed conclusions in respect of everything he came into contact with. The individual did not seem to change. The agitation was especially directed to awakening what was actually existent. For the rest, they must live their day and be replaced by a younger generation in whom demands for compensation came more readily to the tongue. So far as he could survey the evolution of the movement, it did not proceed through the generations, but in some amazing fashion grew out of the empty space between them. So youth, even at the beginning, was further ahead than age had been where it left off. The movements of the mind had an obscure and mystical effect upon him, as had the movement of his blood in childhood; sometimes he felt a mysterious shudder run through him, and he began to understand what Morten had meant when he said that humanity was sacred. It was terrible that human beings should suffer such need, and Pelle's resentment grew deeper. Through his contact with so many individuals he learned that Morten was not so exceptional; the minds of many betrayed the same impatience, and could not understand that a man who is hungry should control himself and be content with the fact of organization. There was a revolutionary feeling abroad; a sterner note was audible, and respectable people gave the unemployed a wide berth, while old people prophesied the end of the world. The poor had acquired a manner of thinking such as had never been known. One day Pelle stood in a doorway with some other young people, discussing the aspect of affairs; it was a cold meeting-place, but they had not sufficient means to call a meeting in the usual public room. The discussion was conducted in a very subdued tune; their voices were bitter and sullen. A well-dressed citizen went by. "There's a fine overcoat," cried one; "I should like to have one like that! Shall we fetch him into the doorway and pull his coat off?" He spoke loudly, and was about to run out into the street. "No stupidity!" said Pelle sadly, seizing him by the arm. "We should only do ourselves harm! Remember the authorities are keeping their eyes on us!" "Well, what's a few weeks in prison?" the man replied. "At least one would get board and lodging for so long." There was a look that threatened mischief in his usually quiet and intelligent eyes. XXIV There were rumors that the city authorities intended to intervene in order to remedy the condition of the unemployed, and shortly before Christmas large numbers of navvies were given employment. Part of the old ramparts was cleared away, and the space converted into parks and boulevards. Pelle applied among a thousand others and had the good fortune to be accepted. The contractor gave the preference to youthful energy. Every morning the workers appeared in a solid phalanx; the foreman of the works chose those he had need of, and the rest were free to depart. At home sat their wives and children, cheered by the possibility of work; the men felt no inclination to go home with bad news, so they loafed about in the vicinity. They came there long before daybreak in order to be the first, although there was not much hope. There was at least an excuse to leave one's bed; idleness was burning like hell fire in their loins. When the foreman came they thronged silently about him, with importunate eyes. One woman brought her husband; he walked modestly behind her, kept his eyes fixed upon her, and did precisely as she did. He was a great powerful fellow, but he did nothing of his own accord--did not even blow his nose unless she nudged him. "Come here, Thorvald!" she said, cuffing him so hard as to hurt him. "Keep close behind me!" She spoke in a harsh voice, into the empty air, as though to explain her behavior to the others; but no one looked at her. "He can't speak for himself properly, you see," she remarked at random. Her peevish voice made Pelle start; she was from Bornholm. Ah, those smart young girls at home, they were a man's salvation! "And the children have got to live too!" she continued. "We have eight. Yes, eight." "Then he's some use for something," said a workman who looked to be perishing with the cold. The woman worked her way through them, and actually succeeded in getting her man accepted. "And now you do whatever they tell you, nicely, and don't let them tempt you to play the fool in any way!" she said, and she gave him a cuff which set him off working in his place. She raised her head defiantly as contemptuous laughter sounded about her. The place was like a slave-market. The foreman, went to and fro, seeking out the strongest, eyeing them from head to foot and choosing them for their muscular development and breadth of back. The contractor too was moving about and giving orders. "One of them rich snobs!" said the laborers, grumbling; "all the laborers in town have to march out here so that he can pick himself the best. And he's beaten down the day's wages to fifty öre. He's been a navvy himself, too; but now he's a man who enjoys his hundred thousand a year. A regular bloodsucker, he is!" The crowd continued to stand there and to loaf about all the day, in the hope that some one would give up, or fall ill--or go crazy--so that some one could take his place. They could not tear themselves away; the mere fact that work was being done chained them to the spot. They looked as though they might storm the works at any moment, and the police formed a ring about the place. They stood pressing forward, absorbed by their desire for work, with a sick longing in their faces. When the crowd had pressed forward too far it hesitatingly allowed itself to be pushed back again. Suddenly there was a break in the ranks; a man leaped over the rail and seized a pickaxe. A couple of policemen wrested the tool from his hand and led him away. And as they stood there a feeling of defiance rose within them, a fierce contempt for their privations and the whole shameless situation. It expressed itself in an angry half-suppressed growl. They followed the contractor with curious eyes as though they were looking for something in him but could not conceive what it was. In his arrogance at receiving such an excessive offer of labor, he decided to go further, and to lengthen the working day by an hour. The workers received an order to that effect one morning, just as they had commenced work. But at the same moment the four hundred men, all but two, threw down their implements and returned to their comrades. They stood there discussing the matter, purple with rage. So now their starving condition was to be made use of, in order to enrich the contractor by a further hundred thousand! "We must go to the city authorities," they cried. "No, to the newspaper!" others replied. "The paper! The paper is better!" "It's no use going to the city council--not until we have elected members of our own party to it," cried Pelle. "Remember that at the elections, comrades! We must elect men of our party everywhere, their encroachments will never be stopped until then. And now we must stand together and be firm! If it's got to be, better starve to death at once than do it slowly!" They did not reply, but pressed closely about him, heavily listening. There was something altogether too fierce and profound in their attention. These men had declared a strike in midwinter, as their only remedy. What were they thinking of doing now? Pelle looked about him and was daunted by their dumb rage. This threatening silence wouldn't do; what would it lead to? It seemed as though something overwhelming, and uncontrollable, would spring from this stony taciturnity. Pelle sprang upon a heap of road-metal. "Comrades!" he cried, in a powerful voice. "This is merely a change, as the fox said when they flayed his skin off. They have deprived us of clothes and food and drink, and comfort at home, and now they want to find a way of depriving us of our skins too! The question to-day is-- forward or back? Perhaps this is the great time of trial, when we shall enter into possession of all we have desired! Hold together, comrades! Don't scatter and don't give way! Things are difficult enough now, but remember, we are well on in the winter, and it promises to break up early. The night is always darkest before daybreak! And shall we be afraid to suffer a little--we, who have suffered and been patient for hundreds of years? Our wives are sitting at home and fretting--perhaps they will be angry with us. We might at least have accepted what was offered us, they may say. But we can't go on seeing our dear ones at home fading away in spite of our utmost exertions! Hitherto the poor man's labor has been like an aimless prayer to Heaven: Deliver us from hunger and dirt, from misery, poverty, and cold, and give us bread, and again bread! Deliver our children from our lot--let not their limbs wither and their minds lapse into madness! That has been our prayer, but there is only one prayer that avails, and that is, to defy the wicked! We are the chosen people, and for that reason we must cry a halt! We will no longer do as we have done--for our wives' sakes, and our children's, and theirs again! Ay, but what is posterity to us? Of course it is something to us--precisely to us! Were your parents as you are? No, they were ground down into poverty and the dust, they crept submissively before the mighty. Then whence did we get all that makes us so strong and causes us to stand together? Time has stood still, comrades! It has placed its finger on our breast and he said, 'Thus you shall do!' Here where we stand, the old time ceases and the new time begins; and that is why we have thrown down our tools, with want staring us in the face--such a thing as has never been seen before! We want to revolutionize life--to make it sweet for the poor man! And for all time! You, who have so often staked your life and welfare for a florin--you now hold the whole future in your hands! You must endure, calmly and prudently! And you will never be forgotten, so long as there are workers on the earth! This winter will be the last through which we shall have to endure--for yonder lies the land toward which we have been wandering! Comrades! Through us the day shall come!" Pelle himself did not know what words he uttered. He felt only that something was speaking through him--something supremely mighty, that never lies. There was a radiant, prophetic ring in his voice, which carried his hearers off their feet; and his eyes were blazing. Before their eyes a figure arose from the hopeless winter, towering in radiance, a figure that was their own, and yet that of a young god. He rose, new-born, out of misery itself, struck aside the old grievous idea of fate, and in its place gave them a new faith--the radiant faith in their own might! They cried up to him--first single voices, then all. He gathered up their cries into a mighty cheer, a paean in honor of the new age! Every day they stationed themselves there, not to work, but to stand there in dumb protest. When the foreman called for workers they stood about in silent groups, threatening as a gloomy rock. Now and again they shouted a curse at those who had left them in the lurch. The city did nothing. They had held out a helping hand to the needy, and the latter had struck it away--now they must accept the consequences. The contractor had received permission to suspend the work entirely, but he kept it going with a few dozen strike-breakers, in order to irritate the workers. All over the great terrace a silence as of death prevailed, except in that corner where the little gang was at work, a policeman beside it, as though the men had been convicts. The wheelbarrows lay with their legs in the air; it was as though the pest had swept over the works. The strike-breakers were men of all callings; a few of the unemployed wrote down their names and addresses, in order to insert them in _The Working Man_. One of Stolpe's fellow-unionists was among them; he was a capable pater-familias, and had taken part in the movement from its earliest days. "It's a pity about him," said Stolpe; "he's an old mate of mine, and he's always been a good comrade till now. Now they'll give it him hard in the paper--we are compelled to. It does the trade no good when one of its representatives goes and turns traitor." Madame Stolpe was unhappy. "It's such a nice family," she said; "we have always been on friendly terms with them; and I know they were hungry a long time. He has a young wife, father; it's not easy to stand out." "It hurts me myself," replied Stolpe. "But one is compelled to do it, otherwise one would be guilty of partisanship. And no one shall come to me and say that I'm a respecter of persons." "I should like to go and have a talk with them," said Pelle. "Perhaps they'd give it up then." He got the address and went there after working hours. The home had been stripped bare. There were four little children. The atmosphere was oppressive. The man, who was already well on in years, but was still powerful, sat at the table with a careworn expression eating his supper, while the children stood round with their chins on the edge of the table, attentively following every bite he took. The young wife was going to and fro; she brought him his simple food with a peculiarly loving gesture. Pelle broached the question at issue. It was not pleasant to attack this old veteran. But it must be done. "I know that well enough," said the man, nodding to himself. "You needn't begin your lecture--I myself have been in the movement since the first days, and until now I've kept my oath. But now it's done with, for me. What do you want here, lad? Have you a wife and children crying for bread? Then think of your own!" "We don't cry, Hans," said the woman quietly. "No, you don't, and that makes it even worse! Can I sit here and look on, while you get thinner day by day, and perish with the cold? To hell with the comrades and their big words--what have they led to? Formerly we used to go hungry just for a little while, and now we starve outright--that's the difference! Leave me alone, I tell you! Curse it, why don't they leave me in peace?" He took a mouthful of brandy from the bottle. His wife pushed a glass toward him, but he pushed it violently away. "You'll be put in the paper to-morrow," said Pelle, hesitating. "I only wanted to tell you that." "Yes, and to write of me that I'm a swine and a bad comrade, and perhaps that I beat my wife as well. You know yourself it's all lies; but what is that to me? Will you have a drink?" No, Pelle wouldn't take anything. "Then I will myself," said the man, and he laughed angrily. "Now you can certify that I'm a hog--I drink out of the bottle! And another evening you can come and listen at the keyhole--perhaps then you'll hear me beating my wife!" The woman began to cry. "Oh, damn it all, they might leave me in peace!" said the man defiantly. Pelle had to go with nothing effected. XXV The "Ark" was now freezing in the north wind; all outward signs of life were stripped from it. The sounds that in summer bubbled up from its deep well-like shaft were silent now; the indistinguishable dripping of a hundred waste-pipes, that turned the court into a little well with green slimy walls, was silent too. The frost had fitted them all with stoppers; and where the toads had sat gorging themselves in the cavities of the walls--fantastic caverns of green moss and slimy filaments--a crust of ice hung over all; a grimy glacier, which extended from the attics right down to the floor of the court. Where were they now, the grimy, joyful children? And what of the evening carouse of the hearse-driver, for which his wife would soundly thrash him? And the quarrelsome women's voices, which would suddenly break out over this or that railing, criticizing the whole court, sharp as so many razors? The frost was harder than ever! It had swept all these things away and had locked them up as closely as might be. The hurdy-gurdy man lay down below in his cellar, and had as visitor that good friend of the north wind, the gout; and down in the deserted court the draught went shuffling along the dripping walls. Whenever any one entered the tunnel- entry the draught clutched at his knees with icy fingers, so that the pain penetrated to the very heart. There stood the old barrack, staring emptily out of its black windows. The cold had stripped away the last shred of figured curtain, and sent it packing to the pawn-shop. It had exchanged the canary for a score of firewood, and had put a stop to the day-long, lonely crying of the little children behind the locked doors--that hymn of labor, which had ceased only in the evening, when the mothers returned from the factories. Now the mothers sat with their children all day long, and no one but the cold grudged them this delight. But the cold and its sister, hunger, came every day to look in upon them. On the third floor, away from the court, Widow Johnsen sat in the corner by the stove. Hanne's little girl lay cowering on the floor, on a tattered patchwork counterpane. Through the naked window one saw only ice, as though the atmosphere were frozen down to the ground. Transparent spots had formed on the window-panes every time the child had breathed on them in order to look out, but they had soon closed up again. The old woman sat staring straight into the stove with big, round eyes; her little head quivered continually; she was like a bird of ill omen, that knew a great deal more than any one could bear to hear. "Now I'm cold again, grandmother," said the child quietly. "Don't keep from shivering, then you'll be warm," said the old woman. "Are you shivering?" "No, I'm too old and stiff for it--I can't shiver any more. But the cold numbs my limbs, so that I can't feel them. I could manage well enough if it wasn't for my back." "You lean your back against the cold stove too!" "Yes, the cold grips my poor back so." "But that's stupid, when the stove isn't going." "But if only my back would get numb too!" said the old woman piteously. The child was silent, and turned her head away. Over the whole of the wall were tiny glittering crystals. Now and again there was a rustling sound under the wall-paper. "Grandmother, what's that funny noise?" asked the child. "That's the bugs--they are coming down," said the old woman. "It's too cold for them up there in the attics, and they don't like it here. You should see them; they go to Olsen's with the warm wall; they stay there in the cold." "Is the wall at Olsen's always warm, then?" "Yes, when there's fire in the boiler of the steam mill." Then the child was silent a while, wearily turning her head from side to side. A dreadful weariness was stamped on her face. "I'm cold," she complained after a time. "See if you can't shiver!" "Hadn't I better jump a bit?" "No, then you'd just swallow down the cold--the air is like ice. Just keep still, and soon mother will be here, and she'll bring something!" "She never gets anything," said the child. "When she gets there it's always all over." "That's not true," said Madam Johnsen severely. "There's food enough in the soup kitchens for all; it's just a matter of understanding how to go about it. The poor must get shame out of their heads. She'll bring something to-day!" The child stood up and breathed a hole in the ice on the window-pane. "Look now, whether it isn't going to snow a little so that the poor man can get yet another day's employment," said the old woman. No, the wind was still blowing from the north, although it commonly shuffled along the canal; but now, week after week, it blew from the Nicolai tower, and played the flute on the hollow bones of poverty. The canals were covered with ice, and the ground looked horribly hard. The naked frost chased the people across it like withered leaves. With a thin rustling sound they were swept across the bridges and disappeared. A great yellow van came driving by. The huge gates of the prison opened slowly and swallowed it. It was the van containing the meat for the prisoners. The child followed it with a desolate expression. "Mother isn't coming," she said. "I am so hungry." "She will soon come--you just wait! And don't stand in the light there; come here in the corner! The light strikes the cold right through one." "But I feel colder in the dark." "That's just because you don't understand. I only long now for the pitch darkness." "I long for the sun!" retorted the child defiantly. There was a creaking of timber out in the yard. The child ran out and opened the door leading to the gallery. It was only the people opposite, who were tearing a step away. But then came mother, with a tin pail in her hand, and a bundle under her arm; and there was something in the pail--it looked heavy. Tra-la- la! And the bundle, the bundle! What was in that? "Mother, mother!" she cried shrilly, leaning far over the rickety rail. Hanne came swiftly up the stairs, with open mouth and red cheeks; and a face peeped out of every little nest. "Now Widow Hanne has taken the plunge," they said. They knew what a point of honor it had been with her to look after her mother and her child unaided. She was a good girl. And Widow Hanne nodded to them all, as much as to say, "Now it's done, thank God!" She stood leaning over the table, and lifted the cover off the pail. "Look!" she said, as she stirred the soup with a ladle: "there's pearl barley and pot-herbs. If only we had something we could warm it up with!" "We can tear away a bit of the woodwork like other people," said the mother. "Yes," replied Hanne breathlessly, "yes, why not? If one can beg one can do that!" She ran out onto the gallery and tore away a few bits of trellis, so that the sound re-echoed through the court. People watched her out of all the dark windows. Widow Hanne had knocked off the head of her pride! Then they sat down to their soup, the old woman and the child. "Eat!" said Hanne, standing over them and looking on with glowing eyes. Her cheeks were burning. "You look like a flower in the cold!" said her mother. "But eat, yourself, or you'll starve to death." No, Hanne would not eat. "I feel so light," she said, "I don't need any food." She stood there fingering her bundle; all her features were quivering, and her mouth was like that of a person sick of a fever. "What have you there?" asked Madam Johnsen. "Clothes for you and little Marie. You were so cold. I got them downstairs from the old clothes woman--they were so cheap." "Do you say you bought them?" "Yes--I got them on credit." "Well, well, if you haven't given too much for them! But it will do one good to have something warm on one's back!" Hanne undid the bundle, while the others looked on in suspense. A light summer dress made its appearance, pleated and low-necked, blue as little Marie's eyes, and a pair of thin kid shoes. The child and the old woman gazed wonderingly at the dress. "How fine!" they said. They had forgotten everything, and were all admiration. But Hanne stood staring with horror, and suddenly burst into sobs. "Come, come, Hanne!" said her mother, clapping her on the back. "You have bought a dress for yourself--that's not so dreadful! Youth will have its rights." "No, mother, no, I didn't buy it at all! I knew you both needed something to keep you warm, so I went into a fine house and asked if they hadn't any cast-off things, and there was a young lady--she gave me this--and she was so kind. No, I didn't know at all what was in the bundle--I really didn't know, dear mother!" "Well, well, they are fine enough!" said the old woman, spreading the dress out in front of her. "They are fine things!" But Hanne put the things together and threw them into the corner by the stove. "You are ill!" said her mother, gazing at her searchingly; "your eyes are blazing like fire." The darkness descended, and they went to bed. People burned no useless lights in those days, and it was certainly best to be in bed. They had laid the feather-bed over themselves cross-wise, when it comfortably covered all three; their daytime clothes they laid over their feet. Little Marie lay in the middle. No harm could come to her there. They talked at random about indifferent matters. Hanne's voice sounded loud and cheerful in the darkness as though it came from a radiant countryside. "You are so restless," said the mother. "Won't you try to sleep a little? I can feel the burning in you from here!" "I feel so light," replied Hanne; "I can't lie still." But she did lie still, gazing into space and humming inaudibly to herself, while the fever raged in her veins. After a time the old woman awoke; she was cold. Hanne was standing in the middle of the room, with open mouth; and was engaged in putting on her fine linen underclothing by the light of a candle-end. Her breath came in short gasps and hung white on the air. "Are you standing there naked in the cold?" said Madam Johnsen reproachfully. "You ought to take a little care of yourself." "Why, mother, I'm so warm! Why, it's summer now!" "What are you doing, child?" "I am only making myself a little bit smart, mother dear!" "Yes, yes--dance, my baby. You've still got the best of your youth before you, poor child! Why didn't you get a husband where you got the child from?" Hanne only hummed a tune to herself, and proceeded to don the bright blue summer costume. It was a little full across the chest, but the decolletage sat snugly over her uncovered bosom. A faint cloud of vapor surrounded her person like a summer haze. Her mother had to hook up the dress at the back. "If only we don't wake Marie!" she whispered, entirely absorbed by the dress. "And the fine lace on the chemise--you can always let that peep out of the dress a little--it looks so pretty like that. Now you really look like a summer girl!" "I'll just run down and show it to Madam Olsen," said Hanne, pressing her hand to her glowing cheeks. "Yes, do--poor folks' joys must have their due," replied the old woman, turning over to the wall. Hanne ran down the steps and across the yard and out into the street. The ground was hard and ringing in the frost, the cold was angry and biting, but the road seemed to burn Hanne through her thin shoes. She ran through the market, across the bridge, and into the less crowded quarter of the city-right into Pelle's arms. He was just going to see Father Lasse. Pelle was wearied and stupefied with the continual battle with hard reality. The bottomless depths of misery were beginning to waste his courage. Was it really of any use to hold the many together? It only made the torture yet harder for them to bear. But in a moment everything looked as bright as though he had fallen into a state of ecstasy, as had often happened lately. In the midst of the sternest realities it would suddenly happen that his soul would leap within him and conjure up the new age of happiness before his eyes, and the terrible dearth filled his arms to overflowing with abundance! He did not feel the cold; the great dearth had no existence; violent spiritual excitement and insufficient nourishment made the blood sing continually in his ears. He accepted it as a happy music from a contented world. It did not surprise him that he should meet Hanne in summer clothing and attired as for a ball. "Pelle, my protector!" she said, grasping his hand. "Will you go to the dance with me?" "That's really the old Hanne," thought Pelle delightedly--"the careless Princess of the 'Ark,' and she is feverish, just as she used to be then." He himself was in a fever. When their eyes met they emitted a curious, cold, sparkling light. He had quite forgotten Father Lasse and his errand, and went with Hanne. The entrance of "The Seventh Heaven" was flooded with light, which exposed the merciless cold of the street. Outside, in the sea of light, thronged the children of the terrible winter, dishevelled and perishing with the cold. They stood there shuddering, or felt in their pockets for a five-öre piece, and if they found it they slipped through the blood- red tunnel into the dancing-hall. But it was cold in there too; their breath hung like white powder on the air; and crystals of ice glittered on the polished floor. Who would dream of heating a room where the joy of life was burning? and a thousand candles? Here carelessness was wont to give of its abundance, so that the lofty room lay in a cloud and the musicians were bathed in sweat. But now the cold had put an end to that. Unemployed workers lounged about the tables, disinclined for movement. Winter had not left the poor fellows an ounce of frivolity. Cerberus Olsen might spare himself the trouble of going round with his giant arms outspread, driving the two or three couples of dancers with their five-öre pieces indoors toward the music, as though they had been a whole crowd. People only toiled across the floor in order to have the right to remain there. Good Lord! Some of them had rings and watches, and Cerberus had ready cash--what sort of dearth was that? The men sat under the painted ceiling and the gilded mirrors, over a glass of beer, leaving the girls to freeze--even Elvira had to sit still. "Mazurka!" bellowed Cerberus, going threateningly from table to table. They slunk into the hall like beaten curs, dejectedly danced once round the floor, and paid. But what is this? Is it not Summer herself stepping into the hall? All glowing and lightly clad in the blue of forget-me-nots, with a rose in her fair hair? Warmth lies like fleeting summer upon her bare shoulders, although she has come straight out of the terrible winter, and she steps with boldly moving limbs, like a daughter of joy. How proudly she carries her bosom, as though she were the bride of fortune--and how she burns! Who is she? Can no one say? Oh, that is Widow Hanne, a respectable girl, who for seven long years faithfully trod her way to and from the factory, in order to keep her old mother and her child! But how comes it then that she has the discreet Pelle on her arm? He who has sold his own youth to the devil, in order to alleviate poverty? What does he want here on the dancing-floor? And Hanne, whence did she get her finery? She is still out of employment! And how in all the world has she grown so beautiful? They whisper behind her, following her as she advances; and in the midst of the hall she stands still and smiles. Her eyes burn with a volcanic fire. A young man rushes forward and encircles her with his arm. A dance with Hanne! A dance with Hanne! Hanne dances with a peculiar hesitation, as though her joy had brought her from far away. Heavily, softly, she weighs on the arms of her partners, and the warmth rises from her bare bosom and dispels the cold of the terrible winter. It is as though she were on fire! Who could fail to be warmed by her? Now the room is warm once more. Hanne is like a blazing meteor that kindles all as it circles round; where she glides past the fire springs up and the blood runs warmly in the veins. They overturn the chairs in their eagerness to dance with her. "Hi, steward! Five kroner on my watch--only be quick!" "Ach, Hanne, a dance with me!"--"Do you remember we were at the factory together?"--"We used to go to school together!" Hanne does not reply, but she leaves Pelle and lays her naked arm upon their shoulders, and if they touch it with their cheeks the fire streams through them. They do not want to let her go again; they hold her fast embraced, gliding along with her to where the musicians are sitting, where all have to pay. No word passes her lips, but the fire within her is a promise to each of them, a promise of things most precious. "May I see you home to-night?" they whisper, hanging on her silent lips. But to Pelle she speaks as they glide along. "Pelle, how strong you are! Why have you never taken me? Do you love me?" Her hand is clasping his shoulder as she whirls along beside him. Her breath burns in his ear. "I don't know!" he says uneasily. "But stop now--you are ill." "Hold me like that! Why have you never been stronger than I? Do you want me, Pelle? I'll be yours!" Pelle shakes his head. "No, I love you only like a sister now." "And now I love you! Look--you are so distant to me--I don't understand you--and your hand is as hard as if you came from another world! You are heavy, Pelle! Have you brought me happiness from a foreign land with you?" "Hanne, you are ill! Stop now and let me take you home!" "Pelle, you were not the right one. What is there strange about you? Nothing! So let me alone--I am going to dance with the others as well!" Hitherto Hanne has been dancing without intermission. The men stand waiting for her; when one releases her ten spring forward, and this evening Hanne wants to dance with them all. Every one of them should be permitted to warm himself by her! Her eyes are like sparks in the darkness; her silent demeanor excites them; they swing her round more and more wildly. Those who cannot dance with her must slake the fire within them with drink. The terrible winter is put to flight, and it is warm as in Hell itself. The blood is seething in their brains; it injects the whites of their eyes, and expresses itself in wanton frolic, in a need to dance till they drop, or to fight. "Hanne is wild to-night--she has got her second youth," says Elvira and the other girls maliciously. Hold your tongues. No one shall criticize Hanne's behavior! It is wonderful to touch her; the touch of her skin hurts one, as though she was not flesh and blood, but fire from Heaven! They say she has not had a bite of food for a week. The old woman and the child have had all there was. And yet she is burning! And see, she has now been dancing without a break for two whole hours! Can one understand such a thing? Hanne dances like a messenger from another world, where fire, not cold, is the condition of life. Every dancer leaves his partner in the lurch as soon as she is free! How lightly she dances! Dancing with her, one soars upward, far away from the cold. One forgets all misery in her eyes. But she has grown paler and paler; she is dancing the fire out of her body while others are dancing it in! Now she is quite white, and Olsen's Elvira comes up and tugs at her dress, with anxiety in her glance. "Hanne, Hanne!" But Hanne does not see her; she is only longing for the next pair of arms--her eyes are closed. She has so much to make up for! And who so innocent as she? She does not once realize that she is robbing others of their pleasure. Is she suffering from vertigo or St. Vitus's dance, in her widowhood? Hold your tongue! How beautiful she is! Now she is growing rosy again, and opening her eyes. Fire darts from them; she has brought Pelle out of his corner and is whispering something to him, blushing as she does so; perhaps that precious promise that hitherto no one has been able to draw from her. Pelle must always be the lucky man! "Pelle, why don't you dance with me oftener? Why do you sit in the corner there always and sulk? Are you angry with me as you used to be, and why are you so hard and cold? And your clothes are quite stiff!" "I come from outside all this--from the terrible winter, Hanne, where the children are crying for bread, and the women dying of starvation, and the men go about with idle hands and look on the ground because they are ashamed of their unemployment!" "But why? It is still summer. Only look how cheerful every one is! Take me, then, Pelle!" Hanne grows red, redder than blood, and leans her head on his shoulder. Only see how she surrenders herself, blissful in her unashamed ecstasy! She droops backward in his arms, and from between her lips springs a great rose of blood, that gushes down over the summer-blue dress. Fastened to the spot by his terrible burden, Pelle stands there unable to move. He can only gaze at Hanne, until Cerberus takes her in his giant's arms and bears her out. She is so light in her summer finery-- she weighs nothing at all! "Mazurka!" he bellows, as he returns, and goes commandingly along the ranks of dancers. XXVI At the end of January, Pelle obtained a place as laborer in the "Denmark" machine works. He was badly paid, but Ellen rejoiced, none the less; with nothing one could only cry--with a little one could grow strong again. She was still a little pale after her confinement, but she looked courageous. At the first word of work her head was seething with comprehensive plans. She began at once to redeem various articles and to pay off little debts; she planned out a whole system and carried it out undeviatingly. The new sister was something for Young Lasse; he understood immediately that she was some one given to him in order to amuse him in his loneliness. During the confinement he had remained with his grandparents, so that the stork should not carry him away when it came with his little sister --for he was dear to them! But when he returned home she was lying asleep in her cradle. He just touched her eyelids, to see if she had eyes like his own. They snatched his fingers away, so he could not solve the exciting problem that day. But sister had eyes, great dark eyes, which followed him about the room, past the head of the bed and round the other side, always with the same attentive expression, while the round cheeks went out and in like those of a sucking animal. And Young Lasse felt very distinctly that one was under obligations when eyes followed one about like that. He was quite a little man already, and he longed to be noticed; so he ran about making himself big, and rolling over like a clown, and playing the strong man with the footstool, while his sister followed him with her eyes, without moving a muscle of her face. He felt that she might have vouchsafed him a little applause, when he had given himself so much trouble. One day he inflated a paper bag and burst it before her face. That was a help. Sister forgot her imperturbability, gave a jump, and began to roar. He was smacked for that, but he had his compensation. Her little face began to quiver directly he approached her, in order to show her something; and she often began to roar before he had performed his trick. "Go away from your sister Lasse Frederik!" said his mother. "You are frightening her!" But things were quite different only a month later. There was no one who understood Young Lasse's doings better than sister. If he did but move his plump little body, or uttered a sound, she twittered like a starling. Ellen's frozen expression had disappeared; now that she had something to work at again. The cold had weaned her from many of her exactions, and others were gratified by the children. The two little ones kept her very busy; she did not miss Pelle now. She had become accustomed to his being continually away from home, and she had taken possession of him in her thoughts, in her own fashion; she held imaginary conversations with him as she went about her work; and it was a joy to her to make him comfortable during the short time that he was at home. Pelle conceived his home as an intimate little world, in which he could take shelter when he was weary. He had redeemed that obscure demand in Ellen's eyes--in the shape of two dear little creatures that gave her plenty to do. Now it was her real self that advanced to meet him. And there was a peculiar loyalty about her, that laid hold of his heart; she no longer resented his small earnings, and she did not reproach him because he was only a workman. He had been obliged to resign his position as president of his Union on account of his longer hours. There was no prospect at present of his being able to return to his vocation; but the hard bodily labor agreed with him. In order to help out his small earnings, he busied himself with repairs in the evenings. Ellen helped him, and they sat together and gossiped over their work. They ignored the labor movement--it did not interest Ellen, and he by no means objected to a brief rest from it. Young Lasse sat at the table, drawing and putting in his word now and then. Often, when Pelle brought out the work, Ellen had done the greater part of it during the day, and had only left what she did not understand. In return he devised little ways of pleasing her. In the new year the winter was not so severe. Already in February the first promise of spring was perceptible. One noticed it in Ellen. "Shan't we pack a picnic-basket and go out to one of the beer-gardens on Sunday? It would do the children good to get into the air," she would say. Pelle was very willing. But on Sunday there was a meeting of the party leaders and a meeting concerning the affairs of the factory--he must be present at both. And in the evening he had promised to speak before a trade union. "Then we'll go out ourselves, the children and I!" said Ellen peacefully. When they came home it seemed they had amused themselves excellently; Pelle was no longer indispensable. * * * * * The hard winter was over at last. It was still freezing--especially at night--but the people knew it was over in spite of that. And the ice in the canals knew it also. It began to show fractures running in all directions, and to drift out toward the sea. Even the houses gave one a feeling of spring; they were brighter in hue; and the sun was shining into the sky overhead; if one looked for it one could see it glowing above the roofs. Down in the narrow lanes and the well-like courtyards the children stamped about in the snowy slush and sang to the sun which they could not see. People began to recover from the long privations of the winter. The cold might return at any moment; but all were united in their belief in the spring. The starlings began to make their appearance, and the moisture of the earth rose again to the surface and broke its way through the hard crust, in dark patches; and business ventured to raise its head. A peculiar universal will seemed to prevail in all things. Down under the earth it sprouted amid frost and snow, and crept forth, young, and seemingly brought forth by the cold itself; and in all things frozen by winter the promise unfolded itself--in spite of all. The workmen's quarter of the city began to revive; now it was once more of some use to go about looking for work. It did one good to get out and walk in the daylight for a while. And it also did one good once more to fill one's belly every day and to fetch the household goods home from the pawn-shop, and to air one's self a little, until one's turn came round again. But things did not go as well as they should have done. It looked as though the cold had completely crippled the sources of commercial activity. The spring came nearer; the sun rose higher every day, and began to recover its power; but business showed no signs of real recovery as yet; it did no more than supply what was needed from day to day. There was no life in it, as there had been of old! At this time of the year manufacturers were glad as a rule to increase their stocks, so as to meet the demands of the summer; it was usual to make up for the time lost during the winter; the workers would put forth their utmost strength, and would work overtime. Many anxious questions were asked. What was the matter? Why didn't things get going again? _The Working Man_ for the present offered no explanation, but addressed a covert warning to certain people that they had best not form an alliance with want. Gradually the situation assumed more definite outlines; the employers were making preparations of some kind, for which reason they did not resume business with any great vigor. In spite of their privations during the winter, the workers had once again returned some of their own representatives to Parliament, and now they were getting ready to strike a blow at the municipal elections. That was the thing to do now! And in the forefront of the battle stood the ever-increasing organization which now included all vocations and the whole country a single body, and which claimed a decisive voice in the ordering of conditions! The poor man was made to feel how little he could accomplish without those who kept everything going! In the meantime there were rumors that a lock-out was being prepared, affecting every occupation, and intended to destroy the Federation at one blow. But that was inconceivable. They had experienced only small lock-outs, when there was disagreement about some particular point. That any one could think of setting the winter's distress in opposition to the will of Nature, when every man was willing to work on the basis of the current tariff--no, the idea was too fiendish! But one distinction was being made. Men who had done any particular work for the movement would find it more difficult to obtain employment. They would be degraded, or simply replaced by others, when they applied for their old places after the standstill of the winter. Uncertainty prevailed, especially in those trades which had the longest connection with the labor organization; one could not but perceive this to be a consequence of combination. For that reason the feeling of insecurity increased. Every one felt that the situation was unendurable and untenable, and foresaw some malicious stroke. Especially in the iron industry relations were extremely strained; the iron-founders were always a hard-handed lot; it was there that one first saw what was about to develop. Pelle anxiously watched events. If a conflict were to occur just now, it would mean a defeat of the workers, who were without supplies and were stripped to the buff. With the winter had ceased even the small chance of employment on the ramparts; it was obvious that an assault would shatter their cohesion. He did not express his anxieties to them. They were at bottom like little children; it would do no good for them to suffer too great anxiety. But to the leaders he insisted that they must contrive to avoid a conflict, even if it entailed concessions. For the first time Pelle proposed a retreat! One week followed another, and the tension increased, but nothing happened. The employers were afraid of public opinion. The winter had struck terrible blows; they dared not assume the responsibility for declaring war. * * * * * In the "Denmark" machine-works the tension was of long standing. At the time when the farmers were compelled, by the conditions of the world- market, to give up the cultivation of cereals for dairy-farming, the directors of the factory had perceived in advance that the future would lie in that direction, and had begun to produce dairy machinery. The factory succeeded in constructing a centrifugal separator which had a great sale, and this new branch of industry absorbed an ever-increasing body of workers. Hitherto the best-qualified men had been selected; they were continually improving the manufacture, and the sales were increasing both at home and abroad. The workers gradually became so skilled in their specialty that the manufacturers found themselves compelled to reduce their wages--otherwise they would have earned too much. This had happened twice in the course of the years, and the workers had received the hint that was necessary to meet competition in foreign markets. But at the same time the centrifugal separators were continually increasing in price, on account of the great demand for them. The workers had regarded the lowering of their wages as something inevitable, and took pains yet further to increase their skill, so that their earnings had once more come to represent a good average wage. Now, immediately after the winter slackness, there were rumors in circulation that the manufacturers intended once more to decrease the rate of pay. But this time the men had no intention of accommodating themselves to the decrease. Their resentment against the unrighteousness of this proceeding went to their heads; they were very near demonstrating at the mere rumor. Pelle, however, succeeded in persuading them that they were confronted by nothing more than foolish gossip for which no one was responsible. Afterward, when their fear had evaporated and all was again going as usual, they came to him and thanked him. But on the next pay-day there was a notice from the office to the effect that the current rate of wages was not in accordance with the times--it was to be improved. This sounded absolutely innocent, but every one knew what lay behind it. It was one of the first days of spring. The sun was shining into the vast workshop, casting great shafts of light across it, and in the blue haze pulleys and belts were revolving. The workers, as they stood at their work, were whistling in time with the many wheels and the ringing of metal. They were like a flock of birds, who have just landed on a familiar coast and are getting the spring. Pelle was carrying in some raw material when the news came and extinguished all their joy. It was passed on a scrap of paper from man to man, brief and callous. The managers of the factory wanted to have nothing to do with the organization, but silently went behind it. All had a period of fourteen days in which to subscribe to the new tariff. "No arguments, if you please--sign, or go!" When the notice came to Pelle all eyes were turned upon him as though they expected a signal; tools were laid down, but the machinery ran idly for a time. Pelle read the notice and then bent over his work again. During the midday pause they crowded about him. "What now?" they asked; and their eyes were fixed upon him, while their hands were trembling. "Hadn't we better pack up and go at once? This shearing will soon be too much for us, if they do it every time a little wool has grown on us." "Wait!" said Pelle. "Just wait! Let the other side do everything, and let us see how far they will go. Behave as if nothing had happened, and get on with your work. You have the responsibility of wives and children!" They grumblingly followed his advice, and went back to their work. Pelle did not wonder at them; there had been a time when he too would throw down his work if any one imposed on him, even if everything had gone to the devil through it. But now he was responsible for many--which was enough to make a man prudent. "Wait!" he told them over and over again. "To-morrow we shall know more than we do to-day--it wants thinking over before we deal with it!" So they put the new tariff aside and went to work as though nothing had happened. The management of the factory treated the matter as settled; and the directors went about with a contented look. Pelle wondered at his comrades' behavior; after a few days they were in their usual spirits, indulging in all kinds of pastimes during their meal-time. As soon as the whistle sounded at noon the machinery stopped running, and the workers all dropped their tools. A few quickly drew their coats on, intending to go home for a mouthful of warm food, while some went to the beer-cellars of the neighborhood. Those who lived far from their homes sat on the lathe-beds and ate their food there. When the food was consumed they gathered together in groups, gossiping, or chaffing one another. Pelle often made use of the midday rest to run over to the "Ark" in order to greet Father Lasse, who had obtained work in one of the granaries and was now able to get along quite nicely. One day at noon Pelle was standing in the midst of a group of men, making a drawing of a conceited, arrogant foreman with a scrap of chalk on a large iron plate. The drawing evoked much merriment. Some of his comrades had in the meantime been disputing as to the elevating machinery of a submarine. Pelle rapidly erased his caricature and silently sketched an elevation of the machinery in question. He had so often seen it when the vessel lay in the harbor at home. The others were obliged to admit that he was right. There was a sudden silence as one of the engineers passed through the workshop. He caught sight of the drawing and asked whose work it was. Pelle had to go to the office with him. The engineer asked him all sorts of questions, and was amazed to learn that he had never had lessons in drawing. "Perhaps we could make use of you upstairs here," he said. "Would you care for that?" Pelle's heart gave a sudden leap. This was luck, the real genuine good fortune that seized upon its man and lifted him straightway into a region of dazzling radiance! "Yes," he stammered, "yes, thank you very much!" His emotion was near choking him. "Then come to-morrow at seven--to the drawing-office," said the engineer. "No, what's to-day? Saturday. Then Monday morning." And so the affair was settled, without any beating about the bush! There was a man after Pelle's own heart! When he went downstairs the men crowded about him, in order to hear the result. "Now your fortune's made!" they said; "they'll put you to machine-drawing now, and if you know your business you'll get independent work and become a constructor. That's the way Director Jeppesen got on; he started down here on the moulding-floor, and now he's a great man!" Their faces were beaming with delight in his good fortune. He looked at them, and realized that they regarded him as capable of anything. He spent the rest of the day as in a dream, and hurried home to share the news with Ellen. He was quite confused; there was a surging in his ears, as in childhood, when life suddenly revealed one of its miracles to him. Ellen flung her arms round his neck in her joy; she would not let him go again, but held him fast gazing at him wonderingly, as in the old days. "I've always known you were intended for something!" she said, looking at him with pride. "There's no one like you! And now, only think. But the children, they must know too!" And she snatched little sister from her sleep, and informed her what had happened. The child began to cry. "You are frightening her, you are so delighted," said Pelle, who was himself smiling all over his face. "But now--now we shall mix with genteel people," said Ellen suddenly, as she was laying the table. "If only I can adapt myself to it! And the children shall go to the middle-class school." When Pelle had eaten he was about to sit down to his cobbling. "No!" said Ellen decidedly, taking the work away, "that's no work for you any longer!" "But it must be finished," said Pelle; "we can't deliver half-finished work!" "I'll soon finish it for you; you just put your best clothes on; you look like a--" "Like a working-man, eh?" said Pelle, smiling. Pelle dressed himself and went off to the "Ark" to give Father Lasse the news. Later he would meet the others at his father-in-law's. Lasse was at home, and was eating his supper. He had fried himself an egg over the stove, and there was beer and brandy on the table. He had rented a little room off the long corridor, near crazy Vinslev's; there was no window, but there was a pane of glass over the door leading into the gloomy passage. The lime was falling from the walls, so that the cob was showing in great patches. "Well, well," said Lasse, delighted, "so it's come to this! I've often wondered to myself why you had been given such unprofitable talents-- such as lying about and painting on the walls or on paper--you, a poor laborer's son. Something must be intended by that, I used to tell myself, in my own mind; perhaps it's the gift of God and he'll get on by reason of it! And now it really seems as if it's to find its use." "It's not comfortable for you here, father!" said Pelle. "But I shall soon take you away from here, whether you like it or not. When we've paid off a few of the winter's debts we shall be moving into a three-roomed apartment, and then you'll have a room for your own use; but you mustn't go to work any longer then. You must be prepared for that." "Yes, yes, I've nothing against living with you, so long as I'm not taking the bread out of others' mouths. Ah, no, Pelle, it won't be difficult for me to give up my work; I have overworked myself ever since I could crawl; for seventy years almost I've toiled for my daily bread-- and now I'm tired! So many thanks for your kind intentions. I shall pass the time well with the children. Send me word whenever you will." The news was already known in the "Ark," and the inmates came up to wish him luck as he was leaving. "You won't he running in here any more and gossiping with us when once you are settled in your new calling," they said. "That would never do! But don't quite forget all about us just because we are poor!" "No, no, Pelle has been through so many hungry times with us poor folks; he's not one of those who forget old friendship!" they themselves replied. Only now, when he had left the "Ark," did he realize that there was something to which he was bidding farewell. It was the cordial community with all his kind, their radiant faith in him, and his own belief in his mission there; he had known a peculiar joy in the half-embittered recklessness, the community of feeling, and the struggle. Was he not, so to speak, the Prince of poverty, to whom they all looked up, and of whom they all expected that he would lead them into a strange world? And could he justify himself for leaving them all in the lurch because of his own good fortune? Perhaps he was really appointed to lead the movement--perhaps he was the only one who could do so! This belief had always been faintly glimmering in the back of his mind, had stood behind his endurance in the conflict, and behind all the gladness with which he bore privation. Was he in his arrogance to repudiate the place that had formed him? No, he was not so blatant as all that! There was plenty beside himself capable of seeing the movement through--and Fortune had tapped him on the shoulder. "March forward, Pelle!" an inward voice exhorted him. "What have you to consider? You have no right to thrust success away from you? Do you want to ruin yourself without profiting others? You have been a good comrade, but here your ways divide. God Himself has given you talent; even as a child you used to practise it; no one will gain by your remaining poor. Choose your own path!" Yes, Pelle had chosen readily enough! He knew very well that he must accept this good fortune, whatever the world might say to it. Only it hurt him to leave the others behind! He was bound to poverty by such intimate ties; he felt the solidarity of the poor so keenly that it hurt him to tear himself away. Common cares had made him a man, and the struggle had given him a peculiar and effective strength. But now he would attend no more meetings! It would be droll indeed if he were to have nothing more to do with the Cause, but were to belong to the other side--he, Pelle, who had been a flaming torch! No, he would never leave them in the lurch, that he knew; even if he were to climb ever so high-- and he entertained no doubts as to that--he would always feel for his old comrades and show them the way to obtain good relations between worker and employer. Ellen saw how serious he was--perhaps she guessed that he was feeling remorseful. She would help him to get over that. "Can't we have your father here to-morrow?" she said. "He can lie on the long chair in the living-room until we move into our new home. It isn't right to let him stay where he is, and in your new situation you couldn't do it." XXVII The unrest increased in the workshops round about; no one who had anything to do with the organization felt really secure. It was evidently the intention of the employers to drive the workers to extremes, and thereby to force them to break the peace. "They want to destroy the trades unions, so that they can scrape the butter off our bread again," said the workers. "They think it'll be easier now that the winter has made us thankful for a dry crust! But that's an infernal lie!" The masses grew more and more embittered; everywhere they were ready for a fight, and asked nothing better than to plunge into it. The women wept and shuddered; most of them understood only that the sufferings of the winter were going to begin all over again. They took desperate steps to prevent this; they threw their shawls over their heads and rushed off to the offices, to the manufacturers, and pleaded with them to avert the disaster. The central Committee counselled a peaceful demeanor and caution. Everything depended upon their having the right on their side in the opinion of the public. It was easy for Pelle to follow all that was happening, although he now stood outside the whole movement. He went to work in his good clothes and elastic-sided boots, and did not need to arrive before seven, while the others had to be there at six--which at once altered his point of view. He would soon be trusted with rule and compasses; for the present he was kept busy copying a few worn-out working-drawings, or "filling in." He felt in a curiously exalted frame of mind--as though he had been slightly intoxicated; this was the first time in his life that he had been employed on work that was of a clean nature and allowed him to wear good clothes. It was particularly curious to survey life from where he stood; a new perspective lay open before him. The old life had nothing in prospect but a miserable old age; but this led upward. Here he could achieve what he willed--even the highest place! What if he finally crept up to the very topmost point, and established an eight-hour day and a decent day's wage? Then he would show them that one could perfectly well climb up from below without forgetting his origin and becoming a bloodsucker! They should still drink to the health of Pelle, their good comrade, although he would have left their ranks. At home there was much to be done; as soon as he crossed the threshold he was the prisoner of Ellen's hundred and one schemes. He must have a new suit of clothes--a gray suit for the office, and more linen; and at least twice a week he must go to the barber; he could no longer sit down and scrape himself with an old razor with an edge like a saw. Pelle was made to feel that it was not so easy after all to become an "upper- classer," as he called it. And all this cost money. There was the same searching, the same racking of one's brains to find the necessary shillings as during the dearth of the winter famine; but this time it was quite amusing; there was a cheerful purpose in it all, and it would only last until he had properly settled down. Lasse looked very respectable; he was wearing Pelle's second-best suit, which Ellen had cleaned for him, and a black watered silk cravat, with a white waterproof collar, and well-polished slippers on his feet. These last were his old watertight boots--those in which Pelle had left Stone Farm. They were still in existence, but had been cut down to form house-slippers. The legs of them now formed part of a pair of clogs. Lasse was happiest with the children, and he looked quite an aged grandfather now, with his wrinkled face and his kind glance, which was now a little weak-sighted. When Young Lasse hid himself in the opposite corner of the room Father Lasse could not see him, and the young rascal took advantage of the fact; he could never understand those eyes, which could not see farther than across the table, and was always asking questions about them. "It's because I have seen too much misery in my life," the old man would always reply. Otherwise he was quite overflowing with happiness, and his old worn-out body manifested its gratitude, for he began to put on flesh again; and his cheeks had soon grown quite full. He had a peculiar knack for looking after the children; Pelle and Ellen could feel quite easy as they went about their multitudinous affairs. There were a hundred things that had to be seen to before they could move into the new home. They thought of raising a loan of a few hundred kroner. "Father will go security for us," said Ellen. "Yes, then I should have the means of taking proper drawing-lessons," said Pelle; "I particularly need to get thoroughly grounded." * * * * * On Saturday the term of the old tariff expired. The temper of the workers was badly strained, but each completed his work, and contained himself and waited. At noon the foreman went round asking each man for his answer. They refused all information, as agreed, but in the afternoon three men formed a deputation and entered the office, asking if they could speak with the manager. As he entered Munck, the engine- driver, stepped forward as spokesman, and began: "We have come in the name of our comrades." He could get no further; the manager let fly at him, pointing to the stairs, and crying, "I don't argue with my work- people!" So they went down again. The men stared up at them--this was quick work! The burly Munck moved his lips, as though he were speaking, but no one could hear a word on account of the frightful din of the machinery. With a firm stride he went through the shop, picked up a hammer, and struck three blows on the great steel gong. They sounded like the stroke of doom, booming through the whole factory. At the same moment the man's naked, blackened arms were lifted to strike the belts from the live pulleys. The machinery ceased running, and the roar of it died away; it was as still as though Death had passed through the workshop. The dense network of belts that crossed the shop in all directions quivered and hung slack; the silence yawned horribly in the great room. The foremen ran from bench to bench, shouting and hardly knowing what to do. Word was sent to the office, while the workers went to their buckets and washed themselves, silent and melancholy as a funeral procession. Their faces were uncommunicative. Did they perhaps foresee that those three blows were the signal for a terrible conflict? Or were they merely following their first angry impulse? They knew enough, at all events; it was stamped upon their faces that this was fate--the inevitable. They had summoned the winter because they were driven to it, and the winter would return once more to ravage his victims. They reappeared, washed and clean, each with his bundle under his arm, and stood in silence waiting their turn to be paid. The foreman ran to and fro apportioning the wages with nervous hands, comparing time-sheets and reckoning the sum due to each. The manager came down the stairs of his office, proud and unapproachable, and walked through the shop; the workers made way for him. He looked sharply around him, as though he would imprint the likeness of every individual worker on his mind, laid his hand on the shoulder of one of the foremen, and said in a loud voice, so that all heard him, "Make haste, now, Jacobsen, so that we can be rid of these fellows quickly!" The workers slowly turned their serious faces toward him, and here and there a fist was clenched. They left the factory one by one, as soon as they were paid. Outside they gathered in little groups, and relieved their feelings by giving vent to significant exclamations. "Did you see the old man? He was savage, he was; he'll hold out quite a while before we get back again!" Pelle was in a curious frame of mind; he knew that now the fight had begun; first blood had been drawn, and one blow would follow on another. Young Lasse, who heard his step on the stairs, ran into his arms as he reached home; but Pelle did not notice him. "You are so solemn!" said Ellen, "has anything happened?" He told her quietly. "Good God!" she cried, shuddering. "Now the unemployment will begin all over again! Thank God it doesn't affect us!" Pelle did not reply. He sat down in silence to his supper; sat hanging his head as though ashamed of himself. XXVIII A most agitating time followed. For a number of years the conflict had, so to speak, been preparing itself, and the workers had made ready for it, had longed for it, had sought to precipitate it, in order to determine once for all whether they were destined always to be slaves and to stand still, or whether there was a future for them. Now the conflict had come--and had taken them all by surprise; they would willingly have concluded peace just now. But there was no prospect of a peaceful solution of any kind. The employers found the occasion favorable for setting their house in order; the matter was to be fought out now! This was as good as telling the men to go. Every morning there was news of a fresh lot of workers turned into the streets, or leaving of their own accord. One trade involved another. The iron-masters made common cause with the "Denmark" factory, and declared a lock-out of the machine-smiths; then the moulders and pattern-makers walked out, and other branches of the industry joined the strike; they all stood by one another. Pelle could survey them all from his point of vantage. Old memories of battle rose to his mind; his blood grew warm, and he caught himself, up in the drawing-office, making plans of campaign for this trade or that. His was the quick-fighting blood that assumes the offensive, and he noted their blunders; they were not acting with sufficient energy. They were still exhausted, and found it hard to reconcile themselves to another period of unemployment. They made no counter-attack that could do any damage. The employers, who were acting energetically under the leadership of the iron industry, enjoyed from the beginning a considerable ascendancy. The "Denmark" factory was kept running, but the trade was on its last legs. It was kept alive by the help of a few strike-breakers, and every one of the officials of the company who had the requisite knowledge was set to work downstairs; even the manager of the machine department had donned a blouse and was working a lathe. It was a matter of sapping the courage of the strikers, while proving to them that it was possible to do without them. In the drawing-office and the counting-house all was confusion; the strike-breakers had all to be obtained from abroad; while others ran away and had to be replaced. Under these circumstances Pelle had to look after himself and assimilate what he could. This did not suit him; it was a long way to the top, and one couldn't learn quickly enough. One day he received the summons to come downstairs and lend a hand in the centrifugal separator department. The workers had made common cause with the machine-smiths. This summons aroused him from delightful dreams of the future. He was swiftly awakened. "I am no strike-breaker!" he replied, offended. Then the engineer himself came up. "Do you realize that you are refusing to perform your duty?" he said. "I can't take work away from my comrades," replied Pelle, in a low voice. "They may think that very nice of you. But now those men down there are no longer your comrades. You are a salaried employee, and as such you must serve the firm wherever you are asked to do so." "But I can't do that! I can't strike the bread out of other folks' hands." "Then your whole future is at stake. Think a moment, man! I am sorry for you, for you might have done something here; but I can't save you from the results of your own obstinacy. We require absolute obedience here." The engineer stood waiting for his answer, but Pelle had nothing to say. "Now, I'll go so far as to give you till to-morrow to think over it-- although that's against the rules of the factory. Now think it over well, and don't hang on to this stupid sentimentality of yours. The first thing is to stand by those you belong to, through thick and thin. Well, till to-morrow." Pelle went. He did not want to go home before the usual time, only to be met with a string of unseasonable questions. They would come soon enough in any case. So he strolled through the mercantile quarter and gazed at the shipping. Well, now his dream of success was shattered--and it had been a short one. He could see Ellen's look of disappointment, and an utter mental depression came over him. He was chiefly sorry for her; as for him, there was nothing to be said--it was fate! It never occurred to him for a moment to choose between his comrades and the future; he had quite forgotten that the engineer had given him time for reflection. At the usual time he strolled homeward. Ellen welcomed him cheerfully and light-heartedly; she was living in a continual thrill of delight; and it was quite touching to see what trouble she was taking to fit herself for a different stratum of society. Her movements were delightful to watch, and her mouth had assumed an expression which was intended to betoken refinement. It suited her delightfully, and Pelle was always seized by a desire to kiss her lips and so disarrange the expression; but to-day he sat down to his supper in silence. Ellen was accustomed to put aside his share of the midday dinner, and to warm it up for him when he came home in the evening; at midday he ate bread-and- butter in the office. "When we have once got properly settled we'll all have dinner at six o'clock; that is much more comfortable." "That's what the fine folks do, I've been told," said Lasse. "That will be pleasant, to give it a try." Lasse was sitting with Young Lasse on his knee, telling him funny stories. Little Lasse laughed, and every time he laughed his sister screeched with delight in her cradle, as though she understood it all. "What is it to be now, then--the story of the old wife? Then you must listen carefully, or your ears won't grow! Well, then, the old wife." "Wife!" said Young Lasse, with the very accent of the old man. "Yes, the old wife!" repeated Lasse, and then all three laughed. "'What shall I do first?' said the old wife, when she went to work; 'eat or sleep? I think I'll eat first. What shall I do first?' asked the old wife, when she had eaten; 'shall I sleep first or work? I think I'll sleep first.' And then she slept, until it was evening, and then she went home and went to bed." Ellen went up to Pelle and laid her hand on his shoulder. "I've been to see my former mistress, and she is going to help me to turn my wedding-dress into a visiting-dress," she said. "Then we shall only need to buy a frock-coat for you." Pelle looked up slowly. A quiver passed over his features. Poor thing! She was thinking about visiting-dresses! "You can save yourself the trouble," he said, in a low voice. "I've finished with the office. They asked me to turn strike-breaker, so I left." "Ach, ach!" said Lasse, and he was near letting the child fall, his withered hands were trembling so. Ellen gazed at Pelle as though turned to stone. She grew paler and paler, but not a sound came from her lips. She looked as though she would fall dead at his feet. XXIX Pelle was once more among his own people; he did not regret that fortune had withdrawn her promise; at heart he was glad. After all, this was where he belonged. He had played a great part in the great revolt--was he to be excluded from the battle? The leaders welcomed him. No one could draw the people as he could, when it came to that; the sight of him inspired them with a cheerful faith, and gave them endurance, and a fearless pugnacity. And he was so skilled, too, in making plans! The first thing every morning he made his way to the lock-out office, whence the whole campaign was directed; here all the many threads ran together. The situation for the moment was considered, men who had precise knowledge of the enemy's weak points were called together, in order to give information, and a comprehensive plan of campaign was devised. At secret meetings, to which trustworthy members of the various trades were invited, all sorts of material for offence was collected-- for the attack upon the employers, and for carrying on the newspaper agitation. It was a question of striking at the blood-suckers, and those who were loose in the saddle! There were trades which the employers kept going for local reasons--these must be hunted out and brought to a standstill, even at the cost of increasing unemployment. They were making energetic preparations for war, and it was not the time to be squeamish about their weapons. Pelle was in his element. This was something better than ruining a single shoemaker, even if he was the biggest in the city! He was rich in ideas, and never wavered in carrying them into execution. Warfare was warfare! This was the attacking side; but, permeated as he was by a sense of community, he saw clearly that the real battle was for maintenance. The utmost foresight and widely comprehensive instructions were required if the masses were to last out the campaign; in the long run it would be a question of endurance! Foreign strike-breakers had to be kept at a distance by prompt communications to the party newspapers of the different countries, and by the setting of pickets in the railway stations and on the steamers. For the first time the workers took the telegraph into their own service. The number of the foreign strikebreakers must by every possible means be kept down, and in the first place supplies must be assured, so that the unemployed masses could keep famine at bay. In a vision, Pelle had beheld the natural solidarity of the workers extended over the whole earth, and now this vision was of service to him. The leaders issued a powerful manifesto to the workers of Denmark; pointing to the abyss from which they had climbed and to the pinnacles of light toward which they were striving upward; and warning them, in impressive phrases, to stand firm and to hold together. A statement as to the origin of the lock-out and the intention which lay behind it was printed and distributed throughout the country, with appeal for assistance and support, in the name of freedom! And by means of appeals to the labor parties of foreign countries they reminded the people of the vast solidarity of labor. It was a huge machine to set in motion; federation had increased from one small trade union until it comprehended the whole kingdom, and now they were striving to comprehend the laboring populations of the whole world, in order to win them over as confederates in the campaign. And men who had risen from the masses and were still sharing the same conditions, were managing all this! They had kept step with the rapid growth of the movement, and they were still growing. The feeling that they were well prepared inspired them with courage and the prospect of a favorable result. From the country offers of employment for the locked-out workers daily reached the central office. Money was sent too--and assistance in the form of provisions; and many families outside the capital offered to take in the children of unemployed parents. Remittances of money came from abroad, and the liberal circles of the capital sympathized with the workers; and in the workers' quarter of the city shopkeepers and publicans began to collect for the Federation. The workers displayed an extraordinary readiness to undergo sacrifices. Books of coupons were circulated everywhere in the workshops, and thousands of workers gave each week a fourth part of their modest wages. The locked-out workers left their work with magnificent courage; the sense of community made them heroic. Destitute though they were as a result of the hard winter, they agreed, during the first two weeks, to do without assistance. Many of them spared the treasury altogether, helping themselves as well as they could, seeking a little private employment, or going out into the country to work on the land. The young unmarried men went abroad. The employers did what they could to cope with all these shifts. They forbade the merchants and contractors to supply those who worked at home on their own account with materials for their work; and secret agents were despatched all over the country to the small employers and the farmers, in order to prejudice them against the locked-out workers; and the frontier of the country was covered with placards. Their intention was obvious enough--an iron ring was to be drawn round the workers, and once imprisoned therein they could do nothing but keep starvation at bay until they had had enough, and surrendered. This knowledge increased their resistance. They were lean with wandering through the wilderness, but they were just in the mood for a fight. Many of them had not until now understood the entire bearings of the campaign; the new ideas had been stirring within them, but in a fragmentary and isolated condition--as an expression of a dumb feeling that the promised land was at hand at last. Often it was just one single word that had fixed itself in their minds, and had to serve to express the whole position. Any one might approach them with plausible arguments and strike it from under them, and shatter the theory to which they had clung; but faith itself remained, and the far-reaching concord; deep in their hearts was the dim, immovable knowledge that they were chosen to enter into the time of promise. And now everything was gradually becoming plain to them. The battle shed light both backward and forward. It illumined their existence in all its harshness. Life was the same as it had always been, but now it was revealed so plainly that all could see it. All the many whips and scorns of life had been bound together in one vast scourge--the scourge of famine--which was to drive them back into the midst of poverty! Want was to be set upon them in its compactest form! This was the last, most extreme weapon; it confirmed them in the certainty that they were now on the right track, and near the goal. The night was always darkest before the break of day! There were all sorts of things that they could understand now. People used to go about saying that the Germans were the hereditary enemy, and that the Fatherland was taking the lead of all other countries. But now the employers were sending to Germany for troops of hirelings, and were employing them to drive their own countrymen into a state of poverty. All that talk about patriotic feeling had been only fine words! There were only two nations--the oppressors and the oppressed! That was how things appeared on closer inspection! One could never be very sure of what those above one told one--and yet all teaching came from them! A brave lot the clergy were--they knew very well which master they had to serve! No, the people ought to have had their own schools, where the children would learn the new ideas instead of religion and patriotism! Then there would long ago have been an end of the curse of poverty! So they profited by the campaign and their compulsory idleness in order to think things over, and to endeavor to solve all manner of problems. The specter of hunger presently began to go from house to house, but the result was not what was expected; it awakened only hatred and defiance. It was precisely in this direction that they were invincible! In the course of time they had learned to suffer--they had learned nothing more thoroughly; and this came to their help now. They had an inexhaustible fund to draw upon, from which they could derive their strength to resist; they were not to be defeated. Weren't they nearly ready to surrender? Very well--another thousand workers on the streets! But the distress, to all appearance, became no greater than before; they had learned to endure their privations in decency--that was their share in the increasing culture. One saw no obtrusive signs of want; they compromised with it in secret, and appeared full of courage. This weakened the faith of their opponents in the infallible nature of their means. They even adopted hunger as their own weapon, boycotting the employers and their dependents, striking the enemy a blow they were familiar with! Many a great employer's door was marked with a cross, and all behind it were doomed to ruin. It was as though the courage of the people increased in proportion as famine threatened them more closely. No one could tell how long this would last; but they would make hay as long as the sun shone! Their clothes were still tidy, and in the early spring there were many excursions; the people went forth singing, with banners at their head, and singing they came home. This was the first time they had ever enjoyed their freedom, although there was work enough to be done--it was their first holiday! As they held the whip hand through their purchasing capacity, they boycotted all the business concerns of their own quarter which did not array themselves on the side of the workers. Their hatred was aroused; it was "for us or against us"; all must declare themselves by taking sides. The small shopkeepers concealed their convictions--if they had any--and rivalled one another in friendliness toward the workers. On their counters lay books of coupons for those who would contribute to the funds, and some of them gave a percentage of their own takings. There was plenty of time to keep a strict eye on such; the people's hatred was aroused at last, and it grew more and more bitter. The leaders held back and counselled prudence. But there was something intoxicating in this battle for bare life--and for happiness! Something that went to the head and tempted them to hazard all on the cast of the dice. The leaders had given great attention to the problem of restricting the number of idle hands--it was difficult for them to procure sufficient funds. But those workers who still had work to do forsook it, in order to join themselves, in blind solidarity, to their locked-out comrades. They thought it was required of them! One day the masons made an unexpected demand that an hour should be struck off the day's work. They received a refusal. But that evening they knocked off at six instead of seven. The men were unreasonable: to demand shorter hours in the slack season following on a hard winter! This move took the leaders by surprise. They feared that it might diminish the general sympathy for the workers. It surprised them particularly that the prudent and experienced Stolpe had not opposed this demand. As president of the organization for many years, he had great influence over the men; he must try to persuade them to go to work again. Pelle opened negotiations with him. "That is not my business," Stolpe replied. "I did not propose the cessation of work, but at the general meeting the majority was in favor of it--and with that there's no more to be said. I don't oppose my comrades." "But that's perverse of you," said Pelle. "You are the responsible person, and your trade has the most favorable conditions of labor--and you ought to remember the conflict in which we are engaged." "Yes, the conflict! Of course we thought of it. And you are right, I have a good and comfortable home, because my craft is in a good position; and we masons have obtained good conditions, and we earn good money. But are we to enjoy ourselves and look on while the others are fighting for dry bread? No, we are with them when it comes to a fight!" "But the support you were giving--it was ten thousand kroner a week, and now we shall have to do without it! Your action may have incalculable consequences for us. You must put an end to this, father-in-law! You must see that the majority doesn't have its way." "That would be diplomatic, wouldn't it? But you seem anxious to side with our opponents! We hold the suffrage in honor, and it is the suffrage that is to reform society. If once one begins to meddle with the voting-papers!--" "But that isn't necessary in the least! The people aren't really clear as to what they are doing--you can't expect any quickness of perception from them! You could demand a fresh vote--if I could first have a talk with them about the campaign!" "So you think we couldn't see what we were doing!" replied Stolpe, much offended. "But we can accept the consequences--we can do that! And you want to get up on the platform and talk them silly, and then they are to vote the other way round! No, no nonsense here! They voted according to their convictions--and with that the matter's settled, whether it's right or wrong! It won't be altered!" Pelle had to give in; the old man was not to be moved from his point of view. The masons increased the unemployed by a few thousand men. The employers profited by this aggression, which represented them to the public in a favorable aspect, in order to strike a decisive blow. The universal lock-out was declared. XXX At home matters were going badly with Pelle. They had not yet recovered from the winter when he was drawn into the conflict; and the preparations for his new position had plunged them into debt. Pelle received the same relief as the other locked-out workers--ten to twelve kroner a week--and out of this Ellen had to provide them with food and firing. She thought he ought, as leader, to receive more than the others, but Pelle did not wish to enjoy other conditions than those allotted to the rest. When he came home, thoroughly exhausted after his strenuous day, he was met by Ellen's questioning eyes. She said nothing, but her eyes obstinately repeated the same question day after day. It was as though they asked him: "Well, have you found employment?" This irritated him, for she knew perfectly well that he was not looking for work, that there was none to look for. She knew what the situation was as well as he did, but she persistently behaved as though she knew nothing of all that he and his comrades were endeavoring to achieve, and when he turned the conversation on to that subject she preserved a stubborn silence; she did not wish to hear anything about it. When the heat of battle rose to Pelle's head, there was no one with whom he would rather have shared his opinions and his plans of campaign. In other directions she had urged him on, and he had felt this as a confirmation and augmentation of his own being; but now she was silent. She had him and her home and the children, and all else besides was nothing to her. She had shared the privations of the winter with him and had done so cheerfully; they were undeserved. But now he could get work whenever he wished. She had resumed her dumb opposition, and this had an oppressive effect upon him; it took something from the joy of battle. When he reached home and related what had been said and done during the day, he addressed himself to Lasse. She moved about the home immersed in her own cares, as though she were dumb; and she would suddenly interrupt his conversation with the statement that this or that was lacking. So he weaned himself from his communicative habits, and carried on all his work away from home. If there was writing to be done, or if he had negotiations to accomplish, he selected some tavern where he would be free of her constraining presence. He avoided telling her of his post of confidence, and although she could not help hearing about it when away from home she behaved as if she knew nothing. For her he was still merely Pelle the working-man, who shirked supporting his wife and children. This obstinate attitude pained him; and the bitterness of his home life made him throw himself with greater energy into the struggle. He became a hard and dangerous opponent. Lasse used to gaze at them unhappily. He would willingly have intervened, but he did not know how to set about it; and he felt himself superfluous. Every day he donned his old clothes and went out in order to offer his services as casual laborer, but there were plenty of idle hands younger than his. And he was afraid of obtaining employment that might take the bread out of other folks' mouths. He could not understand the campaign, and he found it difficult to understand what was forbidden ground; but for Pelle he felt an unconditional respect. If the lad said this or the other, then it was right; even if one had to go hungry for it--the lad was appointed to some special end. One day he silently left the house; Pelle scarcely noticed it, so absorbed was he. "He must have gone back to the old clothes woman at the 'Ark,'" he thought; "it's by no means amusing here." Pelle had charge of the external part of the campaign; he knew nothing of bookkeeping or administration, but simply threw himself into the fight. Even as a child of eight he had been faced with the problem of mastering life by his own means, and he had accomplished it, and this he profited by now. He enjoyed the confidence of the masses; his speech sounded natural to them, so that they believed in him even when they did not understand him. If there was any one who did not wish to follow where Pelle led, he had to go just the same; there was no time just now for lengthy argument; where civil words didn't answer he took more energetic means. The campaign consisted in the first place of the federation of the masses, and Pelle was continually away from home; wherever anything was afoot, there he put in an appearance. He had inaugurated a huge parade, every morning all the locked-out workers reported themselves at various stations in the city, and there the roll was called, every worker being entered according to his Union. By means of this vast daily roll-call of nearly forty thousand men it was possible to discover which of them had deserted in order to act as strike-breakers. A few were always absent, and those who had a good excuse had to establish it in order to draw their strike-pay. Pelle was now here, now there, and always unexpected, acting on impulse as he did. "Lightning Pelle," they called him, on account of the suddenness of his movements. His actions were not based upon long deliberations; nevertheless, he had a radical comprehension of the entire movement; one thing grew out of another, naturally, until the whole was more than any conscious intelligence could comprehend. And Pelle grew with it, and by virtue of his impulsiveness was a summary of it all. There was plenty to be done; at the roll-call all those who failed to attend had to be entered, and those who knew anything about them must give information. This man had gone abroad; that one had gone into the country, to look for work; so far, so good. If any fell away and acted as strike-breaker, instructions were immediately given for his punishment. In this way Pelle kept the ranks closed. There were many weak elements among them--degenerate, ignorant fellows who didn't understand the importance of the movement, but a strong controlling hand and unfailing justice made it a serious matter for them to break away. At the outset he had organized with Stolpe's assistance a large body of the best workers as pickets or watchmen. These were zealous, fanatical members of the various trades, who had taken part in the organization of their own professional organization, and knew every individual member thereof. They stationed themselves early in the morning in the neighborhood of the various places of employment, marking those who went to work there and doing their best to prevent them. They were in constant conflict with the police, who put every possible obstacle in their way. Morten he met repeatedly. Privation had called him out of his retirement. He did not believe that the campaign would lead to better conditions, and on that account he took no part in it. But want he knew as did no other; his insight in that direction was mysteriously keen. The distribution of relief in the form of provisions could not have been entrusted to better hands. He superintended the whole business of distribution, but what he liked best was to stand, knife in hand, cutting up pork for the families of locked-out workers. The portions were strictly weighed; none the less, the women always thronged about him. There was a blessing in that faint smile of his--they felt sure his portions were the biggest! Morten and Pelle were in disagreement on almost every point. Even now, when everything depended on a strict cohesion, Morten could never be trusted to behave with severity. "Remember, they aren't of age yet," he would say continually. And it could not be gainsaid that there were many to whom the conflict was unintelligible--they understood nothing of it, although otherwise they were thoughtful and intelligent enough. These were mostly people who had come in from the provinces at a somewhat advanced age; indeed some had been small employers there. For them trades unionism was a sort of lynch law, and they profited by the strike in all simplicity in order to obtain well-paid employment. When they were reviled as strikebreakers or "gentlemen," they laughed like little children who are threatened with a revolver. Slow-witted as they were, in this respect, they took the consequences to heart, although they could not see the reason for them. These must be compelled to obey. The iron industry was doing its utmost to keep going, as a trade which must fulfill its contracted engagements, under penalty of seeing the business fall into foreign hands. This industry had if possible to be disabled. The pickets were at work, and _The Working Man_ published the names and addresses of the strike-breakers. When these left the factory they encountered a crowd of people who treated them with scorn and contempt; they had to be escorted by the police. But the resentment aroused by their treachery followed them home even to the barracks they lived in. The wives and children of the locked-out workers resumed the battle and carried on hostilities against the families of the strike- breakers, so that they had to move. One saw them of a night, with all their possessions on a handcart, trudging away to seek a new home under cover of the darkness. But the day revealed them, and again they were fugitives, until the police took them in hand and found lodging for them. One day a large factory by the North Bridge resumed operations with the help of foreign labor and strike-breakers. Pelle set to work to prepare a warm reception for the workers when they went homeward, but in the course of the day a policeman who was friendly to the workers tipped him the wink that two hundred police would be concealed in a neighboring school, ready for the workers' departure. In the afternoon people began to collect--unemployed workers, poor women, and children. They came early, for it well might be that the workers would be released an hour before their time, in order to avoid a clash, and they were missing nothing by waiting there. Finally several thousand people stood before the gates of the factory, and the police were moving to and fro through the crowd, which stood many men deep, but they had to give up the effort to drive them asunder. The street urchins began to make an uproar, and to egg the watchers on. They felt the need of warming themselves a little, so they gradually began to bait the police. "Hullo, there!" suddenly shouted a mighty voice. "In the school over there are two hundred police, waiting for us to make a disturbance, so that they can come and use their truncheons on us. Hadn't we better leave them where they are? I think it's quite as well they should go back to school for a time!" "Hurrah!" they cried. "Hurrah! Long live 'Lightning'!" A movement went through the crowd. "That's Pelle!" The whisper passed from mouth to mouth, and the women stood on tiptoe to see him. Pelle and Stolpe were standing against a wall, surrounded by a few dozen pickets. The police went up to them and reprimanded them. They had orders to hinder the picketing, but they had no desire to meddle with Pelle. They lived in the workers' quarter, were at home there, and a word from him would make the city impossible for them. The usual time for stopping work came round, but the workers were not released from the factory. The crowd used its wits to keep itself warm; punning remarks concerning strike-breakers and capitalists buzzed through the air. But suddenly an alarm ran through the crowd. The street urchins, who are always the first to know everything, were whistling between their fingers and running down the side streets. Then the crowd began to move, and the police followed at a quick march, keeping to the middle of the street. The factory had discharged the workers by a back door. They were moving down Guldberg Street by now, disheartened and with never a glance behind them, while a whole escort of police accompanied them. They were soon overtaken and brought home to the accompaniment of a sinister concert, which now and again was interrupted by cries of, "Three cheers for the gentlemen!" The pickets walked in a long file, close to the procession, zealously occupied in noting each individual worker, while Pelle moved in the midst of the crowd, endeavoring to prevent over-hasty action. There was need to be careful. Several men were still in prison because during the winter they had come to blows with the strike-breakers, and the police had received stringent orders from the authorities. The press of the propertied classes was daily calling for stricter measures, demanding that every meeting in the streets, and especially before the gates of a factory, should be broken up by the police. Now and then a strike-breaker parted from the squad and ran into the door of his dwelling, followed by a long whistle. Among the workers was a solitary, elderly man, still powerful, whom Pelle recognized. He kept at the extreme edge of the police, walking heavily, with bowed head, along the pavement close to the houses. His hair was quite gray, and his gait was almost crippled. This was Mason Hansen, Stolpe's old comrade and fellow-unionist, whom Pelle had interviewed in the winter, in the hope of persuading him to refrain from strikebreaking. "It's going badly with him," thought Pelle, involuntarily keeping his eyes on him. The results of strike-breaking had dealt hardly with him. By St. Hans Street he turned the corner, winking at the policeman who was about to follow him, and went down the street alone, looking neither to right nor left, embarrassed, and with hanging head. Every time a child cried aloud, he started. Then he stood as though riveted to the ground, for in front of his door a heap of poverty-stricken household goods lay in the gutter. A crowd of gaping children stood round the heap, and in the midst of the group stood a youngish woman, with four children, who were keeping tearful watch over the heap of trash. The man pressed through the crowd and exchanged a few words with the woman, then clenched his fists and shook them threateningly at the tenement house. Pelle went up to him. "Things aren't going well with you, comrade," he said, laying his hand on the other's shoulder. "And you are much too good for what you are doing. You had better come with me and re-enter the organization." The man slowly turned his head. "Oh, it's you!" he said, shaking Pelle's hand away with a jerk. "And you seem as cool and impudent as ever. Poverty hasn't dealt hardly with you! It's not at all a bad business, growing fat on the pence of the workers, eh?" Pelle grew crimson with anger, but he controlled himself. "Your insults don't hurt me," he said. "I have gone hungry for the Cause while you have been playing the turncoat. But that will be forgotten if you'll come with me." The man laughed bitterly, pointing at the tenement-house. "You'd better go and give them a medal. Three months now they've tormented me and made hell hot for my wife and children, in order to drive us away. And as that didn't answer, they went to the landlord and forced him to give me notice. But Hansen is obstinate--he wouldn't be shown the door. So now they've got the bailiffs to turn me out, see?" He gave a hollow laugh. "But these few sticks, why, we can soon carry them up again, damn it all! Shall we begin, mother?" "I'll willingly speak to the landlord. Remember, you are an old unionist." "An old--yes, I was in it from the very beginning." The man drew himself proudly erect. "But for all that I don't let my wife and children starve. So you want to go begging favors for me, eh? You be gone--at once, will you? Be off, to the devil, or I'll beat you to a jelly with this!" He seized a table-leg; his eyes were quite blood-shot. His young wife went up to him and took his hand. "Hansen!" she said quietly. He let his weapon fall. Pelle felt the woman's pleading eyes upon him, and went. XXXI When Pelle, tired to death, made his way homeward in the evening, he had lost the feeling of invincibility and his thoughts turned to Ellen. In the daytime he felt neither hesitation nor certainty. When he set to work it was always with thousands behind him. He felt the great body of workers at his back, whether he was fighting in the open or waiting with close-buttoned coat to deal with the leaders of the opposing camp. But when he went home to Ellen he had only himself to rely on for support. And he could not get near her. Strongly as he was drawn by the life away from home, she still held the secret of his life in her hands. She was strong and would not be swept aside. He was forced to ponder over her nature and to search for a solution. Pelle had to deal with countless numbers of families, and what he saw was not always edifying. Home was a conception which was only now forcing its way downward from the middle classes. Even in periods of normal employment the workers earned little enough when it came to providing a decent family life, and the women knew nothing of making a comfortable home. The man might be tidy and well-dressed when one met him out of doors, but if you went to his home it was always the same thing; a dark, grimy den and a worn-out wife, who moved about scolding amidst a swarm of children. Wages were enough for one only to live in comfort. The man represented the household out of doors. He must take sandwiches to his work, and he must have something decent too when he got home. The others managed with a little bread and coffee; it was of no use to talk of regular family meals. And the man must have clothes; he was the visible portion of the household, and he supported it. It was of no use to look for anything further in the way of ideas from these women; they saw nothing but unemployment and the want at home, and when the husband showed himself they drove him out of the house with their scolding ways. "You go out and meddle with everything you can think of that doesn't concern us--politics and big talk--instead of doing your work properly and leaving the fools to squabble among themselves!" The result was that they did their work for the organization in the taverns. Many of them held positions of confidence, and Pelle went to the taverns to confer with them. They were dejected, when they arrived, and had before all else to be thawed out. There Pelle came to them, with his brilliant hopes. When they lamented in their dejection, he promised great things of the future. "Our wives will soon see that we are in the right. The day will soon come when we shall be able to go home with a proper week's wages, that will be enough for the whole family." "And suppose it doesn't come off?" they would say. "It will come off--if only we hold out!" he cried, smiting the table. Yes, he might well see the bright side of things. He had a wife who came from a long-established home, who kept things clean and tidy for him, and knew how to make much do the work of little; the daughter of an old unionist who had grown up in the midst of the movement--a wife who saw her husband's doings with understanding eyes; yes, he might well smile! As to the last, Pelle was silent. In this particular she had accepted neither inheritance nor teaching; she was as she was, and she would never be different, whatever might pass over her head. Pelle was sacrificing wife and children to a fixed idea, in order not to leave a few indifferent comrades in the lurch! That, and the strike, and the severe condemnation of those who would not keep step, was, and remained, for her, so much tavern nonsense. It was something the workers had got into their heads as a result of talking when they were not precisely sober. That was what it was, and it filled her heart with pain and mortification that she and hers should be set aside for people who were nothing to them. And this pain made her beautiful, and justified her in her own eyes. She did not complain in words, and she was always careful to set before Pelle whatever the house could provide. He always found everything in order, and he understood what efforts it must cost her--considering the smallness of the means which she had at her disposal. There was no weak point in her defences; and this made the position still more oppressive; he could not evoke an explosion, a ventilation of her grievances; it was impossible to quarrel with her and make friends again. Often he wished that Ellen would become neglectful, like so many others. But she was always attentive; the more the circumstances enabled her to condemn him, the more correctly did she behave. If only he could have explained her lack of comprehension by supposing that her mind was barren and self-seeking! But in his eyes she had always been quite simple and single-minded, and yet her nature was to him a continual enigma! It was true she was not excessively benevolent or sympathetic where others were concerned; but on the other hand she asked nothing for herself--her thoughts were all for him and the children. He must admit that she had, without a thought, sacrificed everything to him--her home, her whole world--and that she had a right to ask something in return. And she was still unchangeably the same. She was indifferent where she herself was concerned, if only Pelle and the children had something she was contented; she herself needed so little, yet she seemed to take enough when he watched her eating. Pelle often wondered that she retained her healthy appearance, although the food she ate was so inferior. Perhaps she helped herself in secret--but he drove the thought away, and was ashamed. She was always completely indifferent as to what she ate; she did not notice what it was, but served him and the children with the best of it--especially himself--yet she seemed to thrive. Yes, even now she gave the best to him. It was as though she was fulfilling some deep-rooted law of her nature, which was independent of their relations to one another. In this nothing could alter her habits. She might have been compared to a great beautiful bitch that lies attentively marking the appetite of her young, although none can tell, from her deliberate quiet, that her own bowels are twisted with hunger. If they left anything, she noticed it. "I have eaten," she would say, so quietly that she succeeded as a rule in deceiving them. Yes, it made him feel desperate to think about it; the more he thought of it the more unendurable it was. She was sacrificing herself for him, yet she must condemn all his doings! She knew how to defy starvation far better than he--and she did not understand why they must go hungry! But from all these painful deliberations she emerged always more prominently capable, incomprehensible, and beautiful in all her strangeness! And he would hurry home, full of burning longing and devotion, continually hoping that this time she would come to him glowing with love, to hide her eyes, full of confusion, on his shoulder. The disappointment only flung him yet more violently into the struggle; the longing of his heart for a tender, careless hand made his own hard. * * * * * He was always exerting himself to find some means of making money. At first, of course, there was no way, and he became so completely absorbed in the conflict that finally the question no longer occupied his mind. It lurked in his consciousness, like a voluptuous wish that merely tinged his daily existence; it was as though something within his mind had taken possession of his talent for design, and was always designing beautiful paper money and displaying it to his imagination. One day when he reached home he found Widow Rasmussen tending the children and working on a pair of canvas shoes. Drunken Valde had left her again--had flown out into the spring! Ellen had gone out to work. A sudden pain shot through him. Her way of doing this, without saying a word to him, was like a blow in the face, and at first he was angry. But disloyalty was foreign to his nature. He had to admit that she was within her rights; and with that his anger evaporated, leaving him bewildered; something within him seemed tottering; surely this was a topsy-turvy world! "I might as well stay at home and look after the children," he thought bitterly. "I'll stay with the children now, Madam Rasmussen!" he said. The woman put her work together. "Yes, they've got a lot to go through," she said, standing in the doorway. "I don't myself understand what it's all about, but one must always do something! That's my motto. For things can't be worse than they are. 'Widow'! Pooh! They won't let us behave ourselves! A man can scarcely look after himself, let alone a family, in this accursed world --and one needn't call one's self Madam to get children! Here have I been knocking about all my life, ruining my health and happiness, and have I earned as much from all my blackguards as would pay for the rags I've worn? No; I've had to beg them nicely of the fine folks for whom I do washing! Yes, they are ready to skin one alive--Madam Rasmussen has proved that. So I say, one must always try something! To-day the boy comes home and says, 'Mother, they've put up the price of firewood again--an öre the two dozen!' 'What does that matter to us, boy? Can we buy two dozen at once?' I say. 'Yes, mother, but then the one dozen will cost an öre more.' And eggs, they cost one krone twenty a score where the rich folks buy them--but here! 'No, my dear madam, if you take two eggs you must pay fifteen öre!' That makes eight ore for an egg, for if one takes the smallest quantity the profits aren't in proportion. It's hard to be poor. If it's never going to be better, may the devil take him that's made it all! That was a fine swear!" Pelle sat playing with Young Lasse. Madam Rasmussen's words had aroused something in him. That was the eternal complaint, the old, old cry! Whenever he heard it, the world of the poor man became even more plainly visible for what it was--and he ought to know it! It was a frightful abyss that he looked down into; it was bottomless; and it seemed forever to reveal fresh depths. And he was right--he was right. He sat carelessly drawing something for the child on a scrap of paper, thinking of things quite different; but involuntarily the drawing took shape from within his hand. "That's money, that's money!" cried Young Lasse, clapping his hands. Pelle waked up and examined his drawing; sure enough, there was a rough sketch of a ten-kroner note! It flattered his father's heart that the child had recognized it; and he was seized by the desire to see how like it was. But where in all the world was he to get a "blue"? Pelle, who at this time superintended the collection and distributing of millions, did not possess ten kroner! The pipe! The pipe! That was what the boy got his idea from! His old Christmas present, queerly enough, had a ten-kroner note on the bowl--and that gave him an idea! He got it out and compared it; it was a long time since he had smoked the pipe--he couldn't afford it. He began eagerly to fill in the drawing while Young Lasse stood by, amusing himself by watching the rapid movements of the pencil. "Father is clever--Father draw!" he said, and wanted to wake his sister so that she could take part in the game. No, the result was not good! The design would have to be cut in wood and printed in color for the appearance really to be similar. But then Ellen came home, and he hid it away. "Won't you give up going out to work?" he said. "I'll provide what is absolutely necessary." "Why?" she retorted resolutely. "I'm not too good to do anything!" There was no tone in her voice from which he could elicit anything; so he got ready to go to the meeting. Now, when Ellen went out to work, he ran home as often as he had time in order to look after the children. He had obtained a piece of hard wood and a ten-kroner note. With great care he transferred the design onto the wood, and began to engrave it while he sat there chattering to the children. This task occupied unused faculties; it engrossed him as an artistic exercise, which lingered at the back of his mind and automatically continued to carry itself out, even when he was away from home. This work filled his mind with a peculiar beauty so long as he was engaged on it. A warm, blissful world was evoked by the sight of this ten-kroner note, which shone ever more plainly out of the darkness and swept all privations aside. When Pelle sat at this work his mind soared above all oppression as though intoxicated; unhappy things no longer existed for him. He became an optimist and mentally made Ellen all sorts of costly presents. It was all fundamentally so simple--it was only a misunderstanding-- nothing more! He must speak to her, and she would see at once what a happy life they were going to live--if only they held out. Silence had filled her with resentment. Fortune! Fortune! It was nearer than ever now, greater and more splendid than on that other occasion when it had knocked at their door! Why, he did not know--that did not seem very clear! But when he heard her step on the stairs his dream was shattered. He was awake. He concealed his work, ashamed to think that she should come home from work and find him at play. At times he was oppressed by a feeling of the unattainable in his relations with Ellen. Even to himself he could not explain the contradiction between the constant longing for more ample and stable conditions, for triumph and victory, and his impotency at home, where his fortunes were declining. He wearied himself in trying to puzzle it out, and he was seized by a desire that he might become indifferent to the whole matter. He felt no inclination to drink, but none the less something was working convulsively within him; a certain indifference as to his own welfare, causing him to run risks, not caring whether he might not commit some stupidity that would do him harm. And at such times a voice cried loudly within him, especially when he was confronted by the bitter utterances of want. "That is my old complaint," he thought, and he became observant. In his childhood it had been a sort of seizure; now it had become a voice. XXXII Early one morning Pelle wandered into the city. He had risen before Ellen, in order to avoid the painfulness of sitting down to breakfast with her. Ellen tried all sorts of ruses in order to give him a proper breakfast, and it was not difficult to persuade his stomach; but afterward he felt ashamed that he should have been cared for at the cost of others; and cunning though he was too, he could not get the better of her save by slipping away while she was still asleep. His fasting condition endowed the city, and the whole of life, with a curiously unsubstantial aspect. Before him lay a long day full of terrific labors, and behind him was the fresh triumph of the day before. As matters now stood, the employers in the iron industry had conceived the cunning idea of founding a blackleg Union for smiths and mechanics, and of giving it a name closely resembling that of the genuine Union. Then they sent circulars to the men, stating that work would be resumed on the following day. Many of the men were not accustomed to read, and regarded the circular as an order from their own Union, while others were enticed by the high wages offered by the new society. There was great confusion among the workers of these trades. As soon as the trick was exposed every respectable man drew back; but there was a great deal of disappointment, and they felt horribly ashamed before their comrades. Pelle was furious at this trick, which affected him more especially, as the leader in open battle; he had suffered a defeat, and he meditated revenge. In spite of all the efforts of the pickets, it was not possible to procure a full list of the strikebreakers; his chagrin on this account burned in his heart, like a shameful sense of impotency; hitherto he had been noted for getting to the bottom of anything he undertook! He resolved then and there to meet ruse with ruse. He set a trap for his opponents, so that they themselves should deliver the strikebreakers into his hands. One morning he published his list in _The Working Man_ with the proud remark, "Look, the enemy has no more!" Did the employers really fall into the trap, or was the fate of the strike-breakers really indifferent to them? Next morning their organ protested, and gave the number of the black-legs and their names into the bargain! This was a smack! A good one this; it brought a light to the thin, impassive faces. There was an answer to the trick of the other day! This Pelle was a deuce of a fellow! Three cheers for "Lightning Pelle!" Hip, hip, hurrah! Pelle was the deuce of a fellow as he strode along ruddy and full of pugnacity, with the echoes from the side-streets and the tenement-houses mingled with his own vigorous footsteps. Streets and houses were white with the night's hoar frost, and overhead the air was full of a peculiar glow that came from the city--a light flowing from hidden sources. He had left all his cares at home; on every hand working-folk were greeting him, and his greeting in return was like an inspiriting song. He did not know them, but they knew him! The feeling that his work--however deep the scars it might leave--was arousing gratitude, had an uplifting effect upon him. The city was in its morning mood. The lock-out lay like a paralyzing hand upon everything; business was slack, and the middle classes were complaining, but there was no prospect of peace; both sides were irreconcilable. The workers had lost nothing through the rash cessation of the masons. Sympathy for the lower classes had become a political principle; and contributions were still pouring in from the country. Considerable sums came from abroad. The campaign was now costing the workers half a million kroner a week; and the help from outside was like a drop in the ocean. But it had the effect of a moral support, and it stimulated the self-taxation to which all were subject. The hundred thousand households of the poor parted with their last possessions in order to continue the struggle; they meant to force a decision that should affect their whole future. The employers tried to hinder the great National Federation by calling the attention of the authorities to an ancient statute concerning mendicancy; but that merely aroused merriment. A little laughter over such expedients was permissible. The workers had become accustomed to starvation. They went no more into the forest, but strolled thoughtfully through the streets like people who have too much time on their hands, so that the city's face wore a peculiar stamp of meditative poverty. Their loitering steps aroused no echo, and in the houses the quietness gave one food for reflection. The noisy, ever-hungry children were scattered over the face of the country --they at least had plenty to eat. But the place was empty for the lack of them! Pelle met several squads of workers; they were on the way to the various roll-calls. They raised their heads as he passed; his footsteps echoed loudly enough for all! It was the hope and the will of forty thousand men that passed there--Pelle was the expression of them all. They stared at his indomitable figure, and drew themselves up. "A devil of a chap!" they told one another joyfully; "he looks as if he could trample 'em all underfoot! Look at him--he scarcely makes way for that great loaded wagon! Long live Pelle, boys!" The tavern-keepers stood on their cellar stairs gaping up at the morning sky--this was a time of famine for them! In the tavern windows hung cards with the inscription: "Contributions received here for the locked- out workers!" On the Queen Luise Bridge Pelle encountered a pale, fat little man in a shabby coat. He had flabby features and a great red nose. "Good morning, General!" cried Pelle gaily; the man made a condescending movement with his hand. This was _The Working Man's_ man of straw; a sometime capitalist, who for a small weekly wage was, as far as the public was concerned, the responsible editor of the paper. He served various terms of imprisonment for the paper, and for a further payment of five kroner a week he also worked out in prison the fines inflicted on the paper. When he was not in jail he kept himself alive by drinking. He suffered from megalomania, and considered that he led the whole labor movement; for which reason he could not bear Pelle. In the great court-yard of _The Working Man_ building the dockers were assembled to answer the roll. The president of their Union met Pelle in the doorway; he was the very man whom Pelle and Howling Peter had rescued down by the harbor--now he was working for the new ideas! "Well, how goes it?" asked Pelle, shaking his hand. "Splendid! A thousand men all but seven!" "But where's the joyful Jacob? Is he ill?" "He's in jail," replied the other gloomily. "He couldn't bear to see his old folks starving--so he broke into a grocery, he and his brother--and now they're both in prison." For a moment the lines on Pelle's forehead were terribly deep and gloomy; he stood gazing blindly into space; the radiant expression left his countenance, which was filled with a pitying gravity. The docker stared at him--was he going to sleep on his feet? But then he pulled himself together. "Well, comrades, are you finding the days too long?" he cried gaily. "Ach, as for that! It's the first time one's had the time to get to know one's own wife and children properly!" they replied. "But for all that it would be fine to get busy again!" It was obvious that idleness was at last beginning to depress them; there was a peculiar pondering expression on their impassive features, and their eyes turned to him with a persistent questioning. They asked that this undertaking of his should be settled one way or the other. They were not weakening; they always voted for the continuance of the campaign, for that which they sought depended thereon; but they gazed into his face for a look that might promise success. He had to answer many singular questions; privation engendered in the most fantastic ideas, which revealed the fact that their quiet, controlled bearing was the product of the observation and the energy of the many. "Shall we deprive the rich of all their wealth and power?" asked one man, after long pondering and gazing at Pelle. The struggle seemed to have dealt hardly with him; but it had lit a spark in his eyes. "Yes, we are going now to take our rights as men, and we shall demand that the worker shall be respected," Pelle replied. "Then there'll be no more talk of poor man and gentleman!" "But suppose they try to get on top of us again? We must make short work of them, so that they can't clamber on our backs and ride us again." "Do you want to drive them all onto the Common and shoot them? That's not necessary," said his neighbor. "When this is settled no one will dare to take the food out of our mouths again." "Won't there be any more poverty then?" asked the first speaker, turning to Pelle. "No, once we get our affairs properly in going order; then there will be comfort in every home. Don't you read your paper?" Yes, he read it, but there was no harm in hearing the great news confirmed by Pelle himself. And Pelle could confirm it, because he never harbored a doubt. It had been difficult to get the masses to grasp the new conception of things--as difficult as to move the earth! Something big must happen in return! A few of the men had brought out sandwiches and began to eat them as they debated. "Good digestion!" said Pelle, nodding farewell to them. His mouth was watering, and he remembered that he had had nothing to eat or drink. But he had no time to think about it; he must go to Stolpe to arrange about the posting of the pickets. Over the way stood Marie in a white cap, with a basket over her arm; she nodded to him, with rosy cheeks. Transplantation had made her grow; every time he saw her she was more erect and prettier. At his parents'-in-law the strictest economy prevailed. All sorts of things--household possessions--had disappeared from that once so comfortable home; but there was no lack of good spirits. Stolpe was pottering about waiting for his breakfast; he had been at work early that morning. "What's the girl doing?" he asked. "We never see her now." "She has such a lot to do," said Pelle apologetically. "And now she's going out to work as well." "Well, well, with things as they are she's not too fine to lend a hand. But we don't really know what's amiss with her--she's a rebellious nature! Thank God she's not a man--she would have brought dissolution into the ranks!" Breakfast consisted of a portion of coffee and bread-and-butter and porridge. Madam Stolpe could not find her fine new silver coffee- service, which her children had given her on her silver-wedding day. "I must have put it away," she said. "Well, well, that'll soon be found again, mother!" said Stolpe. "Now we shall soon have better times; many fine things will make their appearance again then, we shall see!" "Have you been to the machine-works this morning, father-in-law?" asked Pelle. "Yes, I've been there. But there is nothing more for the pickets to do. The employers have quartered all the men in the factory; they get full board and all there. There must be a crowd of foreign strike-breakers there--the work's in full swing." This was an overwhelming piece of news! The iron-masters had won the first victory! This would quickly have a most depressing effect on the workers, when they saw that their trade could be kept going without them. "We must put a bridle on them," said Pelle, "or they'll get off the course and the whole organization will fall to pieces. As for those fellows in there, we must get a louse under their shirts somehow." "How can we do that when they are locked in, and the police are patrolling day and night in front of the gates? We can't even speak to them." Stolpe laughed despairingly. "Then some one must slink in and pretend he's in want of employment!" Stolpe started. "As a strike-breaker? You'll never in this life get a respectable man to do that, even if it's only in jest! I wouldn't do it myself! A strike-breaker is a strike-breaker, turn and twist it how you will." "A strike-breaker, I suppose, is one who does his comrades harm. The man who risks his skin in this way deserves another name." "I won't admit that," said Stolpe. "That's a little too abstract for me; anyhow, I'm not going to argue with you. But in my catechism it says that he is a strike-breaker who accepts employment where assistance is forbidden--and that I stick to!" Pelle might talk as much as he liked; the old man would not budge an inch. "But it would be another matter if you wanted to do it yourself," said Stolpe. "You don't have to account to any one for what you do--you just do what comes into your head." "I have to account to the Cause for my doings," said Pelle sharply, "and for that very reason I want to do it myself!" Stolpe contracted his arms and stretched them out again. "Ah, it would be good to have work again!" he cried suddenly. "Idleness eats into one's limbs like the gout. And now there's the rent, mother--where the devil are we to get that? It must be paid on the nail on Saturday, otherwise out we go--so the landlord says." "We'll soon find that, father!" said Madam Stolpe. "Don't you lose heart!" Stolpe looked round the room. "Yes, there's still a bit to take, as Hunger said when he began on the bowels. But listen, Pelle--do you know what? I'm your father-in-law-to be sure--but you haven't a wife like mine!" "I'm contented with Ellen as she is," said Pelle. There was a knock; it was Stolpe's brother, the carpenter. He looked exhausted; he was thin and poorly dressed; his eyes were surrounded by red patches. He did not look at those whose hands he took. "Sit down, brother," said Stolpe, pushing a chair toward him. "Thanks--I must go on again directly. It was--I only wanted to tell you --well...." He stared out of the window. "Is anything wrong at home?" "No, no, not that exactly. I just wanted to say--I want to give notice that I'm deserting!" he cried suddenly. Stolpe sprang to his feet; he was as white as chalk. "You think what you are doing!" he cried threateningly. "I've had time enough to think. They are starving, I tell you--and there's got to be an end of it. I only wanted to tell you beforehand so that you shouldn't hear it from others--after all, you're my brother." "Your brother--I'm your brother no longer! You do this and we've done with one another!" roared Stolpe, striking the table. "But you won't do it, you shan't do it! God damn me, I couldn't live through the shame of seeing the comrades condemning my own brother in the open street! And I shall be with them! I shall be the first to give you a kick, if you are my brother!" He was quite beside himself. "Well, well, we can still talk it over," said the carpenter quietly. "But now you know--I didn't want to do anything behind your back." And then he went. Stolpe paced up and down the room, moving from one object to another. He picked them up and put them down again, quite unthinkingly. His hands were trembling violently; and finally he went to the other room and shut himself in. After a time his wife entered the room. "You had better go, Pelle! I don't think father is fit for company to-day. He's lying there quite gray in the face--if he could only cry even! Oh, those two brothers have always been so much to each other till now! They wore so united in everything!" Pelle went; he was thinking earnestly. He could see that Stolpe, in his integrity, would consider it his duty to treat his brother more harshly than others, dearly as he loved him; perhaps he himself would undertake the picketing of the place where his brother went to work. Out by the lakes he met a squad of pickets who were on their way out of the city; he accompanied them for some distance, in order to make certain arrangements. Across the road a young fellow came out of a doorway and slunk round the corner. "You there, stop!" cried one of the comrades. "There he is--the toff!" A few pickets followed him down Castle Street and came back leading him among them. A crowd began to form round the whole party, women and children speedily joining it. "You are not to do anything to him," said Pelle decisively. "God knows no one wants to touch him!" they retorted. For a while they stood silently gazing at him, as though weighing him in their minds; then one after another spat at him, and they went their way. The fellow went silently into a doorway and stood there wiping the spittle from his face with his sleeve. Pelle followed him in order to say a kind word to him and lead him back into the organization. The lad pulled himself up hastily as Pelle approached. "Are you coming to spit at me?" he said contemptuously. "You forgot it before--why didn't you do it then?" "I don't spit at people," said Pelle, "but your comrades are right to despise you. You have left them in the lurch. Come with me, and I'll enter you in the organization again, and no one shall molest you." "I am to go about as a culprit and be taunted--no, thanks!" "Do you prefer to injure your own comrades?" "I ask for permission to look after my old mother. The rest of you can go to the devil. My mother isn't going to hang about courtyards singing, and picking over the dustbins, while her son plays the great man! I leave that to certain other people!" Pelle turned crimson. He knew this allusion was meant for Father Lasse; the desperate condition of the old man was lurking somewhere in his mind like an ingrowing grief, and now it came to the surface. "Dare you repeat what you said?" he growled, pressing close up to the other. "And if I were married I shouldn't let my wife earn my daily bread for me--I should leave that to the pimps!" Oho! That was like the tattlers, to blacken a man from behind! Evidently they were spreading all sorts of lying rumors about him, while he had placed all that he possessed at their disposal. Now Pelle was furious; the leader could go to hell! He gave the fellow a few sound boxes on the ear, and asked him which he would rather do--hold his mouth or take some more? Morten appeared in the doorway--this had happened in the doorway of the house in which he worked. "This won't do!" he whispered, and he drew Pelle away with him. Pelle could make no reply; he threw himself on Morten's bed. His eyes were still blazing with anger at the insult, and he needed air. "Things are going badly here now," said Morten, looking at him with a peculiar smile. "Yes, I know very well you can't stand it--all the same, they must hold together." "And supposing they don't get better conditions?" "Then they must accept the consequences. That's better than the whole Cause should go to the wall!" "Are those the new ideas? I think the ignorant have always had to take the consequences! And there has never been lacking some one to spit on them!" said Morten sadly. "But, listen!" cried Pelle, springing to his feet. "You'll please not blame me for spitting at anybody--the others did that!" He was very near losing his temper again, but Morten's quiet manner mastered him. "The others--that was nothing at all! But it was you who spat seven times over into the poor devil's face--I was standing in the shop, and saw it." Pelle stared at him, speechless. Was this the truth-loving Morten who stood there lying? "You say you saw me spit at him?" Morten nodded. "Do you want to accept the applause and the honor, and sneak out of the beastliness and the destruction? You have taken a great responsibility on yourself, Pelle. Look, how blindly they follow you--at the sight of your bare face, I'm tempted to say. For I'm not myself quite sure that you give enough of yourself. There is blood on your hands--but is any of it your own blood?" Pelle sat there heavily pondering; Morten's words always forced his thoughts to follow paths they had never before known. But now he understood him; and a dark shadow passed over his face, which left its traces behind it. "This business has cost me my home," he said quietly. "Ellen cares nothing for me now, and my children are being neglected, and are drifting away from me. I have given up splendid prospects for the future; I go hungry every day, and I have to see my old father in want and wretchedness! I believe no one can feel as homeless and lonely and forsaken as I do! So it has cost me something--you force me to say it myself." He smiled at Morten, but there were tears in his eyes. "Forgive me, my dear friend!" said Morten. "I was afraid you didn't really know what you were doing. Already there are many left on the field of battle, and it's grievous to see them--especially if it should all lead to nothing." "Do you condemn the Movement, then? According to you, I can never do anything wise!" "Not if it leads to an end! I myself have dreamed of leading them on to fortune--in my own way; but it isn't a way after their own heart. You have power over them--they follow you blindly--lead them on, then! But every wound they receive in battle should be yours as well--otherwise you are not the right man for the place. And are you certain of the goal?" Yes, Pelle was certain of that. "And we are reaching it!" he cried, suddenly inspired. "See how cheerfully they approve of everything, and just go forward!" "But, Pelle!" said Morten, with a meaning smile, laying his hand on his shoulder, "a leader is not Judge Lynch. Otherwise the parties would fight it out with clubs!" "Ah, you are thinking of what happened just now!" said Pelle. "That had nothing to do with the Movement! He said my father was going about the backyards fishing things out of dustbins--so I gave him a few on the jaw. I have the same right as any one else to revenge an insult." He did not mention the evil words concerning Ellen; he could not bring himself to do so. "But that is true," said Morten quietly. "Then why didn't you tell me?" asked Pelle. "I thought you knew it. And you have enough to struggle against as it is--you've nothing to reproach yourself with." "Perhaps you can tell me where he could be found?" said Pelle, in a low voice. "He is usually to be found in this quarter." Pelle went. His mind was oppressed; all that day fresh responsibilities had heaped themselves upon him; a burden heavy for one man to bear. Was he to accept the responsibility for all that the Movement destroyed as it progressed, simply because he had placed all his energies and his whole fortune at its disposal? And now Father Lasse was going about as a scavenger. He blushed for shame--yet how could he have prevented it? Was he to be made responsible for the situation? And now they were spitting upon Ellen--that was the thanks he got! He did not know where to begin his search, so he went into the courts and backyards and asked at random. People were crowding into a courtyard in Blaagaard Street, so Pelle entered it. There was a missionary there who spoke with the sing-song accent of the Bornholmer, in whose eyes was the peculiar expression which Pelle remembered as that of the "saints" of his childhood. He was preaching and singing alternately. Pelle gazed at him with eyes full of reminiscence, and in his despairing mood he was near losing control of himself and bellowing aloud as in his childish years when anything touched him deeply. This was the very lad who had said something rude about Father Lasse, and whom he--young as he was-- had kicked so that he became ruptured. He was able to protect his father in those days, at all events! He went up to the preacher and held out his hand. "It's Peter Kune! So you are here?" The man looked at him with a gaze that seemed to belong to another world. "Yes, I had to come over here, Pelle!" he said significantly. "I saw the poor wandering hither from the town and farther away, so I followed them, so that no harm should come to them. For you poor are the chosen people of God, who must wander and wander until they come into the Kingdom. Now the sea has stayed you here, and you can go no farther; so you think the Kingdom must lie here. God has sent me to tell you that you are mistaken. And you, Pelle, will you join us now? God is waiting and longing for you; he wants to use you for the good of all these little ones." And he held Pelle's hand in his, gazing at him compellingly; perhaps he thought Pelle had come in order to seek the shelter of his "Kingdom." Here was another who had the intention of leading the poor to the land of fortune! But Pelle had his own poor. "I have done what I could for them," he said self-consciously. "Yes, I know that well; but that is not the right way, the way you are following! You do not give them the bread of life!" "I think they have more need of black bread. Look at them--d'you think they get too much to eat?" "And can you give them food, then? I can give them the joy of God, so that they forget their hunger for a while. Can you do more than make them feel their hunger even more keenly?" "Perhaps I can. But I've got no time to talk it over now; I came to look for my old father." "Your father, I have met in the streets lately, with a sack on his back --he did not look very cheerful. And I met him once over yonder with Sort the shoemaker; he wanted to come over here and spend his old age with his son." Pelle said nothing, but ran off. He clenched his fists in impotent wrath as he rushed out of the place. People went about jeering at him, one more eagerly than the other, and the naked truth was that he--young and strong and capable as he was in his calling--could not look after his wife and children and his old father, even when he had regular work. Yes, so damnable were the conditions that a man in the prime of his youth could not follow the bidding of nature and found a family without plunging those that were dependent on him into want and misery! Curse it all, the entire system ought to be smashed! If he had power over it he would want to make the best use of it! In Stone Street he heard a hoarse, quavering voice singing in the central courtyard of one of the houses. It was Father Lasse. The rag-bag lay near him, with the hook stuck into it. He was clasping the book with one hand, while with the other he gesticulated toward the windows as he sang. The song made the people smile, and he tried to make it still more amusing by violent gestures which ill-suited his pitiful appearance. It cut Pelle to the heart to see his wretched condition. He stepped into a doorway and waited until his father should have finished his song. At certain points in the course of the song Lasse took off his cap and smacked it against his head while he raised one leg in the air. He very nearly lost his equilibrium when he did this, and the street urchins who surrounded him pulled at his ragged coat-tails and pushed one another against him. Then he stood still, spoke to them in his quavering voice, and took up his song again. "O listen to my song, a tale of woe: I came into the world as do so many: My mother bore me in the street below, And as for father, why, I hadn't any! Till now I've faithfully her shame concealed: I tell it now to make my song complete. O drop a shilling down that I may eat, For eat I must, or soon to Death I yield. "Into this world without deceit I came, That's why you see me wear no stockings now. A poor old man who drudges anyhow, I have a wealthy brother, more's the shame. But he and I are opposites in all; While I rake muck he rakes his money up: Much gold is his and many a jewelled cup, And all he fancies, that is his at call. "My brother, he has built a palace splendid, And silver harness all his horses bear. Full twenty crowns an hour he gets, I hear, By twiddling thumbs and wishing day were ended! Gold comes to him as dirt to Lasse, blast him! And everywhere he turns there money lies. 'Twill all be mine when once my brother dies-- If I but live--so help me to outlast him! "Luck tried to help me once, but not again! Weary with toiling I was like to swoon. When God let fall milk-porridge 'stead of rain! And I, poor donkey, hadn't brought a spoon! Yes, Heaven had meant to help me, me accurst! I saw my luck but couldn't by it profit! Quickly my brother made a banquet of it-- Ate my milk-porridge till he nearly burst! "Want bears the sceptre here on earth below, And life is always grievous to the poor. But God, who rules the world, and ought to know, Says all will get their rights when life is o'er. Therefore, good people, hear me for His sake-- A trifle for the poor man's coffin give, Wherein his final journey he must take; Have mercy on my end while yet I live! "Yet one thing God has given me--my boy. And children are the poor man's wealth, I know. O does he think of me, my only joy, Who have no other treasure here below? Long time have we been parted by mishap: I'm tired of picking rags and sick of song; God who sees all reward you all ere long: O drop a trifle in poor Lasse's cap!" When Lasse had finished his song the people clapped and threw down coins wrapped in paper, and he went round picking them up. Then he took his sack on his back and stumped away, bent almost double, through the gateway. "Father!" cried Pelle desperately. "Father!" Lasse stood up with a jerk and peered through the gateway with his feeble eyes. "Is that you, lad? Ach, it sounded like your voice when you were a child, when any one was going to hurt you and you came to me for help." The old man was trembling from head to foot. "And now I suppose you've heard the whole thing and are ashamed of your old father?" He dared not look at his son. "Father, you must come home with me now--do you hear?" said Pelle, as they entered the street together. "No, that I can't do! There's not enough even for your own mouths--no, you must let me go my own way. I must look after myself--and I'm doing quite well." "You are to come home with me--the children miss you, and Ellen asks after you day after day." "Yes, that would be very welcome.... But I know what folks would think if I were to take the food out of your children's mouths! Besides--I'm a rag-picker now! No, you mustn't lead me into temptation." "You are to come with me now--never mind about anything else. I can't bear this, father!" "Well, then, in God's name, I must publish my shame before you, lad--if you won't let me be! See now, I'm living with some one--with a woman. I met her out on the refuse-heaps, where she was collecting rubbish, just as I was. I had arranged a corner for myself out there--for the night, until I could find a lodging--and then she said I was to go home with her--it wouldn't be so cold if there were two of us. Won't you come home with me, so that you can see where we've both got to? Then you can see the whole thing and judge for yourself. We live quite close." They turned into a narrow lane and entered a gateway. In the backyard, in a shed, which looked like the remains of an old farm cottage, was Lasse's home. It looked as though it had once been used as a fuel-shed; the floor was of beaten earth and the roof consisted of loose boards. Under the roof cords were stretched, on which rags, paper, and other articles from the dustbins were hung to dry. In one corner was a mean- looking iron stove, on which a coffee-pot was singing, mingling its pleasant fragrance with the musty stench of the rubbish. Lasse stretched himself to ease his limbs. "Ach, I'm quite stiff!" he said, "and a little chilled. Well, here you see my little mother--and this is my son, Pelle, my boy." He contentedly stroked the cheeks of his new life's partner. This was an old, bent, withered woman, grimy and ragged; her face was covered with a red eruption which she had probably contracted on the refuse-heaps. But a pair of kind eyes looked out of it, which made up for everything else. "So that is Pelle!" she said, looking at him. "So that's what he is like! Yes, one has heard his name; he's one of those who will astonish the world, although he hasn't red hair." Pelle had to drink a cup of coffee. "You can only have bread-and-butter with it; we old folks can't manage anything else for supper," said Lasse. "We go to bed early, both of us, and one sleeps badly with an over-full stomach." "Well, now, what do you think of our home?" said Father Lasse, looking proudly about him. "We pay only four kroner a month for it, and all the furniture we get for nothing--mother and I have brought it all here from the refuse-heaps, every stick of it, even the stove. Just look at this straw mattress, now--it's really not bad, but the rich folks threw it away! And the iron bedstead--we found that there; I've tied a leg to it. And yesterday mother came in carrying those curtains, and hung them up. A good thing there are people who have so much that they have to throw it on the dust-heap!" Lasse was quite cheerful; things seemed to be going well with him; and the old woman looked after him as if he had been the love of her youth. She helped him off with his boots and on with his list slippers, then she brought a long pipe out of the corner, which she placed between his lips; he smiled, and settled down to enjoy himself. "Do you see this pipe, Pelle? Mother saved up for this, without my knowing anything about it--she has got such a long one I can't light it myself! She says I look like a regular pope!" Lasse had to lean back in his chair while she lit the pipe. When Pelle left, Lasse accompanied him across the yard. "Well, what do you think of it?" he said. "I am glad to see things are going so well with you," said Pelle humbly. Lasse pressed his hand. "Thanks for that! I was afraid you would be strict about it. As quite a little boy, you used to be deucedly strict in that direction. And see now, of course, we could marry--there is no impediment in either case. But that costs money--and the times are hard. As for children coming, and asking to be brought into the world respectably, there's no danger of that." Pelle could not help smiling; the old man was so much in earnest. "Look in on us again soon--you are always welcome," said Lasse. "But you needn't say anything of this to Ellen--she is so peculiar in that respect!" XXXIII No, Pelle never told Ellen anything now. She had frozen his speech. She was like the winter sun; the side that was turned away from her received no share of her warmth. Pelle made no claims on her now; he had long ago satisfied himself that she could not respond to the strongest side of his nature, and he had accustomed himself to the idea of waging his fight alone. This had made him harder, but also more of a man. At home the children were ailing--they did not receive proper care, and the little girl was restless, especially during the night. The complaining and coughing of the children made the home uncomfortable. Ellen was dumb; like an avenging fate she went about her business and cared for the children. Her expressive glance never encountered his; although he often felt that her eyes were resting on him. She had grown thin of late, which lent her beauty, a fanatical glow, and a touch of malice. There were times when he would have given his life for an honest, burning kiss as a token of this woman's love. He understood her less and less, and was often filled with inexplicable anxiety concerning her. She suffered terribly through the condition of the children; and when she quieted them, with a bleeding heart, her voice had a fateful sound that made him shudder. Sometimes he was driven home by the idea that she might have made away with herself and the children. One day, when he had hurried home with this impression in his mind, she met him smiling and laid on the table five and twenty kroner. "What's that?" asked Pelle, in amazement. "I've won that in the lottery!" she said. So that was why her behavior had been so peculiarly mysterious during the last few days--as though there had been something which he must not on any account get to know. She had ventured her last shilling and was afraid he would find it out! "But where did you get the money?" he asked. "I borrowed it from my old friend, Anna--we went in for it together. Now we can have the doctor and medicine for the children, and we ourselves can have anything we want," she said. This money worked a transformation in Ellen, and their relations were once more warmly affectionate. Ellen was more lovingly tender in her behavior than ever before, and was continually spoiling him. Something had come over her that was quite new; her manner showed a sort of contrition, which made her gentle and loving, and bound Pelle to his home with the bonds of ardent desire. Now once more he hurried home. He took her manner to be an apology for her harsh judgment of him; for here, too, she was different, and began to interest herself in his work for the Cause, inciting him, by all sorts of allusions, to continue it. It was evident that in spite of her apparent coldness she had kept herself well informed concerning it. Her manner underwent a most extraordinary transformation. She, the hard, confident Ellen, became mild and uncertain in her manner. She no longer kept sourly out of things, and had learned to bow her head good-naturedly. She was no longer so self-righteous. One day, toward evening, Pelle was sitting at home before the looking- glass, and shaving himself; he had cut off the whole of his fine big moustache and was now shaving off the last traces of it. Ellen was amused to see how his face was altered. "I can scarcely recognize you!" she said. He had thought she would have opposed its removal, and have put his moustache before the Cause; but she was pleasant about the whole matter. He could not at all understand this alteration in her. When he had finished he stood up and went over to Young Lasse, but the child cried out in terror. Then he put on his old working-clothes, made his face and head black, and made his way to the machine-works. The factory was in full swing now; they were working alternate shifts, day and night, with the help of interned strike-breakers, the "locked- in" workers, as the popular wit called them. The iron-masters had followed up their victory and had managed to set yet another industry in motion again. If this sort of thing went much further the entire iron industry would one day be operated without the locked-out workers, who could stand outside and look on. But now a blow was about to be struck! Pelle's heart was full of warmth and joy as he left home, and he felt equal for anything. He slipped through the pickets unnoticed, and succeeded in reaching the door of the factory. "They're asleep--the devils!" he thought angrily, and was very near spoiling the whole thing by administering a reprimand. He knocked softly on the door and was admitted. The doorkeeper took him to the foreman, who was fortunately a German. Pelle was given employment in the foundry, with very good wages. He was also promised that he should receive a bonus of twenty-five kroner when he had been there a certain time. "That's the Judas money," said the foreman, grinning. "And then as soon as the lock-out is over you'll of course be placed in the forefront of the workers. Now you are quite clear about this--that you can't get out of here until then. If you want to send something to your wife, we'll see to that." He was shown to a corner where a sack full of straw lay on the floor; this was his dwelling-place and his refuge for the night. In the factory the work went on as best it might. The men rushed at their work as in a frolic, drifted away again, lounged about the works, or stood here and there in groups, doing as they chose. The foremen did not dare to speak to them; if they made a friendly remark they were met with insults. The workers were taking advantage of the fact that they were indispensable; their behavior was sheer tyranny, and they were continually harping on the fact that they would just as soon go as stay. These words made them the masters of the situation. They were paid big wages and received abundance to eat and to drink. And the working day or shift was shorter than usual. They did not understand the real significance of this change of life, but went about playing the bally. But there was a peculiar hesitation visible in their faces, as though they were not quite sure of one another. The native workers, who were in the minority, kept to themselves--as though they felt an inward contempt for those fellows who had travelled so far to fish in the troubled waters of their distress. They were working three shifts, each of eight hours' duration. "Oho!" thought Pelle, "why, this, good God, is the eight-hours' day! This is surely the State of the future!" At the very moment of his arrival one shift was completed, and the men immediately proceeded to make the most infernal uproar, hammering on metal and shouting for food and brandy. A huge cauldron full of beef and potatoes was dragged in. Pelle was told off to join a mess of ten men. "Eat, matey!" they said. "Hungry, ain't you? How long had you been out of work before you gave in?" "Three months," said Pelle. "Then you must be peckish. Here with the beef! More beef here!" they cried, to the cook's mate. "You can keep the potatoes and welcome! We've eaten enough potatoes all our lives!"--"This is Tom Tiddler's land, with butter sauce into the bargain! This is how we've always said it ought to be--good wages and little to do, lots to eat and brandy to drink! Now you can see it was a good thing we held out till it came to this--now we get our reward! Your health! Here, damme, what's your name, you there?" "Karlsen," said Pelle. "Here's to you, Karlsen! Well, and how are things looking outside? Have you seen my wife lately? She's easy to recognize--she's a woman with seven children with nothing inside their ribs! Well, how goes it with the strikers?" After eating they sat about playing cards, and drinking, or they loafed about and began to quarrel; they were a sharp-tongued crew; they went about actuated by a malicious longing to sting one another. "Come and have a game with us, mate--and have a drink!" they cried to Pelle. "Damn it all, how else should a man kill the time in this infernal place? Sixteen hours' sleep a day--no, that's more than a chap can do with!" There was a deafening uproar, as though the place had been a vast tavern, with men shouting and abusing one another; each contributed to the din as though he wanted to drown it by his own voice. They were able to buy drink in the factory, and they drank what they earned. "That's their conscience," thought Pelle. "At heart they are good comrades." There seemed to be some hope of success for his audacious maneuver. A group of Germans took no part in the orgy, but had set up a separate colony in the remotest corner of the hall. They were there to make money! In one of the groups a dispute broke out between the players; they were reviling one another in no measured language, and their terms of abuse culminated in the term "strike-breaker." This made them perfectly furious. It was as though an abscess had broken; all their bottled-up shame and anger concerning their infamous position burst forth. They began to use knives and tools on one another. The police, who kept watch on the factory day and night, were called in, and restored tranquillity. A wounded smith was bandaged in the office, but no arrest was made. Then a sudden slackness overcame them. They constantly crowded round Pelle. He was a new man; he came from outside. "How are things going out there?" was the constant question. "Things are going very well out there. It's a worse lookout for us in here," said Pelle. "Going very well, are they? We've been told they are near giving in." "Who told you that?" "The bosses of the factory here." "Then they were fooling you, in order to keep you here." "That's a lie! And what d'you mean by saying it's a worse look-out for us? Out with it, now!" "We shall never get regular work again. The comrades are winning--and when they begin work again they'll demand that we others shall be locked out." "The devil--and they've promised us the best positions!" cried a great smith. "But you're a liar! That you are! And why did you come here if they are nearly winning outside? Answer me, damn it all! A man doesn't come slinking into this hell unless he's compelled!" "To leave his comrades in the lurch, you might add," replied Pelle harshly. "I wanted to see how it feels to strike the bread away from the mouths of the starving." "That's a lie! No one would be so wicked! You are making fools of us, you devil!" "Give him a thrashing," said another. "He's playing a crooked game. Are you a spy, or what do you want here? Do you belong to those idiots outside?" It had been Pelle's plan to put a good face on a crooked job, and cautiously to feel his way; but now he grew angry. "You had better think what you're doing before you call honorable men idiots," he retorted violently. "Do you know what you are? Swine! You lie there eating your fill and pouring the drink down your throats and living easy on the need of your comrades! Swine, that you are--Judases, who have sold a good cause for dirty money! How much did you get? Five and twenty kroner, eh? And out there they are loyally starving, so that all of us--yes, you too--can live a little more like human beings in the future!" "You hold your jaw!" said the big smith. "You've no wife and children-- you can easily talk!" "Aren't you the fellow who lives in Jaegersborg Street?" Pelle demanded. "Perhaps you are sending what you earn to your wife and children? Then why are they in want? Yesterday they were turned out of doors; the organization took them in and found a roof to go over their heads-- although they were a strike-breaker's family!" Pelle himself had made this possible. "Send--damn and blast it all--I'll send them something! But if one lives this hell of a life in here the bit of money one earns all goes in rot- gut! And now you're going to get a thrashing!" The smith turned up his shirt-sleeves so that his mighty muscles were revealed. He was no longer reasonable, but glared at Pelle like an angry bull. "Wait a bit," said an older man, stepping up to Pelle. "I think I've seen you before. What is your real name, if I may make bold to ask?" "My name? You are welcome to know it. I am Pelle." This name produced an effect like that of an explosion. They were dazzled. The smith's arms fell slack; he turned his head aside in shame. Pelle was among them! They had left him in the lurch, had turned their backs on him, and now he stood there laughing at them, not the least bit angry with them. What was more, he had called them comrades; so he did not despise them! "Pelle is here!" they said quietly; further and further spread the news, and their tongues dwelt curiously on his name. A murmur ran through the shops. "What the devil--has Pelle come?" they cried, stumbling to their legs. Pelle had leaped onto a great anvil. "Silence!" he cried, in a voice of thunder; "silence!" And there was silence in the great building. The men could hear their own deep breathing. The foremen came rushing up and attempted to drag him down. "You can't make speeches here!" they cried. "Let him speak!" said the big smith threateningly. "You aren't big enough to stop his mouth, not by a long chalk!" He seized a hammer and stationed himself at the foot of the anvil. "Comrades!" Pelle began, in an easy tone, "I have been sent here to you with greetings from those outside there--from the comrades who used to stand next to you at work, from your friends and fellow-unionists. Where are our old comrades?--they are asking. We have fought so many battles by their side, we have shared good and evil with them--are we to enter into the new conditions without them? And your wives and children are asking after you! Outside there it is the spring! They don't understand why they can't pack the picnic basket and go out into the forest with father!" "No, there's no picnic basket!" said a heavy voice. "There are fifty thousand men accepting the situation without grumbling," Pelle earnestly replied. "And they are asking after you-- they don't understand why you demand more than they do. Have you done more for the movement than they have?--they ask. Or are you a lot of dukes, that you can't quietly stand by the rank and file? And now it's the spring out there!" he cried once more. "The poor man's winter is past, and the bright day is coming for him! And here you go over to the wrong side and walk into prison! Do you know what the locked-out workers call you? They call you the locked-in workers!" There were a few suppressed smiles at this. "That's a dam' good smack!" they told, one another. "He made that up himself!" "They have other names for us as well!" cried a voice defiantly. "Yes, they have," said Pelle vigorously. "But that's because they are hungry. People get unreasonable then, you know very well--and they grudge other folks their food!" They thronged about him, pressing closer and closer. His words were scorching them, yet were doing them good. No one could hit out like Pelle, and yet at the same time make them feel that they were decent fellows after all. The foreign workers stood round about them, eagerly listening, in order that they, too, might catch a little of what was said. Pelle had suddenly plunged into the subject of the famine, laying bare the year-long, endless despair of their families, so that they all saw what the others had suffered--saw really for the first time. They were amazed that they could have endured so much, but they knew that it was so; they nodded continually, in agreement; it was all literally true. It was Pelle's own desperate struggle that was speaking through him now, but the refrain of suffering ran through it all. He stood before them radiant and confident of victory, towering indomitably over them all. Gradually his words became keen and vigorous. He reproached them with their disloyalty; he reminded them how dearly and bitterly they had bought the power of cohesion, and in brief, striking phrases he awakened the inspiriting rhythm of the Cause, that lay slumbering in every heart. It was the old, beloved music, the well-known melody of the home and labor. Pelle sounded it with a new accent. Like all those that forsake their country, they had forgotten the voice of their mother--that was why they could not find their way home; but now she was calling them, calling them back to the old dream of a Land of Fortune! He could see it in their faces, and with a leap he was at them: "Do you know of anything more infamous than to sell your mother-country? That is what you have done--before ever you set foot in it--you have sold it, with your brothers, your wives, and your children! You have foresworn your religion--your faith in the great Cause! You have disobeyed orders, and have sold yourselves for a miserable Judas-price and a keg of brandy!" He stood with his left hand on the big smith's shoulder, his right hand he clenched and held out toward them. In that hand he was holding them; he felt that so strongly that he did not dare to let it sink, but continued to hold it outstretched. A murmuring wave passed through the ranks, reaching even to the foreign workers. They were infected by the emotion of the others, and followed the proceedings with tense attention, although they did not understand much of the language. At each sally they nodded and nudged one another, until now they stood there motionless, with expectant faces; they, too, were under the spell of his words. This was solidarity, the mighty, earth-encircling power! Pelle recognized the look of wonder on their faces; a cold shudder ran up and down his spine. He held them all in his hand, and now the blow was to be struck before they had time to think matters over. Now! "Comrades!" he cried loudly. "I told those outside that you were honorable men, who had been led into the devil's kitchen by want, and in a moment of misunderstanding. And I am going in to fetch your friends and comrades out, I said. They are longing to come out to you again, to come out into the spring! Did I lie when I spoke well of you?" "No, that you didn't!" they replied, with one voice. "Three cheers for Pelle! Three cheers for 'Lightning'!" "Come along, then!" Swiftly he leaped down from the anvil and marched through the workshop, roaring out the Socialist marching-song. They followed him without a moment's consideration, without regret or remorse; the rhythm of the march had seized them; it was as though the warm spring wind were blowing them out into the freedom of Nature. The door was unlocked, the officials of the factory were pushed aside. Singing in a booming rhythm that seemed to revenge itself for the long days of confinement, they marched out into North Bridge Street, with Pelle at their head, and turned into the Labor Building. XXXIV. That was a glorious stroke! The employers abandoned all further idea of running the works without the Federation. The victory was the completer in that the trades unions gave the foreign workers their passage-money, and sent them off before they had time for reflection. They were escorted to the steamers, and the workers saw them off with a comradely "Hurrah!" Pelle was the hero of the day. His doings were discussed in all the newspapers, and even his opponents lowered their swords before him. He took it all as a matter of course; he was striving with all his might toward a fresh goal. There was no excuse for soaring into the clouds; the lock-out was still the principal fact, and a grievous and burdensome fact, and now he was feeling its whole weight. The armies of workers were still sauntering about the streets, while the nation was consuming its own strength, and there was no immediate prospect of a settlement. But one day the springs would run dry--and what then? He was too deeply immersed in the conflict to grow dizzy by reason of a little flattery; and the general opinion more than ever laid the responsibility for the situation on him. If this terrible struggle should end in defeat, then his would be the blame! And he racked his brains to find a means of breaking down the opposition of the enemy. The masses were still enduring the conditions with patience, but how much longer would this last? Rumors, which intended mischief, were flying about; one day it was said that one of the leaders, who had been entrusted with making collections, had run off with the cash-box; while another rumor declared that the whole body of workers had been sold to the employers! Something must happen! But what? * * * * * One afternoon he went home to see his family before going to a meeting. The children were alone. "Where is mother?" he asked, taking Young Lasse on his knee. Little Sister was sitting upright in her cradle, playing. "Mother made herself fine and went out into the city," replied the child. "Mother so fine!" "So? Was she so fine?" Pelle went into the bed-room; he looked into the wardrobe. Ellen's wedding-dress was not there. "That is curious," he thought, and began to play with the children. The little girl stretched her tiny arms toward him. He had to take her up and sit with a child on either knee. The little girl kept on picking at his upper lip, as though she wanted to say something. "Yes, father's moustache has fallen off, Little Sister," said Young Lasse, in explanation. "Yes, it has flown away," said Pelle. "There came a wind and--phew!-- away it went!" He looked into the glass with a little grimace--that moustache had been his pride! Then he laughed at the children. Ellen came home breathless, as though she had been running; a tender rosiness lay over her face and throat. She went into the bedroom with her cloak on. Pelle followed her. "You have your wedding-dress on," he said wonderingly. "Yes, I wanted something done to it, so I went to the dressmaker, so that she could see the dress on me. But run out now, I'll come directly; I only want to put another dress on." Pelle wanted to stay, but she pushed him toward the door. "Run away!" she said, pulling her dress across her bosom. The tender red had spread all over her bosom--she was so beautiful in her confusion! After a time she came into the living-room and laid some notes on the table before him. "What's this again?" he cried, half startled by the sight of all this money. "Yes, haven't I wonderful luck? I've won in the lottery again! Haven't you a clever wife?" She was standing behind him with her arm across his shoulders. Pelle sat there for a moment, bowed down as though he had received a blow on the head. Then he pushed her arm aside and turned round to her. "You have won again already, you say? Twice? Twice running?" He spoke slowly and monotonously, as though he wanted to let every word sink in. "Yes; don't you think it's very clever of me?" She looked at him uncertainly and attempted to smile. "But that is quite impossible!" he said heavily. "That is quite impossible!" Suddenly he sprang to his feet, seizing her by the throat. "You are lying! You are lying!" he cried, raging. "Will you tell me the truth? Out with it!" He pressed her back over the table, as though he meant to kill her. Young Lasse began to cry. She stared at him with wondering eyes, which were full of increasing terror. He released her and averted his face in order not to see those eyes; they were full of the fear of death. She made no attempt to rise, but fixed him with an intolerable gaze, like that of a beast that is about to be killed and does not know why. He rose, and went silently over to the children, and busied himself in quieting them. He had a horrible feeling in his hands, almost as when once in his childhood he had killed a young bird. Otherwise he had no feeling, except that everything was so loathsome. It was the fault of the situation ... and now he would go. He realized, as he packed his things, that she was standing by the table, crying softly. He realized it quite suddenly, but it was no concern of his.... When he was ready and had kissed the children, a shudder ran through her body; she stepped before him in her old energetic way. "Don't leave me--you mustn't leave me!" she said, sobbing. "Oh--I only wanted to do what was best for you--and you didn't see after anything. No, that's not a reproach--but our daily bread, Pelle! For you and the children! I could no longer look on and see you go without everything-- especially you--Pelle! I love you so! It was out of love for you--above all, out of love for you!" It sounded like a song in his ears, like a strange, remote refrain; the words he did not hear. He put her gently aside, kissed the boy once more, and stroked his face. Ellen stood as though dead, gazing at his movements with staring, bewildered eyes. When he went out to the door she collapsed. Pelle left his belongings downstairs with the mangling-woman, and he went mechanically toward the city; he heard no sound, no echo; he went as one asleep. His feet carried him toward the Labor House, and up the stairs, into the room whence the campaign was directed. He took his place among the others without knowing what he did, and there he sat, gazing down at the green table-cloth. The general mood showed signs of dejection. For a long time now the bottom of the cash-box had been visible, and as more and more workers were turned into the street the product of self-imposed taxation was gradually declining. And the readiness of those outside the movement to make sacrifices was rapidly beginning to fail. The public had now had enough of the affair. Everything was failing, now they would have to see if they could not come to some arrangement. Starvation was beginning to thrust its grinning head among the fifty thousand men now idle. The moment had come upon which capital was counting; the moment when the crying of children for bread begins to break the will of the workers, until they are ready to sacrifice honor and independence in order to satisfy the little creatures' hunger. And the enemy showed no sign of wishing for peace! This knowledge had laid its mark on all the members of the Council; and as they sat there they knew that the weal or woe of hundreds of thousands depended on them. No one dared accept the responsibility of making a bold proposal in this direction or that. With things as they stood, they would have, in a week or two, to give up the fight! Then nearly a quarter of a million human beings would have suffered torment for nothing! A terrible apathy would be the result of that suffering and of the defeat; it would put them back many years. But if the employers could not long withstand the pressure which the financial world was beginning to exert on them, they would be throwing away the victory if they gave up the fight now. The cleverest calculations were useless here. A blind, monstrous Pate would prevail. Who could say that he had lifted the veil of the future and could point out the way? No one! And Pelle, the blazing torch, who had shown them the road regardless of all else--he sat there drowsing as though it meant nothing to him! Apparently he had broken down under his monstrous labors. The secretary came in with a newspaper marked with red pencil. He passed it to the chairman, who stared for a while at the underlined portion, then he rose and read it out; the paper was quivering in his hands. "About thirty working women--young and of good appearance--can during the lock-out find a home with various bachelors. Good treatment guaranteed. The office of the paper will give further information." Pelle sprang up out of his half-slumber; the horrible catastrophe of his own home was blindingly clear now! "So it's come to that!" he cried. "Now capital has laid its fingers on our wives--now they are to turn whore! We must fight on, fight, fight! We must strike one last blow--and it must be a heavy one!" "But how?" they asked. Pelle was white with enforced calm. His mind had never been so radiantly clear. Now Ellen should be revenged on those who took everything, even the poor man's one ewe lamb! "In the first place we must issue an optimistic report--this very day!" he said, smiling. "The cash-box is nearly empty--good! Then we will state that the workers have abundant means to carry on the fight for another year if need be, and then we'll go for them!" Born of anger, an old, forgotten phantasy had flashed into his mind as a definite plan. "Hitherto we have fought passively," he continued, "with patience as our chief weapon! We have opposed our necessities of life to the luxuries of the other side; and if they strike at us in order to starve us to skin and bone and empty our homes of our last possessions, we answered them by refusing to do the work which was necessary to their comfort! Let us for once strike at their vital necessities! Let us strike them where they have struck us from the beginning! In the belly! Then perhaps they'll turn submissive! Hitherto we have kept the most important of the workers out of the conflict--those on whom the health and welfare of the public depend, although we ourselves have benefited nothing thereby. Why should we bake their bread? We, who haven't the means to eat it! Why should we look after their cleanliness? We, who haven't the means to keep ourselves clean! Let us bring the dustmen and the street-cleaners into the line of fire! And if that isn't enough we'll turn off their gas and water! Let us venture our last penny--let us strike the last blow!" Pelle's proposal was adopted, and he went westward immediately to the president of the Scavengers' Union. He had just got up and was sitting down to his midday meal. He was a small, comfortable little man, who had always a twinkle in his eye; he came from the coal country. Pelle had helped him at one time to get his organization into working order, and he knew that he could count on him and his men. "Do you remember still, how I once showed you that you are the most important workers in the city, Lars Hansen?" The president nodded. "Yes, one would have to be a pretty sort of fool to forget that! No, as long as I live I shall never forget the effect your words had on us despised scavengers! It was you who gave us faith in ourselves, and an organization! And even if we aren't quite the most important people, still--" "But that's just what you are--and now it's your turn to prove it! Could you suspend work this night?" Lars Hansen sat gazing thoughtfully into the lamp while he chewed his food. "Our relations with the city are rather in the nature of a contract," he said slowly and at length. "They could punish us for it, and compel us to resume work. But if you want it, irrespective, why of course we'll do it. There can be only one view as to that among comrades! What you may gain by it you yourself know best." "Thanks!" said Pelle, holding out his hand. "Then that is settled--no more carts go out. And we must bring the street-cleaners to a standstill too!" "Then the authorities will put other men on--there are plenty to be found for that work." "They won't do that--or we'll put a stop to it if they do!" "That sounds all right! It'll be a nasty business for the swells! It's all the same to the poor, they haven't anything to eat. But suppose the soldiers are ordered to do it! Scavenging must be done if the city isn't to become pestilential!" A flash of intelligence crossed Pelle's face. "Now listen, comrade! When you stop working, deliver up all the keys, so that the authorities can't touch you! Only put them all in a sack and give them a good shake-up!" Lars Hansen broke into a resounding laugh. "That will be the deuce of a joke!" he groaned, smacking his thighs. "Then they'll have to come to us, for no one else will be able to sort them out again so quickly! I'll take them the keys myself--I'll go upstairs as innocent as anything!" Pelle thanked him again. "You'll save the whole Cause," he said quietly. "It's the bread and the future happiness of many thousands that you are now holding in your hands." He smiled brightly and took his leave. As soon as he was alone his smile faded and an expression of deathly weariness took its place. * * * * * Pelle walked the streets, strolling hither and thither. Now all was settled. There was nothing more to strive for. Everything within him seemed broken; he had not even strength to decide what he should do with himself. He walked on and on, came out into the High Street, and turned off again into the side streets. Over the way, in the Colonial Stores, he saw Karl, smiling and active, behind the counter serving customers. "You ought really to go in and ask him how he's getting on," he thought, but he strolled on. Once, before a tenement-house, he halted and involuntarily looked up. No, he had already done his business here--this was where the president of the Scavengers' Union lived. No, the day's work was over now--he would go home to Ellen and the children! Home? No home for him now--he was forsaken and alone! And yet he went toward the north; which road he went by he did not know, but after a time he found himself standing before his own door and staring at the rusty little letter box. Within there was a sound of weeping; he could hear Ellen moving to and fro, preparing everything for the night. Then he turned and hastened away, and did not breathe easily until he had turned the corner of the street. He turned again and again, from one side street into another. Inside his head everything seemed to be going round, and at every step he felt as if it would crack. Suddenly he seemed to hear hasty but familiar steps behind him. Ellen! He turned round; there was no one there. So it was an illusion! But the steps began again as soon as he went on. There was something about those steps--it was as though they wanted to say something to him; he could hear plainly that they wanted to catch up with him. He stopped suddenly--there was no one there, and no one emerged from the darkness of the side streets. Were these strange footsteps in his own mind, then? Pelle found them incomprehensible; his heart began to thump; his terrible exhaustion had made him helpless. And Ellen--what was the matter with her? That reproachful weeping sounded in his ears! Understand--what was he to understand? She had done it out of love, she had said! Ugh--away with it all! He was too weary to justify her offence. But what sort of wanderer was this? Now the footsteps were keeping time with his now; they had a double sound. And when he thought, another creature answered to him, from deep within him. There was something persistent about this, as there was in Morten's influence; an opinion that made its way through all obstacles, even when reduced to silence. What was wanted of him now--hadn't he worked loyally enough? Was he not Pelle, who had conducted the great campaign? Pelle, to whom all looked up? But there was no joy in the thought now; he could not now hear the march of his fifty thousand comrades in his own footsteps! He was left in the lurch, left alone with this accursed Something here in the deserted streets--and loneliness had come upon him! "You are afraid!" he thought, with a bitter laugh. But he did not wish to be alone; and he listened intently. The conflict had taken all that he possessed. So there was a community--mournful as it was--between him and the misery around him here. What had he to complain of? The city of the poor lay about him, terrible, ravaged by the battle of unemployment--a city of weeping, and cold, and darkness, and want! From the back premises sounded the crying of children--they were crying for bread, he knew--while drunken men staggered round the corners, and the screaming of women sounded from the back rooms and the back yards. Ugh-- this was Hell already! Thank God, victory was near! Somewhere he could plainly hear voices; children were crying, and a woman, who was moving to and fro in the room, was soothing them, and was lulling the youngest to sleep--no doubt she had it in her arms. It all came down to him so distinctly that he looked up. There were no windows in the apartment! They were to be driven out by the cold, he thought indignantly, and he ran up the stairs; he was accustomed to taking the unfortunate by surprise. "The landlord has taken out the doors and windows; he wanted to turn us into the street, but we aren't going, for where should we go? So he wants to drive us out through the cold--like the bugs! They've driven my husband to death--" Suddenly she recognized Pelle. "So it's you, you accursed devil!" she cried. "It was you yourself who set him on! Perhaps you remember how he used to drink out of the bottle? Formerly he always used to behave himself properly. And you saw, too, how we were turned out of St. Hans Street--the tenants forced us to go--didn't you see that? Oh, you torturer! You've followed him everywhere, hunted him like a wild beast, taunted him and tormented him to death! When he went into a tavern the others would stand away from him, and the landlord had to ask him to go. But he had more sense of honor than you! 'I'm infected with the plague!' he said, and one morning he hanged himself. Ah, if I could pray the good God to smite you!" She was tearless; her voice was dry and hoarse. "You have no need to do that," replied Pelle bitterly. "He has smitten me! But I never wished your husband any harm; both times, when I met him, I tried to help him. We have to suffer for the benefit of all--my own happiness is shattered into fragments." He suddenly found relief in tears. "They just ought to see that--the working men--Pelle crying! Then they wouldn't shout 'Hurrah!' when he appears!" she cried scornfully. "I have still ten kroner--will you take them?" said Pelle, handing her the money. She took it hesitating. "You must need that for your wife and children-- that must be your share of your strike pay!" "I have no wife and children now. Take it!" "Good God! Has your home gone to pieces too? Couldn't even Pelle keep it together? Well, well, it's only natural that he who sows should reap!" Pelle went his way without replying. The unjust judgment of this woman depressed him more than the applause of thousands would have pleased him. But it aroused a violent mental protest. Where she had struck him he was invulnerable; he had not been looking after his own trivial affairs; but had justly and honorably served the great Cause, and had led the people to victory. The wounded and the fallen had no right to abuse him. He had lost more than any one--he had lost everything! With care-laden heart, but curiously calm, he went toward the North Bridge and rented a room in a cheap lodging house. XXXV The final instructions issued to the workers aroused terrible indignation in the city. At one blow the entire public was set against them; the press was furious, and full of threats and warnings. Even the independent journals considered that the workers had infringed the laws of human civilization. But _The Working Man_ quietly called attention to the fact that the conflict was a matter of life or death for the lower classes. They were ready to proceed to extremities; they still had it in their power to cut off the water and gas--the means of the capital's commercial and physical life! Then the tide set in against the employers. Something had to give somewhere! And what was the real motive of the conflict? Merely a question of power! They wanted to have the sole voice--to have their workers bound hand and foot. The financiers, who stood at the back of the big employers, had had enough of the whole affair. It would be an expensive game first and last, and there would be little profit in destroying the cohesion of the workers if the various industries were ruined at the same time. Pelle saw how the crisis was approaching while he wandered about the lesser streets in search of Father Lasse. Now the Cause was progressing by its own momentum, and he could rest. An unending strain was at last lifted from his shoulders, and now he wanted time to gather together the remnants of his own happiness--and at last to do something for one who had always sacrificed himself for him. Now he and Lasse would find a home together, and resume the old life in company together; he rejoiced at the thought. Father Lasse's nature never clashed with his; he had always stood by him through everything; his love was like a mother's. Lasse was no longer living in his lair behind Baker Street. The old woman with whom he was living had died shortly before this, and Lasse had then disappeared. Pelle continued to ask after him, and, well known as he was among the poor, it was not difficult for him to follow the old man's traces, which gradually led him out to Kristianshavn. During his inquiries he encountered a great deal of misery, which delayed him. Now, when the battle was fighting itself to a conclusion, he was everywhere confronted by need, and his old compassion welled up in his heart. He helped where he could, finding remedies with his usual energy. Lasse had not been to the "Ark" itself, but some one there had seen him in the streets, in a deplorable condition; where he lived no one knew. "Have you looked in the cellar of the Merchant's House over yonder?" the old night watchman asked him. "Many live there in these hard times. Every morning about six o'clock I lock the cellar up, and then I call down and warn them so that they shan't be pinched. If I happen to turn away, then they come slinking up. It seems to me I heard of an old man who was said to be lying down there, but I'm not sure, for I've wadding in my ears; I'm obliged to in my calling, in order not to hear too much!" He went to the place with Pelle. The Merchant's House, which in the eighteenth century was the palace of one of the great mercantile families of Kristianshavn, was now used as a granary; it lay fronting on one of the canals. The deep cellars, which were entirely below the level of the canal, were now empty. It was pitch dark down there, and impracticable; the damp air seemed to gnaw at one's vocal cords. They took a light and explored among the pillars, finding here and there places where people had lain on straw. "There is no one here," said the watchman. Pelle called, and heard a feeble sound as of one clearing his throat. Far back in the cellars, in one of the cavities in the wall, Father Lasse was lying on a mattress. "Yes, here I lie, waiting for death," he whispered. "It won't last much longer now; the rats have begun to sniff about me already." The cold, damp air had taken his voice away. He was altogether in a pitiful condition, but the sight of Pelle put life into him in so far as he was able to stand on his feet. They took him over to the "Ark," the old night watchman giving up his room and going up to Widow Johnsen;--there he slept in the daytime, and at night went about his duties; a possible arrangement, although there was only one bed. When Lasse was put into a warm bed he lay there shivering; and he was not quite clear in his mind. Pelle warmed some beer; the old man must go through a sweating cure; from time to time he sat on the bed and gazed anxiously at his father. Lasse lay there with his teeth chattering; he had closed his eyes; now and again he tried to speak, but could not. The warm drink helped him a little, and the blood flowed once more into his dead, icy hands, and his voice returned. "Do you think we are going to have a hard winter?" he said suddenly, turning on his side. "We are going on toward the summer now, dear father," Pelle replied. "But you must not lie with your back uncovered." "I'm so terribly cold--almost as cold as I was in winter; I wouldn't care to go through that again. It got into my spine so. Good God, the poor folks who are at sea!" "You needn't worry about them--you just think about getting well again; to-day we've got the sunshine and it's fine weather at sea!" "Let a little sunshine in here to me, then," said Lasse peevishly. "There's a great wall in front of the window, father," said Pelle, bending down over him. "Well, well, it'll soon be over, the little time that's still left me! It's all the same to the night watchman--he wakes all night and yet he doesn't see the sun. That is truly a curious calling! But it is good that some one should watch over us while we sleep." Lasse rocked his head restlessly to and fro. "Yes, otherwise they'd come by night and steal our money," said Pelle jestingly. "Yes, that they would!" Lasse tried to laugh. "And how are things going with you, lad?" "The negotiations are proceeding; yesterday we held the first meeting." Lasse laughed until his throat rattled. "So the fine folks couldn't stomach the smell any longer! Yes, yes, I heard the news of that when I was lying ill down there in the darkness. At night, when the others came creeping in, they told me about it; we laughed properly over that idea of yours. But oughtn't you to be at your meeting?" "No, I have excused myself--I don't want to sit there squabbling about the ending of a sentence. Now I'm going to be with you, and then we'll both make ourselves comfortable." "I am afraid we shan't have much more joy of one another, lad!" "But you are quite jolly again now. To-morrow you will see--" "Ah, no! Death doesn't play false. I couldn't stand that cellar." "Why did you do it, father? You knew your place at home was waiting for you." "Yes, you must forgive my obstinacy, Pelle. But I was too old to be able to help in the fight, and then I thought at least you won't lay a burden on them so long as this lasts! So in that way I have borne my share. And do you really believe that something will come of it?" "Yes, we are winning--and then the new times will begin for the poor man!" "Yes, yes; I've no part in such fine things now! It was as though one served the wicked goblin that stands over the door: Work to-day, eat to- morrow! And to-morrow never came. What kindness I've known has been from my own people; a poor bird will pull out its own feathers to cover another. But I can't complain; I have had bad days, but there are folks who have had worse. And the women have always been good to me. Bengta was a grumbler, but she meant it kindly; Karna sacrificed money and health to me--God be thanked that she didn't live after they took the farm from me. For I've been a landowner too; I had almost forgotten that in all my misery! Yes, and old Lise--Begging Lise, as they called her-- she shared bed and board with me! She died of starvation, smart though she was. Would you believe that? 'Eat!' she used to say; 'we have food enough!' And I, old devil, I ate the last crust, and suspected nothing, and in the morning she was lying dead and cold at my side! There was not a scrap of flesh on her whole body; nothing but skin over dry bones. But she was one of God's angels! We used to sing together, she and I. Ach, poor people take the bread out of one another's mouths!" Lasse lay for a time sunk in memories, and began to sing, with the gestures he had employed in the courtyard. Pelle held him down and endeavored to bring him to reason, but the old man thought he was dealing with the street urchins. When he came to the verse which spoke of his son he wept. "Don't cry, father!" said Pelle, quite beside himself, and he laid his heavy head against that of the old man. "I am with you again!" Lasse lay still for a time, blinking his eyes, with his hand groping to and fro over his son's face. "Yes, you are really here," he said faintly, "and I thought you had gone away again. Do you know what, Pelle? You have been the whole light of my life! When you came into the world I was already past the best of my years; but then you came, and it was as though the sun had been born anew! 'What may he not bring with him?' I used to think, and I held my head high in the air. You were no bigger than a pint bottle! 'Perhaps he'll make his fortune,' I thought, 'and then there'll be a bit of luck for you as well!' So I thought, and so I've always believed--but now I must give it up. But I've lived to see you respected. You haven't become a rich man--well, that need not matter; but the poor speak well of you! You have fought their battles for them without taking anything to fill your own belly. Now I understand it, and my old heart rejoices that you are my son!" When Lasse fell asleep Pelle lay on the sofa for a while. But he did not rest long; the old man slept like a bird, opening his eyes every moment. If he did not see his son close to his bed he lay tossing from side to side and complaining in a half-slumber. In the middle of the night he raised his head and held it up in a listening attitude. Pelle awoke. "What do you want, father?" he asked, as he tumbled onto his feet. "Ach, I can hear something flowing, far out yonder, beyond the sea- line.... It is as though the water were pouring into the abyss. But oughtn't you to go home to Ellen now? I shall be all right alone overnight, and perhaps she's sitting worrying as to where you are." "I've sent to Ellen to tell her that I shouldn't be home overnight," said Pelle. The old man lay considering his son with a pondering glance, "Are you happy, too, now?" he asked. "It seems to me as though there is something about your marriage that ought not to be." "Yes, father, it's quite all right," Pelle replied in a half-choking voice. "Well, God be thanked for that! You've got a good wife in Ellen, and she has given you splendid children. How is Young Lasse? I should dearly like to see him again before I go from here--there will still be a Lasse!" "I'll bring him to you early in the morning," said Pelle. "And now you ought to see if you can't sleep a little, father. It is pitch dark still!" Lasse turned himself submissively toward the wall. Once he cautiously turned his head to see if Pelle was sleeping; his eyes could not see across the room, so he attempted to get out of bed, but fell back with a groan. "What is it, father?" cried Pelle anxiously, and he was beside him in a moment. "I only wanted just to see that you'd got something over you in this cold! But my old limbs won't bear me any more," said the old man, with a shamefaced expression. Toward morning he fell into a quiet sleep, and Pelle brought Madam Johnsen to sit with the old man, while he went home for Young Lasse. It was no easy thing to do; but the last wish of the old man must be granted. And he knew that Ellen would not entrust the child to strange hands. Ellen's frozen expression lit up as he came; an exclamation of joy rose to her lips, but the sight of his face killed it. "My father lies dying," he said sadly--"he very much wants to see the boy." She nodded and quietly busied herself in making the child ready. Pelle stood at the window gazing out. It seemed very strange to him that he should be here once more; the memory of the little household rose to his mind and made him weak. He must see Little Sister! Ellen led him silently into the bedroom; the child was sleeping in her cradle; a deep and wonderful peace brooded over her bright head. Ellen seemed to be nearer to him in this room here; he felt her compelling eyes upon him. He pulled himself forcibly together and went into the other room--he had nothing more to do there. He was a stranger in this home. A thought occurred to him--whether she was going on with _that_? Although it was nothing to him, the question would not be suppressed; and he looked about him for some sign that might be significant. It was a poverty-stricken place; everything superfluous had vanished. But a shoemaker's sewing machine had made its appearance, and there was work on it. Strike-breaking work! he thought mechanically. But not disgraceful--for the first time he was glad to discover a case of strike-breaking. She had also begun to take in sewing--and she looked thoroughly overworked. This gave him downright pleasure. "The boy is ready to go with you now," she said. Pelle cast a farewell glance over the room. "Is there anything you need?" he asked. "Thanks--I can look after myself," she replied proudly. "You didn't take the money I sent you on Saturday!" "I can manage myself--if I can only keep the boy. Don't forget that you told me once he should always stay with me." "He must have a mother who can look him in the face--remember that, Ellen!" "You needn't remind me of that," she replied bitterly. Lasse was awake when they arrived. "Eh, that's a genuine Karlsen!" he said. "He takes after our family. Look now, Pelle, boy! He has the same prominent ears, and he's got the lucky curl on his forehead too! He'll make his way in the world! I must kiss his little hands--for the hands, they are our blessing--the only possession we come into the world with. They say the world will be lifted up by the hands of poor; I should like to know whether that will be so! I should like to know whether the new times will come soon now. It's a pity after all that I shan't live to see it!" "You may very well be alive to see it yet, father," said Pelle, who on the way had bought _The Working Man_, and was now eagerly reading it. "They are going ahead in full force, and in the next few days the fight will be over! Then we'll both settle down and be jolly together!" "No, I shan't live to see that! Death has taken hold of me; he will soon snatch me away. But if there's anything after it all, it would be fine if I could sit up there and watch your good fortune coming true. You have travelled the difficult way, Pelle--Lasse is not stupid! But perhaps you'll he rewarded by a good position, if you take over the leadership yourself now. But then you must see that you don't forget the poor!" "That's a long way off yet, father! And then there won't be any more poor!" "You say that so certainly, but poverty is not so easily dealt with--it has eaten its way in too deep! Young Lasse will perhaps be a grown man before that comes about. But now you must take the boy away, for it isn't good that he should see how the old die. He looks so pale--does he get out into the sun properly?" "The rich have borrowed the sun--and they've forgotten to pay it back," said Pelle bitterly. Lasse raised his head in the air, as though he were striving against something. "Yes, yes! It needs good eyes to look into the future, and mine won't serve me any longer. But now you must go and take the boy with you. And you mustn't neglect your affairs, you can't outwit death, however clever you may be." He laid his withered hand on Young Lasse's head and turned his face to the wall. Pelle got Madam Johnsen to take the boy home again, so that he himself could remain with the old man. Their paths had of late years lain so little together; they had forever been meeting and then leading far apart. He felt the need of a lingering farewell. While he moved to and fro, and lit a fire to warm up some food, and did what he could to make Father Lasse comfortable, he listened to the old man's desultory speech and let himself drift hack into the careless days of childhood. Like a deep, tender murmur, like the voice of the earth itself, Lasse's monotonous speech renewed his childhood; and as it continued, it became the never-silent speech of the many concerning the conditions of life. Now, in silence he turned again from the thousands to Father Lasse, and saw how great a world this tender-hearted old man had supported. He had always been old and worn-out so long as Pelle could remember. Labor so soon robs the poor man of his youth and makes his age so long! But this very frailty endowed him with a superhuman power--that of the father! He had borne his poverty greatly, without becoming wicked or self-seeking or narrow; his heart had always been full of the cheerfulness of sacrifice, and full of tenderness; he had been strong even in his impotence. Like the Heavenly Father Himself, he had encompassed Pelle's whole existence with his warm affection, and it would be terrible indeed when his kindly speech was no longer audible at the back of everything. His departing soul hovered in ever-expanding circles over the way along which he had travelled--like the doves when they migrate. Each time he had recovered a little strength he took up the tale of his life anew. "There has always been something to rejoice over, you know, but much of it has been only an aimless struggle. In the days when I knew no better I managed well enough; but from the moment when you were born my old mind began to look to the future, and I couldn't feel at peace any more. There was something about you that seemed like an omen, and since then it has always stuck in my mind; and my intentions have been restless, like the Jerusalem shoemaker's. It was as though something had suddenly given me--poor louse!--the promise of a more beautiful life; and the memory of that kept on running in my mind. Is it perhaps the longing for Paradise, out of which they drove us once?--I used to think. If you'll believe me, I, poor old blunderer as I am, have had splendid dreams of a beautiful, care-free old age, when my son, with his wife and children, would come and visit me in my own cozy room, where I could entertain them a little with everything neat and tidy. I didn't give up hoping for it even right at the end. I used to go about dreaming of a treasure which I should find out on the refuse-heaps. Ah, I did so want to be able to leave you something! I have been able to do so miserably little for you." "And you say that, who have been father and mother to me? During my whole childhood you stood behind everything, protecting me; if anything happened to me I always used to think; 'Father Lasse will soon set that right!' And when I grew up I found in everything that I undertook that you were helping me to raise myself. It would have gone but ill indeed with everything if you hadn't given me such a good inheritance!" "Do you say that?" cried Lasse proudly. "Shall I truly have done my share in what you have done for the Cause of the poor? Ah, that sounds good, in any case! No, but you have been my life, my boy, and I used to wonder, poor weak man as I was, to see how great my strength was in you! What I scarcely dared to think of even, you have had the power to do! And now here I lie, and have not even the strength to die. You must promise me that you won't burden yourself on my account with anything that's beyond your ability--you must leave the matter to the poor-law authorities. I've kept myself clear of them till now, but it was only my stupid pride. The poor man and the poor-laws belong together after all. I have learned lately to look at many things differently; and it is good that I am dying--otherwise I should soon be alive and thinking but have no power. If these ideas had come to me in the strength of my youth perhaps I should have done something violent. I hadn't your prudence and intelligence, to be able to carry eggs in a hop-sack...." On the morning of the third day there was a change in Lasse, although it was not easy to say where the alteration lay. Pelle sat at the bedside reading the last issue of _The Working Man_, when he noticed that Lasse was gazing at him. "Is there any news?" he asked faintly. "The negotiations are proceeding," said Pelle, "but it is difficult to agree upon a basis.... Several times everything has been on the point of breaking down." "It's dragging out such a long time," said Lasse dejectedly; "and I shall die to-day, Pelle. There is something restless inside me, although I should dearly like to rest a little. It is curious, how we wander about trying to obtain something different to what we have! As a little boy at home in Tommelilla I used to run round a well; I used to run like one possessed, and I believed if I only ran properly I should be able to catch my own heels! And now I've done it; for now there is always some one in front of me, so that I can't go forward, and it's old Lasse himself who is stopping the way! I am always thinking I must overtake him, but I can't find my old views of the world again, they have altered so. On the night when the big employers declared the lock-out I was standing out there among the many thousands of other poor folks, listening. They were toasting the resolution with champagne, and cheering, and there my opinions were changed! It's strange how things are in this world. Down in the granary cellar there lay a mason who had built one of the finest palaces in the capital, and he hadn't even a roof over his head." A sharp line that had never been there before appeared round his mouth. It became difficult for him to speak, but he could not stop. "Whatever you do, never believe the clergy," he continued, when he had gathered a little strength. "That has been my disadvantage--I began to think over things too late. We mustn't grumble, they say, for one thing has naturally grown out of another, big things out of little, and all together depends on God's will. According to that our vermin must finally become thorough-bred horse for the rich--and God knows I believe that is possible! They have begun by sucking the blood of poverty--but only see how they prance in front of the carriage! Ah, yes--how will the new period take shape? What do you think about it?" "It will be good for us all, father," replied Pelle, with anxiety in his voice. "But it will be sad for me, because you will no longer have your part in it all. But you shall have a fine resting-place, and I will give you a great stone of Bornholm granite, with a beautiful inscription." "You must put on the stone: 'Work to-day, eat to-morrow!'" replied Lasse bitterly. All day long he lay there in a half-sleep. But in the evening twilight he raised his head. "Are those the angels I hear singing?" he whispered. The ring had gone out of his voice. "No, those are the little children of the factory women, their mothers will be coming home directly to give them the breast; then they'll stop." Lasse sighed. "That will be poor food if they have to work all day. They say the rich folks drink wine at twelve and fifteen kroner a bottle; that sounds as if they take the milk away from the little children and turn it into costly liquors." He lay there whispering; Pelle had to bend his head till it was almost against his mouth. "Hand in hand we've wandered hither, lad, yet each has gone his own way. You are going the way of youth, and Lasse--but you have given me much joy." Then the loving spirit, which for Pelle had burned always clear and untroubled amid all vicissitudes, was extinguished. It was as though Providence had turned its face from him; life collapsed and sank into space, and he found himself sitting on a chair--alone. All night long he sat there motionless beside the body, staring with vacant eyes into the incomprehensible, while his thoughts whispered sadly to the dead of all that he had been. He did not move, but himself sat like a dead man, until Madam Johnsen came in the morning to ask how matters were progressing. Then he awoke and went out, in order to make such arrangements as were necessary. XXXVI On Saturday, at noon, it was reported that the treaty of peace was signed, and that the great strike was over. The rumor spread through the capital with incredible speed, finding its way everywhere. "Have you heard yet? Have you heard yet? Peace is concluded!" The poor were busy again; they lay huddled together no longer, but came out into the light of day, their lean faces full of sunlight. The women got out their baskets and sent the children running to make a few purchases for Sunday--for now the grocer would give them a little credit! People smiled and chattered and borrowed a little happiness! Summer had come, and a monstrous accumulation of work was waiting to be done, and at last they were going to set to work in real earnest! The news was shouted from one back door to the next; people threw down what they had in their hands and ran on with the news. It occurred to no one to stand still and to doubt; they were only too willing to believe! Later in the afternoon _The Working Man_ issued a board-sheet confirming the rumor. Yes, it was really true! And it was a victory; the right of combination was recognized, and Capital had been taught to respect the workers as a political factor. It would no longer be possible to oppress them. And in other respects the _status quo_ was confirmed. "Just think--they've been taught to respect us, and they couldn't refuse to accept the _status quo!_" And they laughed all over their faces with joy to think that it was confirmed, although no one knew what it was! The men were in the streets; they were flocking to their organizations, in order to receive orders and to learn the details of the victory. One would hardly have supposed from their appearance that the victory was theirs; they had become so accustomed to gloom that it was difficult to shake it off. There was a sound of chattering in backyards and on staircases. Work was to be resumed--beautiful, glorious labor, that meant food and drink and a little clothing for the body! Yes, and domestic security! No more chewing the cud over an empty manger; now one could once more throw one's money about a little, and then, by skimping and saving, with tears and hardship, make it suffice! To-night father would have something really good with his bread and butter, and to-morrow, perhaps, they could go out into the forest with the picnic-basket! Or at all events, as soon as they had got their best clothes back from the pawn-shop! They must have a bit of an airing before the winter came, and they had to go back into pawn! They were so overjoyed at the mere thought of peace that they quite forgot, for the moment, to demand anything new! Pelle had taken part in the concluding negotiations; after Father Lasse's burial he was himself again. Toward evening he was roaming about the poor quarter of the city, rejoicing in the mood of the people; he had played such an important part in the bitter struggle of the poor that he felt the need to share their joy as well. From the North Bridge he went by way of the Lakes to West Bridge; and everywhere swarms of people were afoot. In the side-streets by West Bridge all the families had emerged from their dwellings and established themselves on the front steps and the pavements; there they sat, bare-headed in the twilight, gossiping, smoking, and absorbing refreshments. It was the first warm evening; the sky was a deep blue, and at the end of the street the darkness was flooded with purple. There was something extravagant about them all; joy urged their movements to exceed the narrow every-day limits, and made them stammer and stagger as though slightly intoxicated. Now they could all make their appearance again, all those families that had hidden themselves during the time of want; they were just as ragged, but that was of no consequence now! They were beaming with proud delight to think that they had come through the conflict without turning to any one for help; and the battles fought out in the darkness were forgotten. Pelle had reached the open ground by the Gasworks Harbor; he wanted to go over to see his old friends in the "Ark." Yonder it lay, lifting its glowing mass into the deep night of the eastern sky. The red of the sinking sun fell over it. High overhead, above the crater of the mass, hung a cloud of vapor, like a shadow on the evening sky. Pelle, as he wandered, had been gazing at this streak of shadow; it was the dense exhalation of all the creatures in the heart of the mass below, the reek of rotting material and inferior fuel. Now, among other consequences of victory, there would be a thorough cleansing of the dens of poverty. A dream floated before him, of comfortable little dwellings for the workers, each with its little garden and its well-weeded paths. It would repay a man then to go home after the day's fatigue! It seemed to him that the streak of smoke yonder was growing denser and denser. Or were his eyes merely exaggerating that which was occupying his thoughts? He stood still, gazing--then he began to run. A red light was striking upward against the cloud of smoke--touched a moment, and disappeared; and a fresh mass of smoke unrolled itself, and hung brooding heavily overhead. Pelle rushed across the Staple Square, and over the long bridge. Only too well did he know the terrible bulk of the "Ark"--and there was no other exit than the tunnel! And the timber-work, which provided the sole access to the upper stories! As he ran he could see it all clearly before his eyes, and his mind began to search for means of rescue. The fire brigade was of course given the alarm at once, but it would take time to get the engines here, and it was all a matter of minutes! If the timber staging fell and the tunnel were choked all the inmates would be lost--and the "Ark" did not possess a single emergency-ladder! Outside, in front of the "Ark," was a restless crowd of people, all shouting together. "Here comes Pelle!" cried some one. At once they were all silent, and turned their faces toward him. "Fetch the fire-escape from the prison!" he shouted to some of the men in passing, and ran to the tunnel-entry. From the long corridors on the ground floor the inmates were rushing out with their little children in their arms. Some were dragging valueless possessions--the first things they could lay hands on. All that was left of the timber-work after the wreckage of the terrible winter was now brightly blazing. Pelle tried to run up the burning stairs, but fell through. The inmates were hanging half out of their windows, staring down with eyes full of madness; every moment they ran out onto the platforms in an effort to get down, but always ran shrieking back. At her third-story window Widow Johnsen stood wailing, with her grandchild and the factory-girl's little Paul in her arms. Hanne's little daughter stared silently out of the window, with the deep, wondering gaze of her mother. "Don't be afraid," Pelle shouted to the old woman; "we are coming to help you now!" When little Paul caught sight of Pelle he wrenched himself away from Madam Johnsen and ran out onto the gallery. He jumped right down, lay for a moment on the flagstones, turned round and round, quite confused, and then, like a flash of lightning, he rushed by Pelle and out into the street. Pelle sent a few of the men into the long corridor, to see whether all were out. "Break in the closed doors," he said; "there may possibly be children or sick people inside." The inmates of the first and second stories had saved themselves before the fire had got a hold on the woodwork. Pelle himself ran up the main staircase up to the lofts and under the roof, in order to go to the assistance of the inmates of the outbuildings over the attics. But he was met by the inmates of the long roof-walk. "You can't get through any longer," said the old rag-picker; "Pipman's whole garret is burning, and there are no more up here. God in heaven have mercy on the poor souls over there!" In spite of this, Pelle tried to find a way over the attics, but was forced to turn back. The men had fetched the fire-escape, and had with difficulty brought it through the entry and had set it up! The burning timbers were beginning to fall; fragments of burning woodwork lay all around, and at any moment the whole building might collapse with a crash. But there was no time to think of one's self. The smoke was rolling out of Vinslev's corridor and filling the yard. There was need of haste. "Of course, it was the lunatic who started the fire," said the men, as they held the ladder. It reached only to the second story, but Pelle threw a rope up to Madam Johnsen, and she fastened it to the window-frame, so that he was able to clamber up. With the rope he lowered first the child and then the old woman to his comrades below, who were standing on the ladder to receive them. The smoke was smarting in his eyes and throat, and all but stifled him; he could see nothing, but he heard a horrible shrieking all about him. Just above him a woman was wailing. "Oh, Pelle, help me!" she whimpered, half choking. It was the timid seamstress, who had moved thither; he recognized her emotional voice. "She loves me!" suddenly flashed upon his mind. "Catch the rope and fasten it well to the window-frame, and I'll come up and help you!" he said, and he swung the end of the rope up toward the fourth story. But at the same moment a wild shriek rang out. A dark mass flew past his head and struck the flagstones with a dull thud. The flames darted hissing from the window, as though to reach after her, and then drew back. For a moment he hung stupefied over the window-sill. This was too horrible. Was it not her gentle voice that he now heard singing with him? And then the timbers fell with a long cracking sound, and a cloud of hot ashes rose in the air and filled the lungs as with fire. "Come down!" cried his comrades, "the ladder is burning!" A deafening, long-drawn ringing told him that the fire-brigade was near at hand. But in the midst of all the uproar Pelle's ears had heard a faint, intermittent sound. With one leap he was in Madam Johnsen's room; he stood there listening; the crying of a child reached him from the other side of the wall, where the rooms opened on to the inner corridor. It was horrible to hear it and to stand there and be able to do nothing. A wall lay between, and there was no thoroughfare on the other side. In the court below they were shouting his name. Devil take them, he would come when he was ready. There he stood, obstinate and apathetic, held there by that complaining, childish voice. A blind fury arose in him; sullenly he set his shoulder against that accursed wall, and prepared himself for the shock. But the wall was giving! Yet again he charged it --a terrible blow--and part of the barrier was down! He was met by a rush of stifling heat and smoke; he had to hold his breath and cover his face with his hands as he pressed forward. A little child lay there in a cradle. He stumbled over to it and groped his way back to the wall. The fire, now that it had access to the air, suddenly leaped at him with an explosive force that made him stagger. He felt as though a thirsty bull had licked his cheek. It bellowed at his heels with a voice of thunder, but was silent when he slammed the door. Half choking he found his way to the window and tried to shout to those below, but he had no voice left; only a hoarse whisper came from his throat. Well, there he stood, with a child in his arms, and he was going to die! But that didn't matter--he had got through the wall! Behind him the fire was pressing forward; it had eaten a small hole through the door, and had thus created the necessary draught. The hole grew larger; sparks rose as under a pair of bellows, and a dry, burning heat blew through the opening. Small, almost imperceptible flames were dancing over the polished surface; very soon the whole door would burst into a blaze. His clothes smelt of singeing; his hands were curiously dry like decaying wood, and he felt as if the hair at the back of his head was curling. And down below they were shouting his name. But all that was of no consequence; only his head was so heavy with the smoke and heat! He felt that he was on the point of falling. Was the child still alive? he wondered. But he dared not look to see; he had spread his jacket over its face in order to protect it. He clutched the window-frame, and directed his dying thoughts toward Ellen and the children. Why was he not with them? What nonsense had it been that induced him to leave them? He could no longer recollect; but if it had not been all up with him now he would have hurried home to them, to play with Young Lasse. But now he must die; in a moment he would fall, suffocated--even before the flames could reach him. There was some slight satisfaction in that--it was as though he had played a trick on some one. Suddenly something shot up before his dying gaze and called him back. It was the end of a fire-escape, and a fireman rose out of the smoke just in front of him, seized the child, and handed it down. Pelle stood there wrestling with the idea that he must move from where he was; but before it had passed through his mind a fireman had seized him by the scruff of his neck and had run down the ladder with him. The fresh air aroused him. He sprang up from the stretcher on which the fireman had laid him and looked excitedly about him. At the same moment the people began quite senselessly to shout his name and to clap their hands, and Madam Johnsen pushed her way through the barrier and threw herself upon him. "Pelle!" she cried, weeping; "oh, you are alive, Pelle!" "Yes, of course I'm alive--but that's nothing to cry about." "No, but we thought you were caught in there. But how you look, you poor boy!" She took him with her to a working-man's home, and helped him to set himself to rights. When he had once seen a looking-glass he understood! He was unrecognizable, what with smoke and ashes, which had burnt themselves into his skin and would not come off. And under the grime there was a bad burn on one of his cheeks. He went to one of the firemen and had a plaster applied. "You really want a pair of eyebrows too," said the fireman. "You've been properly in the fire, haven't you?" "Why did the fire-engines take so long?" asked Pelle. "Long? They were ten minutes getting here after the alarm was given. We got the alarm at eight, and now it's half-past." Pelle was silent; he was quite taken aback; he felt as though the whole night must have gone by, so much had happened. Half an hour--and in that time he had helped to snatch several people out of the claws of death and had seen others fall into them. And he himself was singed by the close passage of death! The knowledge was lurking somewhere at the back of his mind, an accomplished but elusive fact; when he clenched his fist cracks appeared in the skin, and his clothes smelt like burnt horn. In the court the firemen were working unceasingly. Some, from the tops of their ladders in the court, were pouring streams of water upon the flames; others were forcing their way into the body of the building and searching the rooms; and from time to time a fireman made his appearance carrying a charred body. Then the inmates of the "Ark" were called inside the barrier in order to identify the body. They hurried weeping through the crowd, seeking one another; it was impossible for the police to assemble them or to ascertain how many had failed to escape. Suddenly all eyes were directed toward the roof of the front portion of the building, where the fire had not as yet entirely prevailed. There stood the crazy Vinslev, playing on his flute; and when the cracking of the fire was muffled for a moment one could hear his crazy music "Listen! Listen! He is playing the march!" they cried. Yes, he was playing the march, but it was interwoven with his own fantasies, so that the well-known melody sounded quite insane on Vinslev's flute. The firemen erected a ladder and ran up to the roof in order to save him, but he fled before them. When he could go no farther he leaped into the sea of flame. The market-place and the banks of the canal were thick with people; shoulder to shoulder they stood there, gazing at the voluptuous spectacle of the burning "Ark." The grime and poverty and the reek of centuries were going up in flames. How it rustled and blazed and crackled! The crowd was in the best of spirits owing to the victory of Labor; no one had been much inclined to sleep that night; and here was a truly remarkable display of fireworks, a magnificent illumination in honor of the victory of the poor! There were admiring cries of "Ah!" people hissed in imitation of the sound of rockets and clapped their hands when the flames leaped up or a roof crashed in. Pelle moved about in the crowd, collecting the bewildered inmates of the "Ark" by the gates of the prison, so that those who had relatives could find them. They were weeping, and it was difficult to console them. Alas, now the "Ark" was burnt, the beloved place of refuge for so many ruined souls! "How can you take it to heart so?" said Pelle consolingly. "You will be lodged overnight by the city, and afterward you will move into proper dwelling-houses, where everything is clean and new. And you needn't cry over your possessions, I'll soon get up a collection, and you'll have better things than you had before." Nevertheless they wept; like homeless wild beasts they whimpered and rambled restlessly to and fro, seeking for they knew not what. Their forest fastness, their glorious hiding-place, was burning! What was all the rest of the city to them? It was not for them; it was as though there was no place of refuge left for them in all the world! Every moment a few of them slipped away, seeking again to enter the site of the fire, like horses that seek to return to the burning stable. Pelle might have spared his efforts at consolation; they were races apart, a different species of humanity. In the dark, impenetrable entrails of the "Ark" they had made for themselves a world of poverty and extremest want; and they had been as fantastically gay in their careless existence as though their world had been one of wealth and fortune. And now it was all going up in flame! The fire was unsparing; its purifying flames could not be withstood. The flames tore off great sheets of the old wallpapers and flung them out half-burned into the street. There were many layers pasted together, many colors and patterns, one dimly showing through another, making the most curious and fantastic pictures. And on the reverse side of these sheets was a layer as of coagulated blood; this was the charred remnant of the mysterious world of cupboards and chimney-corners, the fauna of the fireplace, that had filled the children's sleep with dreams, and in the little mussel-shaped bodies was contained the concentrated exhalation of the poor man's night! And now the "Ark" must have been hot right through to the ground, for the rats were beginning to leave. They came in long, winding files from the entry, and up out of the cellars of the old iron merchant and the old clothes dealer, headed by the old, scabby males which used to visit the dustbins in the middle of the day. The onlookers cheered and drove them back again. About ten o'clock the fire was visibly decreasing and the work of clearance could begin. The crowd scattered, a little disappointed that all was over so soon. The "Ark" was an extinct bonfire! There could not have been a sackful of sound firewood in all that heap of lumber! Pelle took Madam Johnsen and her little grand-daughter to his lodgings with him. The old woman had been complaining all the time; she was afraid of being given over to the public authorities. But when she heard that she was to go with Pelle she was reassured. On the High Bridge they met the first dust-carts on their way outward. They were decked out with green garlands and little national flags. XXXVII The next day broke with a lofty, radiant Sabbath sky. There was something about it that reminded one of Easter--Easter morning, with its hymns and the pure winds of resurrection. _The Working Man_ rung in the day with a long and serious leading article--a greeting to the rosy dawn--and invited the working-classes to attend a giant assembly on the Common during the afternoon. All through the forenoon great industry prevailed--wardrobes had to be overhauled, provision-baskets packed, and liquid refreshment provided. There was much running across landings and up and down stairs, much lending and borrowing. This was to be not merely a feast of victory; it was also intended as a demonstration--that was quite clear. The world should see how well they were still holding together after all these weeks of the lock-out! They were to appear in full strength, and they must look their best. In the afternoon the people streamed from all sides toward the Labor Building; it looked as though the whole city was flocking thither. In the big court-yard, and all along the wide street as far as High Street, the trades unions were gathered about their banners. The great review had all been planned beforehand, and all went as by clockwork by those who were accustomed to handling great masses of men; there was no running from side to side; every one found his place with ease. Pelle and Stolpe, who had devised the programme, went along the ranks setting all to rights. With the men there were no difficulties; but the women and children had of course misunderstood their instructions. They should have gone direct to the Common, but had turned up here with all their impedimenta. They stood crowding together on both the side-walks; and when the procession got under way they broke up and attached themselves to its sides. They had fought through the campaign, and their place was beside their husbands and fathers! It was a bannered procession with a double escort of women and children! Had the like ever been seen? No, the city had never seen such a going forth of the people! Like a giant serpent the procession unrolled itself; when its head was at the end of the street the greater part of its body was still coiled together. But what was the matter in front there? The head of the procession was turning toward the wrong side--toward the city, instead of taking the direct way to the Common, as the police had ordered! That wouldn't do! That would lead to a collision with the police! Make haste and get Pelle to turn the stream before a catastrophe occurs!--Pelle? But there he is, right in front! He himself has made a mistake as to the direction! Ah, well, then, there is nothing to be said about it. But what in the world was he thinking of? Pelle marches in the front rank beside the standard-bearer. He sees and hears nothing, but his luminous gaze sweeps over the heads of the crowd. His skin is still blackened by the smoke of the fire; it is peeling off his hands; his hair and moustache seem to have been cropped very strangely; and the skin is drawn round the burn on his cheek. He is conscious of one thing only: the rhythmic tread of fifty thousand men! As a child he has known it in dreams, heard it like a surging out of doors when he laid his head upon his pillow. This is the great procession of the Chosen People, and he is leading them into the Promised Land! And where should their road lie if not through the capital? At the North Wall the mounted police are drawn up, closing the inner city. They are drawn up diagonally across the thoroughfare, and were backing their horses into the procession, in order to force it to turn aside. But they were swept aside, and the stream flowed on; nothing can stop it. It passes down the street with difficulty, like a viscous mass that makes its way but slowly, yet cannot be held back. It is full of a peaceful might. Who would venture to hew a way into it? The police are following it like watchful dogs, and on the side-walks the people stand pressed against the houses; they greet the procession or scoff at it, according as they are friends or foes. Upstairs, behind the big windows, are gaily clad ladies and gentlemen, quizzing the procession with half- scornful, half-uneasy smiles. What weird, hungry, unkempt world is this that has suddenly risen up from obscurity to take possession of the highway? And behind their transparent lace curtains the manufacturers gaze and grumble. What novel kind of demonstration is this? The people have been forgiven, and instead of going quietly back to their work they begin to parade the city as though to show how many they are--yes, and how thin starvation has made them! It is a curious procession in every way. If they wanted to demonstrate how roughly they have been handled, they could not have done better! They all bear the marks of battle--they are pale and sallow and ill- clad; their Sunday best hangs in the great common wardrobe still; what they wear to-day is patched and mended. Hunger has refined their features; they are more like a procession of ghosts who have shaken off the heavy bonds of earth and are ready to take possession of the world of the spirit, than people who hope to conquer the Promised Land for themselves and posterity. Such a procession of conquerors! They are all limping! A flock with broken wings, that none the less are seeking to fly. And whither are they going? One of their choirs breaks into song: "We are bound for the Land of Fortune!" And where does that land lie? has any of your watchers seen it? Or was it not merely a deceitful dream, engendered by hunger? Eat enough, really enough, for once, good people, and then let us talk together! What is it yonder? The emptiness that gave birth to you and even yet surges crazily in your starving blood? Or the land of the living? Is this then the beginning of a new world for you? Or is the curse eternal that brings you into the world to be slaves? There is a peculiar, confident rhythm in their tread which drowns all other sounds, and seems to say, "We are the masters, poor as we look to the eye! We have used four million kroner in waging the war, and twenty millions have been wasted because they brought the work of our hands to a standstill! We come from the darkness, and we go toward the light, and no one can hold us back! Behind us lie hunger and poverty, ignorance and slavery, and before us lies a happy existence, radiant with the rising sun of Freedom! From this day onward a new age begins; we are its youthful might, and we demand power for ten thousand families! The few have long enough prevailed!" Imperturbably they march onward, despite the wounds that must yet be smarting; for see, they limp! Why should they still doubt? Listen, they are singing! Hoarsely the sound emerges from ten thousand throats, as though the song had grown rusty, or must first tear itself free. A new instrument this, that has not yet been tuned by the master-- its first notes are discords! But the song runs to and fro along the procession in rhythmical waves, it is an army on the march, and their eyes kindle and blaze with the growing sense of their power, the consciousness that they are the many! And the sound grows mighty, a storm that rolls above the housetops, "Brother, soon will dawn the day!" Touch not the humblest of them now! A vast, intoxicating power has descended upon them; each one has grown beyond himself, and believes himself capable of performing miracles. There are no loose particles; the whole is a mighty avalanche. Touch but one of them and the might of the mass will pour into him. He will be oblivious of consequences, but will behave as though urged by destiny--as though the vast being of which he forms a part will assume all responsibility, and constitutes the law! It is intoxicating to walk in the ranks, to be permitted to bear the Union banners; even to look on fills one with strength and joy. Mothers and children accompany the men, although they have for the most part to walk in the gutters. It is great sport to fall out and watch the whole mighty procession go by, and then, by taking a short cut, again to station one's self at the head. Stand at a street-corner, and it will take hours for the whole to pass you. _Trapp, trapp! Trapp, trapp!_ It gets into one's blood, and remains there, like an eternal rhythm. One Union passes and another comes up; the machinists, with the sturdy Munck at their head, as standard-bearer, the same who struck the three blows of doom that summoned five and forty thousand men to the battle for the right of combination! Hurrah for Munck! Here are the house- painters, the printers, the glove-makers, the tinsmiths, the cork- cutters, the leather-dressers, and a group of seamen with bandy legs. At the head of these last marches Howling Peter, the giant transfigured! The copper-smiths, the coal-miners, the carpenters, the journeymen bakers, and the coach-builders! A queer sort of procession this! But here are the girdlers and there the plasterers, the stucco-workers, and the goldsmiths, and even the sand-blasters are here! The tailors and the shoemakers are easy to recognize. And there, God bless me, are the slipper-makers, close at their heels; they wouldn't be left in the cold! The gilders, the tanners, the weavers, and the tobacco-workers! The file-cutters, the bricklayers'-laborers, the pattern-makers, the coopers, the book-binders, the joiners and shipbuilders! What, is there no end to them? Hi, make way for the journeymen glaziers! Yes, you may well smile--they are all their own masters! And here come the gasworkers, and the water-company's men, and the cabinet-makers, who turn in their toes like the blacksmiths, and march just in front of them, as though these had anything to learn from them! Those are the skilful ivory-turners, and those the brush-makers; spectacled these, and with brushes growing out of their noses--that is, when they are old. Well, so it is all over at last! The tail consists of a swarm of frolicsome youngsters. But no--these are the milk-boys, these young vagabonds! And behind them come the factory-girls and behind them it all begins again--the pianoforte-makers, the millers, the saddlers, and the paper-hangers-- banners as far as one can see! How big and how gay the world is, after all! How many callings men pursue, so that work shall never fail them! Ah, here are the masons, with all the old veterans at their head--those have been in the movement since the beginning! Look, how steady on his leg is old Stolpe! And the slaters, with the Vanishing Man at their head--they look as if they don't much care about walking on the level earth! And here are the sawyers, and the brewers, and the chair-makers! Year by year their wages have been beaten down so that at the beginning of the struggle they were earning only half as much as ten years ago; but see how cheerful they look! Now there will be food in the larder once more. Those faded-looking women there are weavers; they have no banner; eight öre the hour won't run to flags. And finally a handful of newspaper-women from _The Working Man_. God how weary they look! Their legs are like lead from going up and down so many stairs. Each has a bundle of papers under her arm, as a sign of her calling. _Trapp, trapp, trapp, trapp!_ On they go, with a slow, deliberate step. Whither? Where Pelle wills. "_Brother, soon will dawn the day!_" One hears the song over and over again; when one division has finished it the next takes it up. The side-streets are spewing their contents out upon the procession; shrunken creatures that against their will were singed in the struggle, and cannot recover their feet again. But they follow the procession with big eyes and break into fanatical explanations. A young fellow stands on the side-walk yonder; he has hidden himself behind some women, and is stretching his neck to see. For his own Union is coming now, to which he was faithless in the conflict. Remorse has brought him hither. But the rhythm of the marching feet carries him away, so that he forgets all and marches off beside them. He imagines himself in the ranks, singing and proud of the victory. And suddenly some of his comrades seize him and drag him into the ranks; they lift him up and march away with him. A trophy, a trophy! A pity he can't be stuck on a pole and carried high overhead! Pelle is still at the head of the procession, at the side of the sturdy Munck. His aspect is quiet and smiling, but inwardly he is full of unruly energy; never before has he felt so strong! On the side-walks the police keep step with him, silent and fateful. He leads the procession diagonally across the King's New Market, and suddenly a shiver runs through the whole; he is going to make a demonstration in front of Schloss Amalienborg! No one has thought of that! Only the police are too clever for them the streets leading to the castle are held by troops. Gradually the procession widens out until it fills the entire market- place. A hundred and fifty trades unions, each with its waving standard! A tremendous spectacle! Every banner has its motto or device. Red is the color of all those banners which wave above the societies which were established in the days of Socialism, and among them are many national flags--blue, red, and white--the standards of the old guilds and corporations. Those belong to ancient societies which have gradually joined the movement. Over all waves the standard of the millers, which is some hundreds of years old! It displays a curious-looking scrawl which is the monogram of the first absolute king! But the real standard is not here, the red banner of the International, which led the movement through the first troubled years. The old men would speedily recognize it, and the young men too, they have heard so many legends attaching to it. If it still exists it is well hidden; it would have too great an effect on the authorities--would be like a red rag to a bull. And as they stand staring it suddenly rises in the air--slashed and tattered, imperishable as to color. Pelle stands on the box of a carriage, solemnly raising it in the air. For a moment they are taken by surprise; then they begin to shout, until the shouts grow to a tempest of sound. They are greeting the flag of brotherhood, the blood-red sign of the International--and Pelle, too, who is raising it in his blistered hands--Pelle, the good comrade, who saved the child from the fire; Pelle, who has led the movement cause to victory! And Pelle stands there laughing at them frankly, like a great child. This would have been the place to give them all a few words, but he has not yet recovered his mighty voice. So he waves it round over them with a slow movement as though he were administering an oath to them all. And he is very silent. This is an old dream of his, and at last it has come to fulfillment! The police are pushing into the crowd in squads, but the banner has disappeared; Munck is standing with an empty stave in his hands, and is on the point of fixing his Union banner on it. "You must take care to get these people away from here, or we shall hold you responsible for the consequences," says the Police inspector, with a look that promises mischief. Pelle looks in the face. "He'd like to throw me into prison, if only he had the courage," he thought, and then he sets the procession in motion again. * * * * * Out on the Common the great gathering of people rocked to and fro, in restless confusion. From beyond its confines it looked like a dark, raging sea. About each of the numerous speakers' platforms stood a densely packed crowd, listening to the leaders who were demonstrating the great significance of the day. But the majority did not feel inclined to-day to stand in a crowd about a platform. They felt a longing to surrender themselves to careless enjoyment, after all the hardships they had endured; to stand on their heads in the grass, to play the clown for a moment. Group upon group lay all over the great Common, eating and playing. The men had thrown off their coats and were wrestling with one another, or trying to revive the gymnastic exercises of their boyhood. They laughed more than they spoke; if any one introduced a serious subject it was immediately suppressed with a punning remark. Nobody was serious to-day! Pelle moved slowly about, delighting in the crowd, while keeping a look- out for Madam Johnsen and the child, who were to have met him out here. Inwardly, at the back of everything, he was in a serious mood, and was therefore quiet. It must be fine to lie on one's belly here, in the midst of one's own family circle, eating hard-boiled eggs and bread-and- butter--or to go running about with Young Lasse on his shoulders! But what did it profit a man to put his trust in anything? He could not begin over again with Ellen; the impossible stood between them. To drive Young Lasse out of his thoughts--that would be the hardest thing of all; he must see if he could not get him away from Ellen in a friendly manner. As for applying to the law in order to get him back, that he would not do. The entire Stolpe family was lying in a big circle, enjoying a meal; the sons were there with their wives and children; only Pelle and his family were lacking. "Come and set to!" said Stolpe, "or you'll be making too long a day of it." "Yes," cried Madam Stolpe, "it is such a time since we've been together. No need for us to suffer because you and Ellen can't agree!" She did not know the reason of the breach--at all events, not from him--but was none the less friendly toward him. "I am really looking for my own basket of food," said Pelle, lying down beside them. "Now look here, you are the deuce of a fellow," said Stolpe, suddenly laughing. "You intended beforehand to look in and say how-d'ye-do to Brother Christian, [Footnote: The king was so called.] hey? It wasn't very wise of you, really--but that's all one to me. But what you have done to-day no one else could do. The whole thing went like a dance! Not a sign of wobbling in the ranks! You know, I expect, that they mean to put you at the head of the Central Committee? Then you will have an opportunity of working at your wonderful ideas of a world-federation. But there'll be enough to do at home here without that; at the next election we must win the city--and part of the country too. You'll let them put you up?" "If I recover my voice. I can't speak loudly at present." "Try the raw yolk of an egg every night," said Madam Stolpe, much concerned, "and tie your left-hand stocking round your throat when you go to bed; that is a good way. But it must be the left-hand stocking." "Mother is a Red, you know," said Stolpe. "If I go the right-hand side of her she doesn't recognize me!" The sun must have set--it was already beginning to grow dark. Black clouds were rising in the west. Pelle felt remorseful that he had not yet found the old woman and her grandchild, so he took his leave of the Stolpes. He moved about, looking for the two; wherever he went the people greeted him, and there was a light in their eyes. He noticed that a policeman was following him at some little distance; he was one of the secret hangers-on of the party; possibly he had something to communicate to him. So Pelle lay down in the grass, a little apart from the crowd, and the policeman stood still and gazed cautiously about him. Then he came up to Pelle. When he was near he bent down as though picking something up. "They are after you," he said, under his breath; "this afternoon there was a search made at your place, and you'll be arrested, as soon as you leave here." Then he moved on. Pelle lay there some minutes before he could understand the matter. A search-but what was there at his house that every one might not know of? Suddenly he thought of the wood block and the tracing of the ten-kroner note. They had sought for some means of striking at him and they had found the materials of a hobby! He rose heavily and walked away from the crowd. On the East Common he stood still and gazed back hesitatingly at this restless sea of humanity, which was now beginning to break up, and would presently melt away into the darkness. Now the victory was won and they were about to take possession of the Promised Land--and he must go to prison, for a fancy begotten of hunger! He had issued no false money, nor had he ever had any intention of doing so. But of what avail was that? He was to be arrested--he had read as much in the eyes of the police-inspector. Penal servitude--or at best a term in prison! He felt that he must postpone the decisive moment while he composed his mind. So he went back to the city by way of the East Bridge. He kept to the side-streets, in order not to be seen, and made his way toward St. Saviour's churchyard; the police were mostly on the Common. For a moment the shipping in the harbor made him think of escape. But whither should he flee? And to wander about abroad as an outlaw, when his task and his fate lay here could he do it? No, he must accept his fate! The churchyard was closed; he had to climb over the wall in order to get in. Some one had put fresh flowers on Father Lasse's grave. Maria, he thought. Yes, it must have been she! It was good to be here; he no longer felt so terribly forsaken. It was as though Father Lasse's untiring care still hovered protectingly about him. But he must move on. The arrest weighed upon his mind and made him restless. He wandered through the city, keeping continually to the narrow side-streets, where the darkness concealed him. This was the field of battle--how restful it was now! Thank God, it was not they who condemned him! And now happiness lay before them--but for him! Cautiously he drew near his lodging--two policemen in plain clothes were patrolling to and fro before the house. After that he drew back again into the narrow side-streets. He drifted about aimlessly, fighting against the implacable, and at last resigning himself. He would have liked to see Ellen--to have spoken kindly to her, and to have kissed the children. But there was a watch on his home too--at every point he was driven back into the solitude to which he was a stranger. That was the dreadful part of it all. How was he going to live alone with himself, he who only breathed when in the company of others? Ellen was still his very life, however violently he might deny it. Her questioning eyes still gazed at him enigmatically, from whatever corner of existence he might approach. He had a strong feeling now that she had held herself ready all this time--that she had sat waiting for him, expecting him. How would she accept this? From Castle Street he saw a light in Morten's room. He slipped into the yard and up the stairs. Morten was reading. "It's something quite new to see you--fireman!" he said, with a kindly smile. "I have come to say good-bye," said Pelle lightly. Morten looked at him wonderingly. "Are you going to travel?" "Yes ... I--I wanted...." he said, and sat down. He gazed on the floor in front of his feet. "What would you do if the authorities were sneaking after you?" he asked suddenly. Morten stared at him for a time. Then he opened a drawer and took out a revolver. "I wouldn't let them lay hands on me," he said blackly. "But why do you ask me?" "Oh, nothing.... Will you do me a favor, Morten? I have promised to take up a collection for those poor creatures from the 'Ark,' but I've no time for it now. They have lost all their belongings in the fire. Will you see to the matter?" "Willingly. Only I don't understand----" "Why, I have got to go away for a time," said Pelle, with a grim laugh. "I have always wanted to travel, as you know. Now there's an opportunity." "Good luck, then!" said Morten, looking at him curiously as he pressed his hand. How much he had guessed Pelle did not know. There was Bornholm blood in Morten's veins; he was not one to meddle in another's affairs. And then he was in the streets again. No, Morten's way out was of no use to him--and now he would give in, and surrender himself to the authorities! He was in the High Street now; he had no purpose in hiding himself any longer. In North Street he saw a figure dealing with a shop-door in a very suspicious manner; as Pelle came up it flattened itself against the door. Pelle stood still on the pavement; the man, too, was motionless for a while, pressing himself back into the shadow; then, with an angry growl, he sprang out, in order to strike Pelle to the ground. At that very moment the two men recognized one another. The stranger was Ferdinand. "What, are you still at liberty?" he cried, in amazement. "I thought they had taken you!" "How did you know that?" asked Pelle. "Ach, one knows these things--it's part of one's business. You'll get five to six years, Pelle, till you are stiff with it. Prison, of course --not penal servitude." Pelle shuddered. "You'll freeze in there," said Ferdinand compassionately. "As for me, I can settle down very well in there. But listen, Pelle--you've been so good, and you've tried to save me--next to mother you are the only person I care anything about. If you would like to go abroad I can soon hide you and find the passage-money." "Where will you get it?" asked Pelle, hesitating. "Ach, I go in for the community of goods," said Ferdinand with a broad smile. "The prefect of police himself has just five hundred kroner lying in his desk. I'll try to get it for you if you like." "No," said Pelle slowly, "I would rather undergo my punishment. But thanks for your kind intentions--and give my best wishes to your old mother. And if you ever have anything to spare, then give it to Widow Johnsen. She and the child have gone hungry since Hanne's death." And then there was nothing more to do or say; it was all over.... He went straight across the market-place toward the court-house. There it stood, looking so dismal! He strolled slowly past it, along the canal, in order to collect himself a little before going in. He walked along the quay, gazing down into the water, where the boats and the big live- boxes full of fish were just visible. By Holmens Church he pulled himself together and turned back--he must do it now! He raised his head with a sudden resolve and found himself facing Marie. Her cheeks glowed as he gazed at her. "Pelle," she cried, rejoicing, "are you still at liberty? Then it wasn't true! I have been to the meeting, and they said there you had been arrested. Ach, we have been so unhappy!" "I shall be arrested--I am on the way now." "But, Pelle, dear Pelle!" She gazed at him with tearful eyes. Ah, he was still the foundling, who needed her care! Pelle himself had tears in his eyes; he suddenly felt weak and impressible. Here was a human child whose heart was beating for him--and how beautiful she was, in her grief at his misfortune! She stood before him, slender, but generously formed; her hair--once so thin and uncared-for--fell in heavy waves over her forehead. She had emerged from her stunted shell into a glorious maturity. "Pelle," she said, with downcast eyes, gripping both his hands, "don't go there to- night--wait till tomorrow! All the others are rejoicing over the victory to-night--and so should you! ... Come with me, to my room, Pelle, you are so unhappy." Her face showed him that she was fighting down her tears. She had never looked so much a child as now. "Why do you hesitate? Come with me! Am I not pretty? And I have kept it all for you! I have loved you since the very first time I ever saw you, Pelle, and I began to grow, because I wanted to be beautiful for you. I owe nothing to any one but you, and if you don't want me I don't want to go on living!" No, she owed nothing to any one, this child from nowhere, but was solely and entirely her own work. Lovely and untouched she came to him in her abandonment, as though she were sent by the good angel of poverty to quicken his heart. Beautiful and pure of heart she had grown up out of wretchedness as though out of happiness itself, and where in the world should he rest his head, that was wearied to death, but on the heart of her who to him was child and mother and beloved? "Pelle, do you know, there was dancing to-day in the Federation building after the meeting on the Common, and we young girls had made a green garland, and I was to crown you with it when you came into the hall. Oh, we did cry when some one came up and called out to us that they had taken you! But now you have won the wreath after all, haven't you? And you shall sleep sweetly and not think of to-morrow!" And Pelle fell asleep with his head on her girlish bosom. And as she lay there gazing at him with the eyes of a mother, he dreamed that Denmark's hundred thousand workers were engaged in building a splendid castle, and that he was the architect. And when the castle was finished he marched in at the head of the army of workers; singing they passed through the long corridors, to fill the shining halls. But the halls were not there --the castle had turned into a prison! And they went on and on, but could not find their way out again. * * * * *